Euphemia. By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox. In four volumes.: [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- 17

- LETTER XVIII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

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

- LETTER XX MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER XXI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXIII. MISS HARLEY, IN CONTINUATION.

- LETTER XXIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER XXV. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXVI. MISS HARLEY, IN CONTINUATION.

- LETTER XXVII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXVIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER XXIX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXX. MISS HARLEY IN CONTINUATION.

- LETTER XXXI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXXII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

- LETTER XXXIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

- LETTER XXXIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

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END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

EUPHEMIA.

BY Mrs. CHARLOTTE LENNOX.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

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

M, DCC, XC.

me no matter for observation, either of praise or censure, and consequently nothing for your entertainment. They are neither handsome nor ugly, witty nor foolish, aukward nor well-bred; they are in that class of mediocrity which leaves one nothing to say, but that they are good sort of people. However, there was another lady expected, who, I supposed, had some claim to distinction; for upon the mention of Lady Jackson, every one had something to say of her. 'She was at church last Sunday,' said one lady, ‘quite new dressed in her fourth mourning, that is, for the last quarter, you know, and looked mighty well.’ ‘To be sure, she is a very personable woman,’ said another, ‘and has a fine presence: but any one would look well, dressed to such advantage as she is; I dare say, she had not less than twenty pounds value of gauzes, and blonds, and feathers about her.’ ‘Aye, she had plenty of white plumes on her head,’ said a third lady. ‘I suppose it is the fashion in London to wear so many; for Lady Jackson would rather be dead than out of the fashion: and they say, indeed, she spends twothirds of her income in clothes, though she is not young, and never was handsome; and, to my thinking, that prodigious quantity of feathers she wears is very frightful; for when she came into church, being a very tall woman, and walking through the crowd, she overtopped every body, and her white plumes, nodding as she moved, appeared like those carried before the hearse of some batchelor or maid in a funeral.’

EVERY one laughed at this conceit; and Mr. Greville happening to sit near me, I asked him, in a low voice, ‘who is this Lady Jackson?’ ‘She is the widow of a rich citizen,’ said he,
who was knighted in the last promotion of bob-wigs and laced waistcoats. The lady so little understands this honour, so envied by every alderman's wife in London, that she thinks it equals her with a countess; and if she knew how, she would assume the dignified manners of quality, as well as their dress; but her breeding is coarse, and her opportunities of improvement few. One leading card in her character I cannot pass over; it is her insuperable vanity, which makes her imagine that every man who looks upon her is in love with her. No maiden can be secure of the constancy of her lover, no wife of the fidelity of her husband, if Lady Jackson comes in the way. This folly of hers is so apparent, that it draws a great deal of ridicule upon her from the men, who feed it with the grossest flattery, which she swallows as greedily as if—as Shakspeare says,

Her appetite grew with what it fed on.

But it is not only to the praise of beauty she aspires; she unites, if you believe her professions, every amiable quality in her mind, as well as every grace in her person. She is far gone in the refinements of friendship; she tastes, with the highest relish, the luxury of benevolence; while her insincerity incapacitates her for the one, and her selfishness for the other.

'It must be confessed,' said I, ‘that you are going to introduce me to a very valuable acquaintance.’ ‘I could not avoid inviting her,’ replied he, ‘as she is upon a visit to a lady in the neighbourhood, who is my intimate friend; besides, I am fond of extraordinary characters. I have given you but the bare outlines of Lady Jackson's; the lady will finish the picture herself.’

I WAS obliged, however, to wait some time longer for this satisfaction; and dinner was ready to be served, before Lady Jackson came; doubtless, this delay was an effect of the same policy, which makes our celebrated beauties enter the church and the play-house, when the service is half over in the former, and the second act of the comedy begun in the latter.

At length Lady Jackson was announced; she entered the room with a masculine step, and such an air of confidence in the superiority of her charms and her dress, as at the first moment inspired me with disgust.

Mr. GREVILLE, who knew that dinner only waited for her, led her immediately into the dining-hall, expressing his concern, by the way, that Mrs. Derwent did not accompany her. Lady Jackson told him, that Mrs. Derwent was so much indisposed, that she could not venture abroad, and that she had sat by her bed-side, in great uneasiness, all the morning. This was the first time I had heard her voice, which is loud and harsh; and so little did her countenance express the sensibility she would be thought to possess, that her mouth was screwed up into an affected simper, while her eyes were fixed upon the large glass that fronted the door by which she entered, and shewed her her figure at full length. This sight had the force of magic, and seemed to have rivetted her feet to the spot where she stood; when Mr. Greville, by a gentle violence, led her to her seat at the table, which was on my right hand. She soon entered into a particular conversation with me; admired the elegance of my undress; asked who was my millener, and how much my lace cost a yard; and, in a decisive tone, assured me every thing I had on was perfectly fashionable.

AFTER dinner, when we were got back to the drawing-room, being still seated near me, she renewed the discourse; and making a sudden transition from the trimming of gowns, to which she condescended to ask my opinion of, she talked of books; ran over the names of Milton, Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope:—But her observations and criticisms were confined to exclamations of—excellent! divine! inimitable! which she uttered with great vehemence; while she entered more deeply into the merits of Mariveaux and Marmontel; the characters of the former were so natural—the tales of the latter so charming—so interesting! This flow of erudition was stopped by the attention the company seemed willing to give, to a lady who was relating to the person that sat next her, a melancholy accident which had happened to an acquaintance of her's—a gentleman who was killed by a fall from his horse, and brought home dead to his wife a few hours after he had left her in high health and spirits. The wretched wife was seised with convulsions at the sight, and died the next day.

LADY JACKSON, being a widow herself, it was her part to be more affected than any one else with this sad story : she sighed aloud. My uncle observed, that such instances of conjugal affection were very rare.

'Very rare indeed,' said Mr. Greville; ‘for one such afflicted widow, we shall see a hundred, who, as Pope, one of your admired authors, Madam,’ said he, addressing himself to Lady Jackson, 'has it,

Bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public shew.

'Oh, dear Sir,' said Lady Jackson, 'you are very fevere.'

'Not at all, Madam,' said he, ‘for although my censures are general, I admit of some exceptions. But, to speak the truth, there is no virtue now so common as fortitude, nor any thing so superfluous as the custom of comforting. All the poisons of Thessaly might safely be trusted in the hands of the mourners of our time.’

'I HOPE, Sir,' said Lady Jackson, ‘you include the male mourners in this observation.’

'CERTAINLY, Madam,' said Mr. Greville, ‘there are men, I believe, who would be glad to outlive, not only their friends and relations, but even the age they live in, and their very country; and rather than die, would willingly stay in the world alone.’

‘I AM sure there is no woman of that mind,’ said Lady Jackson.

'For a very good reason, Madam,' said Mr. Greville; ‘there would be nobody to admire her.’

'You are a perfect cynic,' replied the Lady, gravely; and rising, walked up to a window, from which there was a prospect of a very fine flowergarden, which she commended greatly. Mr. Greville assured her, it was part of his business every morning to dress that garden. 'For,' added he, ‘I am a great admirer of beauty, wherever I meet it: but because it is a dangerous thing in women's faces, I had rather contemplate it in these flowers.’

LADY JACKSON, who has, it seems, a very happy facility in appropriating these sort of speeches to herself, immediately changed her manner; she became lively, witty, good-humoured; but her vivacity shewed itself in boisterous laughs at a jest of her own finding out; her wit, in scraps of poetry quoted at random; and her good-humour, in familiar nods, smiles, indelicate praise, and taps on the shoulder, rather heavy indeed, for the hand that gave them was robust, and the manner truly masculine.

MR. Greville kept up the scene so long, that the lady departed in full persuasion that she had made a conquest; and this notion of her's afforded my uncle some diversion; but I was concerned that her folly had been soothed so agreeably; for if happiness be but opinion, Mr. Greville had made her happy; and what was this but to reward and continue folly?

I WAS malicious enough to wish she had been a secret witness of the ridicule cast upon her by the very man whom she imagined was beginning to feel the influence of her charms. But enough, and indeed too much of this lady; if it were not that she has earnestly requested me to make her the bearer of a letter to you, whose character she professes to be an idolater of. She says she has some relations in New York, who by their station and connections may be of use to Mr. Neville; and this being confirmed to me by Mr. Greville, she will have the happiness to present this letter to you. Oh! envied happiness! could she taste it—but that is impossible, for minds like your's and her's can never mix. Adieu! my dear Euphemia.

LETTER XVIII.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

By this time you have received my last letter, which Lady Jackson, transported with the opportunity it gave her of being acquainted with you, promised to deliver to you herself. I am impatient till you give me an account of your interview; I am sure you will be diverted with her peculiarities; for you only smile at follies which make me peevish.

I HAVE been surprised with a letter from Mr. Harley; a country fellow gave it to my maid. She asked if it required an answer; he said he had no orders about that, but he would wait.

IT should seem that he had chosen his time well; for Mr. Greville and my uncle had rode out to take the air, about a quarter of an hour before he came.

TO MISS HARLEY.

MADAM,

LOW as my fortunes are, I never till now laboured under the weight of pecuniary obligations. But can any thing be humiliating that comes from you? Oh! why was this soft attention to my situation shewn me at a time when my reason was still free enough to combat those sentiments which the first sight of you inspired. Sentiments, which the implacability of your uncle, and a just sense of my own unworthiness, convinced me I ought to suppress—I ought, it is true, but I never can suppress them: and all I dare to hope for from your goodness is, that you will pardon the boldness of this confession, and pity the misfortune of him that makes it. I am, and ever will be, Madam,

Your devoted servant, EDWARD HARLEY.

WELL, my dear Euphemia, what do you think of this letter? is there not something extremely affecting in the manner in which this young man speaks of his situation? He is humble without meanness, and dignifies poverty by the nobleness of his sentiments. Dearly as I love my uncle, grateful as my heart is for his generosity to me, I must blame him a little for the implacability of his temper (as Mr. Harley calls it), which hinders him from distinguishing between the guilty and the innocent, and makes him suffer the heir of his honour and fortunes to languish in indigence and obscurity.

You will readily allow that I was under the necessity of answering this letter, which I certainly should not have done had it contained only a declaration of love: but it was just to set him right with regard to the pecuniary obligation, as he considers it. Here then is what I wrote.

TO MR. HARLEY,

SIR,

IT was by my uncle's command that I enclosed to you the note which your grateful disposition seems to lay too great a stress upon. Both my uncle and myself were under the highest obligations to you, who hazarded your own life to prevent our suffering a slight inconvenience. It is but just that you should know this was the sense he had of your generous behaviour;. and the accident that befel you, in consequence of it, being likely to produce some inconveniences to you, who was far from home, and unattended— this was the cause of the liberty he took in offering you some assistance. I am apprehensive, from the turn of your letter, that you will reject what you consider as an obligation, when you know it came from him. This is what I sincerely wish to prevent, for it will be a means of increasing and continuing that ill-will which has unhappily taken place between your families. As in the circumstances we both are, I can neither receive nor answer any more letters, without hazarding my uncle's displeasure. I take this opportunity to assure you that I am, with all the esteem that is due to you, Sir,

Your very humble servant, MARIA HARLEY.

TELL me, my dear Euphemia, have I done right in answering his letter thus, or indeed in answering it at all? I shall not be easy till I have your approbation, which is so respected and revered by me, that I should prefer it to reason itself, if they were two things that could be separated, and one of them left to my choice. Adieu.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XIX. MRS. NEVILLE, TO MISS HARLEY.

I AM just returned from Lord S.'s seat, where I have spent a week. It was a farewel visit; and, like all other farewel visits, was begun in pleasure and ended in tears. The very day after my return, your Lady Jackson called upon me, introducing herself with a letter from you. I could not open it with any propriety, as I heard from her that you were in health, so I missed the advantage of knowing her character without the help of my own observations; but, to say the truth, there is no need of any great acuteness to make one's self mistress of the subject; for the features of her mind are as strongly marked as those of her face; and, like a book printed in a large letter, the weakest eyes may read her.

WITH a familiarity, which she borrowed from the notion of her superior rank, she invited herself to tea with me; and in less than half an hour professed, and claimed in return, an ardent and inviolable friendship. Having thus laid the foundations of an entire confidence, she entertained me with the history of her life, in which, like all other romances, love made the principal part—she is a perfect homicide. There was no end to the murders of her eyes; then, for conjugal affection, none ever equalled her. Those widows, whose tears antiquity hath hallowed, were but the shadows of her substantial grief. She left me at length, after a strict embrace, to the pleasure your letters always afford me.

YOUR former large packet found me at Lord S.'s; it is full of adventure, my dear Maria. The unexpected meeting between your uncle and Mr. Harley has had consequences that will certainly produce some interesting events. The merit of the young man, and the natural good disposition of Sir John, prepare a scene, in which you will perhaps have a part. How greatly am I obliged to you for giving me, in your charming journal, so large a share of your conversation. The scene will soon change with me, and then my narratives may become interesting, for at present my days run on in one dull tenor, and afford nothing to engage your attention.

I HAVE another letter from you this moment—things have fallen out just as I expected.—Mr. Harley is your conquest. Well, there is nothing surprising in that, he has a heart, and you have conquering eyes. You compliment too highly when you lay so great a stress upon my advice and approbation.

You have no need of any precepts, nor indeed of any instruction; you cannot wander from the right if you go not astray from your own inclination, nor do amiss, if you borrow not a frailty which is none of your own. Your letter seems dictated by prudence itself. I wish, indeed, there had been no concealment in the case; but I see not how you could have shewn Mr. Harley's letter to your uncle: there is one severe expression in it, which would doubtless have given him great offence, and would, perhaps, have clouded for ever those dawnings of good-will, which broke out, in spite of himself, in consequence of his engaging behaviour.

WE are to dine to-morrow on board the man of war which is to carry the colonel and his family, of which we are considered as a part, to New York. I know the mention of this circumstance will raise some tumults in your breast; but you must accustom yourself, my dear Maria, to bear these preludes to our parting, that the parting itself may not fall so heavy upon you.

MRS. Benson has settled all her affairs; and having no relations but such as are much richer than herself, she has sunk part of her little fortune in an annuity for her life, and the remainder she has bequeathed to me. Her good sense and obliging manners endear her to every one that knows her. I am most happy in this consideration, that having lost my mother, and upon the point of being separated from you, I have the comfort to enjoy such a companion—such a monitor and friend.

I AM to spend this evening with Lady Jackson, in consequence of so pressing an invitation, that I know not how to refuse. It shall not be my fault if our intercourse of visits do not end here. She would be my friend, that is, according to her notion of the thing—a companion in my amusements—one who returns my visits most punctually, never fails to send daily enquiries after my health if I am the least indisposed, and a most strict observer of all the civil duties of life. But by a friend, I mean a witness of the conscience, a physician of secret griefs, a moderator in prosperity, and a guide in adversity. How little are such as the qualified to act that part? But you tell me she styles herself an idolater of my character. A good opinion, it has been said, lays one under an obligation, let it come from whom it will; but it is only truly valuable when it proceeds from the wise, the candid, and the virtuous.

AT NIGHT.

I CANNOT close my letter without giving you an account of a most extravagantly kind proposal Lady Jackson made me.—I was obliged to stay till the rest of her company were gone, two of whom, she said, were her intimate friends, married ladies, whose husbands she gave me to understand were, to her great grief, so much in love with her, that she lived in continual apprehension, left their unfortunate passions should be discovered by their wives, whose peace of mind such a discovery would entirely destroy.

As she seemed impatient for my opinion and advice upon this her very hard case, I told her gravely, that I had no advice to offer her but to keep the secret carefully herself, in order to prevent, as far as lay in her power, the bad consequences she apprehended. She then suddenly changed the discourse, loaded me with a thousand professions of friendship, and called it a misfortune to have known me, since she was to lose me so soon; execrated my husband's uncle for driving him, by his unjust parsimony, to the necessity of going abroad.

'BUT I have thought of a way,' said she, ‘to prevent that necessity, if you will do me the honour to accept my offer. I have some money unemployed; I will lay it out in the purchase of a small estate in any county in England that will be most agreeable to you. It shall be yours for ever, if you will; yours at least; as long as you may want it. Tell me you will accept my offer—tell me so, and make me happy.’

MY first emotions on this speech were all gratitude and surprise at the uncommon generosity it displayed: but her looks and manners bore so little affinity with her words, that a moment afterwards I could scarce persuade myself she was in earnest: for, while she was pouring out these effusions of friendship and benevolence, she had her eyes often turned towards the class, with a complacency that shewed how much her thoughts were taken up with the object it represented. And, in the midst of her earnest entreaties that I would accept her offer, her hands were often employed in setting the flounces of her petticoat, adjusting her tucker, or pinning up a curl. These observations cooled the first warmth of my gratitude: I expressed my acknowledgments, however, for the generosity of her offer in civil terms, assuring her I should never forget it, but that I had some very powerful reasons for declining it. She would know my reasons.—I told her my husband was obliged in honour to fulfil his engagements; and that, however painful it might be to me to leave my friends and my country, I hoped I should always be able to sacrifice my inclination to his duty and reputation. That I had received from a dear and valuable friend, with whom I had been connected from my earliest youth, offers of the same generous nature with her's, and which, on the same account, I had been obliged to refuse.

SHE seemed satisfied with my excuse; but lamented, in very passionate terms, her misfortune in being hopeless to prevail upon me. We parted, with great cordiality on her side, and much civility on mine.

