The young widow; or the history of Cornelia Sedley: in a series of letters. ... [pt.2]

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

- LETTER I. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

- LETTER II. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER III. FROM CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

- LETTER IV. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

- LETTER V. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER VI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER VII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

- LETTER VIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER IX. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

- LETTER X. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY

- LETTER XI. FROM LUCY TO MRS. AUDLEY.

- LETTER XII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

- LETTER XIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER XIV. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

- Inclosed in the preceding Letter. An exact Account of my last conference with Cornelia.

- LETTER XV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER XVI. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

- LETTER XVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER XVIII. FROM MISS TO MR. AUDLEY.

- LETTER XIX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

- LETTER XX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

- LETTER XXI. FROM EDMUND TO CHARLES AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXII. FROM EDMUND TO MRS. AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXIII. FROM CORNELIA TO MISS AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXIV FROM MISS AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

- LETTER XXV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXVI. FROM GIULIANA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXVIII FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER

- LETTER XXIX. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

- LETTER XXX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

- LETTER XXXI. FROM SEYMOUR TO CHARLES AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXXII. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

- LETTER XXXIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO CORNELIA. Inclosed in the preceding.

- LETTER XXXIV. FROM GIULIANA TO CORNELIA. Inclosed also in Edmund's Letter with the pre ceding.

- LETTER XXXV. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

- LETTER XXXVI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER XXXVII. FROM CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXXVIII. FROM LUCY TO MR. AUDLEY.

- LETTER XXXIX. FROM LUCY TO CORNELIA.

- Advertisement by the Editor.

- LETTER XLVIII. FROM MRS. MORETON TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER XLIX. FROM CORNELIA TO MRS. MORETON.

- LETTER L. FROM MRS. MORETON TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER LI. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER LII. ANONYMOUS TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER LIII. CORNELIA TO THE UNKNOWN.

- LETTER LIV. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER LV. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER LVI. From the Unknown to CORNELIA.

- LETTER LVII. From CORNELIA to the Unknown.

- LETTER LVIII. From CORNELIA to EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER LIX. FROM LOUISA MORETON TO LUCY AU DLEY THE ELDER.

- LETTER LX. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER LXI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

- LETTER LXII. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER LXIII. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

- LETTER LXIV. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

- LETTER LXV. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

- LETTER LXVI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

- [editorsnote]

CORNELIA, &c.

FINIS.

THE YOUNG WIDOW; OR THE HISTORY OF CORNELIA SEDLEY. VOLUME II.

THE YOUNG WIDOW; OR THE HISTORY OF CORNELIA SEDLEY, IN A SERIES OF LETTERS.

Non per elezion, ma per destino.
PETARCH.

VOLUME II.

DUBLIN: PRINTED FOR MESSRS. L. WHITE, P. BYRNE, P. WOOGAN, H. COLBERT, A. GRUEBIER, C. LEWIS, J. MOORE, AND J. HALPEN.

MDCCLXXXIX.

LETTER I. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

I AM sorry you have been so alarmed for the dear bachelor; and give you both joy and praise, my good girl, for having nursed him once more into his usual saucy health. Behold us all happily arrived at Audley-Grove, where the gay Louisa was ready and delighted to receive us. She is wonderfully improved, since we saw her last, in stature, beauty, and sense—but more of her in her turn; I have a thousand things to talk of first. I shall not waste my paper in telling you what a fine numerous cavalcade we formed in returning hither, nor what a graceful figure our lovely widow made on her beautiful Portugueze palfrey. No, my dear, not a word of all this. I must begin like a true mother, by talking of my chits, and telling you, that your little namesake, and Charles, and William, are all highly pleased, as we are, with the Monsons, our new governor and governess, who came hither in our party, and are very soon to be settled in the white farm-house lately inclosed within the park, where the little folks under their care are to reside. But methinks I hear you cry, Pish! why does she begin talking to me of the brats, who are all well, when I am dying to hear of the poor Cornelia, who is "perplexed in the extreme?"

Would I could say that our gentle friend enjoys, as our associated children do (for her little ones are here),

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the slumbers light!

But, alas! I perceive too clearly, that her tender bosom is becoming the victim of "the fury-passions." I may with too much propriety speak of them in the plural number; for, by a little incident which I will tell you presently, you will find that she is tormented by more than one; and that Jealousy has added new stings to discontented and self tormenting Love. I see, my dear Lucy, that you begin to form a hundred surmises, and want to ask me a hundred questions. What! (I hear you exclaim) is the romantic Seymour so fickle? Is he really captivated by the girlish bloom of Louisa? Patience my good girl; it is not fair, when you get a new play in your hand, to peep at the last act before you have well finished the first. Allow me to proceed in my own way, and I will soon make you better acquainted with all the characters and conduct of our busy drama: which is to end, I hope, according to the good old established custom, with a happy marriage.—First then for our heroine, our dear Cornelia: there is an air of deep dejection fixing itself on her features (in spite of all our attempts to disperse it) which alarms me much. She is even melancholy in the presence of Seymour; and much more so when he is out of her sight: yet she has such a dread of passing a few minutes alone with him, that she conjures me to watch over her incessantly, and never allow him an opportunity of speaking to her in private. But my good man, though he has not made him a convert, as I most devoutly hoped he would, has yet made him so tractable, and so willing to bestow a religious education on the children that Cornelia has, and may have, that I am in great hopes their desirable union may, in due time, be happily accomplished, in spite of the dear rash creature's too righteous vow on the fatal night that I described to you. This cruel vow presses like an engine of torture on her heart. She frequently says to me, that their marriage must never take place; but she says this with such a voice, and such a countenance, as convince me that, if it does not, her health and peace are utterly ruined for ever. I have not mentioned a word of this distressing vow to Seymour; and indeed I would not have him know of it for the world, especially just now, when I have brought his turbulent spirits to a most comfortable calm. I flatter myself that I am his favourite confidante; and, by telling him no more than literal truth on the various little proofs of Cornelia's entire affection for him, I have brought him to make me a promise very essential to our present tranquillity; and this is, not to address a syllable concerning marriage to her, till the year of her widowhood is expired. In the mean time, it will be the great object of us all to calm her agitated spirits by every thing that can divert and amuse her. I was in great hopes that my lively niece Louisa might be of great use to us in this friendly purpose! but, alas! how frequently does pain flow from those sources whence we expect only pleasure! Now, Lucy, you shall have the incident I promised; but first I must give you a little description of the charming girl, whom you have not seen since she was a mere child. Though she was always a beautiful child, she has now, I think, still more beauty than her infancy promised, and will, I presume, be reckoned much handsomer than our admired Cornelia herself, by all men who prefer a lively countenance to a tender one. They are exactly of the same height; and Louisa, with the elegant shape of our friend, has a smiling set of features, that seem to say there is no such thing as sorrow in the world. Happily, indeed, it has hitherto been as much a stranger to her as if it did not exist; and as to the solicitudes of Love, you will guess what experience she has of them, when I tell you she has yet found them only fit subjects for laughter.

I never see our tender widow and this sprightly girl together, but I have the two following lines of Shakspeare at the end of my tongue: though I must confess my application of them appears rather cruel,

Why let the stricken deer go weep,

The hart ungall'd may play.

To play, indeed, from morning to night seems the ruling propensity of Louisa. Besides singing sprightly songs with great humour and pleasantry, this laughter-loving gypsey is a most admirable mimic. She half-delighted and half-provoked me and Caroline yesterday, by taking off what she calls the impassioned langour of the widow and the solemn sympathy of Seymour: she is, however, much too delicate and well-bred to attempt any thing of this kind in the presence of Cornelia; but when my husband and Seymour have got the saucy arch girl to themselves, she does not spare the inamorato, as I learn from a scene that passed yesterday in the garden, and produced a very singular effect within doors, though at the moment it escaped my observation.

It happened that I and Caroline (I cannot yet familiarize myself to the formal sound of Mrs. Monson) were standing to chat with Cornelia at her toilet. The windows of her dressing-room, you know, have a perfect command of the new terrace where Louisa, I find was sauntering, in one of her gayest moods, between the two gentlemen. As I chanced to turn my back to the window, I had not perceived the party in the garden, and had indeed my eyes and attention fully engaged by the features and dress of our lovely friend; who, between ourselves, appears to me a little more curious in setting her cap than she used to be before the arrival of my niece. She had borrowed Caroline's assistance to adjust some feathers after the Spanish fashion; and, while they were both thus engaged, I was suddenly alarmed by seeing Cornelia turn as pale as death; a cold trembling seized her whole frame, and all the loveliness of her sweet countenance was lost in a strange expression of desponding wretchedness, or rather of lifeless vacancy. Not suspecting the real source of her disorder, and apprehensive that she was on the point of falling into a fainting fit from mere weakness of body, I led her to the sopha, and was very busy with my bottle of hartshorn. The moment I had placed her in a posture of ease and quiet, she was relieved by a violent burst of tears; and pressing my hand, she said, in a broken voice, "Be not so terrified, my dear Harriot: I have no malady to struggle with, but my own folly; and I shall subdue that presently, if you and Caroline will have the goodness to leave me for a few minutes alone." Unwilling as I was to quit her, I did not hesitate to comply with her request, because I perceived, by the looks of Caroline, that she had some thoughts on the occasion that she wished to communicate in private.— We accordingly withdrew together; and the moment we got into my room, "For Heaven's sake, my dear Caroline, said I, can you account for all this?" "Oh, Madam, replied the warm-hearted and grateful Caroline, she must, indeed she must, be the wife of Mr. Seymour; pray do not let Mr. Audley oppose it; I would venture my life on their being happy together. Though Mr. Seymour it not quite so devout as he should be, yet he has a thousand noble virtues; and she loves him to distraction." "I think with you entirely, my dear Caroline, I replied; but this is no answer to my question: I thought by your manner that you had discovered the immediate cause of my poor friend's agitation." "Discovered it! cried Caroline, Ah, Madam, you would have seen it plain enough, if you had cast an eye towards the window at the moment that Mrs. Sedley and I happened to do so. Poor lady! she is far gone indeed; but, I believe, in her case I should have been affected as much." "Affected at what! dear Caroline, don't torture my curiosity so barbarously. For heaven's sake what did you see?" "Nothing, madam, but an idle frolic of Mr. Seymour with Miss Louisa. She had provoked him, I suppose, by mimicking the poor lady who doats on him; how that might be I can't tell; but just as Mrs. Sedley turned so sick, I happened to spy Mr. Seymour catching hold of Miss Louisa, who had tried to run from him, and kissing her most unmercifully." "Poor Cornelia! I exclaimed with a sigh, can a sight like this affect thee so woefully! Well, my good Caroline, I continued, pray do not mention a syllable of this idle affair to any creature except your husband. I will instantly return to my poor friend, and see if she has honesty, or rather strength enough, to avow to me of her own accord the real cause of her suffering." I found Cornelia greatly recovered, yet so anxious to evade all discourse that might lead to an explanation of what had passed, that from a sincere desire not to distress her tender spirits, I sacrificed my design of leading her to a full confession. Yet, to shew to what an uncommon degree of amiable ingenuousness reigns in the heart of this admirable creature, I must tell you how she behaved to me on our retiring at night: she took me to her own chamber, and sending away her servant, began to apologize for her reserve towards me before dinner. "I feel that I am guilty of ingratitude, my dear Harriot, said this tenderest of friends, in attempting to conceal any excesses of my folly from you, whose indulgence, and whose zeal to comfort me, have ever kept pace with my hapless propensity to torment myself. To-day, indeed, I was ashamed to confess my extreme weakness to you in the moment; perhaps our gentle Caroline, who perceived it all, though she was too delicate to utter a syllable before me that proved her conscious of my folly, perhaps Caroline has explained to you all the mystery of my foolish agitation. Ah! my too indulgent Harriot, to what an extravagant and silly pitch of fondness have you raised my dangerous partiality for a man to whom I must never be united! My reason tells me sufficiently that I have no right to be jealous of him; yet I cannot behold him caressing even your niece Louisa, in a romping frolic, without such wretched and unjustifiable sensations as I am ready to detest, and despise my own heart for feeling. I did not think that any human bosom could be so very weak and unjust; and much less did I suspect myself to be capable of the extreme weakness and injustice which I am now deploring; but since it is so, my dear Harriot, pray contrive for me to make a decent retreat to-morrow to my own quiet mansion; and instead of encouraging"—

I heard the tender soul with the most patient silence thus far; but here I could not refrain from entering into a very warm opposition, both to her sentiments and her project of retiring from our party. We had a curious dissertation on the passion of jealousy, in which I affirmed, that a woman never feels it so painfully, as when she fancies she has no right to feel it at all. We ran over all the old and new ground of argument for and against Seymour; in short, we spent half the night in a very diversified conversation, during which I laughed and wept, and scolded and soothed our dear self-torturing friend alternately, till at last I left her a little reconciled both to herself and her lover. In wishing her a good night I added a saucy declaration, that I should act as queen in my own castle; that if she talked again of removing, I should issue an order for her close confinement; and publish an edict at the same time, in which Seymour should be threatened with instant death if he was seen to touch any lips but her own.

Thus, my dear Lucy, by a mixture of seriousness and sport, I endeavour to preserve the mind of our gentle friend from pursuing any immediate and desperate resolution that might prove fatal to her future peace. Would to Heaven I could as easily remove Seymour's distressing infidelity in religion as I can annihilate the vehement resolves which poor Cornelia will sometimes utter of renouncing his society for ever! My husband encourages me to hope that time may do much in promoting the happiness of this interesting couple, if we can but prevent the eagerness of Love on one side, and of Fear on the other, from taking any precipitate measures to accelerate or preclude their union. He wishes to keep them for a few months in an absolute neutrality. But this is a project which even his friendly zeal, and his persuasive address, will hardly be able to accomplish. We cannot utterly change the dispositions of Nature. Love, in a bosom like Seymour's, will be impetuous; and Terror, in a frame like Cornelia's, will be precipitate. For my part, I should not be surprized if our dear conscientious friend should be terrified still more than she is, by a vision of the poor departed Sedley, and should steal away from us in the night. The conflict of the various passions that agitate her mind is truly pitiable; and at the very moment when I attempt to relieve her by laughing at her perplexities, my heart inwardly bleeds for the anguish of hers. Yet perhaps she says truly, my dear Lucy, that you, from the peculiar incidents of your past life, are more able to enter into her present feelings than I am. From this idea she will have great satisfaction in unburthening her full soul to you; and as you will certainly have a letter from her very soon, you will the more readily allow me to close this long pacquet. Pray tell our dear Edmund that we think a change of air would have secured him from a relapse, and that we wish him to take that precaution against a second. Cannot you make it suit you both to come to us at this critical time; when the sage Edmund might prove a very useful Mentor to our young Telemachus, not in driving him away from the enjoyments of Love, but in teaching him how to secure them? If, however, we must not expect the pleasure of adding you to our party, as I fear we must not; be assured that I shall send you quick tidings of every interesting occurrence relative to the great object of our general solicitude. Louisa longs to renew her acquaintance with you, and unites her kind wishes to those of

Your affectionate HARRIOT.

LETTER II. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

IF you wish, my dear Edmund, to be pleasantly laughed out of all the singularities belonging to the condition of a confirmed bachelor, aye, and out of the condition itself, let me advise you to hasten hither. Here have we a pretty madcap from Ireland, whose magical powers are strong enough, I believe, to metamorphose the stiffest advocate for a single life into the supplest of all supple creatures, an uxorious and contented husband. In serious truth, our young Louisa is a most lovely girl, and playful as the air which sports with every feather that flies across it. How it would delight me to see our dear discreet Edmond most profoundly in love with this sweet sportive damsel! By Heaven, she has all the vivacity and frolic of your Sylvia, with good-nature and innocence into the bargain. She is the richest antidote that Nature can furnish you with against those poisonous vapours of spleen and timidity which you sometimes feel and lament, and which seldom fail, I believe, to infest the single in the latter stages of life. She is the very thing for you; perfectly qualified, though a child of Nature, to relish your wit, and to repay you for it, by a lighter and more copious coin of her own. Why, man, she would destroy all your troublesome doubts, scruples, and depressions, as St. Patrick destroyed the rats of her country by rhyming them to death. She will spout you verses like a young priestess of Apollo; yet the lovely creature has not an atom of pedantry or affectation about her; she has, however, the dangerous diverting talent of mimickry to perfection. If my love to Cornelia had not been thoroughly rooted in my heart, I believe this gay gypsey would have beat it out of my bosom, by the mere force of her wit and humour. She took me off, the other day, as we were strolling, with only your brother, in the garden, with such provoking powers of ridicule, that, having little to say in my defence, I was forced to take vengeance on her lips. I believe she will not speedily renew the provocation; for, seizing her with all my force, I not only kissed her without mercy, but refused to release her till she, in her turn, bestowed a few kisses on me; and the warm luxuriant creature

Did it with a prudency so rosy, the sweet view on't

Might well have warm'd old Saturn.

"These are dangerous frolicks, Seymour, very dangerous indeed." This, I know, will be the exclamation of my dear timid monitor in perusing this little anecdote; and dangerous, I grant you, my good man of caution, such a frolic might be, had your serious worship been in my place. Had your solidity ventured so near as I did to this flaming beauty, I am confident she would have set you in a blaze; but I bear a charmed heart. The image of my lovely widow is so magically engraven there, that no other enchantress has power to affect it. As to that danger which you, in the friendly abundance of your fears, have apprehended for the damsel herself, believe me, she is perfectly secure. Louisa is one of those happy girls whose sense and spirit enable them to jest, and even to romp, without endangering the freedom of their affections, and the delicacy of their character; or, as you will say of her when you are as much in love with this lively charmer as I wish you to be, she is a Venus, who can sport with Momus, without forgetting that she is the Queen of the Graces. And now, though you have not seen her, I understand, since she was an infant, I sha•l deem you a very barbarous fellow if you do not instantly fall in love with her upon my suggestion; especially as I have actually opened the campaign as your aid-ducamp, and have laid strong siege to her heart in your name: I may venture to add, that I have made considerable advances in this exploit; so pray hear what they are. First, I have made her intimately acquainted with all your virtues, talents, and perfections; but this is the least important part of my service; my capital stroke in your favour is the following. Secondly, I have made her equally acquainted with your oddities and foibles. A pretty method (you will say) of serving a friend. But hear me out, Edmund. In making her thus intimately acquainted with your oddities and foibles, I have shewn her, at the same time, how exactly suited her own charms and accomplishments are to correct, improve, and make you a perfect creature. This I have done for you, my dear diffident philosopher; and I defy you, after all your profound meditations on the virtues and caprices of the fair sex, to point out to me any conduct by which I could more effectually create for you a tender interest in the bosom of the lady. Though you are often a champion for the fair, I believe in your private thoughts you do not think so highly of women as I do. For my own part, I am persuaded that a young, artless, sensible, inexperienced woman, is generally actuated by a sincere and ardent desire to make her own tender virtues of real utility to the world. This, by the way, will explain the reason why so many of this description have married in the hope of reforming a rake. It is not, as the vulgar phrase will have it, that women love to see a spice of the devil in man, or that they have a vain confidence in their own personal attractions; no, it is because nothing is so bewitching to a virtuous mind without experience, as the expectation of rendering its own virtue an instrument of good.

But what a sad pedantic varlet am I growing, to run on in this fine moral dissertation upon you and your laughing Louisa (for she must be yours), without bestowing a syllable on my pale, pensive, perplexed, yet adorable and faithfully adored Cornelia! But here comes my youngest female monitor, my little Mentor in petticoats, the grateful Caroline; who has just entered my room to fulfil her promise of indulging me in a long private conference, in which I have a million of questions to ask. By the arch smile on her countenance she has some pleasant tidings to give me concerning my idol; but, as she tells me the courier of the house is waiting for this letter, I must reserve her good news to enliven my next. At present you have food enough for your imagination and your heart, in what I have said of Louisa.—So good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!

Ever your affectionate SEYMOUR.

LETTER III. FROM CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

IT is from you alone, my dear Lucy, that I can expect perfect sympathy and compassion for the various agitations of heart and mind which I continually endure. Though our excellent Harriot has certainly one of the tenderest hearts in the world, and is all kindness to me; yet having known, in her own happy lot, nothing but the felicity of a most fortunate affection, she cannot thoroughly enter into all the diversified wretchedness arising from a passion that we can neither renounce nor subdue. You, my dear girl, have passed through the fiery ordeal, which is now consuming my peace, and perhaps some portion of my integrity; for I fear I am acting very wrong, in spite of all that our too indulgent Harriot alledges in my defence, to remain here in the society of a fascinating creature, from whom I ought, I think, both for his sake and my own, to hide myself for ever. But I will unburthen my full bosom to you, my dear Lucy, and lay my whole soul before you, in the hope that your experience, as well as your tenderness, may minister in some degree to my relief.

You have known, my good girl, what it is to love in spite of reason, and without a hope of being united to the object of your regard. Ah, my dear Lucy, how sincerely do I admire that nobleness of spirit with which you have finally triumphed over feelings that seem to annihilate the best faculties of the mind! But your candour will allow that you had one great advantage which I am very far from possessing: in discovering the baseness of the man who had artfully engaged your affections, you had an opportunity of summoning your pride to your support: ‘Your bane and antidote were both before you.’

But, alas, the case is far otherwise with me! "The gallant, the princely Seymour," to give him the titles conferred on him by yourself, has, I find, no qualities (as you have often told me when arguing in his favour) "to awaken either contempt or indifference; and to love him once, is to love him for ever." How often, my dear friend, has that forcible expression of yours recurred upon my heart! and how many wonderful occurrences, since you and I parted, have conspired to make me feel the truth of it as I do at this moment; but, while I am thoroughly convinced that my affection for him is become a part of my existence, I feel with equal conviction the cruel necessity if rejecting him as a husband. Why am I here then in his company? Why do I linger thus, like a guilty ghost, in a scene that I ought and wish to abandon? Ah, my dear Lucy, if you could see how pale and thin your poor Cornelia is grown, you would not think the word ghost misapplied; and that I am in some degree guilty, my conscience tells me every hour; for, by staying here, I seem to practise an ungenerous deceit towards Seymour, and may lead him perhaps to cherish a distant hope of accomplishing what never must come to pass. Why, then, do I stay? Why, truly, because your good brother and sister will have it so. They would persuade me, that time may do wonders in removing the great and only obstacle to this much-desired, yet impossible, union. Your brother, this very morning, refused to hear a petition that I attempted to make to him, for leave to depart; and turned from me, with the following parody on a couplet of Gray's:

Love yet may make an unbeliever wife,

And gospel-light dawn from Cornelia's eyes.

Ah, my dear Lucy, I will confess to you there are times when this transporting idea takes full possession of my soul. When I fondly imagine myself destined by Heaven to rescue the generous Seymour from the vain illusions and arrogant sophistry of the world, and to make him a true servant of that Divine Master whose laws are so consonant to the purity and the benevolence of his heart, how exquisite is the delight of this heavenly idea! With what enthusiastic transport have I frequently in my own mind applied to Seymour and myself the following charming lines from the Royal Convert of Rowe:

My Life! my Lord!

