Project Gutenberg's The Sylph, Volume I and II, by Georgiana Cavendish

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Title: The Sylph, Volume I and II

Author: Georgiana Cavendish

Release Date: January 8, 2012 [EBook #38525]

Language: English

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THE SYLPH

BY

GEORGIANA

DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE


     "Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear,
     Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Demons, hear!
     Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd
     By laws eternal to th'aërial kind:
     Some in the fields of purest æther play,
     And bask, and whiten, in the blaze of day;
     Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high,
     Or roll the planets thro' the boundless sky:
     Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,
     Not a less pleasing, _nor_ less glorious care."

     POPE's Rape of the Lock.




Table of Contents


  VOLUME I        VOLUME II

  LETTER I        LETTER XXVII      LETTER LIII
  LETTER II       LETTER XXVIII     LETTER LIV
  LETTER III      LETTER XXIX       LETTER LV
  LETTER IV       LETTER XXX        LETTER LVI
  LETTER V        LETTER XXXI       LETTER LVII
  LETTER VI       LETTER XXXII      LETTER LVIII
  LETTER VII      LETTER XXXIII     LETTER LIX
  LETTER VIII     LETTER XXXIV      LETTER LX
  LETTER IX       LETTER XXXV       LETTER LXI
  LETTER X        LETTER XXXVI
  LETTER XI       LETTER XXXVII
  LETTER XII      LETTER XXXVIII
  LETTER XIII     LETTER XXXIX
  LETTER XIV      LETTER XL
  LETTER XV       LETTER XLI
  LETTER XVI      LETTER XLII
  LETTER XVII     LETTER XLIII
  LETTER XVIII    LETTER XLIV
  LETTER XIX      LETTER XLV
  LETTER XX       LETTER XLVI
  LETTER XX       LETTER XLVII
  LETTER XXII     LETTER XLVIII
  LETTER XXIII    LETTER XLIX
  LETTER XXIV     LETTER L
  LETTER XXV      LETTER LI
  LETTER XXVI     LETTER LII




VOLUME I




LETTER I.


TO LORD BIDDULPH.

It is a certain sign of a man's cause being bad, when he is obliged to
quote precedents in the follies of others, to excuse his own. You see I
give up my cause at once. I am convinced I have done a silly thing, and
yet I can produce thousands who daily do the same with, perhaps, not so
good a motive as myself. In short, not to puzzle you too much, which I
know is extremely irksome to a man who loves to have every thing as
clear as a proposition in Euclid; your friend (now don't laugh) is
married. "Married!" Aye, why not? don't every body marry? those who have
estates, to have heirs of their own; and those who have _nothing_, to
get _something_; so, according to my system, every body marries. Then
why that stare of astonishment? that look of unbelief? Yes, thou
infidel, I am married, and to such a woman! though, notwithstanding her
beauty and other accomplishments, I shall be half afraid to present her
in the world, she's such a rustic! one of your sylvan deities. But I was
mad for her. "So you have been for half the women in town." Very true,
my Lord, so I have, till I either gained them, or saw others whose image
obliterated theirs. You well know, love with me has ever been a laughing
God, "Rosy lips and cherub smiles," none of its black despairing looks
have I experienced.

What will the world say? How will some exult that I am at last taken in!
What, the gay seducive Stanley shackled!

But, I apprehend, your Lordship will wish to be informed how the
"smiling mischief" seized me. Well, you shall have the full and true
particulars of the matter how, the time when, and place where. I must,
however, look back. Perhaps I have been too precipitate--I might
possibly have gained the charming maid at a less expense than
"adamantine everlasting chains."--But the bare idea of losing her made
every former resolution of never being enslaved appear as nothing.--Her
looks "would warm the cool bosom of age," and tempt an Anchorite to sin.

I could have informed you in a much better method, and have led you on
through a flowery path; but as all my elaborate sketches must have ended
in this disastrous truth, _I am married_, I thought it quite as well to
let you into that important secret at once. As I have divided my
discourse under three heads, I will, according to some able preachers,
_begin with the first_.

I left you as you may remember (though perhaps the burgundy might have
washed away your powers of recollection) pretty early one morning at the
Thatched-house, to proceed as far as Wales to visit Lord G----. I did
not find so much sport as I expected in his Lordship's grounds; and
within doors, two old-fashioned maiden sisters did not promise such as
is suited to my taste, and therefore pretended letters from town, which
required my attendance, and in consequence made my _conge_ and departed.
On my journey--as I had no immediate business any where, save that which
has ever been my sole employ, amusement--I resolved to make little
deviations from the right road, and like a _sentimental traveller_ pick
up what I could find in my way conducive to the chief end of my life. I
stopped at a pleasant village some distance from Abergavenny, where I
rested some time, making little excursive progressions round the
country. Rambling over the _cloud-capt_ mountains one morning--a morning
big with the fate of moor-game and your friend--from the ridge of a
precipice I beheld, to me, the most delicious game in the hospitable
globe, a brace of females, unattended, and, by the stile of their dress,
though far removed from the vulgar, yet such as did not bespeak them of
_our_ world.--I drew out my glass to take a nearer ken, when such
beauties shot from one in particular, that fired my soul, and ran
thrilling through every vein. That instant they turned from me, and
seemed to be bending their foot-steps far away. Mad with the wish of a
nearer view, and fearful of losing sight of them, I hastily strove to
descend. My eyes still fixed on my lovely object, I paid no regard to my
situation, and, while my thoughts and every faculty were absorbed in
this pleasing idea, scrambled over rocks and precipices fearless of
consequences; which however might have concluded rather unfortunately,
and spoiled me for adventure; for, without the least warning, which is
often the case, a piece of earth gave way, and down my worship rolled to
the bottom. The height from whence I had fallen, and the rough
encounters I had met with, stunned me for some time, but when I came to
my recollection, I was charmed to see my beautiful girls running towards
me. They had seen my fall, and, from my lying still, concluded I was
killed; they expressed great joy on hearing me speak, and most
obligingly endeavored to assist me in rising, but their united efforts
were in vain; my leg was broken. This was a great shock to us all. In
the sweetest accents they condoled me on my misfortune, and offered
every assistance and consolation in their power. To a genius so
enterprizing as myself, any accident which furthered my wishes of making
an acquaintance with the object I had been pursuing, appeared trivial,
when the advantages presented themselves to my view. I sat therefore
_like Patience on a monument_, and bore my misfortune with a stoical
philosophy. I wanted much to discover who they were, as their
appearance was rather equivocal, and might have pronounced them
belonging to any station in life. Their dress was exactly the same:
white jackets and petticoats, with light green ribbands, &c. I asked
some questions, which I hoped would lead to the point I wished to be
informed in: their answers were polite, but not satisfactory; though I
cannot say they were wholly evasive, as they seemed artlessly innocent;
or, if at all reserved, it was the reserve which native modesty teaches.
One of them said, I was in great need of instant assistance; and she had
interest enough to procure some from an house not very distant from us:
on which, they were both going. I entreated the younger one to stay, as
I should be the most wretched of all mortals if left to myself. "We go,"
said she, "in order to relieve that wretchedness." I fixed my eyes on
her with the most tender languor I could assume; and, sighing, told her,
"it was in her power alone to give me ease, since she was the cause of
my pain: her charms had dazzled my eyes, and occasioned that false step
which had brought me sooner than I expected at her feet." She smiled,
and answered, "then it was doubly incumbent on her to be as quick as
possible in procuring me every accommodation necessary." At that instant
they spied a herdsman, not far off. They called aloud, and talking with
him some little time, without saying a word further to me, tripped away
like two fairies. I asked the peasant who those lovely girls were. He
not answering, I repeated my question louder, thinking him deaf; but,
staring at me with a stupid astonishment, he jabbered out some barbarous
sounds, which I immediately discovered to be a Welsh language I knew no
more than the Hottentotts. I had flattered myself with being, by this
fellow's assistance, able to discover the real situation of these sweet
girls: indeed I hoped to have found them within my reach; for, though I
was at that moment as much in love as a man with a broken leg and
bruised body could be supposed, yet I had then not the least thoughts of
matrimony, I give you my honour. Thus disappointed in my views, I rested
as contented as I could--hoping better fortune by and bye.

In a little time a person, who had the appearance of a gentleman,
approached, with three other servants, who carried a gate, on which was
laid a feather-bed. He addressed me with the utmost politeness, and
assisted to place me on this litter, and begged to have the honour of
attending me to his house. I returned his civilities with the same
politeness, and was carried to a very good-looking house on the side of
a wood, and placed on a bed in a room handsomely furnished. A surgeon
came a few hours after. The fracture was reduced; and as I was ordered
to be kept extremely quiet, every one left the room, except my kind
host, who sat silently by the bed-side. This was certainly genuine
hospitality, for I was wholly unknown, as you may suppose: however, my
figure, being that of a gentleman, and my distressed situation, were
sufficient recommendations.

After lying some time in a silent state, I ventured to breathe out my
grateful acknowledgements; but Mr. Grenville stopped me short, nor would
suffer me to say one word that might tend to agitate my spirits. I told
him, I thought it absolutely necessary to inform him who I was, as the
event of my accident was uncertain. I therefore gave a concise account
of myself. He desired to know if I had any friend to whom I would wish
to communicate my situation. I begged him to send to the village I had
left that morning for my servant, as I should be glad of his attendance.
Being an adroit fellow, I judged he might be of service to me in
gaining some intelligence about the damsels in question: but I was very
near never wanting him again; for, a fever coming on, I was for some
days hovering over the grave. A good constitution at last got the
better, and I had nothing to combat but my broken limb, which was in a
fair way. I had a most excellent nurse, a house-keeper in the family. My
own servant likewise waited on me. Mr. Grenville spent a part of every
day with me; and his agreeable conversation, though rather too grave for
a fellow of my fire, afforded me great comfort during my confinement:
yet still something was wanting, till I could hear news of my charming
wood-nymphs.

One morning I strove to make my old nurse talk, and endeavoured to draw
her out; she seemed a little shy. I asked her a number of questions
about my generous entertainer; she rung a peal in his praise. I then
asked if there were any pretty girls in the neighbourhood, as I was a
great admirer of beauty. She laughed, and told me not to let my thoughts
wander that way yet a while; I was yet too weak. "Not to talk of beauty,
my old girl," said I. "Aye, aye," she answered, "but you look as if
talking would not content you." I then told her, I had seen the
loveliest girl in the world among the Welsh mountains, not far from
hence, who I found was acquainted with this family, and I would reward
her handsomely if she could procure me an interview with her, when she
should judge I was able to talk of love in a proper style. I then
described the girls I had seen, and freely confessed the impression one
of them had made on me. "As sure as you are alive," said the old cat,
"it was my daughter you saw." "Your daughter!" I exclaimed, "is it
possible for your daughter to be such an angel?" "Good lack! why not?
What, because I am poor, and a servant, my daughter is not to be flesh
and blood."

"By heaven! but she is," said I, "and such flesh and blood, that I would
give a thousand pounds to take her to town with me. What say you,
mother; will you let me see her?" "I cannot tell," said she, shaking her
head: "To be sure my girl is handsome, and might make her fortune in
town; for she's as virtuous as she's poor." "I promise you," said I, "if
she is not foolish enough to be too scrupulous about one, I will take
care to remove the other. But, when shall I see her?" "Lord! you must
not be in such a hurry: all in good time." With this assurance, and
these hopes, I was constrained to remain satisfied for some time: though
the old wench every now and then would flatter my passions by extolling
the charms of her daughter; and above all, commending her sweet
compliant disposition; a circumstance I thought in my favour, as it
would render my conquest less arduous. I occasionally asked her of the
family whom she served. She seemed rather reserved on this subject,
though copious enough on any other. She informed me, however, that Mr.
Grenville had two daughters; but no more to be compared with her's, than
she was; and that, as soon as I was able to quit my bed-chamber, they
would be introduced to me.

As my strength increased, my talkative nurse grew more eloquent in the
praises of her child; and by those praises inflamed my passion to the
highest pitch. I thought every day an age till I again beheld her;
resolving to begin my attack as soon as possible, and indulging the
idea, that my task would, through the intervention of the mother, be
carried on with great facility. Thus I wiled away the time when I was
left to myself. Yet, notwithstanding I recovered most amazingly fast
considering my accident, I thought the confinement plaguy tedious, and
was heartily glad when my surgeon gave me permission to be conveyed
into a dressing-room. On the second day of my emigration from my
bed-chamber, Mr. Grenville informed me he would bring me acquainted with
the rest of his family. I assured him I should receive such an
indulgence as a mark of his unexampled politeness and humanity, and
should endeavor to be grateful for such favour. I now attained the
height of my wishes; and at the same time sustained a sensible and
mortifying disappointment: for, in the afternoon, Mr. Grenville entered
the room, and in either hand one of the lovely girls I had seen, and who
were the primary cause of my accident. I attained the summit of my
wishes in again beholding my charmer; but when she was introduced under
the character of daughter to my host, my fond hopes were instantly
crushed. How could I be such a villain as to attempt the seduction of
the daughter of a man to whom I was bound by so many ties? This
reflection damped the joy which flushed in my face when I first saw her.
I paid my compliments to the fair sisters with an embarrassment in my
air not usual to a man of the world; but which, however, was not
perceptible to my innocent companions. They talked over my adventure,
and congratulated my recovery with so much good-nature as endeared them
both to me, at the same time that I inwardly cursed the charms that
enslaved me. Upon the whole, I do not know whether pain or pleasure was
predominant through the course of the day; but I found I loved her more
and more every moment. Uncertain what my resolves or intentions were, I
took my leave of them, and returned to my room with matter for
reflection sufficient to keep me waking the best part of the night. My
old tabby did not administer a sleeping potion to me, by the
conversation I had with her afterwards on the subject in debate.

"Well, Sir," she asked, "how do you like my master's daughters?" "Not so
well as I should your daughter, I can tell you. What the devil did you
mean by your cursed long harangues about her beauty, when you knew all
the while she was not attainable?" "Why not? she is disengaged; is of a
family and rank in life to do any man credit; and you are enamoured of
her." "True; but I have no inclination to marry."

"And you cannot hope to succeed on any other terms, even if you could
form the plan of dishonouring the daughter of a man of some consequence
in the world, and one who has shewn you such kindness!"

"Your sagacity happens to be right in your conjecture."

"But you would have had no scruples of conscience in your design on _my_
daughter."

"Not much, I confess; money well applied would have silenced the world,
and I should have left it to her and your prudence to have done the
rest."

"And do you suppose, Sir," said she, "that the honour of my daughter is
not as valuable to me, because I am placed so much below you, as that of
the daughter of the first man in the world? Had this been my child, and,
by the various artifices you might have put in practice, you had
triumphed over her virtue, do you suppose, I say, a little paltry dross
would have been a recompence? No, sir, know me better than to believe
any worldly advantages would have silenced my wrongs. My child, thank
heaven, is virtuous, and far removed from the danger of meeting with
such as I am sorry to find you are; one, who would basely rob the poor
of the only privilege they possess, that of being innocent, while you
cowardly shrink at the idea of attacking a woman, who, in the eye of a
venal world, has a sufficient fortune to varnish over the loss of
reputation. I confess I knew not the depravity of your heart, till the
other day, I by accident heard part of a conversation between you and
your servant; before that, I freely own, though I thought you not so
strict in your morals as I hoped, yet I flattered myself your principles
were not corrupted, but imputed the warmth of your expressions to youth,
and a life unclouded by misfortune. I further own, I was delighted with
the impression which my young lady had made on you. I fancied your
passion disinterested, because you knew not her situation in life; but
now I know you too well to suffer her to entertain a partiality for one
whose sentiments are unworthy a man of honour, and who can never esteem
virtue though in her loveliest form."

"Upon my soul! mother," cried I, (affecting an air of gaiety in my
manner, which was foreign to my heart, for I was cursedly chagrined),
"you have really a fine talent for preaching; why what a delectable
sermon have you delivered against _simple fornication_. But come, come,
we must not be enemies. I assure you, with the utmost sincerity, I am
not the sad dog you think me. I honour and revere virtue even in you,
who, you must be sensible, are rather too advanced in life for a Venus,
though I doubt not in your youth you made many a Welsh heart dance
without a harp. Come, I see you are not so angry as you were. Have a
little compassion on a poor young fellow, who cannot, if he wishes it,
run away from your frowns. I am tied by the leg, you know, my old girl.
But to tell you the serious truth, the cause of the air of
dissatisfaction which I wore, was, my apprehension of not having merit
to gain the only woman that ever made any impression on my heart; and
likewise my fears of your not being my friend, from the ludicrous manner
in which I had before treated this affair."--I added some more
prevailing arguments, and solemnly attested heaven to witness my
innocence of actual seduction, though I had, I confessed with blushes,
indulged in a few fashionable pleasures, which, though they might be
stiled crimes among the Welsh-mountains, were nothing in our world. In
short, I omitted nothing (as you will suppose by the lyes I already told
of my _innocence of actual seduction_, and such stuff--) that I thought
conducive to the conciliating her good opinion, or at least a better
than she seemed to have at present.

When I argued the matter over in my own mind, I knew not on what to
determine. Reflection never agreed with me: I hate it confoundedly--It
brings with it a consumed long string of past transactions, that _bore_
me to death, and is worse than a fit of the hypochondriac. I endeavored
to lose my disagreeable companion in the _arms_ of sleep; but the devil
a bit: the idea of the raptures I should taste in those of my lovely
Julia's, drove the drowsy God from my eye-lids--yet my pleasurable
sensations were damped by the enormous purchase I must in all
probability pay for such a delightful privilege: after examining the
business every way, I concluded it as I do most things which require
mature deliberation, left it to work its way in the best manner it
could, and making chance, the first link in the chain of causes, ruler
of my fate.

I now saw my Julia daily, and the encrease of passion was the
consequence of every interview. You have often told me I was a fellow of
no speculation or thought: I presume to say, that in the point in
question, though you may conceive me running hand over head to
destruction, I have shewn a great deal of fore-thought; and that the
step I have taken is an infallible proof of it. Charming as both you and
I think the lady Betty's and lady Bridget's, and faith have found them
too, I believe neither you nor I ever intended to take any one of them
_for better, for worse;_ yet we have never made any resolution against
entering into the pale of matrimony. Now though I like a little
_badinage_, and sometimes something more, with a married woman--I would
much rather that my wife, like Cæsar's, should not be suspected: where
then is it so likely to meet with a woman of real virtue as in the lap
of innocence? The women of our world marry, that they may have the
greater privilege for leading dissipated lives. Knowing them so well as
I do, I could have no chance of happiness with one of their class--and
yet one must one time or other "settle soberly and raise a brood."--And
why not now, while every artery beats rapidly, and nature is alive?

However, it does not signify bringing this argument, or that, to justify
my procedure; I could not act otherwise than I have done. I was mad,
absolutely dying for her. By heaven! I never saw so many beauties under
one form. There is not a limb or feature which I have not adored in as
many different women; here, they are all assembled with the greatest
harmony: and yet she wants the polish of the world: a _je ne sçai quoi_,
a _tout ensemble_, which nothing but mixing with people of fashion can
give: but, as she is extremely docile, I have hopes that she will not
disgrace the name of Stanley.

Shall I whisper you a secret--but publish it not in the streets of
Askalon--I could almost wish my whole life had passed in the same
innocent tranquil manner it has now for several weeks. No tumultuous
thoughts, which, as they are too often excited by licentious excess,
must be lost and drowned in wine. No cursed qualms of conscience, which
will appall the most hardy of us, when nature sickens after the fatigue
of a debauch. Here all is peaceful, because all is innocent: and yet
what voluptuary can figure a higher joy than I at present experience in
the possession of the most lovely of her sex, who thinks it her duty to
contribute to my pleasure, and whose every thought I can read in her
expressive countenance? Oh! that I may ever see her with the same eyes I
do at this moment! Why cannot I renounce a world, the ways of which I
have seen and despise from my soul? What attachments have I to it,
guilty ones excepted? Ought I to continue them, when I have sworn--Oh!
Christ! what is come to me now? can a virtuous connexion with the sex
work miracles? but you cannot inform me--having never made such: and who
the devil can, till they marry--and then it is too late: the die is
cast.

I hope you will thank me for making you my confidant--and, what is more,
writing you so enormous a long letter. Most likely I shall enhance your
obligation by continuing my correspondence, as I do not know when I
shall quit, what appears to me, my earthly paradise. Whether you will
congratulate me from your heart I know not, because you may possibly
imagine, from some virtuous emanations which have burst forth in the
course of this epistle, that you shall lose your old companion. No, no,
not quite so bad neither--though I am plaguy squeamish at present, a
little town air will set all to rights again, and I shall no doubt fall
into my old track with redoubled alacrity from this recess. So don't
despair, my old friend: you will always find me,

Your lordship's devoted,

W. STANLEY.




LETTER II.


TO THE SAME.

What a restless discontented animal is man! Even in Paradise unblest. Do
you know I am, though surrounded with felicity, languishing for _sin and
sea-coal_ in your regions. I shall be vapoured to death if I stay here
much longer. Here is nothing to exercise the bright genius with which I
am endued: all one calm sunshine;

    "And days of peace do still succeed
    To nights of calm repose."

How unfit to charm a soul like mine! I, who love every thing that the
moderns call pleasure. I must be amongst you, and that presently. My
Julia, I am certain, will make no resistance to my will. Faith! she is
the wife for me. Mild, passive, duteous, and innocent: I may lead my
life just as I please; and she, dear creature! will have no idea but
that I am a very good husband!

    "And when I am weary of wandering all day,
    To thee, my delight, in the evening I, come."

I did intend, when first I began my correspondence with your lordship,
to have informed you of the whole process of this affair; but, upon my
soul, you must excuse me. From being idle, I am become perfectly
indolent;--besides, it is unfashionable to talk so much of one's wife. I
shall only say, I endeavoured, by all those little attentions which are
so easily assumed by us, to gain her affections,--and at the same time,
to make sure work, declared myself in form to her father.

One day, when I could hobble about, I took occasion to say to Mr.
Grenville, that I was meditating a return for his civilities, which was
no other than running away with his daughter Julia: that, in the whole
course of my life, I had never seen a woman whom I thought so capable of
making me happy; and that, were my proposals acceptable to him and her,
it would be my highest felicity to render her situation such. I saw the
old man was inwardly pleased.--In very polite terms he assured me, he
should have no objection to such an alliance, if Julia's heart made
none; that although, for very particular reasons, he had quarreled with
the world, he did not wish to seclude his children from partaking of its
pleasures. He owned, he thought Julia seemed to have an inclination to
see more of it than he had had an opportunity of shewing her; and that,
as he had for ever renounced it, there was no protector, after a father,
so proper as a husband. He then paid me some compliments, which perhaps,
had his acquaintance been of as long standing as yours and mine, he
might have thought rather above my desert: but he knows no more of me
than he has heard from me,--and the devil is in it, if a man won't speak
well of himself when he has an opportunity.

It was some time before I could bring myself to the pious resolution of
marrying.--I was extremely desirous of practising a few manœuvres
first, just to try the strength of the citadel;--but madam house-keeper
would have blown me up. "You are in love with my master's daughter,"
said she, one day, to me; "if you make honourable proposals, I have not
a doubt but they will be accepted;--if I find you endeavouring to gain
her heart in a clandestine manner,--remember you are in my power. My
faithful services in this family have given me some influence, and I
will certainly use it for their advantage. The best and loveliest of her
sex shall not be left a prey to the artful insinuating practices of a
man too well versed in the science of deceit. Marry her; she will do you
honour in this world, and by her virtues ensure your happiness in the
next."

I took the old matron's advice, as it so perfectly accorded with my own
wishes. The gentle Julia made no objection.--Vanity apart, I certainly
have some attractions; especially in the eyes of an innocent young
creature, who yet never saw a reasonable being besides her father; and
who had likewise a secret inclination to know a little how things go in
the world. I shall very soon gratify her wish, by taking her to
London.--I am sick to death of the constant _routine_ of circumstances
here--_the same to-day, to-morrow, and forever_. Your mere good kind of
people are really very insipid sort of folks; and as such totally
unsuited to my taste. I shall therefore leave them to their pious
meditations in a short time, and whirl my little Julia into the giddy
circle, where alone true joy is to be met with.

I shall not invite her sister to accompany her; as I have an invincible
dislike to the idea of marrying a whole family. Besides, sisters
sometimes are more quick-sighted than wives: and I begin to think
(though from whence she has gained her knowledge I know not, I hope
honestly!) that Louisa is mistress of more penetration than my
_rib_.--She is more serious, consequently more observing and attentive.

Sylph is fixed on.--Our _suite_ will be a Welsh _fille de chambre_,
yclep'd Winifred, and an old male domestick, who at present acts in
capacity of groom to me, and who I foresee will soon be the butt of my
whole house;--as he is chiefly composed of Welsh materials, I conclude
we shall have fine work with him among our _beaux d'esprits_ of the
motley tribe.--I shall leave Taffy to work his way as he can. Let every
one fight their own battles I say.--I hate to interfere in any kind of
business. I burn with impatience to greet you and the rest of your
confederates. Assure them of my best wishes.--I was going to say
services,--but alas! I am not my own master! I am married. After that,
may I venture to conclude myself your's?

W. STANLEY.




LETTER III.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

How strange does it seem, my dearest Louisa, to address you at this
distance! What is it that has supported me through this long journey,
and given me strength to combat with all the softer feelings; to quit a
respectable parent and a beloved sister; to leave such dear and tender
relations, and accompany a man to whom four months since I was wholly a
stranger! I am a wretched reasoner at best.--I am therefore at a loss to
unravel this mystery. It is true, it became my duty to follow my
husband; but that a duty so newly entered into should supersede all
others is certainly strange. You will say, you wonder these thoughts did
not arise sooner;--they did, my dear; but the continual agitation of my
spirits since I married, prevented my paying any attention to them.
Perhaps, those who have been accustomed to the bustles of the world
would laugh at my talking of the agitation of spirits in the course of
an affair which was carried on with the most methodical exactness; but
then it is their being accustomed to bustles, which could insure their
composure on such an important occasion. I am young and
inexperienced--and what is worst of all, a perfect stranger to the
disposition of Sir William. He may be a very good sort of man; yet he
may have some faults, which are at present unknown to me.--I am
resolved, however, to be as indulgent to them as possible, should I
discover any.--And as for my own, I will strive to conceal them, under
an implicit obedience to his will and pleasure.

As to giving you an account of this hurrying place, it is totally out of
my power. I made Sir William laugh very heartily several times at my
ignorance. We came into town at a place called Piccadilly, where there
was such a croud of carriages of all sorts, that I was perfectly
astonished, and absolutely frightened. I begged Sir William would order
the drivers to stop till they were gone by.--This intreaty threw him
almost into a convulsion of laughter at my simplicity; but I was still
more amazed, when he told me, they would continue driving with the same
vehemence all night. For my part, I could not hear my own voice for the
continual rattle of coaches, &c.--I still could not help thinking it
must be some particular rejoicing day, from the immense concourse of
people I saw rushing from all quarters;--and yet Sir William assured me
the town was very empty. "Mercy defend us!" cried Winifred, when I
informed her what her master had said, "what a place must it be when it
is full, for the people have not room to walk as it is!" I cautioned
Win, to discover her ignorance as little as possible;--but I doubt both
mistress and maid will be subjects of mirth for some time to come.

I have not yet seen any thing, as there is a ceremony to be observed
among people of rank in this place. No married lady can appear in public
till she has been properly introduced to their majesties. Alas! what
will become of me upon an occasion so singular!--Sir William has been so
obliging as to bespeak the protection of a lady, who is perfect mistress
of the _etiquettes_ of courts. She will pay me a visit previous to my
introduction; and under her tuition, I am told, I have nothing to fear.
All my hopes are, that I may acquit myself so as to gain the approbation
of my husband. Husband! what a sound has that, when pronounced by a girl
barely seventeen,--and one whose knowledge of the world is merely
speculative;--one, who, born and bred in obscurity, is equally
unacquainted with men and manners.--I have often revolved in my mind
what could be the inducement of my father's total seclusion from the
world; for what little hints I (and you, whose penetration is deeper
than mine) could gather, have only served to convince us, he must have
been extremely ill treated by it, to have been constrained to make a vow
never again to enter into it,--and in my mind the very forming of a vow
looks as if he had loved it to excess, and therefore made his retreat
from it more solemn than a bare resolution, lest he might, from a change
of circumstances or sentiments, again be seduced by its attractions, and
by which he had suffered so much.

Do you know, I have formed the wish of knowing some of those incidents
in his history which have governed his actions? will you, my dear
Louisa, hint this to him? He may, by such a communication, be very
serviceable to me, who am such a novice.

I foresee I shall stand in need of instructors; otherwise I shall make
but an indifferent figure in the drama. Every thing, and every body,
makes an appearance so widely opposite to my former notions, that I find
myself every moment at a loss, and know not to whom to apply for
information. I am apprehensive I shall tire Sir William to death with my
interrogatories; besides, he gave me much such a hint as I gave Win, not
to betray my ignorance to every person I met with; and yet, without
asking questions, I shall never attain the knowledge of some things
which to me appear extremely singular. The ideas I possessed while among
the mountains seem intirely useless to me here. Nay, I begin to think, I
might as well have learnt nothing; and that the time and expence which
were bestowed on my education were all lost, since I even do not know
how to walk a minuet properly. Would you believe it? Sir William has
engaged a dancing-master to put me into a genteel and polite method of
acquitting myself with propriety on the important circumstance of moving
about a room gracefully. Shall I own I felt myself mortified when he
made the proposition? I could even have shed tears at the humiliating
figure I made in my own eyes; however, I had resolution to overcome such
an appearance of weakness, and turned it off with a smile, saying, "I
thought I had not stood in need of any accomplishments, since I had had
sufficient to gain his affections." I believe he saw I was hurt, and
therefore took some pains to re-assure me. He told me, "that though my
person was faultless, yet, from my seclusion from it, I wanted an air of
the world. He himself saw nothing but perfection in me; but he wished
those, who were not blinded by passion, should think me not only the
most beautiful, but likewise the most polished woman at court." Is there
not a little vanity in this, Louisa? But Sir William is, I find, a man
of the world; and it is my duty to comply with every thing he judges
proper, to make me what he chuses.

Monsieur Fierville pays me great compliments. "Who is he?" you will ask.
Why my dancing-master, my dear. I am likewise to take some lessons on
the harpsichord, as Sir William finds great fault with my fingering, and
thinks I want taste in singing. I always looked on taste as genuine and
inherent to ourselves; but here, taste is to be acquired; and what is
infinitely more astonishing still, it is variable. So, though I may
dance and sing in taste now, a few months hence I may have another
method to learn, which will be the taste then. It is a fine time for
teachers, when scholars are never taught. We used to think, to be made
perfect mistress of any thing was sufficient; but in this world it is
very different; you have a fresh lesson to learn every winter. As a
proof, they had last winter one of the first singers in the world at the
opera-house; this winter they had one who surpassed her. This assertion
you and I should think nonsense, since, according to our ideas, nothing
can exceed perfection: the next who comes over will be superior to all
others that ever arrived. The reason is, every one has a different mode
of singing; a taste of their own, which by arbitrary custom is for that
cause to be the taste of the whole town. These things appear
incomprehensible to me; but I suppose use will reconcile me to them, as
it does others, by whom they must once have been thought strange.

I think I can discover Sir William Stanley has great pride, that is, he
is a slave to fashion. He is ambitious of being a leading man. His
house, his equipage, and wife--in short, every thing which belongs to
him must be admired; and I can see, he is not a little flattered when
they meet with approbation, although from persons of whose taste and
knowledge of life he has not the most exalted idea.

It would look very ungrateful in me, if I was to make any complaints
against my situation; and yet would it not be more so to my father and
you, if I was not to say, I was happier whilst with you? I certainly
was. I will do Sir William the justice to say, he contributed to make my
last two months residence very pleasant. He was the first lover I ever
had, at least the first that ever told me he loved. The distinction he
paid me certainly made some impression on my heart. Every female has a
little vanity; but I must enlarge my stock before I can have a proper
confidence in myself in this place.

My singing-master has just been announced. He is a very great man in his
way, so I must not make him wait; besides, my letter is already a pretty
reasonable length. Adieu, my dearest sister! say every thing duteous
and affectionate for me to my father; and tell yourself that I am ever
your's,

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER IV.


TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

Dear JACK,

I was yesterday introduced to the loveliest woman in the universe;
Stanley's wife. Yes, that happy dog is still the favourite of Fortune.
How does he triumph over me on every occasion! If he had a soul of
worth, what a treasure would he possess in such an angel! but he will
soon grow tired even of her. What immense pains did he take to supplant
me in the affections of Lucy Gardner, though he has since sworn to you
and many others he proposed no other advantage to himself than rivaling
me, and conquering her prejudices in my favour. He thinks I have forgot
all this, because I did not call him to an account for his ungenerous
conduct, and because I still style him my friend; but let him have a
care; my revenge only slept till a proper opportunity called it forth.
As to retaliating, by endeavouring to obtain any of his mistresses, that
was too trivial a satisfaction for me, as he is too phlegmatic to be
hurt by such an attempt. I flatter myself, I shall find an opening by
and by, to convince him I have neither forgotten the injury, or am of a
temper to let slip an occasion of piercing his heart by a method
effectual and secure. Men, who delight to disturb the felicity of
others, are most tenacious of their own. And Stanley, who has allowed
himself such latitude of intrigue in other men's families, will very
sensibly feel any stain on his. But of this in future; let me return to
Lady Stanley. She is not a perfect beauty: which, if you are of my
taste, you will think rather an advantage than not; as there is
generally a formality in great regularity of features, and most times
an insipidity. In her there are neither. She is in one word _animated
nature_. Her height is proper, and excellently well proportioned; I
might say, exquisitely formed. Her figure is such, as at once creates
esteem, and gives birth to the tenderest desires. Stanley seemed to take
pleasure in my commendations. "I wanted you to see her, my Lord," said
he: "you are a man of taste. May I introduce Julia, without blushing
through apprehension of her disgracing me? You know my sentiments. I
must be applauded by the world; lovely as I yet think her, she would be
the object of my hate, and I should despise myself, if she is not
admired by the whole court; it is the only apology I can make to myself
for marrying at all." What a brute of a fellow it is! I suppose he must
be cuckolded by half the town, to be convinced his wife has charms.

Lady Stanley is extremely observant of her husband at present, because
he is the only man who has paid her attention; but when she finds she is
the only woman who is distinguished by his indifference, which will soon
be the case, she will likewise see, and be grateful for, the assiduities
paid her by other men. One of the first of those I intend to be. I shall
not let you into the plan of operations at present; besides, it is
impossible, till I know more of my ground, to mark out any scheme.
Chance often performs that for us, which the most judicious reflection
cannot bring about; and I have the whole campaign before me.

I think myself pretty well acquainted with the failings and weak parts
in Stanley; and you may assure yourself I shall avail myself of them. I
do not want penetration; and doubt not, from the free access which I
have gained in the family, but I shall soon be master of the ruling
passion of her ladyship. She is, as yet, a total stranger to the world;
her character is not yet established; she cannot know herself. She only
knows she is handsome; that secret, I presume, Nature has informed her
of. Her husband has confirmed it, and she liked him because she found in
him a coincidence of opinion. But all that rapturous nonsense will, and
must soon, have an end. As to the beauties of mind, he has no more idea
of them, than we have of a sixth sense; what he knows not, he cannot
admire. She will soon find herself neglected; but at the same time she
will find the loss of a husband's praises amply supplied by the
_devoirs_ of a hundred, all equal, and many superior to him. At first,
she may be uneasy; but repeated flattery will soon console her; and the
man who can touch her heart, needs fear nothing. Every thing else, as
Lord Chesterfield justly observes, will then follow of course. By which
assertion, whatever the world may think, he certainly pays a great
compliment to the fair sex. Men may be rendered vicious by a thousand
methods; but there is only one way to subdue women.

Whom do you think he has introduced as _chaperons_ to his wife? Lady
Besford, and Lady Anne Parker. Do not you admire his choice? Oh! they
will be charming associates for her! But I have nothing to say against
it, as I think their counsels will further my schemes. Lady Besford
might not be so much amiss; but Lady Anne! think of her, with whom he is
belied if he has not had an affair. What madness! It is like him,
however. Let him then take the consequences of his folly; and such
clever fellows as you and I the advantage of them. Adieu, dear Jack! I
shall see you, I hope, as soon as you come to town. I shall want you in
a scheme I have in my head, but which I do not think proper to trust to
paper. Your's,

BIDDULPH.




LETTER V.


TO Lady STANLEY.

I have lost you, my Julia; and who shall supply your loss? How much am I
alone! and yet, if you are happy, I must and will be satisfied. I
should, however, be infinitely more so, if you had any companion to
guide your footsteps through the devious path of life: I wish you some
experienced director. Have you not yet made an acquaintance which may be
useful to you? Though you are prevented appearing in public, yet I think
it should have been Sir William's first care to provide you with some
agreeable sensible female friend one who may love you as well as your
Louisa, and may, by having lived in the world, have it more in her power
to be of service to you.

My father misses you as much as I do: I will not repeat all he says,
lest you should think he repents of his complying with Sir William's
importunity. Write to us very often, and tell us you are happy; that
will be the only consolation we can receive in your absence. Oh, this
vow! It binds my father to this spot. Not that I wish to enter into the
world. I doubt faithlessness and insincerity are very prevalent there,
since they could find their way among our mountains. But let me not
overcloud your sunshine. I was, you know, always of a serious turn. May
no accident make you so, since your natural disposition is chearfulness
itself!

I read your letter to my father; he seemed pleased at your wish of being
acquainted with the incidents of his life: he will enter on the task
very soon. There is nothing, he says, which can, from the nature of
things, be a guide to you in your passage through the world, any farther
than not placing too much confidence in the prospect of felicity, with
which you see yourself surrounded; but always to keep in mind, we are
but in a state of probation here, and consequently but for a short time:
that, as our happiness is liable to change, we ought not to prize the
possession so much as to render ourselves miserable when that change
comes; neither, when we are oppressed with the rod of affliction, should
we sink into despair, as we are certain our woe, like ourselves, is
mortal. Receive the blessing of our only parent, joined with the
affectionate love of a tender sister. Adieu!

LOUISA GRENVILLE




LETTER VI.


To JAMES SPENCER, Esq.

It is high time, my dear Spencer, to account to you for the whimsical
journey, as you called it, which your friend undertook so suddenly. I
meant not to keep that, or even my motives for it, a secret from you.
The esteem you have ever shewn me merited my most unlimited confidence.

You said, you thought I must have some other view than merely to visit
the ruins of a paternal estate, lost to me by the extravagant folly of
my poor father. You said true; I had indeed some other view; but alas!
how blasted is that view! Long had my heart cherished the fondest
attachment for the loveliest and best of human beings, who inhabited the
mountains, which once my father owned. My fortune was too circumscribed
to disclose my flame; but I secretly indulged it, from the remote hope
of having it one day in my power to receive her hand without blushing at
my inferiority in point of wealth. These thoughts, these wishes, have
supported me through an absence of two years from my native land, and
all that made my native land dear to me.

Her loved idea heightened every joy I received, and softened every care.
I knew I possessed her esteem; but I never, from the first of my
acquaintance, gave the least hint of what I felt for, or hoped from,
her. I should have thought myself base in the highest degree, to have
made an interest in her bosom, which I had nothing to support on my side
but the sanguine wishes of youth, that some turn of Fortune's wheel
might be in my favour. You know how amply, as well as unexpectedly, I am
now provided for by our dear Frederic's death. How severely have I felt
and mourned his loss! But he is happier than in any situation which our
friendship for him could have found.

I could run any lengths in praising one so dear to me; but he was
equally so to you, and you are fully acquainted with my sentiments on
this head; besides, I have something more to the purpose at present to
communicate to you.

All the satisfaction I ever expected from the acquisition of fortune
was, to share it with my love. Nothing but that hope and prospect could
have enabled me to sustain the death of my friend. In the bosom of my
Julia I fondly hoped to experience those calm delights which his loss
deprived me of for some time. Alas! that long-indulged hope is sunk in
despair! Oh! my Spencer! she's lost, lost to me for ever! Yet what right
had I to think she would not be seen, and, being seen, admired, loved,
and courted? But, from the singularity of her father's disposition, who
had vowed never to mix in the world;--a disappointment of the tenderest
kind which her elder sister had met with, and the almost monastic
seclusion from society in which she lived, joined to her extreme youth,
being but seventeen the day I left you in London: all these
circumstances, I say, concurred once to authorize my fond hopes,--and
these hopes have nursed my despair. Oh! I knew not how much I loved her,
till I saw her snatched from me for ever. A few months sooner, and I
might have pleaded some merit with the lovely maid from my long and
unremitted attachment. My passion was interwoven with my
existence,--with that it grew, and with that only will expire.

    "My dear-lov'd Julia! from my youth began
    The tender flame, and ripen'd in the man;

    My dear-lov'd Julia! to my latest age,
    No other vows shall e'er my heart engage."

Full of the fond ideas which seemed a part of myself, I flew down to
Woodley-vale, to reap the long-expected harvest of my hopes.--Good God!
what was the fatal news I learnt on my arrival! Alas! she knew not of my
love and constancy;--she had a few weeks before given her hand, and no
doubt her heart, to Sir William Stanley, with whom an accident had
brought her acquainted. I will not enlarge upon what were my feelings on
this occasion.--Words would be too faint a vehicle to express the
anguish of my soul. You, who know the tenderness of my disposition, must
judge for me.

Yesterday I saw the dear angel, from the inn from whence I am writing;
she and her happy husband stopped here for fresh horses. I had a full
view of her beauteous face. Ah! how much has two years improved each
charm in her lovely person! lovely and charming, but not for me. I kept
myself concealed from her--I could hardly support the sight of her at a
distance; my emotions were more violent than you can conceive. Her dress
became her the best in the world; a riding habit of stone-coloured
cloth, lined with rose-colour, and frogs of the same--the collar of her
shirt was open at the neck, and discovered her lovely ivory throat. Her
hair was in a little disorder, which, with her hat, served to contribute
to, and heighten, the almost irresistible charms of her features. There
was a pensiveness in her manner, which rendered her figure more
interesting and touching than usual. I thought I discovered the traces
of a tear on her cheek. She had just parted with her father and sister;
and, had she shewn less concern, I should not have been so satisfied
with her. I gazed till my eye-balls ached; but, when the chaise drove
from the door--oh! what then became of me! "She's gone! she's gone!" I
exclaimed aloud, wringing my hands, "and never knew how much I loved
her!" I was almost in a state of madness for some hours--at last, my
storm of grief and despair a little subsided, and I, by degrees, became
calm and more resigned to my ill fate. I took the resolution, which I
shall put in execution as soon as possible, to leave England. I will
retire to the remaining part of my Frederic's family--and, in their
friendship, seek to forget the pangs which an habitual tenderness has
brought upon me.

You, who are at ease, may have it in your power to convey some small
satisfaction to my wounded breast. But why do I say _small
satisfaction_? To me it will be the highest to hear that my Julia is
happy. Do you then, my dear Spencer, enquire, among your acquaintance,
the character of this Sir William Stanley. His figure is genteel, nay,
rather handsome; yet he does not look the man I could wish for her. I
did not discover that look of tenderness, that soft impassioned glance,
which virtuous love excites; but you will not expect a favourable
picture from a rival's pen.

I mentioned a disappointment which the sister of my Julia had sustained:
it was just before I left England. While on a visit at Abergavenny, she
became acquainted with a young gentleman of fortune, who, after taking
some pains to render himself agreeable, had the satisfaction of gaining
the affections of one of the most amiable girls in the world. She is all
that a woman can be, except being my Julia. Louisa was at that time
extremely attached to a lady in the same house with her, who was by no
means a favourite with her lover. They used frequently to have little
arguments concerning her. He would not allow her any merit. Louisa
fancied she saw her own image reflected in the bosom of her friend. She
is warm in her attachments. Her zeal for her friend at last awakened a
curiosity in her lover, to view her with more scrutiny. He had been
accustomed to pay an implicit obedience to Louisa's opinion; he fancied
he was still acquiescing only in that opinion when he began to discover
she was handsome, and to find some farther beauties which Louisa had not
painted in so favourable a light as he now saw them. In short, what at
first was only a compliment to his mistress, now seemed the due of the
other. He thought Louisa had hardly done her justice; and in seeking to
repair that fault, he injured the woman who doated on him. Love, which
in some cases is blind, is in others extremely quick-sighted. Louisa saw
a change in his behaviour--a studied civility--an apprehension of not
appearing sufficiently assiduous--frequent expressions of fearing to
offend--and all those mean arts and subterfuges which a man uses, who
wants to put in a woman's power to break with him, that he may basely
shelter himself behind, what he styles, her cruelty. Wounded to the soul
with the duplicity of his conduct, she, one day, insisted on knowing the
motives which induced him to act in so disingenuous a manner by her. At
first his answers were evasive; but she peremptorily urged an explicit
satisfaction. She told him, the most unfavourable certainty would be
happiness to what she now felt, and that _certainty_ she now called on
him in justice to grant her. He then began by palliating the fatal
inconstancy of his affections, by the encomiums which she had bestowed
on her friend; that his love for her had induced him to love those dear
to her; and some unhappy circumstances had arisen, which had bound him
to her friend, beyond his power or inclination to break through. This
disappointment, in so early a part of Louisa's life, has given a
tenderness to her whole frame, which is of advantage to most women, and
her in particular. She has, I question not, long since beheld this
unworthy wretch in the light he truly deserved; yet, no doubt, it was
not till she had suffered many pangs. The heart will not recover its
usual tone in a short time, that has long been racked with the agonies
of love; and even when we fancy ourselves quite recovered, there is an
aching void, which still reminds us of former anguish.