WHEN I related what had passed in this visit to my husband and Mrs. Benson, they diverted themselves extremely with my credulity, which they thought much greater than it was; for I did not endeavour to undeceive them, being really in some doubt whether I should wrong her by suspecting her sincerity. I shall be able, when I write next, to tell when our voyage is determined upon. Adieu! My dear Maria.

LETTER XX MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

WELL, my dear friend, I have six weeks good yet. This news was like a reprieve to one under a painful sentence, for I reckoned upon no more than a fortnight at farthest. May I not hope then to have one week of your dear society granted by your uncle? Do, my Maria, make the request now, while Sir John is with his friend; your absence will be more easily supported by him. Tell him I entreat this favour, and I will number it among the many instances I have received of his goodness, which will live in my memory for ever.

NEVER having been on board a ship in my life, you will easily conceive, my dear Maria, how much I was affected with a sight so new and strange as that of the—man of war, where I dined yesterday, in company with Colonel Bellenden, his lady, and eldest daughter. It was a beautiful, but to me terrific, object, when I considered, that in such a frail building I was to traverse an immense ocean; every thing I saw produced astonishment, and excited my curiosity, so that I asked a thousand foolish questions, which were, however, answered with great civility by the gentlemen about us, by whom we were conducted round this little world, and shewn every thing worthy our observation.

THE commander is a young man, very genteel in his person and dress; his manners are polite, soft, and insinuating; but in my opinion he has too much of the courtier, and too little of the chief. He suffered greatly in the comparison with Colonel Bellenden, who in his person and manners unites dignity with sweetness, the martial air of a soldier with the elegance of the gentleman, the noble frankness of his profession with the politeness of a man of quality.

THE captain presented his principal officers to Colonel Bellenden and the ladies. Miss Bellenden had reason to be pleased with the effect of her charms; every eye was rivetted upon her; every tongue seemed ready to pronounce her beautiful. I wish I could say she received this involuntary homage with greater propriety; she even seemed to claim more than was paid her; a conscious simper, an affected toss of her head, a careless air, and a wandering eye, that seemed searching for new victims to gratify her pride of conquest, proclaimed the temper of her mind.

THE handsome, it has been said with great truth, can never be seen without respect, and their youth hath not more days than their beauty hath triumphs—they conquer as often as they appear; but the mischief of it is, that their triumphs are short, their youth is not lasting, and the handsome at last grow ugly. Queens and princesses, said your Mr. Neville once in my hearing, grow old; and there is no ancient beauty but that of the sun and the stars. What a pity it is then, that the generality of our sex neglect to acquire, in youth, those qualities which may preserve them from contempt when they are old, and secure esteem when they can no longer excite admiration.

I SUSPECTED that my husband and Mrs. Benson, by their whispering and significant smiles at each other whenever I mentioned Lady Jackson, and her uncommonly generous offers, had some mischief in their heads; and to-day it came out. I had passed the whole morning in the city, making some purchases for our approaching voyage; during which Lady Jackson paid me a visit. Mrs. Benson received her in my absence, and listened for a whole hour to her extravagant professions of friendship for me, and repinings at my cruel reserve, which would not permit her to be of some use to me. Mrs. Benson excused me upon that delicacy which made persons born in affluence, and accustomed to bestow, not to receive favours, shy of laying themselves under great and unreturnable obligations. This called forth an oftentatious display of the most liberal sentiments from Lady Jackson, delivered with an impetuosity of voice and action peculiar to herself. Again she regretted her misfortune in not being permitted to shew the ardour of her affection for me by some substantial proofs.

MRS. Benson seemed moved with the enthusiasm of her friendship; and after a little pause said—‘It is a pity such generous warmth should fail of its purpose; I have thought of a way by which you may gratify your earnest desire of serving Mrs. Neville, without wounding her delicacy.’

'PRAY name it,' said Lady Jackson, with a look and accent in which much of her former fervour was abated.

'WHY, Madam,' said Mrs. Benson, ‘you must certainly have heard of the fatal wreck of my friend's once shining fortunes; and that all those possessions, to which she was born the heiress, fell by her father's imprudence into the hands of his creditors. In a day or two she is likely to suffer a very sensible mortification by the sale of a very fine collection of pictures, which her father, in a tour through Italy, purchased at an immense expence. Some of these pictures were so highly valued by her mother, whose memory she almost adores, that I am persuaded you could not do her a more acceptable service than to prevent them from going into other hands, by purchasing them for her. If you please I will attend you to the auction-room, and point out to you those particular pictures which she so ardently wished to be possessed of; so that when the sale takes place you may have them.’

'YOU are very obliging,' said Lady Jackson, with a confused accent, and a freezing look—‘I shall not fail to give you notice when I am more at leisure than at present, being really very particularly engaged.’ She then rose up, and took her leave, leaving kind compliments for me.

WHEN I came home, I found Mr. Neville and Mrs. Benson enjoying their triumph over my credulity; and Mr. Neville, after his usual manner, dictating to me upon the choice of my friends, and affirming, that he only was the proper judge of what persons I ought to admit into my friendship and confidence. I pleaded hard for an exemption with regard to my female acquaintance; but he insisted that we were no better judges of one another than we are of the men; and that a wife has nothing to do but to leave the choice to her husband's discernment. You may be sure I did not yield this point without a little contest; but in regard to Mr. Neville, I have often experienced the truth of that observation, that with some persons it is not safe to be reasonable. Whenever it happens that my arguments press home upon him, he has recourse to an expedient that never fails to silence me, —he falls into a passion—I say not a word more—happy if silence will shelter me; but that is seldom the case, for he pursues me even to this last retreat, and nothing will serve him but my confession that he has convinced me I am in the wrong. For the sake of peace I submit to this; and presently afterwards, in some new instance, this confession is turned against me, with ‘Why will you pretend to debate this matter with me? you know you are generally wrong—nay, you acknowledge it too. Why will you depend upon your own judgment, which you are so often obliged to own always misleads you?’ However, as we both agree in our high opinion of you, my Maria, I may, without fear of rebuke, subscribe myself ever your faithful and affectionate

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

P. S. I have just learned that Lady Jackson is gone out of town for a week, by which time she knew the sale of the pictures would be over. Is not this a strange woman? I was vexed this trial was made: a very little reflection might have served to convince me, that she meant nothing by all those high-sounding professions and offers.—Truth is simple and modest; and when she cannot shew herself by real effects, will scorn to do it in words.

YOU will be pleased to hear that Lord S. has actually promised to purchase those pictures for me which my mother most valued. My husband and Mrs. Benson knew this, when they thought fit to make this trial of the lady's sincerity, otherwise I should have thought it an unpardonable meanness.

IF I am to be indulged with a visit from you, give me speedy notice of it, that I may enjoy the blessing by anticipation.

E. N.

LETTER XXI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

YES, my dear Euphemia, our wishes are granted; I am permitted to stay a week with you. My uncle did not wait to be requested; he kindly proposed this little excursion to me as soon as he knew that the time was fixed for your leaving England. Oh! that thought! but I will not distress you by my useless grief.

I HAVE had an interview with Mr. Harley. You are surprised;—you blame me, perhaps; but hear how it happened, and you will acquit me I hope, of imprudence, since it was really out of my power to prevent it.

I HAD wandered into that delightful wood, where, since my abode at this seat, I have passed so many hours in sweet, yet painful recollection. I was employed in reading some of your letters, when the sound of steps at a distance made me turn to see who was coming. Guess my surprise when I saw it was Mr. Harley. I stopped, uncertain what to do, or how to take this unexpected intrusion. He advanced with a slow and timid pace, his hat under his arm, his eyes cast on the ground, as if he was fearful to meet my quick-enquiring glance. I remained immoveable; he approached me, bowing respectfully.

'DO not be surprised, Miss Harley,' said he; ‘wdo not be offended, that being soon to absent myself from you, perhaps for ever, I have ventured to break in upon your solitude; I could not depart without the satisfaction of breathing at your feet those vows my heart made the first moment I beheld you.’ And he actually, my dear, threw himself at my feet with the air of an Orondates.

THE place, his posture, his language, had all so romantic an air, that I could not help smiling as I desired him to rise. He did rise, but with a disconcerted look, while a deep blush overspread his cheeks.

I PERCEIVED the fault I had been guilty of, and was angry with myself for having wounded a sensibility so affecting. The alteration in my looks and manner relieved his confusion.

'MAY I hope,' said he, ‘that you will pardon my presumption in coming to find you here?’

'THE presumption of this visit, Sir,' said I, ‘may be easily pardoned; but the imprudence of it, I am afraid, all things considered, cannot be justified. Have you not called my uncle implacable? and indeed to you, perhaps, he appears so.’

'And is he not so, Madam,' replied he, ‘to my family? I am sorry to arraign the conduct of a person who has had judgment enough to do justice to your merit; but can his long continued enmity to my father, the friend and companion of his youth, his nearest kinsman, be excused?’

‘Not unless he had received some great injury,’ I replied.

'From my father, Madam,' interrupted he, ‘impossible! my father is not capable of injuring any one, much less his friend, his relation, and, as I have heard, his benefactor.’

I cast down my eyes, and was silent; the noble warmth, the filial tenderness, that appeared in his words, his accent, and his looks, affected me. I tried to dissipate a starting tear; it would not do, and I applied my handkerchief to my eyes—he looked eagerly at me—

'WHAT can this mean?' said he. ‘You seem greatly moved, Madam; do you know the cause of this long continued hatred on the part of Sir John? for as for my father, he appears to have no resentment against him; he speaks of him with respect, nay kindness. What can he have done to offend him so highly?’

'Nothing,' replied I, ‘unless you will allow it was an offence to supplant him in his love for a most amiable object.’

'Nothing!' exclaimed he eagerly, ‘do you call that nothing which was to stab him to the heart?—it was worse, —it was to make him live wretched. But was it his fault that he was the successful lover? Yet that word supplant, implies some baseness in his conduct. Baseness! my father act basely! that cannot be. I conjure you, Madam, speak plainly. I perceive you are well acquainted with the particulars of this affair—I wish to know them; what has escaped you has given me great uneasiness: pray inform me further.’

'If what I have said,' replied I, ‘has given you uneasiness, why should I increase it by complying with your request? I must beg to be excused from saying any more.’

'I see how it is,' said he; ‘my father will suffer by this explanation— I must not expect it from your delicacy—every way I am unhappy.’—He sighed deeply, and was silent for a moment, —then added

‘Well, Madam, every thing concurs to shew me the imprudence, the hopelessness of that passion I have dared to entertain. — I came to take my leave; but do not imagine that I expect my cure from absence—perhaps I do not wish it.’

'Pray no more of this,' said I confused, as you may well imagine at this conversation— ‘but tell me where you are going?’

‘I am going to seek my fortune in the Indies,’ said he, ‘for I lie here a dead weight upon my father, who finds it difficult enough to bring up a large family of girls upon his slender income.’

'To the Indies!' interrupted I; ‘pray in what capacity? Are you to be dignified with a commission, and the title of captain or colonel in the Company's troops; or are you to be a trader yourself?’—‘I have no talents for either’, said he smiling. —He was going on, when I heard my uncle's voice calling me at a distance.

'I would not have you seen here,' said I, ‘on any account; pray retire. If you are resolved to go to the Indies, make Mr. Greville acquainted with your design; he is your friend, and will be glad of an opportunity of serving you.’

I POINTED out to him the path he was to take, in order to avoid meeting my uncle; and curtseying low, turned from him. He followed me two or three steps, and taking my hand respectfully, raised it to his lips; I felt it wet with a falling tear. He darted like lightning from me, and in an instant was out of sight.

I met my uncle a moment afterwards; he said he had been looking for me; and pointing to Mr. Greville, who was following him—'Our host,' said he, ‘is come to take leave of you; he has received news which obliges him to set out for the North immediately.’ Mr. Greville accordingly joined us, and we walked with him to the gate, where his post-chaise waited.

I WAS very much concerned at his departure, on Mr. Harley's account, to whom I know he wishes well. I was not without a hope that his representations of the young gentleman's case might have made some impression upon my uncle, and induced him to prevent the heir of his title and fortune from seeking a subsistence in so distant a part of the globe, for my uncle is naturally good; but the best virtues have need of some standard to guide them.

We are to return to the Hall to-morrow, and the next day I am to set out for London. Oh! this meeting, what joy would it afford me, were it not so soon to be followed by a long, long absence! How can I support the thought? There is no friendship in the world of so much use to me as yours: it is my defence in all my contests—it is my consolation in all my distresses: but what is still more, it is my oracle in all my doubts. That which, before I have your advice, I propose to myself with diffidence, when once I have your approbation I make it a maxim. Adieu! my dearest friend. On Wednesday I shall have the happiness to embrace you.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XXII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

IT is done, I have taken a long, long leave of you, perhaps for ever, for my heart sinks within me, and tells me I shall not live to hail your return; do not chide me, my dear, my valuable friend, pardon the weakness of a vulgar mind, which feels no crosses lightly, and falls flat to the earth at the very first stroke of adverse fortune; perhaps in prosperity I should behave better, and I do not think that happiness would make me insolent, but in affiction I am less than nothing; and that which would not leave a scratch upon the skin of a stoick, pierces me to the heart; if light evils wound me so deeply, what think you I must suffer from this great, this remediless calamity?—a separation from you. I have laid upon my wound all the balm that my small share of philosophy can administer; but methinks my grief is to me in the place of my friend. I possess it with a kind of sweetness, and I am so fond of it, that I should think it a second loss if I had it not to pass my time with.

My uncle, in his reception of me at my return, seemed to accommodate his looks and behaviour to mine; for my grief, I confess, made me silent, unsociable, and incapable of any conversation but with my own sad thoughts: however, when I reflected upon the respect and affection I owed my generous uncle, I resolved to put a constraint upon myself, and meet him at breakfast next morning with cheerfulness in my looks and language.

Alas! my dear Euphemia, I was mistaken in the cause of my uncle's reserve—he is offended with me; I have lost his esteem; doubtless he thinks me unworthy of the benefits he has bestowed upon me. How then can I enjoy them with any satisfaction? He has heard of my interview with Mr. Harley—he thinks me ungrateful, designing, false—his cold looks, his altered behaviour, the hints he sometimes throws out, stab me to the very heart!—Oh! what needed this new affliction to one already overwhelmed with distress? Why did I not make him acquainted with all that has passed between Mr. Harley and me? I know you disapprove my conduct upon this occasion; but I had not you to advise with at the time. I remember, in speaking of this affair, you told me that concealment always implies something wrong: it is true, and apppearances are against me; to be thought ungrateful, capable of taking advantage of that independence which his goodness bestowed on me, and contrary to his will—I cannot bear it; I will be justified in his opinion, and become once more dependant on his bounty.

BUT this dear, this affectionate, this more than father, shuns me; and having already condemned me in his thoughts, is unwilling to hear my defence; before the servants, and in company, his behaviour, though less tender, is still polite; but when we are left alone, he is silent, reserved, and even stern: and either retires to his own apartment, or orders the carriage to take an airing, without asking me to accompany him.

He is this moment returned from one of these little excursions; I will go to him; he is alone in his library; either he must acquit me of any design to offend him, which Heaven knows is the truth, or take back those gifts which, by making me independent of him, have exposed me to his suspicions. Oh! that you were here to advise, to direct me! I think I know how you would act on such an occasion; I will endeavour to imitate you; you are all openness, candour, and sincerity—so innocence should be; and I am sure I have no wilful offence, with regard to my uncle, to charge myself with. Well, I will go, I will speak to him; I will act this humiliating part; for surely nothing can, be more so than, conscious of innocence, to have a character to defend—but I will delay no longer—I go.

This dreaded interview is over. I found my uncle in his library; he was reading; he looked up on my entrance. I asked if he was busy; my countenance, and the tone of my voice, which partook, I suppose, of the perturbation of my heart, affected him I believe, for he answered with his usual sweetness; 'not if you have any thing to say to me;' and rising, drew a chair for me opposite to his.

‘TILL I can remove the prejudices you have entertained against me, I am,’ said I, ‘unworthy to sit in your presence, and far, far unworthy of that affluence your lavish gifts have raised me to; resume those gifts, I beseech you, Sir; suffer me to return to my former dependance on your bounty, and let my behaviour be the measure of your future generosity to me.’

'YOU are strangely moved,' said my uncle, looking earnestly on me; 'What do you complain of, Maria?' 'I do not presume to complain, Sir,' replied I, ‘but I lament the loss of your favour, which is but too apparent from your altered behaviour to me.’

'ARE you conscious,' said he, ‘of having done any thing to give me cause of complaint against you?’

'I AM, Sir,' answered I!

'THAT is honest,' said he, ‘well, since you have got so far in your confession, pray go on, and let me have the whole.’

He spoke this with a half smile, which gave me courage to proceed.

'THE fault I have to confess, Sir,' said I, ‘is my having received a letter from Mr. Harley, and answering it, without communicating either his letter, or my answer to you. I have also seen him; and this circumstance, likewise, I have concealed from you.’

'AND was this right?' said my uncle, a little sternly.

'MY intention was not wrong, Sir,' replied I. ‘The principles of good actions,’ interrupted my uncle, ‘are good inclinations; if you meant well, how did it happen that you have acted ill?’

'YOU will be a judge, Sir,' said I, ‘how far I have acted ill on this occasion, if you will condescend to read the papers I have in my hands; here is Mr. Harley's letter to me, and a copy of my answer to it.’

'GIVE them to me,' said my uncle, with some precipitation.

I DID so; he walked to the window, and I could perceive that he read both the letters twice over with great attention. He did not return them to me, but threw them both upon the table, and resuming his seat—

'SO the son of my greatest enemy,' said he peevishly, ‘has made you a declaration of love? You whom I have considered as my daughter, and for whom I have the affection of a father.’

