Euphemia. By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox. In four volumes.: [pt.1]

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- LETTER I. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER II. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

- LETTER III. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER IV. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER V. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

- LETTER VI. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER VII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER VIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER IX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER X. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER XI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER XIII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- TEN O'CLOCK.

- MRS. NEVILLE, IN CONTINUATION.

- LETTER XV. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XVI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- THREE O'CLOCK.

- [part]

EUPHEMIA.

EUPHEMIA.

BY Mrs. CHARLOTTE LENNOX.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND; AND J. EVANS, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

M, DCC, XC.

LETTER I. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

ONE of the greatest pleasures I proposed to myself, on my return to England, was to meet my dear Euphemia; to bind, if possible, in faster bands, that tender friendship which has united us from our earliest years; to live in sweet society together: to suffer only short absences; rendered tolerable by frequent letters, and the dear hope of meeting soon again. But how are these expectations destroyed! You are going to leave me; and, too probably, for ever I Long tracts of land, and an immeasurable ocean, will soon divide us. I shall hear from you once or twice in a year, perhaps: my dear Euphemia will be lost to me; and all that now remains of that friendship, which was the pride and happiness of my life, will be the sad remembrance of a good I once enjoyed, but which is fled for ever!

HOW shall I teach my heart to forget you! How shall I bear the conversation of other young women of our age and condition, after being used to yours! It was some merit to be capable of tastn g it with so high a relish, as to render that of my other companions insipid. There are friendships that serve only to pass away the time, and soften the tediousness of solitude; but yours, besides being delightful, was profitable. I never read your letters, but I brought away pleasures that remained, and advantages that did you no hurt. I grew rich by what I took from you, without impoverishing you by my gain. In a word, I was happy, and I am so no more. I must lose you! there is no remedy! My tears efface my letters as I write! I cannot, I would not, restrain them! The wise may call these tender feelings infirmities of the mind, if they will; I do not wish to be without them, and I had rather have my malady than their health.

BUT tell me, my Euphemia, by what strange fatality have all these things happened? When I went to France, I left you rich and happy; the reputed heiress of a large fortune, both your beloved parents alive, and every prospect brightening before you. What a reverse, in the space of a few months! An orphan! your inheritance lost! married; and, in consequence of that marriage, becoming an exile from your country, doomed to waste your days in America! I cannot bear to think of it! But you go with a husband you love. I never thought my Euphemia very susceptible of that passion. Mr. Neville undoubtedly must possess an uncommon share of merit, to have so soon conquered your indifference, your reserve, and, if I may now venture to say so, your indisposition to the married state. Oh! had it been otherwise, with what pleasure should I have communicated to you the happy change in my fortune; a fortune which, by sharing with you, I should have doubly enjoyed! I cannot enter into particulars now; my mind is too much agitated. Write to me soon: yet what can you say to comfort me? If you cannot say that you are not to quit England, it will be the first of your letters that I shall not receive with transport. Adieu, my ever-dear Euphemia.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER II. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

I Cannot let the post go away without giving you the particulars of that happy change in my fortune which, while my heart was so full of your loss that I could utter nothing but complaints, I only hinted at: but you would have reason to be offended with me if I was silent on this subject, knowing so well as I do the tender interest you take in whatever concerns me.

YOU never could be persuaded to think that my uncle's marriage with Miss Fenwick would make any alteration in his conduct towards me, having brought me up with a tenderness and care that supplied the loss of my parents; a loss which I could only know by reflection, being but an infant when they died, and which the kindness of my uncle made it impossible for me to feel. But in this you was mistaken, my dear friend: Lady Harley was a true step-mother, and contrived to alienate my uncle's affection from me by artifices which imposed upon us both. I will give you two or three instances of her plan of operations, as they have been since explained to me.

MY uncle, who really loved me, and viewed all my actions in a favourable light, was particularly pleased with a certain attention which prevented his wishes, and made him perceive that I was delighted when I could be useful to him. There is nothing so necessary as to know how to bear tedious moments. My uncle did not possess this art: he is, as you know, a man of sense, and some learning; but having passed the greatest part of his life in the common track of men of fortune and fashion, his amusements must come all from without: he knew not how to strike out any for himself, from resources which a mind more cultivated might have afforded him.

SOME time after his marriage, the gout began to visit him with periodical 〈◊〉 he bore the pain and the confinement with much impatience. Lady Harley, whose fondness for him always appeared excessive, rather tired than relieved him by her importunate caresses: which, however, he received without any apparent peevishness; for, to be sure, he knew how to value a love so tender and passionate, with which he had inspired a woman twenty years younger than himself!

MY company was now more acceptable than my aunt's. I sung, I played to him: I gave the rein to my natural vivacity, and endeavoured to divert him by a thousand lively sallies of imagination. I read to him sometimes; and perceived, with great satisfaction, that he began to acquire a taste for this amusement. My voice and manner pleased him. He had a well-stored library; and he approved my choice of the books which were to furnish out his entertainment. You will easily imagine how much this taste for reading increased upon him, when I tell you that I read all Plutarch's Lives to him in less than a fortnight. Thus this long fit of the gout passed away; during which, my aunt had time to make observations on her own insufficiency on such occasions, and my apparent superiority over her. A second attack of the gout gave her an opportunity to practise some of those artifices which she had imagined, in order to lessen my uncle's regard for me. She redoubled her cares and assiduity; she scarce ever left him a moment; she watched his looks, and every turn of his distemper, with such an anxious solicitude, as if her life depended upon his. She would rise several times in the night, and run into his chamber to know if he slept, and if the nurse was attentive. A thousand things of this kind she did, which left me, fond as I was of my uncle, far behind her in these outward testimonies of affection.

IT is common for people to judge of friendship by the shew it makes, without considering that superstition is fuller of ceremonies than true devotion. My attentions appeared cold and constrained, compared with those of my aunt; and were received with indifference. My uncle now seldom desired me to read; and, when I offered to take a book, he would ask me, if I did not think reading so much had hurt me. I sometimes smiled at this: and he would add, with a significant look—‘Reading aloud is not good for one who has weak lungs.’ —'That is not my case, Sir', replied I. 'I am glad of it', said he, coldly: ‘but, however, you shall not read to me.’ I was quite confounded at this peremptory refusal, and knew not what to say to him; but, though vexed and mortified to the last degree, I suffered no complaints to escape me, because I was not willing to discompose my uncle, or gratify the malice of Lady Harley, who, I judged, was at the bottom of this peevishness in him: and I judged right; for this was the manner in which she effected her purpose, as my uncle afterwards informed me.

ONE day, when he desired her to bid me come and read to him, she regretted her not having equal talents with me for that employment—'Which if I had', said she, I should not be afraid of falling into a consumption by using them'. —'Why, has Mari• that notion?' said Sir John. 'She certainly has', said my aunt: ‘but you must not mention to her what I tell you. She complains of a pain in her breast; of shortness of breath; and declares, that when she has read to you an hour or two, she feels as if she was ready to expire with a strange oppression and faintness. She has carried her apprehensions so far, as to send her case to an eminent physician; whose answer is, that if she continues to read aloud, she will fall into a decline.’

MY uncle was amazed and confounded at hearing this, for I never looked better in my life; and he took notice of that circumstance. Lady Harley assured him I was perfectly well, and in very good spirits; 'And therefore', added she, ‘it is the more surprizing that she should give way to such strange fancies.’

MY aunt followed this first blow with many others of the same kind, which would be tedious to enumerate: so that at length my uncle viewing all my actions in an unfavourable light, set me down in his mind as a perfect hypocrite; a character which he ever despised and hated. But although, in consequence of this opinion, he withdrew his affection from me; yet, as it produced no other alteration in his behaviour than a certain coldness and reserve, which rather increased than lessened that politeness which was so natural to him, I knew not on what ground to build a complaint. My expences were as liberally supplied as before; my requests as readily granted. My uncle, as he has since told me, could never be brought to hate his brother's daughter, though he ceased to love me as his own.

BEING in this unfavourable disposition towards me, he was easily persuaded to press me to a marriage, in which my inclinations were much less consulted than my interest. You know the man I refused, my dear Euphemia; and you did not chide me for my disobedience. My, however, was offended; and as I was absolutely incapable of repairing my fault, or even repenting of it, his continued displeasure gave me so deep a concern, that my situation became very miserable.

MRS. Irwin was about this time preparing to go to the south of France, for the recovery of her health: as she was a near relation of my mother's, and a very worthy woman, I asked and obtained leave to attend her. I left England without any regret, but parting with you, my sweet friend; for my uncle appeared so happy in the passionate tenderness of his young wife, and so compleatly estranged from me, that I could not suppose my absence would give him any uneasiness. He provided for my expences, however, with his usual generosity. When I took leave of him, my tears, and the ardour with which I kissed his hand, seemed to awaken some tender emotions; for he turned aside, and wiped his eyes: but immediately afterwards, as if hardened by some unfavourable recollection, he relapsed into his former coldness, and took a much more ceremonious than kind leave of me. My aunt acted her part extremely well; regretted the loss of my company, and comforted herself with the hope of a happy meeting in a few months. Mrs. Irwin was amazed at the ascendant Lady Harley had gained over a man of my uncle's good sense: 'This woman', said she, ‘will, as the poet says— ‘Mould his passions till she makes his will.’ But it is my opinion, that your excursion to the Continent will prove less favourable to her machinations than your stay here. With friends and lovers, absence is a kind of Death, which sheds oblivion over faults, and heightens every virtue and amiable quality. Lady Harley will now miss a thousand opportunities of hurting you with your uncle, which artifice on her side, and innocent security on yours, would have furnished her with if you had staid here.’ It is certain, that the fine fabrick she had raised with such an expence of falshood, was destroyed on a sudden by means which she could neither foresee nor prevent.

WITH what pleasure do I turn from this dark side of my fortune, to one in which my dear Euphemia will share in my satisfaction! But what do I say! My Euphemia is going to leave me! This thought, like the stings of a guilty conscience, saddens all my enjoyments; and, when I should be happy, gives me up to tears and complainings. But you wilt chide me if I continue this strain. Adieu, my dear friend.

IN my next, you shall have a full account of all that remains for you to know concerning my present situation. Mean time, pity ray impatience, my anxiety; and explain to me the causes of this sad reverse of fortune, and all that has happened to you in a separation of a few months; and which, alas! is so soon to be followed by one of many years. But I will fly this thought. Adieu!

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER III. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

WHY does my dear Maria imagine I would chide her for a sensibility so amiable in her, so flattering to me who am the object of it? Am I qualified to recommend apathy to you, who share so deeply with you in an affliction that is common to us both; and while my heart is still smarting with a wound which never, never can be healed? You knew my mother, Maria; you knew her excellence: judge what my grief must be for her loss. But she is happy! her patient-suffering virtue has it's just reward.

So little do events depend upon the most prudent measures, that had she lived to see the unprosperous event of a marriage which was her own work; and from which, in her last moments, she owed all her consolation with regard to me; she would have been miserable. Heaven spared her this affliction: and, did not self mingle too frequently in our most justifiable passions, I should not now grieve so much for her death, as rejoice in her exemption from an evil which she might not perhaps have borne with her usual fortitude. But you shall have my history from the time of our separation; and an eventful one it is, for the time. I have leisure enough; and to rehearse the past, when the present is unhappy, and the future presents only a gloomy prospect, is not so irksome a task as to make me decline obeying you.

SCARCE were my tears dried up for your sudden and unexpected departure, when a surprizing alteration in the temper and behaviour of my father filled my mother and myself with the most uneasy apprehensions. He became peevish, melancholy, silent, and reserved: he shunned company, staid much at home, and passed the greatest part of his time shut up in his closet; and was inaccessible even to my mother, who certainly was not even then wholly ignorant of the cause of this great change in him. A stroke of the palsy followed these first symptoms, and compleated our distress. It was but slight, however; and by the great skill and care of his physicians he was restored to some degree of health, and able to take a journey to Bath, which they judged necessary to his perfect recovery. I never doubted but I should be permitted to attend him thither, as well as my mother; but my father had resolved otherwise. I durst: not dispute his will: tender and affectionate as he always seemed to me, he exacted, and never failed to receive, an implicit obedience to it. Spare me the description of this sad parting! My father, as he turned from me, shed tears, which he endeavoured to hide. I had thrown myself into the arms of my governess; but, raising my head to snatch a parting glance as he stepped into the coach, at that moment he appeared to me more like a corpse than my living father: I shrieked, and fainted away. My dear mother, who had taken every precaution to make this absence more supportable to me, directed my governess to carry me immediately to Richmond, where I was impatiently expected by Mrs. Highmore and her family, with whom I was to reside till my parents returned from Bath. You know this lady, my dear Maria; you know how greatly she was esteemed by my mother, whose confidence she had acquired by the appearance of an uncommon attachment to her. She had daughters of an age fit to be my companions; and their birth and accomplishments made them very proper ones.

DURING our little journey, Mrs. Burton employed every soothing art to alleviatemy grief: but that image, that deathlike image of my father, filled my imagination, and swam continually before my sight. I was for a long time insensible to all the caresses of Mrs. Highmore and the young ladies; which were, indeed, carried to excess, particularly on the part of Mrs. Highmore and the eldest daughter: but I was more touched with the behaviour of Lucy, the youngest of these ladies, whose professions of friendship for me had an air of candour and sweetness which won my confidence, and engaged my gratitude.

THE first letter I received from my mother, gave me so favourable an account of my father's health, that my melancholy apprehensions began to abate; and I was once more able to mix in society, and to share in those amusements which the family were eager to procure for me. This attention, apparently so obliging, would certainly have made an impression upon me, if I had not been disgusted with the adulation which Mrs. Highmore and her eldest daughter were perpetually pouring in my ears. I have heard it said, that it is a mark of grandeur to be hated by those who do not know us, and flattered by those who do: a young woman of fortune has this, in common with royalty, that she seldom hears truth. My governess would have it, that Mrs. Highmore had some design upon me; and her suspicions were strengthened by a visit made her by her son, a youth of nineteen, from college, though it was not vacation-time.

THE young gentleman had probably received orders to be violently in love with me; for he seemed to court opportunities of speaking to me alone, which I believe were often contrived for him: but he was too bashful to profit by them as was expected; for, after some general conversation about the weather, he used to withdraw to a window, and whistle a tune. His behaviour might have afforded me some diversion, had my mind been more at case: but now every letter from Bath brought me still less favourable accounts of my father's health. At length, the fatal news of his death arrived; which, not with standing the caution that was used, the melancholy looks of my governess, and the rest of the family, announced to me, before the tender Lucy, whose sad task it was to prepare me for this stroke, could utter a word. 'My father is dead!' cried I, trembling: 'Is it not so?' Lucy answered me only by her tears. ‘Then I have seen him', said I, 'for the last time; and the last time I saw him, he looked as he is now.’

I CONTINUED several days in a most melancholy situation; during which time the family took part in my affliction with an appearance of the most tender sympathy: they shut themselves up with me, and neither paid nor received any visits; each solicitous to outdo the other in endeavouring to calm my grief. On a sudden, this attention ceased; they saw company as usual; and their engagements, both at home and abroad, took up their time so much, that they had scarce a few moments to bestow on me; and I have sometimes passed a whole day without seeing them in my apartment. The young man was sent back to college, without leaving even a compliment for me. A strange alteration now took place in their manner of conversing with me: respect and adulation were no more; their kindness was disgustingly familiar, their pity humiliating, and their civility constrained.

ALL this passed unnoticed for some time: but when the violence of my grief was in some degree abated, my attention was awakened first to little neglects and failures in their usual politeness, that led to a fuller observation of their behaviour towards me; which I found so changed, that they did not seem to be the same person with whom I had conversed so long. Perplexed and astonished at what I now for the first time discovered, I asked my governess the meaning of this strange alteration. ‘My dear,’ said she, ‘you now see the world as it is: and you will probably,’ added she, sighing, ‘have but too many opportunities of assenting to the truth of that maxim, which seems to bear hard upon human nature; but which is nevertheless but too true, That the generality are bad.’—'Bu•, Lucy,' said I, without taking in the full meaning of her words, ‘Lucy is still the same; she is not changed’. At that moment the dear girl entered the room. I flew into her arms; and my heart being greatly oppressed, I burst into tears. She looked at Mrs. Benson significantly, as I afterwards recollected; and then applied herself, with her usual tender solicitude, to console me. My governess retired upon Mrs. Highmore's coming in: Why, my good girl,' said she to me, ‘will you never have done grieving?’ Struck with the unusual coarseness of her phrase, I stared at her without making any answer. 'Come,' pursued she, ‘you must not stay moping in the house: take an airing in your chariot; you may not always have one.’ Here Lucy, in great agitation, stopped her; crying eagerly—'Mamma!' Mrs. Highmore, as if recollecting herself, replied—‘You are right. —But, Miss Lumley,’ said she to me, ‘have you had a letter from your mamma? How is she? does she talk of returning?’—‘Would to Heaven I were with her!’ said I, passionately. 'Ah, poor woman!' said Mrs Highmore, ‘she is in trouble enough; she is greatly to be pitied.’ My tears now flowed afresh: 'Pray, Madam,' said Lucy, receiving my declining head on her bosom, ‘leave me to comfort Miss Lumley: she will be more calm when we are alone.’—‘Well, I am going,’ said Mrs. Highmore. ‘Pray, my good girl, moderate your affliction. —And, Lucy, do you hear? I cannot possibly dispense with your dining at table to-day: I have company, you know. You will hardly have time to dress.’ She went out of the room at these words; and I, with some peevishness, pressed Miss Lucy to go and dress: but she declared she would not quit me that day, Mrs. Benson being obliged to go to town to transact some business my mother had charged her with.

I HAVE related this little scene circumstantially to you, my dear Maria, that you may have some notion of the astonishment I must be in at the alteration of this woman's stile and behaviour, who a few weeks before had carried her respects and attentions to me even to servility. But the mystery was soon to be unravelled.

Two days after this, Mrs. Benson told, me I should soon see my mother, 'When?' cried I impatiently.‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ said she, smiling; 'and perhaps, to-night.' I rose from my chair in a transport. ‘Ah! she is here,’ said I; 'let me fly to her!'— 'No, my dear,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘she is not here; she would not come here: but she is in London. I have a note from her, ordering me to bring you to her. The chariot is getting ready, and we will set out in a few minutes.’ Lucy came running to me all in tears: I took an affectionate leave of her; and received the parting civilities of Mrs. Highmore and her eldest daughter with great coolness Mrs. Highmore charged me to assure her good friend, so she stiled my mother, that it should not be long before she called upon her. As supercilious as this speech was, the air that accompanied it was still more so I answered only by a slight bow; and we drove away.