I shall not be in town these ten days at least, as I find I can be
serviceable to a poor man in this neighbourhood, whom I believe to be an
object worthy attention. Write me, therefore, what intelligence you can
obtain; and scruple not to communicate the result of your inquiry to me
speedily. Her happiness is the wish next my heart. Oh! may it be as
exalted and as permanent as I wish it! I will not say any thing to you;
you well know how dear you are to the bosom of your

HENRY WOODLEY.




LETTER VII.


TO HENRY WOODLEY, Esq.

No, my dear Harry, I can never consent to your burying yourself abroad;
but I will not say all I could on that subject till we meet. I think, I
shall then be able to offer you some very powerful reasons, that you
will esteem sufficient to induce you to remain in your native land.--I
have a scheme in my head, but which I shall not communicate at present.

Sir William Stanley is quite a man of fashion.--Do you know enough of
the world to understand all that title comprehends? If you do, you will
sincerely regret your Julia is married to _a man of fashion_. His
passions are the rule and guide of his actions. To what mischiefs is a
young creature exposed in this town, circumstanced as Lady Stanley
is--without a friend or relation with her to point out the artful and
designing wretch, who means to make a prey of her innocence and
inexperience of life!

The most unsafe and critical situation for a woman, is to be young,
handsome, and married to a man of fashion; these are thought to be
lawful prey to the specious of our sex. As a man of fashion, Sir William
Stanley would blush to be found too attentive to his wife;--he will
leave her to seek what companions chance may throw in her way, while he
is associating with rakes of quality, and glorying in those scenes in
which to be discovered he should really blush. I am told he is fond of
deep play--attaches himself to women of bad character, and seeks to
establish an opinion, that he is quite the _ton_ in every thing. I
tremble for your Julia.--Her beauty, if she had no other merit, making
her fashionable, will induce some of those wretches, who are ever upon
the watch to ensnare the innocent, to practice their diabolical
artifices to poison her mind. She will soon see herself neglected by her
husband,--and that will be the signal for them to begin their
attack.--She is totally unhackneyed in the ways of men, and consequently
can form no idea of the extreme depravity of their hearts. May the
innate virtue of her mind be her guide and support!--but to escape with
honour and reputation will be a difficult task. I must see you, Harry. I
have something in my mind. I have seen more of the world than you
have.--For a whole year I was witness of the disorder of this great
town, and, with blushes I write, have too frequently joined in some of
its extravagances and follies; but, thank heaven! my eyes were opened
before my morals became corrupt, or my fortune and constitution
impaired.--Your virtue and my Frederic's confirmed me in the road I was
then desirous of pursuing,--and I am now convinced I shall never deviate
from the path of rectitude.

I expect you in town with all the impatience of a friend zealous for
your happiness and advantage: but I wish not to interfere with any
charitable or virtuous employment.--When you have finished your affairs,
remember your faithful

J. SPENCER.




LETTER VIII.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Surrounded with mantua-makers, milliners, and hair-dressers, I blush to
say I have hardly time to bestow on my dear Louisa. What a continual
bustle do I live in, without having literally any thing to do! All these
wonderful preparations are making for my appearance at court; and, in
consequence of that, my visiting all the places of public amusement. I
foresee my head will be turned with this whirl of folly, I am inclined
to call it, in contradiction to the opinion of mankind.--If the people I
am among are of any character at all, I may comprise it in few words: to
me they seem to be running about all the morning, and throwing away
time, in concerting measures to throw away more in the evening. Then, as
to dress, to give an idea of that, I must reverse the line of an old
song.

"What was our _shame_, is now our _pride_."

I have had a thousand patterns of silks brought me to make choice, and
such colours as yet never appeared in a rainbow. A very elegant man, one
of Sir William's friends I thought, was introduced to me the other
morning.--I was preparing to receive him as a visitor; when taking out
his pocket-book, he begged I would do him the honour to inspect some of
the most fashionable patterns, and of the newest taste. He gave me a
list of their names as he laid them on the cuff of his coat. This you
perhaps will think unnecessary; and that, as colours affect the visual
orb the same in different people, I might have been capable of
distinguishing blue from red, and so on; but the case is quite
otherwise; there are no such colours now. "This your ladyship will find
extremely becoming,--it is _la cheveaux de la Regne_;--but the _colour
de puce_ is esteemed before it, and mixed with _d'Artois_, forms the
most elegant assemblage in the world; the _Pont sang_ is immensely rich;
but to suit your ladyship's complexion, I would rather recommend the
_feuile mort_, or _la noysette_." Fifty others, equally unintelligible,
he ran off with the utmost facility. I thought, however, so important a
point should be determined by wiser heads than mine;--therefore
requested him to leave them with me, as I expelled some ladies on whose
taste I had great reliance. As I cannot be supposed from the nature of
things to judge for myself with any propriety, I shall leave the choice
of my cloaths to Lady Besford and Lady Anne Parker, two ladies who have
visited me, and are to be my protectors in public.

I was extremely shocked, when I sent for a mantua-maker, to find a man
was to perform that office. I even refused a long time to admit him near
me--and thinking myself perfectly safe that I should have him on my
side, appealed to Sir William. He laughed at my ridiculous scruples, as
he called them, and farther told me, "custom justified every thing;
nothing was indecent or otherwise, but as it was the _ton_." I was
silent, but neither satisfied or pleased,--and submitted, I believe,
with but an ill grace.

Lady Besford was so extremely polite to interest herself in every thing
concerning my making a fashionable appearance, and procured for me a
French frizeur of the last importation, who dressed hair to a miracle,
_au dernier gout_. I believe, Louisa, I must send you a dictionary of
polite phrases, or you will be much at a loss, notwithstanding you have
a pretty competent knowledge of the French tongue. I blush twenty times
a day at my own stupidity,--and then Sir William tells me, "it is so
immensely _bore_ to blush;" which makes me blush ten times more, because
I don't understand what he means by that expression, and I am afraid to
discover my ignorance; and he has not patience to explain every
ambiguous word he uses, but cries, shrugging up his shoulders, _ah! quel
savage_! and then composes his ruffled spirits by humming an Italian
air.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, but I must tell you what my dress was, in which I was presented.
My gown was a silver tissue, trimmed with silver net, and tied up with
roses, as large as life, I was going to say. Indeed it was very
beautiful, and so it ought, for it came to a most enormous sum. My
jewels are _magnifique_, and in immense quantities. Do you know, I could
not find out half their purposes, or what I should do with them; for
such things I never saw. What should poor Win and I have done by
ourselves?--Lady Besford talked of sending her woman to assist me in
dressing.--I told her I had a servant, to whom I had been accustomed for
a long time.--"Ah! for heaven's sake, my dear creature!" exclaimed my
husband, "don't mention the _tramontane_. She might do tolerably well
for the Welsh mountains, but she will cut a most _outré_ figure in the
_beau monde_. I beg you will accept of Lady Besford's polite offer, till
you can provide yourself with a _fille de chambre_, that knows on which
side her right hand hangs." Alas! poor Winifred Jones! Her mistress, I
doubt, has but few advantages over her. Lady Besford was lavish in the
encomiums of her woman, who had had the honour of being dresser to one
of the actresses many years.

Yesterday morning the grand task of my decoration was to commence. Ah!
good Lord! I can hardly recollect particulars.--I am morally convinced
my father would have been looking for his Julia, had he seen me;--and
would have spent much time before he discovered me in the midst of
feathers, flowers, and a thousand gew-gaws beside, too many to
enumerate. I will, if I can, describe my head for your edification, as
it appeared to me when Monsieur permitted me to view myself in the
glass. I was absolutely ready to run from it with fright, like poor
Acteon when he had suffered the displeasure of Diana; and, like him, was
in danger of running my new-acquired ornaments against every thing in my
way.

Monsieur alighted from his chariot about eleven o'clock, and was
immediately announced by Griffith, who, poor soul! stared as if he
thought him one of the finest men in the world. He was attended by a
servant, who brought in two very large caravan boxes, and a number of
other things. Monsieur then prepared to begin his operations.--Sir
William was at that time in my dressing-room. He begged, for God's sake!
"that Monsieur would be so kind as to exert his abilities, as every
thing depended on the just impression my figure made."--Monsieur bowed
and shrugged, just like an overgrown monkey. In a moment I was
overwhelmed with a cloud of powder. "What are you doing? I do not mean
to be powdered," I said. "Not powdered!" repeated Sir William; "why you
would not be so barbarous as to appear without--it positively is not
decent."

"I thought," answered I, "you used to admire the colour of my hair--how
often have you praised its glossy hue! and called me your _nut-brown
maid!_"

"Pho! pho!" said he, blushing, perhaps lest he should be suspected of
tenderness, as that is very vulgar, "I can bear to see a woman without
powder in summer; but now the case is otherwise. Monsieur knows what he
is about. Don't interrupt or dictate to him. I am going to dress. Adieu,
_ma charmante!_"

With a determination of being passive, I sat down under his
hands--often, I confess, wondering what kind of being I should be in my
metamorphosis,--and rather impatient of the length of time, to say
nothing of the pain I felt under the pulling and frizing, and rubbing in
the exquisitely-scented _pomade de Venus._ At length the words, "_vous
êtes finis, madame, au dernier gout,"_ were pronounced; and I rose with
precaution, lest I should discompose my new-built fabrick, and to give a
glance at myself in the glass;--but where, or in what language, shall I
ever find words to express my astonishment at the figure which presented
itself to my eyes! what with curls, flowers, ribbands, feathers, lace,
jewels, fruit, and ten thousand other things, my head was at least from
one side to the other full half an ell wide, and from the lowest curl
that lay on my shoulder, up to the top, I am sure I am within compass,
if I say three quarters of a yard high; besides six enormous large
feathers, black, white, and pink, that reminded me of the plumes which
nodded on the immense casque in the castle of Otranto. "Good God!" I
exclaimed, "I can never bear this." The man assured me I was dressed
quite in taste. "Let me be dressed as I will," I answered, "I must and
will be altered. I would not thus expose myself, for the universe."
Saying which, I began pulling down some of the prodigious and monstrous
fabrick.--The _dresser of the actresses_ exclaimed loudly, and the
frizeur remonstrated. However, I was inflexible: but, to stop the
volubility of the Frenchman's tongue, I inquired how much I was indebted
to him for making me a monster. A mere trifle! Half a guinea the
dressing, and for the feathers, pins, wool, false curls, _chignion,
toque, pomades_, flowers, wax-fruit, ribband, _&c. &c. &c_. he believes
about four guineas would be the difference. I was almost petrified with
astonishment. When I recovered the power of utterance, I told him, "I
thought at least he should have informed me what he was about before he
ran me to so much expense; three-fourths of the things were useless, as
I would not by any means appear in them." "It was the same to him," he
said, "they were now my property. He had run the risk of disobliging the
Duchess of D----, by giving me the preference of the finest bundles of
radishes that had yet come over; but this it was to degrade himself by
dressing commoners. Lady Besford had intreated this favour from him; but
he must say, he had never been so ill-treated since his arrival in this
kingdom." In short, he flew out of the room in a great rage, leaving me
in the utmost disorder. I begged Mrs. Freeman (so her ladyship's woman
is called) to assist me a little in undoing what the impertinent
Frenchman had taken such immense pains to effect. I had sacrificed half
a bushel of trumpery, when Lady Besford was ushered into my
dressing-room. "Lord bless me! my dear Lady Stanley, what still
_dishabillé_? I thought you had been ready, and waiting for me." I
began, by way of apology, to inform her ladyship of Monsieur's
insolence. She looked serious, and said, "I am sorry you offended him; I
fear he will represent you at her grace's _ruelle_, and you will be the
jest of the whole court. Indeed, this is a sad affair. He is the first
man in his walk of life." "And if he was the last," I rejoined, "it
would be the better; however, I beg your ladyship's pardon for not being
ready. I shall not detain you many minutes."

My dear Louisa, you will laugh when I tell you, that poor Winifred, who
was reduced to be my gentlewoman's gentlewoman, broke two laces in
endeavouring to draw my new French stays close. You know I am naturally
small at bottom. But now you might literally span me. You never saw such
a doll. Then, they are so intolerably wide across the breast, that my
arms are absolutely sore with them; and my sides so pinched!--But it is
the _ton_; and pride feels no pain. It is with these sentiments the
ladies of the present age heal their wounds; to be admired, is a
sufficient balsam.

Sir William had met with the affronted Frenchman, and, like Lady
Besford, was full of apprehensions lest he should expose me; for my
part, I was glad to be from under his hands at any rate; and feared
nothing when he was gone; only still vexed at the strange figure I made.
My husband freely condemned my behaviour as extremely absurd; and, on my
saying I would have something to cover, or at least shade, my neck, for
that I thought it hardly decent to have that intirely bare, while one's
head was loaded with superfluities; he exclaimed to Lady Besford,
clapping his hands together, "Oh! God! this ridiculous girl will be an
eternal disgrace to me!" I thought this speech very cutting. I could not
restrain a tear from starting. "I hope not, Sir William," said I; "but,
lest I should, I will stay at home till I have properly learnt to submit
to insult and absurdity without emotion." My manner made him ashamed; he
took my hand, and, kissing it, begged my pardon, and added, "My dear
creature, I want you to be admired by the whole world; and, in
compliance with the taste of the world, we must submit to some things,
which, from their novelty, we may think absurd; but use will reconcile
them to you." Lady Besford encouraged me; and I was prevailed on to go,
though very much out of spirits. I must break off here, for the present.
This letter has been the work of some days already. Adieu!

IN CONTINUATION

My apprehensions increased each moment that brought us near St. James's:
but there was nothing for it; so I endeavoured all in my power to argue
myself into a serenity of mind, and succeeded beyond my hopes. The
amiable condescension of their Majesties, however, contributed more than
any thing to compose my spirits, or, what I believe to be nearer the
true state of the case, I was absorbed in respect for them, and totally
forgot myself. They were so obliging as to pay Sir William some
compliments; and the King said, if all my countrywomen were like me, he
should be afraid to trust his son thither. I observed Sir William with
the utmost attention; I saw his eyes were on me the whole time; but, my
Louisa, I cannot flatter myself so far as to say they were the looks of
love; they seemed to me rather the eyes of scrutiny, which were on the
watch, yet afraid they should see something unpleasing. I longed to be
at home, to know from him how I had acquitted myself. To my question, he
answered, by pressing me to his bosom, crying, "Like an angel, by
heaven! Upon my soul, Julia, I never was so charmed with you in my
life." "And upon my honour," I returned, "I could not discover the least
symptom of tenderness in your regards. I dreaded all the while that you
was thinking I should disgrace you."

"You was never more mistaken. I never had more reason to be proud of any
part of my family. The circle rang with your praises. But you must not
expect tenderness in public, my love; if you meet with it in private,
you will have no cause of complaint."

This will give you but a strange idea of the world I am in, Louisa. I do
not above half like it, and think a ramble, arm in arm with you upon our
native mountains, worth it all. However, my lot is drawn; and, perhaps,
as times and husbands go, _I have no cause of complaint_.

Your's most sincerely,

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER IX.


TO Lady STANLEY.

My Dearest Child,

The task you set your father is a heavy one; but I chearfully comply
with any request of my Julia's. However, before I enter upon it, let me
say a little to you: Are you happy, my child? Do you find the world such
as you thought it while it was unknown to you? Do the pleasures you
enjoy present you with an equivalent for your renunciation of a fond
father, and tender sister? Is their affection amply repaid by the love
of your husband? All these, and a thousand other equally important
questions, I long to put to my beloved. I wish to know the true state of
your heart. I then should be able to judge whether I ought to mourn or
rejoice in this separation from you. Believe me, Julia, I am not so
selfish to wish you here, merely to augment my narrow circle of
felicity, if you can convince me you are happier where you are. But can
all the bustle, the confusion you describe, be productive of happiness
to a young girl, born and educated in the lap of peaceful retirement?
The novelty may strike your mind; and, for a while, you may think
yourself happy, because you are amused, and have not time to define what
your reflections are: but in the sober hour, when stillness reigns, and
the soul unbends itself from the fatigues of the day; what judgment then
does cool reason form? Are you satisfied? Are your slumbers peaceful and
calm? Do you never sigh after the shades of Woodley, and your rural
friends? Answer these questions fairly and candidly, my Julia--prove to
me you are happy, and your heart as good and innocent as ever; and I
shall descend to the silent tomb with peaceful smiles.

Perhaps the resolution I formed of retiring from a world in which I had
met with disgust, was too hastily concluded on. Be that as it may--it
was sacred, and as such I have, and will, keep it. I lost my confidence
in mankind; and I could find no one whose virtues could redeem it. Many
years have elapsed since; and the manners and customs change so
frequently, that I should be a total stranger among the inhabitants of
this present age.

You have heard me say I was married before I had the happiness of being
united to _your_ amiable mother. I shall begin my narrative from the
commencement of that union; only premising, that I was the son of the
younger branch of a noble family, whose name I bear. I inherited the
blood, but very little more, of my ancestors. However, a taste for
pleasure, and an indulgence of some of the then fashionable follies,
which in all ages and all times are too prevalent, conspired to make my
little fortune still more contracted. Thus situated, I became acquainted
with a young lady of large fortune. My figure and address won her heart;
her person was agreeable and although I might not be what the world
calls in love, I certainly was attached to her. Knowing the inferiority
of my fortune, I could not presume to offer her my hand, even after I
was convinced she wished I should; but some circumstances arising, which
brought us more intimately acquainted, at length conquered my scruples;
and, without consulting any other guide than our passions, we married.
My finances were now extremely straitened; for although my wife was
heiress of upwards of thirty thousand pounds, yet, till she came of age,
I could reap no advantage of it; and to that period she wanted near four
years. We were both fond of pleasure, and foolishly lived as if we were
in actual possession of double that income. I found myself deeply
involved; but the time drew near that was to set all to rights; and I
had prevailed on my wife to consent to a retrenchment. We had formed a
plan of retiring for some time in the country, to look after her estate;
and, by way of taking a polite leave of our friends (or rather
acquaintance; for, when they were put to the test, I found them
undeserving of that appellation); by way, I say, of quitting the town
with _éclat_, my wife proposed giving an elegant entertainment on her
birth-day, which was on the twenty-fourth of December. Christmas-day
fell that year upon a Monday: unwilling to protract this day of joy till
the Tuesday, my wife desired to anticipate her natal festival, and
accordingly Saturday was appointed. She had set her heart on dancing in
the evening, and was extremely mortified on finding an extreme pain in
her ancle, which she attributed to a strain. It was so violent during
dinner-time, that she was constrained to leave the table. A lady, who
retired with her, told her, the surest remedy for a strain, was to
plunge the leg in cold water, and would procure instant relief.
Impatient of the disappointment and anguish, she too fatally consented.
I knew nothing of what was doing in my wife's dressing-room, till my
attention was roused by repeated cries. Terribly alarmed--I flew
thither, and found her in the agonies of death. Good God! what was my
distraction at that moment! I then recollected what she had often told
me, of all her family being subject to the gout at a very early age.
Every medical assistance was procured--with all speed. The physician,
however, gave but small hopes, unless the disorder could be removed from
her head and stomach, which it had attacked with the greatest violence.
How was all our mirth in one sad moment overthrown! The day, which had
risen with smiles, now promised to set in tears. In the few lucid
intervals which my unhappy wife could be said to have, she instantly
prayed to live till she could secure her fortune to my life; which could
be done no other way than making her will; since, having had no
children, the estate, should she die before she came of age--or even
then, without a bequest--would devolve upon a cousin, with whose family
we had preserved no intimacy, owing to the illiberal reflections part of
them had cast on my wife, for marrying a man without an answerable
fortune. My being allied to a noble family was no recommendation to
those who had acquired their wealth by trade, and were possessed of the
most sordid principles. I would not listen to the persuasion of my
friends, who urged me to get writings executed, to which my wife might
set her hand: such measures appeared to me both selfish and cruel; or,
rather, my mind was too much absorbed in my present affliction, to pay
any attention to my future security.

In her greatest agonies and most severe paroxysms, she knew and
acknowledged her obligations to me, for the unremitted kindness I had
shewn her during our union. "Oh! my God!" she would exclaim, "Oh! my
God! let me but live to reward him! I ask not length of years--though in
the bloom of life, I submit with chearful resignation to thy will. My
God! I ask not length of days; I only petition for a few short hours of
sense and recollection, that I may, by the disposition of my affairs,
remove all other distress from the bosom of my beloved husband, save
what he will feel on this separation."

Dear soul! she prayed in vain. Nay, I doubt her apprehension and
terrors, lest she should die, encreased the agonies of her body and
mind.

Unknown to me, a gentleman, by the request of my dying wife, drew up a
deed; the paper lay on the bed: she meant to sign it as soon as the
clock struck twelve. Till within a few minutes of that time, she
continued tolerably calm, and her head perfectly clear; she flattered
herself, and endeavoured to convince us, she would recover--but, alas!
this was only a little gleam of hope, to sink us deeper in despair. Her
pain returned with redoubled violence from this short recess; and her
senses never again resumed their seat. She suffered the most
excruciating agonies till two in the morning--then winged her flight to
heaven--leaving me the most forlorn and disconsolate of men.

I continued in a state of stupefaction for several days, till my friends
rouzed me, by asking what course I meant to pursue. I had the whole
world before me, and saw myself, as it were, totally detached from any
part of it. My own relations I had disobliged, by marrying the daughter
of a tradesman. They were, no doubt, glad of an excuse, to rid
themselves of an indigent person, who might reflect dishonour on their
nobility--of them I had no hopes. I had as little probability of success
in my application to the friends of my late wife; yet I thought, in
justice, they should not refuse to make me some allowances for the
expenses our manner of living had brought on me--as they well knew they
were occasioned by my compliance with her taste--at least so far as to
discharge some of my debts.

I waited on Mr. Maynard, the father of the lady who now possessed the
estate, to lay before him the situation of my affairs. He would hardly
hear me out with patience. He upbraided me with stealing an heiress; and
with meanly taking every method of obliging a dying woman to injure her
relations. In short, his behaviour was rude, unmanly, and indecent. I
scorned to hold converse with so sordid a wretch, and was leaving his
house with the utmost displeasure, when his daughter slipped out of the
room. She begged me, with many tears, not to impute "her father's
incivility to her--wished the time was come when she should be her own
mistress; but hoped she should be able to bring her father to some terms
of accommodation; and assured me, she would use all her influence with
him to induce him to do me justice."

Her influence over the mind of such a man as her father had like to have
little weight--as it proved. She used all her eloquence in my favour,
which only served to instigate him against me. He sent a very rude and
abrupt message to me, to deliver up several articles of household
furniture, and other things, which had belonged to my wife; which,
however, I refused to do, unless I was honoured with the order of Miss
Maynard. Her father could not prevail on her to make the requisition;
and, enraged at my insolence, and her obstinacy, as he politely styled
our behaviour, he swore he would be revenged. In order to make his words
good, he went severally to each of the trades-people to whom I was
indebted, and, collecting the sums, prevailed on them to make over the
debts to him; thereby becoming the sole creditor; and how merciful I
should find him, I leave you to judge, from the motive by which he
acted.

In a few days there was an execution in my house, and I was conveyed to
the King's-Bench. At first I took the resolution of continuing there
contentedly, till either my cruel creditor should relent, or that an act
of grace should take place. A prison, however, is dreadful to a free
mind; and I solicited those, who had, in the days of my prosperity,
professed a friendship for me: some few afforded me a temporary relief,
but dealt with a scanty hand; others disclaimed me--none would bail me,
or undertake my cause: many, who had contributed to my extravagance, now
condemned me for launching into expences beyond my income; and those,
who refused their assistance, thought they had a right to censure my
conduct. Thus did I find myself deserted and neglected by the whole
world; and was early taught, how little dependence we ought to place on
the goods of it.

When I had been an inmate of the house of bondage some few weeks, I
received a note from Miss Maynard. She deplored, in the most pathetic
terms, "the steps her father had taken, which she had never discovered
till that morning; and intreated my acceptance of a trifle, to render my
confinement less intolerable; and if I could devise any methods, wherein
she could be serviceable, she should think herself most happy." There
was such a delicacy and nobleness of soul ran through the whole of this
little _billet_, as, at the same time that it shewed the writer in the
most amiable light, gave birth to the liveliest gratitude in my bosom. I
had, till this moment, considered her only as the daughter of Mr.
Maynard; as one, whose mind was informed by the same principles as his
own. I now beheld her in another view; I looked on her only in her
relation to my late wife, whose virtues she inherited with her fortune.
I felt a veneration for the generosity of a young girl, who, from the
narrow sentiments of her father, could not be mistress of any large sum;
and yet she had, in the politest manner (making it a favour done to
herself), obliged me to accept of a twenty-pound-note. I had a thousand
conflicts with myself, whether I should keep or return it; nothing but
my fear of giving her pain could have decided it. I recollected the
tears she shed the last time I saw her: on reading over her note again,
I discovered the paper blistered in several places; to all this, let me
add, her image seemed to stand confessed before me. Her person, which I
had hardly ever thought about, now was present to my imagination. It
lost nothing by never having been the subject of my attention before. I
sat ruminating on the picture I had been drawing in my mind, till,
becoming perfectly enthusiastic in my ideas, I started up, and, clasping
my hands together,--"Why," exclaimed I aloud, "why have I not twenty
thousand pounds to bestow on this adorable creature!" The sound of my
voice brought me to myself, and I instantly recollected I ought to make
some acknowledgment to my fair benefactress. I found the task a
difficult one. After writing and rejecting several, I at last was
resolved to send the first I had attempted, knowing that, though less
studied, it certainly was the genuine effusions of my heart. After
saying all my gratitude dictated, I told her, "that, next to her
society, I should prize her correspondence above every thing in this
world; but that I begged she would not let compassion for an unfortunate
man lead her into any inconveniencies, but be guided entirely by her own
discretion. I would, in the mean time, intreat her to send me a few
books--the subject I left to her, they being her taste would be their
strongest recommendation." Perhaps I said more than I ought to have
done, although at that time I thought I fell infinitely short of what I
might have said; and yet, I take God to witness, I did not mean to
engage her affection; and no thing was less from my intention than
basely to practice on her passions.

In one of her letters, she asked me, if my debts were discharged, what
would be my dependence or scheme of life: I freely answered, my
dependence would be either to get a small place, or else serve my king
in the war now nearly breaking out, which rather suited the activity of
my disposition. She has since told me, she shed floods of tears over
that expression--_the activity of my disposition_; she drew in her
imagination the most affecting picture of a man, in the bloom and vigour
of life, excluded from the common benefits of his fellow-creatures, by
the merciless rapacity of an inhuman creditor. The effect this
melancholy representation had on her mind, while pity endeared the
object of it to her, made her take the resolution of again addressing
her father in my behalf. He accused her of ingratitude, in thus repaying
his care for her welfare. Hurt by the many harsh things he said, she
told him, "the possession of ten times the estate could convey no
pleasure to her bosom, while it was tortured with the idea, that he, who
had the best right to it, was secluded from every comfort of life; and
that, whenever it should be in her power, she would not fail to make
every reparation she could, for the violence offered to an innocent,
injured, man." This brought down her father's heaviest displeasure. He
reviled her in the grossest terms; asserted, "she had been fascinated by
me, as her ridiculous cousin had been before; but that he would take
care his family should not run the risk of being again beggared by such
a spendthrift; and that he should use such precautions, as to frustrate
any scheme I might form of seducing her from her duty." She sought to
exculpate me from the charges her father had brought against me; but he
paid no regard to her asseverations, and remained deaf and inexorable to
all her intreaties. When I learnt this, I wrote to Miss Maynard,
intreating her, for her own sake, to resign an unhappy man to his evil
destiny. I begged her to believe, I had sufficient resolution to support
confinement, or any other ill; but that it was an aggravation to my
sufferings (which to sustain was very difficult) to find her zeal for
me had drawn on her the ill-usage of her father. I further requested,
she would never again mention me to him; and if possible, never think of
me if those thoughts were productive of the least disquiet to her. I
likewise mentioned my hearing an act of grace would soon release me from
my bonds; and then I was determined to offer myself a volunteer in the
service, where, perhaps, I might find a cannon-ball my best friend.

A life, so different to what I had been used, brought on a disorder,
which the agitation of my spirits increased so much as to reduce me
almost to the gates of death. An old female servant of Miss Maynard's
paid me a visit, bringing me some little nutritive delicacies, which her
kind mistress thought would be serviceable to me. Shocked at the
deplorable spectacle I made, for I began to neglect my appearance; which
a man is too apt to do when not at peace with himself: shocked, I say,
she represented me in such a light to her lady, as filled her gentle
soul with the utmost terror for my safety. Guided alone by the
partiality she honoured me with, she formed the resolution of coming to
see me. She however gave me half an hour's notice of her intention. I
employed the intermediate time in putting myself into a condition of
receiving her with more decency. The little exertion I made had nearly
exhausted my remaining strength, and I was more dead than alive, when
the trembling, pale, and tottering guest made her approach in the house
of woe. We could neither of us speak for some time. The benevolence of
her heart had supported her during her journey thither; but now the
native modesty of her sex seemed to point out the impropriety of
visiting a man, unsolicited, in prison. Weak as I was, I saw the
necessity of encouraging the drooping spirits of my fair visitor. I
paid her my grateful acknowledgments for her inestimable goodness. She
begged me to be silent on that head, as it brought reflections she could
ill support. In obedience to her, I gave the conversation another turn;
but still I could not help reverting to the old subject. She then
stopped me, by asking, "what was there so extraordinary in her conduct?
and whether, in her situation, would not I have done as much for her?"
"Oh! yes!" I cried, with eagerness, "that I should, and ten times more."
I instantly felt the impropriety of my speech. "Then I have been
strangely deficient," said she, looking at me with a gentle smile. "I
ask a thousand pardons," said I, "for the abruptness of my expression. I
meant to evince my value for you, and my sense of what I thought you
deserved. You must excuse my method, I have been long unused to the
association of human beings, at least such as resemble you. You have
already conferred more favours than I could merit at your hands." Miss
Maynard seemed disconcerted--she looked grave. "It is a sign you think
so," said she, in a tone of voice that shewed she was piqued, "as you
have taken such pains to explain away an involuntary compliment.--But I
have already exceeded the bounds I prescribed to myself in this
visit--it is time to leave you."

I felt abashed, and found myself incapable of saying any thing to clear
myself from the imputation of insensibility or ingratitude, without
betraying the tenderness which I really possessed for her, yet which I
thought, circumstanced as I was, would be ungenerous to the last degree
to discover, as it would be tacitly laying claim to her's. The common
rules of politeness, however, called on me to say something.--I
respectfully took her hand, which trembled as much as mine. "Dear Miss
Maynard," said I, "how shall I thank you for the pleasure your company
has conveyed to my bosom?" Even then thinking I had said too much,
especially as I by an involuntary impulse found my fingers compress
her's, I added, "I plainly see the impropriety of asking you to renew
your goodness--I must not be selfish, or urge you to take any step for
which you may hereafter condemn yourself."

"I find, Sir," she replied, "your prudence is greater than mine. I need
never apprehend danger from such a monitor."

"Don't mistake me," said I, with a sigh I could not repress. "I doubt I
have," returned she, "but I will endeavour to develop your character.
Perhaps, if I do not find myself quite perfect, I may run the risk of
taking another lesson, unless you should tell me it is imprudent." So
saying, she left me. There was rather an affectation of gaiety in her
last speech, which would have offended me, had I not seen it was only
put on to conceal her real feelings from a man, who seemed coldly
insensible of her invaluable perfections both of mind and body.--Yet how
was I to act? I loved her with the utmost purity, and yet fervour. My
heart chid me for throwing cold water on the tenderness of this amiable
girl;--but my reason told me, I should be a villain to strive to gain
her affections in such a situation as I was. Had I been lord of the
universe, I would have shared it with my Maria. You will ask, how I
could so easily forget the lowness of my fortune in my connexion with
her cousin? I answer, the case was widely different--I then made a
figure in life equal to my birth, though my circumstances were
contracted.--Now, I was poor and in prison:--then, I listened only to my
passions--now, reason and prudence had some sway with me. My love for my
late wife was the love of a boy;--my attachment to Maria the sentiments
of a man, and a man visited by, and a prey to, misfortune. On
reflection, I found I loved her to the greatest height. After passing a
sleepless night of anguish, I came to the resolution of exculpating
myself from the charge of insensibility, though at the expence of losing
sight of her I loved for ever. I wrote her a letter, wherein, I freely
confessed the danger I apprehended from the renewal of her visit.--I
opened my whole soul before her, but at the same time told her, "I laid
no claim to any more from her than compassion; shewed her the rack of
constraint I put on myself, to conceal the emotions of my heart, lest
the generosity of her's might involve her in a too strong partiality for
so abject a wretch. I hoped she would do me the justice to believe, that
as no man ever loved more, so no one on earth could have her interest
more at heart than myself, since to those sentiments I sacrificed every
thing dear to me." Good God! what tears did this letter cost me! I
sometimes condemned myself, and thought it false generosity.--Why should
I, said I to myself, why should I thus cast happiness away from two, who
seem formed to constitute all the world to each other?--How rigorous are
thy mandates, O Virtue! how severe thy decree! and oh! how much do I
feel in obeying thee! No sooner was the letter gone, than I repented the
step I had pursued.--I called myself ungrateful to the bounty of heaven;
who thus, as it were, had inspired the most lovely of women with an
inclination to relieve my distress; and had likewise put the means in
her hands.--These cogitations contributed neither to establish my
health, or compose my spirits. I had no return to my letter; indeed I
had not urged one. Several days I passed in a state of mind which can be
only known to those who have experienced the same. At last a pacquet was
brought me. It contained an ensign's commission in a regiment going to
Germany; and a paper sealed up, on which was written, "It is the
request of M.M. that Mr. Grenville does not open _this_ till he has
crossed the seas."

There was another paper folded in the form of a letter, but not sealed;
_that_ I hastily opened, and found it contained only a few words, and a
bank bill of an hundred pounds. The contents were as follow:

"True love knows not the nice distinctions you have made,--at least, if
I may be allowed to judge from my own feelings, I think it does not. I
may, however, be mistaken, but the error is too pleasing to be
relinquished; and I would much rather indulge it, than listen at present
to the cold prudential arguments which a too refined and ill-placed
generosity points out. When you arrive at the place of your destination,
you may gain a farther knowledge of a heart, capable at the same time of
the tenderest partiality, and a firm resolution of conquering it."

Every word of this billet was a dagger to my soul. I then ceased not to
accuse myself of ingratitude to the loveliest of women, as guilty of
false pride instead of generosity. If she placed her happiness in my
society, why should I deprive her of it? As she said my sentiments were
too refined, I asked myself, if it would not have been my supreme
delight to have raised her from the dregs of the people to share the
most exalted situation with me? Why should I then think less highly of
her attachment, of which I had received such proofs, than I was
convinced mine was capable of? For the future, I was determined to
sacrifice these nice punctilios, which were ever opposing my felicity,
and that of an amiable woman, who clearly and repeatedly told me, by her
looks, actions, and a thousand little nameless attentions I could not
mistake, that her whole happiness depended on me. I thought nothing
could convince her more thoroughly of my wish of being obliged to her,
than the acceptance of her bounty: I made no longer any hesitation about
it. That very day I was released from my long confinement by the
grace-act, to the utter mortification of my old prosecutor. I drove
immediately to some lodgings I had provided in the Strand; from whence I
instantly dispatched a billet-doux to Maria, in which I said these
words:

"The first moment of liberty I devote to the lovely Maria, who has my
heart a slave. I am a convert to your assertion, that love makes not
distinctions. Otherwise, could I support the reflection, that all I am
worth in the world I owe to you? But to you the world owes all the
charms it has in my eyes. We will not, however, talk of debtor and
creditor, but permit me to make up in adoration what I want in wealth.
Fortune attends the brave.--I will therefore flatter myself with
returning loaden with the spoils of the enemy, and in such a situation,
that you may openly indulge the partiality which makes the happiness of
my life, without being put to the blush by sordid relations.

I shall obey your mandates the more chearfully, as I think I am
perfectly acquainted with every perfection of your heart; judge then how
I must value it. Before I quit England, I shall petition for the honour
of kissing your hand;--but how shall I bid you adieu!"

The time now drew nigh when I was to take leave of my native land--and
what was dearer to me, my Maria.--I was too affected to utter a
word;--her soul had more heroic greatness.--"Go," said she, "pursue the
paths of glory; have confidence in Providence, and never distrust me. I
have already experienced some hazards on your account; but perhaps my
father may be easier in his mind, when he is assured you have left
England."

I pressed her to explain herself. She did so, by informing me, "her
father suspected her attachment, and, to prevent any ill consequence
arising, had proposed a gentleman to her for a husband, whom she had
rejected with firmness. No artifice, or ill usage," continued she,
"shall make any change in my resolution;--but I shall say no more, the
pacquet will more thoroughly convince you of what I am capable."

"Good God!" said I, in an agony, "why should your tenderness be
incompatible with your duty?"

"I do not think it," she answered;--"it is my duty to do justice; and I
do no more, by seeking to restore to you your own."

We settled the mode of our future correspondence; and I tore myself from
the only one I loved on earth. When I joined the regiment, I availed
myself of the privilege given me to inspect the papers. Oh! how was my
love, esteem, and admiration, increased! The contents were written at a
time, when she thought me insensible, or at least too scrupulous. She
made a solemn vow never to marry; but as soon as she came of age, to
divide the estate with me, making over the remainder to any children I
might have; but the whole was couched in terms of such delicate
tenderness, as drew floods of tears from my eyes, and riveted my soul
more firmly to her. I instantly wrote to her, and concealed not a
thought or sentiment of my heart--_that_ alone dictated every line. In
the letter she returned, she sent me her picture in a locket, and on the
reverse a device with her hair; this was an inestimable present to
me.--It was my sole employ, while off duty, to gaze on the lovely
resemblance of the fairest of women.

For some months our correspondence was uninterrupted.--However, six
weeks had now passed since I expected a letter.

Love is industrious in tormenting itself. I formed ten thousand dreadful
images in my own mind, and sunk into despair from each. I wrote letter
after letter, but had still no return. I had no other correspondent in
England.--Distraction seized me. "She's dead!" cried I to myself, "she's
dead! I have nothing to do but to follow her." At last I wrote to a
gentleman who lived in the neighbourhood of Mr. Maynard, conjuring him,
in the most affecting terms, to inform me of what I yet dreaded to be
told.--I waited with a dying impatience till the mails arrived.--A
letter was brought me from this gentleman.--He said, Mr. Maynard's
family had left L. some time;--they proposed going abroad; but he
believed they had retired to some part of Essex;--there had a report
prevailed of Miss Maynard's being married; but if true, it was since
they had left L. This news was not very likely to clear or calm my
doubts. What could I think?--My reflections only served to awaken my
grief. I continued two years making every inquiry, but never received
the least satisfactory account.

A prey to the most heartfelt affliction, life became insupportable to
me.--Was she married, I revolved in my mind all the hardships she must
have endured before she would be prevailed on to falsify her vows to me,
which were registered in heaven.--Had death ended her distress, I was
convinced it had been hastened by the severity of an unnatural
father.--Whichsoever way I turned my thoughts, the most excruciating
reflections presented themselves, and in each I saw her sufferings
alone.

In this frame of mind, I rejoiced to hear we were soon to have a battle,
which would in all probability be decisive. I was now raised to the rank
of captain-lieutenant. A battalion of our regiment was appointed to a
most dangerous post. It was to gain a pass through a narrow defile, and
to convey some of our heavy artillery to cover a party of soldiers, who
were the flower of the troops, to endeavour to flank the enemy. I was
mortified to find I was not named for this service. I spoke of it to the
captain, who honoured me with his friendship.--"It was my care for you,
Grenville," said he, "which prevented your name being inrolled. I wish,
for the sakes of so many brave fellows, this manoeuvre could have been
avoided. It will be next to a miracle if we succeed; but success must be
won with the lives of many; the first squadron must look on themselves
as a sacrifice." "Permit me then," said I, "to head that squadron; I
will do my duty to support my charge; but if I fall, I shall bless the
blow which rids me of an existence intolerable to me."

"You are a young man, Grenville," replied the captain, "you may
experience a change in life, which will repay you for the adversities
you at present complain of. I would have you courageous, and defy
dangers, but not madly rush on them; that is to be despairing, not
brave; and consequently displeasing to the Deity, who appoints us our
task, and rewards us according to our acquittal of our duty. The
severest winter is followed oftentimes by the most blooming spring:" "It
is true," said I:

    "But when will spring visit the mouldering urn?
    Ah! when will it dawn on the gloom of the grave?"

"Will you, however, allow me to offer an exchange with the commanding
officer?" My captain consented; and the lieutenant was very glad to
exchange his post, for one of equal honour, but greater security. I was
sitting in my tent the evening of the important day, ruminating on the
past events of my life; and then naturally fell into reflections of
what, in all probability, would be the consequence of the morrow's
attack. We looked on ourselves as devoted men; and though, I dare say,
not one in the whole corps was tired of his life, yet they all expressed
the utmost eagerness to be employed. Death was the ultimate wish of my
soul. "I shall, before to-morrow's sun goes down," said I, addressing
myself to the resemblance of my Maria; "I shall, most lovely of women,
be re-united to thee; or, if yet thy sufferings have not ended thy
precious life, I shall yet know where thou art, and be permitted,
perhaps, to hover over thee, to guide thy footsteps, and conduct thee to
those realms of light, whose joys will be incomplete without thee." With
these rhapsodies I was amusing my mind, when a serjeant entered, and
acquainted me, there was, without, a young man enquiring for me, who
said, he must be admitted, having letters of the greatest importance
from England. My heart beat high against my breast, my respiration grew
thick and difficult, and I could hardly articulate these words,--"For
God's sake, let me see him! Support me, Oh, God! what is it I am going
to hear?"

A cold sweat bedewed my face, and an universal tremor possessed my whole
frame.

A young gentleman, wrapped up in a Hussar cloak, made his appearance.
"Is this Lieutenant Grenville?" I bowed. "I am told, Sir," said I, in a
tremulous voice, "you have letters from England; relieve my doubts I
beseech you."--"Here, Sir, is one," said the youth, extending his hand,
which trembled exceedingly.--I hastily snatched it, ready to devour the
contents;--what was my agitation, when I read these words!

"If, after a silence of two long years, your Maria is still dear to you,
you will rejoice to hear she still lives for you alone. If her presence
is wished for by you, you will rejoice on finding her at no great
distance from you. But, if you love with the tenderness she does, how
great, how extatic, will be your felicity, to raise your eyes, and fix
them on her's!"

The paper dropped from my enervate hand, while I raised my eyes, and
beheld, Oh! my God! under the disguise of a young officer, my beloved,
my faithful, long-lost Maria!

"Great God!" cried I, in a transport of joy, clasping my hands together,
"have then my prayers been heard! do I again behold her!" But my
situation recurring to my imagination; the dangers which I had
unnecessarily engaged myself in for the morrow; her disguise; the
unprotected state in which I should leave her, in a camp, where too much
licentiousness reigned; all these ideas took instant possession of my
mind, and damped the rising joy her loved presence had at first excited.
The agonizing pangs which seized me are past description. "Oh! my God!"
I exclaimed in the bitterness of soul, "why did we thus meet!
Better,--Oh! how much better would it have been, that my eyes had closed
in death, than, to see all they adored thus exposed to the horrid misery
and carnage of destructive war." The conflict became too powerful; and
in all the energy of woe I threw myself on the ground. Poor Maria flung
herself on a seat, and covered her face in her great coat.--Audible sobs
burst from her bosom--I saw the convulsive heavings, and the sight was
as daggers to me.--I crawled on my knees to her, and, bending over
her,--"Oh! my Maria!" said I, "these pangs I feel for you; speak to me,
my only love; if possible, ease my sufferings by thy heavenly welcome
voice."--She uttered not a word; I sought to find her hand; she pushed
me gently from her, then rising,--"Come, thou companion of my tedious
and painful travel, come, my faithful Hannah," said she, to one I had
not before taken notice of, who stood in the entrance of the tent, "let
us be gone, here we are unwelcome visitors. Is it thus," continued she,
lifting up her hands to heaven, "is it thus I am received? Adieu!
Grenville! My love has still pursued you with unremitting constancy: but
it shall be your torment no longer. I will no longer tax your compassion
for a fond wretch, who perhaps deserves the scorn she meets." She was
leaving the tent. I was immoveably rooted to the ground while she
spake.--I caught her by the coat. "Oh! leave me not, dearest of women,
leave me not! You know not the love and distress which tear this
wretched bosom by turns. Injure me not, by doubting the first,--and if
you knew the latter, you would find me an object intitled to your utmost
pity. Oh! that my heart was laid open to your view! then would you see
it had wasted with anguish on the supposition of your death. Yes, Maria,
I thought you dead. I had a too exalted idea of your worth to assign any
other cause; I never called you cruel, or doubted your faith. Your
memory lived in my fond breast, such as my tenderness painted you. But
you can think meanly of me, and put the most ungenerous construction on
the severest affliction that ever tore the heart of man."