MY dear uncle,' said I, ‘my more than father, Heaven is my witness I would rather die than offend you!’ I could not utter these words without tears. He looked at me, I thought, kindly. ‘You have read my answer to Mr. Harley's letter, Sir?’ pursued I; ‘is there any thing in it which offends you?’

'WHY, I cannot say,' said he, ‘that your letter is much amiss, considering that you certainly were not displeased with his declaration.’

'DOES that appear, Sir?' said I. ‘I think it does’, replied he.

NOw, my dear Euphemia, this surprised me: you have read this letter, do you think it will bear that inference? I am sure I did not intend it should; I was vexed, —I was confused; I could not bear my uncle's looks, which were fixed upon me. I cast down my eyes, and was silent.

HE seemed to wait for some reply; but finding I said nothing—

'TAKING it for granted,' said he, ‘what you have as good as confessed, that the addresses of my enemy's son are far from being unwelcome to you, and that your heart is very, very favourably disposed towards him—’

I ROSE up precipitately.

'OH! Sir,' said I, ‘I have not deserved this:’ my tears flowed fast, I covered my face with my handkerchief, and curtseying without looking at him, I was hastening out of the room.

MY uncle rose up also, and getting between me and the door, took my hand, and led me back to my chair; he removed my handkerchief from my eyes; and still holding my hand—

‘NAY, you must hear what I have more to say,’ said he, and smiling, repeated, ‘taking it for granted that your heart is very favourably disposed towards this young man, who is the son of my mortal enemy, and who has himself offended me, by presuming to declare a passion for you, and endeavouring to engage you in a clandestine correspondence with him: you whom I love, whom I have considered as my daughter, and from whom I might expect some returns of affection, and even duty: have I not reason to complain of you, Maria, for encouraging pretensions which you knew I could never approve?’

I VENTURED to interrupt him here.

‘DOES it appear, Sir, by my answer to his letter, that I have encouraged his pretensions?’ said I.

‘IT does not appear by your letter,’ said he, ‘that you have discouraged them.’

He comes too near who comes to be denied,

said a poet very skilful in these matters; ‘and one denial, it seems, will not serve his turn, else why is he continually hovering about my house, in hopes of some opportunity of speaking to you?’

NOW this circumstance, my dear Euphemia, I was till then quite ignorant of—I blushed—my uncle observed it. ‘I do not wish to distress you, Maria,’ said he, ‘I pretend not to control your inclinations—you are your own mistress; I suspected that you had acted disingenuously with me; and it was this notion which produced the coldness you complain of. I have been too hasty in my conclusions, I believe; I do not perceive that you are much to blame in this business; but I shall always think it a misfortune, that the person nearest and dearest to me in the world, should form connections with those I have most reason to hate.’

AT that moment Mr. Greville was announced—I rose up, and being unwilling to be seen in the disorder I then was, I hurried out of the room, saying only these few words to him—

DEPEND upon it, Sir, you shall be satisfied with me; I would not displease you for the world.

I HAVE often observed, my dear Euphemia, that most persons consider less the reasons of what is proposed to them contrary to their inclinations, than the motives which may have obliged the person who proposes them to make use of those reasons; had I attended only to my uncle's motives for the disapprobation he expressed of Mr. Harley's addresses to me, I might have thought them rather unjustifiable; but the reasons he brought to influence my conduct were unanswerable. As my parent, my friend, my benefactor, he had a right to my obedience; which, by having so nobly made me independent of his control, is an effect of my will, not of constraint: and I could not disoblige him, without being guilty of the highest ingratitude.

I HESITATED not a moment in resolving to put an end to Mr. Harley's hopes, if he entertained any; and to forbid him absolutely from seeking opportunities to write or speak to me any more. My first intention was to write to him; but I found I could not please myself in the terms I was to use: these appeared too harsh, those not decisive enough. I tore my letter, and concluded that my best way was to engage Mr. Greville to acquaint him with my intentions, and to prevail upon him to desist from his pursuits.

THIS seemed so happy a thought, that I became composed enough to take my place at table, without shewing, in my countenance and behaviour, any traces of the disorder I had been in so lately.

I PERCEIVED that my uncle observed me heedfully, and seemed pleased. I found an opportunity to have a quarter of an hour's private conversation with Mr. Greville, to whom I related, not without some confusion, all that had passed in regard to Mr. Harley; and as I knew he often saw him, begged he would prevent my having any further disquiet upon his account.

MR. Greville promised to execute my commission, for he acknowledged that I had no other part to act. The next news I shall hear perhaps is, that the poor youth is gone to the Indies. Well, what of that? You are going to America; can I think of that dreadful circumstance, and suffer any meaner regrets to mix with so just, so poignant an affliction? Adieu!

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XXIII. MISS HARLEY, IN CONTINUATION.

MR Greville, it seems, soon met with an opportunity of delivering my message, which he charged himself with two days ago, and is this morning returned to give me an account of his commission; he appeared affected with the gentle sorrow, for so he phrased it, with which Mr. Harley received my absolute rejection of him; it never rose to complaint, said he, much less to murmurings against your commands; silent dejection, and some half-suppressed sighs, and a promise faintly pronounced—that he would obey you, were all his answer.

MR. Greville really seemed moved himself, when he repeated this: so you see it is not so very difficult to make philosophy feel compassion sometimes. ‘I hope Sir John will now be satisfied with me,’ said I, without taking notice of his pathetic description.

'IF you had a little more sensibility,' replied he, ‘I should say you have shewn great heroism on this occasion; but as it is, I can only compliment you upon your prudence and good sense.’

‘I DO not think I have done any more than my duty,’ said I, ‘which my uncle pointed out to me; and when once one is assured of the skill of one's guide, it is afterwards a pleasure to be led.’

'I AM not sure,' replied Mr. Greville, gravely, ‘that my good friend is quite right in all this; the limits that part justice from wrong, are not so well marked out, but that we may pass them before we are aware. Mr. Harley is not answerable for his father's faults, and he has virtues that render him not unworthy even of you, —and that is saying a great deal.’

I WILL dispatch this letter to the post immediately; my uncle keeps his chamber with a slight indisposition. I shall be employed in sending to him all day. My dear Euphemia, I expect a letter from you every moment, and would you think it, I tremble at the very thoughts of receiving one, lest it should fix the day of your departure. Oh! my friend, my fortitude grows less every day; I feel it does, —how shall I bear the loss of you? but I will not wound you with my vain regrets. Adieu!

LETTER XXIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

NO, my dear friend, this letter will not fix the day of my departure, which may perhaps be yet more distant than I imagined; for the Bellenden family do not seem to have finished half their preparations yet. They propose to set out in a very splendid style, suitable to the rank the colonel will hold in the province, and the taste the people of our colonies have, as I am informed, for expence. I think I can perceive the colonel is only passive in these affairs; that innate grandeur of soul which he possesses, neither seeks nor needs the aid of outward shew.

How shall I thank you, my dear Maria, for the unbounded generosity of your presents to me? Your jeweller was with me this morning, and in a few instants I was made so rich by your munificence, that Mr. Neville was struck with astonishment, and seemed to doubt whether he was not in a dream. Gratitude is the best virtue of the poor, and that Heaven knows my heart is full of; so full indeed, that no words seem adequate to its feelings; and were you present with me, I could only thank you with a silent tear.

I CANNOT express how much I admire you, for being able to maintain so noble a conduct under your present trials and difficulties—I repeat it, my friend, trials; for, although you have not been pleased to open your whole heart to me; yet that heart, incapable of disguise, displays itself even in the midst of all your delicate reserve. Would I could congratulate, as well as praise; for I had rather see the virtue of my friend employed in wisely using well-deserved prosperity, than in nobly bearing unmerited distresses. If Heaven hears my ardent prayers, I shall yet be able to leave you in a more tranquil situation than you are at present. Adieu!

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE

LETTER XXV.
MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

YOU have a right to all occasions of doing good; I think it therefore incumbent upon me to offer you one. There is a young woman in my neighbourhood, for whom I have a great esteem, on account of her good sense and amiable qualities. Some disappointments she has lately met with, makes her very desirous to go abroad. She will think herself happy to be about your person, for she knows enough of your character to love and revere you with a kind of enthusiasm: her history is briefly this:

HER parents, who were persons of genteel birth and education, dying when she was very young, left her wholly unprovided for, to the charitable cares of an aunt, who was a widow, without children, and in tolerable circumstances. She bred up the little girl as her own, gave her a good education, and declared she would leave her all she was worth. The merit of the girl, and the dutiful and affectionate returns she made to her kindness, made this disposing of her property seem not more an act of affection than justice. The old gentlewoman being seized with a dangerous fit of sickness, sent for an attorney, in great practice here, to make her will: a man remarkable for his success in his profession, by which, being likewise very fortunate in the numerous legacies that have been bequeathed him, he has made a very considerable fortune in a few years.

THE old lady died; and when the will was opened, Mr. D. the attorney, was, to the astonishment of every one, appointed her executor, and sole heir to her fortune, which was about two thousand pounds—her once-loved neice being cut off with a shilling!—This strange and unexpected reverse of fortune drew on a still more poignant affliction: A young man, who had courted her with the consent of his parents, and to whom she was soon to have been married, was ordered by them to see her no more. He loved her, and persisted in his resolution to marry her, though at the hazard of losing the greatest part of his fortune by disobliging his father. — Poor Fanny! though she loves him tenderly, has had the generosity to give him a positive denial, and to avoid his importunities; and doubtful, perhaps, of her own resolution, is anxiously desirous of leaving England. When I mentioned recommending her to you, she was in transports. If you approve of my proposal, I will send her to London in the stage-coach, under the care of our housekeeper, a good matronly woman, who has a great kindness for her, with whose absence I must dispense for a few days, that I may have the satisfaction of delivering her safe to your protection.

I AM very uneasy about my uncle; I am afraid he is going to have a severe attack of his old distemper, the gout; at present it is but slight, yet he is more restless and impatient than usual. I read to him continually; but he does not seem to give much attention, and often interrupts me to tell me, that my voice is low and faint, and that my spirits seem greatly depressed. It may be so; and sure I have cause, so soon to be separated from the friend of my heart, the companion of my youth, my comfort in adversity, and my example for virtue.

MR. Greville will have it that my uncle is not quite satisfied with his conduct towards young Mr. Harley, which, doubtless, said he, was harsh, if not unjust; and yet, if he was here (so he is gone you see, my Euphemia), it is probable he would not alter it. Now I cannot be of this opinion. I am sure, if my uncle thought he was wrong in this case, he would make haste to be right: bad men justify their faults, the good amend them.

I WAS obliged to lay down my pen, being summoned to Sir John, who was taken extremely ill. The physicians were afraid the gout was getting into his stomach. I have not been in bed these two nights: my dear, suffering uncle, seeing me continually by his bedside, expressed great uneasiness, lest my health might suffer by so constant an attendance upon him, and insisted upon my retiring to rest. It was not possible for me to obey him; so I kept out of his sight, yet without quitting his apartment.

THIS morning, when I approached his bed, as if just come down from my own chamber, he took notice that I looked very pale, and said, ‘He was afraid I had not slept well.’ He comforted me with an assurance that he was better; and pressing my hand affectionately, 'You are a good girl,' said he, ‘your whole conduct is of a piece. I never will forget the generous sacrifice you have made me on a late occasion.’

I FELT my face all in a glow; I was not able to make him any answer. The physicians coming in relieved my confusion; they pronounced him better: and now being in some measure free from my racking apprehensions, I really retired to my chamber, and threw myself upon my bed. Two hours sleep refreshed me so much, that when I entered my uncle's apartment again, he perceived the alteration in my looks.

I FOUND the servants had informed him that I had not been in bed for three nights; he tenderly reproached me with the deceit I had practised upon him; but added, ‘that as he hoped for some rest himself to-night, the physicians having ordered something to compose him, he would never pardon me if I did not go to bed.’

MR. Greville is come to pass a day or two here. I left the two friends together, and retired to my own apartment, to have the pleasure of conversing with you, my dear friend; for when I am writing to you, and relating all the little occurrences that help to vary the dull scene of my life, I fancy you are present, and I am talking to you. Adieu! however, for a little time.

I HAVE a strange and terrible circumstance to tell you, my Euphemia, which I shall never wholly lose the remembrance of, and which, as often as it is recollected, will probably occasion the same horrors that I feel now.

THIS evening, when I went into my uncle's chamber to take leave of him for the night, he told me he would take the draught that was ordered for him then, that he might have the pleasure of taking it from my hands. Accordingly, after having read the label, I poured the medicine into a cup, and gave it into his hand: in the very moment that he was raising it to his lips Martin came into the room, and perceiving what my uncle was doing, cried out, with eyes all wild and staring, and in a voice scarce articulate, from the violence of his agitation—‘Hold, Sir! for Heaven's sake do not drink!’

'WHAT is the matter with the man,' said my uncle; 'are you mad?'

‘YOU have not drank any of it, have you, Sir,’ said he, eagerly taking the cup out of his master's hand, ‘are you sure you have not?’

'WELL,' replied my uncle, ‘I have not, and what then?’

'Heaven be praised!' said the good old man. ‘Why, Sir, if you had drank it, you would have been dead by this time; it is poison.’

'How! poison!' said my uncle astonished. As for me, I was near fainting, and should have fallen to the ground, if my dear uncle, weak as he was, had not raised himself up in his bed to support me: in the mean time Mr. Greville was examining the medicine.

'I BELIEVE it is laudanum,' said he; ‘and sure enough you would, as Martin says, have been a dead man if you had taken this dose. But pray, my good friend,’ said he to Martin, ‘how did it happen that you knew this?’

'SIR,' said Martin, ‘two moments since a man and horse came to the gate; he must have rode hard indeed, for the horse was all over in a foam. ‘If your master has not yet drank the potion that was sent him by Mr. Allen, the apothecary, this evening,’ said he, ‘haste — prevent him — it is poison. Allen will be here soon after me and explain,’—and he rode away instantly.’

MR. Greville now congratulated my uncle on his escape, who seemed touched with the sincerst gratitude to Heaven for his preservation, and said some very kind things to Martin, who had been, under Providence, the happy instrument of it.

IT WAS some time before I could recover any degree of composure, so greatly had I been affected by my uncle's danger. He pressed me earnestly to go to bed; but all inclination to sleep was vanished, and I was resolved to sit up, and hear what the apothecary had to say.

I RETIRED, however, for a few moments, to write you an account of this strange accident, which was likely to have been so fatal a one, both to him and me; for I think I never should have forgiven myself for having, though innocently, administered the deadly draught to him.

THESE ill-shaped letters and crooked lines are an effect of that agitation under which I still labour.

SURE the apothecary must be come by this time.—I am impatient to hear how this dreadful mistake happened. For the future I shall tremble to take their medicines; for how can one be sure of their exactness? Jenny tells me Mr. Allen is this moment arrived.

ONE IN THE MORNING.

WELL, my dear friend, here I am, in my own chamber, without the least desire of going to bed to night. Joy is as great an enemy to sleep as grief; and I am overjoyed, I own it. You are surprised—you are impatient to know what has happened to produce a sensation I am so little acquainted with—so long unfelt, and almost despaired of. Take then things in order, and share, largely share in the satisfaction of your friend.

MR. Allen entered my uncle's apartment a moment after me; his countenance retained the traces of the great perturbation he had been in.

'HEAVEN be praised! Sir,' said he to his patient, ‘that this mistake has had no other consequences than to make me, for some hours, the most wretched man in the world.’—‘I can easily conceive the fright you have been in,’ said Sir John; ‘but prithee, Allen, how did it happen that you sent me this fatal dose.’

'SIR,' replied the apothecary, ‘a patient of mine, a gentlewoman in years, is accustomed to take small doses of laudanum every night: she is miserable if it is not always at hand; so I generally send her two ounces at a time. I had prepared your draught, and wrote the labels for both the phials, when a servant of a dear friend of mine, who lived about a quarter of a mile distant, came to tell me that I must go instantly and bleed his master, who was in an apoplectic fit.’

MY journeyman, who had always been remarkably diligent and careful in his business, was just ready to mount on horseback to take your medicine to the Hall. I gave him the label; and shewing him the phial, bid him tie it on, and set out with it immediately; and I hastened to relieve my friend. My man, who, during the five years that he has lived with me, never made any mistake of this kind before, took the phial which contained the laudanum, put the label on it designed for your draught, and rode away.

WHEN I came home, about an hour afterwards, I discovered the dreadful mistake; the draught designed for you being still on the counter. I concluded that the other was by this time delivered, and probably taken. I was almost distracted, having no horse but that my journeyman rode on, I determined to set out on foot for the Hall; but, however anxiety and terror might have quickened my pace, I must have come too late, when a gentleman alighting at my door, desired me to dress his hand, which by some accident he had cut dreadfully. I answered, that it was impossible; that Sir John Harley was in danger of being poisoned by a mistake of my man, who had carried him a large dose of laudanum instead of the prescription I had prepared for him. Saying this, I rushed by him, scarce knowing what I did.

‘THE gentleman instantly re-mounted his horse, and putting him in full gallop, cried out to me as he passed by me, that he would be at the Hall in less than ten minutes, and hoped to prevent the mischief. Then, and not before, I recollected who he was.’—‘And who is he?’ said my uncle eagerly; ‘The reverend Dr. Harley's son,’ replied Mr. Allen, ‘I know him very well.’