What would my heart say to thee?

Oh, lift thy eyes up to that holy Power

Whose wondrous truths and Majesty divine

Thy Ethelinda taught thee first to know!

There six thy faith, and triumph o'er the world;

For who can help, or who can save besides?

Yet, in spite of this holy fortitude and fervor, which seem in some or my private moments to render me a new and more exalted being, I soon relapse again into my poor trembling self. Though I feel, at times, as if I had sufficient powers of language and reasoning to produce a total and immediate change in the religious sentiments of Seymour; and though I love him with so pure and disinterested a passion that I would most willingly sacrifice my life to ensure his conversion; yet such a poor, weak wretch am I, my dear Lucy, by nature, that I dare not even utter a syllable to him on the subject of Religion; and a cold involuntary tremor runs through my whole frame, if the conversation seems to be taking that turn, whenever we are in company together. Still our dear encouraging Harriot would induce me to hope that the mild engaging piety of her husband, and his conciliating manners, united to the secret influence of Love, may gradually accomplish what I have not faculties to attempt, and give to us at last the happy convert that we so ardently wish to behold. "Why should we despair, says this indulgent friend and most indefatigable of advocates, why should we despair of seeing a candid, a magnanimous young man relinquish the accidental prejudice of his youth? If Seymour were one of those lawless libertines who abhor, in the Gospel, an insupportable curb to their sensual and imperious passions; or if he were one of those cold-hearted and arrogant sophists who decide every thing that does not square with their own infallible reason; we might indeed despair of his conversion. But Seymour is a character very different from these. In embracing the law of Christ, he will subject himself to no restraint from which his heart can feel a wish to revolt: on the contrary, he will secure to himself, by this measure, the only object of his passion to att•chment." Ah, my dear Lucy, you, I am sure, will forgive me, for listening sometimes with the fondest credulity to these insinuating arguments. Alas! how deeply am I punished for that credulity, whenever my own poor wavering mind flies back again, as it frequently does, to the opposite persuasion! I then think myself the most culpable of creatures. I seem to have deserted my prime duty to my dear children, by suffering myself to be thus more and more entangled in a connexion, which might ultimately lead me to violate the dying injunction of their father, and expose them to the worst of evils. But no, my dear Lucy, this shall never be. I have taken a most sacred oath, as Harriot has told you, that I will never be the wife of an infidel. Seymour is too noble to delude me with hypocrisy; and whatever d•stiny may await me, I am secure against this deepest of calamities. Why, then, am I tormented with such a dread and horror of what never can befall me? For, O, my dear friend, I am tormented to a degree that I can hardly impart, without a scruple, to your tender bosom. I know how you will feel for me, when I tell you (what I have not confessed to Harriot) that I am haunted by visions which almost freeze my blood, and render me an object of detestation to m•self. You will suppose I am persecuted in my dreams by the image of the poor departed Sedley: but it is not so; to my great surprise, I have never dreamt of him in all my present agitation of spirits. No; my visions are much more horrid, for I have dreamed that my excessive passion for Seymour had annihilated all my natural affection for my children. O GOD! my dear Lucy, this is a horror of which you can form no adequate conception. I had hardly closed my eyes last night when I seemed to behold the misery of my alienated children. I heard William shriek out, to the poor little affrighted Charles, "Our mother is turned into a treacherous friend!" Their looks of terror and abhorrence pierced me to the soul. I strove to convince them of my fondness; the poor bewildered innocents fled from me. I pursued them through innumerable difficulties; till at last I awoke in a burst of convulsive anguish, and found myself actually kneeling and weeping over the little bed in my chamber where the two dear boys were happily asleep. At first I could hardly believe my own happiness, in finding them so tranquil; and I took the light which I always burn in my room to convince myself of its truth, by a full survey of their sweet little placid features. The contrast of their soft delicious slumber, and the agony which I had dreamed they were suffering, threw me into fresh floods of tears. In retiring to my own pillow, I addressed a most ardent prayer to Heaven, not only to preserve these dear infants from all the evil which my weakness might draw upon them, but to deliver both myself and Seymour from this disquieting passion, which seems so likely to prove a misfortune to both. I am afraid you will think me hardly sincere in this prayer; yet believe me, my dear friend, if I know my own heart and soul, I was so most truly. But to you, my dear Lucy, I shall not hesitate to confess, that the more I struggle to free myself from this fascinating attachment, the more I feel myself the slave of an unfortunate affection, which has so much to plead in its excuse. My reason and my conscience continually suggest to me that I am wrong; and there are times when I feel a sort of hatred towards Seymour, for having led me to a state of mind so full of pain and distress. Even in my private meditations my heart will often seem to shrink from him, and hold it as a crime even to think of his perfections. But these feelings are transient; and they are generally followed by such a relapse of tender passions, that I am ready to address the image of this dear enemy to my peace in the words of Ethelinda:

If thou art my offence, I've sinn'd indeed,

Ev'n to a vast and numberless account;

For from the season when I lov'd thee first

My soul has not one moment been without thee.

You, my dear friend, you and Harriot have been cruelly instrumental to my disquietude and distress, by your well-intended, but fatal indulgence to me, at the early period of my attachment; when you ridiculed my honest endeavours to conceal and subdue my affection, when you delighted to fan the flame that I was vainly labouring to extinguish. Time and chance have conspired still more cruelly to give this most enchanting of men a dominion over my heart. I have a strange mixture of pain and delight in reflecting on the great obligation that I owe him. He has indeed, as you have often said of him, so many attractive accomplishments and virtues, that it is hardly possible for any woman to see him frequently without feeling an affectionate admiration of his character. Surely no man ever possessed in so high a degree that rare union of tenderness and spirit which is so particularly engaging to our sex, or such admirable delicacy of manners, without a shadow of artifice or affectation. O Lucy, I could scribble a volume on the excellence and peculiarity of his attractions; but though his perfections will more than justify, my good girl, your ardent friendship for him, I feel that, great as they are, they cannot afford a sufficient sanction to my love. It is enough that my conscience repeatedly informs me I must not indulge it. Conscience, my good Lucy, is a much safer guide than Friendship herself, however zealous and enlightened; and when we act against the dictates of this internal monitor, even in points that seem hardly material, how deeply are we punished! Alas, I am a sad example how deeply I offended this inflexible judge, when I complied with the pressing solicitations of our dear Harriot in attending her hither. What I have endured since I came under her friendly roof you may partly guess, from what I have told you already. But, alas! my dear Lucy, I have not yet told you all my weaknesses or my sufferings. You have probably heard what I allude to from our communicative Harriot, because it was a weakness that I confessed to her, and confiding in your kindness and secrecy, I lay her under no restraint in what she says of me to you; yet her tenderness, perhaps, in this point, may have spared me. I will therefore be frank enough to tell you under my own hand, that I have within these few days been the weakest and most unjust of women; I have been fool enough to grow most absurdly jealous of him whose addresses I had determined to reject. Oh, Lucy, I did not think there had been such inconsistency in woman; much less in my own heart. You, I know, will rather pity than ridicule me, when I tell you that upon accidentally seeing Seymour caressing our young Louisa in a mere frolic, I felt as if my whole frame was shattered on the rack. Of all the sensations that I remember to have endured in my life, this, my dear friend, was the most hideously painful; it seemed as if my heart was absolutely torn away from its seat, and there was nothing but drear vacuity in my bosom. Heaven have mercy upon the jealous, if such are the tortures they endure! But my pain could not be owing to mere jealousy; it was rather the effect of a sudden surprize, upon nerves that have been dreadfully shaken. I think I could see the same thing again without feeling any emotion at the sight; yet I will not pretend to more fortitude, or more justice, than I have. You have often very feelingly lamented your own weakness to me, my dear friend; and I am now abundantly returning your confidence. I have a double reason for thus unfolding to you every instance of my folly. First, as proof of my perfect regard for you. Secondly, because I hope, in thus shewing how thoroughly I am aware of my own infirmity, I may gain credit with you for the strength and wisdom that I mean to recover and exert. I have formed a plan, in my own mind, for my deliverance; upon which I am particularly solicitous to have your opinion, because I think no one can enter into my feelings so thoroughly as yourself. Our dear Harriot, and her most friendly husband, judge me too hardly, or rather too tenderly. From their eager wish to exempt me from pain, they suppose me unable to endure it; they both believe me so incurably enamoured of Seymour, that they think no event but our marriage can preserve my existence; but, weak as I feel and confess myself to be, I have still, I am convinced, a strength of spirit far superior to what they imagine. Our dear and zealous Harriot is so vehement for this impossible marriage, that she wants me to overlook the grand and insuperable objection. She tells me, that I ought to be satisfied by such concessions as Seymour, she says, is very willing to make. That if I have the most unquestionable assurance that all my children shall be religiously educated in the Christian Faith, and my own principles unmolested by opposition, I have no reason to disturb myself concerning the private creed of my husband. But, situated as I am, I feel it is my prime duty to regard the dying injunction of poor Sedley, and to maintain the voluntary oath which I was induced to take from an excess of anxiety for my children. I might indeed confide in any promise of Seymour's; for, stranger as he most unhappily is to the only true Religion, in all other points he is truth itself. If he gave his word to this article, I can believe that he never would urge a single argument, or attempt by ridicule to shake the faith of my children or of his own. But, if he did not poison their young minds by his doctrine, might he not mislead them by his insinuating example? Might he not induce even me to grow cold and negligent in the most important duty of life, and to relinquish imperceptibly the worship of my Redeemer? Yes, my dear friend, I will confess to you, that I could not promise for my own firmness, were I to place myself in so perilous a situation; even now I often contemplate the irreligion of the man I love in too favourable a light. I am too ready to say, like Zayre, in my favourite French play, ‘’

I see too plainly custom forms us all;

Our thoughts, our morals, our most fix'd belief,

Are consequences of our place of birth;

'Tis but instruction all—our parents hand

Write• on our heart the first faint characters,

Which time retracing deepens into strength,

That nothing can ef•ace but Death or Heav'n.

HILL's Zara.

By considering his infidelity as the natural consequence of a fashionable education, I frequently lose all the horror with which it ought to inspire me. I should not be able perhaps to struggle with this weakness of my heart and mind so effectually as I now hope to do, had not the forcible admonitions of my dear Harriot's father awakened me to the fullest sense of my dangers and my duty. Good daughter as she is, she could hardly forgive him for his vehemence against Seymour, in that distressed night of which she says she gave you a very minute description; yet he certainly acted only the part that became him, as a friend and a divine. The more I reflect on the many strong and just things he said, the more I feel myself indebted to his virtue, and the more I hope to profit by his advice; though, as I have already confessed to you, there are times when it has not the slightest influence on my feelings. In my more discreet hours I endeavour to fortify my spirit by calling his very powerful lecture to my mind. One of his remarks made a very deep impression upon me. In entering minutely into the character of Seymour, after doing full justice to his courage, his generosity, and his engaging accomplishments, he said, "I will grant you, that he is a most delightful companion for your sex at his present period of life; there is a vivacity and good-nature in youth that can hide all the hideousness of impiety itself; but the main question is, what sort of a husband will this man make towards the middle and latter end of his days, when his gaiety begins to languish, from the emptiness of human pleasures, and his lively temper is rendered more splenetic and imperious by the inevitable vexations of the world? These are the trying seasons of our existence; and if he is destitute of Religion, as we know but too well he is, believe me he is destitute of every thing that can tranquillize his own spirit at the period I am speaking of, and enable him to diffuse light and comfort to his domestic circle." I have given you, I believe, very near the exact words of my vehement and venerable counsellor; for, agitated as I was, every syllable that he uttered sunk deep into my soul; and as there is, you know, a strange spirit of contradiction in our nature, I believe I remember his expressions the more accurately, because the too indulgent Harriot has wished me to forget them: the last time that I recalled some of these to her recollection, she was almost angry with me, and said, in her spirited manner, that I should realize the story of the poor Lady Clementina, and drive myself quite out of my senses by my religious scruples. But, as I told her in my reply our cases are widely different; that enchanting character, whether true or ideal, had many circumstances to distract her, from which I am happily exempt: she was persecuted by proud and imperious relations; the little difference between her own creed and that of Grandison was not sufficiently visible and weighty to make her mind clear and resolute in her decision against him. Alas! how different is my case! I distinctly see my own duty; and I trust I am now compleatly determined to fulfil it. I shall, however take a hint from the noble Clementina. I am strongly inclined to solicit the well-known generosity of my lover to support me against himself. This, my dear Lucy, is the plan upon which I am anxious for your opinion. Our dear Harriot has very innocently increased my misery, by her eagerness to relieve it; though I had not power to refuse her pressing intreaties, I am now too painfully convinced, by my own sufferings, that I ought not to have made one of the party here. My peace is fled, and my health is wasting rapidly away. I have no chance of recovering a tolerable degree of quiet, but in a resolute and hasty retreat to my own solitary mansion. I must take, however, my dear boys along with me; for all my force and fortitude originates in them. The Monsons, I know, will follow me with their other little pupils. In the grateful and sensible Caroline I have a valuable bosom-friend, most anxious for my lasting happiness, though confessedly in the interest of her generous protector.

Our dear Harriot thinks me so totally unfit to be my own guide, that I know she would not patiently hear of this project, necessary as I feel it is to my peace. I think, therefore, of accomplishing my departure without her suspecting it. All this I have settled in my own mind, and am much easier since I formed the resolution. But now, my dear sympathetic friend, decide for me the great point that perplexes me: shall I, or shall I not, leave a long letter for Seymour; unfolding most frankly to him all the painful past conflicts in my bosom; and conjuring him, by the sincerity of that disinterested love which he professes, to let me peaceably pursue the only line of conduct that can possibly secure to me the lasting approbation of my heart, and the tranquillity of my mind? I know, if I asked Harriot the question that I have now proposed to you, my dear Lucy, she would wickedly laugh in my face, and tell me, that the ardent imagination of Seymour would consider such an epistle as a delicate hint to pursue me to Sedley-hall. But our sprightly friend does not, I think, perfectly understand either Seymour or me. As to myself, I should assuredly wish to be understood as literally sincere in my request; and I am willing to think that Seymour, with all his impetuous spirit, has too much penetration, and too much delicacy, to put so wrong a construction on the language of a woman, when she candidly reveals her whole soul to him without a shadow of reserve. But tell me what you think; and tell me speedily, my dear girl. Suppose yourself exactly in my situation, and tell me how you would act: yet you cannot do so completely; your imagination, lively and powerful as it is, cannot perfectly suggest to you all the strong feelings of a mother situated as I am. But how many striking circumstances have I to impress upon my heart all the great duties of that important character! The extreme loveliness of my children, the dying request of my poor Sedley, the admonitions of my own excellent father, who, delighting in the uncommon name that he gave me, used frequently to bid me remember that he gave it me, not because it sounded well, and was singular, but because it had belonged to a Roman lady distinguished by the lustre of her maternal virtues, and because he hoped that if Heaven blessed me with children, it might make me as attentive as she was to the care of their education. O you benevolent spirits who were once on earth the kind monitors of your Cornelia, and are now perhaps looking down upon her from Heaven, I will not forget you, and the principles which you infused into my soul! I will banish all love from my bosom, but the love of those dear little ones whom you commended to my care. I will live only for them. Write, and confirm me, my dear Lucy, in this only safe, this triumphant resolution. No words can express the relief that I have found already in thus pouring forth my whole heart to you. You will comprehend all its complicated emotions. You will compassionate all its weakness. You will rejoice in its reviving energy. You will applaud my conscientious decision; and your applause will operate as a cordial on the still trembling spirits of

Your most sincere and affectionate CORNELIA.

P. S. Alas! what a poor slave am I to Time and Chance! Five minutes ago I was exulting in the close of this immense pacquet, and in the comfort I anticipated from your expected answer; and now I have a great mind to throw all these closely-scribbled sheets into the fire; for, behold, the great question, on which I was so anxious to consult you, is suddenly become no question at all; my maid has just told me, that Mr. Seymour is going from us to-morrow. Ah, my dear Lucy, what a weak, what a despicable creature is your poor vaunting Cornelia! Though I had firmly resolved to fly from him myself, I must own to you that I feel mortified to death by his thus retiring from me. Oh, abominable vanity! This is a weakness that deserves no quarter. But I trust it is only the last fluttering momentary flame of an exhausted fire, just on the point of extinction. Write to me—reprove me—comfort me—exhort and command me to struggle and triumph over all my follies; and to maintain that calm dignity of character which you have a peculiar right to recommend, from the force and felicity of your example. Adieu; pray remember that I have implicit confidence in your honour, and that I depend on your not shewing even a line of this letter to your brother.

LETTER IV. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

IF I ever entrust to any man, my dear Seymour, a commission to chuse a wife for me, it shall certainly be to you; for I know not in the world a man more entitled to the old classical compliment of "elegans formarum spectator." You are indeed an accomplished judge, both of exterior and internal beauty; of the persons and the minds of women; but to chuse a wife is an arduous business, where good luck, as well as good sense, is so essentially requisite, that, without doubting your discernment, I may distrust your fortune; and the more so, because, after making one choice for yourself with consummate success (for no woman, in my opinion, can be more suited to you than Cornelia), you cannot reasonably expect a second instance of marvellous felicity in chusing for your friend. Did you ever hear of a lottery in which the two twenty thousands were selected by one person? As to myself, I am, you know, so far from being sanguine in my expectations of all matters depending on chance, that I shall probably pass through the world without once venturing on one of these richly promising matrimonial tickets; yet, believe me, it is not because I think less highly of the sex than you do; no, indeed, after all that Wit and Satire have written against women and wedlock, I am convinced that life is hardly supportable without some female connexion; and there is certainly no connexion so likely to produce lasting pleasure and comfort as a marriage where Love may be considered as prime minister, under the sovereign authority of Reason. But our lot, as to marriage or celibacy, is generally decided by some little incident that starts up in the early part of life, and hurries us we know not whither. It was my destinity, as you are perfectly apprized, to be strangely entangled in a tender attachment, that I could never entirely approve, that time and experience induce me still more to condemn. and that I yet want the fortitude or the cruelty (call it which you will) to terminate in the manner that would be most conducive to my quiet, my interest, and my reputation. Man is by nature so subtile a logician in his own defence, that he is hardly ever without a very specious reason for such conduct as his private inclinations impel him to pursue. Thus I impute my celibacy not solely to my secret bondage under the dominion of the too fond and wayward Sylvia, but to circumstances of a more honourable complexion. My good sister Lucy stands forth as the fair and ostensible motive for my single life. Indeed the bitter disappointment which this excellent girl met with in her matrimonial prospect, made me very desirous of settling her where she might at least enjoy the authority of a wife. She has now presided over my house so long, has "borne her faculties so meekly, and been so clear in her great office," that I am inclined to believe we are happier in thus mutually supporting our liberties, than either of us would have been under matrimonial dominion.

This being the ease, you must allow the confirmed bachelor to remain in the quiet enjoyment of his various odities. I have just passed the period at which Aristotle says the good citizen ought to marry; and since I have let the season slip, I must content myself with exhorting you to make ample amends for my omission. Do not, however, suppose that I mean to throw a double duty upon you, or advise you to make love alternately to the virgin and the widow; which you seem half inclined to do. Dangerous frolics indeed! Pray be a little more constant in your devoirs and a little more temperate in your revenge.—Heaven preserve your lively Louisa! I hope she will soon be kissed by lips less vindictive than yours, and much younger than those of the half-hoary swain whom your partiality has so unseasonably recommended to be made young again by her ‘Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles.’

Ah, Seymour, you will find perhaps, when you are on the verge of forty, that you are a better judge of such disparity. But if I were younger than I am, I should still dread a comparison with a swain so ardent; I should fancy that even the ga• Louisa, though she looked like rosy Mirth when panting under your fiery embrace, might be metamorphosed into green and yellow Melancholy, upon exchanging that embrace for the more phlegmatic caresses of your friend. Leave me, therefore to my singularities. Let Providence provide for Louisa; and do you confine all your gentle solicitude, all your tender attention, to the interesting and deeply enamoured Cornelia;

For the rest,

Leave all to Heaven—be faithful, and be blest—

to express my good wishes to you in the words of a play which, Lucy tells me, is a great favourite with your lovely and accomplished fair-one.

Accept our united benedictions; and believe me ever

Your anxious monitor, and affectionate friend.

LETTER V. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

IN closing my last to you, my dear Edmund, I gave you reason to expect very speedily some gay tidings in favour of my love, that were just announced to me by the arch smile of the good, grateful Caroline. That most sincere and most zealous friend to my passion had indeed some very delicious intelligence to give me; but the excellent creature was so divided and confused, between her ardent desire to serve me, and her dread of betraying her patroness, that I had some difficulty in drawing from her lips what she came on purpose to communicate. At length, however, my faithful minister opened the budget, and presented to me such a statement of affairs, that my heart bounded in my bosom with vanity and joy. My grand wish is accomplished; my exquisitely tender Cornelia is jealous of me to distraction. She happened to spy me from her window, folding Louisa in my arms, and almost fainted at the sight. "If I do not take pity of her, as Benedick, says, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew." I shall not add, in the words of the play, "I will go get her picture;" but I will hasten to get possession of the enchanting original. Shake not thy head, my dear timorous monitor; and tell me no more of caution and delay. Shall I keep such endearing sensibility on the rack of her own affectionate doubts and fears! "Aye, but, Seymour, I hear you exclaim, remember the great impediment in your way; which only time and patience can enable you to o'erleap." Fear not, my good friend: I am not blind to all the obstacles before me; and have lately discovered one, of which my sagacious monitor himself, perhaps, is not aware. Your kind sister, Harriot, has not dealt quite so frankly with me as she professes to do; but I shall shew her in my turn, that when I meet with reserve and disguise, I also can make mysteries of my own, and conceal from my intimate friends both what I know and what I intend. After the docility and obedience which I have shewn to her mandates, Harriot ought to have imparted to me a secret that I accidentally got a suspicion of, and at last with great difficulty extorted from the honest bosom of Caroline, who nobly chose rather to break a promise which she had inconsiderately made to Mrs. Audley, than appear barbarous and ungrateful to me. So the good creature reluctantly confessed to me, that my dear idol has made a hasty and desperate vow, you may guess of what nature. Pray observe, that the soft Cornelia can be precipitate as well as her lover. But what are vows, my dear timid preceptor? Do we not know, from the experience of ages, that fond women make them as they make sugar toys with concealed mottos, chiefly for the pleasure of seeing them broken. I have just formed a glorious and delightful project for demolishing this paste-like but unpalatable vow of my lovely widow. As the sweet creature will swear, I must make her exchange her rough oath, for one of gentler form. Be not terrified at this intimation, my good cherisher of unnecessary apprehensions; I am not going to play the terrific Jupiter, in all his fire, with this fond jealous Semele, and reduce the tender creature to ashes; though she seems by her provoking vow to invite all my powers. I will not explain to you what my project is, because I know there is a tardy caution and timidity in your nature that would not allow you to approve it. Rest however assured, that there is nothing dishonourable, nothing ungentle, in the scheme. Trouble not yourself to send me any wise remonstrances; for if you do I can only answer them thus,

Sage! I have set my love upon a cast,

And I will stand the hazard of the dye.