"Oh! my Grenville," said she, raising me, "how have I been ungenerous?
Is the renunciation of my country, relations, and even sex, a proof of
want of generosity? Will you never know, or, knowing, understand me? I
believe you have suffered, greatly suffered; your pallid countenance too
plainly evinces it; but we shall now, with the blessing of heaven, soon
see an end to them.--A few months will make me mistress of my fortune.
In the mean time, I will live with my faithful Hannah retired; only now
and then let me have the consolation of seeing you, and hearing from
your lips a confirmation that I have not forfeited your affection."

I said all that my heart dictated, to reassure my lovely heroic Maria,
and calm her griefs. I made her take some refreshment; and, as the night
was now far spent, and we yet had much to say, we agreed to pass it in
the tent. My dear Maria began to make me a little detail of all that had
passed. She painted out the persecutions of her father in the liveliest
colours; the many artifices he used to weaken her attachment to me; the
feigning me inconstant; and, when he found her opinion of my faith too
firmly rooted, he procured a certificate of my death. As she was then
released from her engagement, he more strongly urged her to marry; but
she as resolutely refused. On his being one day more than commonly
urgent, she knelt down, and said, in the most solemn manner; "Thou
knowest, O God! had it pleased thee to have continued him I doated on in
this life, that I was bound, by the most powerful asseverations, to be
his, and only his:--hear me now, O God! while I swear still to be wedded
to his memory. In thy eye, I was his wife; I attest thee to witness,
that I will never be any other. In his grave shall all my tenderness be
buried, and with him shall it rise to heaven." Her father became
outrageous; and swore, if she would not give him a son, he would give
her a mother; and, in consequence married the housekeeper--a woman
sordid as himself, and whose principles and sentiments were as low as
her birth.

The faithful Hannah had been discharged some time before, on finding out
she aided our correspondence. My letters had been for a long time
intercepted. Maria, one day, without the least notice, was taken out of
her chamber, and conveyed to a small house in the hundreds of Essex, to
some relations of her new mother's, in hopes, as she found, that grief,
and the unhealthiness of the place, might make an end of her before she
came of age. After a series of ill-usage and misfortunes, she at length
was so fortunate as to make her escape. She wrote to Hannah, who came
instantly to her; from her she learnt I was still living. She then
formed the resolution of coming over to Germany, dreading again falling
into the hands of her cruel parent. The plan was soon fixed on, and put
in execution. To avoid the dangers of travelling, they agreed to put on
men's cloaths; and Maria, to ensure her safety, dressed herself like an
English officer charged with dispatches to the British army.

While she was proceeding in her narrative, I heard the drum beat to
arms. I started, and turned pale. Maria hastily demanded the cause of
this alteration! I informed her, "We were going to prepare for battle.
And what, oh! what is to become of you? Oh! Maria! the service I am
going on is hazardous to the last degree. I shall fall a sacrifice; but
what will become of you?"

"Die with you," said she, firmly, rising, and drawing her sword. "When I
raise my arm," continued she, "who will know it is a woman's. Nature has
stamped me with that sex, but my soul shrinks not at danger. In what am
I different from the Romans, or even from some of the ancient Britons?
They could lose their lives for less cause than what I see before me. As
I am firmly resolved not to outlive you--so I am equally determined to
share your fate. You are certainly desirous my sex should remain
concealed. I wish the same--and, believe me, no womanish weakness on my
part shall betray it. Tell your commander, I am a volunteer under your
direction. And, assure yourself, you will find me possessed of
sufficient courage to bear any and every thing, for your sake."

I forbore not to paint out the horrors of war in the most dreadful
colours. "I shudder at them," said she, "but am not intimidated." In
short, all my arguments were in vain. She vowed she would follow me:
"Either you love me, Grenville, or you love me not--if the first, you
cannot refuse me the privilege of dying with you--if the last sad fate
should be mine, the sooner I lose my life the better." While I was yet
using dissuasives, the Captain entered my tent. "Come, Grenville," said
he, "make preparations, my good lad. There will be hot work to-day for
us all. I would have chosen a less dangerous situation for you: but this
was your own desire. However, I hope heaven will spare you."

"I could have almost wished I had not been so precipitate, as here is a
young volunteer who will accompany me."

"So young, and so courageous!" said the captain, advancing towards my
Maria. "I am sure, by your looks, you have never seen service."

"But I have gone through great dangers, Sir," she answered,
blushing--"and, with so brave an officer as Lieutenant Grenville, I
shall not be fearful of meeting even death."

"Well said, my little hero," rejoined he, "only, that as a volunteer you
have a right to chuse your commander, I should be happy to have the
bringing you into the field myself. Let us, however, as this may be the
last time we meet on earth, drink one glass to our success. Grenville,
you can furnish us." We soon then bid each other a solemn adieu!

I prevailed on Maria and poor Hannah (who was almost dead with her
fears) to lie down on my pallet-bed, if possible, to procure a little
rest. I retired to the outside of the tent, and, kneeling down, put up
the most fervent prayers to heaven that the heart of man could frame. I
then threw myself on some baggage, and slept with some composure till
the second drum beat.

Hannah hung round her mistress; but such was her respect and deference,
that she opened not her lips. We began our march, my brave heroine close
at my side, with all the stillness possible. We gained a narrow part of
the wood, where we wanted to make good our pass; but here, either by the
treachery of our own people, or the vigilance of our enemy, our scheme
was intirely defeated. We marched on without opposition, and, flushed
with the appearance of success, we went boldly on, till, too far
advanced to make a retreat, we found ourselves surrounded by a party of
the enemy's troops. We did all in our power to recover our advantage,
and lost several men in our defence. Numbers, however, at last
prevailed; and those who were not left dead on the field were made
prisoners, among whom were my Maria and myself. I was wounded in the
side and in the right arm. She providentially escaped unhurt. We were
conveyed to the camp of the enemy, where I was received with the respect
that one brave man shews another. I was put into the hospital, where my
faithful Maria attended me with the utmost diligence and tenderness.

When the event of this day's disaster was carried to the British camp,
it struck a damp on all. But poor Hannah, in a phrenzy of distress, ran
about, wringing her hands, proclaiming her sex, and that of the supposed
volunteer, and intreating the captain to use his interest to procure our
release. She gave him a brief detail of our adventures--and concluded by
extolling the character of her beloved mistress. The captain, who had
at that time a great regard for me, was touched at the distressful
story; and made a report to the commander in chief, who, after getting
the better of the enemy in an engagement, proposed an exchange of
prisoners, which being agreed to, and I being able to bear the removal,
we were once more at liberty.

I was conveyed to a small town near our encampment, where my dear Maria
and old Hannah laid aside their great Hussar cloaks, which they would
never be prevailed on to put off, and resumed their petticoats. This
adventure caused much conversation in the camp; and all the officers
were desirous of beholding so martial a female. But, notwithstanding the
extraordinary step she had been induced to take, Miss Maynard possessed
all the valued delicacy of her sex in a very eminent degree; and
therefore kept very recluse, devoting herself entirely to her attendance
on me.

Fearful that her reputation might suffer, now her sex was known, I urged
her to complete my happiness, by consenting to our marriage. She, at
first, made some difficulties, which I presently obviated; and the
chaplain of the regiment performed the ceremony, my Captain acting as
father, and, as he said, bestowing on me the greatest blessing a man
could deserve.

I was now the happiest of all earthly creatures, nor did I feel the
least allay, but in sometimes, on returning from duty in the field,
finding my Maria uncommonly grave. On enquiry she used to attribute it
to my absence; and indeed her melancholy would wear off, and she would
resume all her wonted chearfulness.

About three months after our marriage, my dear wife was seized with the
small-pox, which then raged in the town. I was almost distracted with my
apprehensions. Her life was in imminent danger. I delivered myself up
to the most gloomy presages. "How am I marked out for misfortune!" said
I, "am I destined to lose both my wives on the eve of their coming of
age?" Her disorder was attended with some of the most alarming symptoms.
At length, it pleased heaven to hear my prayers, and a favourable crisis
presented itself. With joy I made a sacrifice of her beauty, happy in
still possessing the mental perfections of this most excellent of women.
The fear of losing her had endeared her so much the more to me, that
every mark of her distemper, reminding me of my danger, served to render
her more valuable in my eyes. My caresses and tenderness were redoubled;
and the loss of charms, which could not make her more engaging to her
husband, gave my Maria no concern.

Our fears, however, were again alarmed on Hannah's account. That good
and faithful domestic caught the infection. Her fears, and attention on
her beloved mistress, had injured her constitution before this baleful
distemper seized her. She fell a sacrifice to it. Maria wept over the
remains of one who had rendered herself worthy of the utmost
consideration. It was a long time before she could recover her spirits.
When the remembrance of her loss had a little worn off, we passed our
time very agreeably; and I, one day, remarking the smiles I always found
on my Maria's face, pressed to know the melancholy which had formerly
given me so much uneasiness. "I may now," said she, "resolve your
question, without any hazard; the cause is now entirely removed. You
know there was a time when I was thought handsome; I never wished to
appear so in any other eyes than your's; unfortunately, another thought
so, and took such measures to make me sensible of the impression my
beauty had made, as rendered me truly miserable. Since I am as dear to
you as ever, I am happy in having lost charms that were fated to inspire
an impious passion in one, who, but for me, might have still continued
your friend."

I asked no more, I was convinced she meant the captain, who had sought
to do me some ill offices; but which I did not resent, as I purposed
quitting the army at the end of the campaign. By her desire, I took no
notice of his perfidy, only by avoiding every opportunity of being in
his company.

One day, about a fortnight after Maria came of age, I was looking over
some English news-papers, which a brother officer had lent me to read,
in which I saw this extraordinary paragraph:

"_Last week was interred the body of Miss Maria Maynard, daughter of
James Maynard, Esq; of L. in Bedfordshire, aged twenty years, ten
months, and a fortnight. Had she lived till she attained the full age of
twenty-one, she would have been possessed of an estate worth upwards
of forty thousand pounds, which now comes to her father, the
above-mentioned James Maynard, Esq._

_By a whimsical and remarkable desire of the deceased, a large quantity
of quick-lime was put into the coffin._"

This piece of intelligence filled us with astonishment, as we could not
conceive what end it was likely to answer: but, on my looking up to
Maria, by way of gathering some light from her opinion, and seeing not
only the whole form of her face, but the intire cast of her countenance
changed; it immediately struck into my mind, that it would be a
difficult matter to prove her identity--especially as by the death of
Hannah we had lost our only witness. This may appear a very trivial
circumstance to most people; but, when we consider what kind of man we
had to deal with, it will wear a more serious aspect. It was plain he
would go very great lengths to secure the estate, since he had taken
such extraordinary measures to obtain it: he had likewise another
motive; for by this second marriage he had a son. It is well known that
the property of quick-lime, is to destroy the features in a very short
space; by which means, should we insist on the body's being taken up, no
doubt he had used the precaution of getting a supposititious one; and,
in all probability, the corrosive quality of the lime would have left it
very difficult to ascertain the likeness after such methods being used
to destroy it. We had certainly some reason for our apprehensions that
the father would disown his child, when it was so much his interest to
support his own assertion of her death, and when he had gone so far as
actually to make a sham-funeral; and, above all, when no one who had
been formerly acquainted with could possibly know her again, so totally
was she altered both in voice and features. However, the only step we
could take, was to set off for England with all expedition--which
accordingly we did.

I wrote Mr. Maynard a letter, in which I inclosed one from his daughter.
He did not deign to return any answer. I then consulted some able
lawyers; they made not the least doubt of my recovering my wife's
fortune as soon as I proved her identity. That I could have told them;
but the difficulty arose how I should do it. None of the officers were
in England, who had seen her both before and after the small-pox, and
whose evidence might have been useful.

Talking over the affair to an old gentleman, who had been acquainted
with my first wife's father--and who likewise knew Maria: "I have not a
doubt," said he, "but this lady is the daughter of old Maynard, because
you both tell me so--otherwise I could never have believed it. But I do
not well know what all this dispute is about: I always understood you
was to inherit your estate from your first wife. She lived till she came
of age; did she not?"

"According to law," said I, "she certainly did; she died that very day;
but she could not make a will."

"I am strangely misinformed," replied he, "if you had not a right to it
from that moment.--But what say the writings?"

"Those I never saw," returned I. "As I married without the consent of my
wife's relations, I had no claim to demand the sight of them; and, as
she died before she could call them her's, I had no opportunity."

"Then you have been wronged, take my word for it. I assert, that her
fortune was her's on the day of marriage, unconditionally. I advise you
to go to law with the old rogue (I beg your pardon, Madam, for calling
your father so); go to law with him for the recovery of your first
wife's estate; and let him thank heaven his daughter is so well provided
for."

This was happy news for us. I changed my plan, and brought an action
against him for detaining my property. In short, after many hearings and
appeals, I had the satisfaction of casting him. But I became father to
your sister and yourself before the cause was determined. We were driven
to the utmost straits while it was in agitation. At last, however, right
prevailed; and I was put in possession of an estate I had unjustly been
kept out of many years.

Now I thought myself perfectly happy. "Fortune," said I, "is at length
tired of persecuting me; and I have before me the most felicitous
prospect." Alas! how short-sighted is man! In the midst of my promised
scene of permanent delight, the most dreadful of misfortunes overtook
me. My loved Maria fell into the most violent disorder, after having
been delivered of a dead child.--Good God! what was my situation, to be
reduced to pray for the death of her who made up my whole scheme of
happiness! "Dear, dear Maria! thy image still lives in my remembrance;
_that_,

    --Seeks thee still in many a former scene;
    Seeks thy fair form, thy lovely beaming eyes,
    Thy pleasing converse, by gay lively sense
    Inspir'd: whose moral wisdom mildly shone,
    Without the toil of art; and virtue glow'd
    In all her smiles, without forbidding pride."

Oh! my Julia, such was thy mother! my heart has never tasted happiness
since her lamented death. Yet I cease not to thank heaven for the
blessings it has given me in thee and my Louisa. May I see you both
happy in a world that to me has lost its charms!

The death of my Maria seemed to detach me from all society. I had met
with too many bad people in it to have any regard for it; and now the
only chain that held me was broken. I retired hither and, in my first
paroxysms of grief, vowed never to quit this recluse spot; where, for
the first years of your infancy, I brooded my misfortunes, till I became
habituated and enured to melancholy. I was always happy when either you
or your sister had an opportunity of seeing a little of the world.
Perhaps my vow was a rash one, but it is sacred.

As your inclination was not of a retired turn, I consented to a
marriage, which, I hope, will be conducive to your felicity. Heaven
grant it may! Oh! most gracious Providence, let me not be so curst as
to see my children unhappy! I feel I could not support such an
afflicting stroke. But I will not anticipate an evil I continually pray
to heaven to avert.

Adieu, my child! May you meet with no accident or misfortune to make you
out of love with the world!

Thy tender and affectionate father,

E. GRENVILLE.




LETTER X.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

I have just perused my father's long packet: I shall not however comment
upon it, till I have opened my whole mind to you in a more particular
manner than I yet have done.

The first part of my father's letter has given me much concern, by
awakening some doubts, which I knew not subsisted in my bosom. He asks
such questions relative to my real state of happiness, as distress me to
answer. I have examined my most inward thoughts. Shall I tell you, my
Louisa, the examination does not satisfy me? I believe in this life, and
particularly in this town, we must not search too deeply--to be happy,
we must take both persons and things as we in general find them, without
scrutinizing too closely. The researches are not attended with that
pleasure we would wish to find.

The mind may be amused, or, more properly speaking, employed, so as not
to give it leisure to think; and, I fancy, the people in this part of
the world esteem reflection an evil, and therefore keep continually
hurrying from place to place, to leave no room or time for it. For my
own part, I sometimes feel some little compunction of mind from the
dissipated life I lead; and wish I had been cast in a less tumultuous
scene. I even sometimes venture to propose to Sir William a scheme of
spending a little more time at home--telling him, it will be more for
our advantage with respect to our health, as the repeated hurries in
which we are engaged must, in future, be hurtful to us. He laughs at my
sober plan. "Nothing," he says, "is so serviceable to the body, as
unbending the mind--as to the rest, my notions are owing to the
prejudices of education; but that in time he hopes my rusticity will
yield to the _ton_. For God's sake," he continues, "make yourself
ready--you know you are to be at the opera--" or somewhere or other. So
away goes reflection; and we are whirled away in the stream of
dissipation, with the rest of the world. This seems a very sufficient
reason for every thing we do, _The rest of the world does so_: that's
quite enough.

But does it convey to the heart that inward secret pleasure which
increases on reflection? Too sure it does not. However, it has been my
invariable plan, from which I have not nor do intend to recede, to be
governed in these matters by the will of my husband: he is some years
older than me, and has had great experience in life. It shall be my care
to preserve my health and morals;--in the rest, _he_ must be my guide.

My mind is not at the same time quite at ease. I foresee I shall have
some things to communicate to you which I shall be unwilling should meet
my father's eye. Perhaps the world is altered since he resided in it;
and from the novelty to him, the present modes may not meet his
approbation. I would wish carefully to conceal every thing from him
which might give him pain, and which it is not in his power to remedy.
To you, my Louisa, I shall ever use the most unbounded confidence. I may
sometimes tell you I am dissatisfied; but when I do so, it will not be
so much out of a desire of complaint, as to induce you to give me your
advice. Ah! you would be ten times fitter to live in the world than I.
Your solidity and excellent judgment would point out the proper path,
and how far you might stray in it unhurt; while my vivacity impels me to
follow the gay multitude; and when I look back, I am astonished to
behold the progress I have made. But I will accustom myself to relate
every circumstance to you: though they may in themselves be trivial,
yet I know your affection to me will find them interesting. Your good
sense will point out to you what part of our correspondence will be fit
for my father's ear.

I mentioned to you two ladies, to whose protection and countenance I had
been introduced by Sir William. I do not like either of them, and wish
it had suited him to have procured me intimates more adapted to my
sentiments. And now we are upon this subject, I must say, I should have
been better pleased with my husband, if he had proposed your coming to
town with me. He may have a high opinion of my integrity and discretion;
but he ought in my mind to have reflected how very young I was; and, he
scruples not frequently to say, how totally unlearned in polite
life.--Should I not then have had a real protector and friend? I do not
mention my early years by way of begging an excuse for any impropriety
of conduct; far from it: there is no age in which we do not know right
from wrong; nor is extreme youth an extenuation of guilt: but there is a
time of life which wants attention, and should not be left too much to
its own guidance.

With the best propensities in the world, we may be led, either by the
force of example, or real want of judgment, too far in the flowery path
of pleasure. Every scene I engage in has the charm of novelty to
recommend it. I see all to whom I am introduced do the same; besides, I
am following the taste of Sir William; but I am (if I may be allowed to
say so) too artless. Perhaps what I think is his inclination, may be
only to make trial of my natural disposition. Though he may choose to
live in the highest _ton_, he may secretly wish his wife a more retired
turn. How then shall I act? I do every thing with a chearful
countenance; but that proceeds from my desire of pleasing him. I
accommodate myself to what I think his taste; but, owing to my ignorance
of mankind, I may be defeating my own purpose. I once slightly hinted as
much to Lady Besford. She burst out into a fit of laughter at my duteous
principles. I supposed I was wrong, by exciting her mirth: this is not
the method of reforming me from my errors; but thus I am in general
treated. It reminds me of a character in the Spectator, who, being very
beautiful, was kept in perfect ignorance of every thing, and who, when
she made any enquiry in order to gain knowledge, was always put by,
with, "You are too handsome to trouble yourself about such things."
This, according to the present fashion, may be polite; but I am sure it
is neither friendly nor satisfactory.

Her ladyship, the other day, shewed me a very beautiful young woman,
Lady T. "She is going to be separated from her husband," said she. On my
expressing my surprize,--"Pshaw! there is nothing surprizing in those
things," she added: "it is customary in this world to break through
stone-walls to get together this year; and break a commandment the next
to get asunder. But with regard to her ladyship, I do not know that she
has been imprudent; the cause of their disagreement proceeds from a
propensity she has for gaming; and my lord is resolved not to be any
longer answerable for her debts, having more of that sort on his own
hands than he can well discharge." Thus she favours me with sketches of
the people of fashion. Alas! Louisa, are these people to make companions
of?--They may, for want of better, be acquaintance, but never can be
friends.

By her account, there is not a happy couple that frequents St.
James's.--Happiness in her estimate is not an article in the married
state. "Are you not happy?" I asked one day. "Happy! why yes, probably
I am; but you do not suppose my happiness proceeds from my being
married, any further than that state allowing greater latitude and
freedom than the single. I enjoy title, rank, and liberty, by bearing
Lord Besford's name. We do not disagree, because we very seldom meet. He
pursues his pleasures one way, I seek mine another; and our dispositions
being very opposite, they are sure never to interfere with each other. I
am, I give you my word, a very unexceptionable wife, and can say, what
few women of quality would be able to do that spoke truth, that I never
indulged myself in the least liberty with other men, till I had secured
my lord a lawful heir." I felt all horror and astonishment.--She saw the
emotion she excited. "Come, don't be prudish," said she: "my conduct in
the eye of the world is irreproachable. My lord kept a mistress from the
first moment of his marriage. What law allows those privileges to a man,
and excludes a woman from enjoying the same? Marriage now is a necessary
kind of barter, and an alliance of families;--the heart is not
consulted;--or, if that should sometimes bring a pair
together,--judgment being left far behind, love seldom lasts long. In
former times, a poor foolish woman might languish out her life in sighs
and tears, for the infidelity of her husband. Thank heaven! they are now
wiser; but then they should be prudent. I extremely condemn those, who
are enslaved by their passions, and bring a public disgrace on their
families by suffering themselves to be detected; such are justly our
scorn and ridicule; and you may observe they are not taken notice of by
any body. There is a decency to be observed in our amours; and I shall
be very ready to offer you my advice, as you are young and
inexperienced. One thing let me tell you; never admit your _Cicisbeo_ to
an unlimited familiarity; they are first suspected. Never take notice
of your favourite before other people; there are a thousand ways to make
yourself amends in secret for that little, but necessary, sacrifice in
public."

"Nothing," said I, "but the conviction that you are only bantering me,
should have induced me to listen to you so long; but be assured, madam,
such discourses are extremely disagreeable to me."

"You are a child," said she, "in these matters; I am not therefore angry
or surprized; but, when you find all the world like myself, you will
cease your astonishment."

"Would to heaven," cried I, "I had never come into such a depraved
world! How much better had it been to have continued in ignorance and
innocence in the peaceful retirement in which I was bred! However, I
hope, with the seeds of virtue which I imbibed in my infancy, I shall be
able to go through life with honour to my family, and integrity to
myself. I mean never to engage in any kind of amour, so shall never
stand in need of your ladyship's advice, which, I must say, I cannot
think Sir William would thank you for, or can have the least idea you
would offer."

"She assured me, Sir William knew too much of the world to expect, or
even wish, his wife to be different from most women who composed it; but
that she had nothing further to say.--I might some time hence want a
_confidante_, and I should not be unfortunate if I met with no worse
than her, who had ever conducted herself with prudence and discretion."

I then said, "I had married Sir William because I preferred him,--and
that my sentiments would not alter."

"If you can answer for your future sentiments," replied Lady Besford,
"you have a greater knowledge, or at least a greater confidence, in
yourself than most people have.--As to your preference of Sir William,
I own I am inclined to laugh at your so prettily deceiving
yourself.--Pray how many men had you seen, and been addressed by, before
your acquaintance with Sir William? Very few, I fancy, that were likely
to make an impression on your heart, or that could be put into a
competition with him, without an affront from the comparison. So,
because you thought Sir William Stanley a handsome man, and genteeler in
his dress than the boors you had been accustomed to see--add to which
his being passionately enamoured of you--you directly conclude, you have
given him the preference to all other men, and that your heart is
devoted to him alone: you may think so; nay, I dare say, you do think
so; but, believe me, a time may come when you will think otherwise. You
may possibly likewise imagine, as Sir William was so much in love, that
you will be for ever possessed of his heart:--it is almost a pity to
overturn so pretty a system; but, take my word for it, Lady Stanley, Sir
William will soon teach you another lesson; he will soon convince you,
the matrimonial shackles are not binding enough to abridge him of the
fashionable enjoyments of life; and that, when he married, he did not
mean to seclude himself from those pleasures, which, as a man of the
world, he is intitled to partake of, because love was the principal
ingredient and main spring of your engagement. That love may not last
for ever. He is of a gay disposition, and his taste must be fed with
variety."

"I cannot imagine," I rejoined, interrupting her ladyship, "I cannot
imagine what end it is to answer, that you seem desirous of planting
discord between my husband and me.--I do not suppose you have any views
on him; as, according to your principles, his being married would be no
obstacle to that view.--Whatever may be the failings of Sir William, as
his wife, it is my duty not to resent them, and my interest not to see
them. I shall not thank your ladyship for opening my eyes, or seeking to
develope my sentiments respecting the preference I have shewed him; any
more than he is obliged to you, for seeking to corrupt the morals of a
woman whom he has made the guardian of his honour. I hope to preserve
that and my own untainted, even in this nursery of vice and folly. I
fancy Sir William little thought what instructions you would give, when
he begged your protection. I am, however, indebted to you for putting me
on my guard; and, be assured, I shall be careful to act with all the
discretion and prudence you yourself would wish me." Some company coming
in, put an end to our conversation. I need not tell you, I shall be very
shy of her ladyship in future. Good God! are all the world, as she calls
the circle of her acquaintance, like herself? If so, how dreadful to be
cast in such a lot! But I will still hope, detraction is among the
catalogue of her failings, and that she views the world with jaundiced
eyes.

As to the male acquaintance of Sir William, I cannot say they are higher
in my estimation than the other sex. Is it because I am young and
ignorant, that they, one and all, take the liberty of almost making love
to me? Lord Biddulph, in particular, I dislike; and yet he is Sir
William's most approved friend. Colonel Montague is another who is
eternally here. The only unexceptionable one is a foreign gentleman,
Baron Ton-hausen. There is a modest diffidence in his address, which
interests one much in his favour. I declare, the only blush I have seen
since I left Wales was on his cheek when he was introduced. I fancy he
is as little acquainted with the vicious manners of the court as myself,
as he seemed under some confusion on his first conversation. He is but
newly known to Sir William; but, being a man of rank, and politely
received in the _beau monde_, he is a welcome visitor at our house. But
though he comes often, he is not obtrusive like the rest. They will
never let me be at quiet--for ever proposing this or the other
scheme--which, as I observed before, I comply with, more out of
conformity to the will of Sir William, than to my own taste. Not that I
would have you suppose I do not like any of the public places I
frequent. I am charmed at the opera; and receive a very high, and, I
think, rational, delight at a good play. I am far from being an enemy to
pleasure--but then I would wish to have it under some degree, of
subordination; let it be the amusement, not the business of life.

Lord Biddulph is what Lady Besford stiles, my _Cicisbeo_--that is, he
takes upon him the task of attending me to public places, calling my
chair--handing me refreshments, and such-like; but I assure you, I do
not approve of him in the least: and Lady Besford may be assured, I
shall, at least, follow her kind advice in this particular, not to admit
him to familiarities; though his Lordship seems ready enough to avail
himself of all opportunities of being infinitely more assiduous than I
wish him.

Was this letter to meet the eye of my father, I doubt he would repent
his ready acquiescence to my marriage. He would not think the scenes, in
which I am involved, an equivalent for the calm joys I left in the
mountains. And was he to know that Sir William and I have not met these
three days but at meals, and then surrounded with company; he would not
think the tenderness of an husband a recompence for the loss of a
father's and sister's affection. I do not, however, do well to complain.
I have no just reasons, and it is a weakness to be uneasy without a
cause. Adieu then, my Louisa; be assured, my heart shall never know a
change, either in its virtuous principles, or in its tender love to
you. I might have been happy, superlatively so, with Sir William in a
desert; but, in this vale of vice, it is impossible, unless one can
adapt one's sentiments to the style of those one is among. I will be
every thing I can, without forgetting to be what I ought, in order to
merit the affection you have ever shewed to your faithful

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XI.


TO Lady STANLEY.

Three days, my Julia, and never met but at meals! Good God! to what can
this strange behaviour be owing? You say, you tell me every
circumstance. Have you had any disagreement; and is this the method your
husband takes to shew his resentment? Ah! Julia, be not afraid of my
shewing your letters to my father; do you think I would precipitate him
with sorrow to the grave, or at least wound his reverend bosom with such
anguish? No, Julia, I will burst my heart in silence, but never tell my
grief. Alas! my sister, friend of my soul, why are we separated? The
loss of your loved society I would sacrifice, could I but hear you were
happy. But can you be so among such wretches? Yet be comforted, my
Julia; have confidence in the rectitude of your own actions and
thoughts; but, above all, petition heaven to support you in all trials.
Be assured, while you have the protection of the Almighty, these impious
vile wretches will not, cannot, prevail against you. Your virtue will
shine out more conspicuously, while surrounded with their vices.

That horrid Lady Besford! I am sure you feel all the detestation you
ought for such a character. As you become acquainted with other people,
(and they cannot be all so bad)--you may take an opportunity of shaking
her off. Dear creature! how art thou beset! Surely, Sir William is very
thoughtless: with his experience, he ought to have known how improper
such a woman was for the protector of his wife. And why must this
Lord--what's his odious name?--why is he to be your _escorte_? Is it
not the husband's province to guard and defend his wife? What a world
are you cast in!

I find poor Win has written to her aunt Bailey, and complains heavily of
her situation. She says, Griffith is still more discontented than
herself; since he is the jest of all the other servants. They both wish
themselves at home again. She likewise tells Mrs. Bailey, that she is
not fit to dress you according to the fashion, and gives a whimsical
account of the many different things you put on and pull off when you
are, what she calls, high-dressed. If she is of no use to you, I wish
you would send her back before her morals are corrupted. Consider, she
has not had the advantage of education, as you have had; and, being
without those resources within, may the more easily fall a prey to some
insidious betrayer; for, no doubt, in such a place,

    "Clowns as well can act the rake,
    As those in higher sphere."

Let her return, then, if she is willing, as innocent and artless as she
left us. Oh! that I could enlarge that wish! I should have been glad you
had had Mrs. Bailey with you; she might have been of some service to
you. Her long residence in _our_ family would have given her some weight
in _your's_, which I doubt is sadly managed by Win's account. The
servants are disorderly and negligent. Don't you think of going into the
country? Spring comes forward very fast; and next month is the fairest
of the year.

Would to heaven you were here!--I long ardently for your company; and,
rather than forego it, would almost consent to share it with the
dissipated tribe you are obliged to associate with;--but that privilege
is not allowed me. I could not leave my father. Nay, I must further say
I should have too much pride to come unasked; and you know Sir William
never gave me an invitation.

I shed tears over the latter part of your letter, where you say, _I
could be happy, superlatively so, with Sir William in a desert; but here
it is impossible_. Whatever he may think, he would be happy too; at
least he appeared so while with us. Oh! that he could have been
satisfied with our calm joys, which mend the heart, and left those false
delusive ones, which corrupt and vitiate it!

Dearest Julia, adieu!

Believe me your faithful

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER XII.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Louisa! my dearest girl! who do you think I have met with?--No other
than Lady Melford! I saw her this day in the drawing-room. I instantly
recognized her ladyship, and, catching her eye, made my obeisance to
her. She returned my salute, in a manner which seemed to say, "I don't
know you; but I wish to recollect you."--As often as I looked up, I
found I engaged her attention. When their majesties were withdrawn, I
was sitting in one of the windows with Lady Anne Parker, and some other
folks about me.--I then saw Lady Melford moving towards me. I rose, and
pressed her to take my place. "You are very obliging," said she: "I
will, if you please, accept part of it, as I wish informed who it is
that is so polite as to pay such civility to an old woman." Lady Anne,
finding we were entering on conversation, wished me a good day, and went
off.

"I am perfectly well acquainted with your features," said her ladyship;
"but I cannot call to my memory what is your name."

"Have you then quite forgot Julia Grenville, to whom you was so kind
while she was on a visit with your grandfather at L.?"

"Julia Grenville! Aye, so it is; but, my dear, how came I to meet you in
the drawing-room at St. James's, whom I thought still an inmate of the
mountains? Has your father rescinded his resolution of spending his life
there? and where is your sister?"

"My father," I replied, "is still in his favourite retreat; my sister
resides with him.--I have been in town some time, and am at present an
inhabitant of it."

"To whose protection could your father confide you, my dear?"

"To the best protector in the world, madam," I answered, smiling--"to an
husband."

"A husband!" she repeated, quite astonished, "What, child, are you
married? And who, my dear, is this husband that your father could part
with you to?"

"That gentleman in the blue and silver velvet, across the room,--Sir
William Stanley. Does your ladyship know him?"

"By name and character only," she answered. "You are very young, my
dear, to be thus initiated in the world. Has Sir William any relations,
female ones I mean, who are fit companions for you?--This is a dangerous
place for young inexperienced girls to be left to their own guidance."

I mentioned the ladies to whom I had been introduced. "I don't know
them," said Lady Melford; "no doubt they are women of character, as they
are the friends of your husband. I am, however, glad to see you, and
hope you are happily married. My meeting you here is owing to having
attended a lady who was introduced; I came to town from D. for that
purpose."

I asked her ladyship, if she would permit me to wait on her while she
remained in town. She obligingly said, "she took it very kind in a young
person shewing such attention to her, and should always be glad of my
company."

The counsel of Lady Melford may be of service to me. I am extremely
happy to have seen her. I remember with pleasure the month I passed at
L. I reproach myself for not writing to Jenny Melford. I doubt she
thinks me ungrateful, or that the busy scenes in which I am immersed
have obliterated all former fond remembrances. I will soon convince her,
that the gay insignificant crowd cannot wear away the impression which
her kindness stamped on my heart in early childhood.

       *       *       *       *       *

Your letter is just brought to my hands. Yes, my dear Louisa, I have not
a doubt but that, while I deserve it, I shall be the immediate care of
heaven. Join your prayers to mine; and they will, when offered with
heart-felt sincerity, be heard.

I have nothing to apprehend from Lady Besford.--Such kind of women can
never seduce me. She shews herself too openly; and the discovery of her
character gives me no other concern, than as it too evidently manifests
in my eyes the extreme carelessness of Sir William: I own _there_ I am
in some degree piqued. But, if _he_ is indifferent about my morals and
well-doing in life, it will more absolutely become my business to take
care of myself,--an arduous task for a young girl, surrounded with so
many incitements to quit the strait paths, and so many examples of those
that do.

As to the œconomy of my family, I fear it is but badly
managed.--However, I do not know how to interfere, as we have a
house-keeper, who is empowered to give all orders, &c. If Win is
desirous of returning, I shall not exert my voice to oppose her
inclinations, though I own I shall be very sorry to lose the only
domestic in my family in whom I can place the least confidence, or who
is attached to me from any other motive than interest. I will never,
notwithstanding my repugnance to her leaving me, offer any objections
which may influence her conduct; but I do not think with you her morals
will be in any danger, as she in general keeps either in my apartments,
or in the house-keeper's.

I do not know how Griffith manages; I should be concerned that he should
be ill-used by the rest of the servants; his dialect, and to them
singular manners, may excite their boisterous mirth; and I know, though
he is a worthy creature, yet he has all the irascibility of his
countrymen; and therefore they may take a pleasure in thwarting and
teasing the poor Cambro-Briton; but of this I am not likely to be
informed, as being so wholly out of my sphere.

I could hardly help smiling at that part of your letter, wherein you
say, you think the husband the proper person to attend his wife to
public places. How different are your ideas from those of the people of
this town, or at least to their practice!--A woman, who would not blush
at being convicted in a little affair of gallantry, would be ready to
sink with confusion, should she receive these _tendres_ from an husband
in public, which when offered by any other man is accepted with pleasure
and complacency. Sir William never goes with me to any of these
fashionable movements. It is true, we often meet, but very seldom join,
as we are in general in separate parties. _Whom God hath joined, let no
man put asunder_, is a part of the ceremony; but here it is the business
of every one to endeavour to put a man and wife asunder;--fashion not
making it decent to appear together.

These _etiquettes_, though so absolutely necessary in polite life, are
by no means reconcilable to reason, or to my wishes. But my voice would
be too weak to be heard against the general cry; or, being heard, I
should be thought too insignificant to be attended to.

"Conscience makes cowards of us all," some poet says; and your Julia
says, fashion makes fools of us all; but she only whispers this to the
dear bosom of her friend. Oh! my Louisa, that you were with me!--It is
with this wish I end all my letters; mentally so, if I do not openly
thus express myself.--Absence seems to increase my affection.--One
reason is, because I cannot find any one to supply me the loss I sustain
in you; out of the hundreds I visit, not one with whom I can form a
friendly attachment. My attachment to Sir William, which was strong
enough to tear me from your arms, is not sufficient to suppress the
gushing tear, or hush the rising sigh, when I sit and reflect on what I
once possessed, and what I so much want at this moment. Adieu, my dear
Louisa! continue your tender attention to the best of fathers, and love
me always.

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XIII.


TO THE SAME.

I spent a whole morning with Lady Melford, more to my satisfaction than
any one I have passed since I left you. But this treat cannot be
repeated; her ladyship leaves town this day. She was so good as to say,
she was sorry her stay was so short, and wished to have had more time
with me. I can truly join with her. Her conversation was friendly and
parental. She cautioned me against falling into the levities of the
sex--which unhappily, she observed, were now become so prevalent; and
further told me, how cautious I ought to be of my female acquaintance,
since the reputation of a young woman rises and falls in proportion to
the merit of her associates. I judged she had Lady Besford in her mind.
I answered, I thought myself unhappy in not having you with me, and
likewise possessing so little penetration, that I could not discover who
were, or who were not, proper companions; that, relying on the
experience of Sir William, I had left the choice of them to him,
trusting he would not introduce those whose characters and morals were
reprehensible; but whether it proceeded from my ignorance, or from the
mode of the times, I could not admire the sentiments of either of the
ladies with whom I was more intimately connected, but wished to have the
opinion of one whose judgment was more matured than mine.

Lady Melford replied, the circle of her acquaintance was rather
confined;--and that her short residences at a time in town left her an
incompetent judge: "but, my dear," she added, "the virtuous principles
instilled into you by your excellent father, joined to the innate
goodness of your heart, must guide you through the warfare of life.
Never for one moment listen to the seductive voice of folly, whether its
advocate be man or woman.--If a man is profuse in flattery, believe him
an insidious betrayer, who only watches a favourable moment to ruin your
peace of mind for ever. Suffer no one to lessen your husband in your
esteem: no one will attempt it, but from sinister views; disappoint all
such, either by grave remonstrances or lively sallies. Perhaps some will
officiously bring you informations of the supposed infidelity of your
husband, in hopes they may induce you to take a fashionable
revenge.--Labour to convince such, how you detest all informers; speak
of your confidence in him,--and that nothing shall persuade you but that
he acts as he ought. But, since the heart of man naturally loves
variety, and, from the depravity of the age, indulgences, which I call
criminal, are allowed to them, Sir William may not pay that strict
obedience to his part of the marriage contract as he ought; remember, my
dear, his conduct can never exculpate any breach in your's. Gentleness
and complacency on your part are the only weapons you should prove to
any little irregularity on his. By such behaviour, I doubt not, you will
be happy, as you will deserve to be so."

Ah! my dear Louisa, what a loss shall I have in this venerable
monitress! I will treasure up her excellent advice, and hope to reap the
benefit of it.

If I dislike Lady Besford, I think I have more reason to be displeased
with Lady Anne Parker.--She has more artifice, and is consequently a
more dangerous companion. She has more than once given hints of the
freedoms which Sir William allows in himself.--The other night at the
opera she pointed out one of the dancers, and assured me, "Sir William
was much envied for having subdued the virtue of that girl. That,"
continued she, "was her _vis à vis_ that you admired this morning; she
lives in great taste; I suppose her allowance is superb." It is quite
the _ton_ to keep opera-girls, though, perhaps, the men who support them
never pay them a visit.--I therefore concluded this affair was one of
that sort. Such creatures can never deprive me of my husband's heart,
and I should be very weak to be uneasy about such connexions.

Last night, however, a circumstance happened, which, I own, touched my
heart more sensibly. Lady Anne insisted on my accompanying her to the
opera. Sir William dined out; and, as our party was sudden, knew not of
my intention of being there. Towards the end of the opera, I observed my
husband in one of the upper-boxes, with a very elegant-looking woman,
dressed in the genteelest taste, to whom he appeared very
assiduous.--"There is Sir William," said I.--"Yes," said Lady Anne, "but
I dare say, he did not expect to see you here."

"Possibly not," I answered. A little female curiosity urged me to ask,
if she knew who that lady was? She smiled, and answered, "she believed
she did." A very favourite air being then singing, I dropped the
conversation, though I could not help now and then stealing a look at my
husband. I was convinced he must see and know me, as my situation in the
house was very conspicuous; but I thought he seemed industriously to
avoid meeting my eyes.--The opera being ended, we adjourned to the
coffee-room; and, having missed Sir William a little time before,
naturally expected to see him there; as it is customary for all the
company to assemble there previous to their going to their carriages.

A great number of people soon joined us. Baron Ton-hausen had just
handed me a glass of orgeat; and was chatting in an agreeable manner,
when Lord Biddulph came up. "Lady Stanley," said he, with an air of
surprize, "I thought I saw you this moment in Sir William's chariot. I
little expected the happiness of meeting you here."

"You saw Sir William, my Lord, I believe," said Lady Anne; "but as to
the Lady, you are mistaken--though I should have supposed you might have
recognized your old friend Lucy Gardiner; they were together in one of
the boxes.--Sly wretch! he thought we did not see him."

"Oh! you ladies have such penetrating eyes," replied his Lordship, "that
we poor men--and especially the married ones, ought to be careful how we
conduct ourselves. But, my dear Lady Stanley, how have you been
entertained? Was not Rauzzini exquisite?"

"Can you ask how her Ladyship has been amused, when you have just
informed her, her _Caro Sposo_ was seen with a favourite Sultana?"

"Pshaw!" said his Lordship, "there is nothing in that--_tout la mode de
François_. The conduct of an husband can not discompose a Lady of sense.
What says the lovely Lady Stanley?"

"I answer," I replied very seriously, "Sir William has an undoubted
right to act as he pleases. I never have or ever intend to prescribe
rules to him; sufficient, I think, to conduct self."

"Bravo!" cried Lord Biddulph, "spoke like a heroine: and I hope my dear
Lady Stanley will act as she pleases too."

"I do when I can," I answered.--Then, turning to Lady Anne, "Not to
break in on your amusement," I continued, "will you give me leave to
wait on you to Brook-street? you know you have promised to sup with me."

"Most chearfully," said she;--"but will you not ask the beaux to attend
us?"

Lord Biddulph said, he was most unfortunately engaged to Lady D--'s
route. The Baron refused, as if he wished to be intreated. Lady Anne
would take no denial; and, when I assured him his company would give me
pleasure, he consented.

I was handed to the coach by his Lordship, who took that opportunity of
condemning Sir William's want of taste; and lavishing the utmost
encomiums on your Julia--with whom they passed as nothing. If Sir
William is unfaithful, Lord Biddulph is not the man to reconcile me to
the sex. I feel his motives in too glaring colours. No, the soft
timidity of Ton-hausen, which, while it indicates the profoundest
respect, still betrays the utmost tenderness--he it is alone who could
restore the character of mankind, and raise it again in my estimation.
But what have I said? Dear Louisa, I blush at having discovered to you,
that I am, past all doubt, the object of the Baron's tender sentiments.
Ah! can I mistake those glances, which modest reserve and deference urge
him to correct? Yet fear me not. I am married. My vows are registered in
the book of heaven; and as, by their irreversible decree, I am bound to
_honour_ and _obey_ my husband, so will I strive to _love_ him, and him
alone; though I have long since ceased to be the object of his? Of what
consequence, however, is that? I am indissolubly united to him; he was
the man of my choice--to say he was the first man I almost ever saw--and
to plead my youth and inexperience--oh! what does that avail? Nor does
his neglect justify the least on my part.

    "For man the lawless libertine may rove."

But this is a strange digression. The Baron accompanied us to supper.
During our repast, Lady Anne made a thousand sallies to divert us. My
mind, however, seemed that night infected by the demon of despair. I
could not be chearful--and yet, I am sure, I was not jealous of this
Lucy Gardiner. Melancholy was contagious: Ton-hausen caught it--I
observed him sometimes heave a suppressed sigh. Lady Anne was determined
to dissipate the gloom which inveloped us, and began drawing, with her
satirical pen, the characters of her acquaintance.