My uncle hearing this name, clasped his hands together with great emotion, and casting his eyes first upon Mr. Greville, then on me, with a look big with meaning, he turned himself about in his bed, and continued silent. His piercing glance at me filled me, I know not how, with confusion. I felt my face covered with blushes. I could not look at Mr. Greville, who exclaimed two or three times, in a transported accent—'Generous, noble fellow! What think you of this, my friend, said he to Sir John, approaching his bed. My uncle made him no answer; but I thought I heard him sigh deeply.

Mr. Greville then observing that Mr. Allen must be greatly fatigued with so long a walk in such agitation of mind (and indeed the poor man looked like a ghost), desired him to walk into the next room, where he would find something to refresh him, and in the mean time he would give directions for a horse to be saddled, to carry him home.

Mr. Allen withdrew; and Martin appearing upon Mr. Greville's ringing the bell, my uncle interrupted the orders he was giving, to ask him eagerly if he knew the person who brought the message from the apothecary.

'YES, Sir,' said Martin, ‘it was Mr. Harley.’ ‘And why did you not tell us this circumstance?’ said my uncle. Martin cast down his eyes.

‘How did he look, —what did he say to you?’ asked my uncle.

‘HE seemed to be in great agitation: Sir,’ replied Martin, ‘his horse was all in a foam, and himself seemed almost breathless.’

‘"Has your master,' said he, ‘taken the medicine that Mr. Allen sent here this morning?’ I replied, No. ‘Fly, prevent him, it is poison,’ said he; ‘the apothecary is following me, he will explain the mistake.’ The porter has since told me, that he rode away instantly, and that he thought he was wounded, for his handkerchief was bound round his left hand, and seemed covered with blood.’

My uncle then bid Martin go and attend Mr. Allen; when Mr. Greville repeating,

WHAT think you of all this, my friend?

'I THINK,' replied Sir John, ‘that this young man is the noblest of all human beings. My life stood between him and an ample fortune; and, what is more, between him and a blessing which he sets perhaps a much higher value upon. Yet has he saved that life with the hazard of his own, and done as much for his enemy as he would have done for his father.’—Then pausing a little—‘And a father I will be to him now,’ added he; ‘from this moment I will consider him as my son. Why is he not here, that I may embrace and call him so?’ My uncle spoke this in so affectionate a manner, as moved even the lively Mr. Greville.

'WHERE shall I find, him,' pursued he—‘who will bring him to me? that wound in his hand alarms me. I feel already the anxiety of a father for him.’ Then looking at me with a tender smile,

'MARIA,' said he, ‘will not, I hope, be jealous of this new-sprung affection for a person so worthy.’ I was silent; for what indeed could I say? Mr. Harley's merits are too great for praise—for my poor praise. My uncle seemed to have a just sense of them; and for this I could not but rejoice.

Mr. Greville, who sat musing for some time, at last said, ‘The appearance of young Harley in these parts surprises me. I know he took leave of his family a week ago, in order to go on board the—Indiaman, which I thought had failed by this time. Perhaps I may get some intelligence from Allen; I'll go to him.’ He did so, and returned again in a quarter of an hour; during which time my uncle and I had not spoke a word to each other.

'ALLEN tells me,' said Mr. Greville, ‘that he met Mr. Harley when he had got about half way to the Hall. He called out to him in a joyful tone, and told him all was safe. He complained of the hurt in his hand, and said, he would stop at his house, and get his journeyman, if he was come home, to put some dressings upon it.’ Mr. Allen begged he would stay till he came back if he did not find his man at home. Mr. Harley replied, ‘that he had not a moment to spare; that he was going to hire a post-chaise at the Rose-Inn, and intended to travel all night, being apprehensive that the ship would fail without him;his father's sudden illness having detained him longer than he expected.’

'So, then,' interrupted my uncle, in a tone of deep distress, 'he is gone!'

'No, no, I hope not,' replied Mr. Greville; ‘I have dispatched Allen on horseback, with directions, if he finds the youth at his house, as I doubt not but he will, to tell him that he must not stir from thence till I have seen him, which shall be early in the morning. Allen can accommodate him with a bed.’

'THIS will not do,' cried my uncle vehemently, ‘this voyage must be prevented, or I shall never enjoy a quiet moment. Bid Martin get on horseback instantly; and if he does not find Harley at Allen's, let him go on with all speed to the Rose-Inn. Dear Greville hasten him; mean time I will write a line myself to Harley. Maria, give me pen, ink and paper.’

MY uncle's impetuosity put us all in motion. Mr. Greville hastened to give Martin his orders; I brought my uncle what he desired; he sat up in his bed, and made shift to scrawl a few lines. Here is is a copy of them:

TO MR. HARLEY.

WORTHY young man! you have saved my life; but if you would not embitter the remainder of it, think no more of your voyage to India; return with my messenger, and expect for the future to find a father, an affectionate father, in

JOHN HARLEY.

Mr. Greville inclosed this note in one from himself; and Martin, who seemed excessively pleased with his commission, assured us he would not return without the blessed young gentleman that had preserved his master.

SIR John seemed now quite exhausted with the different agitations his mind had suffered this evening; and a few minutes after Martin's departure, fell into a profound sleep. I wished Mr. Greville a good night, and retired to my chamber, where I have ever since been employed in writing to you.

Mr. Greville told me at parting, that he would sit up an hour or two longer, in expectation of Martin's return, who, if he is not here by that time, said he, we may conclude he did not meet Harley at Allen's, and is gone after him to the inn.

WELL, we may now conclude that Martin has not succeeded, for he might have been here long ere this time. I hear Mr. Greville crossing the gallery, to go to his own chamber, so he has given up all hope. He calls to me as he passes by my door, seeing a light still in my chamber.—Sure he has heard some news.

THIS is what Mr. Greville told me through the door, for I would not open it, being all undressed.

MARTIN has sent a man home with the horse he rode out with; and in a note to Mr. Greville informs him, that Mr. Harley had called at Allen's, and got his hand dressed, which he had hurt by a fall from his horse, and immediately afterwards set out for the inn. Thither Martin followed; and hearing that Mr. Harley was gone away a quarter of an hour before in a post-chaise, he thought he could not do a more acceptable piece of service to his master than to follow him, and endeavour to overtake him: accordingly he ordered post-horses and a guide, and was just ready to set out when his messenger came away. Mr. Greville added, in a melancholy accent, that he feared all this would end at last in disappointment and regret. Indeed I fear so too, and am in pain for my uncle, who will be most sensibly afflicted: so now, my dear Euphemia, being not too happy to sleep, I will wish you a good night, and retire to bed.

LETTER XXVI. MISS HARLEY, IN CONTINUATION.

I ROSE early this morning, and had the satisfaction to hear that my uncle had had a good night, and was still asleep. Mr. Greville being also up, and in my uncle's library, I joined him there. He was beginning to rally me on the subject of Mr. Harley; but presently altered his tone, being strongly apprehensive that the youth would be on board, and the ship failed before Martin could overtake him.

'Poor fellow!' said he with a sigh, ‘he is too good to be a favourite with Fortune, who seldom bestows any thing upon the virtuous, because she knows she cannot bribe them with her gifts.’

MY uncle having sent to desire we would drink our chocolate by his bedside, we attended him immediately. He was very low spirited, having heard from his valet that Martin was not returned. Mr. Greville read his billet to him, which was not calculated to remove his fears of the bad success of his expedition. He was full of uneasy reflections; he railed at fortune, he railed at himself, but still he was more inclined to find fault with his stars than himself.

MR. Greville put him in mind of the great danger he had so lately escaped, by means so unlikely and unexpected.

'YES,' replied my uncle, ‘my life is preserved, but he who preserved it is out of the reach of my gratitude, which will be a continual source of vexation and regret to me. The favours I receive,’ pursued he in a peevish tone, ‘are so husbanded, that I cannot recover an eye but by losing a leg; my causes of complaint never cease, they only change their places.’

WE have had a melancholy day of it; I never saw my uncle so fretful and impatient: he recals every circumstance to his mind that is likely to increase his remorse for his unkindness to Mr. Harley. He reprobates his own churlish conduct at the inn, where he first saw him, and received so strong a proof of the generosity and sweetness of his disposition, which I repaid, said he, by a tyrannous exertion of the power I had to make him mis:erable. I must ever despise and hate myself for it.

'COME, come,' said Mr. Greville, ‘we must not suffer you to be too severe a censurer of yourself; a man shews himself greater by being capable of owning a fault, than by being incapable of committing it.’

'I WOULD repair that fault,' replied my uncle impatiently, ‘and fortune puts it out of my power—it is this that makes me wretched.’ His physician was surprised when he visited him today to find him so much worse. He said he had a considerable degree of fever; he seemed unwilling to take any medicines, telling him the danger he had escaped, which he could not do without sighing deeply several times.

DR. Irwin told him he would carry his prescriptions himself to the apothecary, see them made up, and send them by one of his own servants; and this expedient has made us easy on that head. But as we have no tidings yet of Martin, and my uncle apparently suffers in his health from the inquietude of his mind, we are under great apprehensions on his account. Mr. Greville utterly condemns his too great sensibility on this occasion. The best virtues, he told him, when in excess, partake so much of vice, that even extreme right is no better than extreme wrong. My uncle answered peevishly, that his philosophy was very unseasonable; and turning himself in his bed, seemed as if he was desirous of taking some rest; but I really believe he sought only to indulge his melancholy reflections without interruption.

MR. Greville walked into the garden, and I retired to my chamber, and wrote thus far. I am now going down to make him some tea. —No news of Martin yet.

AT NIGHT.

MR. Greville being obliged to visit a friend in our neighbourhood to-day, I have been reading the whole evening to my uncle, in order to detach his thoughts from the subject of his uneasiness. His friend is now with him; he tells him that Martin's not returning is a good sign, for if he had not had hopes of overtaking Mr. Harley, he would have been back ere now. There is some probability in this; but my uncle is so out of humour with himself, that he admits of nothing which may tend to relieve his disquiet.

WHAT an enormous packet you will receive this time! but I am willing to keep it open while our suspense continues, that you may either rejoice or grieve with us for the event. I wish, yet dread, to have a letter from you—your next will probaby fix the very moment of your departure. It is late; and with this sad expectation on my mind I will go to bed, I cannot say to rest.

WELL, my dear Euphemia, Martin is returned. Has he brought back Mr. Harley? you ask: he has, but not to us. This morning, as I was going into my uncle's chamber, I met Mr. Greville, who, beckoning to me to come to one of the gallery windows, which looked out into the court-yard, shewed me Martin just arrived, alone, and looking melancholy. We were in doubt whether we should let him see my uncle immediately, till we had prepared him for the ill news he brought. But he, who had already been informed that he was come, rang his bell impetuously, upon which we both went into his chamber.

'So,' said he, as soon as he saw us, ‘Martin is come, and alone it seems: it is as I expected. Did ever any thing happen according to my wish?’

MARTIN coming in, put a stop to these fretful complaints; but, as it should seem, he was afraid to ask him any questions, for he said not a word to him. Upon which Mr. Greville said, ‘I am sorry to see you are come alone, friend.’

'I AM sorry too, Sir,' replied Martin; 'and Mr. Harley hopes, Sir,' addressing himself to his master, ‘when you know his reasons, you will have the goodness to excuse him.’

'YOU have seen him then,' cried my uncle impatiently, ‘and he has refused to come: well, I might have expected this. But did he receive my invitation with disdain—did he express any bitterness against me?’

'OH, Sir,' said Martin, ‘I wish you could have seen with what respect he received your Honour's letter. At the very first words he read of it, his face seemed all in a glow. He read it over, I believe, twenty times; and kissing it respectfully before he put it in his pocket, I observed his eyes full of tears. I ventured to say to him, May I hope, Sir, you will lay aside all thoughts of your intended voyage, and return with me to the Hall?’

‘"CAN you doubt it, my good friend?" said he; "if you were not so much fatigued as I see you are, I would this moment set out with you, for I shall think every moment an age till I can throw myself at the feet of your noble master, to thank him for the unmerited goodness he expresses for me in this letter." He then took it out of his pocket again, and read it over half a dozen times, I believe.’

'BUT why is he not here?' interrupted my uncle with his usual impatience; 'where is he—when shall I see him?'

'SIR,' replied Martin, ‘he is gone to his father's.’

'How!' interrupted my uncle, ‘gone to his fathers'!’

'OH, Sir!' resumed Martin, ‘the poor young gentleman heard the most melancholy piece of news when he came to the Rose-Inn last night, where we only stopped till fresh horses were put to the chaise. I walked out with him into the inn-yard, to hasten them, when a country fellow espying him, camerunning up to him, crying "Master Harley, I am glad to see you, faith! What, you have heard the sad news then. —But you must make haste, I can tell you that, or you will not see your father alive; he was just giving up the ghost when I came from— and that is five or six hours ago."’

'OH, Sir!' pursued Martin, wiping his eyes—‘I shall never forget the sad condition poor young Harley was in; I had just time to catch him in my arms, where he lay, without sense or motion, for several minutes. As soon as he recovered, he begged me, with his eyes all drowned in tears, to tell you the sad circumstances he was in; and then eagerly throwing himself into the chaise, which was now ready, he bid the post-boy drive with all the speed he could to—. He just pronounced your Honour's name, and would have added something; but a violent burst of grief stopped his voice; he fell all along the feat, sighing as if his heart would break, and the chaise driving away furiously, he was presently out of sight. I was obliged to stay several hours after him, not being able to get any conveyance here till five o'clock this morning.’

YOU will easily imagine, my dear Euphemia, that we were all greatly affected with this sad tale. I wept, I own it; my uncle discovered great emotion, and Mr. Greville walked to the window in a pensive mood.

MY uncle, after a silence of some minutes, told Martin he would allow him this day to rest himself after his fatigue, and that to-morrow he must set out early for Dr. Harley's—The post is just going out; I shall have only time to make up my packet. Adieu! then, my dear Euphemia.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XXVII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

SIR John is so well recovered, that he took an airing this morning in his chariot. Mr. Greville has left us, and Martin is dispatched to Dr. Harley's, with a kind message to the afflicted family, and his pocket-book stuffed with bank bills for Mr. Harley; and a short billet, in which my uncle earnestly requests him to come to the Hall as soon as he possibly can. His health seems to improve every moment. Joy is a great restorative. Yet he now and then breathes a half-suppressed sigh to the memory of his once-loved friend, whose offences towards him could only, it seems, be cancelled by death.

MARTIN is returned. Dr. Harley lived two hours after the arrival of his beloved son. He was perfectly sensible; and Mr. Harley had the comfort to remove his anxiety for the future fortunes of the young family he left behind him, by acquainting him with the happy change in Sir John's disposition towards him.

THE family are in great affliction. Mr. Harley has wrote a few lines to my uncle, which seem to please him greatly. He did not read them to me, but this was his observation upon them: ‘This young man,’ said he, ‘receives a benefit with the same grace with which he confers one. His gratitude loses nothing of its force by the dignity of his expression.’ Why have I not a letter from you? Yet when it comes I shall fear to break the seal, left it should tell me what I dread to know. Adieu!

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XXVIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

I RETURNED last night from another visit to Lord L.'s. I could not resolve to leave England without visiting once more the place where the dear remains of my mother are deposited. As I was leaving the church I met Mr. Neville, who was just arrived at Lord L.'s seat, in order to conduct me home; and hearing to whatplace I was gone, came himself to fetch me. My mind, softened by the tender, melancholy ideas which the sight of my loved mother's tomb inspired, was so sensibly affected with the obliging solicitude of my husband, that I flew to meet him with a transport, which was instantly repressed by the austerity of his looks, and the harshness of his reproofs, for the indulgence of a grief which he treats almost as a crime. There is no doubt but he meant well; and this severity was an effect of his concern for me: but he has so little delicacy, is so ungracious, that he converts even the best intentions into offences, by his unfortunate manner of expressing them.

THIS meeting, therefore, as you may well imagine, did not contribute to calm my mind. I came home sufficiently mortified and dejected; but the society of my dear Mrs. Benson, her wise reasonings, and tender soothings, restored me to some degree of tranquillity.

YOU have made me a most acceptable present in the young person who has the honour to be recommended by you. Oppression has ever been, in my opinion, a sufficient ground for protection; but the testimony you give of her merit, and her own engaging appearance and manner, will secure her a large share of my kindness and esteem. Her situation with me shall, in every respect, be made as agreeable to her as you would wish. Mrs. Benson is much pleased with her; she is her bedfellow, and they are very seldom asunder.

I HAVE got your second packet; my hopes, my wises, my expectations, are answered—you will be the wife of Mr. Harley. Excellent young man! but he is, as you justly observe, above all praise. He is worthy of you, my friend, lovely as you are in person and mind.

SIR John Harley's character rises greatly upon me in your agreeable narrative—he has acted both a just and a generous part. You have painted him with great force; I see him in all the turns and changes of his temper, and in every view he is pleasing. Your gay philosopher, your lively, yet sententious Mr, Greville, was in my opinion much to blame, when he placed the most amiable virtue of the mind in the number of its maladies and infirmities. Sir John's sensibility is certainly very great; and if it be necessary, as some have said, that limits and bounds should be set in all cases, they cannot be unfit in acts of acknowledgment. If there be a fault opposite to ingratiude, he has fallen into it; and thus, by the excess, he has avoided the defect; but the defect is so horrid, and the excess so beautiful, that he must be a rigid moralist indeed who calls it an infirmity.

AND now, my dear Maria, that I see you possessed of so much happiness at present, and so much greater in prospect, I shall with the less reluctance tell you, that our ship will absolutely sail within these ten days. All the fortitude I can boast would have been scarce sufficient to have supported my spirits under this separation, if I had left you in that uneasy state of mind which your delicacy but half unveiled, but which your candor and amiable simplicity made but too apparent to an observation interested like mine.