However I may prosper, believe me ever,

Your most affectionate SEYMOUR.

P. S. Pray do not write to this house till you hear from me again; at least on my account. I am departing immediately for London, where I have some short business to dispatch. I am desirous of relieving my tender Cornelia from the torments of jealousy, and of speculating, at the same time, on the effects which my unexpected departure may produce on her heart, before I enter on my grand and at present unutterable project. Adieu! my brain is working with anxiety, like that of an alchemist in the approach of the hour which is to make him either a Croesus or a beggar.

LETTER VI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

YOU do me justice, my very dear friend, in giving me credit for the most perfect sympathy in all you endure. Indeed, I sympathize with you so entirely, that my sentiments and wishes seem to follow every variation of yours; and the little judgment that Nature gave me is reduced, I fear, to an absolute nothing, by the excess of my anxiety for your very delicate and distressing situation. I feel at once flattered, delighted, grieved, perplexed, and overwhelmed, by your most friendly and endearing letter; for, to imitate your charming frankness, I must tell you that I feel myself utterly unworthy to sustain the part of your adviser and your guide, which, in your kind partiality, you seem to wish me to assume. You pay me a most animating compliment on the triumph that I gained over my own unfortunate and ill-placed affection. But what, my sweet friend, what was my trial, compared to yours? To alienate a fond and simple heart from a man whole base character had been publickly detected, and who clearly deserved general contempt, requires, I own, some painful efforts; but such efforts few women, I believe, would fail to make with success; because, as you justly remark, our Pride in such a conflict affords a very powerful support to our Reason. But to relinquish the most accomplished, the most admired, the most engaging of men; to relinquish such a being, when you know he doats on you with the most passionate attachment, and when he has awakened all the feelings of reciprocal affection; to relinquish him for one unhappy circumstance, which is rather his misfortune than his fault; to resolve and to presevere in all this, may perhaps be within the power of our angelic Cornelia. I shall be ready to adore you, if you make the sacrifice; but I must confess that the poor mortal Lucy would hardly be able to purchase Heaven itself at such a price. Do not abhor me as an impious creature, my dear devout friend, for this confession. Believe me, though I am a very weak, yet I am still a very sincere Christian; but I am convinced that our feeble brains may think even of Religion too much; and as a poet, who was very far from wanting piety, has very happily told us, ‘The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.’

Do not imagine that I think the religious faith of a husband is a matter of little consequence to a wife: on the contrary, in a connexion where unexpected discord is so apt to arise, I think the two minds should be as nearly in unison as possible, upon all the great objects of human contemplation. But where, my dear friend, is such complete unison to be found? Perhaps not upon earth. Marriage would be a rare thing indeed if it were never to be solemnized till such unison could be proved. It is the fashion therefore, in this necessary and universal ceremony, to take a great deal upon trust: and many a good wife, if she sees her husband go decently to church, troubles her head very little concerning his private notions either of GOD or the Devil. Our ladies indeed, in former times, were more piously inquisitive. I have read, I think in Hudibras, of certain devout dames of quality, who tied their husbands to a bed-post, and whipped them too, to render them more godly.

Do not think, my dear gentle friend, that I mean to treat your scruples with a barbarous, unbecoming ridicule; no I only mean, though I attempt it but aukwardly, to divert your thoughts from dwelling too seriously and intensely on a subject which, if you suffer it to prey so continually on your spirits, may undermine your health, without promoting any good end whatever. You entreat me to suppose myself exactly in your situation, and tell you how I should act; you allow, however, that I cannot exactly conceive all your sensations. I am glad you furnish me with such a comfortable excuse for my superior weakness; for I am dreadfully afraid that in such a trial I should not possess even a moiety of your virtue and resolution; my present partiality, as a mere friend to this fascinating Seymour, convinces me of the turn that my feebler reason would take in his behalf. I should easily persuade myself that a man, whose heart I thought had all the tender benevolence of the Gospel, and whose life, I hoped, would have much of its purity, might be ultimately more favoured by its Divine Author, than many mortals who conceal an antipathy for his laws under a boasted reverence for his name. My romantic fancy would suggest to me, that if I endangered my own soul by accepting such a lover, I should still more deeply endanger his by refusing him; and, in such an alternative, I need not tell you for which hazard a fond, generous, romantic spirit might decide. But, if I cannot strengthen your resolution, as you expect me to do, by sincerely professing myself equal to such a great sacrifice as you meditate, I certainly ought, in owning my weakness, to own at the same time my apprehensions of its consequence. I am one, I believe of those very common characters, just foolish and weak enough to act wrong on a very severe trial; and just wise and virtuous enough to feel incessant remorse for having done so. Were I to marry Seymour in your situation, I am persuaded I should be wretched if I failed in the hope of leading him by gentle degrees, to my own religious persuasion. To act on a vain confidence in such a hope would be, I acknowledge to act like a fool. Yet I feel that this folly, fortified as it would be by all the illusive powers of Love, would be infinitely too strong for my feeble reason. I should most probably act ill from good affectionate motives, and be the dupe and victim of my own absurdity. Alas! what a bitter enemy is the tenderest of passions to the sweet chearful serenity of female life! Yet what different effects does it produce in the different characters of our sex! To the gentle, the artless, the open-hearted, Love is often a deep tragedy: to the notable and discreet, it is a sort of heavy sentimental comedy: to the perfectly vain and capricious, it is neither better nor worse than an absolute farce. Now, my dearest Cornelia, in my meditation upon Love and You (two ideas most easily united!) I have conceived a wish and a hope that you may disarm the cruelty of this tyrant, by treating him with a little levity, which, though foreign, I confess, to your natural temper, may be salutary and graceful in your present very singular situation. I think you are at present so circumstanced, and your agitated spirits are in such a tender state, that you cannot decide either for or against your lover, without incurring such severe pain as all who have the delight of knowing you must be anxious for your avoiding. But what necessity is there for any immediate decision? Trust me, there is none. Pray let me teach you to play the coquette a little. Tell this precipitate Seymour, that young and admired as you are, you must take some time to look round the world, and see what multitudes of accomplished men it exhibits, before you deign to bestow your invaluable self on any one of the crew. Tell him, he has not passed through a period of probation half long enough to convince you of his attachment. Dispatch him as your ambassador to our divine Giuliana; and bid him listen to that heavenly enthusiast for a twelvemonth. Trust me, my dear friend, you may venture to send him round the world, without any danger of his nor returning to you with all the loyalty of Love. But you, dear jealous creature, would have a thousand apprehensions. O how I love you for the very frank confession in your postscript concerning his unexpected departure! I should have begun to stand in dreadful awe of you, as an absolute angel, but for that comfortable, endearing confession.—There I see my fellow-creature; there, my dear, you are a true woman; for we can none of us bear to be deserted, even by the man whom we are resolute to discard. But I can safely assure you, that Seymour is no more able to desert you, than the poor sparrow, whose little leg is fettered, is able to fly away from the half-happy and half-terrified girl, who holds him in her string. Be gentle, betranquil yourself; and in time, I am persuaded, you will inspire this wild flutterer with as much patience and docility as you can wish him to possess.— That Heaven, my dear friend, may proportion your happiness, even on earth, to the exquisite tenderness and purity of your heart, is the cordial and ardent prayer of

Your most faithful and affectionate LUCY.

LETTER VII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

PRAY, my good girl, can you send us any comfortable tidings of the run-away Seymour? To my utter astonishment, we are all in a state of dismal darkness concerning him. He left us rather abruptly, on the pretence of sudden business in London. An odd season this for business in the metropolis! From thence he has written me a letter that is very unlike himself, Very aenigmatical, and full of cold and formal civility. I thought I discovered a great cloudiness on his brow for some days before he left us; and I am persuaded that something pressed with unusual weight upon his mind, though he would not confess it to me. I seem to have disobliged him, yet I know not how; and my dear Audley assured me, on Seymour's sudden departure, that he was as much puzzled as I am to account for the striking change in the behaviour of our guest. The lovers cannot have had one of the petty quarrels so apt to arise between lovers, because, with a marvelous singularity of discretion and reserve, they have abstained from all private interviews. I know not what to think. Sometimes I fancy that his hasty and unexpected decampment is a mere amorous stratagem, to try the real force of his fair-one's affection; yet Seymour is by no means a creature of artifice. Sometimes I am ready to fear that, like others of his volatile sex and age, he is become a traitor in love, and that his heart has been seduced by the sprightliness and bloom of Louisa to forget its loyalty to the poor, pensive, and pale Cornelia, who is in truth most grievously altered of late, and seems to suffer a daily diminution of her beauty and her health, that wounds me to the soul. Yet, as his penetrating eyes must have discovered that this cruel effect has been occasioned by her unquiet love for him, I am rather inclined to believe that it would more increase than diminish the attachment of a heart so generous and so tender. But, "I am weary of conjectures:" and, alas! I know not how "to end them," unless you can furnish us with some authentic intelligence of our too interesting fugitive. If there is any one here who is more in his confidence than I am, it must he his grateful Caroline, as he calls her; but if Caroline is really his prime confidante (as I a little suspect) she is a very close and trusty one indeed, as I cannot force a syllable from her lips that will enable me to guess at his present intentions. The warm-hearted creature will only say of her protector, whom she deems it a crime to mention without confidence and respect, that she will pawn her life for the sincerity and continuance of his friendship for me, and of his love for Cornelia. Alas, the poor Cornelia! she declares herself greatly relieved by Seymour's sudden departure; and such is this great relief, that she can hardly speak of it without dropping a tear; but whether a tear of heavenly gratitude, or of mortal regret, I shall leave you, my dear sagacious sister, to guess. For my part, I am quite out of luck, in my attempts to study and to correct the restless feelings of both our friends; and as it often happens to a well-meaning mediator, I have partly lost the favour and confidence of each. Seymour is apparently displeased with me; and I have offended the gentle Cornelia too, by representing, perhaps too forcibly, the inability of her tender frame to persevere without risking her life in an utter abjuration of the man she adores. Her delicate pride was a little wounded by my distrusting her fortitude; but I hope I have made my peace with her, by a lucky quotation of a passage from an old obscure play, which I happened to light upon very opportunely. It struck me as a pleasant hint to us good women, who pique ourselves now and then a little too much on the supposed strength of our virtuous resolutions. Here are the words for you:

What woman hath

So sail'd about the world of her own heart,

Sounded each creek, survey'd each corner, but

That still there may remain much terra incognita

To herself?

You, I know, my dear Lucy, will smile at the moral truth, as well as the poetical quaintness, of these lines: they made even Cornelia smile: ‘Albeit unused to the smiling mood.’

In truth, we are all grown a set of poor dismal creatures since our knight errant set forth from this castle in quest of new and unknown adventures; even the laughter-loving Louisa has lost her gaiety, and mopes like a sick kitten. As to myself, you will perceive but too clearly, by my letter, that I am sadly out of tune and spirits; but you will not wonder at my being so, when you know that, besides my anxiety for our dear suffering Cornelia, I have some inquietude to endure for my husband, who is summoned to the death-bed, I fear, of his old friend and favourite fellow-collegian poor Verney: an event that gives a double chill to my heart, from a painful and perhaps foolish, yet natural, combination of ideas, which you, my dear Lucy, will be too ready to catch; but though the health of our dear Audley has been ever more delicate than that of his early friend, let us hope that he is destined, for all our sakes, to enjoy a much longer life. Help us, my good girl, to dissipate the gloom that hangs over us, by your chearful letters. I conclude that Seymour will post, before he returns to us, to his dear privy-counsellor Edmund; and I charge you to give us the quickest tidings that you possibly can of his safe arrival at your gate; as we shall otherwise begin to surmise, that the Faithless rover is fled to Genoa, or the Lord knows whither. Take pity, therefore, on our ignorance and our terrors; and, accepting the united kind wishes of the poor desolate females in this man-deserted castle, believe me ever

Your affectionate HARRIOT.

LETTER VIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

DO not think, my dearest Edmund, that I have treated you ungratefully, in keeping you for several weeks in suspense and dark inquietude concerning the destiny of a friend for whom you have ever expressed the most engaging anxiety. A thousand circumstances have conspired to prevent my giving you more speedy intelligence of my proceedings. Instead, therefore, of accusing me for being silent so long, give me great credit for attempting to write to you in these moments. I say attempting to write; for I am not sure that I can, even for your sake, confine my attention to my paper; and you will not wonder at my doubt, when I tell you, that ever nerve in my frame is trembling with anxious impatience for the expected arrival of my Cornelia; yes, of my Cornelia. She is approaching to my arms, and I am waiting in the house of a good elderly man of God, with a blessed instrument in my pocket, called a special licence, prepared on purpose to make the dear angel my own Cornelia by the sweet lustre of the evening star. At this news my dear timid philosopher himself will burst into a shout of triumphant transport. But hold! I must not betray you into treacherous exultation, though I have the most sanguine hopes that we shall speedily exult together, on the consummation so devoutly and so prophanely wished. I have sworn by Connubial Juno, to to make the lovely fond creature my bride this very night, if all-powerful Love, with his capital agents, Opportunity and Importunity, can accomplish it. Do not exclaim against my rashness and precipitancy. I have been driven to the measures I am pursuing. If vows are taken against me, must I not oppose them by stronger vows? Do you think Cupid is such a paltry engineer, that if a mine is contrived against him he cannot counteract it by a superior mine of his own contrivance? Do not fear.—The plan of my surprize and attack is concerted in so admirable a manner, that I am almost sure of annihilating all powers of resistence. But, if I can, I will tell you circumstantially the steps that have led me to the present heart-agitating crisis. When I first got from Caroline a reluctant account of my lovely widow's rash vow, I thought it would have made me absolutely frantic; and perhaps it might had not my good grateful Caroline exerted all her zeal and ingenuity to sooth, to comfort, and to persuade me that Cornelia's passion for me is too strong to let her persevere in any barbarous resolution against me, however solemnly enforced. With what exquisite skill and rapidity do penetrating women decypher one another! My kind and zealous comforter, whose unabated gratitude towards me is so lively and enthusiastic that I am convinced she would chearfully hazard her life to ensure the success of my love, she, I say, unveiled to me a thousand touching proofs of my Cornelia's fondness, which had escaped the searching eyes of the lover.—She maintained and upon special good grounds, that if I had once got my tender idol into a scene of perfect privacy, and had a fair opportunity of pressing her to an immediate marriage, she would be just as unable to resist me, as a ship under way is unable to resist the wind when it has filled every fail. I give you this forcible simile in the very words of my excellent comforter and confederate, who has, you see, stored her mind with images, as well as her heart with generosity, in the course of her nautical adventures. We agreed that our dear diffident Cornelia stands in dreadful awe of your devout brother; and although your pleasant and friendly sister Harriot warmly professes herself in advocate for our union, yet she sometimes makes use of arguments which produce, perhaps, an effect rather injurious to my cause, by offending the delicacy of Cornelia.— For these and sundry other reasons, we agreed also in the opinion that my dear timid angel would be much more likely to indulge all the tenderness of her heart, if I could contrive to pass a day with her at a distance from her pious friends. We meditated on various schemes to accomplish this great object. Chance at length suggested a plan to us that I have pursued with the most sanguine hopes of success. You may, perhaps, have heard of a very worthy old clergyman, whose name is Danvers, and who resales about fifteen miles to the South of your brother. With this Divine I had a slight personal acquaintance, as he is indebted for all his little preferment to the family of my mother. He is a primitive, simple, retired character; as unlike as possible, they tell me, to those modern men of God who have made me, I confess, not very partial to priests. Danvers is fond of privacy and peace, and he was once uncommonly happy in his domestic circle; but death has robbed him, not only of an excellent wife but of a daughter who supplied her place in training his younger olive-branches, of which (as they seldom fail you know in holy ground) the good man has abundance. These distressing events in his family obliged the honest old parson, at the hazard of a little scandal, to call in a female assistant; and, most fortunately for me, the humble governess of his younger children is a sister of my grateful Caroline. While we were debating how to contrive a private interview for me with Cornelia at a distance from your brother's, Caroline happened to receive a letter from her sister, who appears to be a good girl, almost as warm-hearted as herself. This letter was to say, that having many duties on her hands, which confined her at home, she was unable to accomplish her ardent desire of coming to wish her sister joy of her fortunate marriage; but as the indulgent Cornelia had once had the goodness to bring Caroline to her, she most humbly petitioned for a repetion of that favour on the present joyous occasion.

This letter struck both Caroline and me as a ray of light from Heaven. Our quick imaginations began immediately to make it our guide in forming the project that I was so anxious to settle. It was agreed that I should depart suddenly from your brother's, and, by not explaining the cause or time of my absence, awaken all the little jealous surmises and fond alarms in the heart of Cornelia, to which that tender heart is sufficiently inclined; that I should hasten to renew and increase my acquaintance with Mr. Danvers, and engage him most firmly in my interest by every possible expedient.— Caroline undertook to furnish me with constant intelligence concerning the health and affections of my dear and thus apparently deserted widow. Alas! my tender angel has suffered not a little from this apparent desertion; but I hope soon to make her a rich attonement for life; and, as the intelligent Caroline says, nothing is so delicious and overcoming as the sudden sight of a lover, whom a fond heart has almost despaired of ever seeing again. But, to resume the thread of my story: my excellent confederate undertook also to engage Cornelia for a distant day, to ride with her in the chaise to Mr. Danvers's, and to let Monson attend them on horseback. I was to have early notice of the time appointed, that I might arrive there the day before, and adjust all matters in the best method I could devise to accomplish the grand object of my wishes. I ought to tell you, however, in justice to the excellent Caroline, that before she would consent to this final arrangement of our plan, which looked, she said, like betraying her patroness into my hands, she bound me by the most solemn oaths, that I should not attempt to make Cornelia my wife by any species of violence, but merely by the fair influence of fond and passionate intreaty; an engine which my zealous confederate thinks sufficiently powerful to ensure us a victory. Heaven grant that she may prove as true a prophet as she is a trusty and invaluable ally! I have at length accomplished all the important preliminary points. As you know I little regard either fatigue or expence in the pursuit of projects that interest my heart, you will readily believe that I have not been inactive or tardy in the great article of making Danvers my friend. I have been fortunately able to provide for two branches of his family; and I have so completely ingratiated myself with this warm-hearted old Divine, that I believe he would be happy to marry me to an empress, without stipulating or wishing for a mitre as his reward. I have prepared him with a general, and as you may suppose, a favourable idea of my pretensions and views towards his lovely expected visitant. I have obtained a cordial promise from him, that, if I find it expedient, he will appear as my advocate, in opposition to any religious scruples that my fond, yet reluctant fair-one, may urge against me; for this honest man of GOD most candidly acquiesces in my leading proposition, that if I pay an exterior reverence to our Established Religion, and solemnly engage to have my children educated in the belief of that Religion, there is nothing further which ought to be required of me; and all the rest is a private business between my own heart and Heaven. This delightful old Divine goes farther on my side, as he is both in theory and practice a warm friend to the support and increase of the world. He says, that my lovely widow, having promised to wed no other man, cannot refuse me without a crime and a great crime too; he says, no less than a breach of the primitive command; a command which she has twice proved herself most admirably qualified to fulfill. Here is a Parson for you, my dear Edmund! a Parson after my own heart! for whose sake I shall be reconciled, I think, to the whole fraternity that I have so cordially detested. He is, in truth, a pleasant original character, that you my dear moralist, would have particular delight in observing. It was his maxim, he says, in early life, that if he had a faithful woman to embrace, and a spirited book to read, with a decent provision of daily bread, he should have every thing that his mind or body had a right to require; and he held it wiser to sit contentedly down with these blessings, than to scramble for the clerical toys of the world. In conformity to these principles, he devoted himself to his wife and his study. The first I know only by her fruits: and these do her credit. In his study I am now writing; and, if my heart and soul were not too much occupied by the scene in which I am soon to sustain so trying a part, I would give you a minute description of this neat little library, and the fathers in folio, who are now staring me in the face as if astonished at finding such an unclerical fellow as I am in the midst of such company. The worthier master of these venerable shelves is walking in the little orchard that I command from the window, and meditating, I trust, a very pious and eloquent ha•angue in my favour. With two such supporters as this liberal friendly man of GOD and the zealous beloved Caroline, I think it is hardly possible for me to fail; yet, as the hour of decision draws nearer and nearer, I feel the agitation of my heart increasing in the most painful degree. One moment I am overwhelmed with the transporting idea of perfect success; and the next, I am ready to sink under the agonies of a fancied disappointment. But what should disappoint me! If she is a woman, and I have pretty good reasons for thinking her the very quintessence of a woman in tenderness and affection, she must infalliably yield to the arguments of my Love, and the passionate ardour with which I mean to enforce them. But, my dearest friend, I really can write to you no longer; and, trust me, I have put no little constraint on myself in writing thus far. Heaven knows if you will find what I have written intelligible: I have no time, or faculties, to examine. My scrawl will at least convince you that I am, however agitated, and however precipitate in your opinion, yet ever

Your grateful and affectionate, though ungovernable, SEYMOUR.

P. S. I am just withdrawing from the Parsonage, as I think it better for me not to surprise the dear tender creature till she is refreshed after her little journey; I have determined, therefore, not to make my appearance till after their early dinner. Heavens! if she should not arrive to that dinner! How I tremble, lest my sweet angel's health, which, as Caroline writes me word, is growing more and more delicate, should prevent her joining this little party, though she has promised to be with them; for she is all sweetness and good-nature, and has contracted an esteem for the venerable Danvers! Adieu! I shall put this letter, unsealed, into my pocket, to dispatch to you from the little inn to which I am retreating.
P. S. the second.
Joy! Joy! my dear Edmund. I am this instant enlivened by a delicious billet from the ••uthful Caroline. My angel is actually arrived; her health a little restored, her spirits tenderly in tune; the sweet soul was much gratified by an ostensible letter which I lately sent my trusty confidant, expressing the real anxiety of my soul concerning the late visible change in her health. Now, Love and Eloquence, inspire me! Farewell.—The moments grow precious indeed, for before midnight I shall be as blest as a demi-god or as miserable as a demon. Do not blame me. The chance is worth the conflict. Whatever its event, I will, if I am alive, assuredly write to you to-morrow; so hope the best, and once more farewell.