My thoughts, wholly employed on the expected meeting with my dear mother, a meeting at once so wished and dreaded, prevented my taking notice of the extreme dejection of Mrs. Benson, who scarce spoke to me all the way. Nor was I rouzed from my reverie, till I found myself in St. James's Square; when the carriage, instead of crossing into Pall Mall, where our house was, drove directly to Charles Street, and stopped at a small house, upon the window of which I observed a bill for lodgings. 'Have you any business here?' said I to my governess. 'My dear,' replied she, sighing, ‘we shall find your mamma here.’—'My mamma here!' cried I eagerly; and, springing out of the chariot, I flew up stairs, upon the top of which I saw her coming to meet me.

HER deep mourning, her pale and emaciated countenance, the transient gleam of joy which the first sight of me occasioned, effaced by a flood of tears, affected me with such poignant anguish, that I sunk down at her feet; and, clasping her knees, remained there speechless and drowned in tears. Mrs. Benson raised me, and led us both into the room. My dear mother continued gazing on me for some time in silent sorrow; while I wept, and kissed the hand with which she affectionately pressed mine. 'My dear child,' said she, recovering herself, ‘you have, no doubt, paid your just tribute of tears to the memory of your father. The time calls upon us for fortitude. You have, alas! many evils to struggle against. Poverty is a more dreadful monster than any Hercules overcame: and, to bear it with patience, to preserve our integrity, our independence of mind; in a word, to fall with dignity; is to be a greater hero than he was.’

AT the word Poverty I started, and gazed on my mother eagerly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ pursued she, ‘we are no longer rich; you are no longer an heiress to a great fortune. From the small provision your father made for me on our marriage, before he succeeded to his uncle's great riches, and which will cease at my death, we must for the future draw our subsistence. Mr. Lumley died insolvent. Houses, plate, jewels, furniture, all are seized by the creditors! This small apartment in which you now see me, is my habitation; and even this I must soon exchange for one less expensive, and more suitable to my circumstances: for it must be my part now to live in such a manner that my dear child may not be wholly destitute at my death. Something, I hope, I shall be able, by the strictest parsimony, to leave behind me, to put off the bad day of beggary!’ My mother could not restrain her tears at this word. She rose up, and said she would retire to her bed-chamber for a few moments, and endeavour to compose herself.

WHEN she was gone, I gave free vent to those emotions which respect and tenderness for her had hitherto restrained. Mrs. Benson endeavoured to comfort me. 'Tell me,' said I, ‘if you know; tell me by what means this ruin was brought about?’—‘Your father,’ replied she, ‘would have been a happy man, if he had continued in that easy mediocrity which once bounded his wishes: but no sooner was he become possessed of the great riches your uncle had acquired in the Indies, than he plunged deep into all the fashionable excesses of the age.’ The word All she pronounced with a deep emphasis, and a meaning look that went to my heart. 'His seat in parliament,' continued she, ‘cost him an immense sum. He played high, and always with ill success. In a word, he was ruined, my dear, before the continued dissipation in which he lived gave him leisure to look into his affairs. Reflection, which came too late to prevent the wreck of his fortune, now produced a remorse that preyed upon his mind, and brought on those disorders which put a period to his life.’

MY mother's entrance obliged me to restrain those emotions which Mrs. Benson's discourse had excited: I dried my tears; I endeavoured to console my mother by every soothing power I possessed. Her piety and good sense had already brought her to a state of perfect resignation in every thing that respected herself; it was for me only that she felt: and it was to relieve her from that tender anxiety which preyed upon her spirits, and destroyed her health, that I made a sacrifice which I cannot repent of; though, alas! it proved fruitless. But here let me break off for the present: I will continue my narrative some other time. This free communication of my misfortunes to a dear and sympathizing friend, seems to lessen their force,

The grief that must not speak,

Whispers the o'ercharg'd heart, and bids it break,

says my favourite poet. I will go on, then, and speak to you.—But, my Maria, remember, you must give me the remainder of your little history as soon as possible; you will easily imagine how much I am interested in it. Adieu, my dear friend.

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER IV. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

I Have almost effaced every word of your tender and affecting narrative with my tears. Alas! my sweet friend, what have you not suffered! Why was I not with you during these hard trials? Why did you conceal your situation from me? I never received but two letters from you while I was in France. In the last there were some obscure hints, which greatly perplexed me, and which you have now but too well explained: My uncle expresses great tenderness and concern for you; and speaks of your mother in terms of the highest admiration. He says, he was intimate enough with Mr. Lumley, to use the liberty of remonstrating against some of those errors in his conduct which have been the source of his misfortunes: 'But,' added he very sententiously, ‘there is a wide distance between being simply persuaded that a thing is wrong, to the being sufficiently so as to make us fall to action, when we must act contrary to our inclinations. Mr. Lumley acknowledged there was reason in what I said; but did not alter his conduct.’ —'How much easier,' thought I, ‘it is to be wiser for others than ourselves!’ Had your father represented to Sir John the imprudence of marrying, at his years, a gay young girl, he might have made the same observation: but this truth he was soon convinced of by his own experience.

I HAD been near a year in France, when I received a letter from my uncle, very different from any of his former ones; for it was extremely affectionate. He expressed great uneasiness at my long absence, and much impatience for my return. This letter was accompanied with a large order upon his banker at Paris, whither we were now going, and permission to stay there a month: after which, he said, he would expect me; and, if his health permitted, Lady Harley and he would meet me at—. He said not a word of those causes of uneasiness which he had given me, (for when do men own they are in the wrong?) but concluded with professions of the tenderest attachment to me. You will easily conceive that, after the receipt of this letter, I passed my time very pleasantly at Paris; when, a few days before our intended departure, I received another letter from my uncle: it contained but a few lines; and those surprized me with an account of the death of Lady Harley. As I have not naturally a hard heart, nor an unforgiving temper, the death of this lady gave me a real concern, particularly on my uncle's account, who, I supposed, would be greatly afflicted. Mrs. Irwin agreed, that this news ought to hasten our journey, and accordingly we set out immediately upon our return.

MY uncle was surprized when he heard of my arrival so much sooner than he expected; and, I could perceive, was pleased at my readiness to oblige him. He received me very kindly; and, as I did not observe any signs of immoderate grief in his countenance, my compliments of condolence were but short. He mentioned my aunt only once, and employed but a few words on the subject. ‘Her illness,’ said he, ‘was sudden, and reached it's height before she was thought to be in any danger. The faculty complained of her obstinacy in refusing to be bled, and attributed her death to the want of that remedy.’ When my uncle took leave of me for the night, he said— ‘I will send Martin to you as soon as I am in bed; he will inform you of some circumstances that have happened during your absence.’ I believe you have seen this man: an old confidential servant, who had lived with him many years; and who, by his zeal and attachment, merited the great regard he expressed for him.

MY curiosity was strongly excited, as well by my uncle's behaviour as by these words, which seemed to indicate that something extraordinary had really happened. As soon as the good old man appeared, he congratulated me on my return with tears; and assured me the tenants and servants had constantly prayed for it. 'And they did not scruple,' pursued he, ‘to tell my lady herself how much they all longed to see you: and this seemed to displease her, for my lady was cunning by halves only; and although she persuaded my master that she was grieved for your absence, she did not take the same pains to deceive us.’

'SHE has certainly,' said I, ‘been less guarded on some occasion or other than usual, for my uncle is greatly altered with respect to her; he appears not to regret her death, and speaks of her with little affection.’

'AH, Madam!' said Mr. Martin, ‘there is good reason for that. I have a curious history to relate to you, if you can have the patience to hear it: my master ordered me to tell you every circumstance.’—'Pray sit down,' said I, 'and let me have it all.' He did so: and here is what he told me, and in his own words.

'You may remember, Madam,' said he, ‘how childishly fond my lady affected to be of her husband; it was much worse after you was gone. She was continually taking his hand, stroking his cheek, and would often kiss him before the servants. I was sorry to see my good master so played upon; and, if I durst, I would have told him that all was not gold that glisters. Mr. Greville, who, you know, Madam, is a very facetious old gentleman, and has a power of wit, used to joke with my master about his young wife's prodigious fondness for him; and would often say very home things, which my master would sometimes take very well, and sometimes answer peevishly to; but they had been great friends from their youth, so that it was not a little matter would part them. Now it happened that my master was taken with another fit of the gout, and grievous bad he was, so that the doctors were afraid that it was getting up into his stomach; and then, you know, Madam, all would have been over with him. My lady sat by his bed-side almost continually, sighing most piteously, and shedding rivers of tears while she was with him: but her maid used to say that, when she was in her own apartment, she had no need of an handkerchief to dry her eyes. Well, Madam, my poor master grew worse and worse; and my lady, to be sure, more and more sorrowful. And now my master resolved to alter his will: you may guess, Madam, who put that into his head. I was ordered to ride to town, and fetch Lawyer Grasp, and some more gentlemen of that persuasion. I perceived what was going forward: and, to be sure, Madam, I thought a new will, under my lady's direction, would not be favourable to you, and that it was fit some friend of yours should be present; and no one was more proper than Mr. Greville, who loves you so dearly, and was, besides, my master's most dear friend. So I ventured to say to my master—‘Does not your honour please that I should send or go for Mr. Greville upon this occasion?’ My lady looked as if she could have eat me; and my master said weakly—‘Mr. Greville is at his feat in— —, that is more than seventy miles distant: it will be too much trouble for him to come on such short notice.’— "Sir," said I, ‘I am sure he will not think so.’ My master seemed to pause upon it; when my lady, losing her temper quite, called me an officious fool; and, bursting into tears, said—‘Do you want to persuade your master that he is dying.—My dear Sir John, the physicians assure me you are better. Mr. Greville will be here in a week or two. Do not let this blockhead put such sad thoughts into your head!’ She sobbed violently while she was speaking, holding my master's hand to her lips all the time. My master then said—‘Let him go for the lawyers, however.’ Upon which my lady, looking very spitefully at me, said—"Do as you are ordered!" and I left the room immediately, with my heart full, as well for my dear master's danger, as for the injustice you were likely to suffer, my dear young lady.’

I INTERRUPTED the honest man here; to thank him for the affection he had shewn for me at a time when selfish policy would have pointed out a different conduct; and, I do assure you, I thanked him with an effusion of heart equal to his own. But I must break off here; I am summoned to dinner. My uncle has been riding this morning, which has given me leisure to scribble so much: he has brought Mr. Greville home to dinner. You cannot imagine how greatly I am obliged to this gentleman; but you shall know all in my next. My dear Euphemia, adieu!

MARIA HARLEY.

THE post not being yet gone out, I have time to add a few lines. Something that fell from Mr. Greville, relating to you, has alarmed me greatly. I fear, I fear, my sweet friend, you are not likely to be as happy in the married state as you deserve to be. Your husband, forgive my freedom, is thought to be ill-tempered; you are all sweetness, patience, and condescension: I foresee from this contrast, continual encroachments on one side; continual recedings on the other. You are one of those few persons who never contest what they think they cannot obtain. What a dangerous power will such a disposition throw into the hands of one who is disposed to use it tyrannically! Mr. Greville knows your husband; and this is what he said upon my telling my uncle, in answer to his enquiry how I had been amusing myself all the morning, that I had been writing to you. 'Poor Miss Lumley!' said he; ‘she is married to Mr. Neville, then! There is nothing’—a friend of mine said of himself, and may be applied to her—‘that could persuade a believer in modern miracles to confess that any thing is impossible to be done, but her ill fortune, which is unchangeable.’—'I hope not,' said my uncle. 'There is no more room for hope,' replied Mr. Greville: ‘she is married to the worst-tempered man in the world; and that has crowned all her misfortunes.’

You may judge, my dear Euphemia, how I was affected by this discourse: I asked a thousand questions about Mr. Neville; and every answer I received served to convince me that his temper will make you very miserable. Good Heaven! and is it with this man that you are to cross the Atlantic! This the protector, the friend, the companion, with whom you are to traverse an immense ocean, and live in unknown regions, far from your country and all you love! Surely you can never consent to it; he cannot be so unreasonable as to desire it. If his duty calls him hence, his tenderness for you ought to make him dispense with your accompanying him. You must stay with me, my dear Euphemia; my fortune is yours: my uncle will be a father to us both; he offers you his house for a retreat, and me for your companion till your husband returns.

I HAVE not time to add more. Pray think on what I have proposed, and the necessity there is for complying with it. Once more adieu, my dear friend!

LETTER V. MISS HARLEY, TO MRS. NEVILLE. IN CONTINUATION.

MY uncle is gone to spend a day or two with Mr. Greville; so I shall have full leisure for my pen, which is never so pleasingly employed as when I am writing to my dear Euphemia. Well, Martin went on with his story, which I shall continue to give you in his own words. ‘Finding I was not permitted to send for Mr. Greville in my master's name, I resolved, however, to write to him, and let him know what was going on; and this I did before I set out for the lawyer's, and put my letter myself into the post. I was sorry to find Mr. Grasp at home; so there could be no delay on that side. He told me he would call upon Counsellor Worden in his way, and bring him with him. With this answer I returned. My lady seemed not at all satisfied with the haste I had made, and her woman told me she shewed great impatience, and was very restless and uneasy all the time I was gone.’

WELL, Madam, the lawyers came at last; they were shut up with my master several hours, and my lady went backwards and forwards continually. At last the chaplain and I were called up to witness this fine will: the chaplain set his name, but, as Fortune would have it, I had cut my right thumb so desperately about an hour before, that I could not hold my pen, so I was excused, and Counsellor Worden's clerk signed instead of me; and right glad was I that I had escaped this odious office.

MY lady looked marvellously pleased when this affair was over; that is, when she was not in my master's chamber, for there her countenance was like December, all cold and surly, but all sunshine every where else.

As I waited on the lawyers to their carriage, I heard Counsellor Worden say to the attorney, ‘Sir John's next heir will not thank him for burthening his estate with such an enormous jointure for so young a life as Lady Harley's. And Miss Harley’, said the attorney, ‘has no reason to be pleased with the small provision that is made for her.’ They shook their wise heads at each other, and smiled, as much as to say, ‘Somebody has played her cards well.’ —Heaven forgive me, but I could not help hating them a little for the part they had in making this will: though to be sure they were no ways to blame, you know, Madam.

"No, certainly," said I, ‘but I long to hear of my uncle's recovery; methinks you leave him too long on this sick bed, Mr. Martin.’

'WHY, Madam,' replied the honest man, ‘he grew better and better every day after this, and was soon able to leave his bed, and when Mr. Greville came he found him walking about his chamber. I had just time to tell Mr. Greville all I knew of the matter, and he was sorely grieved at it, and lamented his not getting my letter sooner. My lady complained much of what she had suffered during my master's illness. ‘And yet you never looked better in your life, Madam,’ said he, dryly; ‘if grief is such a friend to your complexion, what will joy be? Why, your ladyship looks like May; but I am sorry,’ said he, turning to my master, ‘to see my good friend here look so much like January.’ ’

THERE was some joke in this, I found; for Mr. Greville looked archly at my master, who blushed; and my lady seemed half pleased and half angry. My lady's woman went tittering out of the room, and I followed, curious to know what she laughed at. "Oh, Mr. Martin," said she, ‘if you had read as many books as I have, you would know what that comical gentleman luded to. Why, there is a tale in rhyme about January, an old knight, who married a young lady called May, and she made a fool of him; and Mr. Greville as good as called my master and lady January and May—there was the jest, Mr. Martin.’

I WAS afraid the old man might have sported with this idea too far, so I thought fit to look very grave; upon which he recollected himself, and went on.

MR. Greville staid several days at the Hall, and during that time I believe he talked in a pretty home manner to my master; for I observed, that, whenever they had had some private conversation, my master would be in a musing mood a long time afterwards. My lady on these occasions always redoubled her fondness; and Mr. Greville used to cut his jokes without mercy; At length he went away; and now my lady, having my master all to herself, played all her old tricks over, but not with the same success as formerly; for my master, though he recovered his health, did not appear half so well pleased as usual; and used to be often talking of you, Madam, and wishing for your return: and at last he said he would write to you, and insist upon your coming home immediately. My lady was confounded, and brought a great many bad reasons, as my master told her, to put him off this design: and finding she could not prevail that way, she fairly told him, that your temper was so bad, it was impossible to live with you; and hereupon she cried bitterly.

My master was not moved, as she expected, but seemed a little angry, and defended you, Madam, very cordially, and in conclusion wrote to you, and gave me the letter before her face to get it properly conveyed to you, and glad was I of the office, you may be sure. After this his Honour was continually speaking of you, and always in your praise; so that my lady was sufficiently mortified.

I HAVE often observed, my dear Euphemia, let a calumniator be ever so artful, all that which does not directly hurt the persons abused, turns to their advantage. This charge of bad tempers appeared to my uncle so ill-founded, that it led him to weigh thoroughly many other faults she had accused me of, and to compare my behaviour with the picture she used to draw of my disposition; and the result of this candid investigation was so favourable for me, that upon my return I had reason to believe I stood higher in his opinion than ever, as the sequel of my little History will shew you.

BUT here I will conclude for the present; a Letter from you is this moment brought me; does it or does it not bring an answer favourable to my wishes? —I break the seal with eagerness. —Ah, my dear Euphemia, your first words destroy all my hopes. Adieu.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER VI. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

MY DEAR MARIA,

DESTINED to live under the control of another, I find obedience to be a very necessary virtue, and in my case it is an indispensable duty. I am a wife; I know to what that sacred tie obliges me: I am determined, by Heaven's assistance, to fulfil the duties of my station. My lot is cast perhaps for misery here; the future will be like the past: so my foreboding heart suggests. I have drawn a blank in the great lottery of life, but there is a state beyond this, in which my hopes aspire to a prize: to that all my wishes, all my endeavours tend. Philosophy may teach us to bear the past and future evils; but it is the Christian only that can endure the present with fortitude. Oh, my dear Maria, what could have supported me under my affliction for the death of my mother, but that active faith which made resignation to the will of Heaven at once my duty and my reward? —I perceive all the hardships of my situation, but I cannot avoid them without a crime; it is my duty to follow my husband; and what in other circumstances I should certainly have done from inclination, I do now from better motives—from a sense of those sacred obligations which the state I have entered into lays upon me; and which, whatever mortifications I may meet with in the discharge of them, are still indispensable.

BUT how shall I thank you, my dear friend, for your kind and generous offers? how shall I make you sensible of the gratitude that fills, that more than fills, that oppresses my heart, for this proof of your friendship? Words here are weak, and deeds, alas! are not in my power, for I am poor in every thing but in will. Do not, however, imagine my leaving this country such a misfortune; except you, I have nothing to regret, for the unfortunate have few friends; here every object reminds me of my former state, and makes the present more sensibly felt. Every place where I have seen my mother, renews my grief for her loss. Change of scene, new objects, and different cares, may perhaps weaken this sad idea, and restore me some degree of tranquillity. Let this consideration reconcile you to my departure; and though separated, we will not be wholly absent—our minds shall meet in converse—a constant intercourse of letters shall bring us within view of each other—shall communicate our joys and sorrows, our hopes and fears, and all the little, as well as considerable, events of our lives.