"Baron," said she, "did you not observe Lord P--, with his round
unthinking face--how assiduous he was to Miss W----, complimenting her
on the brilliancy of her complexion, though he knows she wore more
_rouge_ than almost any woman of quality--extolling her _forest of
hair_, when most likely he saw it this morning brought in a
band-box--and celebrating the pearly whiteness of her teeth, when he was
present at their transplanting? But he is not a slave to propriety, or
even common sense. No, dear creature, he has a soul above it. But did
you not take notice of Lady L----, how she ogled Capt. F. when her booby
Lord turned his head aside? What a ridiculous fop is that! The most
glaring proofs will not convince him of his wife's infidelity. 'Captain
F.' said he to me yesterday at court; 'Captain F. I assure you, Lady
Anne, is a great favourite with me.' 'It is a family partiality,' said
I; 'Lady L. seems to have no aversion to him.' 'Ah, there you mistake,
fair Lady. I want my Lady to have the same affection for him I have. He
has done all he can to please her, and yet she does not seem satisfied
with him.' 'Unconscionable!' cried I, 'why then she is never to be
satisfied.' 'Why so I say; but it proceeds from the violence of her
attachment to me. Oh! Lady Anne, she is the most virtuous and
discreetest Lady. I should be the happiest man in the world, if she
would but shew a little more consideration to my friend.' I think it a
pity he does not know his happiness, as I have not the least doubt of F.
and her Ladyship having a pretty good understanding together." Thus was
the thoughtless creature running on unheeded by either of us, when her
harangue was interrupted by an alarming accident happening to me. I had
sat some time, leaning my head on my hand; though, God knows! paying
very little attention to Lady Anne's sketches, when some of the
superfluous ornaments of my head-dress, coming rather too near the
candle, caught fire, and the whole farrago of ribbands, lace, and
gew-gaws, were instantly in flames. I shrieked out in the utmost terror,
and should have been a very great sufferer--perhaps been burnt to
death--had not the Baron had the presence of mind to roll my head,
flames and all, up in my shawl, which fortunately hung on the back of my
chair; and, by such precaution, preserved the _capitol_. How ridiculous
are the fashions, which render us liable to such accidents! My fright,
however, proved more than the damage sustained. When the flames were
extinguished, I thought Lady Anne would have expired with mirth; owing
to the disastrous figure I made with my singed feathers, &c. The
whimsical distress of the heroine of the Election Ball presented itself
to her imagination; and the pale face of the affrighted Baron, during
the conflagration, heightened the picture. "Even such a man," she cried,
"so dead in look, so woe-be-gone! Excuse me, dear Ton-hausen--The danger
is over now. I must indulge my risible faculties."

"I will most readily join with your Ladyship," answered the Baron, "as
my joy is in proportion to what were my apprehensions. But I must
condemn a fashion which is so injurious to the safety of the ladies."

The accident, however, disconcerted me not a little, and made me quite
unfit for company. They saw the chagrin painted on my features, and soon
took leave of me.

I retired to my dressing-room, and sent for Win, to inspect the almost
ruinated fabrick; but such is the construction now-a-days, that a head
might burn for an hour without damaging the genuine part of it. A lucky
circumstance! I sustained but little damage--in short, nothing which
Monsieur _Corross_ could not remedy in a few hours.

My company staying late, and this event besides, retarded my retiring to
rest till near three in the morning. I had not left my dressing-room
when Sir William entered.

"Good God! not gone to bed yet, Julia? I hope you did not sit up for me.
You know that is a piece of ceremony I would chuse to dispense with; as
it always carries a tacit reproach under an appearance of tender
solicitude." I fancied I saw in his countenance a consciousness that he
deserved reproach, and a determination to begin first to find fault. I
was vexed, and answered, "You might have waited for the reproach at
least, before you pre-judged my conduct. Nor can you have any
apprehensions that I should make such, having never taken that liberty.
Neither do you do me justice in supposing me capable of the meanness you
insinuate, on finding me up at this late hour. That circumstance is
owing to an accident, by which I might have been a great sufferer; and
which, though you so unkindly accuse me of being improperly prying and
curious, I will, if you permit me, relate to you, in order to justify
myself." He certainly expected I should ask some questions which would
be disagreeable to him; and therefore, finding me totally silent on that
head, his features became more relaxed; he enquired, with some
tenderness, what alarming accident I hinted at. I informed him of every
circumstance.--My account put him into good humour; and we laughed over
the droll scene very heartily. Observing, however, I was quite _en
dishabille_, "My dear girl," cried he, throwing his arm round me, "I
doubt you will catch cold, notwithstanding you so lately represented a
burning-mountain. Come," continued he, "will you go to bed?" While he
spoke, he pressed me to his bosom; and expressed in his voice and manner
more warmth of affection than he had discovered since I forsook the
mountains. He kissed me several times with rapture; and his eyes dwelt
on me with an ardor I have long been unused to behold. The adventure at
the opera returned to my imagination. These caresses, thought I, have
been bestowed on one, whose prostituted charms are more admired than
mine. I sighed--"Why do you sigh, Julia?" asked my husband. "I know
not," I answered. "I ought not to sigh in the very moment I am receiving
proofs of your affection. But I have not lately received such proofs,
and therefore perhaps I sighed."

"You are a foolish girl, Julia, yet a good one too"--cried he, kissing
me again: "Foolish, to fancy I do not love you; and a good girl, not to
ask impertinent questions. That is, your tongue is silent, but you have
wicked eyes, Julia, that seek to look into my inmost thoughts."--"Then I
will shut them," said I, affecting to laugh--but added, in a more
serious tone--"I will see no further than you would wish me; to please
you, I will _be blind, insensible and blind_."

"But, as you are not deaf, I will tell you what you well know--that I
was at the opera--and with a lady too.--Do not, however, be jealous, my
dear: the woman I was with was perfectly indifferent to me. I met her by
accident--but I had a mind to see what effect such a piece of flirtation
would have on you. I am not displeased with your behaviour; nor would I
have you so with mine."

"I will in all my best obey you," said I.--"Then go to bed," said
he--"_To bed, my love, and I will follow thee_."

You will not scruple to pronounce this a reasonable long letter, my dear
Louisa, for a modern fine lady.--Ah! shield me from that character!
Would to heaven Sir William was no more of the modern fine gentleman in
his heart! I could be happy with him.--Yes, Louisa--was I indeed the
object of his affections, not merely so of his passions, which, I fear,
I am, I could indeed be happy with him. My person still invites his
caresses--but for the softer sentiments of the soul--that ineffable
tenderness which depends not on the tincture of the skin--of that, alas!
he has no idea. A voluptuary in love, he professes not that delicacy
which refines all its joys. His is all passion; sentiment is left out of
the catalogue. Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XIV.


TO THE SAME.

I hope, my dearest Louisa will not be too much alarmed at a whole
fortnight's silence. Ah! Louisa, the event which occasioned it may be
productive of very fatal consequences to me--yet I will not despair. No,
I will trust in a good God, and the virtuous education I have had. They
will arm me to subdue inclinations, irreversible fate has rendered
improper. But to the point.

Two or three nights after I wrote my last, I went to the play.--Lady
Anne, Colonel Montague, and a Miss Finch, were the party. Unhappily, the
after-piece represented was one obtruded on the public by an author
obnoxious to some of them; and there were two parties formed, one to
condemn, the other to support. Wholly unacquainted with a thing of this
kind, I soon began to be alarmed at the clamour which rang from every
part of the house. The glass chandeliers first fell a victim to a
hot-headed wretch in the pit; and part of the shattered fragments was
thrown into my lap. My fears increased to the highest degree--No one
seemed to interest themselves about me. Colonel Montague being an
admirer of Miss Finch, his attention was paid to her. The ladies were
ordered out of the house. I was ready enough to obey the summons, and
was rushing out, when my passage was stopped by a concourse of people in
the lobby. The women screaming--men swearing--altogether--I thought I
should die with terror. "Oh! let me come out, let me come out!" I cried,
with uplifted hands.--No one regarded me. And I might have stood
screaming in concert with the rest till this time, had not the Baron
most seasonably come to my assistance. He broke through the croud with
incredible force, and flew to me. "Dearest Lady Stanley," cried he,
"recover your spirits--you are in no danger. I will guard you to your
carriage." Others were equally anxious about their company, and every
one striving to get out first increased the difficulty. Many ladies
fainted in the passages, which, being close, became almost suffocating.
Every moment our difficulties and my fears increased. I became almost
insensible. The Baron most kindly supported me with one arm--and with
the other strove to make way. The men even pushed with rudeness by me.
Ton-hausen expostulated and raved by turns: at length he drew his sword,
which terrified me to such a degree, that I was sinking to the
earth--and really gave myself up totally to despair. The efforts he made
at last gained us a passage to the great door--and, without waiting to
ask any questions, he put me into a coach that happened to be near: as
to my carriage, it was not to be found--or probably some others had used
the same freedom with that we had now with one unknown to us.

As soon as we were seated, Ton-hausen expressed his joy in the strongest
terms, that we had so happily escaped any danger. I was so weak, that he
thought it necessary to support me in his arms; and though I had no
cause to complain of any freedom in his manner, yet the warmth of his
expression, joined to my foregoing fright, had such an effect on me,
that, though I did not wholly lose my senses, I thought I was dying--I
never fainted in my life before; to my ignorance, then, must be imputed
my fears and foolish behaviour in consequence. "Oh! carry me somewhere,"
cried I, gasping; "do not let me die here! for God's sake, do not let me
die in the coach!"

"My angel," said the Baron, "do not give way to such imaginary terrors.
I will let down the glasses--you will be better presently." But finding
my head, which I could no longer support, drop on his shoulder, and a
cold damp bedew my face, he gave a loose to his tenderness, which viewed
itself in his attention to my welfare. He pressed me almost frantic to
his bosom, called on me in the most endearing terms. He thought me
insensible. He knew not I could hear the effusions of his heart. Oh!
Louisa, he could have no idea how they sunk in mine. Among the rest,
these broken sentences were distinct, "Oh! my God! what will become of
me! Dearest, most loved of women, how is my heart distracted! And shall
I lose thee thus? Oh! how shall I support thy loss! Too late found--ever
beloved of my soul! Thy Henry will die with thee!" Picture to yourself,
my Louisa, what were my sensations at this time. I have no words to
express them--or, if I could, they would be unfit for me to express. The
sensations themselves ought not to have found a passage in my bosom. I
will drive them away, Louisa, I will not give them harbour. I no longer
knew what was become of me: I became dead to all appearance. The Baron,
in a state of distraction, called to the coachman, to stop any where,
where I could receive assistance. Fortunately we were near a chemist's.
Ton-hausen carried me in his arms to a back room--and, by the
application of drops, &c. I was restored to life. I found the Baron
kneeling at my feet, and supporting me. It was a long time before he
could make me sensible where I was. My situation in a strange place, and
the singularity of our appearance, affected me extremely--I burst into
tears, and entreated the Baron to get me a chair to convey me home. "A
chair! Lady Stanley; will not you then permit me to attend you home?
Would you place yourself under the protection of two strangers, rather
than allow me that honour?"

"Ah! excuse me, Baron," I answered, "I hardly know what I said. Do as
you please, only let me go home." And yet, Louisa, I felt a dread on
going into the same carriage with him. I thought myself extremely absurd
and foolish; yet I could not get the better of my apprehensions. How
vain they were! Never could any man behave with more delicate attention,
or more void of that kind of behaviour which might have justified my
fears. His despair had prompted the discovery of his sentiments. He
thought me incapable of hearing the secret of his soul; and it was
absurd to a degree for me, by an unnecessary circumspection, to let him
see I had unhappily been a participater of his secret. There was,
however, an aukward consciousness in my conduct towards him, I could not
divest myself of. I wished to be at home. I even expressed my impatience
to be alone. He sighed, but made no remonstrances against my childish
behaviour, though his pensive manner made it obvious he saw and felt it.
Thank God! at last we got home. "It would be rude," said he, "after your
ladyship has so frequently expressed your wish to be alone, to obtrude
my company a moment longer than absolutely necessary; but, if you will
allow me to remain in your drawing-room till I hear you are a little
recovered, I shall esteem it a favour."

"I have not a doubt of being much better," I returned, "when I have had
a little rest. I am extremely indebted to you for the care you have
taken. I must repay it, by desiring you to have some consideration for
yourself: rest will be salutary for both; and I hope to return you a
message in the morning, that I am not at all the worse for this
disagreeable adventure. Adieu, Baron, take my advice." He bowed, and
cast on me such a look--He seemed to correct himself.--Oh! that look!
what was not expressed in it! Away, away, all such remembrances.

The consequences, however, were not to end here. I soon found other
circumstances which I had not thought on. In short my dear Louisa, I
must now discover to you a secret, which I had determined to keep some
time longer at least. Not even Sir William knew of it. I intended to
have surprized you all; but this vile play-house affair put an end to my
hopes, and very near to my life. For two days, my situation was very
critical. As soon as the danger was over, I recovered apace. The Baron
was at my door several times in the day, to enquire after me. And Win
said, who once saw him, that he betrayed more anxiety than any one
beside.

Yesterday was the first of my seeing any company. The Baron's name was
the first announced. The sound threw me into a perturbation I laboured
to conceal. Sir William presented him to me. I received his compliment
with an aukward confusion. My embarrassment was imputed, by my husband,
to the simple bashfulness of a country rustic--a bashfulness he
generally renders more insupportable by the ridiculous light he chuses
to make me appear in, rather than encouraging in me a better opinion of
myself, which, sometimes, he does me the honour of saying, I ought to
entertain. The Baron had taken my hand in the most respectful manner. I
suffered him to lift it to his lips. "Is it thus," said Sir William,
"you thank your deliverer? Had I been in your place, Julia, I should
have received my champion with open arms--at least have allowed him a
salute. But the Baron is a modest young man. Come, I will set you the
example."--Saying which, he caught me in his arms, and kissed me. I was
extremely chagrined, and felt my cheeks glow, not only with shame, but
anger. "You are too violent, Sir William," said I very gravely. "You
have excessively disconcerted me." "I will allow," said he, "I might
have been too eager: now you shall experience the difference between the
extatic ardor of an adoring husband, and the cool complacency of a
friend. Nay, nay," continued he, seeing a dissenting look, "you must
reward the Baron, or I shall think you either very prudish, or angry
with me." Was there ever such inconsiderate behaviour? Ton-hausen seemed
fearful of offending--yet not willing to lose so fair an opportunity.
Oh! Louisa, as Sir William said, I _did_ experience a difference. But
Sir William is no adoring husband. The Baron's lips trembled as they
touched mine; and I felt an emotion, to which I was hitherto a stranger.

I was doomed, however, to receive still more shocks. On the Baron's
saying he was happy to see me so well recovered after my fright, and
hoped I had found no disagreeable consequence--"No disagreeable
consequence!" repeated Sir William, with the most unfeeling air; "Is the
loss of a son and heir then nothing? It may be repaired," he continued,
laughing, "to be sure; but I am extremely disappointed." Are you not
enraged with your brother-in-law, Louisa? How indelicate! I really could
no longer support these mortifications, though I knew I should mortally
offend him; I could not help leaving the room in tears; nor would I
return to it, till summoned by the arrival of other company. I did not
recover my spirits the whole evening.

Good God! how different do men appear sometimes from themselves! I often
am induced to ask myself, whether I really gave my hand to the man I now
see in my husband. Ah! how is he changed! I reflect for hours together
on the unaccountableness of his conduct. How he is carried away by the
giddy multitude. He is swayed by every passion, and the last is the
ruling one--

    "Is every thing by starts, and nothing long."

A time may come, when he may see his folly; I hope, before it be too
late to repair it. Why should such a man marry? Or why did fate lead him
to our innocent retreat? Oh! why did I foolishly mistake a rambling
disposition, and a transient liking, for a permanent attachment? But why
do I run on thus? Dear Louisa, you will think me far gone in a phrenzy.
But, believe me, I will ever deserve your tender affection.

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XV.


TO Lady STANLEY.

Good heavens! what a variety of emotions has your last letter excited in
my breast! Surely, my Julia did not give it a second perusal! I can make
allowance for the expressions of gratitude which you (in a manner
lavish, not) bestow on the Baron. But oh! beware, my beloved sister,
that your gratitude becomes not too warm; that sentiment, so laudable
when properly placed, should it be an introduction to what my fears and
tenderness apprehend, would change to the most impious.--You already
perceive a visible difference between him and your husband--I assert, no
woman ought to make a comparison,--'tis dangerous, 'tis fatal. Sir
William was the man of your choice;--it is true you were young; but
still you ought to respect your choice as sacred.--You are still young;
and although you may have seen more of the world, I doubt your
sentiments are little mended by your experience. The knowledge of the
world--at least so it appears to me--is of no further use than to bring
one acquainted with vice, and to be less shocked at the idea of it. Is
this then a knowledge to which we should wish to attain?--Ah! believe
me, it had been better for you to have blushed unseen, and lost your
sweetness in the desart air, than to have, in _the busy haunts of men_,
hazarded the privation of _that peace which goodness bosoms ever_. Think
what I suffer; and, constrained to treasure up my anxious fears in my
own bosom, I have no one to whom I can vent my griefs: and indeed to
whom could I impart the terrors which fill my soul, when I reflect on
the dangers by which my sister, the darling of my affections, is
surrounded? Oh, Julia! you know how fatally I have experienced the
interest a beloved object has in the breast of a tender woman; how ought
we then to guard against the admission of a passion destructive to our
repose, even in its most innocent and harmless state, while we are
single!--But how much more should _you_ keep a strict watch over every
outlet of the heart, lest it should fall a prey to the insidious
enemy;--you respect his silence;--you pity his sufferings.--Reprobate
respect!--abjure pity!--they are both in your circumstances dangerous;
and a well-experienced writer has observed, more women have been ruined
by pity, than have fallen a sacrifice to appetite and passion. Pity is a
kindred virtue, and from the innocence and complacency of her
appearance, we suspect no ill; but dangers inexplicable lurk beneath the
tear that trembles in her eye; and, without even knowing that we do so,
we make a fatal transfer to our utter and inevitable disadvantage. From
having the power of bestowing compassion, we become objects of it from
others, though too frequently, instead of receiving it, we find
ourselves loaded with the censure of the world. We look into our own
bosoms for consolation: alas! it is flown with our innocence; and in its
room we feel the sharpest stings of self-reproof. My Julia, my tears
obliterate each mournful passage of my pen.

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER XVI.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Enough, my dearest sister, enough have you suffered through your
unremitted tenderness to your Julia;--yet believe her, while she vows to
the dear bosom of friendship, no action of her's shall call a blush on
your cheek. Good God! what a wretch should I be, if I could abuse such
sisterly love! if, after such friendly admonitions, enforced with so
much moving eloquence, your Julia should degenerate from her birth, and
forget those lessons of virtue early inculcated by the best of fathers!
If, after all these, she should suffer herself to be immersed in the
vortex of folly and vice, what would she not deserve! Oh! rest assured,
my dearest dear Louisa, be satisfied, your sister cannot be so
vile,--remember the same blood flows through our veins; one parent stock
we sprang from; nurtured by one hand; listening at the same time to the
same voice of reason; learning the same pious lesson--why then these
apprehensions of my degeneracy? Trust me, Louisa, I will not deceive
you; and God grant I may never deceive myself! The wisest of men has
said, "the heart of man is deceitful above all things." I however will
strictly examine mine; I will search into it narrowly; at present the
search is not painful; I have nothing to reproach myself with; I have, I
hope, discharged my filial and fraternal duties; my matrimonial ones are
inviolate: I have studied the temper of Sir William, in hopes I should
discover a rule for my actions; but how can I form a system from one so
variable as he is? Would to heaven he was more uniform! or that he would
suffer himself to be guided by his own understanding, and not by the
whim or caprice of others so much inferior to himself! All this I have
repeated frequently to you, together with my wish to leave London, and
the objects with which I am daily surrounded.--Does such a wish look as
if I was improperly attached to the world, or any particular person in
it? You are too severe, my love, but when I reflect that your rigidity
proceeds from your unrivaled attachment, I kiss the rod of my
chastisement;--I long to fold my dear lecturer in my arms, and convince
her, that one, whose heart is filled with the affection that glows in
mine, can find no room for any sentiment incompatible with virtue, of
which she is the express image. Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XVII.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

If thy Julia falls, my beloved sister, how great will be her
condemnation! With such supports, and I hope I may add with an inward
rectitude of mind, I think she can never deviate from the right path.
You see, my Louisa, that not you alone are interested in my well-doing.
I have a secret, nay I may say, celestial friend and monitor,--a friend
it certainly is, though unknown;--all who give good counsel must be my
true and sincere friends. From whom I have received it, I know not; but
it shall be my study to merit the favour of this earthly or heavenly
conductor through the intricate mazes of life. I will no longer keep you
in ignorance of my meaning, but without delay will copy for you a letter
I received this morning; the original I have too much veneration for to
part with, even to you, who are dearer to me than almost all the world
beside.----

THE LETTER.

"I cannot help anticipating the surprize your ladyship will be under,
from receiving a letter from an unknown hand; nor will the signature
contribute to develop the cloud behind which I chuse to conceal myself.

My motives, I hope, will extenuate the boldness of my task; and I rely
likewise on the amiable qualities you so eminently possess, to pardon
the temerity of any one who shall presume to criticise the conduct of
one of the most lovely of God's works.

I feel for you as a man, a friend, or, to sum up all, a guardian angel.
I see you on the brink of a steep precipice. I shudder at the danger
which you are not sensible of. You will wonder at my motive, and the
interest I take in your concerns.--It is from my knowledge of the
goodness of your heart: were you less amiable than you are, you would be
below my solicitude; I might be charmed with you as a woman, but I
should not venerate you;--nay, should possibly--enchanted as every one
must be with your personal attractions, join with those who seek to
seduce you to their own purposes. The sentiments I profess for you are
such as a tender father would feel--such as your own excellent father
cherishes; but they are accompanied by a warmth which can only be
equalled by their purity; such sentiments shall I ever experience while
you continue to deserve them, and every service in my power shall be
exerted in your favour. I have long wished for an opportunity of
expressing to you the tender care I take in your conduct through life. I
now so sensibly feel the necessity of apprizing you of the dangers which
surround you, that I wave all forms, and thus abruptly introduce myself
to your acquaintance--unknown, indeed, to you, but knowing you well,
reading your thoughts, and seeing the secret motives of all your
actions. Yes, Julia, I have watched you through life. Nay, start not, I
have never seen any action of your's but what had virtue for its
guide.--But to remain pure and uncontaminated in this vortex of vice,
requires the utmost strength and exertion of virtue. To avoid vice, it
is necessary to know its colour and complexion; and in this age, how
many various shapes it assumes! my task shall be to point them out to
you, to shew you the traps, the snares, and pitfalls, which the unwary
too frequently sink into;--to lead you by the hand through those
intricate paths beset with quicksands and numberless dangers;--to direct
your eyes to such objects as you may with safety contemplate, and induce
you to shut them for ever against such as may by their dire fascination
intice you to evil;--to conduct you to those endless joys hereafter,
which are to be the reward of the virtuous; and to have myself the
ineffable delight of partaking them with you, where no rival shall
interrupt my felicity.

I am a Rosicrusian by principle; I need hardly tell you, they are a sect
of philosophers, who by a life of virtue and self-denial have obtained
an heavenly intercourse with aërial beings;--as my internal knowledge of
you (to use the expression) is in consequence of my connexion with the
Sylphiad tribe, I have assumed the title of my familiar counsellor.
This, however, is but as a preface to what I mean to say to you;--I have
hinted, I knew you well;--when I thus expressed myself, it should be
understood, I spoke in the person of the Sylph, which I shall
occasionally do, as it will be writing with more perspicuity in the
first instance; and, as he is employed by me, I may, without the
appearance of robbery, safely appropriate to myself the knowledge he
gains.

Every human being has a guardian angel; my skill has discovered your's;
my power has made him obedient to my will; I have a right to avail
myself of the intelligences he gains; and by him I have learnt every
thing that has passed since your birth;--what your future fortune is to
be, even he cannot tell; his view is circumscribed to a small point of
time; he only can tell what will be the consequence of taking this or
that step, but your free-agency prevents his impelling you to act
otherwise than as you see fit. I move upon a more enlarged sphere; he
tells me what will happen; and as I see the remote, as well as
immediate consequence, I shall, from time to time, give you my
advice.--Advice, however, when asked, is seldom adhered to; but when
given voluntarily, the receiver has no obligation to follow it.--I shall
in a moment discover how this is received by you; and your deviation
from the rules I shall prescribe will be a hint for me to withdraw my
counsel where it is not acceptable. All that then will remain for me,
will be to deplore your too early initiation in a vicious world, where
to escape unhurt or uncontaminated is next to a miracle.

I said, I should soon discover whether my advice would be taken in the
friendly part it is offered: I shall perceive it the next time I have
the happiness of beholding you, and I see you every day; I am never one
moment absent from you in idea, and in my _mind's eye_ I see you each
moment; only while I conceal myself from you, can I be of service to
you;--press not then to discover who I am; but be convinced--nay, I
shall take every opportunity to convince you, that I am the most sincere
and disinterested of your friends; I am a friend to your soul, my Julia,
and I flatter myself mine is congenial with your's.

I told you, you were surrounded with dangers; the greatest perhaps comes
from the quarter least suspected; and for that very reason, because,
where no harm is expected, no guard is kept. Against such a man as Lord
Biddulph, a watchful centinel is planted at every avenue. I caution you
not against him; there you are secure; no temptation lies in that path,
no precipice lurks beneath those footsteps. You never can fall, unless
your heart takes part with the tempter; and I am morally certain a man
of Lord Biddulph's cast can never touch your's; and yet it is of him you
seem most apprehensive. Ask yourself, is it not because he has the
character of a man of intrigue? Do you not feel within your own breast a
repugnance to the assiduities he at all times takes pains to shew you?
Without doubt, Lord Biddulph has designs upon you;--and few men approach
you without. Oh! Julia, it is difficult for the most virtuous to behold
you daily, and suppress those feelings your charms excite. In a breast
inured to too frequent indulgence in vicious courses, your beauty will
be a consuming fire, but in a soul whose delight is moral rectitude, it
will be a cherishing flame, that animates, not destroys. But how few the
latter! And how are you to distinguish the insidious betrayer from the
open violator. To you they are equally culpable; but only one can be
fatal. Ask your own heart--the criterion, by which I would have you
judge--ask your own heart, which is intitled to your detestation most;
the man who boldly attacks you, and by his threats plainly tells you he
is a robber; or the one, who, under the semblance of imploring your
charity, deprives you of your most valued property? Will it admit of a
doubt? Make the application: examine yourself, and I conjure you examine
your acquaintance; but be cautious whom you trust. Never make any of
your male visitors the _confidant_ of any thing which passes between
yourself and husband. This can never be done without a manifest breach
of modest decorum. Have I not said enough for the present? Yet let me
add thus much, to secure to myself your confidence. I wish you to place
an unlimited one in me; continue to do so, while I continue to merit it;
and by this rule you shall judge of my merit--The moment you discover
that I urge you to any thing improper, or take advantage of my
self-assumed office, and insolently prescribe when I should only point
out, or that I should seem to degrade others in your eyes, and
particularly your husband, believe me to be an impostor, and treat me
as such; disregard my sinister counsel, and consign me to that scorn and
derision I shall so much deserve. But, while virtue inspires my pen,
afford me your attention; and may that God, whom I attest to prove my
truth, ever be indulgent to you, and for ever and ever protect you! So
prays

Your SYLPH."

Who can it be, my Louisa, who takes this friendly interest in my
welfare? It cannot be Lady Melford; the address bespeaks it to be a man;
but what man is the question; one too who sees me every day: it cannot
be the Baron, for he seems to say, Ton-hausen is a more dangerous person
than Lord Biddulph. But why do I perplex myself with guessing? Of what
consequence is it who is my friend, since I am convinced he is sincere.
Yes! thou friendly monitor, I will be directed by thee! I shall now act
with more confidence, as my Sylph tells me he will watch over and
apprize me of every danger. I hope his task will not be a difficult one;
for, though ignorant, I am not obstinate--on the contrary, even Sir
William, whom I do not suspect of flattery, allows me to be extremely
docile. I am, my beloved Louisa, most affectionately, your's,

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XVIII.


TO Lady STANLEY.

Blessed, forever blessed, be the friendly monitor! Oh! my Julia, how
fortunate are you, thus to become the care of heaven, which has raised
you up a guide, with all the dispositions, but with more enlarged
abilities than thy poor Louisa!--And much did you stand in need of a
guide, my sister: be not displeased that I write thus. But why do I
deprecate your anger? you, who were ever so good, so tender, and
indulgent to the apprehensions of your friends. Yet, indeed, my dear,
you are reprehensible in many passages of your letters, particularly the
last. You say, you cannot suspect Sir William of flattery; would you
wish him to be a flatterer? Did you think him such, when he swore your
charms had kindled the brightest flames in his bosom? No, Julia, you
gave him credit then for all he said; but, allowing him to be changed,
are you quite the same? No; with all the tenderness of my affection, I
cannot but think you are altered since your departure from the vale of
innocent simplicity. It is the knowledge of the world which has deprived
you of those native charms, above all others. Why are you not resolute
with Sir William, to leave London? Our acquiescence in matters which are
hurtful both to our principles and constitution is a weakness. Obedience
to the will of those who seek to seduce us from the right road is no
longer a virtue; but a reprehensible participation of our leader's
faults. Be assured, your husband will listen to your persuasive
arguments. Exert all your eloquence: and, Heaven, I beseech thee, grant
success to the undertaking of the dearest of all creatures to,

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER XIX.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

Ah! my dear Louisa, you are single, and know not the trifling influence
a woman has over her husband in this part of the world. Had I the
eloquence of Demosthenes or Cicero, it would fail. Sir William is
wedded--I was going to say, to the pleasures of this bewitching place. I
corrected myself in the instant; for, was he wedded, most probably he
would be as tired of it as he is of his wife. If I was to be resolute in
my determination to leave London, I must go by myself and,
notwithstanding such a circumstance might accord with his wishes, I do
not chuse to begin the separation. All the determination I can make is,
to strive to act so as to deserve a better fate than has fallen to my
lot. And, beset as I am on all sides, I shall have some little merit in
so doing. But you, my love, ought not to blame me so severely as you do.
Indeed, Louisa, if you knew the slights I hourly receive from my
husband, and the conviction which I have of his infidelity, you would
not criticize my expressions so harshly. I could add many more things,
which would justify me in the eye of the world, were I less cautious
than I am; but his failings would not extenuate any on my side.

Would you believe that any man, who wished to preserve the virtue of his
wife, would introduce her to the acquaintance and protection of a woman
with whom he had had an intrigue? What an opinion one must have in
future of such a man! I am indebted for this piece of intelligence to
Lord Biddulph. I am grateful for the information, though I despise the
motive which induced him. Yes, Louisa! Lady Anne Parker is even more
infamous than Lady Besford--Nay, Lord Biddulph offered to convince me
they still had their private assignations. My pride, I own it, was more
wounded than my love, from this discovery, as it served to confirm me in
my idea, that Sir William never had a proper regard for me; but that he
married me merely because he could obtain me on no other terms. Yet,
although I was sensibly pained with this news, I endeavoured to conceal
my emotions from the disagreeable prying eyes of my informer. I affected
to disbelieve his assertions, and ridiculed his ill-policy in striving
to found his merit on such base and detestable grounds. He had too much
_effronterie_ to be chagrined with my raillery. I therefore assumed a
more serious air; and plainly told him, no man would dare to endeavour
to convince a woman of the infidelity of her husband, but from the
basest and most injurious motives; and, as such, was intitled to my
utmost contempt; that, from my soul, I despised both the information and
informer, and should give him proofs of it, if ever he should again have
the confidence to repeat his private histories to the destruction of the
peace and harmony of families. To extenuate his fault, he poured forth a
most elaborate speech, abounding with flattery; and was proceeding to
convince me of his adoration; but I broke off the discourse, by assuring
him, "I saw through his scheme from the first; but the man, who sought
to steal my heart from my husband, must pursue a very different course
from that he had followed; as it was very unlikely I should withdraw my
affections from one unworthy object, to place them on another infinitely
worse." He attempted a justification, which I would not allow him
opportunity of going on with, as I left the room abruptly. However, his
Lordship opened my eyes, respecting the conduct of Lady Anne. I have
mentioned, in a former letter, that she used to give hints about my
husband. I am convinced it was her jealousy, which prompted her to give
me, from time to time, little anecdotes of Sir William's _amours_. But
ought I to pardon him for introducing me to such a woman? Oh! Louisa! am
I to blame, if I no longer respect such a man?

Yesterday I had a most convincing proof, that there are a sort of
people, who have all the influence over the heart of a man which a
virtuous wife ought to have--but seldom has: by some accident, a hook of
Sir William's waistcoat caught hold of the trimming of my sleeve. He had
just received a message, and, being in a hurry to disengage himself,
lifted up the flap of the waistcoat eagerly, and snatched it away; by
which means, two or three papers dropped out of the pocket; he seemed
not to know it, but flew out of the room, leaving them on the ground. I
picked them up but, I take heaven to witness, without the least
intention or thought of seeing the contents--when one being open, and
seeing my name written in a female hand, and the signature of _Lucy
Gardener_, my curiosity was excited to the greatest degree--yet I had a
severe conflict first with myself; but _femaleism_ prevailed, and I
examined the contents, which were as follow, for I wrote them down:

"Is it thus, Sir William, you repay my tenderness in your favour? Go,
thou basest of all wretches! am I to be made continually a sacrifice to
every new face that strikes thy inconstant heart? If I was contented to
share you with a wife, and calmly acquiesced, do not imagine I shall
rest in peace till you have given up Lady Anne. How have you sworn you
would see her no more! How have you falsified your oath! you spent
several hours _tête à tête_ with her yesterday. Deny it not. I could
tear myself to pieces when I reflect, that I left Biddulph, who adored
me, whose whole soul was devoted to me,--to be slighted thus by
you.--Oh! that Lady Stanley knew of your baseness! yet she is only your
wife. Her virtue may console her for the infidelity of her husband; but
I have sacrificed every thing, and how am I repaid! Either be mine
alone, or never again approach

LUCY GARDENER."

The other papers were of little consequence. I deliberated some time
what I should do with this precious _morçeau_; at last I resolved to
burn it, and give the remainder, with as much composure as possible, to
Sir William's _valet_, to restore to his master. I fancied he would
hardly challenge me about the _billet,_ as he is the most careless man
in the universe. You will perceive there is another case for Lord
Biddulph seeking to depreciate my husband. He has private revenge to
gratify, for the loss of his mistress. Oh! what wretches are these men!
Is the whole world composed of such?--No! even in this valley of vice I
see some exceptions; some, who do honour to the species to which they
belong. But I must not whisper to myself their perfections; and it is
less dangerous for me to dwell upon the vices of the one than the
virtues of the other. Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XX.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

To keep my mind constantly employed upon different objects, and prevent
my thoughts attaching themselves to improper ones, I have lately
attended the card-tables. From being an indifferent spectator of the
various fashionable games, I became an actor in them; and at length play
proved very agreeable. As I was an utter novice at games of skill, those
of chance presented themselves as the best. At first I risked only
trifles; but, by little and little, my party encroached upon the rules I
had laid down, and I could no longer avoid playing their stake. But I
have done with play for ever. It is no longer the innocent amusement I
thought it; and I must find out some other method of spending my
time--since this might in the end be destructive.

The other night, at a party, we made up a set at bragg, which was my
favourite game. After various vicissitudes, I lost every shilling I had
in my pocket; and, being a broken-merchant, sat silently by the table.
Every body was profuse in the offers of accommodating me with cash; but
I refused to accept their contribution. Lord Biddulph, whom you know to
be justly my aversion, was very earnest; but I was equally peremptory.
However, some time after, I could not resist the entreaty of Baron
Ton-hausen, who, in the genteelest manner, intreated me to make use of
his purse for the evening; with great difficulty he prevailed on me to
borrow ten guineas--and was once more set up. Fortune now took a
favourable turn, and when the party broke up, I had repaid the Baron,
replaced my original stock, and brought off ninety-five guineas.
Flushed with success, and more attached than ever to the game; I invited
the set to meet the day after the next at my house. I even counted the
hours till the time arrived. Rest departed from my eye-lids, and I felt
all the eagerness of expectation.

About twelve o'clock of the day my company were to meet, I received a
pacquet, which I instantly knew to be from my ever-watchful Sylph. I
will give you the transcript.

TO Lady STANLEY.

"I should be unworthy the character I have assumed, if my pen was to lie
dormant while I am sensible of the unhappy predilection which your
ladyship has discovered for gaming. Play, under proper
restrictions,--which however in this licentious town can never take
place--may not be altogether prejudicial to the morals of those who
engage in it for trifling sums. Your Ladyship finds it not practicable
always to follow your own inclinations, even in that particular. The
triumphant joy which sparkled in your eyes when success crowned your
endeavours, plainly indicated you took no common satisfaction in the
game. You, being a party so deeply interested, could not discover the
same appearances of joy and triumph in the countenances of some of those
you played with; nor, had you made the observation, could you have
guessed the cause. It has been said, by those who will say any thing to
carry on an argument which cannot be supported by reason, that cards
prevent company falling upon topics of scandal; it is a scandal to human
nature, that it should want such a resource from so hateful and detested
a vice. But be it so. It can only be so while the sum played for is of
too trifling a concern to excite the anxiety which avaricious minds
experience; and every one is more or less avaricious who gives up his
time to cards.

If your ladyship could search into the causes of the unhappiness which
prevails in too many families in this metropolis, you would find the
source to be gaming either on the one side or the other. Whatever
appears licentious or vicious in men, in your sex becomes so in a
tenfold degree. The passionate exclamation--the half-uttered
imprecation, and the gloomy pallidness of the losing gamester, ill
accords with the female delicacy. But the evil rests not here. When a
woman has been drawn-in to lose larger sums than her allowance can
defray--even if she can submit to let her trades-people suffer from her
extravagant folly;--it most commonly happens, that they part with their
honour to discharge the account; at least, they are always suspected.
Would not the consideration of being obnoxious to such suspicion be
sufficient to deter any woman of virtue from running the hazard? You
made a firm resolution of not borrowing from the purses of any of the
gentlemen who wished to serve you; you for some time kept that
resolution; but, remember, it lasted no longer than when one particular
person made the offer. Was it your wish to oblige him? or did the desire
of gaming operate in that instant more powerful than in any other?
Whatever was your motive, the party immediately began to form hopes of
you; hopes, which, being founded in your weakness, you may be certain
were not to your advantage.

To make a more forcible impression on your mind, your Ladyship must
allow me to lay before you a piece of private history, in which a noble
family of this town was deeply involved. The circumstances are
indubitable facts--their names I shall conceal under fictitious ones. A
few years since, Lord and Lady D. were the happiest of pairs in each
other. Love had been the sole motive of their union; and love presided
over every hour of their lives. Their pleasures were mutual, and neither
knew an enjoyment, in which the other did not partake. By an unhappy
mischance, Lady D. had an attachment to cards--which yet, however, she
only looked on as the amusement of an idle hour. Her person was
beautiful, and as such made her an object of desire in the eyes of Lord
L. Her virtue and affection for her husband would have been sufficient
to have damped the hopes of a man less acquainted with the weakness of
human nature than Lord L. Had he paid her a more than ordinary
attention, he would have awakened her suspicions, and put her on her
guard; he therefore pursued another method. He availed himself of her
love of play--and would now and then, seemingly by accident, engage her
in a party at picquet, which was her favourite game. He contrived to
lose trifling sums, to increase her inclination for play. Too fatally he
succeeded. Her predilection gathered strength every day. After having
been very unsuccessful for some hours at picquet, Lord L. proposed a
change of the game; a proposal which Lady D. could not object to, as
having won so much of his money. He produced a pair of dice. Luck still
ran against him. A generous motive induced Lady D. to offer him his
revenge the next evening at her own house. In the morning preceding the
destined evening, her lord signified his dislike of gaming with dice;
and instanced some families to whom it had proved destructive. Elate,
however, with good fortune--and looking on herself engaged in honour to
give Lord L. a chance of recovering his losses, she listened not to the
hints of her husband, nor did they recur to her thoughts till too late
to be of any service to her.

The time so ardently expected by Lord L. now arrived, the devoted time
which was to put the long-destined victim into the power of her
insidious betrayer. Fortune, which had hitherto favoured Lady D--, now
deserted her--in a short time, her adversary reimbursed himself, and won
considerably besides. Adversity only rendered her more desperate. She
hazarded still larger stakes; every throw, however, was against her; and
no otherwise could it be, since his dice were loaded, and which he had
the dexterity to change unobserved by her. He lent her money, only to
win it back from her; in short, in a few hours, she found herself
stripped of all the cash she had in possession, and two thousand five
hundred pounds in debt. The disapprobation which her husband had
expressed towards dice-playing, and her total inability to discharge
this vast demand without his knowledge, contributed to make her distress
very great. She freely informed Lord L. she must be his debtor for some
time--as she could not think of acquainting Lord D. with her imprudence.
He offered to accept of part of her jewels, till it should be convenient
to her to pay the whole--or, if she liked it better, to play it off. To
the first, she said, she could not consent, as her husband would miss
them--and to the last she would by no means agree, since she suffered
too much already in her own mind from the imprudent part she had acted,
by risking so much more than she ought to have done. He then,
approaching her, took her hand in his; and, assuming the utmost
tenderness in his air, proceeded to inform her, it was in her power
amply to repay the debt, without the knowledge of her husband--and
confer the highest obligations upon himself. She earnestly begged an
explanation--since there was nothing she would not submit to, rather
than incur the censure of so excellent a husband. Without further
preface, Lord L. threw himself on his knees before her--and said, "if
her heart could not suggest the restitution, which the most ardent of
lovers might expect and hope for--he must take the liberty of informing
her, that bestowing on him the delightful privilege of an husband was
the only means of securing her from the resentment of one." At first,
she seemed thunder-struck, and unable to articulate a sentence. When she
recovered the use of speech, she asked him what he had seen in her
conduct, to induce him to believe she would not submit to any ill
consequences which might arise from the just resentment of her husband,
rather than not shew her detestation of such an infamous proposal.
"Leave me," added she; "leave me," in perfect astonishment at such
insolence of behaviour. He immediately rose, with a very different
aspect--and holding a paper in his hand, to which she had signed her
name in acknowledgment of the debt--"Then, Madam," said he, with the
utmost _sang-froid_--"I shall, to-morrow morning, take the liberty of
waiting on Lord D. with this." "Stay, my Lord, is it possible you can be
so cruel and hard a creditor?--I consent to make over to you my annual
allowance, till the whole is discharged." "No, Madam," cried he, shaking
his head,--"I cannot consent to any such subterfuges, when you have it
in your power to pay this moment." "Would to heaven I had!" answered
she.--"Oh, that you have, most abundantly!" said he.--"Consider the
hours we have been _tête à tête_ together; few people will believe we
have spent all the time at play. Your reputation then will suffer; and,
believe me while I attest heaven to witness, either you must discharge
the debt by blessing me with the possession of your charms, or Lord D.
shall be made acquainted with every circumstance. Reflect," continued
he, "two thousand five hundred pounds is no small sum, either for your
husband to pay, or me to receive.--Come, Madam, it grows late.--In a
little time, you will not have it in your power to avail yourself of the
alternative. Your husband will soon return and then you may wish in vain
that you had yielded to my love, rather than have subjected yourself to
my resentment." She condescended to beg of him, on her knees, for a
longer time for consideration; but he was inexorable, and at last she
fatally consented to her own undoing. The next moment, the horror of her
situation, and the sacrifice she had made, rushed on her tortured
imagination. "Give me the fatal paper," cried she, wringing her hands in
the utmost agony, "give me that paper, for which I have parted with my
peace for ever, and leave me. Oh! never let me in future behold
you.--What do I say? Ah! rather let my eyes close in everlasting
darkness;--they are now unworthy to behold the face of Heaven!" "And do
you really imagine, Madam, (all-beautiful as you are) the lifeless
half-distracted body, you gave to my arms, a recompence for
five-and-twenty hundred pounds?--Have you agreed to your bargain? Is it
with tears, sighs, and reluctant struggles, you meet your husband's
caresses? Be mine as you are his, and the bond is void--otherwise, I am
not such a spendthrift as to throw away thousands for little less than a
rape."

"Oh! thou most hateful and perfidious of all monsters! too dearly have I
earned my release--Do not then, do not with-hold my right."

"Hush, Madam, hush," cried he with the most provoking coolness, "your
raving will but expose you to the ridicule of your domestics. You are at
present under too great an agitation of spirits to attend to the calm
dictates of reason. I will wait till your ladyship is in a more even
temper. When I receive your commands, I will attend them, and hope the
time will soon arrive when you will be better disposed to listen to a
tender lover who adores you, rather than to seek to irritate a man who
has you in his power." Saying which, he broke from her, leaving her in a
state of mind, of which you, Madam, I sincerely hope, will never be able
to form the slightest idea. With what a weight of woe she stole up into
her bed-chamber, unable to bear the eye of her domestic! How fallen in
her own esteem, and still bending under the penalty of her bond, as
neither prayers nor tears (and nothing else was she able to offer) could
obtain the release from the inexorable and cruel Lord L.