LETTER IX. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

ALL is over.—We have encountered; and how severe the encounter has proved to both parties you my judge, when I tell you that each may describe the event in the famous words of poor Francis the First of France, "We have lost every thing but our Honour." Never was a conte•t more obstinately supported; victory there is none; nor any prospect of renewing the contention. I am distracted with a thousand unutterable feelings, compounded chiefly of shame, admiration, and anger. I have acted so directly opposite to your counsels, that I cannot fly to you for consolation; for though I am certain you would still very willingly give me all in your power, I could not receive any thing like comfort from you under my present sensations. It seems as if I could bear the sound of no human voice but that of Giuliana. I shall steal away to Italy; and if I can sufficiently calm my perturbed spirits as I travel, I will give you a faithful narrative of the scene which has made me perhaps a wretch for life. At present I am so unable to decypher my own complicated emotions, that I really cannot tell whether my love is heightened or extinguished In one moment the exquisite tenderness of Cornelia is the object of my idolatry; in the next, her pride and superstition awaken my indignation and abhorrence. Yet her tenderness—O God! my dear Edmund, you never saw or heard of such angelic tenderness—but you shall hear it all when I grow more composed.—Farewell.

LETTER X. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY

IT falls to my lot, my dear Lucy, to give you that intelligence which I solicited from you. Would to Heaven it were more chearful! But the intractable impetuous Seymour has involved himself, and all of us, in gloom and wretchedness. Instead of passing a few social and comfortable weeks with you and Edmund, as I hoped he would, this hastly provoking creature has been trying a desperate project with the poor unprepared Cornelia. He has reduced her shattered nerves to the most pitiable weakness that you can possibly imagine, but without gaining the triumph he expected over her religious resolution.

You, I know, my good girl, will join with me in admiring, in idolizing, the unconquerable fortitude of this pure angel; and in lamenting, at the same time, the severe destiny by which her tranquillity and her health are so cruell destroyed. But I am talking to you as of your were already apprized of the distressing story that I have to impart. You will, I know, be painfully eager to hear all the particulars; and, as you have an unquestionable right to hear them, I will give you as many, as I can.

If Caroline had not her high obligations, her ardent gratitude, and great merit of all kinds, to atone for one indiscretion, I know not how it would be possible for me to forgive her; for she has been, in a great measure, the source of all our present distress. She has been the confederate of Seymour in a long train of artifice and deceit towards Cornelia; to which I should have thought her ingenuous nature could never have consented. But Gratitude, like Love, may be allowed to be blind; and this warmhearted creature has acted in the whole affair from such generous motives, and is so deep a sufferer in her own heart and soul, from the failure of the project, that, instead of feeling any lasting anger against her, she is nearly as much the object of my pity and admiration as our dear unsubdued, but exhausted and almost, lifeless, Cornelia herself.

Instead of beginning my story as I ought to do, I am still running into reflections upon it. But, that I may not torture your affectionate curiosity, I will grow a more methodical historian, and relate all I know in due order.

Yesterday morning the Monsons and Cornelia set forth, on an expedition for the day, to visit a very worthy old rural Divine, whose house and young family have been lately entrusted to a sister of Caroline's; and as the girl may be thought rather too young herself for the office of such a governess, our good Cornelia has been solicitous to countenance her, by attending her favourite Caroline whenever she went to see her sister. I little thought that the expedition of yesterday had any motive on the part of Caroline, except sisterly affection. Cornelia was rather inclined to remain with us, but I united my entreaties to those of the eager suppliant Caroline, and prevailed on her to join the little party, as I thought the ride and the amusement of a new chearful scene would be beneficial to her declining health. In the evening I and Louisa grew very anxious for her return. The clock struck nine, and no Cornelia appeared, though we had charged her to avoid the being abroad after sun-set. As my niece and I were alone, we began to alarm ourselves with various fancied and fearful causes of her delay. We sauntered in weary expectation, and, after looking a hundred times over the pales, were returning in despair into the house, when we heard a horseman galloping at full speed behind us, which, as we had now only the stars to light us, increased our alarm. It was Monson, whom the considerate Caroline had dispatched to save us from painful anxiety. He assured us that Cornelia was safe and well; but that the hours had glided away so imperceptibly, and the evening was grown so late before she thought of departing from Mr. Danvers's, that she would not return till the morrow. My apprehensions were more awakened than quieted by this message. I began to cross-examine Monson. He is a brave honest creature, without any talents for equivocation, I soon brought him to a confession that Seymour had joined the party. Judge, my dear girl, of the unutterable tumult of joy and concern, of hope and fear, that began to reign in my thoughts from this information. I could get little more from Monson. He conjured me to hope and believe the best, and to wait patiently for the important tidings of next day; offering to ride back immediately, that I might have those tidings with the utmost expedition. This, however, I would not allow. We all withdrew to our beds; but, for my part, I could not sleep a wink; and about one, I heard the rattle of Cornelia's chaise, driving hastily to the door. I guessed who it was, and flew half-naked, with my night-gown wrapped round me, to receive her. She had crossed the hall, and reached the library; but could get no farther. The moment I appeared, she sprang towards me; but sunk into my arms, and fainted. As soon as she revived, she asked wildly for her children; and hurrying into her chamber, she threw herself on her knees by the side of their bed, and exclaimed, "O, my dear infants, it is for your sake that I have torn my poor heart to pieces! and GOD himself will rear you in innocence and happiness as my reward. But what will become of the lost Seymour? His violent nature will plunge him in vice, in misery, in perdition!" At these words her whole frame was convulsed with anguish —The penitent and affrighted Caroline joined with me in conjuring her to be calm and silent; to let us put her immediately to bed, and give her some of the medicine to which she has frequently had recourse of late, and with constant good effect, in the severe agitation of her nerves. The poor desolate soul was now all obedience to our injunctions. She spoke not a syllably more, but to express her sorrow for proving such a source of trouble to her friends, and to bless us for our attention. Caroline and I did not stir from her chamber till we had seen her tolerably composed on her pillow. We then retired together to my room, where the self accusing Caroline began at once to condemn and to apologize for her own conduct.

It seems, this well-meaning creature had unguardedly betrayed to Seymour the hasty vow of Cornelia. From that moment his fiery indignant spirit became intractable. Nothing would appe•se him but a promise from Caroline to assist him in the secret contrivance of such a project as they have just carried into execution. Caroline confesses they both thought, and I must own I should have been of their opinion, that it Seymour could obtain any good private opportunity of urging Cornelia to an instant marriage, she was too deeply enamoured to have the power of resisting his ardent and passionate entreaties. I must say, their plot was very ingeniously conducted. Seymour, indefaticable in every pursuit where his affections are interested, and sanguine in every hope that his heart and fancy conspire to cherish, had contrived to make the o•d clergyman, Mr. Danvers, his hearty friend and advocate, and had provided himself with a special licence, that, if a single moment of yielding tenderness should present itself, he might be sure of rendering it decisive, and effectually preclude the dear scrupulous reluctant Cornelia from all possibility of receding. The vehement and artful creature, though he had been lurking some time at Mr. Danvers's, did not make his appearance till after dinner. Our sweet, unconscious, and unsuspecting friend was visibly surprized and delighted at the first sight of him. What passed in their private conference my informer cannot tell; but I imagine and hope that Edmund will have a full account of this rash and cruel affair from the hot brained lover himself Alas! poor fellow, he is probably cool enough by this time; for I have some reason to suppose that he passed the night like a sad wild Quixote as he is, on horseback, and perhaps wandering through our woods; but more of his nightly adventure in its proper place. I must return to Mr. Danvers's.

Caroline says, that, when Seymour had been about two hours alone with Cornelia, he came with a most agitated countenance to Mr. Danvers, and said, "I have been talking, Sir, to no purpose, to the most marble-hearted woman that God ever created. Pray, my good venerable friend, pray come, and try for me if your arguments have more influence with her than mine."—Caroline remained with her sister, while Seymour renewed his attack with his reverend ally. She says, she could hear that their discourse was very warm and loud; but as no one came out of the room, and it grew late, she sent off her husband to me, with the best message that she could devise in her confusion, to prevent my being alarmed. The secret debate was continued, with encreasing vehemence, for more than another hour: when Danvers came out to Caroline, exclaiming, "Your lady is an angel indeed! I did not think there could be such divine eloquence, and such angelic integrity and fortitude in woman! But pray go and persuade her not to depart, as she talks of doing, at this late hour; but to honour and sanctify my humble roof by sleeping under it. I protest to God, she shall be obeyed as an angel in all things. I will sooner forfeit all the great blessings that I owe to the generosity of Mr. Seymour, than ever appear as her antagonist again. She must be obeyed; but pray go, and try to prevail on her to stay with us to night." Upon this the poor disconcerted Caroline ventured into the room, abashed and trembling, as she says, left she should have incurred the everlasting displeasure of that kind patroness whom it would be worse than death to offend. On her opening the door, a scene presented itself to her exactly the reverse of what she expected. Seymour was silent, dejected, weeping; Cornelia speaking, with a countenance radiant and glowing. She interrupted and anticipated the first prayer of the penitent Caroline for pardon. "Your deceit, my good friend, cried the forgiving angel, has, I know arisen partly from mistaken kindness towards me, and partly from a laudible gratitude towards one whose services to you may surely give a sanction to any virtuous excess. But, for Heaven's sake, my dear Caroline, order the chaise immediately." "Aye, order it immediately, cried Seymour, starting from a sort of sullen reverie. The man whose services she condescends to compliment cannot obtain from her the little sacrifice of her pride." "Ungenerous Seymour, exclaimed the offended angel, have you a right to accuse me of pride? you to whom I have fondly declared that, if you were but a faithful worshiper of the God I worship, I would rather be your wife than married to any man, however exalted by faculties or station?" At this very just and tender reproof the sullen and imperious Seymour threw himself at her feet, and began to kiss her hand with great vehemence bathing it with his tears. Caroline paused, and hoped that the order for the chaise would he recalled; but, alas! it was repeated by the unshaken Cornelia. "It is decided then, cried Seymour, springing up with a frantic air: we are to part for ever!" Caroline heard no more; but, quitting the room, went to order the chaise; and, to her astonishment, saw Cornelia get into it unattended by Seymour. She says, that her own panic at that moment was the most dreadful she ever felt; for she concluded, that being resolved not to survive this galling disappointment, he was preparing to destroy himself, and she expected to hear the sound of his pistol. An irresistble impulse hurried her, she says, in this idea, into the little parlour where Cornelia had left him. She found him sitting, with a terrific sternness of features, and eyes flashing with a disdainful fury; but, at the sight of his grateful and anxious Caroline, his proud heart softened. He caught her in his arms, and exclaimed, "Heaven bless thee, thou most generous of friends! thou art the only being that I have ever met with on earth whose ideas of Love and Friendship appear equal to my own.—Go, and enjoy the blessings which thy affectionate heart has so well deserved; and I conjure thee, let them not be poisoned by too keen a sense of my miserable lot. The extreme acuteness of my present anguish cannot last long. Go, my tender Caroline, go to thy happy Monson; who shall find me his friend, whether I live or die." Caroline, having hastily extorted a promise from him, that he would do nothing desperate to destroy his life, or impair his health, now followed Cornelia, who was receiving the compliments, or rather the adorations, of the venerable Danvers, who had handed her into her chaise, and continued to express his admiration of her principles and conduct, and his high sense of the honour which her visit had conferred upon him. As soon as they drove from his door, Caroline began to repeat her entreaties for pardon; but the poor Cornelia was in no condition to reply. The great efforts she had made to sustain her spirit in this long conference, and final parting, as she imagined, with Seymour, had so miserably exhausted her little portion of strength, that, as soon as she was alone with Caroline, she sunk into such a state of debility and tears as frightened her attendant to the greatest degree. The terrified Caroline thought it would be hardly possible to bring her home alive, and earnestly implored her to turn back and pass the night under the friendly roof of Mr. Danvers; but in spite of her extreme bodily weakness, the dear angel was firm in her purpose of returning. She declared that she was already much relieved by her tears, and that, if Caroline would have the goodness to let her be quite silent, her strength and spirits would gradually revive. Caroline says they were perfectly mute for several miles. Cornelia herself broke the silence, by asking her in what condition she had left the rash, mortified, and indignant Seymour. When Caroline described the change in his features, from pride and fury to tenderness and gratitude, and repeated the kind words in which he took leave of her, the poor Cornelia burst into a fresh agony of tears; and just as this had subsided they arrived at our door.—Cornelia, in getting out of the chaise, thought to support herself on the arm of the servant who had attended her on horseback; but, to her astonishment, she perceived, in reaching the ground, that she had leant upon Seymour. She started, and exclaimed, "O Heaven, are you come to persecute me here!" "No, Madam," replied her hasty lover, severely galled by her exclamation, "it is you alone who have the spirit of persecution—I persecute no one—I thought it my duty as a man, to guard you hither; and since I am rewarded only by a reproof, I here bid you farewell for ever." With this bitter adieu he sprang hastily upon his horse, and galloped away with all possible speed, as if he had no desire but to get at a distance from the woman by whom, though he knows she loves him to distraction, he thought himself insulted. It was, I imagine, this last unexpected meeting and parting which occasioned the fainting of our dear unhappy friend at the time when I flew to receive her.— Alas! how very grievous it is, that two such very amiable creatures, so mutually enamoured should only prove a source of misery to each other! yet I am now sadly afraid that they are destined to be so as long as they exist. What is become of the fiery Seymour, Heaven only knows! I most cordially hope that he is bending his course to your house; as there is no place, I think, where he can be so kindly and properly taken care of in his present vexatious delirium. I charge you, my dear Lucy, to give us the first news or him that you hear with the utmost expedition. This, indeed, I deserve for writing to you, as I do at present, with sleepless and aching eyes. I was so eager to get all the particulars I could from Caroline, that we sat up together till five this morning, and I quitted my bed again before nine to visit my poor Cornelia, and to dispatch this long history to you by the post of to-day. My dear patient has had a wretched night, and is so faint and dejected that I have insisted on her remaining in bed till she hears the first dinner-bell.—My dear Audley is at present in happy ignorance of all these distressing adventures, and I believe I shall keep him so till he returns to us; for he has vexations more than enough where he is. Poor Verney died, as we expected; and my good husband has a very troublesome executorship to engross his attention.—I tell him, that I shall begin to give him a bad character to the world, to exempt him from these burdensome offices, which he has so frequently drawn upon himself by his activity and benevolence.

I have kept this unsealed to the last moment, in hopes that I might tell you wish comfort that Cornelia was a little revived. She is just come down stairs; but, alas! with looks so piteous, and such an appearance of weakness and dejection, that you, my dear tender Lucy, could hardly cast an eye on her sadly altered countenance without bursting into tears. Even our young and joyous Louisa says she never saw a figure so affecting. This good girl has a very tender heart, with all her wild vivacity; and behaves to Cornelia with a sweet compassionate gentleness that pleases me very much. Adieu. Pray write to us directly; and, accepting our united good wishes, believe me ever

Your affectionate HARRIOT.

LETTER XI. FROM LUCY TO MRS. AUDLEY.

YOU are entitled, my dear Harriot, to my most cordial and speedy thanks, for your very kind and interesting, but grievous, account of your lovely guest, and the provoking ungovernable, precipitate Seymour: I know not whither he has most excited my anger or my pity, by this frantic measure, which, his desponding friend Edmund says, will prove his utter destruction. I never saw my brother so deeply vexed and mortified by any mischance relating to himself as he is by this rash and, luckless proceeding of Seymour. As to myself, you know I seldom catch his despondency on any occasion; and I derive a ray of hope, which I am truly happy to communicate to you, from one expression in a brief and hasty billet that Edmund has just received. We suppose it was written just after the fatal conference, and perhaps before he attended Cornelia to your door. However that may be, the expression that inclines me not to despair, is this: after describing the turbulent wretchedness of his mind, he says, "It seems as if I could bear the sound of no human voice but that of Giuliana—I shall steal away to Italy." Now my good Harriot, do you not join with me in hoping that our divine enthusiast of Genoa may repay the important service she received from this generous misguided mortal; and, after soothing the fiery tumult in his affections, restore him to us the reasonable religious being that we have so vainly endeavoured to make him; and, as the fond Cornelia once exclaimed to you, ‘Were he but Christian, what could man be more!’

His many noble and endearing virtues have, I confess, made such an impression on me, that I cannot bring myself to think very ill of him or his destiny. I cannot allow my imagination to believe, that a man whose good deeds have been so manifold and great, I might even say so Christian, will be utterly abandoned by Providence. No, my dear, I am persuaded, that, instead of being plunged, as Edmund •ears, in a long course of licentiousness and distraction, he will be awakened by his and our good angel Giuliana to a happy sense of all his errors; and return at last to repay us for all the painful inquietude which his blind impetuosity and unsettled faith have occasioned to us. Pray support the dear drooping Cornelia by this idea. Pray tell her also, that I am ready to worship her religious magnanimity; and that I speak with a prophetic confidence, when I say, that I shall see it rewarded. Heaven bless her! and all your household! I close in extreme haste, that I may answer your anxious enquiry by the returning post.

Ever your affectionate and sanguine LUCY.

P.S. Pray let me hear again very speedily of the dear sufferer's health. Her soul, I perceive, is fully equal to the severest of trials. But, alas! what a feeble second has that pure and resolute soul in her very delicate and now enervated frame!

LETTER XII. FROM MRS. AUDLEY TO LUCY.

WE revive a little, my good girl; your very kind and animating suggestion has done us more essential good than all our medical restoratives. Since I wrote to you I have passed some days in the most bitter anxiety. The sensible and sanguine Brensil himself, who is, you know, my oracle in medicine, was so affected and alarmed, that he was little able to furnish me with that hope and courage which I endeavoured to catch from him, and which, on most occasions, he is much inclined and well qualified to inspire. He says he never in his life beheld a human frame reduced to such extreme debility by the mere agitations of heart and mind. As he is, you know, perfectly worthy of confidence, I thought it best to entrust him with the whole private history; and I was pleased with the extreme sensibility which he discovered on hearing what his two friends had endured. The tenderness of Cornelia, and the gallantry of Seymour, had interested him so much in their affection, that he was mortified as much as we are by the unfortunate turn it has taken. Though he professes to admire the devout fortitude of our friend, I can perceive that he would gladly have given a dose of opium to her Piety, and of hartshorn to her Love, to secure a prosperous issue to the precipitate enterprize of the engaging Seymour. Who, as Brensil says, can know him, and not wish his prosperity? It is, I am convinced, an affectionate dread of proving the bane of his prosperity that gives the keenest anguish to the heart of Cornelia. Fond as she is of the fascinating creature, she could (I am now persuaded) easily relinquish his society, enchanting as it is, and feel herself recompenced by the delight and pride she takes in devoting herself to her children, if she were not haunted by the terror that her rejection of Seymour will plunge that impetuous mortal into the most ruinous excesses of vice and folly. This terror had gained such dominion over her thoughts, that she could hardly utter any other idea in the two or three first days after the cruel conference. Indeed we allowed her to speak but little; and she was, and still remains, much more inclined to silence than to conversation. At first it seemed as if all her bodily faculties were exhausted and destroyed by the conflict she had endured. She had utterly lost her appetite, and even her palate; at times a sort of cold insensibility, like petrefaction, appeared to be creeping over her frame. This would be succeeded by such a tremulous irritation of the nerves, and such a tendency to tears, that a single word addressed to her would sometimes make her weep. Brensil was grievously afraid that she was sinking into a rapid atrophy, which would hurry her to the grave. He has watched this most interesting of patients with a paternal anxiety. He has got various prescriptions for her from the physician, whose insight into human maladies and affections is much deeper, he says, than that of all his fraternity. But they both agree that, as the heart of our tender friend is the main seat of her disorder, nothing will so effectually contribute to her restoration as the balm of sympathy and friendship assiduously applied to this lacerated heart. Their opinion has been visibly confirmed by the favourable impression which your kind letter, my dear Lucy, produced upon her spirits. When I read to her what you say of Giuliana, a sudden flush arose on her pale cheek, and her sunk eyes sparkled with momentary joy, "Ah, my dear Harriot, she said, kind as you are, Lucy understands me better than you do. My hapless love is much more disinterested than you imagine. Believe me, I would most gladly renounce all expectations, and every wish of seeing Seymour again in this world, if some kind angel would give me an assurance of meeting him in Heaven. But, to think that I may be instrumental to the final perdition of a being so generous and so beloved!—'tis that, she cried, bursting into an agony of tears—'tis that which has distracted me!" But recovering herself with an astonishing quickness and spirit, "No, she continued, I will no longer suffer this horrid apprehension to persecute my poor brain. I will cling to Lucy's most comfortable idea—He is—he is too good to be abandoned by Providence!"

You may judge, my dear, from your own heart, how zealously the penitent Caroline and I labour together to make the most of your consolatory suggestion, and to confirm our angelic patient in this train of thought. I must do Caroline the justice to say that, however blameable she might be in her secret and unfortunate, but tempting, conspiracy, she has made every compensation that a tender and contrite heart could make by the most indefatigable and affectionate attention to our dear invalid. The state of Cornelia is such as requires the most delicate management; and without the assistance of Caroline I should find myself very unequal to it: this good creature, full of gratitude and every quick feeling, has the rare talent of knowing how to be very assiduous about the sick, without molesting or fatiguing them.

One of the most difficult points we have had to regulate has been the degree of indulgence we should shew to our dear patient concerning her children; she has been frequently distracted between her desire to have the sweet boys with her, and her want of strength to support their society. To make the matter more distressing, we have not been able to keep the little lively rogue William from asking his mother perpetual questions concerning his favorite Mr. Seymour; such as, "Why he went away from us? when he will come back? whom he is gone to see!" and a thousand other continually suggested by infantine curiosity and affection.

There have been days when such little question as these were like so many daggers; but at length, I thank Heaven, the palpitating heart of our dear, harrassed friend is grown more composed. To-day I think I see something of her former self both in her countenance and conversation. She has been so deplorably low, that I have rather rejoiced that my husband was abroad, as she could not have supported even his society; but I begin now to wish ardently for his return, because I think her so materially revived that his gentle and soothing manners will, I am persuaded, in her present state, contribute to her recovery. We do not, however, expect him this week; and I hope, before that time the sweet, trembling convalescent will receive the most powerful of cordials in a good account of the wanderer for whose safety and welfare she is so painfully anxious.

As he departed in such indignation, I question if he will have the grace, which he certainly ought to have, to address a letter of apology to Cornelia; but, at all events, Edmund will hear of his movements; and I need not request you to dispatch the first tidings you receive as rapidly as you can to

Your affectionate HARRIOT.

P. S. My dear patient charges me to send her love; and to add her protection, that she is sure she is infinitely better than I have represented her, whatever my representation may be. My only way of taking vengeance for this oblique stroke at my veracity, shall be, to read this postscript aloud, and this only, after adding to it, that I sincerely hope and expect to see my patient quite herself again in another week or two. Farewell.

LETTER XIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

AT length I am got to Dover, but with a mind more tumultuous than the sea I am going to cross. It was not thus with me, my dear Edmund, when I was last at this port with our lovely enthusiast, the truly impassioned Giuliana; that heavenly woman could never have uttered such an insult to the man she loved as I have heard, since I dispatched my short and hasty billet to you, from the lips of her whom I was once fool enough to think superior in tenderness to Giuliana herself.