YES, my dear friend, you have loved Mr. Harley all this time; and your gentle mind has had some severe conflicts to sustain between your inclination for him, and the obedience you owed Sir John, who, as your uncle and benefactor, had a double title to it. The virtues of Mr. Harley have made this sacrifice no longer necessary, and that which justifies your choice secures you the possession of its object.

I EARNESTLY intreat you, my Maria, not to suffer the present sunshine of your fortune to be clouded with your apprehensions for me. Our separation is the only circumstance that ought to give you some concern, and that is common to us both. It is true, I have but little contentment but what I derive from reason and philosophy; that sort of philosophy I mean which teaches us submismision to the will of Heaven. I see nothing terrible in this long voyage but my absence from you. I apprehend nothing worse than what has already happened to me; and I will never believe that ill fortune will follow me so far, or that it is possible for one to fall, who already stands so low. You may render absence tolerable to me by frequent letters. Continue your charming narratives; while I read your lively descriptions, I see, I converse with you—I partake your fears, I am elevated with your hopes, I sympathise with your sorrows, and enjoy your happiness.

AS for me, it will be the chief comfort of my life to write to you, and make you acquainted with all the events of it. I propose to devote some part of every day to this dear converse I will call it, which will make you present with me; and, although I cannot hope to give you equal entertainment, yet I will be punctual if not liberal, and send you that which I promised, if I cannot send you what I would. Adieu!

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER XXIX. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MR. Greville is just come from Dr. Harley's afflicted family, where he has been to pay a consolatory visit. He has brought a letter from Mr. Harley to my uncle, which he keeps to himself. I am extremely glad that the youth, in accepting my uncle's, liberal present, discovers nothing of that pride of spirit which appeared in that letter of his to me upon a former occasion. I mentioned this circumstance to Mr. Greville, as what had given me some apprehensions.

'YOU are right,' said he, ‘for nothing is more likely to create distrust in a new reconciliation than to shew a shyness to be obliged to those with whom we are reconciled. But Harley, you know, is now his son by adoption; and no I think of it,’ pursued he, with a sly leer, ‘you are too just not to have this worthy young man's interest extremely at heart; would it not be more for his advantage, think you, for Sir John to call him his nephew than his son?’

I BLUSHED like a fool; but recollecting myself, I answered himgravely, ‘that he had acted like a father by me, who was only his niece; and that whichsoever of those characters he chose to consider Mr. Harley in, I did not doubt but he would shew himself equally affectionate.’

I WAS afraid of the archness I saw rising in his looks; therefore, to prevent his mischievous raillery, I asked him a great many questions concerning Mrs. Harley and the young ladies; and he let me into a secret which surprised me greatly. Mrs. Harley was, it seems, bred up by her mother in the Roman Catholic religion; and although obliged, on account of her husband's profession, to conceal her principles while he lived, yet being a bigot to its tenets, she is determined to spend the remainder of her days in a convent in France, where she proposes to complete the education of her daughters. I believe this scheme will meet with some opposition from Sir John, who, I know, intends to take care of them.

To-DAY at dinner my uncle told me, that he expected a visit from Mr. Harley in a day or two; and he desired me to give orders to the housekeeper to prepare that apartment for him which was formerly mine; for since Lady Harley's death I have, by his express command, occupied her's. I answered, hesitatingly, 'Yes, Sir;' for both the gentlemen threw me into such confusion by their fascinating looks, that I scarce knew what I said.

AS soon as the cloth was removed I retired to my own apartment; instead of giving the housekeeper orders myself, I bid my maid tell her, her master wanted her. She received his directions, and came to tell me, with great joy, that we were to have Mr. Harley for a guest.

‘WE are all debtors to this charming young gentleman,’ said she, ‘for the life of our good master.’

NOW, my dear Euphemia, no one has a higher sense of this obligation than I have; but my situation is a little aukward. Mr, Greville's raillery, and my uncle's fixed looks on me, which seem as if they were exploring the inmost recesses of my heart, often distress me greatly—I escape from them when I can.

I AM summoned this moment to make tea. I wish Mr. Greville was gone—I never thought his company tiresome before. Do you not think it is indelicate in him my Euphemia, to pursue me thus with his raillery?—So! a second summons—I must go.

SIR John and his friend imagined a fine scheme to divert themselves with my embarrassment. Who do you think I saw upon my returning to the room where I had left them together?—Even Mr. Harley, whom I had been taught not to expect these two days. But this mischievous design did not succeed entirely to their wish; for, although my surprise was indeed very great at this unexpected sight of him, yet I felt my confusion decrease, in proportion as the tender melancholy in his looks fixed my attention upon the recent cause.

A TRANSIENT blush overspread his cheeks on my first appearance; but instantly gave place to that paleness which the death of a father, whom he had loved excessively, seemed to have planted there.

HE approached me with an air of deep respect, but with a sedateness which he borrowed from his melancholy situation, and made me a short compliment; which I received, and answered, without any other emotion than what arose from a participation in a grief so just and so affecting. He led me to my chair; and resuming his seat, which was next my uncle, he continued his discourse upon some indifferent matters, which my coming in had interrupted.

SIR John and Mr. Greville were evidently disappointed, that this first interview had passed over without any of that discomposure which would have laid a foundation for some future raillery. I enjoyed their disappointment, I confess, and saw, with some little triumph, Mr. Greville's arch looks, and my uncle's significant glances, give place to a seriousness, which was better suited to the circumstances of our young guest.

THE evening passed over very agreeably; my uncle seemed delighted with Mr. Harley's conversation; for although he was far from making an oftentatlous display of his powers of pleasing, yet, through all his modesty, there appeared a fund of knowledge and an elegance of expression, which captivated the attention, and gave an advantageous idea of his understanding and improvements.

HE took occasion once to mention his great obligations to my uncle; he employed but few words; for he seemed well aware of the justness of that observation, that the dignity of truth is wounded by much professing: but his look and accent were so affecting, that Sir John seemed touched to the soul, and grasping his hand with an eager pressure—

'TALK not to me of obligations,' said he, ‘your worth outstrips all my power of rewarding.’

MR. Greville was cruel enough, at that moment, to cast a glance full of meaning, at me, to add to the confusion with which I was overwhelmed. I perceived, as soon as I was able to look up, that this mischievous look had not escaped Mr. Harley's observation: his face was covered by a deep blush. With a timid and disconcerted air he raised my uncle's hand, which still held his fast clasped, to his lips, and told him, in a low but ardent accent, that it should be the business of his life to deserve his good opinion.

OUR common persecutor now seemed to pity the embarrassment he had occasioned, and instantly began a conversation on indifferent matters.

I RETIRED early to my own apartment, to be at liberty to continue my letter to you. It was late, and I was still engaged in this dear employment, when Mrs. Groves, who had carried the candle before Mr. Harley when he retired to his chamber, where she left him with Martin, who was ordered to attend him, came into my room, and begging pardon for her intrusion, broke into the most extravagant praises of the young gentleman.

THIS good woman loves to talk, and says every thing that comes into her head, without regarding time, or place, or persons; and she is indulged in this liberty on account of her long-tried rectitude and fidelity.

'DO you know, Madam,' said she, ‘that I have found out that there is a great likeness between you and Mr. Harley. He has the very air of your countenance, your fine large eyes,’ said the flatterer, ‘and dimpled mouth; only his complexion is not like yours —his is a lovely brown, and yours, to be sure, is as fair as alabaster. I think he resembles you too in the air of his person—no disparagement to you neither, Madam, for I think he is one of the genteelest young men I ever saw.’

‘WELL, but I must tell you something, Madam: You must know, that as we passed through that room which was formerly your dressing-room, your picture, that hangs over the chimney, took his eye in a minute; well, what did he do, but, with great eagerness, he takes one of the candles out of my hand, goes up close to it, and there he s;tood looking and looking, as if he could never be tired. So I made bold to say, Sir, that is my young lady's picture; it was drawn when she was about fourteen: do you think it is like her?’

'IT is like your young lady,' said he, ‘but she is vastly improved since this was painted.’

‘WELL, Madam, he staid looking and looking at it so long, till I was downright tired with standing; at last, he begged my pardon, and returned me the candle; and, as sure as you are alive, Madam, he fetched a deep sigh when he took his eyes off it,’

'WELL, Mrs. Groves,' said I smiling, ‘what is all this to the purpose?’

'WHY, Madam,' replied she, ‘what I refer from all this is, that Mr. Harley has certainly a great kindness for you, and that you would make a charming couple.’

NOW, my dear Euphemia, I do not doubt but the wise assembly of the housekeeper's room have settled already all the preliminaries of this match, and as good as concluded upon it. I was unwilling to hear any more upon the subject; so I called my maid to assist me in undressing, and bade the loquacious housekeeper good night.

AND a thousand thousand times good night to you, my dear friend, whom I always see in my dreams, but with melancholy omens; for, alas! you are torn from me; the distance between us seems to increase, and sometimes I lose fight of you entirely. But sure we shall meet again; do you not think we shall? I must, I will indulge this hope, for without it I shall be miserable.

LETTER XXX. MISS HARLEY IN CONTINUATION.

MR. Harley has left us, and I am just escaped from that unceasing teazer, Mr. Greville, to give my dear Euphemia an account of what has passed during this interesting day.

AT breakfast, my uncle asked Mr. Harley if it would be inconvenient to him to stay another day. The youth replied, that a longer absence at this time would be severely felt by his afflicted family.

‘WELL then, you shall go, my dear Edward,’ said my uncle, ‘my horses and groom shall attend you, unless you choose to have the post-chariot.’ Mr. Harley thanked him, and said, as the day was fair he would rather ride.

'YOU will reach—,' said my uncle, ‘before dark, though you do not set out these two hours; therefore,’ pursued he, rising, ‘as I wish to have a little discourse with you in private before you leave us, I will expect you in my library as soon as you have finished your breakfast.’

MR. Harley, who rose up when my uncle did, told him he was ready to attend him then; and accordingly followed him, after bowing to me with an air so timid and embarrassed, as threw me, I know not why, into confusion likewise.

I DURST not raise my eyes to Mr. Greville, who, I supposed, was making his malicious observations; so both of us continued ridiculously silent for several minutes, when he thought fit to relieve me, by desiring me to give him another dish of tea. I did so; and he then asked me gravely, if I could guess what was likely to be the subject of Sir John's conversation with Mr. Harley?

I TOLD him I really could not.

‘AND have you no curiosity about it?’ said he.

'NOT much,' I answered.

'NOT much!' repeated he; ‘this indifference is not very obliging to Mr. Harley.’

'YOU are mistaken, Sir,' replied I, ‘I am not indifferent to any thing that concerns Mr. Harley; his interests will always be of some consequence to me, esteeming him so justly as I do. But I have no anxiety on my mind on account of this private conference, and therefore little curiosity, because I have no doubt of the greatness and permanency of my uncle's affection for him, as it is founded upon his merit, and the grateful sense he has of his obligations to him.’

THE openness of my answer disconcerted Mr. Greville, who, I perceived, expected I should say something that would give him an opportunity of teazing me, as was his custom. He looked at me, I thought, with complacency; and that moment my uncle called out, Greville.

'Now,' said he, rising to go to him, ‘I shall know all; and to punish you for your reserve, I will not tell you a word of what I know.’

'YES you will,' replied I, laughing, ‘when I have curiosity enough to ask you.’

HE went to my uncle, and I took my usual walk upon the terrace, where, in about half an hour afterwards, I was joined by Mr. Greville and Mr. Harley. There was something in the countenance of the latter so full of meaning, that, I knew not why—but I could neither look at nor speak to him. He was silent too; and in this stupid way we followed Mr. Greville, who led us from one walk to another, pointing out to Mr. Harley somewhat or other to admire in the disposition of the grounds, which, you know, are laid out in the most beautiful taste imaginable.

ALL on a sudden he seemed to recollect something he had to say to Sir John; and telling us he would be with us again in a few minutes, left us together.

THIS silly contrivance of leaving me alone with Mr. Harley, was not calculated to lessen that unaccountable embarrassment into which his coming had thrown me. I was impatient to free myself from this aukward situation; and therefore, pretending to be apprehensive that it would rain, I mended my pace, in order to get as soon as possible into the house; but he respectfully retaining me, begged me not to have the cruelty to deprive him of the only opportunity he had yet had of speaking to me alone. I then walked slower, but still towards the house, though he sought to turn my steps to another path.

'THE tide of favour here,' said he, ‘flows so strongly for me, as might indeed carry my hopes very far, did not your coldness, Madam, or rather aversion, reduce me to despair.’

'MY aversion,' said I, ‘Mr. Harley how can you imagine that I have any aversion to you—you who have so just a right to my esteem?’

‘AND am I honoured with your esteem, Madam,’ replied he eagerly; ‘and may I presume to hope that the tender, the ardent passion, with which you inspired me the first moment I beheld you, is not displeasing to you? Speak, I conjure you, Madam,’ pursued he, ‘relieve me from this agony of doubt—suffer me not to depart uncertain of my fate.’

BEING still out of sight of the house, he threw himself at my feet, holding one of my hands, which he several times pressed to his lips, in spite of my endeavours to withdraw it.

THIS liberty was not altogether agreeable, any more than the parade of his posture, still kneeling. I moved a step back; and laughing, as I did once before on the same occasion, told him, that I supposed he had lately read Cassandra and the grand Cyrus, for his language and manners had all the air of an Orondates.

I CONFESS to you, my dear Euphemia, that I was willing to relieve the embarrassment this very passionate address had thrown me into, by a little raillery, which detached my reflexions upon the silly figure I must have made during this short scene; but I was much concerned when I perceived the effect my ill-judged gaiety had upon him. —He dropped my hand submissively, and rising, bowed low, asking me pardon for the liberty he had taken in declaring his sentiments so freely. He was now convinced, he said, that my indifference, or rather dislike of him, was not to be overcome; that he could have borne my anger with more fortitude than my scorn, by which his presumption was too severely punished to leave him an excuse for ever repeating his offence.

I HEARD him sigh—I saw his eyes full of tears; I was shocked, perplexed—I knew not what to say to him. I am sure my heart was far from being in that disposition towards him which he seemed to apprehend. Scorn! good Heaven! Mr. Harley an object of scorn! how could a thought so injurious to his acknowledged merit rise in his mind? I wished to erase it; but nothing proper to be said recurred to my mind.

I CONTINUED silent; and, without attending to what I did, walked fast towards the house. Doubtless he understood this to be in consequence of my eagerness to get rid of him; for again I heard him sigh deeply; but he spoke not a word.

MR. Greville, who was come out again, joined us before either of us perceived him. He seemed surprised and vexed at the disorder that appeared in Mr. Harley's countenance: it was indeed sufficiently apparent, for at that moment I ventured to cast my eyes upon him; but instantly removed them again, being, I own it, greatly affected by the tender distress expressed in every line of his face.

MR. Greville, who heedfully observed us both, cast an upbraiding glance on me; and being now arrived at the house, he said to Mr. Harley, I intend to accompany you a few miles; the horses are at the gate—I believe we shall find Sir John there likewise.

MR. Harley then made me a most respectful bow; but uttered not a word, nor raised his eyes to my face. I curtseyed also in silence, though I am sure I secretly wished him a good journey, and retired to my own apartment, where I have been ever since.

I HAVE a most oppressive weight upon my spirits; I dread seeing Mr. Greville again—I hate his scrutinizing looks; but I must resolve to meet them; for my maid tells me that dinner is ready to be served, and that Mr. Greville is returned from his ride. Why did he return? I think he takes root here.—Well, I must go.

MY uncle looked very grave upon me all dinner-time; Mr. Greville was serious and reserved.

WHEN I drank my uncle's health, he took no other notice of me than by a bow lower than usual, without his wonted smile of complacency. Just as I was rising from table, my maid brought me a letter from you. I took it out of her hand with a visible emotion, I suppose, for the gentlemen smiled, I asked leave to retire to read it; and, without waiting for an answer, flew up stairs.

OH! my Euphemia, what do you tell me? a few days more, and I shall be separated from you, perhaps, for ever. Have I so anxiously wished for this letter, which, when it came, was to pierce my heart with its fatal tidings? Do not chide me, my dear friend, this stroke, though long expected, falls heavy on me. I must lay down my pen, my tears blind me; when I am more composed I will finish my letter.

I have passed a sleepless night: ‘Thought followed thought, and tear succeeded tear.’ But I am now, if not easy, yet resigned, since to remediless evils nothing but patience can be opposed. But be assured, neither time nor absence will be able to weaken my affection—Your idea will always be present with me. I shall dream continually of you, and find no image in my memory so pleasing as that which presents me the time of our being together. You shall have letters from me by every conveyance; and thus, though oceans roll between us, our minds may often meet and converse with each other.

YOUR picture travels continually from one room to another; whereever I am likely to spend most of my time, thither it is removed; but this is not sufficient, I would have you always near me. I conjure you then, my dear friend, sit immediately to — for a miniature. You will still have time enough, if you set about it instantly. When the painter has done his part, send it to my jeweller, he has some diamonds of mine unemployed; I will write to him, and give him directions. I dispatch this pacquet to the post, without staying to consider some things in your last letter, which have given my thoughts a good deal of employment. Adieu! my dear Euphemia.

MARIA HARLEY.