How was her anguish increased, when she heard the sound of her Lord's
footstep! How did she pray for instant death! To prevent any
conversation, she feigned sleep--sleep, which now was banished from her
eye-lids. Guilt had driven the idea of rest from her bosom. The morning
brought no comfort on its wings--to her the light was painful. She still
continued in bed. She framed the resolution of writing to the destroyer
of her repose. She rose for that purpose; her letter was couched in
terms that would have pierced the bosom of the most obdurate savage. All
the favour she intreated was, to spare the best of husbands, and the
most amiable and beloved of men, the anguish of knowing how horrid a
return she had made, in one fatal moment, for the years of felicity she
had tasted with him: again offered her alimony, or even her jewels, to
obtain the return of her bond. She did not wish for life. Death was now
her only hope;--but she could not support the idea of her husband's
being acquainted with her infamy. What advantage could he (Lord L.)
propose to himself from the possession of her person, since tears,
sighs, and the same reluctance, would still accompany every repetition
of her crime--as her heart, guilty as it now was, and unworthy as she
had rendered herself of his love, was, and ever must be, her husband's
only. In short, she urged every thing likely to soften him in her
favour. But this fatal and circumstantial disclosure of her guilt and
misfortunes was destined to be conveyed by another messenger than she
designed. Lord D--, having that evening expected some one to call on
him, on his return enquired, "if any one had been there." He was
answered, "Only Lord L." "Did he stay?" "Yes, till after
eleven."--Without thinking of any particularity in this, he went up to
bed. He discovered his wife was not asleep--to pretend to be so, alarmed
him. He heard her frequently sigh; and, when she thought him sunk in
that peaceful slumber she had forfeited, her distress increased. His
anxiety, however, at length gave way to fatigue; but with the morning
his doubts and fears returned; yet, how far from guessing the true
cause! He saw a letter delivered to a servant with some caution, whom he
followed, and insisted on knowing for whom it was intended. The servant,
ignorant of the contents, and not at all suspicious he was doing an
improper thing, gave it up to his Lordship. Revenge lent him wings, and
he flew to the base destroyer of his conjugal happiness.--You may
suppose what followed.--In an hour Lord D. was brought home a lifeless
corpse. Distraction seized the unhappy wife; and the infamous cause of
this dreadful calamity fled his country. He was too hardened, however,
in guilt, to feel much remorse from this catastrophe, and made no
scruple of relating the circumstances of it.

To you, Madam, I surely need make no comment. Nor do I need say any more
to deter you from so pernicious a practice as gaming. Suspect a Lord L.
in every one who would induce you to play; and remember they are the
worst seducers, and the most destructive enemies, who seek to gain your
heart by ruining your principles.

Adieu, Madam! Your ever-watchful angel will still hover over you. And
may that God, who formed both you and me, enable me to give you good
counsel, and dispose your heart to follow it!

Your faithful SYLPH."

Lady STANLEY in Continuation

Alas, my Louisa! what would become of your Julia without this
respectable monitor? Would to heaven I knew who he was! or, how I might
consult him upon some particular circumstances! I examine the features
of my guests in hopes to discover my secret friend; but my senses are
perplexed and bewildered in the fruitless search. It is certainly a
weakness; but, absolutely, my anxiety to obtain this knowledge has an
effect on my health and spirits; my thoughts and whole attention rest
solely on this subject. I call it a weakness, because I ought to remain
satisfied with the advantages which accrue to me from this
correspondence, without being inquisitively curious who it may be; yet I
wish to ask some questions. I am uneasy, and perhaps in some instances
my Sylph would solve my doubts; not that I think him endued with a
preternatural knowledge; yet I hardly know what to think neither.
However, I bless and praise the goodness of God, that has raised me up
a friend in a place where I may turn my eyes around and see myself
deprived of every other.

Even my protector--he who has sworn before God and man;--but you,
Louisa, will reprehend my indiscreet expressions. In my own bosom, then,
shall the sad repository be. Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XXI.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

As you have entertained an idea that Sir William could not be proof
against any occasional exertion of my eloquence, I will give you a
sketch of a matrimonial _tête à tête_, though it may tend to subvert
your opinion of both parties.

Yesterday morning I was sitting in my dressing-room, when Sir William,
who had not been at home all night, entered it: He looked as if he had
not been in bed; his hair disordered; and, upon the whole, as forlorn a
figure as you ever beheld, I was going to say; but you can form very
little idea of these rakes of fashion after a night spent as they
usually spend it. To my inquiry after his health, he made a very slight
or rather peevish answer; and flung himself into a chair, with both
hands in his waistcoat pockets, and his eyes fixed on the fire, before
which he had placed himself. As he seemed in an ill-humour, and I was
unconscious of having given him cause, I was regardless of the
consequences, and pursued my employment, which was looking over and
settling some accounts relative to my own expences. He continued his
posture in the strictest silence for near a quarter of an hour; a
silence I did not feel within myself the least inclination to break
through: at last he burst forth into this pretty soliloquy.

"Damn it; sure there never was a more unfortunate dog than I am! Every
thing goes against me. And then to be so situated too!" Unpromising as
the opening sounded, I thought it would be better to bear a part in the
conversation.--"If it is not impertinent, Sir William," said I, "may I
beg to know what occasions the distress you seem to express? or at
least inform me if it is in my power to be of service to you."--"No, no,
you can be of no use to me--though," continued he, "you are in part the
cause."--"I the cause!--for God's sake, how?" cried I, all astonishment.
"Why, if your father had not taken advantage of my cursed infatuation
for you, I should not have been distressed in pecuniary matters by
making so large a settlement."

"A cursed infatuation! do you call it? Sure, that is a harsh expression!
Oh! how wretched would my poor father feel, could he imagine the
affection which he fancied his unhappy daughter had inspired you with,
would be stiled by yourself, and to _her_ face, _a cursed infatuation_!"
Think you, Louisa, I was not pained to the soul? Too sure I was--I could
not prevent tears from gushing forth. Sir William saw the effect his
cruel speech had on me; he started from his seat, and took my hand in
his. A little resentment, and a thousand other reasons, urged me to
withdraw it from his touch.--"Give me your hand, Julia," cried he,
drawing his chair close to mine, and looking at my averted face--"give
me your hand, my dear, and pardon the rashness of my expressions; I did
not mean to use such words;--I recall them, my love: it was ungenerous
and false in me to arraign your father's conduct. I would have doubled
and trebled the settlement, to have gained you; I would, by heavens! my
Julia.--Do not run from me in disgust; come, come, you shall forgive me
a thoughtless expression, uttered in haste, but seriously repented of."

"You cannot deny your sentiments, Sir William; nor can I easily forget
them. What my settlement is, as I never wished to out-live you, so I
never wished to know how ample it was. Large I might suppose it to be,
from the conviction that you never pay any regard to consequences to
obtain your desires, let them be what they will. I was the whim of the
day; and if you have paid too dearly for the trifling gratification, I
am sorry for it; heartily sorry for it, indeed, Sir William. You found
me in the lap of innocence, and in the arms of an indulgent parent;
happy, peaceful, and serene; would to heaven you had left me there!" I
could not proceed; my tears prevented my utterance. "Pshaw!" cried Sir
William, clapping his fingers together, and throwing his elbow over the
chair, which turned his face nearer me, "how ridiculous this is! Why,
Julia, I am deceived in you; I did not think you had so much resentment
in your composition. You ought to make some allowance for the
_derangement_ of my affairs. My hands are tied by making a larger
settlement than my present fortune would admit; and I cannot raise money
on my estate, because I have no child, and it is entailed on my uncle,
who is the greatest curmudgeon alive. Reflect on all these obstacles to
my release from some present exigencies; and do not be so hard-hearted
and inexorable to the prayers and intreaties of your husband."--During
the latter part of this speech, he put his arm round my waist, and drew
me almost on his knees, striving by a thousand little caresses to make
me pardon and smile on him; but, Louisa, caresses, which I now know came
not from the heart, lose the usual effect on me; yet I would not be, as
he said, inexorable. I therefore told him, I would no longer think of
any thing he would wish me to forget.--With the utmost appearance of
tenderness he took my handkerchief, and dried my eyes; laying his cheek
close to mine, and pressing my hands with warmth,--in short, acting over
the same farce as (once) induced me to believe I had created the most
permanent flame in his bosom. I could not bear the reflection that he
should suffer from his former attachment to me; and I had hopes that my
generosity might rouze him from his lethargy, and save him from the ruin
which was likely to involve him. I told him, "I would with the greatest
chearfulness relinquish any part of my settlement, if by that means he
could be extricated from his present and future difficulties."--"Why, to
be sure, a part of it would set me to rights as to the present; but as
for the future, I cannot look into futurity, Julia."--"I wish you could,
Sir William, and reflect in time."--"Reflect! Oh, that is so _outré_! I
hate reflection. Reflection cost poor D--r his life the other day; he,
like me, could not bear reflection."

"I tremble to hear you thus lightly speak of that horrid event. The more
so, as I too much fear the same fatal predilection has occasioned your
distress: but may the chearfulness with which I resign my future
dependence awaken in you a sense of your present situation, and secure
you from fresh difficulties!"

"Well said, my little _monitress_! why you are quite an _orator_ too.
But you shall find I can follow your lead, and be _just_ at least, if
not so generous as yourself. I would not for the world accept the whole
of your jointure. I do not want it; and if I had as much as I could
raise on it, perhaps I might not be much richer for it. _Riches make to
themselves wings, and fly away_, Julia. There is a sentence for you. Did
you think your rattle-pated husband had ever read the book of books from
whence that sentence is drawn?" I really had little patience to hear him
run on in this ludicrous and trifling manner. What an argument of his
insensibility! To stop him, I told him, I thought we had better not lose
time, but have the writings prepared, which would enable me to do my
duty as an obedient wife, and enable him to pay his debts like a man of
honour and integrity; and then he need not fear his treasure flying
away, since it would be laid up where neither thieves could break
through, or rust destroy.

The writings are preparing, to dispose of an estate which was settled on
me; it brings in at present five hundred a year; which I find is but a
quarter of my jointure. Ah! would to heaven he would take all, provided
it would make a change in his sentiments! But that I despair of, without
the interposition of a miracle. You never saw such an alteration as an
hour made on him. So alert and brisk! and apishly fond! I mean
affectedly so; for, Louisa, a man of Sir William's cast never could love
sincerely,--never could experience that genuine sentimental passion,

    "Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone
    To bless the dearer object of its soul."

No, his passions are turbulent--the madness of the moment--eager to
please himself--regardless of the satisfaction of the object.--And yet I
thought he loved--I likewise thought I loved. Oh! Louisa! how was I
deceived! But I check my pen. Pardon me, and, if possible, excuse your
sister.

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XXII.


TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

What are we to make of this divine and destructive beauty? this Lady
Stanley? Did you not observe with what eager avidity she became a votary
to the gaming-table, and bragged away with the best of us? You must: you
was witness to the glow of animation that reigned despotic over every
lovely feature when she had got a pair-royal of braggers in her snowy
fingers. But I am confoundedly bit! She condescended to borrow of that
pattern of Germanic virtue, Baron Ton-hausen. Perhaps you will say, why
did not you endeavour to be the Little Premium? No, I thought I played a
better game: It was better to be the second lender; besides, I only
wanted to excite in her a passion for play; and, or I am much deceived,
never woman entered into it with more zeal. But what a turn to our
affairs! I am absolutely cast off the scent; totally ignorant of the
doubles she has made. I could hardly close my eyes, from the pleasing
expectations I had formed of gratifying the wishes of my heart in both
those interesting passions of love and revenge. Palpitating with hopes
and fears, I descended from my chariot at the appointed hour. The party
were assembled, and my devoted victim looked as beautiful as an angel of
light; her countenance wore a solemnity, which added to her charms by
giving an irresistible and persuasive softness to her features. I
scrutinized the lineaments of her lovely face; and, I assure you, she
lost nothing by the strict examination. Gods! what a transporting
creature she is! And what an insensible brute is Stanley! But I recall
my words, as to the last:--he was distractedly in love with her before
he had her; and perhaps, if she was _my_ wife, I should be as
indifferent about her as _he_ is, or as _I_ am about the numberless
women of all ranks and conditions with whom I have "trifled away the
dull hours."--While I was in contemplation anticipating future joys, I
was struck all of a heap, as the country-girls say, by hearing Lady
Stanley say,--"It is in vain--I have made a firm resolution never to
play again; my resolution is the result of my own reflections on the
uneasiness which those bits of painted paper have already given me. It
is altogether fruitless to urge me; for from the determination I have
made, I shall never recede. My former winnings are in the
sweepstake-pool at the _commerce-table_, which you will extremely oblige
me to sit down to; but for me, I play no more.--I shall have a pleasure
in seeing you play; but I own I feel myself too much discomposed with
ill fortune; and I am not unreasonable enough to be pleased with the
misfortunes of others. I have armed my mind against the shafts of
ridicule, that I see pointed at me; but, while I leave others the full
liberty of following their own schemes of diversion, I dare say, none
will refuse me the same privilege."--We all stared with astonishment;
but the devil a one offered to say a word, except against sitting down
to divide her property;--there we entered into a general protest; so we
set down, at least I can answer for myself, to an insipid game.--Lady
Stanley was marked down as a fine _pigeon_ by some of our ladies, and as
a delicious _morçeau_ by the men. The gentle Baron seemed all aghast. I
fancy he is a little disappointed in his expectations too.--Perhaps he
has formed hopes that his soft sighs and respectful behaviour may have
touched the lovely Julia's heart. He felt himself flattered, no doubt,
at her giving him the preference in borrowing from his purse. Well then,
his hopes are _derangé_, as well as mine.--But, _courage, mi Lor_, I
shall play another game now; and peradventure, as safe a one, if not
more so, than what I planned before.--I will not, however, anticipate a
pleasure (which needs no addition should I succeed) or add to my
mortification should I fail, by expatiating on it at present.

Adieu! dear Montague! Excuse my _boring_ you with these trifles;--for to
a man in love, every thing is trifling except the _trifle_ that
possesses his heart; and to one who is not under the guidance of the
_soft deity, that_ is the _greatest_ trifle (to use a Hibernicism) of
all.

I am your's most cordially,

BIDDULPH.




LETTER XXIII.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

Well, my dear Louisa, the important point I related the particulars of
in my last is quite settled, and Sir William has been able to satisfy
some rapacious creditors. Would to heaven I could tell you, the butcher,
baker, &c. were in the list! No, my sister; the creditors are a vile set
of gamblers, or, in the language of the _polite_ world--_Black-legs_.
Thus is the purpose of my heart entirely frustrated, and the laudably
industrious tradesman defrauded of his due. But how long will they
remain satisfied with being repeatedly put by with empty promises, which
are never kept? Good God! how is this to end? I give myself up to the
most gloomy reflections, and see no point of time when we shall be
extricated from the cruel dilemmas in which Sir William's imprudence has
involved us. I vainly fancied, I should gain some advantages, at least
raise myself in his opinion, from my generosity; but I find, on the
contrary, he only laughs at me for being such a simpleton, to suppose
the sale of five hundred a-year would set him to rights. It is plain, I
have got no credit by my condescension, for he has not spent one day at
home since; and his temper, when I do see him, seems more uncertain than
ever.--Oh! Louisa! and do all young women give up their families, their
hand, and virgin-affections, to be thus recompensed? But why do I let
fall these expressions? Alas! they fall with my tears; and I can no more
suppress the one than the other; I ought, however, and indeed do
endeavour against both. I seek to arm my soul to support the evils with
which I see myself surrounded. I beseech heaven to afford me strength,
for I too plainly see I am deprived of all other resources. I forget to
caution you, my dear sister, against acquainting my father, that I have
given up part of my jointure; and lest, when I am unburthening the
weight of my over-charged bosom to you, I should in future omit this
cautionary reserve, do you, my Louisa, keep those little passages a
secret within your own kind sympathizing breast; and add not to my
affliction, by planting such daggers in the heart of my dear--more dear
than ever--parent. You know I have pledged my honour to you, I will
never, by my own conduct, accumulate the distresses this fatal union has
brought on me. Though every vow on his part is broken through, yet I
will remember I am _his_ wife,--and, what is more, _your_ sister. Would
you believe it? he--Sir William I mean--is quite displeased that I have
given up cards, and very politely told me, I should be looked on as a
fool by all his acquaintance,--and himself not much better, for marrying
such an ignorant uninstructed rustic. To this tender and husband-like
speech, I returned no other answer, than that "my conscience should be
the rule and guide of my actions; and _that_, I was certain, would never
lead me to disgrace him." I left the room, as I found some difficulty in
stifling the resentment which rose at his indignant treatment. But I
shall grow callous in time; I have so far conquered my weakness, as
never to let a tear drop in his presence. Those indications of
self-sorrow have no effect on him, unless, indeed, he had any point to
gain by it; and then he would feign a tenderness foreign to his nature,
but which might induct the ignorant uninstructed fool to yield up every
thing to him.

Perhaps he knows it not; but I might have instructors enough;--but he
has taught me sufficient of evil--thank God! to make me despise them
all. From my unhappy connexions with one, I learn to hate and detest the
whole race of rakes; I might add, of both sexes. I tremble to think what
I might have been, had I not been blessed with a virtuous education, and
had the best of patterns in my beloved sister. Thus I was early
initiated in virtue; and let me be grateful to my kind _Sylph_, whose
knowledge of human nature has enabled him to be so serviceable to me: he
is a sort of second conscience to me:--What would the Sylph say? I
whisper to myself. Would he approve? I flatter myself, that,
insignificant as I am, I am yet the care of heaven; and while I depend
on that merciful Providence and its vicegerents, I shall not fall into
those dreadful pits that are open on every side: but, to strengthen my
reliances, let me have the prayers of my dear Louisa; for every support
is necessary for her faithful Julia.




LETTER XXIV.


TO THE SAME.

I have repeatedly mentioned to my Louisa, how earnestly I wished to have
more frequent communications with my Sylph. A thought struck me the
other day, of the practicability of effecting such a scheme. I knew I
was safe from detection, as no one on earth, yourself excepted, knew of
his agency in my affairs. I therefore addressed an advertisement to my
invisible friend, which I sent to the St. James's Chronicle, couched in
this concise manner.

TO THE SYLPH

"Grateful for the friendly admonition, the receiver of the Sylph's
favour is desirous of having the power of expressing _it_ more largely
than is possible through this channel. If still intitled to protection,
begs to be informed, how a private letter may reach his hand."

I have not leisure nor inclination to make a long digression, or would
tell you, the St. James's is a news-paper which is the fashionable
vehicle of intelligence; and from the circumstance alone of its
admission into all families, and meeting all eyes, I chose it to convey
my wishes to the Sylph. The next evening I had the satisfaction of
finding those wishes answered; and the further pleasure (as you will see
by the enclosed copy) of being assured of his approbation of the step I
have taken.

And now for a little of family-affairs. You know I have a certain
allowance, of what is called pin-money;--my quarter having been due for
some time, I thought I might as well have it in my own possession,--not
that I am poor, for I assure you, on the contrary, I have generally a
quarter in hand, though I am not in debt. I sent Win to Harris's the
steward, for my stipend. She returned, with his duty to me, acquainting
me, it was not in his power at present to honour my note, not having any
cash in hand. Surprized at his inability of furnishing a hundred and
fifty pounds, I desired to speak with him; when he gave me so melancholy
a detail of his master's circumstances, as makes me dread the
consequences. He is surrounded with Jew-brokers; for, in this Christian
land, Jews are the money-negotiators; and such wretches as you would
tremble to behold are admitted into the private recesses of the Great,
and caressed as their better-angels. These infernal agents procure them
money; for which they pay fifty, a hundred, and sometimes two hundred
_per Cent_. Am I wrong in styling them _infernal_? Do they not make the
silly people who trust in them pay very dear for the means of
accomplishing their own destruction? Like those miserable beings they
used to call _Witches_, who were said to sell their souls to the Devil
for everlasting, to have the power of doing temporary mischief upon
earth.

_These_ now form the bosom-associates of my husband. Ah! wonder not the
image of thy sister is banished thence! rather rejoice with me, that he
pays that reverence to virtue and decency as to distinguish me from that
dreadful herd of which his chief companions are composed.

I go very little from home--In truth, I have no creature to go with.--I
avoid Lord Biddulph, because I hate him; and (dare I whisper it to my
Louisa?) I estrange myself from the Baron, lest I should be too partial
to the numerous good qualities I cannot but see, and yet which it would
be dangerous to contemplate too often. Oh, Louisa! why are there not
many such men? His merit would not so forcibly strike me, if I could
find any one in the circle of my acquaintance who could come in
competition with him; for, be assured, it is not the tincture of the
skin which I admire; not because _fairest_, but _best_. But where shall
a married-woman find excuse to seek for, and admire, merit in any other
than her husband? I will banish this too, too amiable man from my
thoughts. As my Sylph says, such men (under the circumstances I am in)
are infinitely more dangerous than a Biddulph. Yet, can one fall by the
hand of virtue?--Alas! this is deceitful sophistry. If I give myself up
to temptation, how dare I flatter myself I shall _be delivered from
evil_?

Could two men be more opposite than what Sir William appeared at
Woodley-vale, and what he now is?--for too surely, _that_ was
appearance--_this_ reality. Think of him then sitting in your library,
reading by turns with my dear father some instructive and amusing
author, while _we_ listened to their joint comments; what lively sallies
we discovered in him; and how we all united in approving the natural
flow of good spirits, chastened as we thought with the principles of
virtue! See him now--But my pen refuses to draw the pain-inspiring
portrait. Alas! it would but be a copy of what I have so repeatedly
traced in my frequent letters; a copy from which we should turn with
disgust, bordering on contempt. This we should do, were the character
unknown or indifferent to us. But how must that woman feel--who sees in
the picture the well-known features of a man, whom she is bound by her
vows to love, honour, and obey? Your tenderness, my sister, will teach
you to pity so unhappy a wretch. I will not, however, tax that
tenderness too much. I will not dwell on the melancholy theme.

But I lose sight of my purpose, in thus contrasting Sir William _to
himself_; I meant to infer, from the total change which seems to have
taken place in him, that other men may be the same, could the same
opportunity of developing their characters present itself. Thus, though
the Baron wears this semblance of an angel--yet it may be assumed. What
will not men do to carry a favourite point? He saw the open and avowed
principles of libertinism in Lord Biddulph disgusted me from the first.
He, therefore, may conceal the same invidious intention under the
seducing form of every virtue. The simile of the robber and the beggar,
in the Sylph's first letter, occurs to my recollection. Yet, perhaps, I
am injuring the Baron by my suspicion. He may have had virtue enough to
suppress those feelings in my favour, which my situation should
certainly destroy in a virtuous breast.--Nay, I believe, I may make
myself wholly easy on that head. He has, for some time, paid great
attention to Miss Finch, who, I find, has totally broke with Colonel
Montague. Certainly, if we should pay any deference to appearance, she
will make a much better election by chusing Baron Ton-hausen, than the
Colonel. She has lately--Miss Finch, I should say--has lately spent more
time with me than any other lady--for my two first companions I have
taken an opportunity of civilly dropping. I took care to be from home
whenever they called by _accident_--and always to have some _prior_
engagement when they proposed meeting by _design_.

Miss Finch is by much the least reprehensible character I have met
with.--But, as Lady Besford once said, one can form no opinion of what a
woman is while she is single. _She_ must keep within the rules of
decorum. The single state is not a state of freedom. Only the married
ladies have that privilege. But, as far as one can judge, there is no
danger in the acquaintance of Miss Finch. I own, I like her, for having
refused Colonel Montague, and yet, (Oh! human nature!) on looking over
what I have written, I have expressed myself disrespectfully, on the
supposition that she saw Ton-hausen with the same eyes as a certain
foolish creature that shall be nameless.




LETTER XXV.


Enclosed in the foregoing.

TO Lady STANLEY.

The satisfaction of a benevolent heart will ever be its own recompense;
but not its _only_ reward, as you have sweetly assured me, by the
advertisement that blessed my eyes last night. I beheld, with pleasure,
that my admonitions have not lost their intended effect. I should have
been most cruelly disappointed, and have given up my knowledge of the
human heart as imperfect, had I found you incorrigible to my advice. But
I have heretofore told you, I was thoroughly acquainted with the
excellencies of your mind. Your renunciation of your favourite game, and
cards in general, give every reason to justify my sentiments of you. I
have formed the most exalted idea of you.--And you alone can destroy the
altar I have raised to your divinity. All the incense I dare hope to
receive from you, is a just and implicit observance of my dictates,
while _they_ are influenced by virtue, of which none but you can
properly judge, since to none but yourself they are addressed. Doubts, I
am convinced, may arise in your mind concerning this invisible agency.
As far as is necessary, I will satisfy those doubts. But to be for ever
concealed from your knowledge as to identity, your own good sense will
see too clearly the necessity of, to need any illustration from my pen.
If I admired you before--how much has that admiration encreased from the
chearful acquiescence you have paid to my injunctions! Go on, then, my
beloved charge! Pursue the road of _virtue_; and be assured, however
rugged the path, and tedious the way, you will, one day, arrive at the
goal, and find _her_ "in her own form--how lovely!" I had almost said, as
lovely as yourself.

Perhaps, you will think this last expression too warm, and favouring
more of the man--than the Rosicrusian philosopher.--But be not alarmed.
By the most rigid observance of virtue it is we attain this superiority
over the rest of mankind; and only by this course can we maintain it--we
are not, however, divested of our sensibilities; nay, I believe, as they
have not been vitiated by contamination, they are more _tremblingly
alive_ than other mortals usually are. In the human character, I could
be of no use to you; in the Sylphiad, of the utmost. Look on me, then,
only in the light of a preternatural being--and if my sentiments should
sometimes flow in a more earthly stile--yet, take my word as a Sylph,
they shall never be such as shall corrupt your heart. To guard it from
the corruptions of mortals, is my sole view in the lectures I have
given, or shall from time to time give you.

I saw and admired the laudable motive which induced you to give up part
of your settlement. Would to heaven, for your sake, it had been attended
with the happy consequences you flattered yourself with seeing. Alas!
all the produce of that is squandered after the rest. Beware how you are
prevailed on to resign any more; for, I question not, you will have
application made you very soon for the remainder, or at least part of
it: but take this advice of your true and disinterested friend. The time
may come, and from the unhappy propensities of Sir William, I must fear
it will not be long ere it does come, when both he and you may have no
other resource than what your jointure affords you. By this ill-placed
benevolence you will deprive yourself of the means of supporting him,
when all other means will have totally failed. Let this be your plea to
resist his importunities.

When you shall be disposed to make me the repository of your
confidential thoughts, you may direct to A.B. at Anderton's
coffee-house. I rely on your prudence, to take no measures to discover
me. May you be as happy as you deserve, or, in one word, as I wish you!

Your careful

SYLPH.




LETTER XXVI.


To THE SYLPH.

It is happy for me, if my actions have stood so much in my favour, as to
make any return for the obligations, which I feel I want words to
express. Alas! what would have become of me without the friendly, the
paternal admonitions of my kind Sylph! Spare me not, tell me all my
faults--for, notwithstanding your partiality, I find them numerous. I
feel the necessity of having those admonitions often inforced; and am
apprehensive I shall grow troublesome to you.

Will, then, my friend allow me to have recourse to him on any important
occasion--or what may appear so to me? Surely an implicit observance of
his precepts will be the least return I can make for his disinterested
interposition in my favour--and thus, as it were, stepping in between me
and ruin. Believe me, my heart overflows with a grateful sense of these
unmerited benefits--and feels the strongest resolution to persevere in
the paths of rectitude so kindly pointed out to me by the hand of
Heaven.

I experience a sincere affliction, that the renunciation of part of my
future subsistence should not have had the desired effect; but _none_
that I have parted with it. My husband is young, and blest with a most
excellent constitution, which even _his_ irregularities have not
injured. I am young likewise, but of a more delicate frame, which the
repeated hurries I have for many months past lived in (joined to a
variety of other causes, from anxieties and inquietude of mind) have not
a little impaired; so that I have not a remote idea of living to want
what I have already bestowed, or may hereafter resign, for the benefit
of my husband's creditors. Yet in this, as well as every thing else, I
will submit to your more enlightened judgment--and abide most chearfully
by your decision.

Would to Heaven Sir William would listen to such an adviser! He yet
might retrieve his affairs. We yet might be happy. But, alas! he will
not suffer his reason to have any sway over his actions. He hurries on
to ruin with hasty strides--nor ever casts one look behind.

       *       *       *       *       *

The perturbation these sad reflections create in my bosom will apologize
to my worthy guide for the abruptness of this conclusion, as well as the
incorrectness of the whole. May Heaven reward you! prays your ever
grateful,

JULIA STANLEY.




VOLUME II




LETTER XXVII.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

I feel easier in my mind, my dearest Louisa, since I have established a
sort of correspondence with the Sylph. I can now, when any intricate
circumstance arises, which your distance may disable you from being
serviceable in, have an almost immediate assistance in, or at least the
concurrence of--my Sylph, my guardian angel!

In a letter I received from him the other day, he told me, "a time might
come when he should lose his influence over me; however remote the
period, as there was a possibility of his living to see it, the _idea_
filled his mind with sorrow. The only method his skill could divine, of
still possessing the privilege of superintending my concerns, would be
to have some pledge from me. He flattered himself I should not scruple
to indulge this only weakness of _humanity_ he discovered, since I might
rest assured he had it neither in his will or inclination to make an ill
use of my condescension." The rest of the letter contained advice as
usual. I only made this extract to tell you my determination on this
head. I think to send a little locket with my hair in it. The _design_ I
have formed in my own mind, and, when it is compleated, will describe it
to you.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have seriously reflected on what I had written to you in my last
concerning Miss Finch and (let me not practice disingenuity to my
beloved sister) the Baron Ton-hausen. Miss Finch called on me yesterday
morning--she brought her work. "I am come," said she, "to spend some
hours with you." "I wish," returned I, "you would enlarge your plan, and
make it the whole day."

"With all my heart," she replied, "if you are to be alone; for I wish to
have a good deal of chat with you; and hope we shall have no male
impertinents break-in upon our little female _tête-à-tête_." I knew Sir
William was out for the day, and gave orders I should not be at home to
any one.

As soon as we were quite by ourselves, "Lord!" said she, "I was
monstrously flurried coming hither, for I met Montague in the Park, and
could hardly get clear of him--I was fearful he would follow me here."
As she first mentioned him, I thought it gave me a kind of right to ask
her some questions concerning that gentleman, and the occasion of her
rupture with him. She answered me very candidly--"To tell you the truth,
my dear Lady Stanley, it is but lately I had much idea that it was
necessary to love one's husband, in order to be happy in marriage." "You
astonish me," I cried. "Nay, but hear me. Reflect how we young women,
who are born in the air of the court, are bred. Our heads filled with
nothing but pleasure--let the means of procuring it be, almost, what you
will. We marry--but without any notion of its being an union for
life--only a few years; and then we make a second choice. But I have
lately thought otherwise; and in consequence of these my more serious
reflections, am convinced Colonel Montague and I might make a
fashionable couple, but never a happy one. I used to laugh at his
gaieties, and foolishly thought myself flattered by the attentions of a
man whom half my sex had found dangerous; but I never loved him; that I
am now more convinced of than ever: and as to reforming his morals--oh!
it would not be worth the pains, if the thing was possible.

"Let the women be ever so exemplary, their conduct will have no
influence over these professed rakes; these rakes upon principle, as
that iniquitous Lord Chesterfield has taught our youth to be. Only look
at yourself, I do not mean to flatter you; what effect has your
mildness, your thousand and ten thousand good qualities, for I will not
pretend to enumerate them, had over the mind of your husband? None. On
my conscience, I believe it has only made him worse; because he knew he
never should be censured by such a pattern of meekness. And what chance
should such an one as I have with one of these _modern_ husbands? I fear
me, I should become a _modern_ wife. I think I am not vainglorious, when
I say I have not a bad heart, and am ambitious of emulating a good
example. On these considerations alone, I resolved to give the Colonel
his dismission. He pretended to be much hurt by my determination; but I
really believe the loss of my fortune is his greatest disappointment, as
I find he has two, if not more, mistresses to console him."

"It would hardly be fair," said I, "after your candid declaration, to
call any part in question, or else I should be tempted to ask you, if
you had really no other motive for your rejection of the Colonel's
suit?"

"You scrutinize pretty closely," returned Miss Finch, blushing; "but I
will make no concealments; I have a man in my eye, with whom, I think,
the longer the union lasted, the happier I, at least, should be."

"Do I know the happy man?"

"Indeed you do; and one of some consequence too."

"It cannot be Lord Biddulph?"

"Lord Biddulph!--No, indeed!--not Lord Biddulph, I assure your Ladyship;
though _he_ has a title, but not an English one."

To you, my dear Louisa, I use no reserve. I felt a sickishness and chill
all over me; but recovering instantly, or rather, I fear, desirous of
appearing unaffected by what she said, I immediately rejoined--"So then,
I may wish the _Baron_ joy of his conquest." A faint smile, which barely
concealed my anguish, accompanied my speech.

"Why should I be ashamed of saying I think the Baron the most amiable
man in the world? though it is but lately I have allowed his superior
merit the preference; indeed, I did not know so much of him as within
these few weeks I have had opportunity."

"He is certainly very amiable," said I. "But don't you think it very
close?" (I felt ill.) "I believe I must open the window for a little
air. Pursue your panegyric, my dear Miss Finch. I was rather overcome by
the warmth of the day; I am better now--pray proceed."

"Well then, it is not because he is handsome that I give him this
preference; for I do not know whether Montague has not a finer person.
observe, I make this a doubt, for I think those marks of the small-pox
give an additional expression to his features. What say you?"

"I am no competent judge;" I answered, "but, in my opinion, those who do
most justice to Baron Ton-hausen, will forget, or overlook, the graces
of his person, in the contemplation of the more estimable, because more
permanent, beauties of his mind."

"What an elegant panegyrist you are! in three words you have comprized
his eulogium, which I should have spent hours about, and not so
compleated at last. But the opportunity I hinted at having had of late,
of discovering more of the Baron's character, is this: I was one day
walking in the Park with some ladies; the Baron joined us; a
well-looking old man, but meanly dressed, met us; he fixed his eyes on
Ton-hausen; he started, then, clasping his hands together, exclaimed
with eagerness, 'It is, it must be he! O, Sir! O, thou best of men!' 'My
good friend,' said the Baron, while his face was crimsoned over, 'my
good friend, I am glad to see you in health; but be more moderate.' I
never before thought him handsome; but such a look of benevolence
accompanied his soft accents, that I fancied him something more than
mortal. 'Pardon my too lively expressions,' the old man answered, 'but
gratitude--oh for such benefits! you, Sir, may, and have a right to
command my lips; but my eyes--my eyes will bear testimony.' His voice
was now almost choaked with sobs, and the tears flowed plentifully. I
was extremely moved at this scene, and had likewise a little female
curiosity excited to develope this mystery. I saw the Baron wished to
conceal his own and the old man's emotions, so walked a little aside
with him. I took that opportunity of whispering my servant to find out,
if possible, where this man came from, and discover the state of this
adventure. The ladies and myself naturally were chatting on this
subject, when the Baron rejoined our party. 'Poor fellow', said he, 'he
is so full of gratitude for my having rendered a slight piece of service
to his family, and fancies he owes every blessing in life to me, for
having placed two or three of his children out in the world.' We were
unanimous in praising the generosity of the Baron, and were making some
hard reflections on the infrequency of such examples among the affluent,
when Montague came up; he begged to know on whom we were so severe; I
told him in three words--and pointed to the object of the Baron's
bounty. He looked a little chagrined, which I attributed to my
commendations of this late instance of worth, as, I believe, I expressed
myself with that generous warmth which a benevolent action excites in a
breast capable of feeling, and wishing to emulate, such patterns. After
my return home, my servant told me he had followed the old man to his
lodgings, which were in an obscure part of the town, where he saw him
received by a woman nearly his own age, a beautiful girl of eighteen,
and two little boys. James, who is really an _adroit_ fellow, farther
said, that, by way of introduction, he told them to whom he was servant;
that his lady was attached to their interest from something the Baron
had mentioned concerning them, and had, in earnest of her future
intentions, sent them a half-guinea. At the name of the Baron, the old
folks lifted up their hands and blessed him; the girl blushed, and cast
down her eyes; and, said James, 'I thought, my lady, she seemed to pray
for him with greater fervour than the rest.' 'He is the noblest of men!'
echoed the old pair. 'He is indeed!' sighed the young girl. 'My heart,
my lady, ran over at my eyes to see the thankfulness of these poor
people. They begged me to make their grateful acknowledgments to your
ladyship for your bounty, and hoped the worthy Baron would convince you
it was not thrown away on base or forgetful folks.' James was not
farther inquisitive about their affairs, judging, very properly, that I
should chuse to make some inquiries myself.

"The next day I happened to meet the Baron at your house. I hinted to
him how much my curiosity had been excited by the adventure in the Park.
He made very light of it, saying, his services were only common ones;
but that the object having had a tolerable education, his expressions
were rather adapted to his own feelings than to the merit of the
benefit. 'Ah! Baron,' I cried, 'there is more in this affair than you
think proper to communicate. I shall not cease persecuting you till you
let me a little more into it. I feel myself interested, and you must
oblige me with a recital of the circumstances; for which purpose I will
set you down in my _vis-à-vis_.''Are you not aware, my dear Miss Finch,
of the pain you will put me to in resounding my own praise?--What can be
more perplexing to a modest man?' 'A truce with your modesty in this
instance,' I replied; 'be _just_ to yourself, and _generously indulgent_
to me.' He bowed, and promised to gratify my desire. When we were
seated, 'I will now obey you, Madam,' said the Baron. 'A young fellow,
who was the lover of the daughter to the old man you saw yesterday, was
inveigled by some soldiers to inlist in Colonel Montague's regiment. The
present times are so critical, that the idea of a soldier's life is full
of terror in the breast of a tender female. Nancy Johnson was in a state
of distraction, which the consciousness of her being rather too severe
in a late dispute with her lover served to heighten, as she fancied
herself the cause of his resolution. Being a fine young man of six feet,
he was too eligible an object for the Colonel to wish to part from.
Great intercession, however, was made, but to no effect, for he was
ordered to join the regiment. You must conceive the distress of the
whole family; the poor girl broken-hearted; her parents hanging over her
in anguish, and, ardent to restore the peace of mind of their darling,
forming the determination of coming up to town to solicit his discharge
from the Colonel. By accident I became acquainted with their distressed
situation, and, from my intimacy with Montague, procured them the
blessing they sought for. I have provided him with a small place, and
made a trifling addition to her portion. They are shortly to be
married; and of course, I hope, happy. And now, madam,' he continued, 'I
have acquitted myself of my engagement to you.' I thanked him for his
recital, and said, 'I doubted not his pleasure was near as great as
theirs; for to a mind like his, a benevolent action must carry a great
reward with it.' 'Happiness and pleasure,' he answered, 'are both
comparative in some degree; and to feel them in their most exquisite
sense, must be after having been deprived of them for a long time--we
see ourselves possessed of them when hope had forsaken us. When the
happiness of man depends on relative objects, he will be frequently
liable to disappointment. I have found it so. I have seen every prop, on
which I had built my schemes of felicity, sink one after the other; no
other resource was then left, but to endeavor to form that happiness in
others, which fate had for ever prevented my enjoying; and when I
succeed, I feel a pleasure which for a moment prevents obtruding
thoughts from rankling in my bosom. But I ask your pardon--I am too
serious--tho' my _tête-à-têtes_ with the ladies are usually so.' I told
him, such reflections as his conversation gave rise to, excited more
heart-felt pleasure than the broadest mirth could e'er bestow; that _I_
too was serious, and I hoped should be a better woman as long as I
lived, from the resolution I had formed of attending, for the future, to
the happiness of others more than I had done. Here our conversation
ended, for we arrived at his house. I went home full of the idea of the
Baron and his recital; which, tho' I gave him credit for, I did not
implicitly believe, at least as to circumstance, tho' I might to
substance. I was kept waking the whole night, in comparing the several
parts of the Baron's and James's accounts. In short, the more I
ruminated, the more I was convinced there was more in it than the Baron
had revealed; and Montague being an actor in the play, did not a little
contribute to my desire of _peeping behind the curtain_, and having the
whole _drama_ before me. Accordingly, as soon as I had breakfasted, I
ordered my carriage, and took James for my guide. When we came to the
end of the street, I got out, and away I tramped to Johnson's lodgings.
I made James go up first, and apprize them of my coming; and, out of the
goodness of his heart, in order to relieve their minds from the
perplexity which inferiority always excites, James told them, I was the
best lady in the world, and might, for charity, pass for the Baron's
sister. I heard this as I ascended the stair-case. But, when I entered,
I was really struck with the figure of the young girl. Divested of all
ornament--without the aid of dress, or any external advantage, I think I
never beheld a more beautiful object. I apologized for the abruptness of
my appearance amongst them, but added, I doubted not, as a friend of the
Baron's and an encourager of merit, I should not be unwelcome. I begged
them to go on with their several employments. They received me with that
kind of embarrassment which is usual with people circumstanced as they
are, who fancy themselves under obligations to the affluent for treating
them with common civility. That they might recover their spirits, I
addressed myself to the two little boys, and emptied my pockets to amuse
them. I told the good old pair what the Baron had related to me; but
fairly added I did not believe he had told me all the truth, which I
attributed to his delicacy. 'Oh!' said the young girl, 'with the best
and most noble of minds, the Baron possesses the greatest delicacy; but
I need not tell you so; you, Madam, I doubt not, are acquainted with his
excellencies; and may he, in you, receive his earthly reward for the
good he has done to us! Oh, Madam! he has saved me, both soul and body;
but for him, I had been the most undone of all creatures. Sure he was
our better angel, sent down to stand between us and destruction.'

'Wonder not, madam,' said the father, 'at the lively expressions of my
child; gratitude is the best master of eloquence; she feels, Madam--we
all feel the force of the advantages we derive from that worthy man.
Good God! what had been our situation at this moment, had we not owed
our deliverance to the Baron!' 'I am not,' said I, 'entirely acquainted
with the whole of your story; the Baron, I am certain, concealed great
part; but I should be happy to hear the particulars.'

"The old man assured me he had a pleasure in reciting a tale which
reflected so much honour on the Baron; 'and let me,' said he, 'in the
pride of my heart, let me add, no disgrace on me or mine; for, Madam,
poverty, in the eye of the right-judging, is no disgrace. Heaven is my
witness, I never repined at my lowly station, till by that I was
deprived of the means of rescuing my beloved family from their distress.
But what would riches have availed me, had the evil befallen me from
which that godlike man extricated us? Oh! Madam, the wealth of worlds
could not have conveyed one ray of comfort to my heart, if I could not
have looked all round my family, and said, tho' we are poor, we are
virtuous, my children.