When the inflexible bigot ordered her chaise to depart from Danvers's, late at night as it was, indignation and resentment seemed to deprive me of motion. I could not put her into the carriage which was to convey her with such unseasonable barbarity from him who had hoped to pass a bridal night in her arms. She bade me adieu with a cold stately pride. It robbed me of utterance, and almost of my senses. I continued sitting in the room she quitted, with a brain ready to split with rage and disappointment. My good, grateful Caroline came to give me a tenderer farewell. Her softness was my preservation. I wept upon her bosom. I began to think less harshly of Cornelia, because this most faithful of creatures still laboured to convince me of her love. I dismissed this kind and sypathetic confidante with the benediction of my heart, whose fiery anguish she had softened and relieved. As soon as they drove away from Danvers's, I ordered my horse that I might attend them unsuspected; and, before I mounted to gallop after the chaise, I scrawled my short and dismal letter to you. I soon overtook the women; it was my intention merely to see them •afe home, without letting them know that I did so; but as I approached your brother's, my heart was more and more softened, by a recollection of many little proofs which Cornelia had there exhibited of her fondness towards me, and I could not resist the temptation of helping her to alight from the carriage. She started at the fight of me, and asked me, with an insulting tone that is still re-echoed round my heart, "If I was come to persecute her there?" I hope the •pirit of my instantaneous reply has convinced her of the injury she did me by that base and barbarous expression. If it has not, my present conduct shall soon prove to her that an injurious word was never more misapplied. If I have any knowledge of my own heart and mind, never was a human being less inclined than myself either to inflict or to endure persecution in any shape. My soul abhors every shadow of tyranny; my evil destiny seems determined that I shall only prove a source of pain to those whose permanent happiness I had the most ardent wish to promote. But, in removing far from them, I may diminish perhaps this unfortunate influence on their comfort. One satisfaction I shall at least possess, that I can no longer be upbraided with a design of persecuting her whose tranquillity, ungrateful as she is, I would willingly die to secure. To relinquish life, indeed, would be no sacrifice to me at present. I never wished to live, but for the sake of conferring happiness on the objects of my affection; but as my perverse stars seem to put this out of my power, they may terminate my existence whenever they please. I can die; as I have lived, without fear; because assuredly I never meant to do any great deliberate evil; and I have vainly hoped to accomplish much good, in which I have been thwarted, I know not why, by that mysterious power to whom, for the want of a better name, we give the title of Destiny or Chance. The good Caroline expressed to me a terror for which I must love her still more than I did, though it shews more the trembling sensibility of her own heart, than her knowledge of my character: she was terrified left I should destroy myself in the agony of mortified affection; but, as you know, my dear friend, I have ever considered suicide, when it does not proceed from frenzy, as the act of a coward and a fool. It is cowardice to run into the cellar because the house you inhabit happens to be shaken by thunder. It is folly not to reflect that, if chance has unexpectedly made you wretched, the same chance may as suddenly reverse her operation.

You see I can play the resolute philosopher even in my fits of bitterest vexation. I confess, however, that my mind is dismally out of tune; but time, and a change of scene, with a little bodily repose, to which I have been too great a stranger of late, may do much to tranquillize my spirits. I have taken a very long journey since I wrote; for I have been at my own house, and arranged all matters with my steward for a very long absence. Heaven only knows when I may return to this island, perhaps never; but wherever I may exist, there, my dear Edmund, you will certainly have a faithful, though perhaps a very unhappy friend, in

Your affectionate SEYMOUR.

P. S. I thought of writing a few lines to my good Caroline: but, on reflection, I shall be silent, lest I should say too little or too much; and lest I should involve the excellent creature in new difficulties, and expose her to unpleasant suspicions from her inflexible patroness. Be so good, however, as to inform this kind, anxious, humble friend of mine, that I am alive, and tolerably well. As to Cornelia, I shall not persecute her with any message whatever.

I promised you a full account of our very long and ill-concluded conference, and I have begun at times to throw some parts of it upon paper; but the impression of the agonizing scene has recurred so strongly upon my heart, in these attempts to describe it minutely, that I have hitherto been able to make but little regular progress in my narrative. I have written however many detached parts of it, as they struck my memory. It shall be my evening's employment, as I travel, to methodize these; and I will send you, in my first pacquet from the continent, a fair transcript of the whole. I must now bid you hastily adieu; for my baggage is already on board, the wind is fair, and I am summoned.—My thoughts are already sailed to Genoa. I cannot explain nor express to you the passionate eagerness that I feel to hear again the touching voice of Giuliana. Farewell.

LETTER XIV. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

THE restless wanderer, for whom, my dear Edmund, you will be too solititous, is safe at Lyons. I was eager to reach this city for various reasons; and chose, in the vain hope of amusement, to take a new way of approaching it. At Calais I procured a French coasting vessel and landing at Rochelle, crossed the country by the shortest road to Lyons. The sea pleases my fancy at present much more than land. I had a curiosity to see this part of the French coast; and was somewhat amused in reflecting on the different scenes and characters that it brought to my memory. At the sight of La Hogue I felt a momentary triumph, while imagination presented to my view the splended ships of Tourville destroyed by the matchless bravery of our English sailers. As we sailed by Belleisle, I could not help giving a sigh; but it was a sigh of envy, rather than compassion, to the shade of the accomplished Sir William Williams, repeating with peculiar satisfaction, as my eyes were fixed on the little island,

Here foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,

Young Williams fought for England's fair renown:

His mind each Muse, each Grace adorn's his frame;

Nor Envy dar'd to view him with a frown.

You remember Gray's spirited epitaph on this gallant young soldier.

What a capital advantage it is to have found an honourable place in the pages of an unperishing poet! I might have sailed twenty times by Belleisle without honouring the memory of Sir William Williams, had he not been immortalized by this epitaph.

In passing the isle of Rhee, all the vanity and vices of Buckingham presented themselves to my thoughts; but when I landed at Rochelle, I forgot my own countrymen, in recollecting the brave Hugonots, and the heard extremities they suffered here in defending themselves against a barbarous persecution. I think there is something peculiarly soothing to the spirits in the gentle motion of a vessel, and the mixture of sea and land prospect as you sail along an extensive coast. I found this part of my expedition much the most medicinal to my mind. When I began to be jolted in a chaise again, all my splenetic sensations returned with new force. The scenes as I passed, though they had the advantage of novelty, afforded me no amusement. The ragged gaiety of the French peasants, instead of tempting me to smile, filled me with a mixed emotion of pity and contempt. "Poor merry fools, said I, ye have not sense enough to perceive your own glaring misfortunes!"

Since my arrival at Lyons, my harsh and untuned spirit has been a little softened and disciplined by an affecting circumstance among the good people who were particularly kind to me and the poor Giuliana during my alarming illness in this city: there was a widow lady, a native of Switzerland, advanced in life, of an admirable understanding, and most engaging manners. Her only child, a very handsome and accomplished young fellow, had just got a commission in the Swiss service; the first news I heard at my hotel was the luckless fate of this fine lad, who lost his life about three weeks ago, in a sudden fray concerning a beautiful girl of family and fortune, whose hand he had great hopes of obtaining. I felt myself bound in gratitude to pay a visit of consolation to his afflicted mother as soon as I heard of her calamity. Our unexpected meeting has, I trust, been of great service to us both. In catching the tenderness of her sorrow, I have certainly corrected in some degree, the asperity of my own mind; and if I have not reconciled her to her loss by argument, I have at least soothed her anguish by sympathy. When she related to me, with the frankness of true affliction, all her very bitter maternal sensations, I could not help exclaiming, "Would to Heaven, my dear Madam, that I could restore your son to you, by supplying his place in the grave! Such an exchange would be a blessing to us all, for my life has lately been made as wretched as his had the prospect of being happy." I said this to ease the fullness of my own heart, and to call off the mind of this deeply-feeling mother from her own poignant distress. The latter effect it produced completely: for, struck by the pathetic energy with which I had uttered this wish, she caught hold of my hand, and conjured me to tell her what could have poisoned the enjoyments of a person who, in recovering health, she said, seemed to have recovered every thing that could be wanting to ensure his felicity.

In the hope of diverting her sorrow, I gave her my whole history. She listened to it with great attention, and made many sensible and friendly remarks as I proceeded. When I had finished, she expressed, with that touching eloquence which keen feelings generally inspire, her admiration and her pity for Cornelia. "Good Heaven! she exclaimed, to lose such a lover, and to lose him from such a motive, must be still more excruciating than the death of a darling child; for if the beloved object is not so dear to her, which I think in nature it cannot be, yet in her case there is the dread of losing it through all eternity. Have you, my dear Sir, have you ever cooly reflected on the horrors which this idea must impress on the heart of a tender, impassioned woman? Poor, poor Cornelia! she is more miserable than I am. My son was, I bless GOD, untainted by the wretched infidelity so common in the world; and I trust a few years will restore us to each other in a better life. This blessed trust is my support; but what, my misguided friend, what is there to support your divine, yet desolate Cornelia? What would the prospect of Heaven itself be to me, if I had no assurance of meeting there the idols of my heart! yet, in one point of view, this lady for whom you have made me weep, though I thought my tears all exhausted or engrossed by my own selfish sorrow, she, I say has still one advantage over me: the GOD that she and I worship has ceased to open the grave; he recalls no second Lazarus from the tomb; buy such a miracle as might change her affliction into joy is still frequently visible on the earth.

Perhaps a day never passes in which his divine mercy does not recall to himself the alienated heart of some unbeliever. O that I could reward you for the generous interest you have taken in my affliction, by being in any degree instrumental to such a blessed change in my young and most unfortunately misguided friend! but, alas, she added with a deep sigh, I have seen in a brother of my own the intractable and obdurate pride which an early taint of Infidelity inspires; and since the arguments and the tears of your angelic Cornelia were unable to convert you, I should be vain indeed if I thought any thing that an afflicted old woman could urge to you might produce that effect. No, my dear, rash friend, GOD only can produce it; and I most devoutly hope that he will." The good old lady uttered her pious hopes with such an air of maternal tenderness and anxiety for my welfare, that I was affected almost to tears, and felt, for the first time in my life, that I had lost a great deal in losing my mother before I was old enough to comprehend the endearing charm of maternal solicitude and affection. I soon turned the conversation to other subjects, that I might say nothing offensive to her friendly and devout spirit. We perfectly agreed in one serious sentiment, that those who die early seem to be the favourites of Heaven; and we parted, both pleased and pained by each other, and both, I think, the better for our interview. For my part, I felt my mind, as I have already told you, much softened; and I began to think of Cornelia with tenderness, admiration, and pity, instead of fierce disdain and indignant resentment. Indeed, this turn of mind had been already produced, in some degree, by my gradual recollection of all the tenderer passages in our long conference at Mr. Danvers's.—My soul was at first so full of indignation, for the bitter and unmerited insult with which she dismissed me at your brother's door, that, in trying to throw all our discourse on paper, I could for some time only recollect completely those parts of it in which her bigotry and her pride were most conspicuous; but, by degrees, every tenderer expression occurred with new force to my recollection; and in the inclosed paper you will find a very faithful narrative, as I promised you, of our important conference. I will only detain you from its perusal while I make one very honest confession, and it is this: I have perused the fair transcript I send you several times, and at every fresh •eading I have, without shrinking from my own tenets, felt myself more and more enamoured of my lovely, eloquent, and tender zealot. Nay, I profess to you, I would instantly turn back and make her my own for life, if I could do it by any means that would not expose me to my own contempt; but, in my opinion, no man deserves the possession of such exquisite beauty, who will condescend to purchase it by playing the hypocrite or the fool; yet, such is the folly or perverseness of women in countries where they are free, that Beauty seems to be seldom obtained upon any other terms. Men are forced to play the fool for it, in some shape or other. I begin to think the Turks are the only sensible fellows in the management of the weaker sex; so, if the divine Giuliana does not reconcile me to Europe, you may perhaps hear very soon that I am gone to pitch my tent with the Musulmen; yet, as Osman says in my Cornelia's favourite play, ‘Their laws, their lives, their loves, delight not me.’

Alas! like that generous and ill-fated Sultan, with the purest relish for the refined enjoyments of chaste affection, and with the prospect of having them within my grasp, I am destined perhaps to derive only wretchedness from her whom I fondly hoped to make the most happy, as I think her the most lovely of women; but, in spite of my wounded pride, I am still, I perceive, playing the foolish lover on this paper, and continuing to prate to you of my mistress, after protesting that I would not say a syllable more. Adieu, my dear friend. I charge you, and the kind Lucy not to be too anxious about me. Yet write to me, I entreat you, and do not fail to let me know how Cornelia supports my absence. If you direct to Genoa, your letters will certainly find

Your sincere and affectionate SEYMOUR.

Inclosed in the preceding Letter. An exact Account of my last conference with Cornelia.

YOU will recollect, my dear Edmund, that, in order to give my lovely invalid sufficient time and tranquillity to recruit her spirits at Mr. Danvers's, I refrained from appearing there till after she had dined. On my sudden entrance, a smile of surprize, and I believe of tender satisfaction, illuminated her countenance. She seemed pleased to find me so familiarly acquainted with a worthy old clergyman. But when the parson, who is a man of eager spirits, contrived, a little too rapidly perhaps, to leave us shut up alone in his little parlour, she seemed to be alarmed, and would have quitted the room. Upon my humble supplication that she would listen with patience to many important things I had to say to her, she sat down with a placid dignity that filled me with a mixed sensation of awe and delight. I began by expressing my tender fears concerning the very delicate state of her health and spirits. I said that I had sacrificed my highest joy in the daily sight of her at your brother's to an idea ill-founded perhaps, yet certainly generous, that her mind might be more tranquil if I quitted the party. Here, Edmund, the lovely creature blushed immoderately, from a fear, I believe, that I alluded to her jealousy of Louisa. I soon relieved her from that apprehension, by shewing her I meant only that embarrassment and inquietude which naturally arises between two people who have much to say to each other on the most delicate of subjects, and have not arrived at the period appointed for discussing it; I hoped that we might both be more tranquil in a short seperation; but, on my side, I had felt all the pains of that egregious mistake; the attempt to direct my thought to other objects had only convinced me that to pass even a day from her was torment; that, finding my life a burthen to me, in the cruel suspense I laboured under, I could no longer delay to solicit a promise of her hand; that my hopes were sounded, not only on that ardent and perfect love which triumphs over fear, but on the animating assurances which I had received from many of our common friends, who considered us as happily formed for each other, and who had confirmed me in the blissful persuasion that my passionate attachment to her had awaked a tender partiality in her bosom, which I regarded as the pride of my life, and the basis of my felicity. When I paused, and waited for her reply with an anxiety as intense as if her sentence were to fix my eternal doom; instead of casting her modest eyes towards the ground, she fixed them upon mine with a look that seemed to scrutinize my soul, and, without any prudish efforts to force from me her hand, which I had fondly clasped, she said, "You know, my dear Sir, that I have professed to treat you with the frank and ingenuous tenderness of a sister: my obligations to you are infinite; my esteem and admiration of your character not inferior to that of the many friends by whom you are so zealously beloved. How far those kind and well-meaning friends may have flattered and deluded you and themselves in what they have said on a prospect of our union, is a point that must depend entirely on yourself." "Then you will be mine, angelic creature!" cried I, in a transport of frantic joy; for I construed the last sentence into an immediate consent. "Pardon me, my too hasty friend, she continued with a serious air that half petrified me, I have said no such thing. Do not, I conjure you, wrest any of my words to a wrong meaning; and I promise you in return, that, difficult and painful as I find it is to speak to you at large on this subject, I will yet endeavour to speak to you with all that unequivocal openness of heart which constitutes in my opinion the essence of true friendship." I thanked her, kissed her hand, and continued to listen in silent adoration. "I will not pretend, said the dear ingenuous creature, to be angry with you for a step which has however surprized me. It is natural for you to wish a speedy termination to your suspense. Indeed it is highly desirable for us both that nothing like indecision should appear between us. I have told you with great sincerity, that it was my resolution to live unmarried for the sake of those dear children who have the most engaging claims to my love, and have been peculiarly recommended to my care. Men are not apt, and I confess they have no great reason, to give entire credit to such resolutions. At a time when my solicitude for your life made me extremely anxious to tranquillize your agitated spirits, I gave you a promise, which, believe me, I shall never wish to retract, 'that you shall never see me the wife of another.' I will confess to you, my dear friend, that this was not a promise of mere pity, but of genuine affection. Yes, Seymour, I am not ashamed to say that I love you, because my reason has taught me to set bounds to my regard; and I can tell you with firmness, though not without pain, that I must and will reject your very flattering offer, because there is an insurmountable obstacle to our union, which some late occurrences, and your own conscious mind will explain to you." With my veins thrilling with rapture at the sweet avowal of her love, I had caught her in my arms before she uttered the steady and stern declaration that she would not indulge it. "No, I exclaimed with mingled sensations of transport and of horror, there is no obstacle—there shall be none; we are united by mutual love, the most sacred of all bonds; and no powers in the world shall divide us." "There is a power more sacred than Love, replied the stedfast angel; and it grieves me, Seymour, to the soul, to perceive it is a power that you do not acknowledge: I need not tell you, she continued, that I mean Religion—a power which, I trust, will ever regulate my conduct, and which forbids me to be your wife."

I endeavoured, though I believe very aukwardly, to treat her apprehensions of my irreligion with levity; but the offended angel rebuked me, and said, "I beg, Sir, that our conversation may be serious; if you have no respect for Religion, you at least profess yourself most inviolably attached to Truth and Honour; and indeed I must do you the justice to say, that I never knew any human being on whose generous veracity I could more implicitly confide: wretched indeed should I feel myself at this moment, if I were destitute of that consolatory confidence; but my esteem for you, Seymour, is such, that, I am firmly persuaded, you have truth and magnanimity sufficient to support a weak woman against yourself. Instead of trying to delude me by any species of hypocrisy into a marriage, which must render us both wretched if our religious sentiments are so widely different as I have reason to apprehend, you, I am convinced, will have the generosity to avow that difference, if it exists, and to applaud my adherence to my duty in pronouncing it an insurmountable obstacle to our union." I thanked her for the noble confidence which she placed in my truth; and assured her most solemnly, that I would never attempt to deceive her in any article whatever; still repeating, that there is, and shall be, no obstacle to our union.

Here, Edmund, the kind soul in her turn caught a sudden ray of delusive hope, by half construing my words into a confession of faith; and, looking at me with an angelic sweetness of countenance, she said, "Can you, Seymour, can you truly affirm, that you revere and believe in that Religion which I have been taught to regard as the only sure foundation of happiness, both in this world and the next?" I endeavoured to evade the question, by vindicating the freedom of thought, and the native rights of the mind, to keep any ideas secret that related only to Heaven and itself. But, shrinking from me with a face of horror, she said, "I know, Seymour, you are too noble to utter a direct falshood; and do not, I intreat you, do not stoop to an evasion; there is no necessity for any thing so foreign to your nature. I have no right to pry farther into your sentiments; I have done with the subject for ever, and have only to pray, which I do most devoutly, that, however misguided your early life may be, you may not end your days in this terrible delusion." Here the tender enthusiast cast upon me a look so piteous, that, I believe, at that moment she beheld me in her fancy hurried away from her by fiends, and sinking into eternal perdition. The image, whatever it was, overwhelmed her; she burst into tears, hid her lovely troubled countenance for a few moments, and then endeavoured to quit the room. This, however, I could not suffer her to do. I detained her by passionate supplications. I conjured her not to be so flagrantly unjust as to condemn me unheard. I said that she had hastily and cruelly adopted the most terrific ideas of my impiety from the base suggestions of a proud, pharisaical priest, who injured me in her opinion, because, with a foolish good nature to indulge his passion for wine, I had plunged into occasional intemperance, which I had not a priestly stomach to bear. I was growing still more severe against my sanctified enemy Dr. Ayton, when Cornelia interrupted me with vehement displeasure, and said with an unusual keeness of manner, "You give me but too evident proofs of an unchristian spirit, in this asperity against a worthy Divine, who did full justice to your many virtues, and only said of your failings what his duty and his conscience obliged him to say."— I caught fire at this double insult; this reproof to me, and panegyric on the man whom I have reason to detest. I reminded my severe monitor of the many diabolical injuries which these over-righteous zealots have committed in every age, under the stale pretences of their duty and their conscience; and I protested that I had rather be the vilest outcast of the world, abandoned by earth and Heaven, than one of these sanctified dealers in slander, who poison the peace of their acquaintance by misrepresentations of men more honest than themselves, and at the same time pretend to be the only true servants to the GOD of Truth. "This Divine, said I, whom you commend, my dear Cornelia, so much beyond his desert, has impressed a barbarous panic on your tender imagination; he has made you consider me as a monster of impiety; I am apprised, you see the force of the brutal idea, and of the brutal expression, with which he laboured to divide us; but I will appeal to your own honest heart, against your terrified imagination, except in that fatal night when intoxication bereaved me of my senses, and when true charity would have cast a veil over my frantic words and actions, have I ever merited this outrageous appellation? Nay, I will go much farther: I will consent to rest all my hopes on the issue of this candid question; do you not think in your conscience, from the perfect knowledge you have of my general character, that if you bless me with your hand, my future life will be affectionate and virtuous?" "Ah, Seymour, said the dear creature with a soft emotion in which Love and Terror were blended, you have such insinuating address, that I must not listen to you on a point in which it would prove so very fatal to me to have my weak reason overwhelmed or deluded. I shall be ever ready to do the most grateful justice to your many noble and engaging qualities; but I must never forget that it is my duty, and my determination, to protest, in the most decisive manner, that nothing shall ever tempt me to become the wife of an infidel." I remonstrated against the injustice of giving this title to any man who paid a decent regard to the established Religion of his country. We skirmished for some time on this ground, till at last, finding her inflexible, and being sorely galled by some harsh things she said, I went to summon my reverend ally Mr. Danvers to my aid, and cherished a little hope that I might be able, with his assistance, to give a more happy turn to the contest.