LETTER XXXI. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

I HAVE loved Mr. Harley all this time you say, my dear Euphemia; and this circumstance, which has hitherto been a secret to myself, you have, it seems, discovered, from my first mention of him. I will not call your penetration in question, nor will you, I am sure, doubt my candour when I declare, that the sentimental entertained for Mr. Harley, and which I freely avowed to you, appeared to me to be, such as every friend to virtue must feel for one so duly virtuous.

YOU call him an excellent young man; and so he certainly is. It was natural to wish well to the worth I esteemed—to feel for his situation, and to be anxious for his prosperity. I never thought it necessary to question my own heart about the nature of sentiments which appeared to me so reasonable and so just.

I REMEMBER a saying that once fell from you—‘A young woman has passed over the first bounds of reservedness, who allows herself to think she is in love.’ Nor would your delicacy have permitted you to speak so plainly to me on this subject, if you had not supposed, that from the great and just degree of favour Mr. Harley is now in with my uncle, his pretensions to me will be authorised by his consent; without it I am sure, however favourably I might think of him, he could never have hoped for success.

BUT although, according to you, my inclinations and duty are now reconciled, you are not likely to leave me so happy as you imagined; for my uncle is offended, Mr. Greville reproaches me, and Mr. Harley perhaps hates me; and all these misfortunes I have drawn upon myself with the most innocent intentions imaginable.

SOME time ago I suffered in my uncle's opinion for being willing to do justice to the merits of this young man, when I thought he was harshly used; and I was suspected of favouring addresses from the son of his ancient enemy; and now he reproaches me with caprice, and a tyrannical use of my power over a person whom he loves and esteems, and to whom he has the highest obligations. In the former case I shewed a ready obedience to his will, by giving Mr. Harley an absolute rejection; in the latter, whatever my sentiments were with regard to him, I thought myself obliged to act with great reserve, till my uncle was pleased to declare his intentions to me. Mr, Greville calls my conduct, in this instance, a too scrupulous prudence, which does nothing for fear of doing ill. "Your uncle's prejudices, said he, have all given way to the conviction of his better judgment; for sensible persons only taste of an error, of which the ignorant drink till they are intoxicated. You could not, my dear Miss Harley, be ignorant what designs Sir John entertained in favour of Mr. Harley. Why then treat him with a coldness that saddened all his delightful prospects?" And he was angry with me in good earnest, for sending his young friend, as he calls Mr. Harley, away in despair.

IT is no unpleasant thing to see a philosopher in choler. I only smiled at his reproaches, though I could easily have justified myself. He was malicious enough to leave me alone with my uncle this afternoon, who he knew was resolved to chide me; and accordingly he began to rail at the caprice, the obstinacy and inconsistency of our sex, in very severe terms. I was determined not to make any particular application, and listened to him very patiently, which reduced him to the necessity of being more explicit.

‘I HOPED you had been, in a certain degree, free from those faults, Maria,’ said he; ‘but you have convinced me, by your behaviour to Mr. Harley, that you are a very woman; and that to give steadiness to your inclinations, it is necessary you should meet with opposition.’

'HERE now,' pursued he, (without waiting for my answer, and indeed I had none ready for him) ‘when, to my shame be it spoken, I viewed young Harley in no other light than as the son of an ungrateful man, who had deceived and betrayed me, you were very favourably disposed towards him, and some very tender letters passed between you.’

'OH! Sir,' interrupted I with some emotion, ‘is this a candid representation of my conduct? You have copies of my letters to Mr. Harley; will they bear such a comment?’

'WELL, well,' resumed Sir John, ‘letting the letters pass, if Mr. Harley was indifferent to you, where was the merit of your rejecting him to comply with my unreasonable prejudices? That sacrifice, Maria, for so I considered it, redoubled my affection for you; great as it was before, it has been greater since; but you have spoiled all, by your unaccountable behaviour. Is this young man less amiable in your eyes, because mine are open to his virtues?’

HAS he not deserved you by his noble disinterestedness? and can I do less for him who saved my life, at a time when it stood between him and happiness, than bestow on him a gift which he values, I am sure, more than my estate? which must be his whether I will or not, since I have no other heir.

MY dear uncle spoke all this so affectionately, that I was melted into tears. He mistook the cause of my emotion; and starting from his chair, began to pace about the room in great agitation.

I WAS confounded, not being able to guess at the cause of this transport; when suddenly coming up to me, and seizing my hand, he looked earnestly at me for a moment, then exclaimed—

IS it possible! have you really any dislike to Mr. Harley? and must I be disappointed in the pleasing design I had formed of making my preserver happy?

'DISLIKE to Mr. Harley, Sir,' replied I, 'No, on the contrary—' I stopped, for his eyes were fixed upon me.

'GO on,' said he, ‘your contrary, come.’—

‘EVERY one must be a friend to Mr. Harley who knows him,’ said I.

NOW, my dear Euphemia, the discovery you think you have made coming into my head that moment, I felt my face glow like fire.

'Very well,' said my uncle, ‘that blush is honester than your words, and we are friends again, my Maria; so I will answer for you, since Mr. Harley is your choice, Sir, he shall be mine; have I hit your meaning?’

‘You may always depend upon my obedience, Sir,’ replied I; ‘for I am sure you will never command any thing that is not reasonable.’

'Mighty well, mighty well,' cried my uncle, in a joyful accent, ‘I am satisfied.’ Mr. Greville coming in at that moment — 'Greville,' said Sir John, ‘write to Harley instantly, tell him, I say he is a fool.’

I hastened out of the room, not being willing to hear more: though, it must be acknowledged, my uncle has not, on this occasion, been inattentive to the claims of female delicacy. Here is a prodigious change in my affairs: a happy one I know you will think it. But, alas! that happiness comes clogged with the painful idea of our separation.

LETTER XXXII. MISS HARLEY TO MRS. NEVILLE.

MY DEAR EUPHEMIA,

I DISPATCHED my last letter to the post, without waiting till I could give you an account of my interview with Mr. Harley, which I expected would soon take place; for a messenger was immediately dispatched to him, with a letter from my uncle, which it was probable would soon bring him to the Hall; and indeed he came so early the next morning, that Sir John was not risen.

By his order, however, he was introduced into his bed-chamber, where they had a conference of more than an hour. I had already finished my morning walk, when they came together into the garden to meet me, for you know I am an early riser.

While they were yet at some distance, I could perceive so much heartfelt satisfaction in my uncle's looks, in Mr. Harley's so much joy, which yet seemed checked by a certain timidity that encreased as he approached me, that it was easy to guess their conversation had been very interesting.

I summoned up all my courage, in order to conquer my confusion, and prevent my acting a silly part in the trying scene that was preparing for me; and accordingly I paid my compliments to my uncle, with an air very unembarrassed as I thought; but when Icurtseyed to Mr. Harley, my half-raised eyes were encountered with so passionate a glance, at the same time that he bowed to me with the most profound respect, as quite disconcerted me; and I felt that I blushed, and blushed the more because I felt it.

My uncle did not give me time to recover myself.

'It is in vain to dissemble, Maria,' said he, eagerly; ‘I have betrayed your secret to my young friend here. I have told him, that you have been kind enough to put it in my power to reward his nobleness of mind, and pay him back some part of the vast debt of gratitude I owe him, by a gift, which, knewing your merit so well as I do, I will call a precious one.’

'RECEIVE her hand from me, Harley,' proceeded he; ‘I promise you it is not an unwilling one—Is it, niece?’

'If it were, Sir,' said I, ‘I am sure you would not give it, nor would I.’ I could not bring out another word —I was half dead with confusion.

Mr. Harley, as if remembering my rebuke a day or two before, and fearful of incurring the same censure, received my hand half bending on one knee, but kept it glewed to his lips with so passionate an action, that my uncle, willing, as it should seem, to relieve me, called out laughing—

What, have you nothing to say to her!

‘We receive the answers of oracles, Sir,’ replied he, rising, in awful silence; ‘true devotion is dumb; and all words,’ pursued he, taking my uncle's hand, which he kissed respectfully, ‘would be too weak to paint the excess of my transport and acknowledgment.’

‘You have done pretty well now, however,’ said my uncle, still smiling, and giving his hand a hearty shake— 'and now we will go in to breakfast.'

Just as we were preparing to enter the house we perceived Mr. Greville coming to meet us; he drew near, laughing,

'I have rare news for you, Sir John,' said he; ‘who do you think is come to breakfast with you? even the learned and scientific Lady Cornelia Classick, with the Diana of our forests, the fearless huntress Miss Sandford, who, at the age of forty-five, declares her fixed resolution never to marry, though an Endymion were to court her; and boasts of her wonderful art in keeping the men at a distance.’

‘Alas! to what am I condemned, for two hours at least?’ said Sir John.

'Aye,' replied Mr. Greville, ‘you must resolve to be patient; but as for you, Miss Harley,’ pursued he, ‘fall upon your knees, and thank me for sparing you the mortification of sharing this tremendous visit; for I have told her, that you are confined to your chamber with a sore throat, a disorder she is infinitely afraid of, so you may breakfast quietly in your dressingroom, either alone or with company’, looking at Mr. Harley, who would not venture to understand this proposal otherwise than by a speaking look.

I thanked Mr. Greville very cordially for the good office he had done me at the expence of his veracity; and, without taking notice of his insinuation with regard to my having company to breakfast with me, I told him, I would employ the happy exemption he had afforded me in writing to you.

He charged me with a thousand thousand good wishes for you; and we parted.

Mr. Harley, notwithstanding a little cloud upon his brow, contrived, unseen, to kiss my hand with a mighty passionate air; and here have I been ever since in company with my dear Euphemia; but I must quit you soon, I suppose, for my maid tells me the ladies are going. I hear their carriage draw up to the gate—I must have one look at them.

There is my uncle leading Lady Cornelia with the most gallant air imaginable. By the motion of her hand and head it would seem that she is discussing some deep question in politics, theology, or the belles lettres; and my uncle, by his asenting nods, is fully convinced I observe.

But here comes the virgin huntress, with Mr. Greville on one side of her, and Mr. Harley on the other. I protest she does not accompany Lady Cornelia in the carriage, but mounts her steed with most masculine agility, to escort her female friend. Her military ridinghabit, the fierce cock of her hat, the intrepid air of her countenance, make her have the appearance of a very respectable guard, Ah! what a pity she has petticoats!— My uncle looks up to me as he passes, and beckons me. I come, my dear Sir—again! Pray do not be impatient. Adieu! then, my dear Euphemia, for a short time only, for I shall dispatch this letter to the post to-day.

I found the gentlemen entertaining themselves very freely with the singularities of their female visitants. How absurd does it seem in our sex to step out of nature, in order to be more agreeable! And how mortified would these mistaken candidates for general admiration be, if they could, unseen, hear the censures and ridicule that are cast on them, instead of the praises they expect.

My uncle congratulated me on having escaped this disagreeable visit; however, said he, your part would only have been silence; for wherever Lady Cornelia is no one talks but herself.

'Lady Cornelia,' said Mr. Greville, ‘does not mix in company to converse, but to make orations. She will stun her female visitants of sixteen with learned gibberish; gives rules for epic and dramatic poetry, and cannot endure a comedy that is not within the law of four-and-twenty hours.’

'Ah! if your charming friend,' pursued Mr. Greville, looking at me. (Can you guess who he meant, my dear?) ‘had been here, what a contrast might we not have observed between true genius and an affectation of knowledge — elegant language, and pedantic stiffness, just sentiment and unintelligible conceit: when the other preached she would only speak; and, as some one justly observes, by making plain and simple answers to her riddles, and giving distinction to her confusion, she would have done her at least the good office of expounding her to herself.’

A man makes a silly figure,' said Mr. Harley, ‘in company with so learned a Lady, and her Amazonian friend. Talents so masculine, and so ostentatiously displayed, place them above those attentions and assiduities to which the charming sex have so just a claim, and which we delight to pay. Women should always be women; the virtues of our sex are not the virtues of theirs. When Lady Cornelia declaims in Greek, and Miss Sandford vaults into her saddle like another Hotspur, I forget I am in company with women: the dogmatic critic awes me into silence, and the hardy rider makes my assistance unnecessary.’

'You do well,' said Mr. Greville, laughing, ‘to find an excuse for not flying to take up Miss Sandford's handkerchief when she dropped it, nor attending to a question put to you in Latin by Lady Cornelia.’

'Oh! as for that,' replied Mr. Harley, ‘Lady Cornelia answered herself, and Miss Sandford drew up her handkerchief with the end of her whip so dexterously, that I had no opportunity of serving her.’

'I DO not think hunting,' said my uncle, ‘a proper sport for ladies; it spoils their complexion, gives, them masculine manners, and hardens their tempers. A woman who, like Miss Sandford, leaps every five-bar gate, is ready to join the huntsman's hollow, and would grieve if she is not in at the death, may make a jolly companion over a flask of wine, but must not expect to inspire a delicate passion. I would as soon marry the female pedant, her friend, as one of those Amazonian ladies.’

'Ah, Sir,' replied Mr. Harley, ‘if you have seen the young, the noble, the beautiful Louisa join the chace, under the conduct of a fond father, and affectionate brothers, you would confess, that female delicacy may be preserved even in that habit; and that exercise, by the elegance and propriety of her dress, she loses none of the tender graces of her sex and years; her charming face retains all its sweetness, her form all its delicacy, and her mind all its native softness.The happy innocent animal, whom she pursues but to save, as if conscious of her generous intention, takes shelter at her feet, and there is sure of protection.’

‘You have rescued one of our fair huntresses from Sir John's general censure,’ said Mr. Greville. ‘Do you think we could not find a lady eminently distinguished for her erudition, who yet is free from pedantry and ostentation?’ ‘You, Sir, know such a one, I am sure,’ replied Mr. Harley. ‘The wise, the pious, the virtuous Eleonora, superior to most of our sex in learning, in gentleness equal to the most gentle of her own. The poets describe Modesty as blushing at her own motion. Eleonora engages in discourse with timidity and is surprised, confused, to find her superiority acknowleged by those, whose higher attainments she considered with awe.’

‘THEN this lady does not stun one with her Latin and Greek like Lady Cornelia,’ said my uncle.

'So far from it. Sir,' replied Mr. Harley, ‘that unless her extraordinary acquirements are called forth by some apt and unavoidable occasion, one may converse with her for whole years as a sensible and amiable woman, without discovering her to be a great genius.’

Mr. Harley, this moment, tapped at my door, and presented me a small box, which contained your dear picture, which he would suffer no one to bring up to me but himself. I could not help thanking him very cordially, for the satisfaction he shewed in doing me this kind office.

After we had spent some time in admiring those features, which so powerfully express the beauty of the soul that animates them. I ordered my woman to tie the ribbon, to which I had fastened it round my neck; this task, also, he would perform, and did very dexterously. And now, I would have had him leave me, that I might be at liberty to indulge, alone, the sad, yet pleasing ideas, with which this dear image filled my mind, when, with a look of sympathising tenderness and concern, he drew from his pocket your letter.

Oh! my Euphemia, my foreboding heart told me this would be the last I should receive from you in England. With trembling haste I broke the seal.—Your first lines confirmed the melancholy truth—I burst into tears; and vainly repeated to Mr. Harley, my earnest desire to be left alone. He threw himself at my feet, and while he held one of my hands, and prest it to his lips, I felt it wet with a sympathising tear.

'Yes,' said I, ‘you would love her, as I do, if you knew her; and, like me, you would grieve at being separated from her— for ever.’ He soothed my sorrows, by a tender participation in them. He comforted me with hope; and, when he found me a little composed, he told me, that if I had any letters ready, the messenger who brought the picture would procure a safe and speedy conveyance for them, his brother being to set out immediately for London; but that I had not a moment to lose. Alas! I have a thousand thousand things to say to you, and not a moment to say them. Farewell then, my Euphemia! and to that Almighty Power, to whom such piety and virtue must be dear, I trust the preservation of my friend! Farewell! farewell!

Maria Harley.

LETTER XXXIII. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

THIS will be the last letter you will receive from me in England, my dear Maria; and could I not, at the same time that I tell you this disagreeable news, congratulate you on your approaching union with the virtuous youth who has so well deserved you, my full heart would have found it very difficult to bid you farewell; but I leave you happy, happy as my fondest wishes for you could require. And once more, I earnestly intreat you, not to repine that my lot has not been cast so favourably as yours.

A well disposed mind will extract good out of evil; for, whatever happens to us, there is some virtue or other to be exercised; either patience or gratitude, moderation or humility, charty or resignation, and they are all equally productive of peace here, and happiness hereafter.

And do you count it a small matter that I enjoy such a friendship as yours? I tell you, my Maria, with such a friendship I can despise ill fortune; and it affords me comforts, which high fortune seldom enjoys.

My picture will accompany this letter; the person who carries it will bring me back what letters you have ready. I shall begin a kind of journal from the day I leave England, and continue it as long as I am able to hold a pen; and thus I shall have the pleasure of conversing with you every day.

The more splendid and active scenes of your life will hardly afford you equal leisure to gratify me with packets as large as those I shall send you; but I am persuaded you will neglect no opportunity of making me happy by your letters. Fanny writes to you by my messenger, who is this moment ready to set out. I must then, my Maria; I must bid you farewell—Most loved, most amiable of friends, farewell, farewell!

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

LETTER XXXIV. MRS. NEVILLE TO MISS HARLEY.

Portsmouth.
MY DEAR MARIA,

It was a great comfort to me that I did not miss your last packet, which was delivered to me a few hours before I set out from London. It brings me a confirmation of your happiness; and can I then, loving you as I do, be less than happy, when you are supremely so? Mrs. Bellenden insisted upon my performing my journey to this place in her coach, though I made a fifth in it; but the three young ladies accommodated themselves very easily on the back seat, and I was obliged to sit next their mother, whose polite attention to me, I am afraid, was not properly repaid by one, whose thoughts were so much engrossed by the absent.