'It would be impertinent to trouble you, Madam, with a prolix account of
my parentage and family. I was once master of a little charity-school,
but by unavoidable misfortunes I lost it. My eldest daughter, who sits
there, was tenderly beloved by a young man in our village, whose virtues
would have reflected honour on the most elevated character. She did
ample justice to his merit. We looked forward to the _happy_ hour that
was to render our child so, and had formed a thousand little schemes of
rational delight, to enliven our evening of life; in one short moment
the sun of our joy was overcast, and promised to set in lasting night.
On a fatal day, my Nancy was seen by a gentleman in the army, who was
down on a visit to a neighbouring squire, my landlord; her figure
attracted his notice, and he followed her to our peaceful dwelling. Her
mother and I were absent with a sick relation, and her protector was out
at work with a farmer at some distance. He obtruded himself into our
house, and begged a draught of ale; my daughter, whose innocence
suspected no ill, freely gave him a mug, of which he just sipped; then,
putting it down, swore he would next taste the nectar of her lips. She
repelled his boldness with all her strength, which, however, would have
availed her but little, had not our next-door neighbour, seeing a
fine-looking man follow her in, harboured a suspicion that all was not
right, and took an opportunity of coming in to borrow something. Nancy
was happy to see her, and begged her to stay till our return, pretending
she could not procure her what she wanted till then. Finding himself
disappointed, Colonel Montague (I suppose, Madam, you know him), went
away, when Nancy informed our neighbour of his proceedings. She had
hardly recovered herself from her perturbation when we came home. I felt
myself exceedingly alarmed at her account; more particularly as I learnt
the Colonel was a man of intrigue, and proposed staying some time in the
country. I resolved never to leave my daughter at home by herself, or
suffer her to go out without her intended husband. But the vigilance of
a fond father was too easily eluded by the subtilties of an enterprising
man, who spared neither time nor money to compass his illaudable
schemes. By presents he corrupted _that_ neighbour, whose timely
interposition had preserved my child inviolate. From the friendship she
had expressed for us, we placed the utmost confidence in her, and, next
to ourselves, intrusted her with the future welfare of our daughter.
When the out-posts are corrupted, what _fort_ can remain unendangered?
It is, I believe, a received opinion, that more women are seduced from
the path of virtue by their own sex, than by ours. Whether it is, that
the unlimited faith they are apt to put in their own sex weakens the
barriers of virtue, and renders them less powerful against the attacks
of the men, or that, suspecting no sinister view, they throw off their
guard; it is certain that an artful and vicious woman is infinitely a
more to be dreaded companion, than the most abandoned libertine. This
false friend used from time to time to administer the poison of flattery
to the tender unsuspicious daughter of innocence. What female is free
from the seeds of vanity? And unfortunately, this bad woman was but too
well versed in this destructive art. She continually was introducing
instances of handsome girls who had made their fortunes merely from that
circumstance. That, to be sure, the young man, her sweetheart, had
merit; but what a pity a person like her's should be lost to the world!
That she believed the Colonel to be too much a man of honour to seduce a
young woman, though he might like to divert himself with them. What a
fine opportunity it would be to raise her family, like _Pamela Andrews_;
and accordingly placed in the hands of my child those pernicious
volumes. Ah! Madam, what wonder such artifices should prevail over the
ignorant mind of a young rustic! Alas! they sunk too deep. Nancy first
learnt to disrelish the honest, artless effusions of her first lover's
heart. His language was insipid after the luscious speeches, and ardent
but dishonourable warmth of Mr. B--, in the books before-mentioned.
Taught to despise simplicity, she was easily led to suffer the Colonel
to plead for pardon for his late boldness. My poor girl's head was now
completely turned, to see such an accomplished man kneeling at her feet
suing for forgiveness and using the most refined expressions; and
elevating her to a Goddess, that he may debase her to the lowest dregs
of human kind. Oh! Madam, what have not such wretches to answer for! The
Colonel's professions, however, at present, were all within the bounds
of honour. A man never scruples to make engagements which he never
purposes to fulfill, and which he takes care no one shall ever be able
to claim. He was very profuse of promises, judging it the most likely
method of triumphing over her virtue by appearing to respect it. Things
were proceeding thus; when, finding the Colonel's continued stay in our
neighbourhood, I became anxious to conclude my daughter's union, hoping,
that when he should see her married, he would entirely lay his schemes
aside; for, by his hovering about our village, I could not remain
satisfied, or prevent disagreeable apprehensions arising. My daughter
was too artless to frame any excuse to protract her wedding, and equally
_so_, not to discover, by her confusion, that her sentiments were
changed. My intended son-in-law saw too clearly that _change_; perhaps
he had heard more than I had. He made rather a too sharp observation on
the alteration in his mistress's features. Duty and respect kept her
silent to me, but to him she made an acrimonious reply. He had been that
day at market, and had taken a too free draught of ale. His spirits had
been elevated by my information, that I would that evening fix his
wedding-day. The damp on my daughter's brow had therefore a greater
effect on him. He could not brook her reply, and his answer to it was a
sarcastic reflection on those women who were undone by the _red-coats_.
This touched too nearly; and, after darting a look of the most ineffable
contempt on him, Nancy declared, whatever might be the consequence, she
would never give her hand to a man who had dared to treat her on the eve
of her marriage with such unexampled insolence; so saying, she left the
room. I was sorry matters had gone so far, and wished to reconcile the
pair, but both were too haughty to yield to the intercessions I made;
and he left us with a fixed resolution of making her repent, as he said.
As is too common in such cases, the public-house seemed the properest
asylum for the disappointed lover. He there met with a recruiting
serjeant of the Colonel's, who, we since find, was sent on purpose to
our village, to get Nancy's future husband out of the way. The bait
unhappily took, and before morning he was enlisted in the king's
service. His father and mother, half distracted, ran to our house, to
learn the cause of this rash action in their son. Nancy, whose virtuous
attachment to her former lover had only been lulled to sleep, now felt
it rouze with redoubled violence. She pictured to herself the dangers he
was now going to encounter, and accused herself with being the cause.
Judging of the influence she had over the Colonel, she flew into his
presence; she begged, she conjured him, to give the precipitate young
soldier his discharge. He told her, 'he could freely grant any thing to
her petition, but that it was too much his interest to remove the only
obstacle to his happiness out of the way, for him to be able to comply
with her request. However,' continued he, taking her hand, 'my Nancy has
it in her power to preserve the young man.' 'Oh!' cried she, 'how freely
would I exert that power!' 'Be mine this moment,' said he, 'and I will
promise on my honour to discharge him.' 'By that sacred word,' said
Nancy, 'I beg you, Sir, to reflect on the cruelty of your conduct to me!
what generous professions you have made voluntarily to me! how sincerely
have you promised me your friendship! and does all this end in a design
to render me the most criminal of beings?' 'My angel,' cried the
Colonel, throwing his arms round her waist, and pressing her hand to his
lips, 'give not so harsh a name to my intentions. No disgrace shall
befall you. You are a sensible girl; and I need not, I am sure, tell
you, that, circumstanced as _I_ am in life, it would be utterly
impossible to marry you. I adore you; you know it; do not then play the
sex upon me, and treat me with rigour, because I have candidly confessed
I cannot live without you. Consent to bestow on me the possession of
your charming person, and I will hide your lovely blushes in my fond
bosom; while you shall whisper to my enraptured ear, that I shall still
have the delightful privilege of an husband, and Will Parker shall bear
the name. This little delicious private treaty shall be known only to
ourselves. Speak, my angel, or rather let me read your willingness in
your lovely eyes.' 'If I have been silent, Sir,' said my poor girl,
'believe me, it is the horror which I feel at your proposal, which
struck me dumb. But, thus called upon, let me say, I bless Heaven, for
having allowed me to see your cloven-foot, while yet I can be out of its
reach. You may wound me to the soul, and (no longer able to conceal her
tears) you have most sorely wounded me through the side of William; but
I will never consent to enlarge him at the price of my honour. We are
poor people. He has not had the advantages of education as you have had;
but, lowly as his mind is, I am convinced he would first die, before I
should suffer for his sake. Permit me, Sir, to leave you, deeply
affected with the disappointments I have sustained; and more so, that
in part I have brought them on myself.' Luckily at this moment a servant
came in with a letter. 'You are now engaged, Sir,' she added, striving
to hide her distress from the man. 'Stay, young woman,' said the
Colonel, 'I have something more to say to you on this head.' 'I thank
you Sir,' said she, curtseying, 'but I will take the liberty of sending
my father to hear what further you may have to say on this subject.' He
endeavoured to detain her, but she took this opportunity of escaping. On
her return, she threw her arms round her mother's neck, unable to speak
for sobs. Good God! what were our feelings on seeing her distress! dying
to hear, yet dreading to enquire. My wife folded her speechless child to
her bosom, and in all the agony of despair besought her to explain this
mournful silence. Nancy slid from her mother's incircling arms, and sunk
upon her knees, hiding her face in her lap: at last she sobbed out, 'she
was undone for ever; her William would be hurried away, and the Colonel
was the basest of men.' These broken sentences served but to add to our
distraction. We urged a full account; but it was a long time before we
could learn the whole particulars. The poor girl now made a full recital
of all her folly, in having listened so long to the artful addresses of
Colonel Montague, and the no less artful persuasions of our perfidious
neighbour; and concluded, by imploring our forgiveness. It would have
been the height of cruelty, to have added to the already deeply wounded
Nancy. We assured her of our pardon, and spoke all the comfortable
things we could devise. She grew tolerably calm, and we talked
composedly of applying to some persons whom we hoped might assist us.
Just at this juncture, a confused noise made us run to the door, when we
beheld some soldiers marching, and dragging with them the unfortunate
William loaded with irons, and hand-cuffed. On my hastily demanding why
he was thus treated like a felon, the serjeant answered, he had been
detected in an attempt to desert; but that he would be tried to-morrow,
and might escape with five hundred lashes; but, if he did not mend his
manners for the future, he would be shot, as all such cowardly dogs
ought to be; and added, they were on the march the regiment. Figure to
yourself, Madam, what was now the situation of poor Nancy. Imagination
can hardly picture so distressed an object. A heavy stupor seemed to
take intire possession of all her faculties. Unless strongly urged, she
never opened her lips, and then only to breathe out the most
heart-piercing complaints. Towards the morning, she appeared inclinable
to doze; and her mother left her bed-side, and went to her own. When we
rose, my wife's first business was to go and see how her child fared;
but what was her grief and astonishment, to find the bed cold, and her
darling fled! A small scrap of paper, containing these few distracted
words, was all the information we could gain:

'My dearest father and mother, make no inquiry after the most forlorn of
all wretches. I am undeserving of your least _regard_. I fear, I have
forfeited _that_ of Heaven. Yet pray for me: I am myself unable, as I
shall prove myself unworthy. I am in despair; what that despair may lead
to, I dare not tell: I dare hardly think. Farewell. May my brothers and
sisters repay you the tenderness which has been thrown away on A.
Johnson!' My wife's shrieks reached my affrighted ears; I flew to her,
and felt a thousand conflicting passions, while I read the dreadful
scroll. We ran about the yard and little field, every moment terrified
with the idea of seeing our beloved child's corpse; for what other
interpretation could we put on the alarming notice we had received, but
that to destroy herself was her intention? All our inquiry failed. I
then formed the resolution of going up to London, as I heard the
regiment was ordered to quarters near town, and _hoped_ there. After a
fruitless search of some days, our strength, and what little money we
had collected, nearly exhausted, it pleased the mercy of heaven to raise
us up a friend; one, who, like an angel, bestowed every comfort upon us;
in short, all comforts in one--our dear wanderer: restored her to us
pure and undefiled, and obtained us the felicity of looking forward to
better days. But I will pursue my long detail with some method, and
follow my poor distressed daughter thro' all the sad variety of woe she
was doomed to encounter. She told us, that, as soon as her mother had
left her room, she rose and dressed herself, wrote the little melancholy
note, then stole softly out of the house, resolving to follow the
regiment, and to preserve her lover by resigning herself to the base
wishes of the Colonel; that she had taken the gloomy resolution of
destroying herself, as soon as his discharge was signed, as she could
not support the idea of living in infamy. Without money, she followed
them, at a painful distance, on foot, and sustained herself from the
springs and a few berries; she arrived at the market-town where they
were to take up their quarters; and the first news that struck her ear
was, that a fine young fellow was just then receiving part of five
hundred lashes for desertion; her trembling limbs just bore her to the
dreadful scene; she saw the back of her William streaming with blood;
she heard his agonizing groans! she saw--she heard no more! She sunk
insensible on the ground. The compassion of the crowd around her, soon,
too soon, restored her to a sense of her distress. The object of it was,
at this moment, taken from the halberts, and was conveying away, to
have such applications to his lacerated back as should preserve his life
to a renewal of his torture. He was led by the spot where my child was
supported; he instantly knew her. 'Oh! Nancy,' he cried, 'what do I
see?' 'A wretch,' she exclaimed, 'but one who will do you justice.
Should my death have prevented this, freely would I have submitted to
the most painful. Yes, my William, I would have died to have released
you from those bonds, and the exquisite torture I have been witness to;
but the cruel Colonel is deaf to intreaty; nothing but my everlasting
ruin can preserve you. Yet you shall be preserved; and heaven will, I
hope, have that mercy on my poor soul, which, this basest of men will
not shew.' The wretches, who had the care of poor William, hurried him
away, nor would suffer him to speak. Nancy strove to run after them, but
fell a second time, through weakness and distress of mind. Heaven sent
amongst the spectators that best of men, the noble-minded Baron. Averse
to such scenes of cruel discipline, he came that way by accident; struck
with the appearance of my frantic daughter, he stopped to make some
inquiry. He stayed till the crowd had dispersed, and then addressed
himself to this forlorn victim of woe. Despair had rendered her wholly
unreserved; and she related, in few words, the unhappy resolution she
was obliged to take, to secure her lover from a repetition of his
sufferings. 'If I will devote myself to infamy to Colonel Montague,'
said she, 'my dear William will be released. Hard as the terms are, I
cannot refuse. See, see!' she screamed out, 'how the blood runs! Oh!
stop thy barbarous hand!' She raved, and then fell into a fit again. The
good Baron intreated some people, who were near, to take care of her.
They removed the distracted creature to a house in the town, where some
comfortable things were given her by an apothecary, which the care of
the Baron provided.

'By his indefatigable industry, the Baron discovered the basest
collusion between the Colonel and serjeant; that, by the instigation of
the former, the latter had been tampering with the young recruit, about
procuring his discharge for a sum of money, which he being at that time
unable to advance, the serjeant was to connive at his escape, and
receive the stipulated reward by instalments. This infamous league was
contrived to have a plea for tormenting poor William, hoping, by that
means, to effect the ruin of Nancy. The whole of this black transaction
being unravelled, the Baron went to Colonel Montague, to whom he talked
in pretty severe terms. The Colonel, at first, was very warm, and wanted
much to decide the affair, as he said, in an honourable way. The Baron
replied, 'it was too _dishonourable_ a piece of business to be thus
decided; that he went on sure grounds; that he would prosecute the
serjeant for wilful and corrupt perjury; and how honourably it would
sound, that the Colonel of the regiment had conspired with such a fellow
to procure an innocent man so ignominious a punishment.' As this was not
an affair of common gallantry, the Colonel was fearful of the exposure
of it; therefore, to hush it up, signed the discharge, remitted the
remaining infliction of discipline, and gave a note of two hundred
pounds for the young people to begin the world with. The Baron
generously added the same sum. I had heard my daughter was near town;
the circumstances of her distress were aggravated in the accounts I had
received. Providence, in pity to my age and infirmities, at last brought
us together. I advertised her in the papers: and our guardian angel used
such means to discover my lodgings, as had the desired effect. My
children are now happy; they were married last week. Our generous
protector gave Nancy to her faithful William. We propose leaving this
place soon; and shall finish our days in praying for the happiness of
our benefactor.'

"You will suppose," continued Miss Finch, "my dear Lady Stanley, how
much I was affected with this little narrative. I left the good folks
with my heart filled with resentment against Montague, and complacency
towards Ton-hausen. You will believe I did not hesitate long about the
dismission of the former; and my frequent conversations on this head
with the latter has made him a very favourable interest in my bosom. Not
that I have the vanity to think he possesses any predilection in my
favour; but, till I see a man I like as well as him, I will not receive
the addresses of any one."

We joined in our commendation of the generous Baron. The manner in which
he disclaimed all praise, Miss Finch said, served only to render him
still more praise-worthy. He begged her to keep this little affair a
secret, and particularly from me. I asked Miss Finch, why he should make
that request? "I know not indeed," she answered, "except that, knowing I
was more intimate with you than any one beside, he might mention your
name by way of enforcing the restriction." Soon after this, Miss Finch
took leave.

Oh, Louisa! dare I, even to your indulgent bosom, confide my secret
thoughts? How did I lament not being in the Park the day of this
adventure. _I_ might then have been the envied _confidante_ of the
amiable Ton-hausen. They have had frequent conversations in consequence.
The softness which the melancholy detail gave to Miss Finch's looks and
expressions, have deeply impressed the mind of the Baron. Should I have
shewn less sensibility? I have, indeed, rather sought to conceal the
tenderness of my soul. I have been constrained to do so. Miss Finch has
given her's full scope, and has riveted the chain which her beauty and
accomplishments first forged. But what am I doing? Oh! my sister, chide
me for thus giving loose to such expressions. How much am I to blame!
How infinitely more prudent is the Baron! He begged that _I_, of all
persons, should not know his generosity. Heavens! what an idea does that
give birth to! He has seen--Oh! Louisa, what will become of me, if he
should have discovered the struggles of my soul? If he should have
searched into the recesses of my heart, and developed the thin veil I
spread over the feelings I have laboured incessantly to overcome! He
then, perhaps, wished to conceal his excellencies from me, lest I should
be too partial to them. I ought then to copy his discretion. I will do
so; Yes, Louisa, I will drive his image from my bosom! I ought--I know
it would be my interest to wish him married to Miss Finch, or any one
that would make him happy. I am culpable in harbouring the remotest
desire of his preserving his attachment to me. He has had virtue enough.
to conquer so _improper_ an attachment; and, if improper in him, how
infinitely more so in me! But I will dwell no longer on this forbidden
subject; let me set bounds to my pen, as an earnest that I most truly
mean to do so to my thoughts.

Think what an enormous packet I shall send you. Preserve your affection
for me, my dearest sister; and, trust to my asseverations, you shall
have no cause to blush for

JULIA STANLEY.






LETTER XXVIII.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

This morning I dispatched to Anderton's Coffee-house the most elegant
locket in hair that you ever saw. May I be permitted to say thus much,
when the design was all my own? Yet, why not give myself praise when I
can? The locket is in the form and size of that bracelet I sent you; the
device, an altar, on which is inscribed these words, _To Gratitude_, an
elegant figure of a woman making an offering on her knees, and a winged
cherub bearing the incense to heaven. A narrow plait of hair, about the
breadth of penny ribbon, is fastened on each side the locket, near the
top, by three diamonds, and united with a bow of diamonds, by which it
may hang to a ribbon. I assure you, it is exceedingly pretty. I hope the
Sylph will approve of it. I forget to tell you, as the hair was taken
from my head by your dear hand before I married, I took the fancy of
putting the initials J. G. instead of J. S. It was a whim that seized
me, because the hair did never belong to J.S.

Adieu!

JULIA.




LETTER XXIX.


From the SYLPH to Lady STANLEY.

Will my amiable charge be ever thus encreasing my veneration, my almost
adoration of her perfections? Yes, Julia; still pursue these methods,
and my whole life will be too confined a period to render you my
acknowledgments. Its best services have, and ever shall be, devoted to
your advantage. I have no other business, and, I am sure, no other
pleasure, in this world, than to watch over your interest; and, if I
should at any time be so fortunate as to have procured you the smallest
share of felicity, or saved you from the minutest inquietude, I shall
feel myself amply repaid; repaid! Where have I learnt so cold an
expression? from the earth-born sons of clay? I shall feel a bliss
beyond the sensation of a mortal!

None but a mind delicate as your own can form an idea of the sentimental
joy I experienced on seeing the letters J.G. on the most elegant of
devices, an emblem of the lovely giver! There was a purity, a chasteness
of thought, in the design, which can only be conceived; all expression
would be faint; even my Julia can hardly define it. Wonder not at my
boundless partiality to you. You know not, you see not, yourself, as I
_know_ and _see_ you. I pierce through the recesses of your soul; each
fold expands itself to my eye; the struggles of your mind are open to my
view; I see how nobly your virtue towers over the involuntary tribute
you pay to concealed merit. But be not uneasy. Feel not humiliated, that
the secret of your mind is discovered to me. Heaven sees our thoughts,
and reads our hearts; we know it; but feel no restraint therefrom.
Consider me as Heaven's agent, and be not dismayed at the idea of
having a window in your breast, when only the sincerest, the most
disinterested of your friends, is allowed the privilege of looking
through it. Adieu! May the blest above (thy only superiors), guard you
from ill! So prays your

SYLPH.




LETTER XXX.


To the SYLPH.

Though encouraged by the commendations of my Sylph, I tremble when you
tell me the most retired secrets of my soul are open to your view. You
say you have seen its struggles. Oh! that you alone have seen them!
Could I be assured, that one _other_ is yet a stranger to those
struggles, I should feel no more humiliated (though that word is not
sufficiently strong to express my meaning), than I do in my confessions
to Heaven; because I am taught to believe, that our thoughts are
involuntary, and that we are not answerable for them, unless they tend
to excite us to evil actions. Mine, thank God! have done me no other
mischief, than robbing me of that _repose_, which, perhaps, had I been
blest with insensibility, might have been my portion. But a very large
share of insensibility must have been dealt out to me, to have guarded
me from my sense of merit in one person, and my feeling no affliction at
the want of it in another, that _other_ too, with whose fate mine is
unavoidably connected. I must do myself that justice to say, my heart
would have remained fixed with my hand, had my husband remained the
same. Had _he_ known no change, my affections would have centered in
him; that is, I should have passed through life a duteous and observant
partner of his cares and pleasures. When I married, I had never loved
any but my own relations; indeed I had seen no _one_ to love. The
language, and its emotions, were equally strangers to my ears or heart.
Sir William Stanley was the first man who used the one, and
consequently, in a bosom so young and inexperienced as mine, created the
other. He told me, he loved. I blushed, and felt confused; unhappily, I
construed these indications of self-love into an attachment for him.
Although this bore but a small relation to love, yet, in a breast where
virtue and a natural tenderness resided, it would have been sufficient
to have guarded my heart from receiving any other impression. He did so,
till repeated slights and irregularities on one hand, and on the other
all the virtues and graces that can adorn and beautify the mind, raised
a conflict in my bosom, that has destroyed my peace, and hurt my
constitution. I have a beloved sister, who deserves all the affection I
bear her; from her I have concealed nothing. She has read every secret
of my heart; for, when I wrote to her, reserve was banished from my pen.
This unfortunate predilection, which, believe me, I have from the first
combated with all my force, has given my Louisa, who has the tenderest
soul, the utmost uneasiness. I have very lately assured her, my resolves
to conquer this fatal attachment are fixed and permanent. I doubt (and
she thinks perhaps) I have too often indulged myself in dwelling upon
the dangerous subject in my frequent letters. I have given my word I
will mention him no more. Oh! my Sylph! how has he risen in my esteem
from a recent story I have heard of him! How hard is my fate (you can
read my thoughts, so that to endeavour to soften the expression would be
needless), that I am constrained to obey the man I can neither love nor
honour! and, alas! love the man, who is not, nor can be, any thing to
me.

I have vowed to my sister, myself, and now to you, that, however hardly
treated, yet virtue and rectitude shall be my guide. I arrogate no great
merit to myself in still preserving myself untainted in this vortex of
folly and vice. No one falls all at once; and I have no temptation to do
so. The man I esteem above all others is superior to all others. His
manners refined, generous, virtuous, humane; oh! when shall I fill the
catalogue of his excellent qualities? He pays a deference to me, at
least used to do, because I was not tinctured with the licentious
fashion of the times; he would lose that esteem for me, were I to act
without decency and discretion; and I hope I know enough of my heart, to
say, I should no longer feel an attachment for him, did he countenance
vice. Alas! what is to be inferred from this, but that I shall carry
this fatal preference with me to the grave! Let me, however, descend to
_it_, without bringing disgrace on myself, sorrow on my beloved
relations, and repentance on my Sylph, for having thrown away his
counsels on an ingrate; and I will peacefully retire from a world for
whose pleasures I have very little taste. Adieu.

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XXXI.


TO Lady STANLEY.

My dearest Sister,

It is with infinite pleasure I receive your promise, of no longer
indulging your pen with a subject which has too much engaged your
thoughts of late; a pleasure, heightened by the assurance, that your
silence in future shall be an earnest of banishing an image from your
idea, which I cannot but own, from the picture you have drawn, is very
amiable, and, for that reason, very dangerous. I will, my Julia, emulate
your example; this shall be the last letter that treats on this
to-be-forbidden theme. Permit me, therefore, to make some comment on
your long letter. Sure never two people were more strongly contrasted
than the Baron and the Colonel. The one seems the kindly sun, cherishing
the tender herbage of the field; the other, the blasting mildew,
breathing its pestiferous venom over every beautiful plant and flower.
However, do you, my love, only regard them as virtue and vice
personified; look on them as patterns and examples; view them in no
other light; for in _no other_ can they be of any advantage to you. You
are extremely reprehensible (I hope, and believe, I shall never have
occasion to use such harsh language again) in your strictures on the
supposed change in the Baron's sentiments. You absolutely seem to
regret, if not express anger, that _he_ has had virtue sufficient to
resist the violence of an improper attachment. The efforts he has made,
and my partiality for you supposes them not to have been easily made,
ought to convince you, the conquest over ourselves is possible, though
oftentimes difficult. It is, I believe, (and I may say I am certain from
my own experience) a very mistaken notion, that we nourish our
afflictions, by keeping them to ourselves. I said, I know so
experimentally. While I indulged myself, and your tenderness induced you
to do the same, in lamenting in the most pathetic language the perfidy
of Mr. Montgomery and Emily Wingrove, I increased the wounds which that
_perfidy_ occasioned; but, when I took the resolution of never
mentioning their names, or ever suffering myself to dwell on former
scenes, burning every letter I had received from either; though these
efforts cost me floods of tears, and many sleepless nights, yet, in
time, my reflections lost much of their poignancy; and I chiefly
attribute it to my steady adherence to my laudable resolution. He
deserved not my tenderness, even if only because he was married to
another. This is the first time I have suffered my pen to write his name
since that determination; nor does he now ever mix with my thoughts
unless by chance, and then quite as an indifferent person. I have
recalled his idea for no other reason, than to convince you, that,
although painful, yet self-conquest is attainable. You will not think I
am endued with less sensibility than you are; and I had long been
authorized to indulge my attachment to this ingrate, and had long been
cruelly deceived into a belief, that his regard was equal to mine;
while, from the first, _you_ could have no _hope_ to lead you on by
flowery footsteps to the confines of _disappointment_ and _despair_; for
to those goals does that fallacious phantom too frequently lead. You
envy Miss Finch the distinction which accident induced the Baron to pay
her, by making her his _confidante_. Had you been on the spot, it is
possible you might have shared his confidence; but, believe me, I am
thankful to Heaven, that chance threw you not in his way; with your
natural tenderness, and your unhappy predilection, I tremble for what
might have been the consequence of frequent conversations, in which pity
and compassion bore so large a share, as perhaps might have superseded
every other consideration. I wish from my soul, and hope my Julia will
soon join my wish, that the Baron may be in earnest in his attention to
Miss Finch. I wish to have him married, that his engagements may
increase, and prevent your seeing him so often, as you now do, for
undoubtedly your difficulty will be greater; but consider, my dear
Julia, your triumph will be _greater_ likewise. It is sometimes harder
to turn one's eyes from a pleasing object than one's thoughts; yet there
is nothing which may not be achieved by resolution and perseverance;
both of which, I question not, my beloved will exert, if it be but to
lighten the oppressed mind of her faithful

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER XXXII.


To the SYLPH.

Will my kind guardian candidly inform me if he thinks I may comply with
the desire of Sir William, in going next Thursday to the masquerade at
the Pantheon? Without your previous advice, I would not willingly
consent. Is it a diversion of which I may participate without danger?
Though I doubt there is hardly decency enough left in this part of the
world, that _vice_ need wear a mask; yet do not people give a greater
scope to their licentious inclinations while under that veil? However,
if you think I may venture with safety, I will indulge my husband, who
seems to have set his mind on my accompanying his party thither. Miss
Finch has promised to go if I go; and, as she has been often to those
motley meetings, assures me she will take care of me. Sir William does
not know of my application to that lady; but I did so, merely to gain
time to inform you, that I might have your sanction (or be justified by
your advising the contrary), either to accept or reject the invitation.

I am ever your obliged,

J.S.




LETTER XXXIII.


From the SYLPH.

When the face is masked, the mind is uncovered. From the conduct and
language of those who frequent masquerades, we may judge of the
principles of their souls. A modest woman will blush in the dark; and a
man of honour would scorn to use expressions while behind a vizor, which
he would not openly avow in the face of day. A masquerade is then the
criterion, by which you should form your opinion of people; and, as I
believe I have before observed to my Julia, that female companions are
either the safest or most dangerous of any, you may make this trial,
whether Miss F. is, or is not, one in whom you may confide. When I say
_confide_, I would not be understood that you should place an unlimited
confidence in her; there is no occasion to lay our hearts bare to the
inspection of all our intimates; we should lessen the compliment we mean
to pay to our particular friends, by destroying that distinguishing
mark. But you want a female companion. Indeed, for your sake, I should
wish you one older than Miss F. and a married woman; yet, unless she was
very prudent, _you_ had better be the _leader_ than the _led_;
therefore, upon the whole, perhaps it is as well as it is.

I shall never enough admire your amiable condescension, in asking (in a
manner) my permission to go to the Pantheon. And at the same time I feel
the delicacy of your situation, and the effect it must have on a woman
of your exquisite sensibility, to be constrained to appeal to another in
an article wherein her husband ought to be the properest guide.
Unhappily for you, Sir William will find so many engagements, that the
protection of his wife must be left either to her own discretion, or to
strangers. But your Sylph, my Julia, will never desert you. You request
my leave to go thither. I freely grant that, and even more than you
desire. I will meet my charge among the motley groupe. I do not demand a
description of your dress; for, oh! what disguise can conceal you from
him whose heart only vibrates in union with yours? I will not inform you
how I shall be habited that night, as I have not a doubt but that I
shall soon be discovered by you, though I shall be invisible to all
beside. Only you will see me; and I, of course, shall only see _you_;
you, who are all and every thing in this world to your faithful
attendant

SYLPH.




LETTER XXXIV.


To the SYLPH.

Will you ever thus be adding to my weight of obligation! Yes! my Sylph!
be still thus kind, thus indulgent; and be assured your benevolence
shall be repaid by my steady adherence to your virtuous counsel. Adieu!
Thursday is eagerly wished for by your's,

J.S.




LETTER XXXV.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Enclosed my Louisa will find some letters which have passed between the
Sylph and your Julia. I have sent them, to inform you of my being
present at a masquerade, in compliance with the taste of Sir William,
who was very desirous of my exhibiting myself there. As he has of late
never intimated an inclination to have me in any of his parties till
this whim seized him, I thought it would not become me to refuse my
consent. You will find, however, I was not so dutiful a wife as to pay
an implicit obedience to his mandate, without taking the concurrence of
my guardian angel on the subject. My dear, you must be first
circumstanced as I am (which Heaven forbid!), before you can form an
idea of the satisfaction I felt on the assurances of my Sylph's being
present. No words can convey it to you. It seemed as if I was going to
enjoy the ultimate wish of my heart. As to my dress, I told Sir William
I would leave the choice of it to him, not doubting, in matters of
elegant taste, he would be far superior to me. I made him this
compliment, as I have been long convinced he has no other pleasure in
possessing me, than what is excited by the admiration which other people
bestow on me. Nay, he has said, unless he heard every body say his wife
was one of the handsomest women at court, he would never suffer her to
appear there, or any where else.

That I might do credit to his taste, I was to be most superbly
brilliant; and Sir William desired to see my jewels. He objected to
their manner of being set, though they were quite new-done when he
married. But now these were detestable, horridly _outré_, and so
barbarously antique, that I could only appear as Rembrandt's Wife, or
some such relic of ancient history. As I had promised to be guided by
him, I acquiesced in what I thought a very unnecessary expense; but was
much laughed at, when I expressed my amazement at the jeweller's saying
the setting would come to about two hundred pounds. This is well worth
while for an evening's amusement, for they are now in such whimsical
forms, that they will be scarce fit for any other purpose. And oh! my
Louisa! do you not think I was cut to the soul when I had this painful
reflection to make, that many honest and industrious tradesmen are every
day dunning for their lawful demands, while we are thus throwing away
hundreds after hundreds, without affording the least heartfelt
satisfaction?

Well, at last my dress was completed; but what character I assumed I
know not, unless I was the epitome of the folly of this world. I thought
myself only an agent to support all the frippery and finery of
_Tavistock-street_; but, however, I received many compliments on the
figure I made; and some people of the first fashion pronounced me to be
quite the thing. They say, one may believe the women when they praise
one of their own sex, and Miss Finch said, I had contrived to heighten
and improve every charm with which Nature had endowed me. Sir William
seemed to tread on air, to see and hear the commendations which were
lavished on me from all sides. To a man of his taste, I am no more than
any fashionable piece of furniture or new equipage; or, what will come
nearer our idea of things, a beautiful prospect, which a man fancies he
shall never be tired of beholding, and therefore builds himself an house
within view of it; by that time he is fixed, he hardly remembers what
was his motive, nor ever feels any pleasure but in pointing out its
various perfections to his guests; his vanity is awhile gratified, but
even that soon loses its _goût_; and he wonders how others can be
pleased with objects now grown familiar, and, consequently, indifferent
to him. But I am running quite out of the course. Suppose me now
dressed, and mingling with a fantastic groupe of all kinds of forms and
figures, striving to disengage my eyes from the throng, to single out my
Sylph. Our usual party was there; Miss Finch, Lady Barton, a distant
relation of her's, the Baron, Lord Biddulph, and some others; but it was
impossible to keep long together. Sometimes I found myself with one;
then they were gone, and I was _tête-à-tête_ with somebody else; for a
good while I observed a mask, who looked like a fortune-teller, followed
me about, particularly when the Baron and Miss Finch were with me. I
thought I must say something, so I asked him if he would tell me my
fortune. "Go into the next room," said he, in a whisper, "and you shall
see one more learned in the occult science than you think; but I shall
say no more while you are surrounded with so many observers." Nothing is
so easy as to get away from your company in a crowd: I slipped from
them, and went into a room which was nearly empty, and still followed by
the conjuror. I seated myself on a sopha, and just turned my head round,
when I perceived the most elegant creature that imagination can form
placed by me. I started, half-breathless with surprize. "Be not alarmed,
my Julia," said the phantom, (for such I at first thought it) "be not
alarmed at the appearance of your Sylph." He took my hand in his, and,
pressing it gently, speaking all the while in a soft kind of whisper,
"Does my amiable charge repent her condescension in teaching me to
believe she would be pleased to see her faithful adherent?" I begged him
to attribute my tremor to the hurry of spirits so new a scene excited,
and, in part, to the pleasure his presence afforded me. But, before I
proceed, I will describe his dress: his figure in itself seems the most
perfect I ever saw; the finest harmony of shape; a waistcoat and
breeches of silver tissue, exactly fitted to his body; buskins of the
same, fringed, &c.; a blue silk mantle depending from one shoulder, to
which it was secured by a diamond epaulette, falling in beautiful folds
upon the ground; this robe was starred all over with plated silver,
which had a most brilliant effect; on each shoulder was placed a
transparent wing of painted gauze, which looked like peacocks feathers;
a cap, suitable to the whole dress, which was certainly the most elegant
and best contrived that can be imagined. I gazed on him with the most
perfect admiration. Ah! how I longed to see his face, which the envious
mask concealed. His hair hung in sportive ringlets; and just carelessly
restrained from wandering too far by a white ribband. In more, the most
luxuriant fancy could hardly create a more captivating object. When my
astonishment a little subsided, I found utterance. "How is it possible I
should be so great a favourite of fortune as to interest you in my
welfare?" "We have each our task allotted us," he answered, "from the
beginning of the world, and it was my happy privilege to watch over your
destiny." "I speak to you as a man," said I, "but you answer only as a
Sylph."

"Believe me," he replied, "it is the safest character I can assume. I
must divest myself of my feelings as a _man_, or I should be too much
enamoured to be serviceable to you: I shut my eyes to the beauties of
your person, which excites tumultuous raptures in the chastest bosom,
and only allow myself the free contemplation of your interior
perfections. There your virtue secures me, and renders my attachment as
pure as your own pure breast. I could not, however, resist this
opportunity of paying my personal _devoir_ to you, and yet I feel too
sensibly I shall be a sufferer from my indulgence; but I will never
forget that I am placed over you as your guardian-angel and protector,
and that my sole business on earth is to secure you from the wiles and
snares which are daily practised against youth and beauty. What does my
excellent pupil say? Does she still chearfully submit herself to my
guidance?" While he spoke this, he had again taken my hand, and pressed
it with rapture to his bosom, which, beating with violence, I own caused
no small emotion in mine. I gently withdrew my hand, and said, with as
composed a voice as I could command, "Yes, my Sylph, I do most readily
resign myself to your protection, and shall never feel a wish to put any
restriction on it, while I am enabled to judge of you from your own
criterion; while virtue presides over your lessons; while your
instructions are calculated to make me a good and respectable character,
I can form no wish to depart from them." He felt the delicacy of the
reproof, and, sighing, said, "Let me never depart from that sacred
character! Let me still remember I am your Sylph! But I believe I have
before said, a time may come when you will no longer stand in need of my
interposition. Shall I own to you, I sicken at the idea of my being
useless to you?" "The time can never arrive in which you will not be
serviceable to me, or, at least, when I shall not be inclined to ask and
follow your advice." "Amiable Julia! may I venture to ask you this
question? If fate should ever put it in your power to make a second
choice, would you consult your Sylph?" "Hear me," cried I, "while I give
you my hand on it, and attest heaven to witness my vow: that if I should
have the fate (which may that heaven avert!) to outlive Sir William, I
will abide by your decision; neither my hand nor affections shall be
disposed of without your concurrence. My obligations to you are
unbounded; my confidence in you shall likewise be the same; I can make
no other return than to resign myself solely to your guidance in that
and every other concern of moment to me."

"Are you aware of what you have said, Lady Stanley?"

"It is past recall," I answered; "and if the vow could return again into
my bosom, it should only be to issue thence more strongly ratified."

"Oh!" cried he, clasping his hands together, "Oh! thou merciful Father,
make me but worthy of this amiable, and most excellent of all thy
creatures' confidence! None but the most accurst of villains could abuse
such goodness. The blameless purity and innocent simplicity of your
heart would make a convert of a libertine." "Alas!" said I, "that, I
fear, is impossible; but how infinitely happy should I be, if my utmost
efforts could work the least reformation in my husband! Could I but
prevail on him to quit this destructive place, and retire into the
peaceful country, I should esteem myself a fortunate woman."

"And could you really quit these gay scenes, nor _cast one longing
lingering look behind?_"

"Yes," I replied with vivacity, "nor even cast a thought on
what I had left behind!"

"Would no one be remembered with a tender regret? Would your Sylph be
entirely forgotten?"

"My Sylph," I answered, "is possessed of the power of omnipresence; he
would still be with me, wherever I went."

"And would no other ever be thought of? You blush, Lady Stanley; the
face is the needle which points to the polar-star, the heart; from that
information, may I not conclude, some one, whom you would leave behind,
would mix with your ideas in your retirement, and that, even in
solitude, you would not be alone?"

I felt my cheeks glow while he spoke; but, as I was a mask, I did not
suppose the Sylph could discover the emotion his discourse caused.
"Since," said I in a faultering voice, "you are capable of reading my
heart, it is unnecessary to declare its sentiments to you; but it would
be my purpose, in retirement, to obliterate every idea which might
conduce to rob my mind of peace; I should endeavour to reform as well as
my husband; and if he would oblige me by such a compliance to my will, I
should think I could do no less than seek to amuse him, and should,
indeed, devote my whole time and study to that purpose."

"You may think I probe too deep: but is not your desire of retirement
stronger, since you have conceived the idea of the Baron's entertaining
a _penchant_ for Miss Finch, than it has been heretofore?"

I sighed--"Indeed you do probe very deep; and the pain you cause is
exquisite: but I know it is your friendly concern for me; and it proves
how needful it is to apply some remedy for the wound, the examination of
which is so acute. Instruct me, ought I to wish him married? Should I be
happier if he was so? And if he married Miss Finch, should I not be as
much exposed to danger as at present, for his amiable qualities are more
of the domestic kind?"

"I hardly know how to answer to these interrogatories; nor am I a judge
of the heart and inclinations of the Baron; only thus much: if you have
ever had any cause to believe him impressed with your idea, I cannot
suppose it possible for Miss Finch, or any other woman, to obliterate
that idea. But, _the heart of man is deceitful above all things_. For
the sake of your interest, I wish Sir William would adopt your plan,
though I have my doubts that his affairs are not in the power of any
ceconomy to arrange; and this consideration urges me to enforce what I
have before advised, that you do not surrender up any farther part of
your jointure, as _that_ may, too soon, be your sole support; and I have
seen a recent proof of what mean subterfuges some men are necessitated
to fly to, in order to extricate themselves for a little time. But the
room fills; our conversation may be noticed; and, in this age of
dissipation and licentiousness, to escape censure we must not stray
within the limits of impropriety. Your having been so long _tête-à-tête_
with any character will be observed. Adieu therefore for the
present--see, Miss Finch is approaching." I turned my eye towards the
door; the Sylph rose--I did the same--he pressed my hand on his quitting
it; I cast my eye round, but I saw him no more; how he escaped my view I
know not. Miss Finch by this time bustled through the crowd, and asked
me where I had been, and whether I had seen the Baron, whom she had
dispatched to seek after me?

The Baron then coming up, rallied me for hiding myself from the party,
and losing a share of merriment which had been occasioned by two
whimsical masks making themselves very ridiculous to entertain the
company. I assured them I had not quitted that place after I missed them
in the great room; but, however, adding, that I had determined to wait
there till some of the party joined me, as I had not courage to venture
a _tour_ of the rooms by myself. To be sure all this account was not
strictly true; but I was obliged to make some excuse for my behaviour,
which otherwise might have caused some suspicion. They willingly
accompanied me through every room, but my eyes could no where fix on the
object they were in search of, and therefore returned from their survey
dissatisfied. I complained of fatigue, which was really true, for I had
no pleasure in the hurry and confusion of the multitude, and it grew
late. I shall frighten you, Louisa, by telling you the hour; but we did
not go till twelve at night. I soon met with Sir William, and on my
expressing an inclination to retire, to my great astonishment, instead
of censuring, he commended my resolution, and hasted to the door to
procure my carriage. When you proceed, my dear Louisa, you will wonder
at my being able to pursue, in so methodical a manner, this little
narrative; but I have taken some time to let my thoughts subside, that I
might not anticipate any circumstance of an event that may be productive
of very serious consequences. Well then, pleased as I was with Sir
William's ready compliance with my request of returning, suppose me
seated in my chair, and giving way to some hopes that he would yet see
his errors, and some method be pitched on to relieve all. He was ready
to hand me out of the chair, and led me up stairs into my dressing-room.
I had taken off my mask, as it was very warm; he still kept his on, and
talked in the same kind of voice he practised at the masquerade. He paid
me most profuse compliments on the beauty of my dress, and, throwing his
arms round my waist, congratulated himself on possessing such an angel,
at the same time kissing my face and bosom with such a strange kind of
eagerness as made me suppose he was intoxicated; and, under that idea,
being very desirous of disengaging myself from his arms, I struggled to
get away from him. He pressed me to go to bed; and, in short, his
behaviour was unaccountable: at last, on my persisting to intreat him to
let me go, he blew out one of the candles. I then used all my force, and
burst from him, and at that instant his mask gave way; and in the dress
of my husband, (Oh, Louisa! judge, if you can, of my terror) I beheld
that villain Lord Biddulph.

"Curse on my folly!" cried he, "that I could not restrain my raptures
till I had you secure."

"Thou most insolent of wretches!" said I, throwing the most contemptuous
looks at him, "how dared you assume the dress of my husband, to treat me
with such indignity?" While I spoke, I rang the bell with some violence.

He attempted to make some apology for his indiscretion, urging the force
of his passion, the power of my charms, and such stuff.

I stopped him short, by telling him, the only apology I should accept
would be his instantly quitting the house, and never insulting me again
with his presence. With a most malignant sneer on his countenance, he
said, "I might indeed have supposed my caresses were disagreeable, when
offered under the character of an husband; I had been more blest, at
least better received, had I worn the dress of the Baron. All men, Lady
Stanley, are not so blind as Sir William." I felt myself ready to expire
with confusion and anger at his base insinuation.

"Your hint," said I, "is as void of truth as you are of honour; I
despise both equally; but would advise you to be cautious how you dare
traduce characters so opposite to your own."

By this time a servant came in; and the hateful wretch walked off,
insolently wishing me a good repose, and humming an Italian air, though
it was visible what chagrin was painted on his face. Preston came into
the room, to assist me in undressing:--she is by no means a favourite of
mine; and, as I was extremely fatigued and unable to sit up, I did not
chuse to leave my door open till Sir William came home, nor did I care
to trust her with the key. I asked for Winifred. She told me, she had
been in bed some hours. "Let her be called then," said I. "Can't I do
what your ladyship wants?"

"No; I chuse to have Win sit with me." "I will attend your ladyship, if
you please."

"It would give me more pleasure if you would obey, than dispute my
orders." I was vexed to the soul, and spoke with a peevishness unusual
to me. She went out of the room, muttering to herself. I locked the
door, terrified lest that monster had concealed himself somewhere in the
house; nor would I open it till I heard Win speak. Poor girl! she got up
with all the chearfulness in the world, and sat by my bed-side till
morning, Sir William not returning the whole night. My fatigue, and the
perturbation of mind I laboured under, together with the total
deprivation of sleep, contributed to make me extremely ill. But how
shall I describe to you, my dear Louisa, the horror which the reflection
of this adventure excited in me?

Though I had, by the mercy of heaven, escaped the danger, yet the
apprehension it left on my mind is not, to be told; and then the tacit
apprehension which the base wretch threw on my character, by daring to
say, he had been more _welcome_ under another appearance, struck so
forcibly on my heart, that I thought I should expire, from the fears of
his traducing my fame; for what might I not expect from such a
consummate villain, who had so recently proved to what enormous lengths
he could go to accomplish his purposes? The blessing of having
frustrated his evil design could hardly calm my terrors; I thought I
heard him each moment, and the agitation of my mind operated so
violently on my frame, that my bed actually shook under me. Win suffered
extremely from her fears of my being dangerously ill, and wanted to
have my leave to send for a physician; but I too well knew it was not in
the power of medicine to administer relief to my feelings; and, after
telling her I was much better, begged her not to quit my room at any
rate.