"Since, Madam, said I, introducing my venerable old friend, since you are so cruelly deaf to every thing I say in my own favour, will you have the condescension to let this worthy man of GOD plead with you in my behalf? He does not reckon me a monster of impiety, though a wretch of his order has basely represented me as such to you," "I am sorry, Madam, said the good Danvers, that many of our dignified clergy are so apt to forget that charitable meekness and indulgence, which would become them much better than the contemptuous and cruel pride with which they often treat persons whom they suppose inferior to themselves in holiness, because their station is different. I was once nearly branded as an Atheist myself by an offended Bishop, because I had the spirit in my young days to resist an arbitrary abuse of his episcopal privileges. I triumphed in the vindication of my character; but have suffered not a little, perhaps, in my ecclesiastical fortune. The rank of Mr. Seymour happily exempts him from being injured in the manner that we poor little parsons may be injured; yet if any cruel misrepresentation has prejudiced him in your good opinion, I will venture to say, my dear Lady, that such prejudice is a greater misfortune to him than the loss of the richest benefice in the kingdom could be to me; and I shall think myself happy indeed if I am able to redress the wrong that has been done, and to reinstate him in your favour. For my part, I have ever regarded those men as the most meritorious servants of GOD, who do, in proportion to their abilities, the greatest number of good deeds; and I believe it would be difficult to find any man of Mr. Seymour's age, in the kingdom, who has been more distinguished by acts of charity and munificence. For my own part I am bound to bear witness to his virtues as long as I exist, for he has saved one unhappy child of mine from impending destruction, and given efficacy and happiness to the honest exertions of a second. We have all the highest reason to bless him; and it would grieve me to the soul to see a lady so lovely, and so truly beloved as you are, make such a suitor unhappy (perhaps for life) in consequence of any religious prejudice against him, unworthily instilled into your tender mind." It was in this manner, my dear Edmund, that my honest parson began to trumpet forth my praises, while I watched every change in the varying features of Cornelia. Though she listened i• Danvers with more serenity than she did to me, there was still an air of trouble on her countenance, and instead of encouraging my advocate by a smile of acquiescence in his panegyric, she seemed to be collecting all the powers of her mind to support a firm resistance against the combined petitioners by whom she saw herself so pertinaciously besieged. From the expression of her face while Danvers was speaking, I expected a very tart reply; but here I was agreeably disappointed. With that engaging and majestic mildness which is peculiar to herself, she said to my warm-hearted panegyrist, "We are not likely, my good Sir, to differ on the generosity of Mr Seymour, to which it seems we have both of us very uncommon obligations. For my own part, I am willing to consider it as a new proof of his generosity towards me, that he has chosen a man of your age and character to be the arbitrator of the painful but important difference between us. For you, my worthy old friend, you are involved in a situation somewhat similar to mine. I can feel for you, as I feel for myself; you are partly overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude and attachment to Mr. Seymour, and yet will find yourself, as I am, under a bitter necessity to pronounce against him. I am confident that a man so respectable as you are for a long life of piety, will never advise me to accept as my husband an enemy to the God whom you serve." "Heaven forbid! exclaimed the spirited Danvers. If I were weak and wicked enough to do so for any worldly temptation, believe me, Madam, I should be, like the penitent and pious Cranmer, distracted by the sense of my own infirmity, and eager to atone for it by martyrdom. But, on the other side, my dear lady, let us be cautious for Heaven's sake, and not treat any person too hastily as an enemy to God. Surely that very hard appellation cannot be justly applied to our generous friend. I speak not with any reference to his bounty towards myself. There have been, GOD knows, many enemies of GOD, who have lavished their treasure on his unworthy ministers, but surely these men have been widely different in their characters and their pursuits from Mr. Seymour." Here, Edmund, the gentle Cornelia appeared confused; seemed to think she had gone too far, and looked half-relenting. I would not interrupt my devout advocate, and only pressed her hand in silence. "I will tell you, my dear Madam, very frankly, continued Danvers, that Mr. Seymour has confessed to me that his mind was never disciplined and instructed, as it ought to have been, in the principles of our faith. Like most young men of his rank, he has hitherto thought too little or too lightly of our most important concerns; yet, instead of calling him an enemy to Religion, I should rather call him its friend, since he expresses a great desire to adopt more serious ideas, and since he pursues the most likely method to make him a good and religious man, by trying to connect himself with a lady so attached to her sacred duties, and by promising that his children shall have the advantage, which he has unhappily wanted himself, of an early religious education. Surely a man so benevolently disposed will be gradually enlightened by the perfect knowledge of that Divine Master whom he is desirous to know, and whom, when he ha• once truly known the beatitude of his service, he can never forsake. Your virtue, my dear Madam, will have the glory and the delight of accomplishing a work so angelic. Do not, therefore, I entreat you, by a precipitate rejection, exasperate the high but well-disposed spirit of an ardent young man, who loves you almost to distraction. Do not make him, what he has been too hastily called, an enemy to Religion." Cornelia was so deeply affected by this unexpected intreaty from the good old Divine, that her gentle bosom began to heave with emotions that I was willing to suppose the effect of returning tenderness. As she had hid her lovely impassioned countenance, I thought I had every reason to construe her silence into consent, and exclaimed with impetuous rapture, "My sweet angel yields to your heavenly persuasion! she will be mine! O thou worthy man of God, said I, clasping the hand of the delighted Danvers, thou shalt speedily complete thy blessed work. Here is an instrument that will authorize thee to unite us immediately for ever."

At these words, I drew the special licence from my pocket; but it seemed to turn into a warrant for my death, the moment I beheld the countenance with which the recovering Cornelia •ow gazed upon it. Her modest eyes lightened with indignation at the sight. She accu•ed me of presumptuous vanity—of indelicate precipitation. She expressed a horror o• seeing her name indecently and fradulently united to mine in the public papers. In short, she discovered a degree of anger and resentment that I thought her gentle spirit incapable of feeling upon any provocation; but as this was the mere upon of offended modesty, which I had not meant to offend, I thought myself almost sure of appeasing it. I assured her with great truth, that I had taken effectual means to guard against a consequence which had shocked her imagination so much; and that, so far from being really guilty of any intended offence to her delicacy, I was ready at that instant to pay it perhaps the highest compliment that was ever offered to that most amiable quality in woman, that if she would only permit the excellent Mr. Danvers to read the service to us, I would allow her, the moment it was ended, to banish me to any part of the globe, and for any period she pleased—I would never claim her as my wife till the very hour arrived that she should herself appoint. I said much on this topic, and with a romantic tenderness and sincerity that entirely banished her resentment. She appeared indeed so much softened, that my reverend ally, conceiving fresh hopes, began to renew his supplication; but, before he could finish a single sentence, a most deep and terrific sigh burst from her heart, and she exclaimed, "O Danvers, Danvers, is it possible that you can desert me! then Heaven is my only refuge; and Heaven inspire me for my defence!" Desert you, Madam! cried the high spirited though simple Danvers, much galled by her expression, Heaven is my witness, that I never yet deserted man, woman, or child, in any kind of distress; and you, my dear Madam, would be the last person in the world towards whom I could be tempted to act so dishonourable a part. I may be deluded by my own gratitude; but I protest to GOD that I speak unconscious of any improper or selfish bias. I have advised you to accept my friend, and have given that advice, not from a sordid motive, but upon a religious principle; because I deem it our general duty rather to allure a well-meaning, though unsettled mind, to the true Religion, by gentleness and indulgence, than to drive it into confirmed infidelity by any rigorous treatment." "Forgive me, my venerable friend, said Cornelia, extending her hand to Danvers with a sweetness of manner peculiar to herself, forgive me, I entreat you; and be assured that I have the most perfect confidence in your integrity. The mild and Christian principle which you have professed does you honour as a minister to the GOD of mercy; but a little reflection will convince you, my good friend, that it cannot be applicable to my cruel situation. When you hear the arguments and the feelings which I have to oppose to your advice, and which render me inflexible in the resolution I have taken, you, I am sure, will never wish me to give my hand to any person who considers that Gospel, by which we endeavour to regulate our lives, as a mass of absurdity and imposture." "Barbarous, barbarous Cornelia! cried I, with a brain that seemed on fire with indignation, is it by cruelty alone that you can prove yourself a Christian? But let me shew you, Madam, the baseness, the inhumanity, of this treatment. I will suppose for a moment that such an idea as you impute to me exists in my mind. Is it candid, is it charitable, is it just, that you should violently tear open the recesses of my soul, force from thence any secret I would hide, and make it the ostensible ground of your argument against me? Let me shew you the unutterable barbarity of such proceeding, by turning it back upon yourself. Let me suppose for an instant that you had a foible hid in your heart, which you would rather die than discover—let me suppose (forgive a vain supposition introduced only for argument)—let me suppose that you loved me with an affection so exquisitely jealous that you could not see me throw an idle sportive arm around a young damsel without being ready to faint at the sight; would it be fair in me to argue, as you have argued, from the supposed foible of my antagonist? could I have a right to say, Madam, I have searched into your heart and soul, and you ought to marry me because you will die with jealousy if you refuse? Yet, if I argued thus, I should argue far less ungenerously than my Cornelia has now argued against me."—Here, Edmund, I must confess to you that my own heart began to revolt against my tongue; and though I could not recede, I felt that resentment had hurried me too far, when I saw the deep and burning blush that seemed to drown all the features of Cornelia, when I hazarded my supposition, too cruelly founded on truth. As soon as her eloquent blood betrayed her emotion, she hid her face from us. I paused for her reply, half ashamed of what I had said, and half terrified at her expected reproach. But here the gentle creature triumphed over me by language a thousand times more powerful than the most vehement invective.

Removing her handkerchief from her lovely and half recovered countenance, she turned to the good astonished old Divine, and said to him, with an inconceivable tenderness of voice, "Mr. Danvers, I consider you as a very kind and very indulgent father; I shall not therefore scruple to confess in your presence all the weakness of a heart that is weak in the extreme; yet is still, I trust, supported by Heaven. Mr. Seymour, I find, is perfectly apprised that my affect on for him has run into great extravagance and folly. I am not angry with those who have betrayed to him my infirmities, because I know they have been influenced by the purest and most benevolent intentions, and because I have no vain wish to appear in Mr. Seymour's eyes superior to what I am, a very weak and fond woman. O Seymour, you accuse me of cruelty and pride: I hope I never had those qualities; but, if I had, I am now humbled in the dust: this venerable, this indulgent judge of human frailties will pity and forgive me, while I own to you, to soften your exasperated spirit, that you are as dear to me as my own soul Both he and Heaven, I trust, will applaud me for adding, that you are not, and I am convinced you never can be, so dear to me as the more precious souls of my children!" This repeated and most ingenuous avowal of her love melted me into tears. I threw myself at her feet, and protested with great truth, that if her children had been my own I could not idolize them more than I do. I repeated all I had ever promised concerning their religious education. The good Danvers was greatly affected; and while he applauded Cornelia's maternal piety, expressed a hope that he should yet live to see us forming the happiest family in the world.—"Never, Sir, said the sighing, yet more and more resolute Cornelia. There is a noble, romantic, yet dangerous, pride of spirit in Mr. Seymour, which renders him very unwilling to relinquish any opinions he has adopted; and he has been most unhappily led to think the Gospel an imposture. Good Heaven, how grievous it is, that a mind so generous, so tender, so apparently formed by nature to exult in the blessings of Christianity, should consider the Prophets and Apostles of that Religion as a set of despicable deceivers.

Whence, but from Heaven, could men unskill'd in arts,

In several ages born, in several parts,

Weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why,

Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie

••a•k•d; their pains ungrateful, their advice

Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price?

While the beautiful enthusiast repeated these spirited verses of Dryden, there was an angelic lustre in her countenance, superior to every thing that I ever beheld. Danvers and I stood almost entranced with admiration.—"Strange and terrible, continued the lovely preacher, as Infidelity appears to a tender and devout spirit, we see, alas! that it is dreadfully prevalent; and particularly among those persons of rank and fortune who are most likely to be the associates of Mr. Seymour: and hence there can be little probability of an early change in his mind. Indeed I have read, in the works of one who had deeply studied all human failings, and who judged of them with true Christian tenderness, that impiety is of all mortal infirmities the most difficult of cure; because the pride of incredulity, different from many dangerous passions, which naturally decline in the latter stages of life, springs afresh in that season, and is fortified by age[*]. You my dear unhappy Seymour, are probably destined to a long life; and it shall be my fervent prayer that you may prove an happy exception to this rule; but without any expectation that we can be ever united. I am convinced that we never can. And, believe me, in my firm rejection of your offers, however cruel you may call it, I am influenced by motives of kindness towards you, as well as by a sense of my own duty. Were I your wife at this moment, I should see you supremely wretched." Here I interrupted her with vehement protestations of her mistake. But she replied with a calm dignity, "Hear me patiently, I entreat you, Seymour, because, since I have ingenuously laid open all the fond weakness of my heart to you, and to our venerable friend, I can now talk to you with an ease and confidence that I never could attain before; and I am persuaded I shall make you though not a convert to Religion (would to Heaven I could!) yet a convert to the propriety and to the kindness of my conduct. I must repeat and maintain what I have said: you must be wretched were I your wise; because you must see me haunted by terrors that you could neither cure nor condemn. I should not only feel that painful solicitude for your eternal felicity which I must ever feel, however divided from you; but I should be distracted by an incessant dread that my dear boys, who, as they grew up, must naturally look to you as

The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,

Th' observ'd of all observers;

would imperceptibly catch from you that impiety which you would be too generous to teach them. They would laugh at their poor credulous devout mother; and, tainted by the infectious though unavowed spirit of the alluring infidel they would plunge—O GOD! my whole heart is convulsed with anguish at the bare idea of this universal misery. No, Seymour, whatever agonies I may endure in tearing myself from you, nothing shall ever tempt me to incur the hazard of proving the bane, the perdition, of my children! You, my good Danvers, you will no more advise me to a marriage that offers such a prospect to the keen preceptions of a mother." "No, my dear Madam, cried the deeply affected old man; I would sooner forfeit all the blessings • owe to the bounty of Mr. Seymour, and all the little property I possess in the world, than urge you to act in opposition to the dictates of your own angelic spirit, and of that Heaven by whom you seem to be inspired."— The honest old man was quite overwhelmed by this scene; and having kissed the hand of Cornelia, and bathed it with his tears, he quitted the room, to tranquillize or to conceal the visible disorder of his nerves. For my own part, I was not so much softened by her maternal tenderness, nor even by the frank confession of her love to me, as I was galled, mortified, and exasperated, by her saintly pride, and determinate rejection of my hand. As Danvers was going out of the room, she had desired him to order her chaise; and though the old man, in a broken voice, had begged her to stay the night, she peremptorily refused, and pressed for the carriage immediately. This contributed to increase my spleen, my resentment, my depression. I sat confounded and stupified with a thousand wretched sensations. The poor Caroline came in to us, trembling in her turn at the proud saint's displeasure. But to Caroline she was all goodness—pardoned her for her share in the conspiracy, and renewed her commands for the carriage. This obstinate resolution to depart provoked me to upbraid her for her pride: but, by an affectionate rebuke, she reduced me to kneel, and ask her forgiveness. She forgave me; but was resolute to go. This rendered me half frantic again; and at last, astonished, and almost petrified at her inflexibility, I sat silent and motionless, while she bade me farewell, and hastened to her chaise.

All the subsequent occurrences, my dear Edmund, I have related to you already. I shall therefore close this long narrative by observing, that the whole adventure appears to me rather as a wild and troubled dream than as a series of incidents that have really passed. What influence they may have on my future life, Heaven only knows. At present I pity Cornelia, and pity myself. Our strong mutual affection has made us both completely uncomfortable; nor can I see any clear prospect that we shall ever conduce to the happiness of each other.

Tantum Religio potuit suadere malorum.

Such devilish acts Religion could persuade.

These, I think, are the words of poor Creech, in translating this celebrated line: but if they are so, he translated like a booby; and his language is too gross to be applied, even by offended passion, to my dear and delicate, though inflexible, Cornelia.

Notes

*

Note by the Editor.

Cornelia seems to have alluded here to the following passage in the eloquent Sermons of Massillon:
Il en est pe• qui rev•e•nent des routes éga•ées où l'impieté les conduit. L'on ne revient gueres de la dépravation impie de la rai•on. Les annees murissent les passions, mais l'orgueil de l'incredulité renait et se fortifie avec les annees. Pius les anrées deviennent serieuses, plus elles donnent du cré•it, et une sorte de bon air á la philosophie de l'imp•é•e; et la vieillelle est le tems où l'impie s'en fait plus d'honneur, et où elle lui attire aussi plus d•'cloges de la part de ses imitateu••.
Parap•rase de Pseaume XIII.

↵

LETTER XV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

I AM once more, my dear Edmund, in Genoa, after passing a road whose mountainous horrors surpassed every thing that I was led to expect from report; and I had chosen it in one of my darkest humours, because such a road ‘Suited the gloomy habit of my soul.’

My perverse stars seem to be determined that I shall no more enjoy any pleasures of a more chearful and tender sort. After passing the dreary and hideous mountains between Antibes and this city, which compleatly satiated my appetite for savage scenery, my mind began to fix itself, with an eager, fond, and pleasant expectation, on the smiling welcome of the sweet Giuliana, by which I thought myself secure of being speedily refreshed, consoled, and re-animated. Judge, Edmund, of my bitter blank vexation, when, instead of the friendly faces of the good Seignor Pinelli and his lovely daughter, I •ound only a poor old woman, who told me, in words that sounded more dismal to my ear than ever human voice did before, that the family were all gone to visit a relation in the neighbourhood of Rome; that they talked of extending their excursion to Venice; and perhaps they might travel still farther before they returned. I feel disposed to pursue them round the world; for I have lost all relish for common society; my feelings and affections seem to be half-palsied; and I have, I think, no desire alive, except a passionate, yet, believe me, not an amorous desire, to see and converse with Giuliana.

As to my solicitude concerning the sanctified Cornelia, it grows less and less, in proportion as I suffer more and more from her saintly pride. A woman who can so triumphantly command her affections will never suffer much from the absence of any man, however dear to her he in his hours of vanity may suppose himself. Few women, indeed, have sufficient energy of heart to feel real Love, according to my ideas of that sublime passion; for I think of it as Osman does in Cornelia's favourite tragedy; and I might say to her, with a little variation, in the words of the Sultan, ‘I can believe you hate, since you have power to love with moderation.’

But love I shall endeavour to banish from my thoughts; and think only of my sweet friend Giuliana. As this city appears to me a mere desert since she is not here, I am hastening •o •uit it, and hope to surprize the dear travellers at Frascati, where I understand they are residing at present. You will forgive my being so lacome, as I am preparing to fly with eagerness to a spot which is, hallowed in my imagination by the retirement of Tully and the birth of Metastasio; a spot which, in my days of tranquillity, I have eagerly visited on that account; but which I am now impatient to reacn from motives yet stronger, because I hope to meet there, not the spirits of Tully or of Metastasio, but friends, in whose conversation I may find the dignity of the philosopher, and the sweetness of the poet.

My good-humour is beginning to revive in this expectation; and, in bidding you adieu, I must add, because I know it will give you pleasure, that my heart feels, at this moment, less heavy than it has done at any time since I reached the Continent. But, however loaded or lightened that heart may be in the course of my rambling, be assured it will ever be full of the kindest good wishes to you and your sister.

Direct to me at Rome; and believe me, in all places,

Your most affectionate SEYMOUR.

LETTER XVI. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

MY DEAR EDMUND,

THE joy that I felt in returning to my own comfortable house, from the desolate mansion of poor Verney, has been grievously damped, by the clouds of trouble in which I found my good Harriot involved: her generous anxiety for my quiet had kept me, till I returned, a perfect stranger to all the late vexatious occurrences. I am inexpressibly grieved to find that my prophetic fears of your precipitate, yet still interesting friend, have been so painfully realized. I am still more anxious, if possible, than ever, to save him from himself, the worst of all enemies; and indeed the only enemy, as I think you once told him, that he has to fear. Our incomparable Cornelia has behaved, I understand, like an •n•el, in a trial infinitely too severe for a frame to delicate. Heaven grant that we may not have to say of this trial, ‘The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died!’

I own to you, that her countenance alarms me for her life, though her attentive and quick-sighted friend Harriot assures me that her appearance is greatly mended within the last fortnight, and is confident in the hope of her perfect recovery. In some private conversation which I have had with the lovely sufferer, she has affected me with more compassion, I think, than I ever felt for a human creature before. Though she is unshaken in her opinion as to the religious rectitude of her conduct, and though she was highly gratified by the hearty and affectionate applause that I bestowed on her maternal virtue; yet an incessant dread that her rejection of Seymour may hurry this impetuous young man into those vices from which he was uncommonly free, preys upon her heart. She expressed her apprehensions to me in language so eloquent and pathetic that she made me feel them in all their force, while I laboured with little success to inspire her with more chearful expectations. Indeed her fears are too well grounded: there is nothing, I think, more to be dreaded than the fiery spirit of a young man who has failed in any plan of virtuous happiness. A revolt to the powers of vice, in these cases, is frequent, I believe, in every rank of life; for most mortals, who mean honestly, think they have such a right to be happy, that when they find their good moral projects produce not this effect, they hastily conclude that the world is governed by chance, and are content to follow a guide and ruler who, thou•h allowed to be blind, is suppo•ed to be irresistible.

But not to mor•lize too long, my dear Edmund, let me hasten to impart to you an idea which I think worth pursuing in the present state of affairs, it strikes me, that you might afford great relief to the tenderly anxious spirits of Cornelia, that you might recover and confirm your own altered health, and finally, that you might render most essential service to your very engaging, but wild rambling friend, by taking a sudden trip to the continent. What delight would it give to your grateful ward Giuliana to be surprised, in Genoa, by an unexpected visit from her English guardian! and from how many rocks may you have a chance of saving your rapid and much-endangered friend, who is driven forth on a stormy sea, not only without the important ballast of Religion, but with a very scanty freight of prudence and discretion! Pray think of this hint speedily and seriously; you can easily send Lucy to us, who is, you know, always welcome, and we flatter ourselves very willing, to reside under our roof. If your finances are not perfectly suited to foreign travel, there is a sum at my banker's sufficient to conduct you round Europe, and it shall be devoted to answer your drafts in the excursion I recommend to you. I need not add, that no mode of employing this money can afford me so much pleasure; and that, by allowing me to minister to your convenience, you will in truth confer a most agreeable obligation upon

Your affectionate brother.

Harriot, with her love to you and Lucy, very ardently joins in my request; and even Cornelia has the frankness to say, it would give her infinite satisfaction to know that the impetuous Seymour had with him a friend and counsellor so calm and considerate as you are.

LETTER XVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

GONE from Frascati too! How malignant are my stars to all my expectations! Yet my stars do not seem, my dear Edmund, at present to be, as Shakespeare says, ‘the most maidenly stars in the firmament;’ for they have twinkled upon me so wantonly; they have led and lighted me in such an adventure! But hush —stand with your finger on your lips, like the God of secrecy and silence, and you shall hear of such a nightly exploit as might have converted the most rigid worshiper of Diana into a votary to Venus.

I thought all my warm blood had been turned into gall or phlegm; but Nature chose to vindicate her rights; and accident convinced me of my mistake.