THE Colonel and Mr. Neville, with the men-servants, rode on horse-back, the maids were disposed of in the stagecoach, and my worthy Mrs. Benson and Fanny were together in a postchaise. We were hospitably entertained two nights, at the house of a friend of the Colonel's; and next morning Captain Wilmot sent the boat, full manned, to bring the Colonel and his train on board the ship.

AFTER all the ceremonies of our reception were over, we retired to our several little apartments. The Colonel and his family are all lodged near each other very commodiously. One of the lieutenants, an old acquaintance of Mr. Neville's, having very obligingly resigned his cabin to me during the voyage, I found a small writing desk in it, which I shall make good use of. Mrs. Benson and Fanny continue to be bedfellows, and are to be very near me.

CAPTAIN Wilmot gave us an elegant dinner, and did the honours of his table very gracefully. The beautiful Miss Bellenden drew his particular attention, though her vivacity seemed a little clouded by her regret at leaving England, or rather, her beloved London, alone, the scene of all her triumphs.

I HAPPENED to be seated at table near a lady, who I found was a relation of the Captain's; she had the air and manner of a woman of fashion, but seemed sunk in so profound a melancholy, that, although she answered with great politeness to the usual civilities that pass between persons at the same table, yet she did not engage at all in the conversation, but seemed wholly taken up with her own sad thoughts.

I OBSERVED her eyes were continually turned upon a most beautiful and ele gant boy, about twelve years of age, who sat opposite to her, and when she removed them, it was always with a sigh, that seemed to rend her heart.

THE boy, whenever he met her eager glance, turned pale and red alternately, while his sweet eyes seemed full of tears, which he strove to hide, by forcing a smile at an austere looking gentleman next him, who watched his looks attentively, and never failed to repel the rising softness by a dreadful frown.

WHILE I was busied in observing their different emotions, which greatly affected me, the lady, whose stifled grief had almost risen to a suffocation, asked me, in a voice scarcely articulate, for a smelling-bottle, I immediately produced one, and proposed to her to leave the company for a few minutes, and go into fresher air.

SHE accepted my supporting arm; the ladies were now all in motion to assist her, as well as the gentlemen; but she begged to be permitted to withdraw for a few minutes with me, on whom she still leaned.

'AYE, aye,' said the stern gentleman, whom I found was her husband, ‘take a little air, my dear, this will go off.’ And nodding significantly at Captain Wilmot, ‘Women will be foolish,’ said he, ‘there is no help for it.’

THE sweet boy rose up eagerly, as if he would have gone with us, but was withheld by the frowning sire; he yielded submissively; but his eyes followed us to the door with such an expression of tender anxiety, as moved me greatly.

I LED the lady to my little apartment, and seated her on the bed. She burst into a violent passion of tears, which seemed a little to relieve her labouring heart. I endeavoured to sooth her, and begged of her to tell me, if I could in any way be useful to her.

'AH! Madam,' said she, ‘I ought to ask your pardon, for being thus troublesome to you with my grief; but when you are a mother, you will be able to guess what my sufferings are this moment.’

I AM upon the point of being separated, perhaps for ever, from the darling of my soul. That boy, that lovely boy! you saw at table, he is my son, he is my only child; the most dutiful, the most affectionate of children; he will be torn from me this day; his father will have it so; I cannot survive this parting—I wish not to survive it.

ANOTHER shower of tears now burst from her eyes: somebody tapping gently at the door, I opened it, and Captain Wilmot appeared, leading the boy; who seeing the disorder his mother was in, sprung into her arms; and leaning his head over her shoulder, while she pressed him to her sobbing bosom, he wept in silence, anxious, as it should seem, to hide his tears.

'It is you cousin,' said the lady, casting an upbraiding glance at the captain, ‘it is to you that I am indebted for this severe affliction. Why would you encourage Mr. Mansel in this odious design of sending our son to sea? is he not born to an easy fortune? was he not prosecuting his studies with the greatest application and success?’

'MY dear cousin,' interrupted the captain, ‘you accuse me unjustly; I found Captain Mansel determined to bring up his son to the sea-service, a service in which he himself has acquired reputation. I neither encouraged nor dissuaded him from his resolution, but desired to have him on board my own ship; and will it not be a greater satisfaction to you, that he should make his first voyage under my care and protection, than with a stranger?’

The poor little boy now interposed; and taking one of his mother's hands, which he kissed tenderly several times, said, in a soothing voice—‘My dear mamma, make yourself easy, I shall be very happy under my cousin's protection, he will bring me back safe to you; and if upon this trial I should not like the sea, or be found unfit for it, my papa may be persuaded to alter his mind.’

THE weeping mother made no reply; but strained him again in her arms, as if determined never to let him go from thence. The captain and I employed every argument we could think of to console and satisfy her mind; without attending to what we said, she exclaimed—

AH, my child, this boisterous element may not agree with the delicacy of your constitution. Who now will watch over your health? Who will attend to your complaints?

'I WILL, Madam,' cried I, eagerly— ‘I will supply your place during this voyage; in my cares and assiduity Master Mansel shall find another parent.’

‘OH! what comfort do you give me, Madam,’ said Mrs. Mansel; ‘if any thing can support me under this afflicting separation, it will be this kind promise of yours. Edmund,’ said she to her son, ‘this sweet lady will be your mother now; I need not bid you love and respect her, for you have a grateful heart.’ The boy answered only by a most expressive look, and a bow low as the ground.

CAPTAIN Mansel now burst in upon us.

‘What! have you not done whimpering yet?’ said he to his lady. ‘Come, come, every body has been enquiring for you.’

HE strutted before her, and Captain Wilmot giving her his hand to lead her to the company, I addressed some trifling conversation to Master Mansel, in order to begin our acquaintance, and lessen his reserve.

WHILE Mrs. Mansel was apologizing to the company for her absence, I took care to seat myself next to my young charge, as I now considered him. I talked to him familiarly, and lessened his diffidence insensibly. He served me with my tea and coffee with a grace and freedom, and at the same time with an assiduity, that shewed at once the elegance of his manners, and the particular pleasure he took in attending me.

MY heart glowed with transport when I observed that the mothér, who watched our behaviour, beheld the growing intimacy with a satisfaction which seemed to suspend her grief. She took an opportunity to approach me—and grasping my hand with an eager pressure—

‘I SEE my son will be happy in your favours to him,’ said she; ‘this goodness of your's has preserved me from despair. You are all over angel,’ pursued she in a transported accent: ‘you look and act like one; and Heaven surely sent you to my relief on this trying occasion.’

I STOPPED this rhapsody, by calling her attention to the little schemes we had formed for our amusement during the voyage. I promised to make him acquainted with the colonel's young daughters; and assured her he would pass his time very agreeably in such society.

The evening now approached: I expected she would be soon summoned to depart. I felt for her so sincerely, that I dreaded the fatal moment, and could not help trembling when I saw Captain Wilmot advancing towards us. He seemed disconcerted, and unwilling to tell her, that she must take leave of her son; but Captain Mansel spared him the disagreeable task.

'The boat is ready, my dear,' said he, with an unfeeling abruptness. ‘Edmund, God bless you! Come, my dear, give him a kiss, we must be gone.’

A PALENESS, like that of death, overspread her countenance. She stood motionless, uttering not a word, nor sheding a tear, whilst the boy, who on his knee had received his father's blessing, now prostrated himself at her feet; and struggling to suppress his sighs and tears, while he held her hand, which he eagerly kissed several times, uttered in broken accents—

WILL you not give me your blessing, my dear mamma? Pray look upon me—do not grieve, I shall soon return to you—indeed I shall.

MRS. Mansel, whom I had supported all this time, after breathing a deep sigh, turned her eyes upon her son, who was still kneeling, and spreading her arms, he sprung into her embrace, weting her bosom with his tears, which now flowed fast from her eyes also.

THIS scene affected even the men who were present. Mrs. Bellenden was greatly moved, and the young ladies were drowned in tears.

CAPTAIN Mansel's sterness put an end to it. He seized his wife's hand, and told her in a voice, not very tender, that she was to blame to work upon the boy's passions, by giving way to her extravagant grief.—'See how he blubbers,' continued he —‘what a milk-sop you make of him! Come, I shall lose all patience if you go on thus.’

THE poor lady, who evidently was in great awe of him, suffered herself to be led upon the deck. I followed her with Master Mansel, giving her, as we passed on, the most tender assurances of my attention to him. She seemed struggling to repress her anguish, and assume some degree of fortitude; and being now ready to seat herself in the chair, by which she was to be let down into the boat, after saluting the ladies, and the rest of the company, she took a more cordial leave of me, whispering, ‘Remember what you have promised me.’ Then solding her son once more in her arms, she breathed an ardent blessing on him, and still preserved some composure, till she was got into the boat. I then saw her suddenly sink into her husband's arms, apparently in a fainting fit.

HER son, who had kept his eyes fixed upon her, cried out to me in a mournful voice, 'Ah! Madam, my mother!' and hiding his face to conceal his tears. I endeavoured to comfort him, but in vain; till perceiving she was recovered, I bid him look up, and shewed him his tender mother, now standing waving her handkerchief to him—which he returned with repeated bows, till the boat was out of sight.

WE are got under sail; all the ladies, except Mrs. Bellenden and myself, are sea-sick. My dear Mrs. Benson struggled with the same disorder for some hours, in order to keep me company; but she was at last forced to yield to it; and she, as well as Fanny, is confined to her bed.

I SAT upon the quarter-deck, as it is called, more than two hours this morning, under an awning, which Lieutenant Crawford, my husband's friend, caused to be set up for me, with no other company than my young charge, who never leaves me but when he retires to his studies, under the direction of the captain; as for Mr. Neville, he always finds most amusement where I am not. My eyes follow the receding shores, while I revolve a thousand tender melancholy ideas, and many a heavy sigh I breathed, which was constantly echoed back by my little friend, who, observing me taken up with my own thoughts, did not offer to interrupt them by any conversation. At last I asked him, ‘Why he sighed so often?’—‘Some of my sighs are for myself, Madam,’ replied he, ‘but the greater part are for you: when I see you melancholy, I think it is my mother that I see so—and can I choose but sigh then?’

MR. Neville that moment came to us.

'SO, so, young gentleman,' said he, ‘what, always with the ladies! you will make a fine sailor at this rate; come, I heard the captain ask for you—I will bring you to him.’ Master Mansel, after making me a low bow, followed him.

WE have now lost sight of land—all is sky and ocean; tremendous prospect! My mind feels its awful influence— my ideas are all solemn and sad. I have recourse to my books to dissipate them; for Mrs. Benson continues still too much indisposed to relieve me by her agreeable conversation. My sweet Edmund is sick likewise, but Fanny is better, and able now to assist me in my office of nurse to him and my friend.

TO-DAY Mrs. Bellenden and I, accompanied by the colonel, took an airing upon deck. This lady has a charming flow of spirits, and so much natural as well as acquired politeness, that although her understanding is not one of the first-rate, yet her company is sometimes very desirable. When I left her, to retire to my own apartment, I was most agreeably surprised to find Mrs. Benson there, quite recovered, her sickness having lef• her as suddenly as it had come on; and she is, as it is common it seems in these cases, the better for having been ill. I embraced, and congratulated both her and myself for this change: but as the good things of this life are often mixed with the bad, I found Master Mansel worse, and even with some symptoms of a fever. I staid with him great part of the day; and in the afternoon Mrs. Benson and I went to visit our sick friends. Mrs. Bellenden we found busy in nursing her daughters; for all their female attendants were so sick, that she could have but little assistance from them. Miss Bellenden, wrapped in a white satin negligee, with a most becoming nightdress on her head, lay reclined on some cushions, moaning grievously. Our young naval commander had, I found, been extremely assiduous about her, never failing to enquire a dozen times in a day concerning her health; and when his visits were permitted, expressed great solicitude for her. But this single adorer could not comfort her for the gay scenes she had abandoned; and the general admiration she supposed she had attracted, when in the midst of them, she suffered more from discontent than sickness—she is sullen, fretful, and impatient.

WHEN I came into their apartment, I found her mother gently reproving her for her behaviour, which, she said, greatly affected her father, who is very fond of her.

'HE thinks it strange, my dear,' said Mrs. Bellenden, ‘that you should shew so much reluctance to follow him to any place where his duty calls him: this peevishness alters you so, that one would hardly know you.’

'ALTERS me, Madam!' repeated Miss Bellenden, roused to attention by these interesting words.

'YES, my dear,' replied Mrs. Bellenden, ‘I appeal to Mrs. Neville for the justness of my observation.’

‘PRAY be free, my dear Mrs. Neville,’ said Miss Bellenden, eagerly, ‘Tell me, am I really altered?’

'MY dear Miss,' said I, ‘I am sorry to be obliged to tell you so disagreeable a truth; but if you suffer this depression of spirits to gain upon you, it may produce the jaundice, a distemper which is often the effect of continued discontent.’

'OH Heavens!' cried Miss Bellenden, taking out her pocket-glass, and fixing her eyes upon it, ‘how you terrify me!’

COLONEL Bellenden and Captain Wilmot that moment entered; the latter observing the young lady so intently gazing upon her own image that she did not perceive him, went close up to her, and whispered her to beware of the fate of Narcissus.

'HAD Narcissus the jaundice, then?' said she, turning to him.

'THE jaundice!' repeated the captain, surprised.

'AYE,' said Miss Bellenden; ‘here is Mrs. Neville and my mamma have been frightening me out of my wits; they tell me I am grown quite shocking with this sea-sickness; I shall hate the sea while I live; I wish we could have gone to this New-York by land.’

'I AM glad that was not possible,' said Captain Wilmor, half smiling, ‘for then I should not have had the pleasure of conducting you.’

I HEARD no more of the sprightly dialogue that ensued, being engaged in discourse with the colonel and his lady, and in paying my compliments to the two youngest ladies, who are as ill as their sister, but not quite so impatient. Presently afterwards Mrs. Benson and I took leave of them.

WHEN she left me to retire for the night, I had recourse to my pen. It is a great comfort to me to be this way with you, and that from time to time I can make you read, that your image is the dear companion of all my solitary hours.

WHEN I visited Master Mansel this morning, I was greatly alarmed to find his fever very high: Captain Wilmot ordered the surgeon to attend him immediately. This gentleman, who is a grave, sensible man, and, as far as I can judge, very skilful, thinks his distemper will be the small-pox. Mrs. Mansel, it seems, never had courage enough to have him inoculated: unhappy, yet amiable weakness, in a mind so full of maternal tenderness!

I AM now fixed by his bed-side: I give him all his medicines, he refuses nothing from my hand. At times he is delirious, and then he takes me for his mother. Giving me that tender appellation, which he accompanies with such affectionate expressions of duty and obedience, as go to my heart. My anxiety is inexpressible! I fear for him, I fear for his mother—I fear for myself, for I feel a mother's tenderness for him.

THE surgeon tells me, the symptoms are all favourable. He approves my method of nursing him; but I have some contests to sustain with Mr. Neville, who is prejudiced in favour of all the old methods; he is indeed diseased with opinion, and infected by custom. He says I starve the youth; and, although the weather is very warm, mutters sadly when I suffer the fresh air to enter the little cabin. He asks me, ‘How I will answer it to Mrs. Mansel if I kill her son by my improper management? ’ I generally get off by referring him to the surgeon, whose directions I tell him I am resolved to follow. He retires, shrugging up his shoulders; and I, in this case, persist in my own way.

I HAVE passed some days under the most uneasy solicitude; but now, thank Heaven! all goes well: the eruption is so favourable, that the surgeon assures me we have nothing to fear. But the dear boy's sensibility is so great, that he even oppresses me with the excess of his gratitude. He employs the warmest acknowledgments, the most endearing expressions, to testify the sense he has of what he calls my kindness to him. I am obliged to leave him sometimes for half an hour together, to put a stop to these strong effusions of his grateful heart, lest they should act too powerfully upon his spirits.

I HAVE the pleasure to tell you, my dear Maria, that notwithstanding all Mr. Neville's fatal prognostications, at which I own I have been weak enough to be sometimes alarmed, that my young friend is perfectly recovered, and will lose nothing of his beauty. The little redness that remains on his face will, the surgeon assures me, leave no marks. The Bellenden family, and Captain Wilmot in particular, have congratulated me upon this event in the most obliging terms.

Mr. Neville, however, persists in arraigning my skill as a nurse; calls Master Mansel's recovery a lucky hit, in which the odds were ten to one against him; and declares, when he is so happy as to be a father, he will treat this distemper, when his child has it, his own way.

‘HEAVEN forbid you should have a daughter then,’ cried Miss Bellenden; ‘ sure you do not intend to spoil her face! Why, what a cruel man are you?’

'Your mamma was more cruel,' said Captain Wilmot to her, in a low voice, for he always contrives to sit next her, ‘when she prevented what you think such a misfortune; she may be called the first cause of all the murders you have committed.’

MISS Bellenden smiled graciously at this gross flattery, which encouraged the gallant captain to add:

CONFESS, now, have you the least remorse at being able to kill your thousand in a day?

CLARA, the lively Clara, that moment raising her eyes from a book which she had been reading, and casting them archly on her sister, repeated, What! a whole day, and kill but one poor thousand! The powerful expression of her look and voice charmed me, and rivetted the captain's attention upon her for a minute, which Miss Bellenden observing, said peevishly, ‘I SUPPOSE, Miss, you found that piece of wit in your book there.’