I WILL make it a rule to retire every day to my closet, for an hour at least, to talk to you; and every ship that sails for England shall bring a packet from your Euphemia, which shall leave you ignorant of nothing that concerns her. Tell me, Maria, how you like this scheme, and whether you can resolve to be as punctual in the performance of your part of it, as I propose to be of mine: meantime I will continue to give you a relation of such of my affairs as you are yet ignorant of, but not in this letter, which I dispatch immediately, to bear my warmest acknowledgments for your most generous offers, to acquaint you with my reasons for declining them, and to share with you that comfort I derive from the plan I communicate. Present my best respects, and grateful thanks, to your good uncle, for his kind proposals; and do not let me wait long for the rest of your History. My curiosity is wound up to a very high pitch by what you have already related; and I am charmed with the honest zeal and affecting simplicity of your humble friend. I wait impatiently for the remainder of his narration: —my griefs are all suspended while I read your letters; and is not this a sufficient motive to make you hasten them to me? Farewel, my dear and most valuable friend.

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER VII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

NOTHING can be offered in opposition to the arguments you use in support of your resolution to leave England with your husband. My heart murmurs, it is true; but my reason approves —Approves, did I say?—I admire, I love, I almost adore you, my excellent friend! —Blame not the warmth of my expressions. Must we not revere virtue, unless it be consecrated by antiquity? What were the merits of an Arria•, or a Portia, to your's? —Love produced in them those great actions, for which they are so famous. Religion and duty are the nobler motives which influence your's. To die for the man one loves is not an act of such heroism, as to chuse misery with the man one has no reason to love, because we consider it to be our duty to do so.

IT is the fate of the best things to be either wholly neglected, or at most but little known. Such is this noble conduct of your's; for few will know it, and fewer still admire it. I, who am the greatest loser by it, am yet capable of admiring it, and this is a merit you must permit me to be vain of, since it costs me so dear.

BUT it is time to introduce Mr. Martin again. You tell me your griefs are suspended while you read my Letters; and this is sufficient to make me devote the greatest part of my time to writing, were I at liberty to follow my inclinations. But I have no will of my own, my dear Euphemia; I am a slave to that of another. Reconcile this, if you can, with what I told you of the happy change in my fortune: or, if you cannot, wait patiently for my explanation, which will come in due time. But now hear Mr. Martin, who went on in this manner:

THE doctors, Madam, finding my master in so fine a way of recovery, told him, that change of air would set him quite up again; and so he accepted Mr. Greville's invitation to pass a week or two at his seat. Mr. Greville being a single man, my lady thought she should be troublesome to him; so she stayed behind at the Hall: but she wept over my master when he took leave of her, as if they were never to meet again. However, she quickly recovered her spirits, and passed her time very merrily with Lady Flareit, and some other gay ladies in the neighbourhood. There was nothing but airings and visiting, and dining and supping; and Colonel Flareit, Lady Flareit's kinsman, always made one; and he was so very obsequious to my lady, that her woman said, if my master should happen to die, it would certainly be a match; but my lady was wiser, I believe, than that comes to; for Colonel Flareit, you know, Madam, has no estate.

WELL, Madam, in the midst of all this jollity, news came, that my master, being out a hunting, had fallen from his horse, and was taken up dead. The whole family was in tears and lamentation, but my lady was more composed, because she did not believe the report; "for if it was true," she said, ‘she should have notice of it by a messenger sent express by Mr. Greville.’ This seemed likely; but, for all that, I was impatient to set out for Greville Park, to know the truth: but it being very late in the evening when the news came, my lady ordered me not to stir till the next morning, when I might set out as soon as I pleased. And now she thought sit to make a show of sorrow, and shed a few tears before her woman and I. But, for all that, we thought we could perceive that she would not be sorry to be a rich young widow.

WELL, Madam, I passed an anxious night, Heaven knows! and the moment it was light I mounted and rode away.

BEING still weak with my distemper, I could not make as much haste as my impatience required; and at the very second stage I saw Mr. Greville's postchaise, and himself in it, drive into the inn-yard. I was now seized with such a fit of trembling, that I could neither sit my horse nor alight, so one of the hostlers helped me, and I followed Mr. Greville to a room where he was sitting. —‘Oh, Sir! my master, my master!’ was all I could bring out. His very looks, however, relieved me instantly, as well as his words.'

‘WHAT does the simpleton mean,’ s;aid he, ‘by trembling and looking so pale? What, you have heard of the accident then? —Well, your master has got off for only a few slight bruises.’ —"Heaven be praised," said I, ‘for this good news! but we heard that he had broke his neck, and all us at the Hall are in the deepest affliction.’ "How!" said Mr. Greville, ‘Does your lady believe Sir John is dead?’ "Not absolutely, Sir," replied I; ‘s;he said, if it was true, a messenger would be sent express to inform her, and no one had come yet.’—"A wise woman," said Mr. Greville; ‘she was in the right not to be lavish of her tears upon an uncertainty: but, Martin,’ pursued he, after thinking a little, ‘I have a mind to know how she will take his death, when she believes it to be certain. Sir John, poor man, believing his consinement is likely to be long, though that is by no means the case, was desirous of his lady's company, so I could do no less than offer my service to conduct her to him, and that was the sole motive of my journey: but now I am resolved to have a little diversion from it. Can you keep a secret, Martin?’—‘I believe I can, Sir,’ said I; ‘my master has trusted me with many.’—‘Ah, I do not doubt it,’ said Mr. Greville, shaking his head: ‘Well, then, my design is, to tell your lady that the report of Sir John's death was but too true.’—"Oh, Sir," cried I, ‘you know how fond my lady is of her husband; this trial will be very hard upon her.’—‘You are a rogue,’ said he, smiling, ‘I see that; but you will be secret.’—‘But Sir,’ said I, ‘your servants will betray the matter.’—"Never fear that," said he; ‘I will give them their instructions; so send them up to me.’ I did so; and after Mr. Greville had tutored them properly, we all set out for the Hall.

MR. Greville, in consideration of my late illness, had the goodness to take me into the chaise with him, and all the way he diverted himself with the scheme he had formed, and with telling me what to say, and how to behave.

WELL, Madam, we had scarce entered the avenue, when, Mr. Greville's carriage and servants being perceived by one of our men, the whole family was in motion, and came crowding round us. "Is the sad news true?" cried several voices at once. Mr. Greville's servants shook their heads in a melancholy way. "Alas! then it is too true," they all repeated, and ran back in great disorder into the house, which they filled with their lamentations. Mr. Greville, alighting, said in a solemn tone, ‘If Lady Harley is at leisure, let her be informed I am come.’ He followed the butler, who, with eyes full of tears, shewed him into my master's library, and withdrew to acquaint my lady.

IT was with difficulty I could break from the servants, who hung upon me, lamenting, and inquiring—but I was curious to see how my lady would receive Mr. Greville; so I hastened after him.

HE was seated, and had taken a book; "for," said he to me, ‘I cannot expect to have an audience so soon: the lady will take time to settle the face she is to wear upon this trying occasion:’ and to be sure, Madam, my lady was a full hour before she sent to desire Mr. Greville would be pleased to come to her in her dressing-room.

MR. Greville obeyed immediately, but with a slow step, and solemn air. I attended him; but I believe I did not act my part so well as his Honour; for my fellow-servants have since told me, that they thought my grief was not very violent. We found my lady halflying on a settee, with a handkerchief at her eyes, so that she did not perceive our entrance. Her woman was standing close by her with a smelling bottle, which she offered her, and at the same time told her, Mr. Greville was there. My lady then, drawing aside her handkerchief, just looked up, and crying, "Ah, Mr. Greville!" clapped it close to her eyes again, and continued silent.

‘I CANNOT blame you, Madam; I cannot blame you,’ said Mr. Greville; ‘your grief is great, and so is your cause for grief:—you have lost a good husband, but that is not all;— you have lost—’ At that word my lady started, let fall her handkerchief, and fixed her eyes upon Mr. Greville, impatiently expecting him to proceed, for here the poor gentleman was seized with a violent cough, which held him for two or three minutes.

ALL that time I observed my lady heedfully: her colour went and came — she seemed hardly able to draw her breath, still keeping her fixed looks upon Mr. Greville, who, recovering, went on:— ‘Yes, Madam, as I was saying, you have lost beside a good husband’—My lady seemed now ready to die with impatience, for Mr. Greville paused, as if fearful of his cough returning; then slowly added, ‘You have lost a friend, a protector, an amiable companion;—Sir John was all this to you, Madam; and how dear you were to him, you will (if you do not know it already) soon know.’

MY lady was again at leisure for her tears: she resumed her handkerchief, and Mr. Greville his fine speeches, which lasted till I was desired to let my lady know that dinner was served. Mr. Greville then offered his hand to lead her down, but she declined it, saying, she must entreat him to dispense with her attending him at table, since her melancholy situation would plead her excuse. Mr. Greville allowed it; and only beseeching her to moderate her sorrow, if possible, bowed, and quitted the room.

I THEN advanced, and asked if her ladyship had any commands for me? She answered haughtily, "No!" and I followed Mr. Greville, who, seeing me enter the dining-parlour, said to the other servants, ‘You need not wait, my lads, my old friend here will be sufficient to attend me:’ accordingly they left the room.

MR. Greville made a sign to me to fasten the door, which I did; ‘And now,’ said he, ‘let me have my laugh out, for I am almost strangled.’

WHAT diverted Mr. Greville most, Madam, was, that he had thrown my lady quite off her guard when he made her apprehend a greater loss than that of her husband; for to be sure, Madam, my lady was quite in earnest then, and looked frighted out of her wits; for she supposed, as Mr. Greville intended she should, that my master had made some alteration in his will before the accident happened.

BUT here I must drop Mr. Martin and his narration for the present, for I have only time to make up my letter, which you must acknowledge is of a tolerable length; therefore adieu my dear Euphemia. Alas, the moment is approaching when I must bid you adieu for a long, an indefinite time. This is a sad thought; but since I have well considered your admirable reasons for a resolution so contrary to my hopes and wishes, I perceive a sort of calm acquiescence steal upon my mind, which gathers strength every moment. Yet you must not on this account imagine I love you less; I endeavour to imitate your fortitude, and to make myself worthy of your esteem.

MARIA HARLEY.

WHY have I not a letter from you? Must I charge you with breach of promise in not sending me the remainder of your affecting story?

LETTER VIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

NO, my dear Maria, I do not think you love me less than you did, but that you love me more wisely. But were it possible for me to suspect the sincerity of your affection, it would be from the extravagant eulogium you bestow on me, for what in my opinion is but an ordinary effect of duty and obedience.

SURELY then you mean to excite me to virtue by a new subtilty, and the praises you give me are but disguised exhortations. Take notice, this is the construction I shall put upon all such language from you; and if you would not be thought rather to dictate than to commend, avoid it for the future.

BUT to shew you that I am as little disposed to submit to unjust censure as to undeserved praise, I will not receive patiently your charge of being a promise-breaker. Every thing that is promised and not done, is not a violation of faith or breaking of promise, since accident has so much, to do in the ordering of small events. The large packet that will soon follow this letter will convince you that I have been employed in obeying your commands; and I have given you my History, as you call it, down to the present moment, without interruption, that you may no longer be ignorant of the causes and motives of the most important transaction of my life, and from which that life must hereafter take all its colour.

I HAVE been very much entertained with your friend Martin's relation, and like his manner extremely well, which your memory has so faithfully preserved; but I am not quite pleased with the method Mr. Greville hit upon to realise his doubts of Lady Harley's sincerity. He laid himself under the necessity of telling a direct falsehood, and of supporting that falsehood by many little artifices, not easily practised by an ingenuous mind. But your men of wit and ridicule have a very relaxed moral on certain occasions. A man of plain good sense starts at these humorous violations of truth, and thinks his reputation would be ruined for ever by such bold flights.

BUT I ought to remember that it is my dear Maria's friend whose conduct I am censuring, and that it was for her service chiefly he devised this stratagem: therefore, though I cannot absolve, yet I am willing to pardon; for I confess my integrity is scarcely proof against so high a bribe. My dear friend, adieu.

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER IX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

AND do you really resolve to put such a strange construction upon the just tribute paid by a friend to your merit? Must my praises be considered as disguised exhortations? Let me tell you, you avoid presumption by a contrary extreme, since envy itself would give you that which your own modesty takes away.

BUT, notto offend you further by dwelling on this theme, you shall now have the remainder of Mr. Martin's relation; his simplicity pleases you; and I have been careful to make no alteration in his style and manner: thus then he went on:—

MR. Greville, as soon as he had dined, sent to beg my lady would favour him with a short interview before his departure, which he said the occasion required should be immediately. Accordingly he was admitted to see her. He told her, that he intended to get as far on his way home that night as he possibly could, and would call upon Mr. Mainwaring, and the executor, to settle all matters relating to the funeral. He desired to know if her ladyship had any particular commands to favour him with: to which she answered, ‘Pray, Mr. Greville, do not consult me upon these sad affairs; I leave all to your discretion.’

"BUT, Madam," said Mr. Greville, ‘I earnestly recommend it to you to arm yourself with fortitude; the body must be brought here to-morrow or next day at farthest.’

"As you please," said my lady, ‘but I entreat you spare me any further discourse upon this melancholy subject.’

ALL this, Madam, Mr. Greville told me was said with the utmost composure of look and accent; so, to be short, Madam, he took his leave; and, as my ague now returned with great violence, this served for a good reason for my not going with him, so I went up to my chamber; but, as I afterwards found, my lady did not know I was in the house, for she concluded I was gone with Mr. Greville.

THAT very evening Lady Flareit came to condole with my lady, and supper was served up in her dressing-room; and nobody was allowed to wait but her woman, in whom my lady had great confidence, which she did not deserve, for she was very deceitsul. Now it happened that my name was mentioned upon some occasion or other, upon which Mrs. Wilson said I was very ill.

MY lady was much surprised to hear I was in the house, and declared I should not stay another moment in it. ‘He is a busy meddling fellow,’ said she; ‘he gained his master's good will by his fawning and his lies. Poor Sir John had no very strong head, and even this paltry fellow could make a dupe of him. Go, Wilson, and tell him to leave the Hall immediately.’ Mrs. Wilson told her that I was ill, and gone to bed.

"No matter," said my lady; ‘he may go to the next inn; he is rich enough to procure accommodation any where—I am determined he shall not stay in the house—I am mistress here, and will be obeyed.’

"LORD, Madam!" said Mrs. Wilson, as she told me afterwards, ‘does your ladyship consider what a clamour this will make: every one knows my late good master had a great regard for Mr. Martin; he has served him faithfully many years, you know Madam, and faithful servants ought not to be used so.’

"YOUR late good master," said my lady, ‘has well rewarded him for his services, such as they were. But methinks you are very bold to stand arguing with me thus; go and deliver my orders— tell him to be gone: and here,’ said she, kicking a little French dog that my master was very fond of — ‘bid him take this animal with him. This was a favourite too, and was allowed to snarl, and bark, and spoil the carpets, and no one, not even myself, durst find fault with him.’

MRS. Wilson took up the dog, and came to my room, and told me all that had passed. I was thundershook in a manner; and making no answer, she asked me what she should say to my lady?

"GIVE my duty to her ladyship," said I, ‘and tell her that I will obey her commands to-morrow morning as soon as it is day, but for this night I hope she will excuse me; and as for the dog, I will take care of it for my dear master's sake; and so good night, Mrs. Wilson.’ She smiled, and said I acted quite right; so she went away, and I bolted the door after her, and went to bed.

I KNOW not how my lady took this answer, for early the next morning I got up, and, finding myself much better, I went to the stable, made the groom saddle my horse, and I set out for Mr. Greville's seat.

I ARRIVED there the next day about noon, and had the satisfaction to hear that my master was quite well; for indeed his hurt had been but very inconsiderable. I desired Mr. Greville's valet to tell his master that I was come, and begged to speak to him in private before I waited on my master.

MR. Greville ordered me to come to him in his study, and expressed much surprise at seeing me. I told him all that had passed, and how my lady had, turned me out of doors, and the little dog with me.

MR. Greville rubbed his hands, and cried out joyfully, ‘So, this goes well; she has shewn the cloven foot: what will my old friend say to this?’

"DOES my master know, Sir, said I, ‘of the trick you have put upon my, lady?’

"OH, yes," said he, ‘and laughs at the jest: but I fancy the story you have to tell will put some serious thoughts into his head. Come, I will bring you to him.’

I FOLLOWED Mr. Greville into my master's chamber, who was walking; about, and looked so well that my joy quite overpowered me, and I burst into tears.

"WELL, Martin," said my master, ‘I believe you are glad to find me alive: but what brings you here? I heard you was not well: and why have you brought my poor Fidelle with you?’ added he, caressing the dog, who had got out of my arms, and was jumping about him.

I CAST down my eyes, and was silent, not knowing how to tell the matter. My master then perceived that something extraordinary had happened, and said hastily, ‘Why don't you answer me, Martin?’

"I BELIEVE I must answer for him," said Mr. Greville, ‘for the poor man is half ashamed of the matter; but the truth is, my lady, firmly believing that she is now whole and sole sovereign, has, in the plenitude of her power, taken upon her to turn your faithful servant, and your favourite dog, out of doors.’

"How is this?" said my master, eagerly: then suddenly stopping, he mused a little, and added, with a smile, ‘She has played you trick for trick; but considering that Martin was ill, this was carrying the jest too far. But, pray what cause did she assign for this treatment?’

‘MY lady accuses me of being a spy, a busy body, and a mischief-maker, Sir,’ said I; ‘and as for the dog, her ladyship makes heavy complaints of him, for such faults as dogs are often guilty of, to be sure; but I never thought Fidelle was one of those.’

MY master now laughed heartily, at which, I thought, Mr. Greville looked a little silly. ‘I see you take this matter right,’ said he to my master, in a peevish tone.

"WHY yes," said my master, ‘I believe I do: but come, I am resolved to act a part in this farce; I find myself strong enough to undertake a longer journey than that to my own house; so, if you please, we will set out to-morrow; and I will surprise Lady Harley with the ghost of her husband.’

"WITH all my heart," said Mr. Greville, ‘but if your sudden appearance should frighten her into fits, I am guiltless of the consequences; for I do assure you, she thinks you are actually dead.’

‘INDEED I am persuaded she has been laughing at you all this time,’ said my master.

"WELL," replied Mr. Greville, ‘I have no more to say; but I hope you will have your jest too.’

"THAT is what I intend," said my master. He then ordered me to go and take care of myself; and I withdrew, a little apprehensive of his difpleasure, because he did not take this matter as Mr. Greville expected.

HOWEVER, I had an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Greville that evening, and he assured me, my master was not angry with any of us; that was his phrase. "Though some of us," says he, ‘certainly deserve that he should be so. He talks of what has past very pleasantly; but I think I can perceive he has some serious thoughts about it, for he is often pensive and silent.’

WELL, Madam, my master set out next day at noon, with Mr. Greville, for the Hall. He would have had me stay behind a day or two to recover myself; but I told him, I found myself well enough to attend him: and truly I would not upon any account have missed the scene I expected to see.