On my arrival here, I felt not a little chagrined in finding only the good old aunt of Giuliana, to whose house I had been directed.— My friends of Genoa are again on the wing; but they are expected here in about three weeks; and this very polite old lady pressed me most cordially, when she heard my name, to await under her hospitable roof the return of her relations. This I declined as civilly as I could, promising to be with her again at the time she mentioned; and, chusing to pass the interim at liberty, to amuse myself in excursions to Rome, and in any fanciful pursuits that the interesting scene around me could suggest. But chance soon threw in my way a magnet more attractive than the politeness of my old lady. In returning to my inn from her house, which stands at a little distance from this pleasant town, I passed another single house, with a small but charming garden, on the slope of this chearful hill. At the door of this house stood a splendid carriage, and just as I reached it an elderly man of a dignified appearance leaped into it, with eyes that sparkled with fury, and was driven rapidly towards Rome. This circumstance led me to cast a curious eye round the house he had just left; and at an upper window, which looked obliquely upon me, because it was within the garden-wall, I beheld the most fascinating of all sights, a young and beautiful female in tears. Our eyes met, and seemed to understand each other. As there happened to be nobody near me, I stood gazing on the lovely stranger, not with looks of impertinent curiosity, but of the most tender compassion. I endeavoured to explain to her, by gesture, my very ardent desire to aleviate her affliction. She made a signal, in return, which seemed to bid me wait; and disappeared from the window. My hear: was now thrown into all the tumultuous sensations of fond solicitude and suspense. I looked anxiously to the window, and soon beheld the beauty who had vanished returning, like the sun, with increasing lustre. Though her situation rendered it difficult to convey any thing to me, because, as I have told you, the garden-wall was between us, she contrived to throw, with great force and dexterity, a circular billet at my feet; for the dear ingenious creature, to make her paper heavy enough to reach me, had wrapped it round a silver medal of the Pope. I was charmed with her contrivance; and you must not pretend, my dear monitor, to reprove me, since you see that our loves commence under the guidance of his Holiness.—What strange things happen in this odd world! and how little did I ever expect to kiss the image of a Roman Pontiff with more than Catholic devotion! Yet this I now did, as the most expressive answer that I could give on the spot to the tender inviting billet which the Holy Father had so faithfully wasted to my hand. This billet was written with great spirit, and in good Italian. It said, "that if I had sensibility and courage enough to venture through many dangers, to hear and pity the distresses of an oppressed and unfortunate girl, I should take my station at midnight near a door at the bottom of the sloping garden, and a very trusty old woman would lead me to the person for whom I had appeared to feel so much generous and consolatory compassion." Here was a temptation, my dear cautious philosopher, which I think even your discreet worship could not have resisted, especially had you heard, as I did at my inn, that the house to which I was so enchantingly invited had been lately taken by a whimsical old nobleman of Portugal, a Don Manoel Coutinho, who is described as half a great genius and half a madman: he is a Scholar, an Antiquary, a Medallist, a Fencer, a Fidler, a Mechanic, a Chemist, and, above all, a Voluptuary. He has been in all parts of the world, and speaks all languages. The accounts I hear of him put me in mind of the Scottish wonder, the admirable Creichton, and of our Wortley Montague: he seems to be a compound of those two extraordinary characters; and if report says true, he understands every thing, except how to confer happiness on a young and beautiful girl: ‘Though not a science, fairly worth the seven.’

However the enterprizing and universal Don Manoel thought himself equal to this branch of knowledge, as he lately brought off from Venice a young creature, who may be justly reckoned the most consummate model of voluptuous beauty that Nature ever exhibited, even in the country where she is most lavish of those alluring exhibitions. Such was the report, my dear Edmund, that I heard of my fair incognito and her tyrant, who is so barbarously jealous of his lovely treasure that he keeps hi• like a state-prisoner; and yet is so vain of he•mharms, that once, they say, he wanted to disp•y them in the condition of a new created Eve, to a set of licentious and half-intoxicated guests at his table. The beautiful Venetian, whose name is Violante, and who, in spite of a villainous education, is truly more modest than vain, revolted against this proposal; and has been more barbarously treated, in consequence of a virtue which a voluptuary more refined than the old tyrannical Portuguese would have considered as her capital charm. You will easily suppose, my dear Edmund, that, as my fancy was inflamed by this history, I flew with ardour to my assignation. I will spare both you and myself a relation of the unpleasant and humiliating steps that I was forced to take, to reach in safety the apartment of my charmer; and only briefly say, that, after passing through the darkness of Tartarus, I was at last very happily ushered into •lysium. I must not, however be such a hypocrite as to insinuate, that the joys I found here were all of the spiritual kind. No, my dear philosopher, it was a scene that would have annihilated the continence of a Scipio. Represent to yourself a young beauty, not yet eighteen, more exquisitely, more voluptuously fashioned, in voice, in feature, in form, than any girl that your eyes ever beheld; represent her provoked by an old tyrant who had absolutely beat her, and pleased by a young adventurer who had freely hazarded his life for the pleasure of soothing her affliction. The lovely creature was not ungrateful. But I will not tantalife your philosophy, by any glowing descriptions of the transcen••ntly beautiful and extatic Violante. Nor is it 〈◊〉 person alone that I am charmed with; sh•• as a heart, mind, and soul, fully equal to her exquisite form. My cautious monitor will tell me, that I can be no judge of these in my present situation, as I view them all through a very illusive medium. Granted, my dear philosopher; yet, as our friend Prior says:

Howe'er, 'tis well that while mankind

In Fa••'s perverse meander errs,

We can imagin'd pleasures find,

To combat against real care.

At all events, Violante is too good for the old barbarian who has her now in his power; and I have some unsettled thoughts of contriving her escape, and transporting her to England. What say you my dear Edmund? will you receive the admirable creature as a new tenant for your empty cottage? she is not, I confess, so angelic as Giuliana; but she has her merits, believe me, and her failings are only such as arise from her cruel destiny, and not from her natural character. But it would be no easy matter to accomplish her freedom. The old Don is a fellow of desperate vigilance and dexterity. He might, indeed, have made an excellent magician in darker times; for Violante shewed me many wonderful specimens of his rare skill both in mechanism and chemistry. She reckons him little less than an absolute conjuror, and has therefore I believe, double delight in out-witting him. Nothing is so dangerous as an attempt to govern a woman by cunning; it always provokes her to soil her governor with his own weapons. Violante, I believe, would be the most open-hearted and faithful creature in the world to a man who treated her with kindness and confidence. But you shall hear more of her as we grow more intimate. We shall have frequent opportunities to cultivate our acquaintance, because the old Seignior passes two or three nights every week, in Rome, where he is reported to be carrying on many deep and secret machinations. He has certainly some private reason for not taking Violante with him; and he leaves her under the guard of an old trusty Portugueze secretary, uncommonly devoted to the service of his master, who delivered him from the gripe of the Inquisition; a benefit, indeed, that ought never to be forgotten; and I shall not therefore attempt to corrupt this dependant, trusty Argus, as he is. I have luckily eluded his eyes, and may contrive perhaps hereafter to bear off the treasure that he is commissioned to watch. However this may be, take care, I beseech you, that the private history I now send you may never reach the ear of Cornelia; for, if she retains any great affection for me, which I can hardly suppose, I should be sorry so mortify and insult is. Foolish, obstinate bigot! what would I not have given, to have made her as happy for life, as I made for some hours the more beautiful, yet still less attractive, Violante! Deuce take this involuntary reflection! it has half-poisoned my raptures, past and to come: and since my spleen is thus unexpectedly awakened, the kindest thing, my dear Edmund, that I can do by you is, to bid you abruptly farewell. So believe me ever

Your affectionate SEYMOUR.

LETTER XVIII. FROM MISS TO MR. AUDLEY.

MY DEAR BROTHER,

IT was surely a good angel who suggested to you the idea of recommending to our dear Edmund an immediate excursion to Genoa. I most cordially hope that he will embark for that excursion before many days elapse, and not so much for the friendly purpose which you have in view, as to alleviate his own particular distress; for I grieve to tell you, that he is at the moment one of the most distressed beings that you ever beheld. A dreadful incident has happened in our neighbourhood, which, though I trust it will ultimately be the means of giving tranquillity to his life, has affected him so deeply in the instant, that he is utterly incapable of ••ting even to you. Indeed, my nerves have been as much shaken as his; but, as my heart ••less concerned, I have greatly recovered myself, and shall hasten to relieve you from the •••m which this opening of my letter will, I know, occasion in you and our dear sympathetic Harriot.

Though you are both of a nature too noble to pry into the secrets which decency and discretion would keep as much as possible out of sight, I know, by slight hints which have fallen from you both, that you are apprized of what our dear Edmund wished to think an impenetrable mystery, revealed only to me: I mean, his long and incorrigible indulgence in the pleasures of illicit love. Alas! how heavy a price is paid for those pleasures, even by the sex which is supposed to obtain them on the most easy and advantageous terms! To our poor afflicted Edmund they have proved, what I fancy they prove to most men, a very unquiet dream, ending abruptly in a start of horror. But to my mournful story: As death, the great discoverer of latent foibles, has now utterly torn in pieces the half-tattered veil of secrecy, I am at full liberty to tell you, that the unhappy though alluring object of Edmund's clandestine attachment was a beautiful girl of this country; she was the daughter of a reputable farmer; but, like most of the farmers' daughters in our days, she was little occcupied in the salutary labours of rustic life. The universal passion for dress and sentiment very early seized on this lively damsel: instead of carrying her butter and eggs to the neighbouring market town, she never went thither but to purchase gauze, and cram her pocket with novels from the circulating-library. From these she soon learned to consider Love as the only business of life; and thus disposed, about ten years ago she cast her eyes upon Edmund. He resembled the hero of her favourite romance: she contrived to throw herself alone in his way in a sweet shady lane; one romantic step led to another; and, after a few sentimental meetings, the sad old sensual and common catastrophe ensued. The only extraordinary part of their amorous history is this: although the poor idle girl, whom Edmund distinguished by the whimsical title of Sylvia, made the first overtures, she has been inviolably faithful, though extremely capricious, in a connexion of many years: yet their intercourse has been attended with a sufficiency of troubles. The usual mischief happened very early; and poor Edmund, who has naturally a tender conscience, was half-distracted with the idea of destroying the peace of an honest unsuspecting father: but Providence prevented the scene of paternal angush, which had terrified the imagination of the two delinquents. The old farmer finished his days without suspecting the condition of his child. Poor Sylvia had no mother; and by the charitable assistance of an aunt (the humble widow of an humble Divine) she avoided public disgrace, and produced a daughter, which Edmund has reared with the utmost privacy, and only visited as misers visit their hidden gold.

After the birth of this lovely infant, he resolved to break the connexion; but, philosopher as he calls himself, he found that this project, though strongly recommended both by virtue and prudence, was much easier in theory than in practice. Sylvia, more beautiful and more fond than ever, settled herself with her aunt in a neat, little, retired house, but a very few miles from us. Humanity required that Edmund should sometimes carry her accounts of the child, whom she was allowed to see very rarely, and by stealth. Alas! this humanity, my dear Audley, with mortals less virtuous or less happy than you are, is apt to lead them, even with their eyes open, into sad follies; it led our dear brother to hamper himself more and more in this attachment, which he clearly saw was unfriendly to his comfort, his tranquillity, his reputation. Fortunately no new incumbrances arose in the shape of children: at times many good resolutions were formed, but frailty, passion, and habit, prevailed against them. Spinster as I am, I feel myself a little bound to argue, as far as I decently may, in extenuation of our dear Edmund's frailty; because I really believe that I have been, though very innocently, instrumental to its continuance. I believe his very kind desire to sooth my troubled mind, and to give me a house to manage, when I was so bitterly disappointed of one that I expected to call my own, prevented his thinking seriously of a wife at the most proper season, and of course had a tendency to prolong his restless bondage, under the half-tender and half-tyrannical Sylvia.— However this may be, they have maintained a secret intercourse for several years, in which their disquietude and their vexation have far exceeded their tenderness and their pleasure, if I may credit the poor frail philosopher, who, for my edification, confesses to me all his weakness, though he will seldom follow my sage advice. At last, indeed, he had resolved on a thorough reform. Tired to death of the spleen, and discontent of his way ward and querulous Sylvia, he had exhorted her to settle in a mode of life whose advantages she would often enumerate with envy. He was ready to sacrifice his own pleasure to her happiness, or her tranquillity: she might marry whenever she chose it; and his generosity would facilitate that event. After a million of debates, bitter squabbles, and tender reconciliations, on this wide field of argument, all things were at length adjusted; and poor Sylvia, to improve her temper, was to be consigned to a husband. She had an ardent admirer in her own rank of life, who, being frankly informed of her part life, very generously persevered in his addresses; the day of marriage was appointed, an event that filled me, I confess, with strange mingled sensations of gladness and terror; of gladness, because I had long wished to see the poor enthralled Edmund set free; and of terror, because I clearly perceive, that, although his reason rejoiced in the prospect of this freedom, his passions were in such a state that they might induce him to spurn the blessing in the very moment when he seemed to have secured it. While affairs were in this anxious situation, our whole country was assembled at the great fair in our neighbourhood. —Sylvia attended her destined husband, young Evans, to this motley scene of business and merriment. As neither Edmund nor I wished to be there, we intended to remain comfortably at home, and give the servants an opportunity of enjoying the gay spectacle by themselves. A message from our neighbour Mrs. Clayfield disconcerted our quiet plan. Being confined herself by indisposition, and her husband being abroad; she requested me to take her daughter Charlotte to the puppet-show. Edmund, whose good-nature is always ready to gratify a child, ordered our [chaise, and rode with me and my happy little charge to the fair. We were all not a little mortified to find ourselves too late; the booth of exhibition was so crammed that it could not even admit another infantine spectator. Poor little Charlotte began to cry at the disappointment; but soon dried and forgot her tears, on being told, that the puppet-show would begin again before it was time for us to go home, and then she might depend on seeing it. It was indeed a providential blessing to us that we were not admitted among the first audience. The master of this canvas theatre, to collect the more money, had built something like boxes, and an upper gallery; but this structure was so hastily and ill prepared, and so overloaded, that part of it gave way. As we were sauntering about a hundred yards from the great booth, we heard a most horrible outcry, and soon beheld several men and women rushing forth in great consternation. The first report was, that many persons were crushed to death by a fall of the scaffolding. Edmund instantly put me and the child into the chaise, and begged us to wait while he ran to enquire into the real extent of the calamity. Think, Audley, what our dear brother's agony must have been, when he found that the first unhappy sufferer brought forth from the ruins was poor Evans, hideously disfigured and quite dead. Edmund plunged, as he has since told me, with a frantic impulse, into the croud, and overset some of the persons employed in bringing out a female figure; it was poor Sylvia, with a frame most deplorably shattered and almost speechless; yet she possessed her senses; and at the sight of Edmund fastened one hand (which was all she could move) upon him, with a shri•k of anguish and affection. He brought her to the chaise, and having with great difficulty got her into it, and offered a reward to any man who could most expeditiously bring a surgeon to the house of her aunt, he placed himself by the side of the poor half-expiring sufferer, and drove from us, promising to send the chaise back immediately for Charlotte and me: for this, however, we did not wait; as a friend of Mrs. Clayfield's conveyed both the •••ld and me to our respective homes. I now passed some hours of the most melancholy solicitude and suspense, wishing to do every thing 〈◊〉 the best, and yet doing nothing, for fear of doing wrong. At last the chaise returned, with a request from Edmund, that it might bring me immediately to him. You will easily believe that I felt no prudish scruples at such a moment. I could willingly have sacrificed reputation to alleviate the horrid sufferings of this poor dying creature. But, alas! I had not the mournful satisfaction of finding her alive. The surgeon and I were both too late. I found my brother in the fondest agonies of grief, and pressing in his arms the breathless object of his love. Yet my arrival afforded him great relief. He rose eagerly, to tell me with what admirable expressions of piety and affection the hapless girl had expired. She blessed GOD, he said, that poor Evans had suffered none of those bodily tortures which had fallen justly on her. She considered the dreadful event as ordained by Providence to save that worthy young man from much impending misery, and herself perhaps from much guilt; for she confessed, that, although she had consented to the marriage, she had found her heart and soul indissolubly attached to Edmund. She conjured him to cherish her child; and, above all things, to give her such an education, however humble, as may best secure her from following the fatal example of her unhappy mother. You will readily conceive with what tenderness our gentle Edmund replied to these heart-piercing entreaties. He assured the tender expiring parent, that I should prove a most attentive and affectionate mother to the dear orphan Fanny (the name of their daughter). At this idea, he says, her bodily anguish seemed quite suspended, and she answered him in a tender transport. "Oh, my dear Edmund, I can believe any goodness in those who are related to you! If your sister, though I have not deserved such an honour, would but comfort my parting spirit with such a promise from her own lips, my death would be a blessed one indeed!" It was in consequence of this speech than Edmund sent immediately for me; but, alas! as I have already told you, I came too late; the little remaining strength of the fond sufferer was exhausted by her impassioned di•course with Edmund; and, after conjuring him most tenderly and repeatedly to her last gasp to love the poor little Fanny, and to think more of Heaven, she expired in his arms, about half an hour before my arrival.

The good old woman, with whom this unhappy girl had long resided, is too far advanced into second childhood to feel this horrible event with very poignant anguish. But on our dear feeling Edmund it has made the deepest impression. It was with the outmost difficulty that I could persuade him to quit the apartment of the deceased; and when I had drawn him from it I could not prevent his returning, to gaze with insatiated grief on that lifeless frame which he had idolized, though not with a happy, yet with a vehement, affection. At my intreaty, however, he at length forced himself from the house, though not before the dawn of a new day; and it was between five and six yesterday morning before we reached our own door. Since that time I have been greatly refreshed by much comfortable sleep; a blessing which our dear afflicted Edmund has not enjoyed: his mind, however, is as calm as I could expect it to be; his health, I trust, not materially injured; though his nerves are at present in a painful agitation. At one time he talks of flying immediately to the school of his poor little Fanny, and of bringing the child home directly: at another, he thinks himself not able to support the sight of her at present; and I think he seems most disposed to follow the suggestion of your kind letter, which arrived the day before this dreadful event, and to join his friend Seymour abroad, leaving me to take care of his little Fanny, which you will readily believe I have promised to do to the utmost of my ability, and with all the tenderness of a real mother. This plan I think very much to be preferred to all I can think of, for various reasons, with which I will not continue to lengthen this immoderately long letter. If you think with me, my good Audley, pray write a 〈◊〉 soothing lines to our dear Edmund, and exhort him to the excursion you have already suggested. I am miserably wearied by writing so long and so eagerly; and can only add, GOD bless you! Pray let us hear from you by the returning post; and believe me ever

Your affectionate LUCY.

P. S. Pray tell Harriot, with my love, that the more I see and hear of life, the more I admire, not only your virtues, but your rare felicity. May Heaven long preserve it! Adieu. I need not remind you, that it is the peculiar duty of the happy to comfort the afflicted.

LETTER XIX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

MY VERY DEAR EDMUND,

I WAS just folding up the inclosed letter, which I had written to your friend Seymour, in the hope of its travelling to him in your portmanteau, when I was surprised and shocked by the melancholy account of your recent distress. Believe me, we sympathise most cordially in your sorrow. Whatever failings may have belonged to the dear unhappy girl you have lost, they are out-weighed in our imagination by the force and fidelity of her affection to you; and I must assure you, both in Harriot's name and my own, that you may send your interesting little Fanny at any time to us, and depend on our treating her exactly as a child of our own. If you approve our system of domestic education and if Lucy will resign to us a charge so precious, we shall be happy to enlarge our infantine circle by such an acquisition.

As to yourself, my dear brother, I can perfectly enter into all the various trouble of heart and mind in which you have been so suddenly involved. To behold the calamitous destruction of a lovely being, by whom you knew yourself beloved, though "Not wisely, yet too well," must make an impression on your feeling spirit too forcible to be counteracted by any vain condoleance or consolation. The very sailings of the dear departed must have a tendency to encrease the fond vehemence of recent grief. It is surely natural for you to think with the more tenderness of her affection, from reflecting on the severe price she paid for its indulgence. Alas, how full of bitterness is the ordinary lot of women! Your poor Sylvia, never happy even with you, would have been a wretch indeed in that state from which the mercy of Providence has snatched her. The religious point of view in which the fond dying girl beheld her own destiny, has endeared her memory to me; and the child she has so anxiously recommended to your care will be an invaluable bequest, if she serves, as I trust the will, to retrace and perpetuate on your heart the affectionate lesson of piety beque•thed to you by the lips of her expiring mother.

Overwhelmed as you must have been, my dear Edmund, by this heart-piercing scene, I still hope that you will soon be able to recover the natural tranquillity of your cultivated mind, and that you will speedily pursue the project of foreign excursion. Nothing can be more medicinal to the anguish of afflicted love than to force yourself with a generous ardour, into the immediate service of friendship. Indeed, little force will be necessary on this occasion, as I am persuaded that no selfish sorrow can diminish your anxiety for the perils of a friend so justly dear to you as Seymour. You will perceive, by the inclosed, that I am greatly alarmed for him myself: no youth, indeed, can more truly want a Mentor in his travels, than this accomplished, but hasty young man; especially since his natural impetuosity is inflamed and exasperated, by a disappointment which his high passions are so little able to brook. If any thing can save him from plunging into such licentious dissipation as will complete his misery, it must be the vigilance of your friendship. Heaven grant that you may be the means of preserving each other from all evil, under the auspices of your angelic Giuliana! With what delight would your friends of this country see you both restored to it, with a new cast of mind, and disciplined by affliction into a perfect sense of religion! I flatter myself this is no improbable event; and I well know it is an event which would make some tender hearts under this roof leap for joy. Among them, believe me, the heart of

Your affectionate brother.

P. S. Pray tell Lucy, who is ever you know a most welcome guest at this house, that we con •ure her not to remain in solitude; but as soon as you depart, to fly to us, with her new little charge, whom I must again assure you, my dear Edmund, we are all eager to embrace. I need not tell you what kind and devout wishes are formed by the females around me for the prosperity of your voyage.

LETTER XX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO SEYMOUR.