About eleven I rose, so weak and dispirited, that I could hardly support
myself. Soon after, I heard Sir William's voice; I had scarce strength
left to speak to him; he looked pale and forlorn. I had had a conflict
within myself, whether I should relate the behaviour of Lord Biddulph to
my husband, lest the consequences should be fatal; but my spirits were
so totally exhausted, that I could not articulate a sentence without
tears. "What is the matter, Julia, with you," said he, taking my hand;
"you seem fatigued to death. What a poor rake you are!"

"I have had something more than _fatigue_ to discompose me," answered I,
sobbing; "and I think I have some reproaches to make you, for not
attending me home as you promised."

"Why Lord Biddulph promised to see you home. I saw him afterwards; and
he told me, he left you at your own house."

"Lord Biddulph!" said I, with the most scornful air; "and did he tell
you likewise of the insolence of his behaviour? Perhaps he promised you
too, that he would insult me in my own house."

"Hey-day, Julia! what's in the wind now? Lord Biddulph insult you! pray
let me into the whole of this affair?" I then related the particulars of
his impudent conduct, and what I conceived his design to be, together
with the repulse I had given him.

Sir William seemed extremely _chagrined_; and said, he should talk in a
serious manner on the occasion to Lord Biddulph; and, if his answers
were not satisfactory, he should lie under the necessity of calling him
to account in the field. Terrified lest death should be the consequence
of a quarrel between this infamous Lord and my husband, I conjured Sir
William not to take any notice of the affair, any otherwise than to give
up his acquaintance; a circumstance much wished for by me, as I have
great reason to believe, Sir William's passion for play was excited by
his intimacy with him; and, perhaps, may have led him to all the
enormities he has too readily, and too rapidly, plunged himself into. He
made no scruple to assure me, that he should find no difficulty in
relinquishing the acquaintance; and joined with me, that a silent
contempt would be the most cutting reproof to a man of his cast. On my
part, I am resolved my doors shall never grant him access again; and, if
Sir William should entirely break with him (which, after this atrocious
behaviour, I think he must), I may be very happy that I have been the
instrument, since I have had such an escape.

But still, Louisa, the innuendo of Lord Biddulph disturbs my peace. How
shall I quiet my apprehensions? Does he dare scrutinize my conduct, and
harbour suspicions of my predilection for a certain unfortunate? Base as
is his soul, he cannot entertain an idea of the purity of a virtuous
attachment! Ah! that speech of his has sunk deep in my memory; no time
will efface it. When I have been struggling too--yes, Louisa, when I
have been combating this fatal--But what am I doing? Why do I use these
interdicted expressions? I have done. Alas! what is become of my
boasting? If I cannot prescribe rules to a pen, which I can, in one
moment, throw into the fire; how shall I restrain the secret murmurings
of my mind, whose thoughts I can with difficulty silence, or even
control? Adieu! your's, more than her own,

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XXXVI.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Alas! Louisa, fresh difficulties arise every day; and every day I find
an exertion of my spirits more necessary, and myself less able to exert
them. Sir William told me this morning, that he had lost frequent sums
to Lord Biddulph (it wounds my soul to write his detested name); and
since it was prudent to give up the acquaintance, it became highly
incumbent on him to discharge these play-debts, for which purpose he
must have recourse to me, and apprehended he should find no difficulty,
as I had expressed my wish of his breaking immediately with his
lordship. This was only the prelude to a proposal of my resignation of
my marriage articles. My ready compliance with his former demands
emboldened him to be urgent with me on this occasion. At first, I made
some scruples, alledging the necessity there was of keeping something by
us for a future day, as I had too much reason to apprehend, that what I
could call my own would be all we should have to support us. This
remonstrance of mine, however just, threw Sir William into a rage; he
paced about the room like a madman; swore that his difficulties
proceeded from my damned prudery; and that I should extricate him, or
abide by the consequences. In short, Louisa, he appeared in a light
entirely new to me; I was almost petrified with terror, and absolutely
thought once he would beat me, for he came up to me with such fierce
looks, and seized me by the arm, which he actually bruised with his
grasp, and bade me, at my peril, refuse to surrender the writings to
him. After giving me a violent shake, he pushed me from him with such
force that I fell down, unable to support myself, from the trembling
with which my whole frame was possessed.

"Don't think to practise any of the cursed arts of your sex upon me;
don't pretend to throw yourself into fits."

"I scorn your imputation, Sir William," said I, half fainting and
breathless, "nor shall I make any resistance or opposition to your
leaving me a beggar. I have now reason to believe I shall not live to
want what you are determined to force from me, as these violent methods
will soon deprive me of my existence, even if _you_ would withhold the
murderous knife."

"Come, none of your damned whining; let me have the papers; and let us
not think any more about it." He offered to raise me. "I want not your
assistance," said I. "Oh! you are sulky, are you; but I shall let you
know, Madam, these airs will not do with me." I had seated myself on a
chair, and leaned my elbow on a table, supporting my head with my hand;
he snatched my hand away from my face, while he was making the last
speech. "What the devil! am I to wait all day for the papers? Where are
the keys?" "Take them," said I, drawing them from my pocket; "do what
you will, provided you leave me to myself." "Damned sex!" cried he.
"Wives or mistresses, by Heaven! you are all alike." So saying, he went
out of the room, and, opening my bureau, possessed himself of the
parchment so much desired by him. I have not seen him since, and now it
is past eleven. What a fate is mine! However, I have no more to give up;
so he cannot storm at, or threaten me again, since I am now a beggar as
well as himself. I shall sit about an hour longer, and then I shall
fasten my door for the night; and I hope he will not insist on my
opening it for him. I make Win lie in a little bed in a closet within my
room. She is the only domestic I can place the least confidence in. She
sees my eyes red with weeping; she sheds tears, but asks no questions.
Farewell, my dearest Louisa: pity the sufferings of thy sister, who
feels every woe augmented by the grief she causes in your sympathizing
breast.

Adieu! Adieu!

J.S.




LETTER XXXVII.


From the SYLPH.

I find my admonitions have failed, and my Julia has relinquished all her
future dependence. Did you not promise an implicit obedience to my
advice? How comes it then, that your husband triumphs in having the
power of still visiting the gaming-tables, and betting with the utmost
_éclat_? Settlements, as the late Lord Hardwicke used to say, are the
foolishest bonds in nature, since there never yet was a woman who might
not be kissed or kicked out of it: which of those methods Sir William
has adopted, I know not; but it is plain it was a successful one. I pity
you, my Julia; I grieve for you; and much fear, now Sir William has lost
all restraint, he will lose the appearance of it likewise. What resource
will he pursue next? Be on your guard, my most amiable friend; my
foresight deceives me, or your danger is great. For when a man can once
lose his humanity, so far as to deprive his wife of the means of
subsisting herself, I much, very much fear he will so effectually lose
his honour likewise, as to make a property of her's. May I judge too
severely! May Sir William be an exception to my rule! And oh! may you,
the fairest work of Heaven, be equally its care!

Adieu!




LETTER XXXVIII.


To the SYLPH.

Alas! I look for comfort when I open my kind Sylph's letters; yet in
this before me you only point out the shoals and quicksands--but hold
not out your sustaining hand, to guide me through the devious path. I
have disobeyed your behest; but you know not how I have been urged, and
my pained soul cannot support the repetition. I will ever be implicit in
my obedience to you, as far as _I_ am concerned only; as to this
particular point, you would not have had me disobeyed my husband, I am
sure. Indeed I could do no other than I did. If he should make an ill
use of the sums raised, I am not answerable for it; but, if he had been
driven to any fatal exigence through my refusal, my wretchedness would
have been more exquisite than it now is, which I think would have
exceeded what I could have supported. Something is in agitation now; but
what I am totally a stranger to. I have just heard from one of my
servants, that Mr. Stanley, an uncle of Sir William's, is expected in
town. Would to Heaven he may have the will and power to extricate us!
but I hear he is of a most morose temper, and was never on good terms
with his nephew. The dangers you hint at, I hope, and pray without
ceasing to Heaven, to be delivered from. Oh! that Sir William would
permit me to return to my dear father and sister! in their kind embraces
I should lose the remembrance of the tempests I have undergone; like the
poor shipwrecked mariner, I should hail the friendly port, and never,
never trust the deceitful ocean more. But ah! how fruitless this wish!
Here I am doomed to stay, a wretch undone.

Adieu!

J.S.




LETTER XXXIX.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

The Baron called here this morning. Don't be angry with me, my dearest
Louisa, for mentioning _his_ name, this will indeed be the last time.
Never more will thy sister behold him. He is gone; yes, Louisa, I shall
never see him again. But will his looks, his sighs, and tears, be
forgotten? Oh! never, never! He came to bid me adieu, "Could I but leave
you happy," he cried in scarce articulate accents--"Was I but blest with
the remote hope of your having your merit rewarded in this world, I
should quit you with less regret and anguish. Oh! Lady Stanley! best of
women! I mean not to lay claim to your gratitude; far be such an idea
from my soul! but for your sake I leave the kingdom."

"For mine!" I exclaimed, clasping my hands wildly together, hardly
knowing what I said or did, "What! leave me! Leave the kingdom for my
sake! Oh! my God! what advantage can accrue to me by losing"--I could
not proceed; my voice failed me, and I remained the petrified statue of
despair.

"Lady Stanley," said he with an assumed calmness, "be composed, and hear
me. In an age like this, where the examples of vice are so many and so
prevalent, though a woman is chaste as the icicle that hangs on Diana's
temple, still she will be suspected; and, was the sun never to look upon
her, yet she would be tainted by the envenomed breath of slander. Lady
Anne Parker has dared in a public company to say, that the most virtuous
and lovely of her sex will speedily find consolation for the infidelity
of her husband, by making reprisals; her malevolence has farther induced
her to point her finger to one, who adores all the virtues with which
Heaven first endued woman in your form. A voluntary banishment on my
side may wipe off this transient eclipse of the fairest and most amiable
character in the world, and the beauties of it shine forth with greater
lustre, like the diamond, which can only be sullied by the breath, and
which evaporates in an instant, and beams with fresh brilliancy. I would
not wish you to look into my heart," added he with a softened voice,
"lest your compassion might affect you too much; yet you know not, you
never can know, what I have suffered, and must for ever suffer.

    "Condemn'd, alas! whole ages to deplore,
    And image charms I must behold no more."

I sat motionless during his speech; but, finding him silent, and, I
believe, from his emotions, unable to proceed, "Behold," cried I, "with
what a composed resignation I submit to my fate. I hoped I had been too
inconsiderable to have excited the tongue of slander, or fix its sting
in my bosom. But may you, my friend, regain your peace and happiness in
your native country!"

"My native country!" exclaimed he, "What is my native country, what the
whole globe itself, to that spot which contains all? But I will say no
more. I dare not trust myself, I must not. Oh Julia! forgive me! Adieu,
for ever!" I had no voice to detain him; I suffered him to quit the
room, and my eyes lost sight of him--for ever!

I remained with my eyes stupidly fixed on the door. Oh! Louisa, dare I
tell you? my soul seemed to follow him; and all my sufferings have been
trivial to this. To be esteemed by him, to be worthy his regard, and
read his approbation in his speaking eyes; this was my support, this
sustained me, nor suffered my feet to strike against a stone in this
disfigured path of destruction. He was my polar star. But he is gone,
and knows not how much I loved him. I knew it not myself; else how could
I promise never to speak, never to think of him again? But whence these
wild expressions? Oh! pardon the effusions of phrenetic fancy. I know
not what I have said. I am lost, lost!

J.S.




LETTER XL.


TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

Congratulate me, my dear Jack, on having beat the Baron out of the pit.
He is off, my boy! and now I may play a safer game; for, between
ourselves, I have as much inclination to sleep in a whole skin, as
somebody else you and I know of. I have really been more successful than
I could have flattered myself I should be; but the devil still stands my
friend, which is but grateful to be sure, as the devil is in it if one
good turn does not deserve another; and I have helped his sable divinity
to many a good job in my day. The summit of my wishes was to remove this
troublesome fellow; but he has taken himself clean out of the kingdom,
lest the fame of his Dulcinea should suffer in the _Morning Post_. He,
if any man could, would not scruple drubbing that _Hydra_ of scandal;
but then the stain would still remain where the blot had been made. I
think you will be glad that he is punished at any rate for his
impertinent interference in your late affair with the recruit's
sweetheart. These delicate minds are ever contriving their own misery;
and, from their exquisite sensibility, find out the method of refining
on torture. Thus, in a fit of heroics, he has banished himself from the
only woman he loves; and who in a short time, unless my ammunition
fails, or my mine springs, too soon he might have a chance of being
happy with, was he cast in mortal mould.--But I take it, he is one of
that sort which Madame Sevigne calls "a pumkin fried in snow," or
engendered between a Lapland sailor and a mermaid on the icy plains of
Greenland. Even the charms of Julia can but just warm him. He does not
burn like me. The consuming fire of Etna riots not in his veins, or he
would have lost all consideration, but that of the completion of his
whims. Mine have become ten times more eager from the resistance I have
met with. Fool that I was! not to be able to keep a rein over my
transports, till I had extinguished the lights! but to see her before
me, my pulse beating with tumultuous passion, and my villainous fancy
anticipating the tempting scene, all conspired to give such spirit to my
caresses, as ill suited with the character I assumed of an indifferent
husband. Like _Calista_ of old, she soon discovered the God under the
semblance of Diana. Heavens! how she fired up, and like the leopard,
appeared more beauteous when heightened by anger? But in vain, my pretty
trembler, in vain you struggle in the toils; thy price is paid, and thou
wilt soon be mine. Stanley has lost every thing to me but his property
in his wife's person; and though perhaps he may make a few wry faces, he
must digest that bitter pill. He has obliged her to give up all her
jointure, so she has now no dependance. What a fool he is! but he has
ever been so; the most palpable cheat passes on him; and though he is
morally certain, that to _play_ and to _lose_ is one and the same thing,
yet nothing can cure his cursed itch of gaming. Notwithstanding all the
_remonstrances_ I have made, and the _dissuasives_ I have daily used, he
is bent upon his own destruction; and, since that is plainly the case,
why may not I, and a few clever fellows like myself, take advantage of
his egregious folly?

It was but yesterday I met him. "I am most consumedly in the flat key,
Biddulph," said he; "I know not what to do with myself. For God's sake!
let us have a little touch at billiards, picquet, or something, to drive
the devil melancholy out of my citadel (touching his bosom), for, by my
soul, I believe I shall make away with myself, if left to my own
_agreeable_ meditations." As usual, I advised him to reflect how much
luck had run against him, and begged him to be cautious; that I
positively had no pleasure in playing with one who never turned a game;
that I should look out for some one who understood billiards well enough
to be my conqueror. "What the devil!" cried he, "you think me a novice?
come, come, I will convince you, to your sorrow, I know something of the
game; I'll bet you five hundred, Biddulph, that I pocket your ball in
five minutes."

"You can't beat me," said I, "and I will give you three."

"I'll be damned if I accept three; no, no, let us play on the square."
So to it we went; and as usual it ended. The more he loses, the more
impetuous and eager he is to play.

There will be a confounded bustle soon; his uncle, old Stanley, is
coming up to town. In disposing of his wife's jointure, part of which
was connected with an estate of Squaretoes, the affair has consequently
reached his ears, and he is all fury upon the occasion. I believe there
has been a little chicanery practised between Sir William and his
lawyer, which will prove but an ugly business. However, thanks to my
foresight in these matters, I am out of the scrape; but I can see the
Baronet is cursedly off the hooks, from the idea of its transpiring, and
had rather see the Devil than the Don. He has burnt his fingers, and
smarts till he roars again. Adieu! dear Jack:

Remember thy old friend,

BIDDULPH.




LETTER XLI.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

My storm of grief is now a little appeased; and I think I ought to
apologize to my dearest Louisa, for making her so free a participator of
my phrenzy; yet I doubt not of your forgiveness on this, as well as many
occasions, reflecting with the liveliest gratitude on the extreme
tenderness you have ever shewn me.

The morning after I had written that incoherent letter to you, Miss
Finch paid me a visit. She took no notice of the dejection of my
countenance, which I am convinced was but too visible; but, putting on a
chearful air, though I thought she too looked melancholy when she first
came in, "I am come to tell you, my dear Lady Stanley," said she, "that
you must go to Lady D--'s route this evening; you know you are engaged,
and I design you for my _chaperon_." "Excuse me, my dear," returned I, "I
cannot think of going thither, and was just going to send a card to that
purpose."

"Lady Stanley," she replied, "you must go indeed. I have a very
particular reason for urging you to make your appearance there." "And I
have as particular a reason," said I, turning away my head to conceal a
tear that would unbidden start in my eye, "to prevent my going there or
any where else at present."

Her eyes were moistened; when, taking my hand in her's, and looking up
in my face with the utmost friendliness, "My amiable Lady Stanley, it
grieves my soul, to think any of the licentious wretches in this town
should dare asperse such excellence as your's; but that infamous
creature, Lady Anne, said last night, in the coffee-room at the opera,
that she had heard Lady Stanley took to heart (was her expression) the
departure of Baron Ton-hausen; and that she and Miss Finch had
quarrelled about their gallant. Believe me, I could sooner have lost the
power of speech, than have communicated so disagreeable a piece of
intelligence to you, but that I think it highly incumbent on you, by
appearing with chearfulness in public with me, to frustrate the
malevolence of that spightful woman as much as we both can."

"What have I done to that vile woman?" said I, giving a loose to my
tears; "In what have I injured her, that she should thus seek to blacken
my name?"

"Dared to be virtuous, while she is infamous," answered Miss
Finch;--"but, however, my dear Lady Stanley, you perceive the necessity
of contradicting her assertion of our having quarrelled on any account;
and nothing can so effectually do it as our appearing together in good
spirits."

"Mine," cried I, "are broken entirely. I have no wish to wear the
semblance of pleasure, while my heart is bowed down with woe."

"But we must do disagreeable things sometimes to keep up appearances.
That vile woman, as you justly call her, would be happy to have it in
her power to spread her calumny; we may in part prevent it: besides, I
promised the Baron I would not let you sit moping at home, but draw you
out into company, at the same time giving you as much of mine as I
could, and as I found agreeable to you."

"I beg you to be assured, my dear, that the company of no one can be
more so than your's. And, as I have no doubts of your sincere wish for
my welfare, I will readily submit myself to your discretion. But how
shall I be able to confront that infamous Lady Anne, who will most
probably be there?" "Never mind her; let conscious merit support you.
Reflect on your own worth, nor cast one thought on such a wretch. I will
dine with you; and in the evening we will prepare for this visit."

I made no enquiry why the Baron recommended me so strongly to Miss
Finch. I thought such enquiry might lead us farther than was prudent;
besides, I knew Miss Finch had a _tendre_ for him, and therefore,
through the course of the day, I never mentioned his name. Miss Finch
was equally delicate as myself; our discourse then naturally fell on
indifferent subjects; and I found I grew towards the evening much more
composed than I had been for some time. The party was large; but, to
avoid conversation as much as possible, I sat down to a quadrille-table
with Miss Finch; and, encouraged by her looks and smiles, which I
believe the good girl forced into her countenance to give me spirits, I
got through the evening tolerably well. The next morning, I walked with
my friend into the Park. I never dine out, as I would wish always to be
at home at meal-times, lest Sir William should chuse to give me his
company, but that is very seldom the case; and as to the evenings, I
never see him, as he does not come home till three or four in the
morning, and often stays out the whole night. We have of course separate
apartments. Adieu, my beloved! Would to God I could fly into your arms,
and there forget my sorrows!

Your's, most affectionately,

J.S.




LETTER XLII.


TO Lord BIDDULPH.

For Heaven's sake, my dear Lord, let me see you instantly; or on second
thoughts (though I am too much perplexed to be able to arrange them
properly) I will lay before you the accursed difficulties with which I
am surrounded, and then I shall beg the favour of you to go to Sir
George Brudenel, and see what you can do with him. Sure the devil owes
me some heavy grudge; every thing goes against me. Old Stanley has
rubbed through a damned fit of the gout. Oh! that I could kill him with
a wish! I then should be a free man again.

You see I make no scruple of applying to you, relying firmly on your
professions of friendship; and assure yourself I shall be most happy in
subscribing to any terms that you may propose for your own security; for
fourteen thousand six hundred pounds I must have by Friday, if I pawn my
soul twenty times for the sum. If you don't assist me, I have but one
other method (you understand me), though I should be unwilling to be
driven to such a procedure. But I am (except my hopes in you) all
despair.

Adieu!

W. STANLEY.




LETTER XLIII.


Enclosed in the foregoing.

TO Sir WILLIAM STANLEY.

Sir,

I am extremely concerned, and as equally surprized, to find by my
lawyer, that the Pemberton estate was not your's to dispose of. He tells
me it is, after the death of your wife, the sole property of your uncle;
Mr. Dawson (who is Mr. Stanley's lawyer) having clearly proved it to him
by the deeds, which he swears he is possessed of. How then, Sir William,
am I to reconcile this intelligence with the transactions between us? I
have paid into your hands the sum of fourteen thousand six hundred
pounds; and (I am sorry to write so harshly) have received a forged deed
of conveyance. Mr. Dawson has assured Stevens, my lawyer, that his
client never signed that conveyance. I should be very unwilling to bring
you, or any gentleman, into such a dilemma; but you may suppose I should
be as sorry to lose such a sum for nothing; nor, indeed, could I consent
to injure my heirs by such a negligence. I hope it will suit you to
replace the above sum in the hands of my banker, and I will not hesitate
to conceal the writings now in my possession; but the money must be paid
by Friday next. You will reflect on this maturely, as you must know in
what a predicament you at present stand, and what must be the
consequence of such an affair coming under the cognizance of the law.

I remain, Sir,

Your humble servant,

GEORGE BRUDENEL.




LETTER XLIV.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

I write to you, my dearest Louisa, under the greatest agitation of
spirits; and know no other method of quieting them, than communicating
my griefs to you. But alas! how can you remedy the evils of which I
complain? or how shall I describe them to you? How many times I have
repeated, _how hard is my fate_! Yes, Louisa! and I must still repeat
the same. In short, what have I to trust to? I see nothing before me but
the effects of deep despair. I tremble at every sound, and every
footstep seems to be the harbinger of some disaster.

Sir William breakfasted with me this morning, the first time these three
weeks, I believe. A letter was brought him. He changed countenance on
the perusal of it; and, starting up, traversed the room in great
disorder. "Any ill news, Sir William?" I asked. He heeded me not, but
rang the bell with violence. "Get the chariot ready directly--No, give
me my hat and sword." Before they could be brought, he again changed his
mind. He would then write a note. He took the standish, folded some
paper, wrote, blotted, and tore many sheets, bit his lips, struck his
forehead, and acted a thousand extravagances. I could contain myself no
longer. "Whatever may be the consequence of your anger, Sir William,"
said I, "I must insist on knowing what sudden turn of affairs has
occasioned this present distress. For Heaven's sake! do not refuse to
communicate your trouble. I cannot support the agony your agitation has
thrown me into."

"And you would be less able to support it, were I to communicate it."

"If you have any pity for me," cried I, rising, and going up to him, "I
conjure you by that pity to disclose the cause of your disorder. Were I
certain of being unable to bear the shock, yet I would meet it with
calmness, rather than be thus kept in the most dreadful suspence."

"Suffice it then," cried he, throwing out his arm, "I am ruined for
ever."

"Ruined!" I repeated with a faint voice.

"Yes!" he answered, starting on his feet, and muttering curses between
his teeth. Then, after a fearful pause, "There is but one way, but one
way to escape this impending evil."

"oh!" cried I, "may you fall on the right way! but, perhaps, things may
not be so bad as you apprehend; you know I have valuable jewels; let me
fetch them for you; the sale of them will produce a great deal of
money."

"Jewels! O God! they are gone, you have no jewels."

"Indeed, my dear Sir William," I replied, shocked to death at seeing the
deplorable way he was in; and fearing, from his saying they were gone,
that his head was hurt--"Indeed, my dear Sir William, I have them in my
own cabinet," and immediately fetched them to him. He snatched them out
of my hand, and, dashing them on the floor, "Why do you bring me these
damned baubles; your diamonds are gone; these are only paste."

"What do you mean?" I cried, all astonishment, "I am sure they are such
as I received them from you."

"I know it very well; but I sold them when you thought them new-set; and
now I am more pushed than ever."

"They were your's, Sir William," said I, stifling my resentment, as I
thought he was now sufficiently punished, "you had therefore a right to
dispose of them whenever you chose; and, had you made me the
_confidante_ of your intention, I should not have opposed it; I am only
sorry you should have been so distressed as to have yielded to such a
necessity, for though my confidence in you, and my ignorance in jewels,
might prevent _my_ knowing them to be counterfeits, yet, no doubt, every
body who has seen me in them must have discovered their fallacy. How
contemptible then have you made us appear!"

"oh! for God's sake, let me hear no more about them; let them all go to
the devil; I have things of more consequence to attend to." At this
moment a Mr. Brooksbank was announced. "By heaven," cried Sir William,
"we are all undone! Brooksbank! blown to the devil! Lady Stanley, you
may retire to your own room; I have some business of a private nature
with this gentleman."

I obeyed, leaving my husband with this _gentleman_, whom I think the
worst-looking fellow I ever saw in my life, and retired to my own
apartment to give vent to the sorrow which flowed in on every side. "Oh!
good God!" I cried, bursting into floods of tears, "what a change
eighteen months has made! A princely fortune dissipated, and a man of
honour, at least one who appeared as such, reduced to the poor
subterfuge of stealing his wife's jewels, to pay gaming debts, and
support kept mistresses!" These were my sad and solitary reflections.
What a wretched hand has he made of it! and how deplorable is my
situation! Alas! to what resource can he next fly? What is to become of
us! I have no claim to any farther bounty from my own family: like the
prodigal son, I have received my portion; and although I have not been
the squanderer, yet it is all gone, and I may be reduced to feed on the
husks of acorns; at least, I am sure I eat bitter herbs. Surely, I am
visited with these calamities for the sins of my grandfather! May they
soon be expiated!

       *       *       *       *       *

That wretch Lord Biddulph has been here, and, after some conversation,
he has taken Sir William out in his chariot. Thank heaven, I saw him
not; but Win brought me this intelligence. I would send for Miss Finch,
to afford me a little consolation; but she is confined at home by a
feverish complaint. I cannot think of going out while things are in this
state; so I literally seem a prisoner in my own house. Oh! that I had
never, never seen it! Adieu! Adieu!

J.S.




LETTER XLV.


TO Col. MONTAGUE.

I acquainted you, some time since, of Stanley's affairs being quite
_derangé_, and that he had practised an unsuccessful _manœuvre_ on
Brudenel. A pretty piece of business he has made of it, and his worship
stands a fair chance of swinging for forgery, unless I contribute my
assistance to extricate him, by enabling him to replace the money. As to
raising any in the ordinary way, it is not in his power, as all his
estates are settled on old Stanley, he (Sir William) having no children;
and he is inexorable. There may be something to be said in the old
fellow's favour too; he has advanced thousand after thousand, till he is
tired out, for giving him money is really only throwing water into a
sieve.

In consequence of a hasty letter written by the Baronet, begging me to
use all my interest with Brudenel, I thought it the better way to wait
on Stanley myself, and talk the affair over with him, and, as he had
promised to subscribe to any terms for my security, to make these terms
most pleasing to myself. Besides, I confess, I was unwilling to meet Sir
George about such a black piece of business, not chusing likewise to
subject myself to the censures of that puritanic mortal, for having
drawn Stanley into a love of play. I found Sir William under the
greatest disorder of spirits; Brooksbank was with him; that fellow
carries his conscience in his face; he is the portrait of villainy and
turpitude. "For God's sake! my lord," cried Sir William (this you know
being his usual exclamation), "what is to be done in this cursed
affair? All my hopes are fixed on the assistance you have promised me."

"Why, faith, Sir William," I answered, "it is, as you say, a most cursed
unlucky affair. I think Brooksbank has not acted with his accustomed
caution. As to what assistance I can afford you, you may firmly rely on,
but I had a confounded tumble last night after you left us; by the bye,
you was out of luck in absenting yourself; there was a great deal done;
I lost upwards of seventeen thousand to the young _Cub_ in less than an
hour, and nine to the Count; so that I am a little out of elbows, which
happens very unfortunate at this critical time."

"Then I am ruined for ever!" "No, no, not so bad neither, I dare say.
What say you to Lady Stanley's diamonds, they are valuable."

"O Christ! they are gone long ago. I told her, I thought they wanted
new-setting, and supplied her with paste, which she knew nothing of till
this morning, that she offered them to me." (All this I knew very well,
for D-- the jeweller told me so, but I did not chuse to inform his
worship so much.) "You have a large quantity of plate." "All melted, my
lord, but one service, and that I have borrowed money on." "Well, I have
something more to offer; but, if you please, we will dismiss Mr.
Brooksbank. I dare say he has other business." He took the hint, and
left us to ourselves.

When we were alone, I drew my chair close to him; he was leaning his
head on his hand, which rested on the table, in a most melancholy
posture. "Stanley," said I, "what I am now going to say is a matter
entirely between ourselves. You are no stranger to the passion I have
long entertained for your wife, and from your shewing no resentment for
what I termed a frolic on the night of the masquerade, I have reason to
believe, you will not be mortally offended at this my open avowal of my
attachment. Hear me (for he changed his position, and seemed going to
speak): I adore Lady Stanley, I have repeatedly assured her of the
violence of my flame, but have ever met with the utmost coldness on her
side; let me, however, have your permission, I will yet insure myself
success." "What, Biddulph! consent to my own dishonour! What do you take
me for?" "What do I take you for?" cried I, with a smile, in which I
infused a proper degree of contempt. "What will Sir George Brudenel take
you for, you mean." "Curses, everlasting curses, blast me for my damned
love of play! that has been my bane." "And I offer you your cure."

"The remedy is worse than the disease."

"Then submit to the disease, and sink under it. Sir William, your humble
servant," cried I, rising as if to go.

"Biddulph, my dear Biddulph," cried he, catching my hand, and grasping
it with dying energy, "what are you about to do? You surely will not
leave me in this damned exigency? Think of my situation! I have parted
with every means of raising more money, and eternal infamy will be the
consequence of this last cursed subterfuge of mine transpiring. Oh, my
God! how sunk am I! And will you not hold out your friendly arm?"

"I have already offered you proposals," I replied with an affected
coldness, "which you do not think proper to accede to."

"Would you consign me to everlasting perdition?"

"Will you make no sacrifice to extricate yourself?"

"Yes; my life."

"What, at Tyburn?"

"Dam--n on the thought! oh! Biddulph, Biddulph, are there no other
means? Reflect--the honour of my injured wife!" "Will not _that_ suffer
by your undergoing an ignominious death?"

"Ah! why do you thus stretch my heart-strings? Julia is virtuous, and
deserves a better fate than she has met with in me. What a wretch must
that man be, who will consign his wife to infamy! No; sunk, lost, and
ruined as I am, I cannot yield to such baseness; I should be doubly
damned."

"You know your own conscience best, and how much it will bear; I did not
use to think you so scrupulous; what I offer is as much for your
advantage as my own; nay, faith, for your advantage solely, as I may
have a very good chance of succeeding with her bye and bye, when you can
reap no benefit from it. All I ask of you is, your permission to give
you an opportunity of suing for a divorce. Lay your damages as high as
you please, I will agree to any thing; and, as an earnest, will raise
this sum which distresses you so much; I am not tied down as you are; I
can mortgage any part of my estate. What do you say? Will you sign a
paper, making over all right and title to your wife in my favour? There
is no time to be lost, I can assure you. Your uncle Stanley's lawyer has
been with Brudenel; you know what hopes you have from that quarter; for
the sooner you are out of the way, the better for the next heir."

You never saw a poor devil so distressed and agitated as Stanley was; he
shook like one under a fit of the tertian-ague. I used every argument I
could muster up, and conjured all the horrible ideas which were likely
to terrify a man of his cast; threatened, soothed, sneered: in short, I
at last gained my point, and he signed a commission for his own
cuckoldom; which that I may be able to achieve soon, dear Venus grant! I
took him with me to consult with our broker about raising the money. In
the evening I intend my visit to the lovely Julia. Oh! that I may be
endued with sufficient eloquence to soften her gentle heart, heart, and
tune it to the sweetest notes of love! But she is virtuous, as Stanley
says; that she is most truly: yet who knows how far resentment against
her brutal husband may induce her to go? If ever woman had provocation,
she certainly has. O that she may be inclined to revenge herself on him
for his baseness to her! and that I may be the happy instrument of
effecting it!

"Gods! what a thought is there!"

Adieu!

BIDDULPH.




LETTER XLVI.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

Oh! my Louisa, what will now become of your wretched sister? Surely the
wide world contains not so forlorn a wretch, who has not been guilty of
any crime! But let me not keep you in suspence. In the afternoon of the
day I wrote last (I told you Miss Finch was ill)--Oh! good God! I know
not what I write. I thought I would go and see her for an hour or two. I
ordered the coach, and was just stepping into it, when an ill-looking
man (Lord bless me! I have seen none else lately) laid hold of my arm,
saying, "Madam, you must not go into that carriage."

"What do you mean?" I asked with a voice of terror, thinking he was a
madman.

"Nothing, my lady," he answered, "but an execution on Sir William."

"An execution! Oh, heavens! what execution?" I was breathless, and just
fainting.

"They are bailiffs, my lady," said one of our servants: "my master is
arrested for debt, and these men will seize every thing in the house;
but you need not be terrified, your ladyship is safe, they cannot touch
you."

I ran back into the house with the utmost precipitation; all the
servants seemed in commotion. I saw Preston; she was running up-stairs
with a bundle in her hand. "Preston," said I, "what are you about?" "Oh!
the bailiffs, the bailiffs, my lady!"

"They won't hurt you; I want you here."

"I can't come, indeed, my lady till I have disposed of these things; I
must throw them out of the window, or the bailiffs will seize them."

I could not get a servant near me but my faithful Win, who hung weeping
round me; as for myself, I was too much agitated to shed a tear, or
appear sensible of my misfortune.

Two of these horrid men came into the room. I demanded what they wanted.
To see that none of the goods were carried out of the house, they
answered. I asked them, if they knew where Sir William Stanley was. "Oh!
he is safe enough," said one of them; "we can't touch him; he pleads
privilege, as being a member of parliament; we can only take care of his
furniture for him."

"And am I not allowed the same privilege? If so, how have you dared to
detain me?"

"Detain you! why I hope your ladyship will not say as how we have
offered to detain you? You may go where you please, provided you take
nothing away with you."

"My lady was going out," said Win, sobbing, "and you would not suffer
it."

"Not in that coach, mistress, to be sure; but don't go for to say we
stopped your lady. She may go when she will."

"Will one of you order me a chair or hackney coach? I have no business
here." The last word melted me; and I sunk into a chair, giving way to a
copious flood of tears. At that instant almost the detestable Biddulph
entered the room. I started up--"Whence this intrusion, my lord?" I
asked with a haughty tone. "Are you come to join your _insults_ with the
misfortunes you have in great measure effected?"

"I take heaven to witness," answered he, "how much I was shocked to find
an extent in your house; I had not the least idea of such a circumstance
happening. I, indeed, knew that Sir William was very much straitened for
money."

"Accursed be those," interrupted I, "ever accursed be those whose
pernicious counsels and baleful examples have brought him into these
exigencies. I look on you, my lord, as one cruel cause of the ruin of
our house."

"Rather, Lady Stanley, call me the prop of your sinking house. View, in
me, one who would die to render you service."

"Would to heaven you had done so long--long before I had seen you!"

"How unkind is that wish! I came, Madam, with the intention of being
serviceable to you. Do not then put such hard constructions on my words.
I wished to consult with you on the most efficacious means to be used
for Sir William's emolument. You know not what power you have!"

"Power! alas! what power have I?"

"The most unlimited," he replied, fixing his odious eyes on my face,
which I returned by a look of the utmost scorn. "O Lady Stanley," he
continued, "do not--do not, I intreat you, use me so hardly. Will you
allow me to speak to you alone?"

"By no means."

"For God's sake do! Your servant shall remain in the next room, within
your call. Let me beseech you to place some confidence in me. I have
that to relate concerning Sir William, which you would not chuse a
domestic should hear. Dearest Lady Stanley, be not inexorable."

"You may go into that room, Win," said I, not deigning to answer this
importunate man. "My lord," addressing myself to him, "you can have
nothing to tell me to which I am a stranger; I know Sir William is
totally ruined. This is known to every servant in the house."

"Believe me," said he, "the execution is the least part of the evil.
That event happens daily among the great people: but there is an affair
of another nature, the stain of which can never be wiped off. Sir
William, by his necessities, has been plunged into the utmost
difficulties, and, to extricate himself, has used some unlawful means;
in a word, he has committed a forgery."

"Impossible!" cried I, clasping my hands together in agony.

"It is too true; Sir George Brudenel has the forged deed now in his
hands, and nothing can save him from an ignominious death, but the
raising a large sum of money, which is quite out of his power. Indeed, I
might with some difficulty assist him."

"And will you not step forth to save him?" I asked with precipitation.

"What would _you_ do to save him?" he asked in his turn, attempting to
take my hand.

"Can you ask me such a question? To save his life, what would I not do?"

"You have the means in your power."

"Oh! name them quickly, and ease my heart of this load of distraction!
It is more--much more than I can bear."

"Oh my lovely angel!" cried the horrid wretch, "would you but shew some
tenderness to me! would you but listen to the most faithful, most
enamoured of men, much might be done. You would, by your sweet
condescension, bind me for ever to your interest, might I but flatter
myself I should share your affection. Would you but give me the
slightest mark of it, oh! how blest I should be! Say, my adorable
Julia, can I ever hope to touch your heart?"

"Wretch!" cried I, "unhand me. How dare you have the insolence to
affront me again with the mention of your hateful passion? I believe all
you have uttered to be a base falsehood against Sir William. You have
taken an opportunity to insult his wife, at a time when you think him
too much engaged to seek vengeance; otherwise your coward soul would
shrink from the just resentment you ought to expect!"

"I am no coward, Madam," he replied, "but in my fears of offending the
only woman on whom my soul doats, and the only one whose scorn would
wound me. I am not afraid of Sir William's resentment--I act but by his
consent."

"By his consent!"

"Yes, my dear creature, by his. Come, I know you to be a woman of sense;
you are acquainted with your husband's hand-writing, I presume. I have
not committed a _forgery_, I assure you. Look, Madam, on this paper; you
will see how much I need dread the just vengeance of an injured husband,
when I have his especial mandate to take possession as soon as I can
gain my lovely charmer's consent; and, oh! may just revenge inspire you
to reward my labours!" He held a paper towards me; I attempted to snatch
it out of his hand. "Not so, my sweet angel, I cannot part with it; but
you shall see the contents of it with all my heart."

Oh! Louisa, do I live to tell you what were those contents!--"I resign
all right and title to my wife, Julia Stanley, to Lord Biddulph, on
condition that he pays into my hands the sum of fourteen thousand six
hundred pounds, which he enters into an engagement to perform. Witness
my hand,

WILLIAM STANLEY."

Grief, resentment, and amazement, struck me dumb. "What say you to this,
Lady Stanley? Should you not pique yourself on your fidelity to such a
good husband, who takes so much care of you? You see how much he prizes
his life."

"Peace, monster! peace!" cried I. "You have taken a base, most base
advantage of the wretch you have undone!"

"The fault is all your's; the cruelty with which you have treated me has
driven me to the only course left of obtaining you. You have it in your
power to save or condemn your husband."

"What, should I barter my soul to save _one_ so profligate of his? But
there are other resources yet left, and we yet may triumph over thee,
thou cruel, worst of wretches!"

"Perhaps you may think there are hopes from old Stanley; there can be
none, as he has caused this execution. It would half ruin your family to
raise this sum, as there are many more debts which they would be called
upon to pay. Why then will you put it out of my power to extricate him?
Let me have some influence over you! On my knees I intreat you to hear
me. I swear by the great God that made me, I will marry you as soon as a
divorce can be obtained. I have sworn the same to Sir William."

Think, my dearest Louisa, what a situation this was for me! I was
constrained to rein-in my resentment, lest I should irritate this wretch
to some act of violence--for I had but too much reason to believe I was
wholly in his power. I had my senses sufficiently collected (for which I
owe my thanks to heaven) to make a clear retrospect of my forlorn
condition--eight or ten strange fellows in the house, who, from the
nature of their profession, must be hardened against every distress,
and, perhaps, ready to join with the hand of oppression in injuring the
unfortunate--my servants (in none of whom I could confide) most of them
employed in protecting, what they styled, their own property; and either
totally regardless of me, or, what I more feared, might unite with this
my chief enemy in my destruction. As to the forgery, though the bare
surmise threw me into agonies, I rather thought it a proof how far the
vile Biddulph would proceed to terrify me, than reality; but the fatal
paper signed by Sir William--that was too evident to be disputed. This
conflict of thought employed every faculty, and left me
speechless--Biddulph was still on his knees, "For heaven's sake," cried
he, "do not treat me with this scorn; make me not desperate! Ardent as
my passion is, I would not lose sight of my respect for you."

"That you have already done," I answered, "in thus openly avowing a
passion, to me so highly disagreeable. Prove your respect, my lord, by
quitting so unbecoming a posture, and leave the most unfortunate of
women to her destiny."

"Take care, take care, Madam," cried he, "how you drive me to despair; I
have long, long adored you. My perseverance, notwithstanding your
frowns, calls for some reward; and unless you assure me that in a future
day you will not be thus unkind, I shall not easily forego the
opportunity which now offers."

"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed I, starting up, "what do you mean? Lord
Biddulph! How dare--I insist, Sir--leave me." I burst into tears, and,
throwing myself again in my chair, gave free vent to all the anguish of
my soul. He seemed moved. Again he knelt, and implored my
pardon--"Forgive me!--Oh! forgive me, thou sweet excellence! I will not
hereafter offend, if it is in nature to suppress the extreme violence of
my love. You know not how extensive your sway is over my soul! Indeed
you do not!"

"On the condition of your leaving me directly, I will endeavour to
forgive and forget what has passed," I sobbed out, for my heart was too
full of grief to articulate clearly.

"Urge me not to leave you, my angelic creature. Ah! seek not to drive
the man from your presence, who doats, doats on you to distraction.
Think what a villain your husband is; think into what accumulated
distress he has plunged you. Behold, in me, one who will extricate you
from all your difficulties; who will raise you to rank, title, and
honour; one whom you may make a convert. Oh! that I had met with you
before this cursed engagement, I should have been the most blest of men.
No vile passion would have interfered to sever my heart from my
beauteous wife; in her soft arms I should have found a balm for all the
disquietudes of the world, and learnt to despise all its empty delusive
joys in the solid bliss of being good and happy!" This fine harangue had
no weight with me, though I thought it convenient he should think I was
moved by it. "Alas! my Lord," said I, "it is now too late to indulge
these ideas. I am doomed to be wretched; and my wretchedness feels
increase, if I am the cause of making any earthly being so; yet, if you
have the tenderness for me you express, you must participate of my deep
affliction. Ask your own heart, if a breast, torn with anguish and
sorrow, as mine is, can at present admit a thought of any other
sentiment than the grief so melancholy a situation excites? In pity,
therefore, to the woman you profess to love, leave me for this time. I
said, I would forgive and forget; your compliance with my request may do
more; it certainly will make me grateful."

"Dearest of all creatures," cried he, seizing my hand, and pressing it
with rapture to his bosom, "Dearest, best of women! what is there that I
could refuse you? Oh nothing, nothing; my soul is devoted to you. But
why leave you? Why may I not this moment reap the advantage of your
yielding heart?"

"Away! away, my Lord," cried I, pushing him from me, "you promised to
restrain your passion; why then is it thus boundless? Intitle yourself
to my consideration, before you thus demand returns."

"I make no demands. I have done. But I flattered myself I read your soft
wishes in your lovely eyes," [Detestable wretch! how my soul rose up
against him! but fear restrained my tongue.] "But tell me, my adorable
angel, if I tear myself from you now, when shall I be so happy as to
behold you again?"

"To-morrow," I answered; "I shall be in more composed spirits to-morrow,
and then I will see you here; but do not expect too much. And now leave
me this moment, as I have said more than I ought."