WE lay that night at a friend of Mr. Greville's, who had heard the report of my master's death, and was rejoiced to find it without foundation. We left this gentleman's house so late in the day, that it was night before we reached the Hall. No one took any notice of my master, who was wrapt up in his great coat and his hat slouched; he followed Mr. Greville up stairs, who had asked for my lady, and was told she was in her own apartment.

A SERVANT announced Mr. Greville to my lady's woman, who was in waiting; and Mr. Greville, without ceremony, followed her into my lady's dressing room, my master being close at his heels; and to be sure, Madam, there was my lady, not mourning like a sorrowful widow, but sitting at supper with Lady Flareit and the Colonel, and they all seemed very cheerful.

‘YOUR servant, your servant, good people,’ said my master, gaily taking off his hat, ‘will you permit a couple of hungry travellers to partake with you?’

MY lady, who had seemed lost in astonishment and terror at the sound of his voice, no sooner saw his face, than she screamed aloud and fell into a fainting fit. Lady Flareit cried out, ‘A ghost!’ hid her eyes with her apron, and trembled like an aspen-leaf; and the Colonel, starting up, clapped his hand "instinctively," aye, that was Mr. Greville's word, upon his sword, and, opening his eyes as wide as he could, stood staring at my master from a corner of the room, who was very busy in endeavouring to recover my lady, which at last, with the assistance of her woman, who sprinkled her face plentifully with water, he effected.

BUT as soon as she opened her eyes, and saw my master, she seemed ready to relapse; upon which Lady Flareit, who was now, by the assistance of Mr. Greville, quite recovered from her fright, approached, and taking her hand, said, ‘Come, Lady Harley, let me lead you to your chamber; Sir John, this was a cruel jest.’—‘It was all Grevslle's doings,’ said my master; ‘therefore, pray, my dear,’ said he to my lady, who went tottering out of the room, leaning upon Lady Flareit's arms, ‘do not be too much discomposed, but return again soon, if you would not spoil my supper.’

COLONEL Flareit then came forward, looking a little foolish, I thought, as if he did not know how to take my master's gaiety. "Come, Colonel," said my master, come and finish your supper, otherwise I shall think you are still afraid.

"AFRAID, Sir!" said the Colonel; "Aye, afraid," said my matter; ‘why Colonel a soldier may be afraid of a ghost, without any disparagement to his courage: but after all,’ continued my master, laughing, ‘you have all acted your parts very well; and my friend Greville need not boast much of the success of his trick; for I am confident, there is not one of you that was imposed upon for a single moment, by the story he invented of my death; therefore the laugh, I think, is fairly turned upon him.’

THE Colonel said not a word; and Mr. Greville seemed utterly at a loss how to understand my master, so he continued to eat in silence.

AT length Lady Flareit came in, looking very grave; and was going to speak, but my master prevented her; crying out, ‘So, Lady Harley is not with you, I see; she would fain carry on the jest a little further, and persuade me that she really thought I was dead; but I know better; she is not so good an actress as she thinks; and yet, after all, she imposed upon Greville, I believe.’

LADY Flareit now cleared up all on a sudden. "Ah," said she to my master, ‘you have found us out; we intended to mortify you by our pretended indifference; but, however, your sudden appearance surprised Lady Harley; you know she has very weak nerves; she is really not well, and is gone to bed.’—‘I am sorry for that,’ said my master, ‘I hoped she would have joined the laugh against this plotter here,’ clapping Mr. Greville on the back.

LADY Flareit now returned to my lady; telling the Colonel, that she would go home in a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Wilson informed me, that this time was spent in close conversation between the two ladies, which she could not hear distinctly; but Lady Flareit seemed endeavouring to persuade my lady to something. She was sent to acquaint the Colonel, that her lady ship was ready; so he took leave of my master and Mr. Greville, and they went away together.

EARLY the next morning, I saw my master and Mr. Greville walking together upon the lawn, seemingly in deep discourse. When they came in to breakfast, my lady sent her woman with an apology, for her not being able to attend them, having had a very indifferent night. My master expressed great concern for her illness; and desired her woman to let him know when she was up, that he might go and see her: then hastily turning to me, he said, ‘Get ready immediately to go for Worden and Grasp; I have some business for them to do, which I think ought not to be delayed, lest I should die in good earnest.’ Mrs. Wilson heard these words, and hurried away to tell her lady; and I was as eager to execute my commission.

I BROUGHT them both with me to the Hall. My master was in my lady's chamber when they arrived; and as soon as he had notice of it, he joined them in his study. Mr. Greville was there; and they continued a long time together.

My master detained the two lawyers to dinner; at which my lady, being still indisposed, did not appear. The next morning, Mr. Greville set out for his own seat: he shook my hand, as I attended him to his carriage, saying, in a low voice, ‘All goes right, honest Martin.’ I understood his Honour, and was heartily glad of it.

WHEN Mr. Greville was gone, my lady appeared at table as usual; but so sullen, so silent, that my master could hardly get a word out of her, though he was very complaisant and civil to her. Mrs. Wilson told me, that she could hear Lady Flareit, who seldom missed a day coming to see her, often chide her for her behaviour; telling her, she was wrong, quite wrong: but my lady could not be persuaded to alter it; continuing cold, reserved, and even peevish. But my master seemed to take no notice of this strange alteration in her manner towards him: he was often talking of you, Madam, and pleasing himself with the expectation of seeing you soon. He ordered your apartset of wrought dressing-plate for your toilet came from London, which my lady scarcely condescended to look at; saying coldly, when my master asked her opinion, that it was mighty pretty.

A GREAT alteration now appeared in my lady's looks; and it was apparent that her secret discontents had hurt her health. My master proposed to her change of air, and a journey to Paris; she said, she would rather go to some of the watering places. But she grew visibly worse, and at length was seized with a violent fever. The physicians had very little hopes from the first; and all their arguments and intreaties could not prevail upon her to be bled: so she died, as one may say, by her own fault.

MY master was very kind to her during her illness; but she was seldom sensible, and scarce ever spoke. The day she died, he continued shut up in his closet for several hours; and the next morning set out for Mr. Greville's, seat. She was buried in the family vault with great solemnity; but, I am sorry to say, not much lamented; for her lady ship was not very charitable to the poor; and she always behaved to the tenants and small gentry in the neighbourhood with great haughtiness.

HERE Mr. Martin ended his narration, which took up two or three of my evenings in listening to; and I have given it you almost in his very words. What more I have to tell you on this subject must be deferred till my next. But now adieu! my ever dear Euphemia.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER X. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

MY DEAR MARIA,

I SHALL never for the future rank your uncle with men of common understanding; his whole conduct with regard to Lady Harley, on the most trying occasion imaginable, displays a fund of good sense and philosophy, rarely to be met with in persons, who, like him, have spent so great a part of their lives in the pursuit of pleasure.

How nicely has he steered between two extremes, equally fatal to his reputation. Had he appeared insensible of her levities, and indifferent to the ungrateful returns she made to his affection, he would have passed for a dupe: had he avowed his resentment, he would have authorised suspicions that would have ruined her character, and fixed ridicule upon his own; he escaped both these rocks by the most masterly management imaginable, and neither malice nor ridicule can find a shaft to hit him.

I AM not surprised at the despair which Lady Harley seems to have fallen into. The most common view persons have, when they commit imprudent actions, is the probability of always finding out some resource or other: but Lady Harley, in this case, could have no such hope; she had fixed her husband's opinion of her irrevocably, and the very methods he used to render her less contemptible in the eyes of the world, served only to lessen her more in her own. But peace be to her ashes, and oblivion to her memory!

I AM particularly impatient for your next letter, in hopes that it will clear up an ambiguous expression in one of your former ones, that has puzzled me greatly; you say, you have no will of your own, and that you are a slave to that of another; pray make me understand this. Adieu! my dear Maria.

LETTER XI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

I WISH I could with any propriety have shewn my uncle some part of your last letter; even the wise might be pardoned for indulging a little vanity at receiving praises from judgment and sincerity like yours; but you will easily conceive this would not have been proper, at least at this time, after what I am going to tell you.

MARTIN having informed him that he had obeyed his commands, and given me a very particular (and you must own, my friend, that it was a very particular) account of all that had happened during my absence, my uncle spoke to me in this manner:

‘You have heard from Martin some very interesting circumstances relating to your aunt and me; you have candour and good sense; I doubt not but you will judge rightly of my conduct. I only intreat you never to mention Lady Harley to me in private, and in public be as reserved on that subject as I am. Mr. Greville,’ he added, ‘is certainly your friend; you owe him some acknowldgments;’ and these, my dear, I did not fail to pay him the very first opportunity, with an effusion of heart which convinced him of my gratitude.

I WAS obliged to listen to some humrous sallies on my aunt's account, and even to smile at them, for indeed it would have been very difficult to refrain; however, he always spared my uncle, which, considering his fondness for raillery, was an instance of selfdenial that had some merit in it.

MY aunt's woman was still in the house; she expected to have made her court to me by throwing out some reflections upon her late lady, and by making an ample discovery of all she knew; but I silenced her by a severe look, and an absolute command never to speak to me on the subject.

MY uncle left it to me to do as I pleased with regard to her; I had reason to think her very deceitful, and incapable of being true to any one; I resolved to discharge her immediately; so I gave her all her late lady's clothes and linen, with what money she had in her pockets when she died, and dismissed her, to the great joy of the servants, who had all of them, at one time or other, experienced her treachery.

You will call Mr. Greville a bold man, when I tell you he would read your last letter, notwith standing all I could do to hinder him; he came in when I was writing, and saw it lying on my table, and actually read it through; and this is what he said when he returned it to me: ‘No modesty is able to resist the praises that come from your amiable friend; and although I have hitherto thought vanity a ridiculous quality, yet I protest I should take a pleasure in being corrupted by her.’

HE prest me much to shew my uncle what you said of him; but I pleaded his absolute command not to mention Lady Harley to him; and he agreed that he ought to be obeyed.

THIS unlooked for intrusion of Mr. Greville's will teach me caution; I will always fasten my door for the future when I sit down to write to you. But I will now explain to you what I meant when I told you my uncle was kinder to me than ever, and yet I had no will of my own, but was a slave to that of another.

IT is that kindness of his that has enslaved my will, my dear Euphemia, that has loaded me with a debt of gratitude which I can never be able to pay, and has fixed shackles upon my mind which it is impossible for me ever to unloose, Mark the method he took to produce this voluntary subjection.

SOME little time after my return from France, Mr. Greville being upon a visit at the Hall, my uncle sent for me into his study, where he was sitting with his friend; they had papers lying upon the table before them, one of which, upon my entrance, my uncle took, and, presenting it to Mr. Greville, ‘Here, Sir,’ said he, ‘is a deed of gift to my niece of the greatest part of my personal estate, amounting to about twenty thousand pounds, which, as her guardian and trustee, I lodge in your hands. It is all placed on government securities, for the interest of which you are to be accountable to her only from the present moment, and to pay into her hands for her sole use and benefit.’

'BE not surprised,' pursued he, 'child,' taking my hand, and leading me, all amazed and speechless, to a chair next his own, ‘I believe you have a sincere affection for me, and I am willing to enjoy the pleasure this thought gives me, pure and unmixed with the least shadow of a doubt. What I intended to bequeath you at my death I give you now, irrevocably, that you may be free and absolute mistress of yourself, and that having nothing more to hope, or any thing to fear, from me, your actions may be as unconstrained as your thoughts, and your real affection for me liable to no misconstructions.’

IT was easy to perceive, by this conduct of my uncle, my dear Euphemia, what an impression Lady Harley's duplicity and artifice had made upon his mind, and how much he apprehended being thought the dupe of female subtilty a second time. His favourable opinion of me was also evident; and this was the point to which, as I conceived, delicacy obliged me only to answer.

MY heart was full, but I endeavoured to suppress my emotions; and taking his hand, which I respectfully kissed, while an involuntary tear at the same time dropped upon it, ‘I am obliged to you, Sir,’ said I, ‘not so much for making me rich, or for making me rich before my time, but for putting it in my power to shew you’—‘I understand you, my dear niece,’ said he, hastily interrupting me,— ‘we understand one another, I believe, and we shall both be the happier for it. Would to Heaven,’ added he, with some emotion, ‘that the estate of my family, which falls to a collateral branch which I have no reason to love, could have been your's likewise.’—‘Come, no more of this,’ said Mr. Greville, ‘my fair ward here will have enough of that pelf, which, as Pope says, ‘Buys the sex a tyrant in itself.’ ’

MR. Greville very judiciously end ea voured to give the conversation a gayer turn, to r••ieve my uncle and me from the very awkward situation we found ourselves in, while he was afraid of hearing acknowledgments, which my full heart left me not the power of expressing. And thus, my friend, has the independence my uncle bestowed on me been the beginning of my slavery, for I cannot, I ought not, to have any will but that of a benefactor who has acted with such uncommon generosity.

THE power to follow my inclinations is secured to me, but my will is fettered by the obligations I lie under. Thus, for instance, my heart impels me to fly to you, to sooth, to comfort, to assist you in your present situation; and I should most certainly have asked his permission for a short absence, if he had not, by making me my own mistress, deprived himself, as he thinks, of the power of refusing; and my company being now more necessary to him than ever, I cannot give the least hint that I have a wish that way, for fear of laying him under the necessity of doing what may be disagreeable to him. But perhaps his own good fense may suggest to him to offer what I cannot ask, and then you may depend upon seeing me in London.

I HAVE this moment received the longexpected packet; but I must rein in my impatience, and not open it till I retire for the night; for this whole day I shal1 be employed, in reading to my uncle, who is a little indisposed, and cannot take his usual ride, My dear Euphemia, adieu.

LETTER XII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

BEFORE I continue my little narrative, I must entreat you, my dear Maria, not to suffer these papers to be seen by any person but yourself; they will contain a faithful account of my affairs, and give you a just picture of my situation: and consequently I shall be obliged to touch upon the faults of one who, from the near relation in which he stands to me, has claims upon my tenderness and respect, which even those faults cannot dispense with me from allowing him. Mine, I know, your friendship would spare and conceal; and he, being a part of myself, for him I expect the same indulgence.

I HAVE already repeated what Mrs. Benson told me concerning my father's imprudent management of his affairs, the consequence of which has involved his family in ruin. My mother, always gentle and kind, endeavoured to palliate those errors by which she was so great a sufferer.

THERE is nothing, said she, more commendable than generosity, but nothing ought less to be stretched too far. Mr. Lumley served his friends with too little attention to his own ability, which, together with other imprudences, produced that bitter remorse which shortened his days.

HER tears flowed fast at these words; I suppressed my own emotions that I might comfort her, and endeavoured to detach her thoughts from the melancholy idea, by giving her a detail of the inequality of Mrs. Highmore's behaviour to me during the first and the last days of my residence with her, which the wreck of our fortunes now enabled me to account for.

My mother smiled at my story; and taking two letters out of her pocketbook, put them into my hand. ‘Here are two letters from Mrs. Highmore,’ said she, ‘of different dates: the first is to Mrs. Lumley in affluence; the second to the same Mrs. Lumley in distress; read them.’ I did so, and here is what they contained.

TO MRS. LUMLEY.

DEAR MADAM,

My whole family have been transported with joy ever since I communicated to them, your resolution to give us the inestimable blessing of Miss Lumley's company during your stay at Bath. My daughters will think themselves honoured by her accepting their services, and I shall be proud to stand in the place of a mother to such excellence, during the absence of you, her incomparable mother! Most devoutly do I pray for the perfect recovery of good Mr. Lumley, and for all imaginable blessings to your worthy self, being, with great respect,

Dear Madam,
Your obliged, most humble, And most obedient servant, A. HIGHMORE.

P. S. The dear young lady is in perfect health.

TO MRS. LUMLEY.

I AM sincerely sorry, my very good friend, for your late loss, which is attended with such dreadful consequences to your affairs. Your daughter takes on greatly for her father's death, but we keep her in ignorance of the rest of her misfortunes—against my judgment, indeed; for it moves my pity to see the poor thing so unsuspicious of the sad reverse of her fortune.

I WISH I could offer you any consolation in this great calamity; but, as you are a good Christian, and a woman of sense, you will doubtless reflect that all are not born to be rich, and that it behoves us to be resigned and humble under difficult situations. Pray let me know when you design to leave Bath, and whether I can be of any use to you here on this occasion, for I shall always be glad to shew myself your very sincere friend,

And humble servant, A. HIGHMORE.

The poor child is as well as can be expected, considering her afflication.

My mother answered this extraordinary epistle no otherwise than by cancelling a note for sixty pounds, which Mrs. Highmore had borrowed of her about a year before, and enclosing it in a cover, which contained only these words: ‘Mrs. Lumley's compliments, and desires Mrs. Highmore will accept the enclosed as payment for her daughter's and her governess board for five weeks.’

THIS billet was sent by a porter to Mrs. Highmore's house in town, whither we had heard she was come, with orders not to stay for an answer. She came herself a few days afterwards to visit my mother, who pleaded indisposition, and refused to see her.

MRS. Highmore's behaviour was imitated by many other persons of our acquaintance, whose cool kindness, and constrained civility, marked too well the change of our fortunes.

SOME of our relations were of high rank; and these kept us at a distance by their very ceremonious behaviour, Some were only rich, and to them poverty appeared rather a crime than a misfortune; so that in strict morality they were obliged to treat us with great coldness and reserve.

My mother appeared calm and Unruffled by this general depravity. ‘Persons of quicker sensibility than myself,’ said she, ‘would, on this occasion, complain of the world; but I shall content myself with forgetting it.’

HAVING settled all her affairs in London, we retired to a small house, which my mother had taken in a neighbouring town, and furnished with a simplicity suitable to her fortune, and a neatness that gave elegance to that simplicity.

MRS. Benson refused the part of governess to a young lady of high distinction, in order to accompany us in this retreat. 'I have an income,' said she, ‘which, though small, is sufficient to prevent my being an incumbrance to you. I acquired part of it in your service; and, I will never quit you while my attendance can be either useful or agreeable to you.’

You will easily imagine, my dear Maria, how acceptable such an instance of faithful attachment must be to my mother, at a time when she seemed forsaken by all the world. She embraced, and thanked her with tears of tenderness and joy; yet represented to her, that her interest required she should accept the advantageous proposal that was made to her.

'HONOUR, gratitude, and friendship,' replied she, ‘impel me to attach myself to you, and my beloved pupil; in doing so I find my interest.’

WE were soon settled in our new habitation: one maid-servant composed our whole equipage. We worked, we read, we dressed our little garden—all was peace, friendship, and mutual complacency.

'I SEE,' said I one day to my mother, ‘that one may cease to be rich without being unhappy’—‘A life led in tranquillity, and with judgment,’ replied my mother, ‘which is the work of reason, is preferable to one half of those sudden and great successes which the world admires, and which are scarce ever the rewards of merit, but the mere vagaries of fortune.’