'INDEED I did,' said Clara; ‘here, you may read it if you please,’ and offered her the book, which Miss Bellenden rejecting with a contemptuous frown, the sweet girl gave it to me; 'See, Mrs. Neville,' said she, ‘how truly my sister has guessed; and guesswork it must always be with my sister,’ whispered she to me, ‘for she hates reading, and always joins with my mamma when she chides me for being fond of it.’

CAPTAIN W•lmot now hastily stepped up to me; and looking over my shoulder, as I held the book open in my hand:

'AH!' said he, ‘it is Dryden's tragedy of the Duke of Guise, and Marmontier—the charming Marmontier speaks that sprightly line.’

HE begged me to give him the book; and resuming his seat near Miss Bellenden, read out the scene, which is full of extravagant passion, all which he applied to the fair coquet with too little ceremony I thought; but she seemed highly delighted, though he read so ill, that Clara could not hide her dissatisfaction, but murmured softly, ‘Poor Dryden, you have got into bad hands, I perceive.’

WHEN the Colonel joined us, the conversation took another turn; for captain Wilmot is extremely reserved in his address to Miss Bellenden before her worthy father; however, as this gentleman's private fortune is very considerable, his present station respectable, and his interest great, he certainly would be no bad match for the young lady; but a coquet generally uses her advantages so ill, that these sudden attachments seldom produce any serious consequences.

THE winds seem to favour the passion of our gallant commander; and, in order to keep the charming object near him, have lulled themselves into so perfect a calm, that we make, in the sailor's phrase, very little way, and our voyage is likely to last long: however, as our sick are now in a fair way of being well, we pass our time very agreeably. We have music often, cards sometimes, and feasting every day.

COLONEL Bellenden and the captain keep splendid tables: we have constant invitations to both; but I am never happier than when I am permitted to pass a day in private with my own family, in the pleasing vicissitude of conversation, reading, work, and writing to you.

POOR Miss Bellenden is in a state of mortification at present. Notwithstanding the gratification her vanity has met with in the sighs of the enamoured Captain Wilmot, she has always pined in secret after the fuller triumphs she enjoyed in the gay metropolis, where she was a general toast. The uneasiness of her mind has brought on hysteric fits, to which it seems she is subject.

HITHER TO she has been a very charming invalid; and both her languor and her deshabille have been alike becoming: and being well aware of this circumstance, her adorer has not been kept at a distance on account of her indisposition, which only rendered her charms more interesting: but it is quite another thing with an hysteric fit.

CAPTAIN Wilmot happened to be present yesterday when she was suddenly seized with one, which proved to be very violent; her frantic screams, the distortions of her countenance, her struggles, in which she exerted such strength, that it was with difficulty her mother, assisted by two maids and myself, could hold her. Her lover stood motionless for some minutes with amazement; and strong marks of disgust, mixed with some transient gleams of pity, appeared in his countenance. He hastened to send the surgeon, and in the mean time the young lady recovered her senses. I left her after she had taken some drops, and meeting Captain Wilmot, as I was returning to my own apartment, he led me to the door of it, enquiring with more curiosity, as I thought, than concern after the sick lady; I told him she was in no danger; he smiled, but in a grave accent said, it was a terrible malady, he had never seen any thing like it.

WE have, for this week past, had, what the sailors call, a brisk wind, and that so favourable, that the Captain tells us we may soon expect to reach our desired port. The weather is now very warm, and a few days ago it was so intensely cold, that we were scarce able to endure its rigour; this effect was produced, it seems, by our passing near an island of ice, which rose up in the midst of the ocean to a surprising height, exactly in the form of a sugar-loaf, which it resembled in colour as well as shape.

I WENT upon deck with the rest of the ladies to take a view of it, but was not able to stay more than a few moments; my limbs seemed all benumbed with cold, and my teeth, as the phrase is, chattered in my head. Happily this inconvenience did not last long; we soon lost sight of this beautiful, but uncomfortable object, and its freezing influence was no longer felt.

PROVIDENCE has been pleased to grant us hitherto so favourable a navigation, that nothing has happened to act, even upon the fears of ignorance and inexperience like mine, except a a few squalls, as the sailors call a sudden gust of wind. The hurry and bustle these would occasion among the mariners, seemed to me a certain indication that we were going to the bottom; but the danger, as well as the apprehension, was soon over.

THE sailors are now emulously climbing up to the top-mast head, as they call it, looking out for land; from this fearful height they seem no bigger than crows. Happy will the man be who first discovers it; he will be presented with a handsome purse, the joint offering of all the passengers. We are all full of pleasing anxious expectation.

IN this interval of hope and suspence, I often amuse myself with observing what passes between the Captain and Miss Bellenden; the lover—lover now no more since the adventure of the hysteric fit, is become a much more agreeable companion, now that his attention is not wholly engaged by one object— the lady's malady has restored him to health; he converses freely, and, in general, his eyes are no longer rivetted upon one face; he is at leisure to attend to all the little complaisances and assiduities, which a polite man pays to every female in company, but which a lover confines to one.

HE disguises his indifference, however, under a most profound respect; Miss Bellenden seems amazed, confounded; she calls forth all her attractions; she varies her posture twenty times in a minute in vain, his attention is wholly disengaged; she grows peevish, complains of the length of the voyage, enquires impatiently when it will be at an end? The Captain tells her, he hopes soon to have the pleasure of congratulating her upon the fight of land. —She stares—He enters into some indifferent discourse with Mrs. Bellenden or myself. She is now down-right angry, and frowns; he does not perceive it; but, in the course of the conversation, addresses her with the same free unembarrassed air as any other person in the company, and when she sullenly neglects to answer any question he happens to ask her, he shews not the least surprise, but repeats it. with all the apparent simplicity imaginable, till she thinks fit to answer him.

HER coquetry is now at a stand; smiles and frowns, peevishness and good humour, produce no alteration in his countenance and behaviour; he is always polite, always respectful, and always indifferent.

IT is common with persons of deeper thinking than Miss Bellenden, to change their opinions of others by their kindness or unkindness to them. This young lady has now found out, that Captain Wilmot is a very silly fellow, rude, unpolished, in a word, a mere sailor, and is much mortified to find, none of us can be persuaded to think as she does. However, she condescended yesterday to throw out, what she thought, a lure for him; which produced an effect quite contrary from what she expected, and which, to some of us who knew the secret, was a very diverting one.

THE young ladies and myself were together in the gallery, admiring the most beautiful landscape imaginable, formed by the setting sun, when Captain Wilmot joined us. He had scarce paid his compliments, when we were alarmed with a cry, that one of the sailors had fallen over board; though this bad news was immediately contradicted, yet it had such an effect upon the tender nerves of Miss Bellenden, that she sighed out, 'OH! I shall faint!' and would actually have fallen, if I had not supported her; for the Captain, who was still nearer her, being apprehensive that she was going to have another hysteric fit, instead of receiving her in his arms, ran away as fast as he could to send the Doctor; and we could hear him calling aloud for him long after the lady was recovered. Miss Bellenden looked mortified to the last degree, and retired, led by her two sisters.

I MET the Captain some time afterwards, and rallied him a little upon his want of gallantry. He assured me, he had not fortitude enough to bear the sight of a lady in an hysteric fit, and he thought the best thing he could do, was to send the Doctor to her assistance.

IF this young lady could be convinced, that these fits, to which she is so subject, prove a powerful antidote against the effects of her charms, she might possibly endeavour to restrain the violence of her temper, for it is to that, and not to the weakness of her constitution, that she owes this disgusting malady.

I WAS just risen this morning, when the sound of land! land! reached my ears, and which was soon afterwards repeated by a hundred voices at once. A good we ardently wish for, always appears uncertain till we are in possession of it. This may be an illusion, thought I, a mistake arising from too great eagerness for the promised reward; but I was scarce dressed, when the good news was confirmed to me by Master Mansel, who, with a countenance like an April day, half smiles, half tears, came to wish me joy that our voyage would soon be happily concluded.

'METHINKS, my dear little friend,' said I, ‘your satisfaction on this occasion, is not altogether unmixed with some chagrin; what is the reason?’

'BECAUSE, Madam,' replied he, ‘I shall soon lose you; you will forget me I fear, and this parting will be almost as terrible to me as the separation from my mother; for have you not been a mother to me? pursued he, respectfully kissing my hand, which I felt wet with his tears, 'and can I help loving you like a son?’

I COMFORTED him with assurances, that I would always love him tenderly, and that while Captain Wilmot remained on the coast, I would make frequent opportunities of seeing him.

I NOW went to pay my compliments to the Colonel and his family. Mr. Neville, who, it must be acknowledged, is very exact in his observance of all due respect to his commander, was already in his apartment, which was soon filled with several of the naval officers. When Captain Wilmot joined the company, Miss Bellenden affected the most extravagant joy, at the prospect of being soon delivered from her consinement on board an odious ship. The Captain, without taking notice of an expression, that insinuated so great a dislike to her present situation, appeared to enjoy the universal satisfaction. He gave us an elegant entertainment, at which the mortified fair sat sullen and silent. He assures us, we shall make the harbour in two days.

THE wished for port is now in sight; we are all busy in making preparations for our landing. Miss Bellenden and her maid have been in close consult for many hours. The article of dress, on this occasion, is an arduous affair with this young lady.

WE are entering fast the harbour.—I have now a sight of this new world; my heart throbs with sensations unfelt before—I dread, I hope, I wish I know not what—my thoughts are all confused. I know not whether to rejoice or weep; but I feel a disposition to do both.

I AM roused from this revery by the noise of the cannon from the fort. The city of New-York seems to rise from the waves, and, viewed from the sea, makes a fine appearance. The noise of the salutes, given and received from all the ships in the harbour, as well as the citadel, stuns me. We have now cast anchor. I must lay down my pen. Mr. Neville tells me the ladies expect me.—The barge is ordered. My next letter will be dated from the city now in my view.

New-York.

TILL this moment, my dear Maria, I have not had leasure to resume my little narrative, though I have been already two days upon this island.

WHEN I waited upon Mrs. Bellenden in the great cabin, I found the ladies all ready to embark in the ship's barge, which was full manned; the streamers flying, and every decoration, both for state and convenience, ordered by the Captain, to accommodate Colonel Bellenden and his family.

WHEN Miss Bellenden came upon deck, in the full blaze of dress and beauty, I observed Captain Wilmot look at her attentively, not without some emotions of surprise and pleasure, as I thought; but they were soon checked by the silly consciousness she betrayed of her own charms, and the scornful, yet exulting glances, she cast upon him. And he now, having taken a polite leave of Mrs. Bellenden, addressed her with the most perfect indifference, associating myself and the young ladies, her sisters, in his parting compliments.

WHEN we were all seated in the barge, with Mrs. Bellenden at our head, I observed to her smiling, that she had a numerous suite; and indeed her charming daughters, Mrs. Benson, myself, Fanny, with the female servants, who were all well drest, formed a respectable train.

THE Governor's coaches waited our landing; the Colonel put me into the first coach with his lady and daughters; Mrs. Bellenden would have it so; he went in the next himself, with Mrs. Benson, Mr. Neville, and Fanny; who modestly declined the honour; but the Colonel insisted upon taking her.

WE were carried to a very large house, the principal tavern in the place, where a magnificent dinner was provided. Here we found a gentleman waiting our arrival, who complimented the Colonel from the Governor, and introduced some ladies, wives to some of the principal merchants, one of whom did the honours of the table very politely.

THE Governor had caused Colonel Bellenden to be informed, that he would wait upon him in the evening; but the Colonel, ever strictly attentive to all the duties of his station, with great politeness prevented this visit, which was intended as a mark of high respect, and paid a visit himself to the Governor after dinner, taking Mr. Neville along with him. In the evening, we went to the several lodgings provided for us in the town, and had reason to be satisfied with their neatness and convenience.

THIS city is situated upon an island about fourteen miles long, but not more than two broad. This island is just in the mouth of the river Hudson, one of the noblest rivers in America, and is navigable for more than two hundred miles. Albany, the next principal city of the province, is situated on the same river, at about a hundred and fifty miles distant from New-York. There Colonel Bellenden, being second in military command to the Governor, will generally reside; half of the troops being constantly quartered there; and there also we must settle, my husband being one of the Colonel's lieutenants.

MRS. Bellenden received a visit today from the Governor's lady; she brought with her three of her daughters, all handsome, their manners easy and engaging—so easy, that after the first ceremonies were over, they entered into the most familiar conversation with the Colonel's daughters; and before they parted, made them a thousand professions of friendship, with surprising cordiality, which ceased to be surprising, when I found these suddenly formed attachments is the custom of the place. When Mrs. Bellenden presented me to the Governor's lady, she in a very graceful manner just mentioned my family, in order to procure me a more distinguished notice; and it must be acknowledged, that Mrs. Montague answered her intention perfectly well by the reception she gave me.

YESTERDAY we dined at the Governor's, and were most splendidly entertained. He resides in a very spacious house within the fort, where a lieutenant's guard mounts every day. It being Sunday, we heard divine service in the Governor's chapel. It is small but elegant; the Governor and his family sit in a little covered gallery, decorated with velvet hangings and cushions; they enter it by a door from one of their own apartments. The principal officers and their wives, who are considered as the nobility of the place, the Secretary of the Province, and some other persons in civil employments, have pews in this chapel, and are always invited to the Governor's table, who is very hospitable, very polite, and, without descending from his dignity, extremely affable. He has the reputation of being a man of distinguished understanding.

A SUCCESSION of visits, balls, and entertainments, for these ten days past, have fatigued me greatly, which, together with the heat of the climate, at this season of the year, brought on a little fever, for which Mrs. Montague prescribes change of air, and insists upon my passing a week at a little cottage of her's, as she calls it, about two miles from the city, where she promises to join me in a day or two; I shall set out accompanied only by Mrs. Benson and Fanny.

MR. Neville is perpetually engaged; and pleads in excuse for his not attending me in this little excursion, the importunities of the numerous friends he has made since his arrival here, who will not suffer him to have an hour at his own disposal.

MRS. Benson tells him, that it is a great misfortune to be so much beloved, for that one of whom so many others have need, can be of little use to himself. 'For my own part,' added she, ‘I think it better to be less agreeable; and, as somebody says, never to sacrifice to the graces at all, than to become the victim of the sacrifice.’

MR. Neville looked a little grave at first, not knowing whether to take what she said as a compliment or banter; but self-love explained it to his own advantage, and the cloud that was gathering on his brow soon dispersed.

A RIDE of about half an hour brought me to Mrs. Montague's little villa; a cottage for its simplicity; but it is a palace for elegance and convenience.—The scene is sweetly romantic. I seem already to inhale health and spirits from the balmy breeze, impregnated with a thousand sweets from the flowers, which in vast profusion bloom around me. How sweet is solitude, to a mind capable of relishing its calm and rational pleasures! Yet it is true, that your absence is a perpetual drawback upon every thing that gives me joy; and possessing you but in idea, it requires a very strong imagination to make me desire nothing more.

MR. Neville favoured me with a visit this morning, to tell me that a ship will sail to-morrow for England, and that I must make up my packet, which he will take care to put into proper hands, that it may be safely delivered. I have been so short a time here, that I can say but little of the place and its inhabitants. The city of New-York, as I observed before, makes a good appearance, viewed from the sea; but its streets are irregular.—The houses are of brick, and some of them built in the Dutch taste, who were the first settlers; and many of their descendants remain here. The town has a flourishing trade, which produces great profits. The merchants are wealthy; and the people, in general, comfortably provided for, and that with very moderate labour. There seems to be great freedom of society among the better sort, who are rich and hospitable. The officers live in a stile suitable to the distinguished rank they hold here.—And the Governor, though easy of access, and very affable in his manners, keeps up a proper state and dignity.

THE soil of this country, I am told, is extremely fruitful, abounding not only in its native grain, Indian corn, but in all such as have been naturalized here from Europe. Here is wheat, they say, in such abundance, and so excellent, that few parts of the world, for the part that is cultivated, exceed it in either of these qualities; nor in barley, oats, rye, and every sort of grain which you have. They have here a great number of horned cattle. Horses, sheep, hogs—all the European poultry, abound here. Game of all kinds is extremely plenty.—Wild turkies of a vast size, and equal goodness; and a beautiful species of pheasants, only found, they say, in this country. Every species of herbs, or roots, which you force in your gardens, grows here with great case, as well as every kind of fruit; but some, such as peaches and melons, in far greater perfection than you have them.

FROM the account I have given you, my dear Maria, of the productions of this clime, you will readily agree, that an epicure may find sufficient gratifications here for his predominant passion.

MR. Neville bids me haste and conclude. He is going back to town immediately, and only waits for my packet. I inclose a few lines for my Lord L. which I intrust to your care; he is the only person, among my relations, who, I believe, is anxious to hear from me.

THIS letter will, perhaps, reach your hands in three weeks, if the wind is favourable, and the ship not becalmed, as ours was; and, perhaps, one from you is upon its road to me.—Oh! that thought, how I enjoy it! I am charged with a thousand compliments to you from Mrs. Benson and Mr. Neville. Your Fanny is well and happy, and tells you so herself, in a letter which I inclose. Say every thing that is respectful and kind, in my name, to Sir John and Mr. Harley. And from your own heart, my dearest friend, judge of the unalterable affection of your

EUPHEMIA NEVILLE.

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Title statement

Euphemia. By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox. In four volumes.: [pt.2]

Lennox, Charlotte, ca. 1729-1804.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4579

ID [isbn10]

1106015789

ID [isbn13]

9781106015785

ID [TCP]

K062108.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310690871

ID [ECLL]

0207000102

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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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