"I obey, dearest Julia," cried the insolent creature, "I obey." And,
blessed be Heaven! he left the room. I sprung to the door, and
double-locked it; then called Win into the room, who had heard the whole
of this conversation. The poor soul was as pale as ashes; her looks were
contagious; I caught the infection; and, forgetting the distance betwixt
us (but misery makes us all equal), I threw my arms round her, and shed
floods of tears into her faithful bosom. When my storms of grief had a
little subsided, or indeed when nature had exhausted her store, I became
more calm, and had it in my power to consider what steps I should take,
as you may believe I had nothing further from my intention than meeting
this vile man again. I soon came to the determination to send to Miss
Finch, as there was no one to whom I could apply for an asylum; I mean,
for the present, as I am convinced I shall find the properest and most
welcome in your's and my dear father's arms bye and bye. I rang the
bell; one of the horrid bailiffs came for my orders. I desired to have
Griffith called to me. I wrote a note to Miss Finch, telling her in a
few words the situation of my affairs, and that my dread was so great of
receiving further insult from Lord Biddulph, that I could not support
the idea of passing the night surrounded by such wretches, therefore
intreated her to send some one in whom she could confide, in her
carriage, to convey me to her for a little time, till I could hear from
my friends. In a quarter of an hour Griffith returned, with a billet
containing only three lines--but oh, how much comfort. "My dearest
creature, my heart bleeds for your distresses; there is no one so proper
as your true friend to convey you hither. I will be with you in an
instant; your's, for ever,

MARIA FINCH."

I made Win bundle up a few night-cloaths and trifles that we both might
want, and in a short time I found myself pressed to the bosom of my dear
Maria. She had risen from her bed, where she had lain two days, to fly
to my succour. Ah! how much am I indebted to her! By Miss Finch's
advice, I wrote a few words to--oh! what shall I call him?--the man, my
Louisa, who tore me from the fostering bosom of my beloved father, to
abandon me to the miseries and infamy of the world! I wrote thus:

"Abandoned and forsaken by him to whom I alone ought to look up for
protection, I am (though, alas! unable) obliged to be the guardian of my
own honour. I have left your house; happy, happy had it been for me,
never to have entered it! I seek that asylum from strangers, I can no
longer meet with from my husband. I have suffered too much from my fatal
connexion with you, to feel disposed to consign myself to everlasting
infamy (notwithstanding I have your permission), to extricate you from a
trivial inconvenience. Remember, this is the first instance in which I
ever disobeyed your will. May you see your error, reform, and be happy!
So prays your much-injured, but still faithful wife,

JULIA STANLEY."

Miss Finch, with the goodness of an angel, took me home with her; nor
would she leave me a moment to myself. She has indulged me with
permission to write this account, to save me the trouble of repeating it
to her. And now, my Louisa, and you, my dear honoured father, will you
receive your poor wanderer? Will you heal her heart-rending sorrows, and
suffer her to seek for happiness, at least a restoration of ease, in
your tender bosoms? Will you hush her cares, and teach her to kiss the
hand which chastises her? Oh! how I long to pour forth my soul into the
breast from whence I expect to derive all my earthly comfort!

Adieu!

J.S.




LETTER XLVII.


TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

Well, Jack, we are all _entrain_. I believe we shall do in time. But old
Squaretoes has stole a march on us, and took out an extent against his
nephew. Did you ever hear of so unnatural a dog? It is true he has done
a great deal for Sir William; and saw plainly, the more money he paid,
the more extravagant his nephew grew; but still it was a damned affair
too after all. I have been with my dear bewitching charmer. I have her
promise to admit me as a visitor tomorrow. I was a fool not to finish
the business to-night, as I could have bribed every one in the house to
assist me. Your bailiffs are proper fellows for the purpose--but I love
to have my adorables meet me--_almost_ half way. I shall, I hope gain
her at last; and my victory will be a reward for all my pains and
labours.

I am interrupted. A messenger from Sir William. I must go instantly to
the Thatched-house tavern. What is in the wind now, I wonder?

       *       *       *       *       *

Great God! Montague, what a sight have I been witness to! Stanley, the
ill-fated Stanley, has shot himself. The horror of the scene will never
be worn from my memory. I see his mangled corse staring ghastly upon me.
I tremble. Every nerve is affected. I cannot at present give you the
horrid particulars. I am more shocked than it is possible to conceive.
Would to Heaven I had had no connexion with him! Oh! could I have
foreseen this unhappy event! but it is too, too late. The undone
self-destroyed wretch is gone to answer for his crimes; and you and I
are left to deplore the part we have had in corrupting his morals, and
leading him on, step by step, to destruction.

My mind is a hell--I cannot reflect--I feel all despair and
self-abasement. I now thank God, I have not the weight of Lady Stanley's
seduction on my already overburdened conscience.

       *       *       *       *       *

In what a different style I began this letter--with a pulse beating with
anticipated evil, and my blood rioting in the idea of my fancied triumph
over the virtue of the best and most injured of women. On the summons, I
flew to the Thatched-house. The waiter begged me to go up stairs. "Here
has a most unfortunate accident happened, my Lord. Poor Sir William
Stanley has committed a rash action; I fear his life is in danger." I
thought he alluded to the affair of forgery, and in that persuasion made
answer, "It is an ugly affair, to be sure; but, as to his life, that
will be in no danger." "Oh! my Lord, I must not flatter you; the surgeon
declares he can live but a few hours." "Live! what do you say?" "He has
shot himself, my Lord." I hardly know how I got up stairs; but how great
was my horror at the scene which presented itself to my affrighted view!
Sir George Brudenel and Mr. Stanley were supporting him. He was not
quite dead, but his last moments were on the close. Oh! the occurrences
of life will never for one instant obliterate from my recollection the
look which he gave me. He was speechless; but his eloquent silence
conveyed, in one glance of agony and despair, sentiments that sunk deep
on my wounded conscience. His eyes were turned on _me_, when the hand
of death sealed them forever. I had thrown myself on my knees by him,
and was pressing his hand. I did not utter a word, indeed I was
incapable of articulating a syllable. He had just sense remaining to
know me, and I thought strove to withdraw his hand from mine. I let it
go; and, seeing it fall almost lifeless, Mr. Stanley took it in his, as
well as he could; the expiring man grasped his uncle's hand, and sunk
into the shades of everlasting night. When we were convinced that all
was over with the unhappy creature, we left the room. Neither Sir
George, nor Mr. Stanley, seemed inclined to enter into conversation; and
my heart ran over plentifully at my eyes. I gave myself up to my
agonizing sorrow for some time. When I was a little recovered, I
enquired of the people of the house, how this fatal event happened. Tom
said, Sir William came there about seven o'clock, and went up stairs in
the room we usually played in; that he looked very dejected, but called
for coffee, and drank two dishes. He went from thence in an hour, and
returned again about ten. He walked about the room in great disorder. In
a short space, Sir George Brudenel and Mr. Stanley came and asked for
him. On carrying up their message, Sir William desired to be excused
seeing them for half an hour. Within that time, a note was brought him
from his own house by Griffith, Lady Stanley's servant*. [* The billet
which Lady Stanley wrote, previous to her quitting her husband's house.]
His countenance changed on the perusal of it. "This then decides it," he
exclaimed aloud. "I am now determined." He bade the waiter leave the
room, and bring him no more messages. In obedience to his commands, Tom
was going down stairs. Sir William shut the door after him hastily, and
locked it; and before Tom had got to the passage, he heard the report of
a pistol. Alarmed at the sound, and the previous disorder of Sir
William, he ran into the room where were Brudenel and Stanley,
entreating them for God's sake to go up, as he feared Sir William meant
to do some desperate act. They ran up with the utmost precipitation, and
Brudenel burst open the door. The self-devoted victim was in an arm
chair, hanging over on one side, his right cheek and ear torn almost
off, and speechless. He expressed great horror, and, they think,
contrition, in his looks; and once clasped his hands together, and
turned up his eyes to Heaven. He knew both the gentlemen. His uncle was
in the utmost agitation. "Oh! my dear Will," said he, "had you been less
precipitate, we might have remedied all these evils." Poor Stanley fixed
his eyes on him, and faintly shook his head. Sir George too pressed his
hand, saying, "My dear Stanley, you have been deceived, if you thought
me your enemy. God forgive those who have brought you to this distress!"
This (with the truest remorse of conscience I say it) bears hard on my
character. I did all in my power to prevent poor Stanley's meeting with
Sir George and his uncle, and laboured, with the utmost celerity, to
confirm him in the idea, that they were both inexorable, to further my
schemes on his wife. As I found my company was not acceptable to the
gentlemen, I returned home under the most violent dejection of spirits.
Would to Heaven you were here! Yet, what consolation could you afford
me? I rather fear you would add to the weight, instead of lightening it,
as you could not speak peace to my mind, which is inconceivably hurt.

I am your's,

BIDDULPH.




LETTER XLVIII.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

Dear Madam,

A letter from Mr. Stanley* [* Mr. Stanley's letter is omitted.], which
accompanies this, will inform you of the fatal catastrophe of the
unfortunate Sir William Stanley. Do me the justice to believe I shall
with pleasure contribute all in my power to the ease and convenience of
Lady Stanley, for whom I have the tenderest friendship.

We have concealed the whole of the shocking particulars of her husband's
fate from her ladyship, but her apprehensions lead her to surmize the
worst. She is at present too much indisposed, to undertake a journey
into Wales; but, as soon as she is able to travel, I shall do myself the
honour of conveying her to the arms of relations so deservedly dear to
her.

Mr. Stanley is not a man who deals in professions; he therefore may have
been silent as to his intentions in favour of his niece, which I know to
be very noble.

Lady Stanley tells me, she has done me the honour of mentioning my name
frequently in her correspondence with you. As a sister of so amiable a
woman, I feel myself attached to Miss Grenville, and beg leave to
subscribe myself her obliged humble servant,

MARIA FINCH.




LETTER XLIX.


From the SYLPH.

The vicissitudes which you, my Julia, have experienced in your short
life, must teach you how little dependence is to be placed in sublunary
enjoyments. By an inevitable stroke, you are again cast under the
protection of your first friends. If, in the vortex of folly where late
you resided, my counsels preserved you from falling into any of its
snares, the reflection of being so happy an instrument will shorten the
dreary path of life, and smooth the pillow of death. But my task, my
happy task, of superintending your footsteps is now over.

In the peaceful vale of innocence, no guide is necessary; for there all
is virtuous, all beneficent, as yourself. You have passed many
distressing and trying scenes. But, however, never let despair take
place in your bosom. To hope to be happy in this world, may be
presumptuous; to despair of being so, is certainly impious; and, though
the sun may rise and see us unblest, and, setting, leave us in misery;
yet, on its return, it may behold us changed, and the face which
yesterday was clouded with tears may to-morrow brighten into smiles.
Ignorant as we are of the events of to-morrow, let us not arrogantly
suppose there will be no end to the trouble which now surrounds us; and,
by murmuring, arraign the hand of Providence.

There may be, to us finite beings, many seeming contradictions of the
assertion, that, _to be good is to be happy;_ but an infinite Being
knows it to be true in the enlarged view of things, and therefore
implanted in our breasts the love of virtue. Our merit may not, indeed,
meet with the reward which we seem to claim in this life; but we are
morally ascertained of reaping a plentiful harvest in the next.
Persevere then, my amiable pupil, in the path you were formed to tread
in, and rest assured, though a slow, a lasting recompence will succeed.
May you meet with all the happiness you deserve in this world! and may
those most dear to you be the dispensers of it to you! Should any future
occasion of your life make it necessary to consult me, you know how a
letter will reach me; till then adieu!

Ever your faithful

SYLPH.




LETTER L.


TO Sir GEORGE BRUDENEL.

Woodley-vale.

My dear Sir George,

It is with the utmost pleasure, I assure you of my niece having borne
her journey with less fatigue than we even could have hoped for. The
pleasing expectation of meeting with her beloved relations contributed
towards her support, and combated the afflictions she had tasted during
her separation from them and her native place. As we approached the last
stage, her conflict increased, and both Miss Finch and myself used every
method to re-compose her fluttered spirits; but, just as we were driving
into the inn-yard where we were to change horses for the last time, she
clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Oh, my God! my father's
chaise!" and sunk back, very near fainting. I tried to laugh her out of
her extreme agitation. She had hardly power to get out of the coach;
and, hobbling as you know me to be with the gout, an extraordinary
exertion was necessary on my part to support her, tottering as she was,
into a parlour. I shall never be able to do justice to the scene which
presented itself. Miss Grenville flew to meet her trembling sister. The
mute expression of their features, the joy of meeting, the recollection
of past sorrows, oh! it is more than my pen can paint; it was more than
human nature could support; at least, it was with the utmost difficulty
it could be supported till the venerable father approached to welcome
his lovely daughter. She sunk on her knees before him, and looked like
a dying victim at the shrine of a much-loved saint. What agonies
possessed Mr. Grenville! He called for assistance; none of the party
were able, from their own emotions, to afford him any. At last the dear
creature recovered, and became tolerably calm; but this only lasted a
few minutes. She was seated between her father and sister; she gazed
fondly first on one, and then the other, and would attempt to speak; but
her full heart could not find vent at her lips; her eyes were rivers,
through which her sorrows flowed. I rose to retire for a little time,
being overcome by the affecting view. She saw my intentions, and, rising
likewise, took my hand--"Don't leave us--I will be more myself--Don't
leave us, my second father!--Oh! Sir," turning to Mr. Grenville, "help
me to repay this generous, best of men, a small part of what my grateful
heart tells me is his due." "I receive him, my Julia," cried her father,
"I receive him to my bosom as my brother." He embraced me, and Lady
Stanley threw an arm over each of our shoulders. Our spirits, after some
time, a little subsided, and we proceeded to this place. I was happy
this meeting was over, as I all along dreaded the delicate sensibility
of my niece.

Oh! Sir George! how could my unhappy nephew be blind to such inestimable
qualities as Julia possesses? Blind!--I recall the word: he was not
blind to them; he could not, but he was misled by the cursed follies of
the world, and entangled by its snares, till he lost all relish for
whatever was lovely and virtuous. Ill-fated young man! how deplorable
was thy end! Oh! may the mercy of Heaven be extended towards thee! May
it forget its justice, _nor be extreme to mark what was done amiss!_

I find Julia was convinced he was hurried out of this life by his own
desperate act, but she forbears to enquire into what she says she
dreads to be informed of. She appears to me (who knew her not in her
happier days) like a beautiful plant that had been chilled with a
nipping frost, which congealed, but could not destroy, its loveliness;
the tenderness of her parent, like the sun, has chaced away the winter,
and she daily expands, and discovers fresh charms. Her sister
too--indeed we should see such women now and then, to reconcile us to
the trifling sex, who have laboured with the utmost celerity, and with
too much success, to bring an odium on that most beautiful part of the
creation. You say you are tired of the women of your world. Their
caprices, their follies, to soften the expression, has caused this
distaste in you. Come to Woodley-vale, and behold beauty ever attended
by (what should ever attend beauty) native innocence. The lovely widow
is out of the question. I am in love with her myself, that is, as much
as an old fellow of sixty-four ought to be with a young girl of
nineteen; but her charming sister, I must bring you acquainted with her;
yet, unless I was perfectly convinced, that you possess the best of
hearts, you should not even have a glance from her pretty blue eyes.
Indeed, I believe I shall turn monopolizer in my dotage, and keep them
all to myself. Julia is my child. Louisa has the merit with me
(exclusive of her own superlative one) of being _her_ sister. And my
little _Finch_ is a worthy girl; I adore her for her friendship to my
darling. Surely your heart must be impenetrable, if so much merit, and
so much beauty, does not assert their sway over you.

Do you think that infamous fellow (I am sorry to express myself thus
while speaking of a peer of our realm) Lord Biddulph is sincere in his
reformation? Perhaps returning health may renew in him vices which are
become habitual from long practice. If he reflects at all, he has much,
very much, to answer for throughout this unhappy affair. Indeed, he did
not spare himself in his conversation with me. If he sees his errors in
time, he ought to be thankful to Heaven, for allowing that _time_ to
him, which, by his pernicious counsels, he prevented the man he called
_friend_ from availing himself of. Adieu! my dear Sir George. May you
never feel the want of _that peace which goodness bosoms ever!_

EDWARD STANLEY.




LETTER LI.


To Miss FINCH.

You are very sly, my dear Maria. Mr. Stanley assures me, you went to
Lady Barton's purposely to give her nephew, Sir George, the meeting. Is
it so? and am I in danger of losing my friend? Or is it only the
jocularity of my uncle on the occasion? Pray be communicative on this
affair. I am sure I need not urge you on that head, as you have never
used any reserve to me. A mind of such integrity as your's requires no
disguises. What little I saw of Sir George Brudenel shews him to be a
man worthy of my Maria. What an encomium I have paid him in one word!
But, joking apart (for I do not believe you entertained an idea of a
_rencontre_ with the young Baronet at Barton-house), Mr. Stanley says,
with the utmost seriousness, that his friend Brudenel made him the
_confidante_ of a _penchant_ for our sweet Maria, some time since, on
his inviting him down hither, to pick up a wife _unhackneyed in the ways
of the world_. However, don't be talked into a partiality for the swain,
for none of us here have a wish to become match-makers.

And now I have done with the young man, permit me to add a word or two
concerning the old one; I mean Mr. Stanley. He has, in the tenderest and
most friendly manner, settled on me two thousand a year (the sum fixed
on another occasion) while I continue the widow of his unfortunate
nephew; and if hereafter I should be induced to enter into other
engagements, I am to have fifteen thousand pounds at my own disposal.
This, he says, justice prompts him to do; but adds, "I will not tell you
how far my affection would carry me, because the world would perhaps
call me an _old fool_."

He leaves us next week, to make some preparation there for our reception
in a short time. I am to be mistress of his house; and he has made a
bargain with my father, that I shall spend half the year with him,
either at Stanley-Park or Pemberton-Lodge. You may believe all the
happiness of my future life is centered in the hope of contributing to
the comfort of my father, and this my second parent. My views are very
circumscribed; however, I am more calm than I expected to have been,
considering how much I have been tossed about in the stormy ocean. It is
no wonder that I am sometimes under the deepest dejection of spirits,
when I sit, as I often do, and reflect on past events. But I am
convinced I ought not to enquire too minutely into some fatal
circumstances. May the poor deluded victim meet with mercy! I draw a
veil over his frailties. Ah! what errors are they which death cannot
cancel? Who shall say, _I will walk upright, my foot shall not slide or
go astray_? Who knows how long he shall be upheld by the powerful hand
of God? The most presumptuous of us, if left to ourselves, may be guilty
of a lapse. Oh! may _my_ trespasses be forgiven, as I forgive and forget
_his!_

My dear Maria will excuse my proceeding; the last apostrophe will
convince you of the impossibility of my continuing to use my pen.

Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

[The correspondence, for obvious reasons, is discontinued for some
months. During the interval it appears, that an union had taken place
between Sir George Brudenel and Miss Finch.--While Lady Stanley was on
her accustomed visit to her uncle, she receives the following letter
from Miss Grenville.]




LETTER LII.

TO Lady STANLEY. Melford-abbey,

This last week has been so much taken up, that I could not find one day
to tell my beloved Julia that _she_ has not been _one day_ out of my
thoughts, tho' you have heard from me but once since I obeyed the
summons of our friend Jenny Melford, to be witness of her renunciation
of that name. We are a large party here, and very brilliant.

I think I never was accounted vain; but, I assure you, I am almost
induced to be so, from the attention of a very agreeable man, who is an
intimate acquaintance of Mr. Wynne's; a man of fortune, and, what will
have more weight with me, a man of strict principles. He has already
made himself some little interest in my heart, by some very benevolent
actions, which we have by accident discovered. I don't know what will
come of it, but, if he should be importunate, I doubt I should not have
power to refuse him. My father is prodigiously taken with him; yet men
are such deceitful mortals--well, time will shew--in the mean time,
adieu!

Your's, most sincerely,

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER LIII.


TO Lady STANLEY.

I cannot resist writing to you, in consequence of a piece of
intelligence I received this morning from Mr. Spencer, the hero of my
last letter.

At breakfast Mr. Spencer said to Mr. Wynne--"You will have an addition
to your party tomorrow; I have just had a letter from my friend Harry
Woodley, informing me, that he will pay his _devoir_ to you and your
fair bride before his journey to London." The name instantly struck
me--"Harry Woodley!" I repeated.

"Why do you know Harry Woodley?" asked Mr. Spencer. "I once knew a
gentleman of that name," I answered, "whose father owned that estate
_my_ father now possesses. I remember him a boy, when he was under the
tuition of Mr. Jones, a worthy clergyman in our neighbourhood." "The
very same," replied Mr. Spencer. "Harry is my most particular friend; I
have long known him, and as long loved him with the tenderest
affection--an affection," whispered he, "which reigned unrivalled till I
saw you; he _was_ the _first_, but _now_ is _second_ in my heart." I
blushed, but felt no anger at his boldness.

I shall not finish my letter till I have seen my old acquaintance; I
wish for to-morrow; I expressed my impatience to Mr. Spencer. "I should
be uneasy at your earnestness," said he, "did I not know that curiosity
is incident to your sex; but I will let you into a secret: Harry's heart
is engaged, and has long been so; therefore, throw not away your fire
upon him, but preserve it, to cherish one who lives but in your
smiles."

       *       *       *       *       *

He is arrived (Mr. Woodley, I mean); we are all charmed with him. I knew
him instantly; tho' the beautiful boy is now flushed with manliness. It
is five years since we saw him last--he did not meet us without the
utmost emotion, which we attributed to the recollection that we now
owned those lands which ought in right to have been his. He has,
however, by Mr. Spencer's account, been very successful in life, and is
master of a plentiful fortune. He seems to merit the favour of all the
world.

Adieu!

Your's most truly,

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER LIV.


TO Lady STANLEY.

Melford-Abbey.

Mr. Spencer tells me, it is a proof I have great ascendancy over him,
since he has made me the _confidante_ of his friend Woodley's
attachment. And who do you think is the object of it? To whom has the
constant youth paid his vows in secret, and worn away a series of years
in hopeless, pining love? Ah! my Julia, who can inspire so tender, so
lasting, a flame as yourself? Yes! you are the saint before whose shrine
the faithful Woodley has bent his knee, and sworn eternal truth.

You must remember the many instances of esteem we have repeatedly
received from him. To me it was friendship; to my sister it was
love--and _love_ of the purest, noblest kind.

He left Woodley-vale, you recollect, about five years ago. He left all
he held dear; all the soft hope which cherished life, in the flattering
idea of raising himself, by some fortunate stroke, to such an eminence,
that he might boldly declare how much, how fondly, he adored his Julia.
In the first instance, he was not mistaken--he has acquired a noble
fortune. Plumed with hope and eager expectation, he flew to
Woodley-vale, and the first sound that met his ear was--that the object
of his tenderest wishes was, a few weeks before his arrival, married. My
Julia! will not your tender sympathizing heart feel, in some degree, the
cruel anxiety that must take place in the bosom which had been, during a
long journey, indulging itself in the fond hope of being happy--and just
at that point of time, and at that place, where the happiness was to
commence, to be dashed at once from the scene of bliss, with the account
of his beloved's being married to another? What then remained for the
ill-fated youth, but to fly from those scenes where he had sustained so
keen a disappointment; and, without calling one glance on the plains the
extravagance of his father had wrested from him, seek in the bosom of
his friends an asylum?

He determined not to return till he was able to support the sight of
such interesting objects with composure. He proposed leaving England: he
travelled; but never one moment, in idea, wandered from the spot which
contained all his soul held dear. Some months since, he became
acquainted with the event which has once more left you free. His
delicacy would not allow him to appear before you till the year was near
expired. And now, if such unexampled constancy may plead for him, what
competitor need Harry Woodley fear?

I told you my father was much pleased with Mr. Spencer, but he is more
than pleased with his old acquaintance. You cannot imagine how much he
interests himself in the hope that his invariable attachment to you may
meet its due reward, by making, as he says, a proper impression on your
heart. He will return with us to Woodley-vale. My father's partiality is
so great, that, I believe, should you be inclined to favour the faithful
Harry, he will be induced to make you the eldest, and settle Woodley on
you, that it may be transmitted to Harry's heirs; a step, which, I give
you my honour, I shall have no objection to. Besides, it will be proving
the sincerity of Mr. Spencer's attachment to me--a proof I should not be
averse to making; for, you know, _a burnt child dreads the fire._ These
young men take up all our attention; but I will not write a word more
till I have enquired after my dear old one. How does the worthy soul do?
I doubt you have not sung to him lately, as the gout has returned with
so much violence. You know, he said, your voice banished all pain. Pray
continue singing, or any thing which indicates returning chearfulness; a
blessing I so much wish you. I have had a letter from Lady Brudenel; she
calls on me for my promised visit, but I begin to suspect I shall have
engagements enough on my hands bye and bye. I doubt my father is tired
of us both, as he is planning a scheme to get rid of us at once. But
does not this seeming eagerness proceed from that motive which guides
all his actions towards us--his extreme tenderness--the apprehension of
leaving us unconnected, and the infirmities of life hastening with large
strides on himself? Oh! my Julia! he is the best of fathers!

Adieu! I am dressed _en cavalier_, and just going to mount my horse,
accompanied by my two beaux. I wish you was here, as I own I should have
no objection to a _tête-à-tête_ with Spencer; nor would Harry with you.
But _here_--he is in the way.

Your's,

L. GRENVILLE.




LETTER LV.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Stanley-park.

Alas! my dearest Louisa, is it to me your last letter was addressed? to
me, the sad victim of a fatal attachment? Torn as has been my heart by
the strange vicissitudes of life, am I an object fit to admit the bright
ray of joy? Unhappy Woodley, if thy destiny is to be decided by my
voice! It is--it must be ever against thee. Talk not to me, Louisa, of
love--of joy and happiness! Ever, ever, will they be strangers to my
care-worn breast. A little calm (oh! how deceitful!) had taken
possession of my mind, and seemed to chace away the dull melancholy
which habitual griefs had planted there. Ah! seek not to rob me of the
small share allotted me. Speak not--write not of Woodley; my future
peace depends upon it. The name of _love_ has awakened a thousand,
thousand pangs, which sorrow had hushed to rest; at least, I kept them
to myself. I look on the evils of my life as a punishment for having too
freely indulged myself in a most reprehensible attachment. Never has my
hand traced the fatal name! Never have I sighed it forth in the most
retired privacy! Never then, my Louisa, oh! never mention the
destructive passion to me more!

I remember the ill-fated youth--ill-fated, indeed, if cursed with so
much constancy! The first predilection I felt in favour of one too
dear--was a faint similitude I thought I discovered between him and
Woodley. But if I entertained a partiality at first for him, because he
reminded me of a former companion, too soon he made such an interest in
my bosom, as left him superior there to all others. It is your fault,
Louisa, that I have adverted to this painful, this forbidden subject.
Why have you mentioned the pernicious theme?

Why should my father be so earnest to have me again enter into the pale
of matrimony? If your prospects are flattering--indulge them, and be
happy. I have tasted of the fruit--have found it bitter to the palate,
and corroding to the heart. Urge me not then to run any more hazards; I
have suffered sufficiently. Do not, in pity to Mr. Woodley, encourage in
him a hope, that perseverance may subdue my resolves. Fate is not more
inexorable. I should despise myself if I was capable, for one moment, of
wishing to give pain to any mortal. He cannot complain of me--he may of
_Destiny_; and, oh! what complaints have I not to make of _her!_

       *       *       *       *       *

I have again perused your letter; I am not free, Louisa, even if my
heart was not devoted to the unfortunate exile. Have I not sworn to my
attendant Sylph? He, who preserved me in the day of trial? My vows are
registered in heaven! I will not recede from them! I believe he knows my
heart, with all its weaknesses. Oh! my Louisa, do not distress me more.

Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER LVI.


TO Lady STANLEY.

Where has my Julia learnt this inflexibility of mind? or what virtue so
rigid as to say, she is not free to enter into other engagements? Are
your affections to lie for ever buried in the grave of your unfortunate
husband? Heaven, who has given us renewable affections, will not condemn
us for making a transfer of them, when the continuance of that affection
can be of no farther advantage to the object. But your case is
different; you have attached yourself to a visionary idea! the man,
whose memory you cherish, perhaps, thinks no longer of you; or would he
not have sought you out before this? Are you to pass your life in
mourning his absence, and not endeavour to do justice to the fidelity of
one of the most amiable of men?

Surely, my Julia, these sacrifices are not required of you! You condemn
my father for being so interested in the fate of his friend Woodley!--he
only requests you to see him. Why not see him as an acquaintance? You
cannot form the idea of my father's wishing to constrain you to accept
him! All he thinks of at present is, that you would not suffer
prejudices to blind your reason. Woodley seeks not to subdue you by
perseverance; only give him leave to try to please you; only allow him
to pay you a visit. Surely, if you are as fixed as fate, you cannot
apprehend the bare sight of him will overturn your resolves! You fear
more danger than there really is. Still we say--_see him_. My dearest
Julia did not use to be inexorable! My father allows he has now no power
over you, even if he could form the idea of using it. What then have you
to dread? Surely you have a negative voice! I am called upon--but will
end with the strain I began. See him, and then refuse him your esteem,
nay more, your tender affection, if you can.

Adieu!

Your's most sincerely,

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER LVII.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

Oh, my Louisa! how is the style of your letters altered! Is this change
(not improvement) owing to your attachment to Mr. Spencer? Can _love_
have wrought this difference? If it has, may it be a stranger to my
bosom!--for it has ceased to make my Louisa amiable!--she, who was once
all tenderness--all softness! who fondly soothed my distresses, _and
felt for weakness which she never knew_--

    "It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly;
    Our _sex_, as well as I, may chide you for it,
    Though I alone do feel the injury--"

you, to whom I have freely exposed all the failings of my wayward heart!
in whose bosom I have reposed all its tumultuous beatings!--all its
anxieties!--Oh, Louisa! can you forget my _confidence_ in you, which
would not permit me to conceal even my errors? Why do you then join with
men in scorning your friend? You say, _my father has now no power over
me, even if he could form the idea of using power_. Alas! you have all
too much power over me! you have the power of rendering me forever
miserable, either by your persuasions to consign myself to eternal
wretchedness; or by my _inexorableness_, as you call it, in flying in
the face of persons so dear to me!

How cruel it is in you to arraign the conduct of one to whose character
you are a _stranger_! What has the man, who, unfortunately both for
himself and me, has been too much in my thoughts; what has he done, that
you should so decisively pronounce him to be inconstant, and forgetful
of those who seemed so dear to him? Why is the delicacy of _your
favourite_ to be so much commended for his forbearance till the year of
mourning was near expired? And what proof that another may not be
actuated by the same delicate motive?

But I will have done with these painful interrogatories; they only help
to wound my bosom, even more than you have done.

My good uncle is better.--You have wrung my heart--and, harsh and
unbecoming as it may seem in your eyes, I will not return to
Woodley-vale, till I am assured I shall not receive any more
persecutions on his account. Would he be content with my esteem, he may
easily entitle himself to it by his still further _forbearance._

My resolution is fixed--no matter what that is--there is no danger of
making any one a participator of my sorrows.

Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER LVIII.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

Stanley-park.

Louisa! why was this scheme laid? I cannot compose my thoughts even to
ask you the most simple question! Can you judge of my astonishment? the
emotions with which I was seized? Oh! no, you cannot--you cannot,
because you was never sunk so low in the depths of affliction as I have
been; you never have experienced the extreme of joy and despair as I
have done. Oh! you know nothing of what I feel!--of what I cannot find
words to express! Why don't you come hither?--I doubt whether I shall
retain my senses till your arrival.

Adieu!

Your's for ever,

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER LVIX.


TO Lady BRUDENEL.

Stanley-park.

Yes! my dear Maria, you shall be made acquainted with the extraordinary
change in your friend! You had all the mournful particulars of my past
life before you. I was convinced of your worth, nor could refuse you my
confidence. But what is all this? I cannot spend my time, my precious
time, in prefacing the scenes which now surround me.

You know how depressed my mind was with sorrow at the earnestness with
which my father and sister espoused the cause of Mr. Woodley. I was
ready to sink under the dejection their perseverance occasioned,
aggravated too by my tender, long-cherished attachment to the
unfortunate Baron. [This is the first time my pen has traced that word.]

I was sitting yesterday morning in an alcove in the garden, ruminating
on the various scenes which I had experienced, and giving myself up to
the most melancholy presages, when I perceived a paper fall at my feet.
I apprehended it had dropped from my pocket in taking out my
handkerchief, which a trickling tear had just before demanded. I stooped
to pick it up; and, to my surprize, found it sealed, and addressed to
myself. I hastily broke it open, and my wonder increased when I read
these words:

"I have been witness to the perturbation of your mind. How will you
atone to your Sylph, for not availing yourself of the privilege of
making application to him in an emergency? If you have lost your
confidence in him, he is the most wretched of beings. He flatters
himself he may be instrumental to your future felicity. If you are
inclined to be indebted to him for any share of it, you may have the
opportunity of seeing him in five minutes. Arm yourself with resolution,
most lovely, most adored of women; for he will appear under a semblance
not expected by you. You will see in him the most faithful and constant
of human beings."

I was seized with such a trepidation, that I could hardly support
myself; but, summoning all the strength of mind I could assume, I said
aloud, though in a tremulous voice, "Let me view my amiable Sylph!"--But
oh! what became of me, when at my feet I beheld the most wished-for, the
most dreaded, _Ton-hausen!_ I clasped my hands together, and shrieked
with the most frantic air, falling back half insensible on the seat.
"Curse on my precipitance!" he cried, throwing his arms round me. "My
angel! my Julia! look on the most forlorn of his sex, unless you pity
me." "Pity you!" I exclaimed, with a faint accent--"Oh! from whence, and
how came you here?"

"Did not my Julia expect me?" he asked, in the softest voice, and
sweetest manner.

"I expect you! How should I? alas! what intimation could I have of your
arrival?"

"From this," he replied, taking up the billet written by the Sylph.
"What do you mean? For Heaven's sake! rise, and unravel this mystery. My
brain will burst with the torture of suspence."

"If the loveliest of women will pardon the stratagems I have practised
on her unsuspecting mind, I will rise, and rise the happiest of mortals.
Yes, my beloved Julia, I am that invisible guide, that has so often led
you through the wilds of life. I am that blissful being, whom you
supposed something supernatural."

"It is impossible," I cried, interrupting him, "it cannot be!"

"Will not my Julia recollect this poor pledge of her former confidence?"
drawing from a ribband a locket of hair I had once sent to the Sylph.
"Is this, to me inestimable, gift no longer acknowledged by you? this
dear part of yourself, whose enchantment gave to my wounded soul all the
nourishment she drew, which supported me when exiled from all that the
world had worth living for? Have you forgot the vows of lasting fidelity
with which the value of the present was enhanced? Oh! sure you have not.
And yet you are silent. May I not have one word, one look?"

"Alas!" cried I, hiding my face from his glances; "what can I say? What
can I do? Oh! too well I remember all. The consciousness, that every
secret of my heart has been laid bare to your inspection, covers me with
the deepest confusion."

"Bear witness for me," cried he, "that I never made an ill use of that
knowledge. Have I ever presumed upon it? Could you ever discover, by the
arrogance of Ton-hausen's conduct, that he had been the happy
_confidant_ of your retired sentiments? Believe me, Lady Stanley, that
man will ever admire you most, who knows most your worth; and oh!, who
knows it more, who adores it more than I?"

"Still," said I, "I cannot compose my scattered senses. All appears a
dream; but, trust me, I doat on the illusion. I would not be undeceived,
if I am in an error. I would fain persuade myself, that but one man on
earth is acquainted with the softness, I will not call it weakness, of
my soul; and he the only man who could inspire that softness." "Oh! be
persuaded, most angelic of women," said he, pressing my hand to his
lips, "be persuaded of the truth of my assertion, that the Sylph and I
are one. You know how you were circumstanced."

"Yes! I was married before I had the happiness of being seen by you."

"No, you was not."

"Not married, before I was seen by you?"

"Most surely not. Years, years before that event, I knew, and, knowing,
loved you--loved you with all the fondness of man, while my age was that
of a boy. Has Julia quite forgot her juvenile companions? Is the time
worn from her memory, when Harry Woodley used to weave the fancied
garland for her?"

"Protect me, Heaven!" cried I, "sure I am in the land of shadows!"

"No," cried he, clasping me in his arms, and smiling at my apostrophe,
"you shall find substance and substantial joys too here."

"Thou Proteus!" said I, withdrawing myself from his embrace, "what do
you mean by thus shifting characters, and each so potent?"

"To gain my charming Nymph," he answered. "But why should we thus waste
our time? Let me lead you to your father."

"My father! Is my father here?"

"Yes, he brought me hither; perhaps, as Woodley, an unwelcome visitant.
But will you have the cruelty to reject him?" added he, looking slyly.

"Don't presume too much," I returned with a smile. "You have convinced
me, you are capable of great artifice; but I shall insist on your
explaining your whole plan of operations, as an atonement for your
double, nay treble dealing, for I think you are three in one. But I am
impatient to behold my father, whom, the moment before I saw you, I was
accusing of cruelty, in seeking to urge me in the favour of one I was
determined never to see."

"But now you have seen him (it was all your sister required of you, you
know), will you be inexorable to his vows?"

"I am determined to be guided by my Sylph," cried I, "in this momentous
instance. That was my resolution, and still shall remain the same."

"Suppose thy Sylph had recommended you to bestow your hand on Woodley?
What would have become of poor _Ton-hausen_?"

"My confidence in the Sylph was established on the conviction of his
being my safest guide; as such, he would never have urged me to bestow
my hand where my heart was refractory; but, admitting the possibility of
the Sylph's pursuing such a measure, a negative voice would have been
allowed me; and no power, human or divine, should have constrained that
voice to breathe out a vow of fidelity to any other than him to whom the
secrets of my heart have been so long known."

By this time we had nearly reached the house, from whence my father
sprung with the utmost alacrity to meet me. As he pressed me to his
venerable bosom, "Can my Julia refuse the request of her father, to
receive, as the best pledge of his affection, this valuable present? And
will she forgive the innocent trial we made of her fidelity to the most
amiable of men?"

"Ah! I know not what to say," cried I; "here has been sad management
amongst you. But I shall soon forget the heart-aches I have experienced,
if they have removed from this gentleman any suspicions that I did not
regard him for himself alone. He has, I think, adopted the character of
Prior's Henry; and I hope he is convinced that the faithful Emma is not
a fiction of the poet's brain. I know not," I continued, "by what name
to call him."

"Call me _your's_," cried he, "and that will be the highest title I
shall ever aspire to. But you shall know all, as indeed you have a right
to do. _Your_ sister, and soon, I hope, _mine_, related to you the
attachment which I had formed for you in my tenderest years, which, like
the incision on the infant bark, _grew with my growth, and strengthened
with my strength_. She likewise told you (but oh! how faint, how
inadequate to my feelings!) the extreme anguish that seized me when I
found you was married. Distraction surrounded me; I cannot give words to
my grief and despair. I fled from a place which had lost its only
attractive power. In the first paroxysm of affliction, I knew not what
resolutions I formed. I wrote to Spencer--not to give rest or ease to my
over-burdened heart; for that, alas! could receive no diminution--nor to
complain; for surely I could not complain of you; my form was not
imprinted on your mind, though your's had worn itself so deep a trace in
mine. Spencer opposed my resolution of returning to Germany, where I had
formed some connexions (only friendly ones, my Julia, but, as such,
infinitely tender). _He_ it was that urged me to take the name of
Ton-hausen, as that title belonged to an estate which devolved to me
from the death of one of the most valuable men in the world, who had
sunk into his grave, as the only asylum from a combination of woes. As
some years had elapsed, in which I had increased in bulk and stature,
joined to my having had the small-pox since I had been seen by you, he
thought it more than probable you would not recollect my person. I
hardly know what I proposed to myself, from closing with him in this
scheme, only that I take Heaven to witness, I never meant to injure you;
and I hope the whole tenor of my conduct has convinced you how sincere I
was in that profession. From the great irregularity of your late
husband's life, I had a _presentiment_, that you would at one time or
other be free from your engagements. I revered you as one, to whom I
hoped to be united; if not in this world, I might be a kindred-angel
with you in the next. Your virtuous soul could not find its congenial
friend in the riot and confusion in which you lived. I dared not trust
myself to offer to become your guide. I knew the extreme hazard I should
run; and that, with all the innocent intentions in the world, we might
both be undone by our _passions_ before _reason_ could come to our
assistance. I soon saw I had the happiness to be distinguished by you!
and that distinction, while it raised my admiration of you, excited in
me the desire of rendering myself still more worthy of your esteem; but
even that esteem I refused myself the dear privilege of soliciting for.
I acted with the utmost caution; and if, under the character of the
Sylph, I dived into the recesses of your soul, and drew from thence the
secret attachment you professed for the happy Baron, it was not so much
to gratify the vanity of my heart, as to put you on your guard, lest
some of the invidious wretches about you should propagate any reports to
your prejudice; and, dear as the sacrifice cost me, I tore myself from
your loved presence on a sarcasm which Lady Anne Parker threw out
concerning us. I withdrew some miles from London, and left Spencer there
to apprize me of any change in your circumstances. I gave you to
understand I had quitted the kingdom; but that was a severity I could
not impose upon myself: however, I constrained myself to take a
resolution of never again appearing in your presence till I should have
the liberty of indulging my passion without restraint. Nine parts of ten
in the world may condemn my procedure as altogether romantic. I believe
few will find it imitable; but I have nice feelings, and I could act no
other than I did. I could not, you see, bear to be the rival of myself.
_That_ I have proved under both the characters I assumed; but had I
found you had forgotten Ton-hausen, Woodley would have been deprived of
one of the most delicate pleasures a refined taste can experience. And
now all that remains is to intreat the forgiveness of my amiable Julia,
for these _pious frauds_; and to reassure her she shall, if _the heart
of man is not deceitful above all things_, never repent the confidence
she placed in her faithful Sylph, the affection she honoured the happy
Ton-hausen with, nor the esteem, notwithstanding his obstinate
perseverance, which she charitably bestowed on that unfortunate
knight-errant, Harry Woodley."

"Heaven send I never may!" said I. But really I shall be half afraid to
venture the remainder of my life with such a variable being. However, my
father undertakes to answer for him in future.

I assure you, my dear Maria, you are much indebted to me for this
recital, for I have borrowed the time out of the night, as the whole day
has been taken up in a manner you may more easily guess than I can
describe.

Say every thing that is civil to Sir George on my part, as you are
conscious I have no time to bestow on any other men than those by whom I
am surrounded. I expect my sister and her swain tomorrow.

Adieu!

I am your's ever

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER LX.


TO Lady BRUDENEL.

You would hardly know your old acquaintance again, he is so totally
altered; you remember his pensive air, and gentle unassuming manner,
which seemed to bespeak the protection of every one. Instead of all
this, he is so alert, so brisk, and has such a saucy assurance in his
whole deportment, as really amazes; and, I freely own, delights me, as I
am happily convinced, that it is owing to myself that he is thus
different from what he was. Let him be what he will, he will ever be
dear to me.

I wanted him to relate to me all the particulars of his friend
Frederick, the late Baron's, misfortunes. He says, the recital would
fill a volume, but that I shall peruse some papers on the subject some
time or other, when we are tired of being chearful, but that now we have
better employment; I therefore submit for the present.

I admire my sister's choice very much; he is an agreeable man, and
extremely lively: much more so naturally, notwithstanding the airs some
folks give themselves, than my Proteus. Louisa too is quite alive; Mr.
Stanley has forgot the gout; and my father is ready to dance at the
wedding of his eldest daughter, which, I suppose, will take place soon.

Pray how do you go on? Are you near your _accouchement_? or dare you
venture to travel as far as Stanley-park? for my uncle will not part
with any of us yet.

Ah! I can write no longer; they threaten to snatch the pen from my hand;
that I may prevent such a solecism in politeness, I will conclude, by
assuring you of my tenderest wishes.

Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER LXI.


TO Lady STANLEY.

Upon my word, a pretty kind of a romantic adventure you have made of it,
and the conclusion of the business just as it should be, and quite in
the line of _poetical justice_. Virtue triumphant, and Vice dragged at
her chariot-wheels,--for I heard yesterday, that Lord Biddulph was
selling off all his moveables, and had moved himself out of the kingdom.
Now my old friend Montague should be sent on board the Justitia, and
_all's well that ends well_. As to your Proteus, with all his _aliases_,
I think he must be quite a Machiavel in artifice. Heaven send he may
never change again! I should be half afraid of such a Will-of-the-wisp
lover. First this, then that, now the other, and always the same. But
bind him, bind him, Julia, in adamantine chains; make sure of him, while
he is yet in your power; and follow, with all convenient speed, the
dance your sister is going to lead off. Oh! she is in a mighty hurry!
Let me hear what she will say when she has been married ten months, as
poor I have been! and here must be kept prisoner with all the
dispositions in the world for freedom!

What an acquisition your two husbands will be! I bespeak them both for
god-fathers; pray tell them so. Do you know, I wanted to persuade Sir
George to take a trip, just to see how you proceed in this affair; but,
I blush to tell you, he would not hear of any such thing, because he is
in expectation of a little impertinent visitor, and would not be from
home for the world. _Tell it not in Gath_. Thank heaven, the dissolute
tribe in London know nothing of it. But, I believe, none of our set will
be anxious about their sentiments. While we feel ourselves happy, we
shall think it no sacrifice to give up all the nonsense and hurry of the
_beau monde._

Adieu!

MARIA BRUDENEL.


FINIS.






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