THE privacy my mother so earnestly desired was not like to be interrupted in a neighbourhood chiefly composed of families grown wealthy by the successful arts of trade, and had chosen this retreat for their summer residence, who had no idea of any merit but riches, and allowed no claims to respect, but what were derived from the ostentatious display of them. The name of Lumley sounded less respectable in their ears than that of Jackson or Wilson, because Jackson or Wilson kept coaches, and could afford to fare sumptuously every day.

'NOTHING,' says the immortal Bacon, ‘can make that great which nature meant to be little.’ Our situation afforded us many opportunities of observing how fortune and nature were at strife, when the lavish gifts bestowed by the one, could not efface the despicable stamp impressed by the other. The Indian plunderer, raised from the condition of a link-boy to princely affluence, in the midst of his blaze of grandeur, looked like a robber going in mock state to execution; and the forestalling trader enjoyed his clumsy magnificence with the same aspect as when he had over-reached a less cunning dealer in a bargain.

SUCH were the observations of Mrs. Benson, when these sons and daughters of sudden opulence rolled in unwieldy state by our humble habitation.

MY mother used sometimes to chide her for the severity of her sarcasms; but her spleen was often roused by the inconveniences which our contiguity to these great personages exposed us to: for money, which, as she said, cost them nothing to acquire, but what they valued as nothing, consequently, was expended so lavishly, as raised the prices of necessaries; and this grievance was severely felt by their less opulent neighbours.

bespoke every day, to furnish this indispensable article to their afternoon regale.

SUCH inconveniences as these my mother bore without murmuring; but she was not so easy under the difficulty she found of procuring a seat in the church, 'which,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘are almost all taken up with the worshippers of Mammon, to whom, as they have erected an altar in their own houses, they might as well perform their devotions at home, and let Christians have access to the house of God.’

MY mother, however, sometimes, by the force of bribe, got admission into a pew; and one Sunday, making use of the same powerful oratory, she was let into a pew where there was only one lady, of a diminutive figure indeed, but a soul so vast, as seemed to oe'r-inform her small tenement of clay, and made her fancy herself large enough to occupy

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the whole pew; so that upon my mother's entrance, she spread her flounces and hoop over the whole bench, and, wedging my mother close in a corner, looked askance upon her, without making the least return to the courtesy she made her after she had risen from her knees.

WHEN the service was over, the little great lady, being in a hurry to get out, flounced by my mother, and said, loud enough to be heard by her, to the woman who attended to open the door, ‘I wonder at your assurance, to put people that nobody knows into my pew— I shall complain to the church-warden, I assure you.’

'MADAM,' said the woman, ‘you have a right to but one seat in the pew, and the gentlewoman looks as much like a lady as any body.’

THIS speech called forth a contemptuous smile, and a repetition of the word 'lady!' for although my mother was, as you know, my Maria, a most elegant figure, and had an air of dignity, which was rendered more interesting by the gentle sorrow which shaded her features, yet as she had no footman with her, that barrier, in this polite country town, between the high and the low, it was impossible to imagine she could have any claim to civility.

SHOCKED, but not mortified, at the ridiculous pride of this daughter of trade, my mother was preparing to go out of the pew, when she was accosted by a lady, who, by her air and manner, seemed to be indeed a gentlewoman; she had heard what had been said to the pewopener, and appeared much affected at it.

'I PERCEIVE, Madam,' said she to my mother, ‘that you are not provided with a seat in this church, which indeed is very difficult to procure in the summer season, but you will be extremely welcome to one in my pew; there is room enough, and I shall be happy to accommodate you; you need only desire to be shewn to Mrs. Howard's pew, and it will always be open to you.’

THE lady curtseyed, and passed on, giving my mother time to pay her acknowledgments for this favour, only by a deep curtsey and an expressive look.

SHE related this incident to Mrs. Benson and me when she came home, telling us, at the same time, the name of the benevolent lady. ‘I should have been surprised,’ said Mrs. Benson, ‘if any of the plebeian gentry of this lofty place had been capable of such an instance of civility to a stranger; from the noble name of Howard one might expect it.’

'IT is true,' replied my mother, ‘that pride and meanness are generally found together; but there are persons, even of high birth, who can submit to to be proud, and whose whole greatness lie in their titles; so that if they would have us respect them, they must send a herald before to announce their claims.’

I BELIEVE you and I, my dear Maria, know several of these undignified great ones; and, to my sorrow, some may be found among my own relations.

MY mother did not fail to go to church next Sunday, and the pewopener, who had heard what Mrs. Howard said, immediately conducted her to that lady's pew: Mrs. Howard was already there, and received her with smiles, that shewed the satisfaction she felt at seeing her offer so readily accepted. My mother had now an opportunity of paying her acknowledgments, which she did with her usual politeness, and a heart glowing with gratitude.

MRS. HOWARD, judging by the paleness of her looks that she was in a weak state of health, desired, as soon as the service was over, that she would permit her to set her down at her own door; which my mother, after a short apology for the trouble it would give her, consented to.

MY mother being desired to tell the servant where the coach was to stop, directed him to the place, and said he would see the name of Lumley upon the door.

'Is your name Lumley, Madam?' said Mrs. Howard hastily: my mother bowing.

‘THEN you are the widow of the late Mr. Lumley, who died at Bath, I presume?’ said she.

'I AM, Madam,' replied my mother, sighing.

‘How happy am I to meet with you thus unexpectedly,’ said Mrs. Howard; ‘I have often wished for the pleasure of your acquaintance; but I know not how it was, I never met you at any of my parties; but you must promise that we shall be good neighbours now; I generally pass three or four months every year at a little pleasant house I have about a short mile from hence, before I go to our seat in Hertfordshire. I will not part with you till you have promised to spend a day with me.’

MY mother assured her, she would with great pleasure. Mrs. Howard insisted upon alighting when the coach stopped, that she might be introduced to me, for I ha d hastened to the door to receive my mother. She saluted me tenderly;

said some very civil things, and took leave of us; having first made us promise to dine with her the next day, and to name the hour when we chose the coach should come for us. But little did I imagine the influence this visit was to have over my future fortunes.

THE coach came for us at the appointed time, and carried us to a small, but elegant building. The grounds about it were laid out with a beautiful simplicity, and the apartments all furnished in the same taste.

MRS. HOWARD received us with an easy politeness, which soon banished the idea of being but the acquaintance of a day. When we were summoned to the dining parlour, we found there no other company but one gentleman, who by his dress we knew to be an officer, whom Mr. Howard introduced to us as his kinsman.

THIS was Mr. Neville, my dear Maria, now the husband of your Euphemia. His age seemed to be about thirty; he was well bred, talked sensibly, and had something very gracious and insinuating in his manner, which, I know not how it was, had not the same effect upon me that it had upon most other persons, on whom it generally produced a favourable prepossession.

ALTHOUGH I could perceive I had attracted his notice, his eyes being almost constantly fixed on me, and following all my motions, yet his attentions were chiefly directed to my mother; he sat next her at table, and served her with every thing in the most polite and obliging manner imaginable. We walked in the gardens after dinner; he kept close by my mother, whom he prevailed upon to lean on his arm, and entertained her with all the gallantry of an admirer, yet with all the respect and reverence of a son. My mother was quite pleased with him; he seemed solicitous to gain hèr good opinion, and frequently threw out sentiments which did prodigious honour to his heart.

My mother was greatly struck with one thing he said, which she declared was worthy of Socrates himself. Having, upon some instance of his obliging assiduity, complimented him upon his politeness, Mrs. Howard said, with a smile, ‘I do assure you, Madam, Mr. Neville is a general favourite.’

'I PROTEST to you, Madam,' replied Mr. Neville, ‘I do not think I have any reason to be vain of such a commendation; the favour of the multitude is seldom procured by honest and lawful means. I aspire indeed to the approbation of the few, for I do not number voices, but weigh them.’

'PRAY,' said Mrs. Benson, when my mother repeated this speech to her, 'how old is this sententious gentleman?' My mother replied, ‘that she believed he was under thirty.’ 'Ah!' replied she, ‘a philosopher of that age will always be suspected by me; these fine sayings come more from the head than the heart.’

‘YOUR satire is too keen, my dear Benson,’ said my mother, ‘it is easy to perceive you are out of humour with the world; but having no reason to be so on your own account, I must place it to your friendship for me, who am so uneasily situated in it; however, Fortune may justify herself for having favoured me so little, for I am sure I never courted her.’

'BUT I would fain know,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘what my young pupil here thinks of this grave young gentleman?’

'MY mama thinks well of him,' said I, ‘her judgment ought to be a guide to mine; but if I may be permitted to speak my sentiments, I think the air of his countenance and the graciousness of his manner, are not of a piece; his smiles are rather forbidding than conciliating, and do not seem calculated to invite confidence in the goodness of his temper.’

'UPON my word,' said my mother, half smiling, ‘Mrs. Benson seems to have infused part of her spirit in you; but my dear,’ pursued she in a grave tone, ‘I wish he were your husband; I am persuaded he would make you happy; and to see you settled, is all the wish I have on this side heaven.’

'DEAR Madam,' said I, a little disconcerted, ‘the gentleman has no thought of me.’ 'I do not know that,' replied my mother, ‘I am sure he took a very particular notice of you; and as he seems to be a man of much worth and honour, it would make me happy to leave you under such a protection.’

THIS last thought affected me with a tender concern; and made Mrs. Benson look grave. We changed the discourse; but my mother often mentioned Mr. Neville, still finding something in his manners and behaviour to ground a good opinion of his morals on.

HE called the next day to enquire after our health, but only left his name, without staying to be asked in, which afforded my mother new matter for praise, as his modesty seemed in this instance to be equal to his politeness.

IT soon became a custom to dine every Sunday with Mrs. Howard, who carried us home with her from church, and we were always sure to find Mr. Neville there. His behaviour to me was now particular enough to be observed by every body. Mrs. Howard, railing me on my conquest, was pleased to say, ‘there are few men worthy of you, but, in point of birth or fortune, Mr. Neville is no improper match. On the death of his uncle, who is now seventy, he will succeed to an estate of eight hundred a year; he is likely to rise in the army, and his own fortune, which is about five thousand pounds, is, I believe, still entire, as I never heard he was addicted to any extravagance.’

MY mother was very well pleased with this account of his circumstances. ‘Such an establishment for my daughter,’ said she to Mrs. Benson, ‘is in her situation not to be rejected, especially when the man is so worthy.’

MRS. Benson, who knew how little I was disposed to become a wife, and did not perhaps think so highly of Mr. Neville's good qualities as my mother did, shewed no great satisfaction at Mr. Neville's addresses, and wished the affair not to be hurried on too fast.

'IT is dangerous,' said she, ‘to enter the state of marriage rashly, and by the conduct of fortune; all the eyes that prudence hath, are not too many to serve as a guide in this business; for errors are mortal, where repentance is unprofitable.’

SHE sometimes expressed her surprise to me at my mother's earnestness to conclude this affair. Alas! the motive soon became too obvious; her health was declining fast, her anxiety for me preyed upon her spirits; I could often observe her look at me earnestly for a minute till her eyes filled with tears, and then she would hastily turn away to conceal her emotion.

MR. NEVILLE'S behaviour, all this time, was so tender, so obliging, so eager to do us little services, so attentive to my mother, so passionate, yet so respectful to me, that he even brought over Mrs. Benson, in some degree, to his party. She would sometimes tell me, that since I was absolutely certain his addresses to me were not actuated by any motives of interest, I owed him some gratitude for the sincerity of his affection.

MY mother's illness now increased so fast upon her, as to fill us with the most dreadful apprehensions; the physicians acknowledged they thought her case dangerous. I passed my days, and the greatest part of my nights, by her bedside, indulging my tears in her intervals of rest—for I carefully concealed from her the agonizing fears that filled my mind.

MR. NEVILLE, on this occasion, shewed all the tenderness of a son, and all the sympathy of the most cordial friendship.

'OH! that you could love this man,' said my mother to me one day, ‘what satisfaction would it give me to leave you under his protection; for indeed, my dear child,’ pursued she, ‘I have reason to think my anxiety for you is one of the chief sources of my illness.’

I STARTED from the chair where I was sitting, I threw myself on my knees at her bed-side, and bathing the dear hand she held out to me with my tears, 'My dear mama,' said I, ‘why, oh! why did you not explain yourself before? could you doubt my ready obedience to your will?’

'IN this case, my Euphemia,' said she, ‘I would exact nothing from your obedience; my wish went no farther than that you could love Mr. Neville. Your good opinion of him I am sure he has.’

'HE has, Madam,' said I, ‘and I will teach my heart to love him, since he is your choice, and since the peace of your mind depends upon my being settled; should my compliance restore you to your health, I shall be the happiest of human beings.’

'AND to see you happy,' said my mother, ‘is all my wish upon earth; I am persuaded Mr. Neville will make you so, provided you have no dislike to him.’

'How is it possible, Madam,' said I, ‘that I can have any dislike to a person for whom you have so great a regard? Doubt not but I shall love Mr. Neville, when it is my duty so to do; and I will make it my duty whenever you please to command me.’

'MY dear child,' said my mother, ‘Heaven will, I doubt not, reward you for this, as well as every other instance of your filial piety. From a young woman of your reserved and delicate turn of mind, I expected no sudden attachment, no romantic flights of passion; but I am well assured, that the man whom your judgment approves, will, when entitled to your affection, possess it entirely.’

FROM that day my mother began to be not only composed, but cheerful; the easy state of her mind had such a powerful effect upon her health, that in a few days she left her bed, and her recovery seemed no longer doubtful.

MR. NEVILLE received my consent with transports that seemed to border, I thought, upon madness, and rather frighted than pleased me. He asked his uncle's consent for form's sake, which was neither granted nor refused; for the old gentleman, who was not satisfied with his conduct in general, had long ceased to trouble himself about his affairs; and it was thought, that his disgust had risen to such a height, that if he could have disinherited him, he would certainly have done it.

MR. NEVILLE'S security on this point was perhaps one cause of the little care he took to conciliate him.

MY mother made no reflections to the disadvantage of Mr. Neville on account of this coolness between him and his relation; for there are times when some persons are always in the right. We were married; and my husband, in about a fortnight afterwards, carried me to a genteel house in Hill-street, which he had taken ready furnished for my reception.

THE parting with my mother, whose state of health did not permit her to live in London, would have been very grievous to me, if I had not been enabled to visit her constantly every day; for, among other articles of expence which I did not expect, from the very moderate income my husband possessed at present, I had a chariot and servants in elegant liveries. My mother gently hinted her fears, that his great fondness for me would, in the oeconomy of his house and appearance, make him consider rather the affluence in which I had been bred, than the humble condition to which fortune had reduced me.

I HAVE heard it observed, that it is common for persons who are conscious that they have done things deserving of blame, to answer their own thoughts, rather than what is said to them. Mr. Neville, therefore, hastily replied, ‘I have no intention to mislead my Euphemia into an opinion that I am richer than I really am. I never deceived her with regard to my present circumstances, nor my future prospects; what you object to was not done to cast a mist before her eyes.’

'MY dear son,' said my mother, hastily interrupting him, ‘how vastly do you mistake my meaning. You are incapable of deceit; but you are also incapable of reflecting, that your wife having brought you no fortune, has no claim to any increase of expence beyond conveniences.’

MY husband's countenance now cleared up, and this short debate ended with a kind compliment to me, which I was pleased with, because it gave her satisfaction.

MR. NEVILLE, however, had deceived several of his friends, and Mrs. Howard in particular, with regard to his circumstances, and consequently my mother; for of his own fortune, which was five thousand pounds, the greatest part was spent. He had commanded a company of foot in a regiment which was lately reduced, and his half-pay was almost all he had to subsist on. Without reflecting upon the causes of disgust he had given his uncle, he hoped that upon his marriage, an event which he had often wished for, he would have made him a decent allowance out of an estate which must one day be his, and of which he did not spend the half upon himself; but in this he was disappointed; after many fruitless endeavours to soften his uncle, he took a sudden resolution (for his resolutions are always sudden) to extricate himself from his difficulties by going abroad; and fortune, on this occasion, favoured his designs.

A YOUNG gentleman, who was appointed first Lieutenant to one of the independent companies in New-York, having no inclination to leave England, entered eagerly into a proposal Mr. Neville made him, to exchange this commission for his Captain's half-pay; and having very considerable interest, the affair was soon accomplished. Mr. Neville, who has very high notions of the prerogatives of a husband, and doubtless soreseeing the opposition I should make to this scheme, never deigned to consult me upon it. Little did I expect the storm that was ready to burst upon my head; when one evening, having staid later than usual with my mother, on my return I found him at home, very busy at his escrutore looking over papers, and settling accounts.

AFTER some enquiries concerning my mother's health, he asked me abruptly, 'if I should like to travel?' I said, ‘I should like it extremely in certain circumstances.’ ‘And pray what are these certain circumstances, my dear?’ said he. 'Why,' replied I, ‘a full purse, and my mother's company.’ ‘I cannot promise for either,’ said he; ‘and yet I believe we must travel.’ He said this with so grave a look and accent, that although I could hardly think him in earnest, yet I was strangely alarmed; and I asked him, with some emotion, 'what he meant?'

'I MEAN what I say,' replied he, ‘that we must go abroad, my dear; it is absolutely necessary.’

'ABSOLUTELY necessary to go abroad!' I repeated, trembling, and scarce able to speak.

'IT is really as I tell you,' said he, without taking notice of the disorder I was in. ‘My uncle is incorrigible, he will make no addition to my income, which is too small to support you properly. I am besides incumbered with some debts, which, without his assistance, I am not able to pay; and he has had the cruelty to refuse me a few hundreds, which would have set me at ease. Fortunately an opportunity offers, which will enable me to extricate myself from these difficulties without his help. I have made an advantageous exchange with an officer who was going to New-York. It is one of the finest of our American provinces; the climate is delightful, the air healthy, the people polished; all the luxuries of life are there more easily purchased than common necessaries here. There will be no great hardship in passing three or four years there. My uncle's death will be the period of our banishment, if you will have me call it so: his age and infirmities scarce make it probable that he can last long; we will then return to England.’

ALL the time he was speaking, I sat with my hands folded, and my eyes fixed on the ground, in an agony of thought. He paused, as if expecting me to answer him.

'You say nothing to me, Euphemia,' said he at length. ‘You think it a hardship, no doubt, to follow a husband who has given you such uncommon proofs of his affection.’

'OH! my dear mother,' cried I, ‘am I to be torn from you, at a time when my attendance on you is so necessary?’

'YOUR mother will go with us, perhaps,' said he. ‘The voyage is not so long a one as you imagine; they often run it in less than three weeks.’

'I CHARGE you,' interrupted I, rising hastily, and holding him as if he was going that instant to my mother, ‘I charge you, do not carry this dreadful news to my mother; you will kill her; she will not survive the parting with me. Alas! was it for this’—I paused.

'Go on,' said Mr. Neville, ‘was it for this you married? I know to whom I was obliged for your reluctant consent.’

THIS was a sad thought.—Agitated as I was with other griess, I perceived instantly all the inconveniencies this notion, if it took too deep root, would bring upon me: but it was not possible for me to eradicate it, without descending to the meanness of falsehood; my soul was unacquainted with those emotions, which, on this occasion, would have suggested professions of fondness and attachment, such as he perhaps expected. I answered, therefore, with great simplicity, ‘It is true, Sir, you were my mother's choice; I never had any other will but her's, and her choice regulated mine; but I would not have married an emperor, if by that marriage I should have been obliged to leave her.’

'WELL,' answered he, carelessly, ‘I believe your mother will be the only rival I shall ever have in your affections: we must endeavour to prevail upon her to go with us. But pray,’ pursued he, in a kinder accent, ‘compose yourself; this separation is yet too distant to occasion all this uneasiness.’

'BUT still it is certain,' said I; ‘is it not so?’

'I AM afraid it is,' he replied. ‘My affairs are in such perplexity, that it must be so.’

AT this decisive word my tears flowed afresh. His patience (for, alas! he has but a small share of that useful quality) seemed now exhausted; he rose up, and taking his hat, told me, he was obliged to go out, and hoped when he returned to find me in a better humour.

I WAS not sorry to be left alone, that I might give free vent to my tears. But scarce had I passed a few minutes in this sad employment, when my servant informed me a gentleman from Lord S. desired to speak with me. This nobleman, my dear Maria, was a relation of my mother's, and was my god-father, as I believe you have heard me say. He was but very lately returned from the Continent, where he had spent two years in search of health, which, however, he had not found; as his letter, which his gentleman now delivered to me, informed me. He expressed great concern for my father's death, and the situation in which he had left my mother and me; wished me happy in my marriage, and desired my acceptance of five hundred pounds as a nuptial present, lamenting his inability to do more for me; which indeed I knew to be true, as he had but a small estate, and several children to provide for.

My surprise at this unexpected piece of good fortune, at a time when I was overwhelmed with despair, was so great, that the letter fell out of my hands, and the bank-notes enclosed in it were scattered about the room. My soul was filled with joy and gratitude; in this providential relief I felt, I acknowledged the gracious hand of Heaven! It was with difficulty I could compose myself to write a few lines to my kind benefactor; and, when I sent for his messenger to deliver my billet to him myself, the transport I was in might easily be read in my countenance. Delivered from my fears of being separated from my mother, by being thus enabled to supply the necessities of my husband, I felt as if a mountain was removed from my breast. I expected his return with inconceivable impatience; and as soon as he entered the room I flew eagerly to him.

'My dear Mr. Neville,' said I, delivering him the letter with the notes, ‘see how Providence has interposed to prevent a separation, that would have given death to my mother, and made me miserable. These sums will, I hope, be sufficient to set you at ease, and make it unnecessary for you to go abroad.’

HE read the letter, and examined the notes. —'It must be confessed,' said he coldly, ‘this is a fortunate circumstance, considering your great unwillingness to leave England. —Well, Euphemia, I hope you will now be easy, since you have your wish’. I saw he expected I should thank him for his ready acquiescence to my will; and by this piece of policy he escaped what to him would have been a very great mortification—the appearance of being under any obligation to me or my friends. My answer was calculated to please him, and I left him the next day in very good humour, in order to visit my mother.

My heart was light, and the inward satisfaction I felt gave such an air of cheerfulness to my countenance, that upon my entering my mother's apartment she took notice of it. Holding out her hand to me, which I kissed, ‘May I always see you,’ said she, ‘with this contented air; and may you never have reason to be otherwise!’

ALAS! how soon was my cheerfulness to be overcast; I felt her hand intensely hot. I fixed my eager looks upon her face; the alteration I perceived there froze me with terror. ‘I have had but an indifferent night, but I am better now’, said she, forcing a smile to dissipate my apprehensions.

MRS. Benson that moment entered the room: in the fixed concern that was visible in her face I read my impending misfortune. She was followed by the physician; but from him I could collect no comfort: he even acknowledged to me that my mother was in great danger. Shall I attempt to describe my feelings to you on this occasion? Oh! no, it is impossible to give you an idea of my distress. I had sent back the carriage to town, which returned again immediately with Mr. Neville, who had been informed, by a billet from Mrs. Benson, of my mother's situation.

THE most dutiful, the most affectionate of sons, could not have behaved otherwise than he did: and I have the comfort to reflect, that my mother, to the last moment of her life, was fully persuaded that I was perfectly happy in the choice she had made for me.

I LEFT her no more after this day, nor ever parted from her bed-side a moment while she lived. I had command enough over myself to suppress my sighs and tears, that I might not interrupt that saint-like composure with which she waited for her dissolution. All the moments that were not spent in her devotions, she employed in consoling, fortifying, and instructing me. With the most pathetic sweetness she recommended me to my husband's care. She intreated Mrs. Benson to continue her friendship for me; and heard, with great satisfaction, her promise never to forsake me. She talked sensibly, she reasoned justly, to the last moment of her life. It was not more than a quarter of an hour before she died, when, faintly pressing my hand, which she held in her's, and looking earnestly on me,— 'It has been said,' said she, ‘with more wit than truth, that virtue was the most beautiful and the most unprofitable thing in the world. Can that be called unprofitable which, when supported by 〈…〉, give a calm like this?’ My heart, sunk as it was with sorrow, caught the enthusiasm of her words.

'OH!' cried I, lifting up my swimming eyes to Heaven, ‘may I die the death of the righteous, and may my latter end be like their's!’ —A smile of joy beamed over her countenance, now beginning to be overspread with the dark shades of death—once more I felt the faint pressure of her hand, now cold and clammy, and withdrawing from mine. — To the last moment she kept her eyes fixed upon me—then, gently closing them, her head sunk upon my bosom, and with one soft sigh she breathed out her pure and innocent soul.

HERE let me draw a veil over the sad scene that ensued. —My husband carried me in his arms, and put me into the chariot, where I continued without sense or motion till we arrived at our own house. I had no reason to complain of his behaviour to me on this occasion; it was tender, affectionate, and assiduous, and filled my heart with the warmest sentiments of gratitude.

MRS. Benson came in the evening, and spent two hours with me; and then returned to watch by the dear remains of her friend and benefactress. Lord S. desired to be at the expence of the funeral, which was performed in a manner suitable to her birth and happier fortunes. —She lies in the family vault at —. Oh, my Maria, I must pause here for a while; when I can detach my thoughts from this affecting subject, I will continue my narration.

As soon as I was recovered from a dangerous fever, with which I was seized immediately after the death of my mother, Lord S. insisted upon my passing a few weeks at his country-seat with his lady and daughters. Mr. Neville was also invited; but he pleaded business in town that required his attendance, and contented himself with sometimes coming to pass a day or two with us.

WHEN I returned to town, I found Mrs. Benson had, with the concurrence of my husband, settled all my mother's affairs. She had taken lodgings in the same street where I lived, that she might be near me: and, now my mind being a little more composed, I thought it necessary to represent to Mr. Neville, that in the present state of our circumstances, prudence required we should adopt some plan of living less expensive, and more suitable to our income. I took care to avoid giving this discourse the air of advice; I even complimented his tenderness, by ascribing to that motive the figure we had hitherto made, which I said I was by no means intitled to.

Mr. Neville, as usual, answered his own thoughts— 'I suppose,' says he, ‘you think it strange that I have not yet acquainted you with the manner in which I have disposed of your five hundred pounds; but the time has not been favourable for such discussions.’

'ALAS! no,' said I, bursting into tears at the sad remembrance he excited by these last words. —'And perhaps,' pursued he, ‘I have now introduced this subject unseasonably; if you please we will talk no more of it at present,’

IT was not long, however, before he renewed it himself. —‘I cannot submit to alter my mode of living,’ said he; ‘and I cannot continue it without involving myself in difficulties—there is no help for it—we must go abroad. — If your mother had lived, I should. have found it very difficult to have mentioned this to you again; but as it is, I think you can have no objection to changing the scene for a few years.’

MY surprise and confusion were so great at this unexpected declaration, that I continued silent for some moments; during which his countenance was marked with so much impatience, that I thought proper to tell him, I would endeavour to overcome the reluctance I had to quit my native country, and those few friends which the wreck of my fortunes had left me; but he must permit me to say, ‘that I wish this hard task had not been imposed upon me’.—‘He said, that it was impossible for him to break through his engagement, without bringing such a stain upon his honour, as could never be wiped off.’—'Since that is the case,' I replied, 'I have nothing more to say;' and from that moment I have never suffered him to perceive that I had any reluctance to this voyage.

MY dear Mrs. Benson goes with me. She has nothing dearer, she says, than me in the world; and no claims upon her that should hinder her from keeping the promise she made to my mother never to forsake me.

Mr. Neville seems to approve of her design; I say seems, because he never heartily approves of any thing that he is not the first mover of himself.

You are now, my dear Maria, informed of all those circumstances of my life which led to my present situation. Some particulars I wish, indeed, may be known to none but yourself; for, when I discover secrets to you, I think I hide them. Adieu.

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER XIII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

WHAT an affecting narrative is your's? If Nature herself could speak, she could not make use of more significant terms. You are above all praise; therefore, without incurring the guilt of making you vain, I may venture to tell you how we talk of you here in our set. 'She is a woman,' said Mr. Grevilie, ‘either lifted up by her own strength above the passions of her sex, or Nature hath exempted her from them by a peculiar privilege.’—'Miss Lumley,' said my uncle, ‘is indeed a wonderful young woman; she had an excellent monitress in her mother; and she has profited well, both by her lessons and example. Young as she is, she is strict in the performance of all her duties, yet she affects no peculiar gravity in her aspect and manners, but tempers her reserve with so much sweetness, that, without endeavouring to please any, she pleases all the world.’

HAD any persons been present at this discourse, who were ignorant of my sentiments for you, they might have judged, from my silence and discontented air, that I was envious of your praises. This is the friend, thought I, I must lose; and she, of whom hardly any man can be worthy, must follow one, who assuredly cannot be ranked among the best, to the wilds of America.

I AM afraid you will be angry with me, my Euphemia, for these impatient repinings, and for profiting so little by the example you set me; but you well know, that there are some of us of such spirits, that neither time nor philosophy can work upon us; while there are others again, who prevent the work of time and philosophy by their own natural disposition.

WE are going to spend a week at Mr. Greville's: he sets out to-day, to prepare for our reception, and two days afterwards we are to follow him. My chief pleasure there, as well as here, will be writing to you. I hope to have a letter from you before we leave the Hall. Adieu, my dear friend.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XIV.
MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

YESTERDAY Mr. Neville told me he had been to pay his respects to Colonel Bellenden, whose first lieutenant he now is, and who is appointed commander of the forces stationed at New York under the governor, who, it seems, is captain-general. The colonel introduced him to his lady and daughters: he was greatly pleased with his reception; and, having desired leave to present me to Mrs. Bellenden, and the young ladies, we received a polite invitation to dine there to-day, which we accepted.

Mr. Neville is much out of humour that, being still in mourning for my dear mother, I cannot appear with eclat; that is his expression in this my first visit. He takes upon him to judge what ornaments I may wear with propriety, and has actually laid out my jewels, which, he says, will receive additional lustre from my sable habit.

IT has been observed, that obstinate persons are ever most obstinate in error. Unhappily I experience the truth of this observation every day, on some occasion or other. When Mr. Neville has once given his opinion, however erroneous it may be, it is impossible by argument to set him right, for reason itself would seem to be wrong if it is not of his side. I was sadly perplexed; for I saw nothing but determined opposition would save me from an absurdity, and upon this I could not resolve; when, fortunately for me, he took it into his head to make an appeal to Mrs. Benson, who sat smiling all the time, without meddling in the dispute. But first, he endeavoured, by a long speech, to convince her, that what he proposed was the fittest thing in the world to be done.

'I KNOW not who it is,' said Mrs. Benson, very gravely, ‘who says that eloquence is that powerful, efficacious, and dangerous gift, alike capable of persuading both to what is right and what is wrong. There is no answering your arguments, that is certain; but you are too gallant not to yield up this point to Mrs. Neville, since the article of dress is entirely her own affair.’—'Oh, to be sure,' said Mr. Neville, ‘she is at liberty to dress as she pleases; I only wanted to convince her I was right in what I proposed; —but I am satisfied if you think me so.’

HE was indeed satisfied with the compliment Mrs. Benson paid to his eloquence, yet he could not help, now and then, returning to the charge, with— ‘How plainly you are dressed, my dear; if you would but add a few ornaments you would look much better.’—I constantly replied with a smile, ‘Have you not said I should dress as I please?’—'Oh, to be sure, to be sure,' he cried, 'I shall never contradict you;'—and the next moment, ‘Certainly, my dear, you might wear diamond ear-rings, at least.’—But I see the chariot at the door—my husband is coming to fetch me. I protest he surveys me with a look of disapprobation; I must remind him of the compliment Mrs. Benson paid him to put him in a good humour again. Farewel, my dear Maria, I will give you an account of our new acquaintance when we return, if we are not kept too late.

TEN O'CLOCK.

WE are just come home.—Mr. Neville is engaged with a gentleman in the parlour, who having business with him, waited his return; so I have an hour before supper, which I shall devote to you, my dear Maria, to acquit myself of my promise.

WE were set down at a handsome house in St. James's Square, and shewn into a genteel drawing-room; into which, immediately afterwards, came Mrs. Bellenden, followed by three young ladies, her daughters. Mrs. Bellenden is about-five-and forty years of age, or something more. She has, in her youth, been handsome, though her complexion is brown, for her features are regular and pleasing, and her eyes remarkably fine. She is well made; her motions perfectly genteel; and, in her behaviour, she has all that easy politeness which distinguishes persons in a certain rank of life. After saluting me with a mixture of ceremony and cordiality, both as a stranger, and one with whom an intimate connection was likely soon to take place, she presented her three daughters to me by name.

MISS Bellenden, the eldest, is about two-and-twenty, tall, and well-shaped, and may doubtless be called a good figure: yet her proportions are not fine, and her motions want grace. She is reckoned extremely handsome, Mr. Neville says; and it is certain that she has a fine complexion, and very regular features; but they are merely regular, cold and insipid. Her eyes are not animated with any thing but motion, and so totally devoid of expression, that they may more properly be said to see than to look. She made me a short compliment, which gave me an opportunity of observing, that the tones of her voice are unpleasing, and her expression confused.

LOUISA, the second daughter, resembles her eldest sister in the delicacy of her complexion, and the air of her features; but has greatly the advantage of her in the elegance of her form, which has besides more dignity in it than I ever remember to have seen in one so young. This young lady is about fifteen; she seems grave and reserved; and returned my salute with a deep curtsey, without scarce raising her eyes.

CLARA, the youngest daughter, is about fourteen, all life, soul and sensibility. She appeared, in her impatience to salute me, almost ready to prevent her mother, who introduced her in her turn. The same powerful sympathy drew me towards her; I could scarcely help embracing her tenderly; but I checked this involuntary emotion, and confined myself to form. How shall I give you an idea of this amiable girl, whose loveliness is rather felt than seen, how paint the ever-varying charms of a countenance which is never the same for three minutes together, yet pleasing in every change. She is not thought so handsome as either of her sisters, her complexion being less fair, and her features not so delicate. Her eyes, however, are the finest in the world; large, dark, full of fire, full of softness: languishing, yet bright; lively yet tender: so full of expression, that it is scarce necessary 〈◊〉 her to speak, the intelligence of her looks conveying her thoughts as distinctly as her words. The make of her face is genteel, and her smile bewitching. She does not promise to be quite so tall as her eldest sister, nor to equal her second in the dignity of her person; but she excels them both in the elegance and symmetry of her form. Her voice, in speaking, is so sweet, so modulated, that it is a kind of oratory in itself, and persuades as much as her words. She continued to sit near me the whole day, which gave me great pleasure.

IN about half an hour after our arrival. Colonel Bellenden entered the room. With an air of easy dignity he apoligized to us for not being able to join us sooner, having been detained at the coffee house by some persons of business. It is impossible, my dear Maria, to look upon this gentleman without feeling for him, even at first sight, love, esteem, and reverence. He has a fine figure, a noble air, a most engaging countenance, in which every virtue that adorns the human heart is apparent. He is not a man of letters, having, as he told us, been a soldier from the age of fourteen; but nature has given him an excellent understanding. He talks little, but that little is always to the purpose; and he possesses so much natural grace, that all he says and does is pleasing.

SUCH, my Maria, is the family with whom I am to make a voyage to the New World; and, I believe, you will not think I shall find it a difficult matter to pass my time agreeably with them.

WHEN tea was announced, we returned to the drawing-room, leaving the two gentlemen to their wine. Miss Bellenden then drawing her chair near me, said in a low voice, and a half sigh—

‘Do you know, Madam, when this terrible voyage is to take place?’—'Not exactly, Madam,' I replied; ‘but I am sorry to find you are so much afraid of the sea.’

'OH dear, no,' said she, ‘I am not afraid of the sea, I never thought about it; but I am very sorry to leave England.’

'OH,' said Clara, ‘we shall find London in every place where there are balls, and concerts, and assemblies, and plays.’—‘And who tells you,’ said Miss Bellenden, ‘that there are any such things in the strange part of the world to which we are going?’

‘YOUR sister may have heard so from me,’ said Mrs. Bellenden, 'who seemed anxious to quiet her daughter's mind about these matters. ‘I have been told, by persons who have resided some years in the province of New-York, that it is a very gay place, that the people are fond of polite amusements, and are in general very well bred.’ That last article, I found, had great weight with Mrs. Beilenden, for she spoke it with an emphasis.

'I AM informed too,' proceeded Mrs. Bellenden, ‘that the air is pure, the climate agreeable, and the face of the country romantic and beautiful.’

‘THEN Clara will be delighted with it,’ said Miss Bellenden, ‘for she would rather wander in woods and groves, she says, than mix in the most fashionable assemblies; nay, I have known her prefer a walk in the most solitary part of Hyde-Park, where she could see nothing but trees and grass, than accompany me to the Mall, when it has been so crowded with persons of fashion, that we could hardly move.’ Here I observed Clara cast down her eyes, and Miss Louisa smiling significantly.

'Is solitude your taste too, Miss?' said I. 'No, indeed, Madam,' said she, ‘I like to be among persons of fashion; but not in such a crowd as my sister speaks of; for then every body looks alike, and there is no distinction of persons.’

FROM these lights, thus artlessly held out, it was no difficult matter to discover the different dispositions of these young ladies; which were made still plainer, by the manner in which their portraits are taken by the inimitable pencil of Sir Joshua Reynolds, whose pieces are so full of mind, that you have the character, as well as form, of those who sit to him. But I am interrupted with a summons to supper; and as I shall not have an opportunity of filling up the remainder of my paper till to-morrow, I will here bid you good night.

MRS. NEVILLE, IN CONTINUATION.

THE Colonel and Mr. Neville having joined us, Mrs. Bellenden carried us into her dressing-room, to look at her daughters' pictures. 'I was resolved,' said she, ‘to have them drawn before we left England, and by our great artist; because they are designed for presents to some of their nearest relations.’

SHE then directed my eyes to the portrait of Miss Bellenden, which was placed in the most conspicuous part of the room. It is a whole-length, and finely executed. She is dressed for a masquerade; her habit that of a Circassian Lady; she holds her masque in one hand, and, with the other, adjusts a curl of her bright auburn hair, which seems falling on her ivory neck; her countenance expresses all the self-complacency of conscious beauty, and communicates to the spectator part of that pleasure which she herself feels in the contemplation of it.

WHILE I was gazing attentively upon this finished piece, Miss Bellenden, who seemed impatient for my opinion, glided up to me, and said in a loud whisper, ‘the painter has flattered me excessively; yet, I think, there is some resemblance.’

MR. Neville took the word, and, in a high strain of compliment, expatiated upon the beauties of the picture, and the skill of the artist.

MISS Bellenden smiled, and interrupting him at last, said, ‘but I would have Mrs. Neville's opinion.’

‘THE painter has done you justice, Madam,’ said I, 'and only justice.'

'AH,' replied she, ‘I perceive you can compliment as well as your lord here.’

I LEFT it to Mr. Neville to satisfy the lady's scruples about our veracity, and turned my eyes upon Miss Louisa's picture; her dress is a robe of pale blue sattin, ornamented with festoons of flowers; her hair hangs in loose ringlets upon her fine turned neck, and its luxurious growth about the forehead and temples is confined by a tiara of pearls; she is represented standing in a garden; her left arm leaning on a marble column; her right extended towards a beautiful little boy, as if to receive a small basket of flowers, which he offers her. Her attitude is extremely graceful, and calculated to mark the dignity of her form; she smiles upon the child who presents her with the flowers, who seems to have gathered them from a parterre at a distance, to which he points. There is a beautiful distinction between the flowers on her robe, and those in the basket: we see that the former are artificial, only because they are contrasted with the others, which look like nature itself.

'You have gazed long enough,' said the colonel, ‘upon these two fine ladies; now let me have your opinion of my little pastoral nymph here.’ Miss Louisa, while we were looking at her picture, stood by with an air quite easy and unconcerned; and replied to our compliments no otherwise than by a respectful curtsey.

My attention was now fixed upon the picture of my young favourite; which, both for design and execution, is one of the most pleasing pieces I ever saw. She is represented in a wood, and as just risen from the foot of a spreading oak; her book, a large folio volume, lying near it; a young fawn, at a distance, seems hastening to hide itself in a thicket; a length of ribband, which it trails along, shews that it has been her captive, and has made its escape; she seems springing forwards to recover it; a sweet anxiety is expressed in her animated countenance; her hair is tied behind with a ribband, and floats in the wind. The admirable symmetry of her form is shewn to advantage by a thin white robe, which she gathers up with one hand, that it may not impede her flight; the other she holds out invitingly towards the little animal. I perceived the book was lettered on the back, it was Sidney's Arcadia; I smiled. ‘That is a romance, is it not, Madam?’ said Mrs. Bellenden; ‘Clara is very fond of those sort of books, too fond I think.’ Clara blush'd, and seemed apprehensive of more rebukes on this subject. ‘It is a romance, Madam,’ said I, ‘but it is a very ingenious work, and contains excellent lessons of morality: it was wrote by one of the bravest soldiers, and most accomplished gentlemen of the age he lived in; an age too, that was fruitful in great men.’

‘I SEE you are an advocate for romances, Mrs. Neville,’ said Mrs. Bellenden, half grave, and half smiling, ‘and indeed, you are still of an age to relish them.’ I smiled assentingly; and the Colonel leading me again to the drawing-room, the discourse turned upon matters relating to our intended voyage, and the country we were going to, till it was time to take leave.

I AM apprehensive this voyage will take place sooner than I expected; but I could easily reconcile myself to all the difficulties of it, except parting with you, my dear Maria.—Alas! this is a subject I dare not trust myself to write on.

THIS moment your short letter (which to make amends for its shortness, it must be owned is very sweet) is brought me. By lavishing such praises on me, you do me a favour no doubt, but I cannot say you do me justice; and you seem to have a design to please me at the hazard of offending truth. But you will tell me, these high commendations come from your uncle and Mr. Greville—'Tis well, I will rate them then at their just value; for do we not all know, my dear Maria, what politeness obliges men of wit and gallantry to, when ladies are the subjects of their panegyric? —but enough of this. Write to me soon; let me know all that passes in this little excursion; every thing interests me that relates to you. Adieu.

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER XV. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

IT is some comfort to me to reflect, that if you must take this hated voyage, the Bellenden family will afford you agreeable companions in it. Mr. Greville is well acquainted with the Colonel: he speaks of him with a kind of enthusiasm. In the language of Pope, he cried out,

A wit's a feather, a chief's a rod,

An honest man's the noblest work of God.

'Colonel Bellenden,' said he, ‘is that noblest work; and to this truth the candid bear testimony by their words, and detractors by their silence.’ I asked him his opinion of the ladies.

'MRS. Bellenden,' he said, ‘by her politeness and attention to please, supplies, in some degree, the defect of her education; which being confined to mere accomplishments, as they are called, has left the nobler powers of her mind uncultivated. She sings well; she dances finely; she performs on the harpsichord with great skill; she can carry on the small talk of a tea-table in French; draws prettily; and is allowed to shade her flowers in embroidery extremely well; but her reading has been wholly confined to her Psalter and Bible, a few devotional tracts, and some sermons; and, among profane authors, the Seven Champions of Christendom, pamphlets, poems, and some other works of the same kind. She has a great contempt for what she calls book-learning in women; and thinks chastity and good breeding, for so she pairs them, the highest of female virtues. She is an obedient wife, a tender mother, and an easy companion; is gentle in her censures of her acquaintance, except when they offend against the laws of modesty, or the rules of ceremony, and then, it must be owned, she is very severe.’

'YOUR characters,' said I, ‘seem to be drawn with so much skill, that I wish to have Miss Bellenden's by the same hand. She will be the companion of my dear friend in a long voyage, and I shall be happy to know that she will be an agreeable one.’

'I DO not,' said Mr. Greville, ‘think Miss Bellenden qualified to be an agreeable companion to one of your friend's solid understanding: but she is good-tempered, and will not give offence; she is very handsome, and has no idea of any higher excellence in women than beauty; she is greedy of admiration, and would be a coquet, if she had wit enough to secure her conquests; but although nature directs her to throw the bait, and the gaudy fry often catch at it, yet she has not skill enough to bring her prey to land; and they always escape her. These disappointments affect her but little; for a constant succession of new conquests keeps her in good humour with her own charms, and leaves her no leisure to regret, that their effect is not lasting.’

‘HER two sisters are too young to have any character yet; but they are both fine girls in their persons; and Clara, the youngest, seems, I think, to give the promise of being superior to the others, in the endowments of her mind.’ ‘My friend has found that out already,’ said I. 'Then,' replied Mr. Greville, ‘I shall have some opinion of my own penetration.’

MY uncle this moment sends to let me know that he is ready, and the carriage is at the gate. We are to spend a week at least at Mr. Greville's, and from thence my next letter will be dated, unless I should find leisure to write to you at the inn where my uncle puts up the first night. Ever, ever your's,

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XVI.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

Bell Inn.

HERE we are, my dear Euphemia, somewhat fatigued with our journey, for the roads were very heavy, and the day unpleasant; and, to complete our dissatisfaction, we met with some disagreeable occurrences on our arrival at this place, which have had a surprising effect on my uncle's temper, and for which, at present, I can by no means account.

WHEN our carriage drove into the inn-yard, a young gentleman, who was talking to Mrs. Deering, the landlady, hastily advanced, and with great politeness offered his hand to help me out: he bowed low to my uncle, and observing that he descended with some difficulty, he assisted him with equal attention; my uncle thanked him very cordially, which the young gentleman answered only by a most respectful bow, and withdrew. Both my uncle and I thought him extremely handsome; and indeed, my dear Euphemia, he has a most engaging countenance, and is one of the finest figures I ever saw.

MRS. Deering having conducted us to a parlour, appeared to be in some confusion. 'Your honour,' said she, ‘used always to give me notice when you intended to come here, and then I prepared every thing for your reception.’

'AND have you not had notice,' said my uncle; ‘I sent Robert before me, early in the morning.’ 'Indeed, Sir,' said she, ‘not a soul has been here from you: and I am in the greatest quandary in the world; for I have not a bed for your honour, my house is so full: I can make a shift to accommodate the young lady, if she will put up with a little bed in a dark closet, and her maid can sleep with one of mine; but the room your honour used always to have, is engaged by that young gentleman you saw in the yard, and I have not another room in the house, but what is taken up.’

MY uncle fretted very much at this disappointment, and at the negligence of the groom. ‘What is to be done, Maria?’ said he to me; ‘do you think you can bear the fatigue of travelling to the next stage this cold dark night?’

'I CAN bear it very well, Sir,' said I, ‘but I am sure you cannot; therefore, I must entreat that you will accept of the dark room and the little bed Mrs. Deering talks of; and Fanny shall sit up with me in this room: here are two easy chairs; and if I can get a book, I shall pass my time well enough.’ ‘I cannot consent to that,’ said my uncle; then turning to Mrs. Deering, who had uttered a thousand good lacks all the time, he ordered her to get a boiled chicken forsupper; and in the mean time he would resolve upon something.

I CONTINUED to press my uncle to agree to my proposal; which he could not prevail upon himself to approve.

ALL this time we heard nothing of the groom. The night became wet and stormy. I trembled for my uncle's health; for he was immoveable in his resolution not to let me sit up all night; but rather to go forward to the next stage; when Mrs. Deering entered the room smiling, and told us, that the young gentleman, who had engaged the room, hearing of the inconveniences we were likely to suffer for want of an apartment, had politely resigned it to my uncle; and was actually set out on horseback, in the midst of the storm, in order to reach the house of a friend, who lived about ten miles distant.

'BLESSINGS on his heart for it!' said Mrs. Deering, ‘it was as good a deed as ever was done; and it was all his own offer.’

MY uncle appeared very much affected with this young man's civility. 'Who is he?' said he to Mrs. Deering: ‘I hope I shall have an opportunity, some time or other, of thanking him.’ 'He is your namesake,' said Mrs. Deering.

'HARLEY!' interrupted my uncle, impatiently, 'Who's son is he?'

‘He is son to the Reverend Doctor Harley,’ answered Mrs. Deering; ‘and is just returned from Germany. He was sent to get his learning at a Versity there; because his father, it seems, is not rich, and could not maintain him at one of our own Versities. ’

My uncle had been used to this good woman's language, and was able to listen to her gravely; but it was with some difficulty that I could help smiling. However, my mirth was immediately clouded, when casting my eyes upon my uncle, I perceived all the marks of astonishment, anger and confusion in his countenance.

'PRAY hasten supper,' said he to Mrs. Deering, at the same time making a motion to her with his hand to be gone. She left the room; and he continued to walk about in it silently, with a hasty unequal step.

My astonishment at this evident discomposure, kept me silent also for some moments. At length I asked him, if any thing extraordinary had happened, to make him uneasy.

'YES,' replied he, throwing himself into a chair, ‘I have reason to be uneasy, when, contrary to my intentions, I am laid under obligations to persons I hate. This young fellow has insulted me by his mock-civility. Cannot you guess who he is?’ ‘Is he not, Sir,’ said I, 'related to us?'

‘HE is so, to your and my misfortune,’ said he. ‘His father is my enemy, my mortal enemy: and upon him, since I have no male heir, my estates are entailed. Oh! that my brother had left me a son instead of a daughter!’

'WELL, Sir,' said I, endeavouring to laugh him out of his ill humour, ‘it is always misfortune enough to be a woman, without any aggravation. But I am not avaricious; and you have made me as rich as I desire to be. I wish, indeed, your heir was more worthy of your regard. But has this young man affronted you, as well as his father?’

'His father is a villain!' cried my uncle, starting from his chair, and pacing again furiously about the room; then suddenly stopping, and grasping my hand eagerly.

'OH! Maria,' said he, ‘I have cause for hatred; that base man betrayed me! betrayed me in the tenderest point! betrayed me, who was his kinsman, his friend, his benefactor!’

HIS voice failed; his eyes filled with tears; he turned from me, and throwing himself again into his chair, fixed his looks, altered as they were from rage to melancholy, stedfastly upon the fire.

WHILE he continued in this affecting silence, I could not refrain from tears; which I endeavoured to conceal, upon Mrs. Deering's entrance with supper. Sir John was so absorbed in thought, that he did not perceive she was in the room; I drew near to tell him softly, that supper was on the table.

'I HOPE his Honour is not ill!' said Mrs. Deering, coming up officiously towards him. 'Sir John is fatigued,' said I, 'with his journey.' ‘Ah! no doubt of it,’ said she. ‘What a mercy it was, that his honour did not go further to-night. Blessings on good young Mr. Harley, for leaving us his bed!’

At that name my uncle started up in some emotion; and then, for the first time, perceiving our loquacious landlady, he recollected himself, and drew his chair near the table.

'IT is a bitter night,' pursued she; ‘poor heart! I warrant he is drenched through with the rain by this time: but as long as his Honour is safe and warm, I am contented.’

SENSIBLE how much my uncle must suffer in the present state of his mind, by this woman's idle talk, I desired her to get his apartment ready for him as soon as possible; 'for I suppose, Sir,' said I, ‘you will choose to retire when you have supped?’ 'Certainly,' he said: upon which Mrs. Deering withdrew.

MY uncle, still pensive and silent, carved the chicken, helped me and himself, but scarce ate any thing; and my supper being finished as soon as his, he drank one glass of wine; and ordering his valet, who attended, to light him to his room, he wished me a good night, and left me.

I WAS glad to be alone, that I might give free vent to my tears; for the gentle melancholy my uncle fell into, after the first sallies of his anger were over, affected me greatly. I could have wished he had opened his heart to me, and acquainted me with the cause of his enmity against his kinsman. That there was no cordiality nor correspondence between them, I knew; but I never imagined their differences were of a nature to excite such a strong and lasting enmity. But what has this poor young man done, to deserve so great a share of my uncle's dislike? for it seems he never saw him before, and was disposed to like him, till he heard his name: and indeed, it must be acknowledged, that he has something extremely interesting in his countenance, and his person and address are engaging to a great degree. Poor youth! his complaisance may probably cost him dear; the night is dark and stormy, his road lies across the country, and he has ten miles to travel, with no attendant but an old countryman, whom, at a large expence, he hired to serve him as a guide.

HERE is Mrs. Deering with her alasses! again; she puts a thousand frightful thoughts into one's head. I have always observed, that low people take a pleasure in creating fears, when there is no cause for them, and in aggravating them when there is. But I will go to-bed: I am tired, but not sleepy. I have been writing ever since my uncle left me.—Good night, my dear Euphemia.

THREE O'CLOCK.

I CANNOT sleep, the tempest without is so violent; and, to say the truth, the agitations of my mind have raised a kind of tempest within me. I am risen, and I am got again to my pen. I dread the seeing my uncle; his uneasiness affects me greatly, Methinks, I can now account for his ill-suited marriage with Miss Fenwick.—Doubtless, he hoped for an heir, to disappoint the expectations of his hated kinsman, and his race. But, why should his race be hated too? Whatever the father's guilt may be, ought it to involve the innocent son? Bless me! there is a loud knocking at the gate. This stormy night has driven some bewildered travellers hither. Poor Mr. Harley! perhaps, he too, may be in difficulties. Good Heaven! how they thunder at the gate! This impatience speaks some emergency. So, the house is roused, I perceive: my window looks into the inn-yard; cold and dreary as it is, I must open it, and see what is the matter.

A POST chaise drives into the yard; they help a man out of it, who seems to be hurt: some dreadful accident has happened. I must ring for somebody to come to me; I am terrified, and cannot bear to be alone.

ALAS! my dear Euphemia, the wounded man I saw brought in is Mr. Harley! My maid, whom the noise had wakened, came to my chamber; I sent her to make some enquiries; she returned with my uncle's groom, who told me, that the young gentleman was dangerously hurt. I was excessively angry with this fellow, by whose neglect all this mischief has been brought about. I could hardly bear him in my sight; yet I was impatient to know, how he happened to be in Mr. Harley's company, for he was in the chaise with him, it seems: he told me, after some awkward excuses for his transgression, which I impatiently interrupted, that having met with a brother, who was just returned from sea, and whom he had not seen for many years, he was by him persuaded to go into a public house; where drink and discourse beguiled the time, he said, in such a manner, that it was late in the evening before they parted; but the storm was so violent, that he could not have proceeded, if he had not met with a returned post-chaise, the driver of which was his acquaintance, who invited him to take a seat in it; he set out with his friend, who promised to leave him at this inn. In their way, they were alarmed with the cries of a man, who begged them to alight, and assist a gentleman, whose horse had thrown him, and who, he believed, was dangerously hurt: this was poor Mr. Harley, my dear. They found him lying under a tree, which afforded him but indifferent shelter against the rain; and in this condition, it seems, he had remained near an hour, being unable to rise, much less to sit his horse; and in all this time, no carriage of any sort had passed by till their arrival; his guide, poor fellow! had taken off his own great coat to cover the poor youth as he lay, supporting his head upon his knees, hollowing in vain for help, where there was none to hear; and uncertain whether he ought to leave him, in that condition, to seek for assistance, or stay near him, in expectation that Providence would send them relief.

WITH some difficulty they raised him, and put him into the chaise; Robert supporting him in it. The humanity he had shewn upon this occasion prevented any further reproaches from me for his negligence, and I promised to prevail with my uncle to pardon him; who, upon the report of what had happened, had risen, and having sent to know if I was up, desired I would come to him in the parlour. He took notice that my eyes were red. ‘I do not blame you for your sensibility,’ said he; ‘I am concerned, as well as you, for the accident that has happened to this young man. That I should be undesignedly made, in part, the occasion of it, is one of those good turns which I am used to meet with from that family.’

I PERCEIVED he was in an ill humour; so I made him no answer to this speech, which, I thought, was a very strange one at this time. He walked hastily backwards and forwards in the room, as his manner is, when he is vexed.

'I HAVE sent to tell Mrs. Deering,' said he, ‘that she may accommodate her guest with my bed, which I have left for that purpose; so there, I think, we are even.’ There was no answering to this, you know; so I was still silent.

'I AM impatient to be gone,' pursued he, ‘therefore ring, and order some breakfast to be prepared immediately; we will set out as soon as it is light.’

I RUNG, and my maid appearing, I ordered her to get breakfast ready: ‘for I suppose,’ said I, ‘they have business enough below to employ them.’ My uncle looked withfully at Fanny, then at me, as if desirous to know what was passing. I asked no questions, though I was really in a great deal of anxiety myself, being resolved to see how far good nature would work. He seemed disappointed when Fanny went out of the room; and going to the door, called her back.

'WHY do you not tell us,' said he, 'how the gentleman is?' ‘He is very bad, Sir,’ said Fanny; ‘he is very much bruised, and has got a large cut on the side of his head, for it seems he fell against a huge stone that lay in the road: Mrs. Deering says, he bleeds like a pig, and he has fainted away twice. There is no surgeon to be had nearer than the next town, and that is seven miles off.’

MY uncle now walked about faster than before. 'Cursed accident!' muttered he: then, suddenly stopping, ‘Is any one gone for this surgeon?’ asked he, hastily. Fanny told him, a man and horse were gone full speed. ‘Well, make haste with breakfast,’ said he, ‘it grows light; and tell the men to get the carriage ready; I will be gone immediately.’

MRS. Deering brought in the chocolate herself, and told us, that as good luck would have it, one of her guests, being a physical gentleman, had visited Mr. Harley, who was now in bed; that he said, he ought to be bled immediately, and undertook to do it himself, though he did not practise that profession; that he had subscribed something to anoint his bruises, and to compose him to sleep; and that he was actually in a fine breathing sweat, and was very quiet.

SIR John, I could observe, listened to her strange jargon very attentively, which, at any other time, would have made me smile. But I was really concerned for the young gentleman, extremely concerned; it was natural I should be so, for he is our kinsman, you know, and whatever may be his father's demerits, he is blameless.

MY uncle heard all she said without making any reply; and having drank his chocolate, seated himself in an easy chair, complaining that he was very sleepy. I retired to my own room, and wrote thus far, expecting to be soon summoned to depart, for I see the coach is drawn out. Methinks I could with the surgeon was come, that we might have his opinion of the poor young man's case: common humanity, you know, my dear, would suggest this. Sure, Sir John will not go till he knows what degree of danger Mr. Harley is in. I was mistaken; he sends this moment to know if I am ready. —Well, I will attend him.

Greville Park.

I AM retired for the night to my own chamber; the fatigue and agitation of the day affording me a reasonable excuse for desiring early rest; but I shall devote an hour or two to you before I go to-bed.

I TOLD you, my uncle sent to let me know he was ready to set out from the inn, and I hastened down to him. I found him reading a news-paper, and so leisurely, that he even read all the advertisements; at length, he laid down the paper, walked to the window, and looked at his watch. My maid coming in with my cloak, he asked her, ‘If the surgeon was come?’ She answered, 'No;' but that the coach was ready.' I rose up, my uncle gave me his hand; I thought we were going away immediately, when he stopped short at the parlour door: 'I fancy, Maria,' said he, ‘you would be glad of a dish of tea before you go; you have had very little rest, it will refresh you, and you are not used to breakfast upon chocolate.’

IT appeared to me, that my uncle was desirous of staying till the surgeon came, though he would not own it. I accepted his proposal, and tea was ordered. In about half an hour afterwards, Fanny told us the surgeon was come: 'Well,' said my uncle, with an assumed carelessness, ‘we shall now hear his opinion of this case.’ And accordingly Mrs. Deering came, in a great hurry, to tell us.

'WELL, Heaven be praised,' said she, ‘matters are not so bad as we imagined; Surgeon Parker has examined the wound, and shook his head; but says, he hopes it will not be attended with very great danger. He is a fine man; he will cure him, if any body can. He says, the young gentleman is very much bruised, but he hopes not dangerously; and his fever is pretty high, but he hopes not dangerous. He says, he must be kept quiet; for it will be a work of time to set him upon his legs again. Oh, he is a fine man; the young gentleman will be very safe in his hands. But I must go, and get ready the things he has subscribed for him.’ And accordingly she left us, in as great a hurry as she came in.

'I FANCY this fine man,' said my uncle, half smiling, ‘will make a fine job of this.’ Then pausing a little; the wounded gentleman,' said he, ‘is probably not provided with money enough to answer such extraordinary expences as he may be brought into; and the wretch, his father, lives at a great distance: can you think of any method, Maria, of conveying this to him,’ taking a bank-note of fifty pounds out of his pocket-book; ‘it will hurt his delicacy, I suppose, to put it into Mrs. Deering's hands for his use.’ I could have wished my uncle had completed this act of benevolence, by making Mr. Harley a visit, and giving it to himself; but I durst not mention this to him.

'THERE is no other way, Sir,' said I, ‘than to inclose it, and send it to him by Mrs. Deering.’ He said, that would do; and taking his hat, walked into the garden, to give me an opportunity. Accordingly, I inclosed the note in a blank sheet of paper, and sealed it with my own cypher. I then sent for Mrs. Deering, and desired her to deliver it to Mr. Harley herself. She told me he was asleep, which I was glad to hear; and, smiling significantly, assured me, he should have it as soon as he waked. She was going to oppress me with her usual loquacity; but my uncle coming in, she stopped short. He gave me his hand to lead me to the coach, and we drove away immediately; my uncle not once speaking to me, till we came within five miles of Grevillepark; when he perceived Mr. Greville, on horse back, coming to meet us; and he pointed him out to me.

MR. GREVILLE, full of the pleasure this visit gave him, said a great many civil thing to me; and thanked Sir John for the favour he did him, in prevailing upon me to accompany him. But my uncle continued to be grave and pensive; so that when we arrived at the Park, Mr. Greville, as he handed me out of the coach, expressed some surprise at the humour his friend seemed to be in; and asked me, in a whisper, What was the matter? I replied, That we had met with some disagreeable accidents at the inn, which, I supposed, Sir John would acquaint him with; and that I should then expect an explanation from him; for I knew he was too much in his confidence, to be ignorant of any thing that materially concerned him.

THIS iS a delightful seat, my dear Euphemia; sweetly romantic in its situation and prospects. The house is not very large, but elegant, and furnished with great taste. I complimented the house-keeper, who is a grave matronly woman, upon the exquisite neatness that reigned in all the apartments. That which is allotted for me, during my stay, is one of the best.

I HAVE had a long conversation with Mr. Greville this morning. My uncle, being a little fatigued with his journey, did not accompany us in our walk in the park, which is a very extensive one. I was impatient to know what had passed between them, after I left them last night, concerning our adventures on the road; and Mr. Greville, to my wish, entered of himself into the subject.

‘So, Sir John has seen his young kinsman,’ said he, ‘I find. It must have been a trying interview for him; and, no doubt, opened all those wounds, which neither time nor reason have been able entirely to heal.’

'What are those wounds,' said I, ‘which, in a mind so generous as my uncle's naturally is, could produce such fatal effects, as to make him confound innocence with guilt, and reject the blameless son for the faults of the offending father? Yet, it must be owned, that, angry as he was, he forgot not the duties of humanity.’

'THAT is exactly my friend,' replied Mr. Greville; ‘his passions may sometimes mislead him, but his inclinations are always good, and never fail to bring him again into the right path. But you will not be surprised at the continuance of his resentment against the father, when you know the injuries he has received from him; and I have his leave to make you acquainted with them. ‘For I am not willing,’ said he, ‘that my niece should think meanly of me, as she probably will, till she is convinced, that my resentment is but proportioned to the offence that has been given me.’ ’

You must know then, that Sir John and Dr. Harley had contracted a great friendship for each other in their early youth. They received the first rudiments of their education at the same academy, and were sent together to the same university. Dr. Harley's father was but in indifferent circumstances, and would have found it very difficult to have supported his son at college, had not his expences been liberally supplied by your uncle, whose father, Sir Henry Harley, gave him a very large allowance. The two friends were inseparable; and their mutual attachment was so steady and so ardent, that they were called Pilades and Orestes. Mr. Harley, your uncle, during one of the vacations, became acquainted in a gentleman's family, the daughter of which was exquisitely handsome, and highly accomplished; for her father, having no fortune to give her, was at an expence for her education, which but little suited his circumstances, not doubting but her beauty, aided by such advantages, would procure her a very honourable establishment. Your uncle conceived a violent passion for her; he made her a declaration of it, which was not ill received; but the prudent young lady referred him to her father, which put matters in such a train, that your uncle was soon engaged in a formal matrimonial address, which, for the present, however, was to be carried on secretly, as it was not expected that Sir Henry would be easily prevailed upon to give his consent, and the young gentleman was still master enough of himself, to reject all thoughts of a complete disobedience.

HIS young kinsman, you may be sure, became his confident; and he undertook to manage a correspondence between the lovers; which, for some time, was carried on undiscovered; at length, some hints of the affair had been given to Sir Henry, who, when his son came next to visit him, caused him to be watched so closely, that he soon became master of the whole secret. He came to an explanation with his son, who had too much candour to deny his attachment to Miss Denby; but assured him, that he never entertained a thought of engaging himself further without his consent.

SIR HENRY seemed satisfied with this assurance, and gave him to understand, that he relied entirely upon his honour, and expected that he would break off this connexion; and, to make all sure, proposed, that he should set out immediately upon his travels. This was a sad stroke: Mr. Harley endeavoured to ward it off by many bad arguments, which he brought to prove, that it would be better to defer this expedition for a year at least.

SIR HENRY, who never had recourse to authority when the case in question could be decided by reason, was sensible, that to combat passion with remonstrances was engaging with unequal arms; therefore he put an end to the debate with a positive I will have it so; and preparations were immediately made for his departure.

THE lovers, at parting, exchanged a thousand vows of constancy, and their faithful confident promised to manage their correspondence as usual, which went on unsuspected for near a year when Mr. Harley's governor discovered it by chance, and gave immediate notice to Sir Henry.

THE Baronet began now to apprehend very serious consequences from a passion which had stood the test of time and absence; and the active part young Harley had taken in the affair giving him just offence, he sent for him in order to reprove him severely for it. Mr. Harley, finding it in vain to deny the truth to one who was too well informed, pleaded in his own excuse the force of friend ship, and in your uncle's, the fascinating power of Miss Denby's charms; and on this last point he spoke so feelingly, as put a scheme into Sir Henry's head, which, if it succeeded, would effectually prevent the misfortune he feared from his son's imprudent attachment.

DROPPING therefore the first severity of his tone and aspect, he began to expostulate mildly with him.

"IF my son," said he, ‘continues his addresses to this girl, he will offend me greatly; but, if he should be mad enough to marry her, never let him hope for my pardon; I will banish him from my heart, and from my sight for ever; tell him this, and use all your influence with him to prevent such an insult to parental authority; in doing so you will shew your friendship to him, and will secure mine to yourself.’

MR. Harley's father was lately dead and had left him a very small fortune; he had taken orders, but had little hopes of obtaining any preferment in the church but by the interest of Sir Henry. He perceived all the advantages of this opening towards gaining his confidence and friendship; and Sir Henry was convinced by the suppleness of his answers, that it would not be a very difficult matter to lead him as far as he pleased. He resolved, therefore, to explain his whole design at once, founding his hopes of success in it, on the observations he had made on the warmth with which the young man expatiated upon the beauty and merit of Miss Denby. He knew that the shortest way to persuade was to please; therefore, he instantly proposed to him to marry the young lady himself, whom he would portion with a thousand pounds, and give him the reversion of the living of— which was worth three hundred pounds a year, and was likely to be soon vacant, the present incumbent being then above four-score.

THE once faithful Pilades could not resist these strong temptations; he sacrificed his Orestes without scruple, persuading himself that the friendship he had vowed for him required that he should use every means in his power to prevent his incurring the guilt of disobedience to his fathers; and knowing that in great affairs there are no small steps, he went boldly to work, represented to Mr. Denby the danger of offending a man so powerful by his fortune and interest as Sir Henry Harley; by encouraging his son's clandestine address to Miss Denby; that the young gentleman himself did not entertain a thought of marrying her without his father's consent, which would never be obtained; that the Baronet's death alone could open a prospect of success in this affair; and this prospect, considering the vigour of his years and constitution, was very remote. He advised him, therefore, to listen to another proposal for his daughter, which, though not so splendid yet was certain, and might be productive of more happiness.

MR. Denby was a reasonable man; he considered that nothing is less certain than the future—nothing apter to deceive than hope. He was anxious to settle his daughter, and resolved not to reject a present good for the bare possibility of a greater in future; and, after some reflection, desired Mr. Harley to explain himself, which he accordingly did, relating very candidly Sir Henry's proposal; for even knaves can be honest when their interest points that way.

THE two gentlemen were soon agreed; the greatest difficulty seemed to be the persuading Miss Denby to this new regulation:—but even this was got over in a little time, either because the young lady's passion for her absent lover was not very violent, or she had given way to a growing inclination for the present; or, what indeed was most likely, the precarious condition of her fortune, her sole dependence being upon the life of her father, whose health was declining, and whose income, arising from a place in the revenue, did not enable him to lay up any thing for her future support.

SIR Henry had soon the satisfaction to hear that this marriage was completed; he performed the first part of his promise immediately, and caused the thousand pounds he gave Miss Denby to be settled on herself; and in a very few weeks he was enabled to perform the second part of it; the living became vacant, and Mr. Harley was put in possession of it.

YOUR uncle was at Brussels, on his way to England, when he heard of this marriage, which, upon report, he did not believe: but a letter from his father put it past a doubt. He received one at the same time from Dr. Harley, which he returned unopened. He made no reproaches, he expressed no resentment; satisfied with the resolution he had taken, never for the future to hold any converse with a man who had so basely betrayed him, he confined his grief and rage within his own breast; and, in his letter to his father, took not the least notice of what had happened, but desired he would approve of his intention to continue abroad some time longer.

DR. Harley was deeply wounded by the contemptuous silence of his injured friend, which carried with it more keen reproach than the severest invectives. His remorse, it was said, cost him a fit of sickness; and he had the mortification to find that Sir Henry, though he profited by his treachery, yet despised him for it, confining his acknowledgments to the bare performance of his promise, withoutkeeping up any correspondence with him, or pushing his interest any further.

YOUR uncle continued on the continent three years longer, visiting most of the European courts; and being furnished with remittances to make a large expence, he amused himself so effectually, that he returned to England perfectly cured of his passion; but retaining all his resentment against the perfidious pair who had so basely betrayed him.

SIR Henry pressed him to marry, to which he seemed greatly averse; and when his father, to prevail upon him, mentioned the entail of his estates upon Mr. Harley in default of issue in his line, your uncle said, his brother's marriage might as effectually prevent that misfortune as his. Accordingly Mr. Edward Harley was, with the consent of all parties, married to your amiable mother; and Sir Henry, before he died, had the satisfaction to be grandfather to three fine boys and yourself. It pleased Heaven, however, to take your brother to himself; and your parents, too much affected with their loss, followed them in a few months. Then it was that your uncle resolved upon marriage, but was not able to fix till he saw Miss Fenwick. A most judicious choice, as it has proved; and he has now the mortification to know, that the person whom he hates most, and has most reason to hate, plumes himself with the hope of succeeding to his fortune.

THIS was what Mr. Greville told me, my dear Euphemia; and it must be confessed, that my uncle's fixed resentment against the elder Mr. Harley is very justifiable. It was natural, you know, my dear, to be a little inquisitive about the character of the son. Mr. Greville, it seems, knows him very well, having met him several times in company since his return from Leyden. He speaks of his merit in very high terms: he says he is a most amiable youth, is possessed of a fine understanding, and besides being an excellent scholar, is highly accomplished. He resembles his father, he says, in nothing but the graces of his person; and even in these he has the advantage of him.

'HE would be no bad representative,' added Mr. Greville, ‘of the honours of your family; but, if it be true what some have observed, that the qualities of the mind are hereditary, though the order of succession is not always observed, young Harley may have a son that will resemble his grandfather, and disgrace those honours.’

I SMILED at this conceit, and I must confess I was glad to hear so good an account of the young man, for I was willing to be justified in the favourable prepossession — I mean the good opinion I had conceived of him from his very polite and engaging behaviour. ‘Mr. Greville told me that he would dispatch a man and horse to-day to the Bell Inn, to know how the young gentleman is, and, by some means or other,’ said he, ‘I will contrive to let Sir John know the state of his health, about which I am sure he has good nature enough to be anxious, though he will not own it.’

OUR walk ended with this little history. My uncle himself mentioned Mr. Harley, and said he should be glad to know if the young man's hurt was really as bad as the surgeon represented it.

'WE shall know, presently,' said Mr. Greville, ‘for I ordered Will, as he passed by the Bell Inn, to enquire; he must be come back I suppose by this time.’ — He rang the bell, and Will himself appeared, — ‘Well, how is the wounded gentleman?’ said Sir John, carelessly. — 'Sir,' replied the man, ‘he is much better; so well, indeed, that he talks of setting out tomorrow in a post chaise for his father's house; but the surgeon and Mrs. Deering say he is mad to think of any such thing, and would fain have him stay a week longer, at least; but the young gentleman seems to be a very positive young gentleman, and will do as he pleases.’

WHEN William left the room, my uncle said he was glad the young man was not likely to be a great sufferer by his civility, which, whether it proceeded, said he, from an interested policy, or real benevolence, I profited by, and therefore owed him my thanks for it: and now, that the matter is all over, I must insist upon never having his name mentioned to me again.

HE spoke this with so severe a look, and in so firm an accent, that Mr. Greville did not think fit to make any reply; much less did I, you may be sure. But is this just, my dear Euphemia, to shew so much rancour? — Rancour did I say! no, that is too harsh a word. My uncle is incapable of harbouring any rancour in his breast; but so much dislike to one who never offended him— one whose amiable qualities — yes, I think that praise may be allowed to him from what we observed of his behaviour, even though Mr. Greville may have drawn his character with some exaggeration. But why should one suppose that Mr. Greville, whose penetration and sincerity nobody ever called in question, could either be mistaken in the character of this youth, or draw it in false colours? If then he is what he represents him to be, and what his behaviour to us gives us reason to think he is, I must say it is unreasonable, nay, it is unjust in my uncle to confound him with his unworthy parents, and make him answerable for their faults.

I EXPECTED to have had a letter from you by yesterday's post. How does it happen that I am disappointed? Does the Bellenden family engross you wholly? Have you not a few moments to spare to your friend? Let me not accuse you of neglect, my Euphemia; at this time it would affect me greatly. —I am low-spirited—I know not why, but I am really so; and yet have I not too much cause for low spirits—are we not to be separated, perhaps for ever? Mr. Greville quarrels with me for spending so many hours in the Park; its romantic scenes charm me—‘solitude is the nurse of tender thought,’ the poet says; and in the silence and gloom of these shades I undergo the melancholy reveries of divided friendship—divided, but never to be lessened.— Yes, my dear Euphemia, I think of you with more tenderness than ever; my fortitude has quite forsaken me, and my tears flow at the bare idea of our separation. How then shall I suppress the trial when it comes? But I must lay down my pen; Mr. Greville makes an entertainment tomorrow for some of the neighbouring families, who come to welcome us to this part of the country; and my maid tells me it is time to dress. The post carries you a large packet this time. Adieu.

MARIA HARLEY.

Information about this book

Title statement

Euphemia. By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox. In four volumes.: [pt.1]

Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4578

ID [isbn10]

1106015770

ID [isbn13]

9781106015778

ID [TCP]

K062108.001

ID [BIBNO]

CW3312501627

ID [ECLL]

0207000101

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Source

— Euphemia. By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox. In four volumes., Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804.. 4v. ; 12⁰. London :: printed for T. Cadell; and J. Evans,. 1790.. [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT73522.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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