My dear hasty young friend,

ON my return from a distant and melancholy expedition, I was astonished and grieved to hear that you have driven yourself to the Continent, instead of returning, as I hoped you would a contented and welcome guest to this house. I do not, my dear Seymour, write with an angry pen, to upbraid you for what is past; nor to remind you of the hopes you gave me, that you were resolved to pursue a very different line of conduct. I know how apt we all are to forget our rational resolutions; and one of our old classical acquaintance has particularly taught me, not to require reason and method from the madness of love. On your late measures I will trouble you with no remarks! but allow me to cast a friendly eye to the future. Some meditations on human nature have induced me to think that of all traitors an ardent affection like yours, my engaging rash friend, is the greatest and most perilous traitor to itself: on being thwarted in a point which it too vehemently pursues, it is apt to draw conclusions unwarranted by truth, and directly opposite to its own interest. Dive into your own bosom for an illustration of my remark and tell me ingenuously, if you have not frequently concluded that Cornelia has no real love for you, because she did not comply with your late importunate and too cruel request. The chief purpose of my letter is, to preserve you from a natural self-deception in this very important article. Believe me, I speak the language of strict truth, and of steady, though offended friendship, when I assure you, that the female heart never felt affection more genuine and intense than the affection which the desolate Cornelia still retains for you. Though her reason and religion enjoined and enabled her to decide against you, in your late contest; yet the agonies of heart which that angelic victory cost her threw her life into great danger. The consciousness of having acted in a manner to merit the approbation of heaven and earth, has proved the most effectual medicine in restoring her to that degree of tranquillity and half-recovered health, which she possesses at present. The love, which has ceased to convulse her heart, still exists undiminished in her bosom, and is become, indeed, so much a part of her existence, that whatever your destiny may be, she, I am convinced, will never attach herself to any other man. The heart of Cornelia was formed to love only once: you have been, and ever must be, the only object of its tender idolatry; and your generous spirit ought to admire and applaud the divine fortitude with which she endures to sacrifice even this idol to her GOD.—But, alas! my dear Seymour, it has been your misfortune, as it is the misfortune of thousands at your age, and in your rank of life, to look on piety either with contempt or compassion▪ as it has proved an inpediment to your desires, you will be tempted to consider it with peculiar spleen and injustice. There are times, I dare say, when the piety of your accomplished and beloved Cornelia appears to you a most degrading infirmity; the mark of a poor, a timid, and feeble mind, though in truth it is exactly the reverse. Believe me, her piety is of that genuine kind which elevates the understanding and ennobles the heart. By uniting with the tenderest and most powerful of all natural sentiments, I mean, her maternal affection, it gives a transcendant charm to her character; and makes her at once, perhaps, the most interesting and most perfect of human creatures; with all the softness of woman, and all the energy of a saint. I wish, my dear friend, that I had the power of conveying to you, in the most vivid colours of eloquence, a complete idea of all her merit, all her loveliness, all her affection; not to exasperate your regret for a treasure you have lost, but to awaken you to an early just sense of what it is still very possible for you to acquire. However angry and unjust towards her you may feel at present, a day will surely come (and it is the wish or my heart to accelerate that day), when the conduct of Cornelia will appear to you as lovely as her person: it is impossible that a spirit like yours (however mortified and offended) can meditate on such a woman with long and unrelenting injustice; for had not education, indulgence, and fashion, given a fatal bias to your mind, believe me, it would have been in all points the counterpart of Cornelia's. I never beheld a couple in my life whom nature seemed to have fashioned more happily for each other, or whom time and chance had united in a more ardent affection. You have both the same exquisite sensibility, the same openness of heart, the same generous abhorrence, not only of every thing that is mean, but of every thing that borders upon meanness. In short, whenever I think of you, and that is not seldom, you strike me as the first pair in the beautiful description of Milton. How happy should I think myself in seeing your nuptial couch prepared under the auspices of heaven! I am persuaded, my dear Seymour, that time and experience will soon shew you the emptiness and instability of all enjoyments, which do not rest on the basis of Religion. If Providence, uniting with your own excellent understanding, should speedily produce that happy change in your religious sentiments which I am so eager to behold, pray let this letter serve to remind you, that you will certainly find, under my custody, perhaps the most valuable earthly reward which GOD can bestow upon any man for correcting the errors of his mind, a woman of exquisite attractions, and as full of purity and love as the religion she professes. Let me add, that when I see you entitled to this reward, it will be consigned to you by a person whose joy on the occasion will almost equal your own. Farewell and believe me

Your very faithful and affectionate friend, CHARLES AUDLEY.

LETTER XXI. FROM EDMUND TO CHARLES AUDLEY.

YOU are the best of brothers, and the most indulgent of friends! How can I sufficiently love and thank you, both on Seymour's account and my own? Alas! I am ill able to express, at present, the double gratitude that I feel. Yet I must thank you for your most affectionate and soothing letter, from the bottom of a heart very deeply, and, I confess, very foolishly afflicted. Ah, my dear Charles, I begin to conceive how much the balm which Religion administers to a wounded spirit, may be superior to all the boasted consolations of philosophy. I vainly thought that I had disciplined my own quiet and contemplative mind in such a manner as to render it superior to the malice of accident; yet the event of a minute has thrown me into a disorder of heart and spirit that I might blush to confess to any person less indulgent or less dear to me than you are. Good Heaven! of what little use and efficacy is the mere unassisted reason of a creature, who vainly prides himself on his rationality! My reason has told me a thousand times, that it is foolish to lament the death of an unhappy girl, who frequently seemed to live only to torment me; yet, I own to you, her loss has affected me so much, that in losing this lovely tormentor I feel as if I had lost every thing which could reconcile me to life.— She was, indeed, a very extraordinary and enchanting creature. To atone for a temper, perhaps the most capricious and self-tormenting that ever existed, she had the strongest natural understanding, and the most pointed wit, that I ever met with in woman: a pretty and a speaking countenance; a delicate body, still more eloquent; and affections, whose ardor was equalled by their fidelity. Oh, my poor Sylvia! among all the infinite varieties of character which the sex comprizes, ‘I ne'er shall look upon thy like again.’

But I deserved to lose thee as I did, for being so cold-hearted a wretch as to think of placing thee for life in the arms of that hapless simple fellow, who had not faculties to comprehend thy most engaging attractions, nor sense to pity and correct thy self-tormenting infirmities! Oh my dear Charles, if there is (as you so confidently and so chearfully expect) a happier world to come after this, surely she will not be exclueded from its beatitude, who never discovered, even to the eyes of a prejudiced inquisitor, any failing that did not arise, either from a neglected education, or from organs too delicately constructed. But I will endeavour to turn my thoughts from the dear lost object of my very turbulent and fatal love, to that poor little orphan whom she has enjoined me to cherish with unblameable affection; the very tender and generous manner in which you speak to me of this dear desolate child, and the fond interest which our incomparable sister takes in its preservation, have proved the most soothing and beneficial medicine to my dejected spirit. You will not doubt the warmth of my gratitude to you both on ths occasion, when you recollect how seriously I have ever thought of parental duties. If a tender vigilance is due from every father to his child, how doubly incumbent i• this duty upon those who have rashly introduced their offspring into a world of trouble, under such a disadvantage as no heart, that is truly parental, can think of, without the tremors of apprehension, if not of sorrow! Heaven grant that my sweet little Fanny, who is indeed a very promising child, may live to reward you, by her improvement, for the extreme kindness with which you speak of her education! I consign her with gratitude and confidence to my too equally dear and excellent sisters. Lucy shall bring her to your house as soon as I am gone; but I cannot quit the kingdom without folding the dear little orphan once to my heart, though I am well aware that the anguish of that moment will equal its delight. Her school lies in my way, and Lucy will attend me so far. I am eager to be gone on every account, and particularly because I have received some very alarming intelligence from our rash and ungovernable friend.—You will grieve to hear, that his hasty spirit has driven him into the snares of a Venetian courtezan, who lives with an old voluptuary of Portugal. He is so captivated by this young sorceress, that perhaps his next letter may be too full of licentious rapture for a female eye to peruse. At all events, you will join with me in thinking that it is much better for us to keep our women in absolute ignorance of this perilous folly. I have therefore taken precautions, that all his letters to me which may arrive in my absence shall be secretly delivered into your hand.—The friendly solicitude you express for him entitles you to their perusal; and, however unguarded they may be, I can securely trust them to your virtue and discretion. Ah, my dear happy Charles, had your brother and your friend been your equals in these invaluable qualities, their lives would have been less imbittered than they have been, and I should most probably have escaped the double load which now presses on the spirits of

Your dejected, but most grateful and affectionate, EDMUND.

LETTER XXII. FROM EDMUND TO MRS. AUDLEY.

IF I have been, my dear sister, as you have frequently told me, the great support and comfort of your life, in a season when the powers of your own heart and mind deserted you, how amply have you now repaid the affectionate obligation! I have no words half expressive enough to tell you my grateful sense of the intelligent tenderness with which you treated my poor little sensitive Fanny and her distracted father in our painful interview, and more painful separation. My best mode of thanking you will be to confess very frankly that without your assistance I should have been utterly overwhelmed, and unable to pursue the expedition to which so many powerful motives have conspired to invite me. Our dear inconsiderate Seymour little thinks that I am hastening to his succour; and much less could he imagine what pangs of heart it has cost me to force myself into his service, eager and solicitous as I ever am to serve him. But while I held my dear little weeping orphan in my arms, I felt as if all my life ought to be devoted solely to her; and in the moment when I tore myself at last from her sweet little infantine embrace, my poor Sylvia, seemed to die a second time. Ah! my dear Lucy, as I drove away from you both, I felt such bitter anguish and dreariness of soul as no language can express. It was not till the next day in my power to recover my reason enough to think of you as I ought, and to enjoy the reflection that I had left my child happily disposed to obey and love you, and secure of finding in your tenderness all the fond vigilance of a real mother. Heaven bless you both! and Heaven grant that the services which I am trying to render our rash friend in Italy may be as great as the pains I have endured in setting out on the adventure!

I have been so engrossed by these sufferings, that I have not yet told you I am now on French ground. I had a quick passage across the Channel, and without any sickness except that of the heart. As I traversed the deck of our vessel, I continually thought of our dear angelic Giuliana and her similar sufferings in this very passage. Alas, my dear Lucy, I call our sufferings similar; but to you I will confess, and with shame confess, their difference. In searching my own dreary heart, I find no portion of that divine resignation and enthusiasm with which our adored Giuliana supported her sorrow, and converted into a blessing the very bitterness of affliction. Oh! Philosophy, I begin to abhor thee as the most treacherous of guides. Thou art magnificent in thy promises, but contemptible in thy performance. In the twilight of ordinary unafflicted life, thou only servest to drown by thy loud-talking our salutary apprehensions; but, when the darkness of real tribulation falls upon us, our loquacious leader becomes a mere mute, and all the impression which thy voice has left upon the heart is regret and shame for having trusted it so long. Oh! Lucy, if it shall be my lot to see you and the dear orphan no more, pray remember it is the request of my heart, that you will infuse into the very promising mind of your precious little ward an early serious sense of Religion. Do not, my dear sister, let your tenderness take any alarm at a suggestion so little expected from me. Do not, I conjure you, suppose that I have any gloomy presage of hastening to the grave. On the contrary, I can assure you, my health is already mended by my travels; and I begin to be animated by the hope of accomplishing the devout wish of our dear Charles, and of bringing back an unexceptionable husband to the most interesting of enamoured woman, our matchless Cornelia. Perhaps, in labouring to preserve the unballasted spirit of my precipitate friend, I may save my own also from a wreck that I did not apprehend. Happy indeed shall we be, if, after all our various difficulties and distress of mind, we at last form all together a little firmly settled society, united not only by human but coelestial ties. With this animating idea I will bid you farewell, dear and excellent guardian of my little treasure. Give our sweet Fanny a parental kiss for me; and assure her, that I shall return with my pockets better filled with pretty toys for her, than she ever found them in her life. I hope this will findyou both comfortably lodged in the chearful house of our dear Charles. Pray do not fail to tell me very frankly what kind of first impression our little Fanny makes on every creature at Audley-Grove. I have no doubts of her meeting with great kindness; but I have an anxious and ambitious desire to know whether the sweet little Fairy, in the moment of her first becoming visible to our friends, appears as lovely to them as she does, my dear Lucy, in your eyes, and in those of

Your most grateful and affectionate EDMUND.

LETTER XXIII. FROM CORNELIA TO MISS AUDLEY.

SURELY no human creature was ever so deeply indebted to all the various branches of one family, as I am, my dear Lucy, to yours. It is not enough that your relations of this house have watched over my poor feeble frame, and more shattered spirits, with incessant unwearied tenderness and parental anxiety; even your dear sedate Edmund is to quit for me, I find, that quiet and comfortable home, to which he is so much wedded, and to wander for my sake over seas and mountains to Genoa. I might indeed play the ungrateful prude, and pretend that I have no concern in his travels; but the spirit of your Cornelia, my dear Lucy, was never formed for any unworthy subterfuge, any vain or ungenerous disguise. No, my dear, I entreat you to tell your friendly Edmund, that my heart will for ever call itself his debtor. Whoever attempts to serve our dear precipitate misguided Seymour will assuredly render a service to me that I shall ever be most willing to acknowledge. I will freely confess to you, my sweet friend, that I feel the idea of Edmund's journey as the first ray of chearful light that has glanced on my benighted spirits since I sunk into the wretched state of debility and dejection, from which my incomparable friends have been labouring to restore me. It is not my dear Lucy, that I fondly catch at a false and frivolous hope of making the beloved fugitive my husband. No, believe me, that Heaven which gave me strength to reject the most insinuating, the most dangerous, the most idolized of all mortal tempters, still prevents my sinking into a weak apostacy, from which I have so fervently prayed to be preserved. In this point I have some reason to be satisfied with myself; and whenever I cast my eyes on my children, those precious sources and rewards of my resolution, I feel an inexpressible maternal triumph in my soul, which I am convinced no temptations in the world could ever induce me to forfeit. Yet, supported as I am by a proper sense of my own conduct, and flattered as I am by our dear friends of this house on my fortitude (alas! they know not how weak a wretch they flatter); I am distracted with the dread of a thousand evils into which I may have driven the lost Seymour. Oh God! how bitter is the condition of my own safety, since I could obtain it only by the hazard of proving a source of wretchedness to the man whom I have so many reasons to love! Ah! my dear Lucy, you, who know as well as I do his fiery and precipitate spirit, will pity the agonizing terrors which it incessantly awakens in my heart. How often do we hear of impetuous men, who rush into a desperate and sudden marriage from motives of resentment and indignation. Oh, Heavens! my dear Lucy, I could not hear that Seymour was married thus and survive it. Merciful God! preserve me from a blow that would irritate my poor shattered brain into madness! Yet why should I feel it thus? Oh, Lucy! are these sentiments that become the firm votary of Reason and Religion? No, my conscience tells me they are not; yet I feel they are so interwoven with the fibres of my heart, that I know not how to tear them from my breast. O Jealousy! thou keenest of tortures, I did not think it was possible for thee to exist when Hope was utterly extinguished; but I feel that thy stings can pierce even the cold armour of Despair, and against them there is no defence but the dark shield of Death. O, Lucy! I have thrown my poor trembling nerves into such disorder by the phantoms which my own troubled fancy has conjured up, that I must throw down my pen, and resume it at some season of more tranquillity; if such a season never arrives, this paper shall never reach you.

The preceding pages have waited long, my dear Lucy, for this postscript; but in the interval, how deeply has my heart been affected with sorrow, with pity, and with gratitude, in hearing all that I have heard of your amiable afflicted brother!—Poor Edmund! has he too experienced the turbulent anguish of an unwise and fatal affection? and, overwhelmed as he must be with recent grief, has he still the generosity to surmount his own immediate distress, and proceed directly to assume the guidance and protection of our rash rambling Seymour?

Reward Him for the noble deed, just Heaven!

For this one action, guard Him, and distinguish Him

With signal mercies, and with great deliverance!

Let him know nothing else but good on earth.

And everlasting blessedness hereafter.

Heaven indeed has almost granted half this prayer, in giving him, my dear Lucy, such a comforter as you are, and such a blessed guardian for his poor little deserted Fanny. But haste, I conjure you, and bring this dear interesting orphan to us. I long to take the little hapless innocent to my bosom, and cherish her as my own daughter. I perceive already that she will prove to me a sweet and soothing companion; for my full heart will seem at least to relieve itself, while I am caressing the child, from that burthen of unutterable gratitude which I feel towards her father. Haste, therefore, my dear friend, I again conjure you, to a house where every heart is eager to bid you welcome, and none more so than the poor bruised and troubled, but still warm and feeling, heart of

Your most affectionate CORNELIA.

LETTER XXIV FROM MISS AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

MY VERY DEAR AND GENEROUS TRAVELLER.

IT is with no little portion of pride and delight that I thank you for all the kind things you say of me in your affecting letter. It return, I shall give you so speedy an account of the dear little Fairy Queen (whom I have the pleasure to attend more as a worshiper than a governess), that I am persuaded my letter will reach Genoa long before you can. I figure to myself the great joy you will have in perusing, under the roof of the dear sympathetic Giuliana, the pleasing history I have to give of my delightful little companion. I love your parental anxiety, in asking me to describe the first impression she made on the friendly circle here. But, my dear Edmund, when you made this request, you should have inspired me with powers of description far surpassing the humble ones I possess; for the scene you wish to have represented to you requires a very masterly hand.

O that I were a Shakspeare in petticoats for your sake! I would then present you with such a fairy drama as would draw some tears of tenderness and delight from your parental eyes. But as it is, I must content myself with asking you a simple question: Did you ever observe the female faces in the gallery of a playhouse when extraordinary talents were displayed by some Liliputian prince or princess? If you have, you have seen those speaking faces express a tender admiration, and something like a doubt whether the infantine performer could be an infant or not. And, having seen such faces, you may have, in recollecting them, a very good idea of the first impression made by our dear little Fanny in this friendly theatre, where all her infantine graces are admired, and all her early talents called forth. You know we are fond of children; and believe me, no child can have a more bewitching manner of conciliating affection. Harriot thinks her extremely like you; and every time she says so, Cornelia is ready to press this living miniture of you to her bosom, in a transport of gratitude for those services which we trust you are now rendering to our whole party by the important object of your excursion. How happy will your letters make us all, if you are able to send us accounts as good as I have now the pleasure of dispatching to you! I have not only the great satisfaction of assuring you, that your child is idolized and made happy here; but I am able to add, that she is an absolute cordial, and a very salutary and delightful one, to the tender spirits of Cornelia; they have taken a prodigious fancy to each other; so much so, that I should be quite jealous if I did not consider Cornelia as a kind of second self.

Apropos of Jealousy: we have had a most ludicrous little example of that tragical passion, and a proof how very early it begins to agitate and distress the poor female heart. My sweet little niece and namesake, whom Cornelia wishes to see in future days united to her eldest son, and who is already styled his little wife, has begun, young as she is, to weep for the inconstancy of her William. The Liliputian traitor was so enchanted by the more womanly attractions of our blooming Fanny, that he grievously deserted his more infantine cara sposa. The points and freaks of jealousy at three years old appeared very laughable to Harriot and me; but Cornelia, who has, I believe, much more genuine tenderness than either of us, says we are absolute Barbarians, and she could not rest herself till she had made the tiny tormented heart quite easy. This she very dexterously accomplished; and diverted us not a little, by her mode of managing the affections of our Fairy groupe, in which she professed herself much assisted by the intelligence and good-nature of Fanny, who has, with great sweetness of disposition, accepted the younger Sedley as her swain. To all these matters I alluded, when I told you, that, had I the talents of Shakespeare, I could send you a very interesting Fairy-drama. Believe me, the quarrel and reconcilement of Titania and Oberon are not more highly dramatic than the scenes that have passed between our little Lucy and William.

Had I not seen so much of your parental tenderness, I should be afraid of your thinking me a sad old gossiping nurse, for having talked so long of our little folks. They have indeed engrossed so much of my paper, that I can only add a few words of our grown gentry.

These, however, shall be serious words. And first let me say, that our dear Charles dropt a tear of paternal joy over one passage of your very affecting letter to me: I need not tell you which passage, nor with what cordial satisfaction he speaks of that happy revolution which he says is now working in your mind; and which Cornelia sometimes, I believe, considers as a blessed harbinger of a similar revolution in the mind of a certain person still dearer to her than you are.—Pray tell our beloved Giuliana, that if she wishes to make a little paradise on earth for her English friends, she has only to lead in person the two converted wanderers to this door, that will

almost leap from off its hinges

To give you entrance here.—

Heaven grant that me may see a day of such universal happiness! Such is the constant prayer of our domestic circle; and particularly my dear Edmund, of

Your affectionate sister.

P. S. Fanny charges me to tell you how exactly she has done every thing you desired; and how dearly she loves you. She is, in truth, a sweet little model of obedience and affection.— Adieu.

LETTER XXV. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

AT length, my dear and too long disregarded prophet, the mischiefs you have frequently foreboded are fallen on me. I am paying, at this moment, a heavy penalty for having laughed so often at your prudent timidity in the pursuit of pleasure. While you, without a rival in your rural love, and unsuspected by the graver part of the world, are quietly enjoying the tenderness, and even the whimsies, of your constant though capricious Sylvia; I am thrown, by my impetuous folly, on a couch of pain, penitence, and dishonour. A sad example, I confess, my dear cautious Edmund, of the maxim from our favourite poet, which you have so vainly endeavoured to fix as an amulet on my hasty spirit.

That violent delights have violent ends.

But you will rejoice that I am still living, when I tell you it has appeared a matter of great doubt whether my half departed life would return to me or not. You would not easily guess the person to whom I am indebted for its immediate preservation. I must hasten therefore to tell you, that I owe it entirely to the humanity, the nobleness of nature, and, I may add, the medical skill, of the very Don Manuel whose private rights I had so grossly invaded. Ah, Edmund, if I should live, I have learnt at least one lesson, and that is, never to believe what rumour says to the prejudice of persons who are distinguished by extraordinary talents. Men of genius are too much inclined, perhaps to desspise the world; but the world takes ample revenge, by giving them quick credit for a thousand unexisting enormities.

I had foolishly believed that my noble Seignor of Portugal was an old voluptuous brute and tyrannical Barbarian. I have found him exactly the reverse. He is indeed, as report said of him, a prodigy of universal knowledge; but he is equally admirable for candour, indulgence, and generosity. Violante is in truth no mistress of his, but a wild and licentious, though lovely, daughter of Eve, whom the kind Seignor, with more zeal than prudence, undertook to discipline and reform for a young noble friend, who loves her to such a pitch of distraction that he has serious thoughts of making her his wife. Nor would any one find reason to censure his idea, if superlative beauty and talents could atone for the want of chastity in a married woman. Though the charms and allurements of this Syren have nearly put a sorry end to my life, I cannot even now speak of them without praise. But you will grow impatient for my own particular history. Let me pause a little, my dear Edmund, and you shall have it. I am so feeble, and so constrained in my posture, that I can only write a few lines at a time. But, after a little rest, I will begin my disastrous adventures, and proceed as far as pain and langor will give me leave.

During my second visit to Violante we were alarmed in the middle of the night, or rather towards morning. The fair agile Venetian sprang hastily from her pillow; and, having listened a few moments on the outside of her chamber-door, she flew rapidly within, and turned the key. "The old Seignor is certainly returned," cried the terrified Violante— "the secretary has watched and betrayed us— if the old tyrant catches you here, my love, he will take perhaps both our lives—I am certainly ruined for ever if you cannot contrive to escape from this window—I think you may—for Heaven's sake, try if it is possible!" Such were the suggestions of my poor frighted companion, while she ran backwards and forwards to a window in a little adjoining dressing-room, close to which grew a tall poplar, so very near the window that I could easily touch the leaves with my hand; but there was not any strong branch within the utmost reach of my extended arm.

There was however a short and slight pole laid across from the window to the tree, which served as a passage to a favourite tame squirrel of Violante's, which lived alternately in her room and in the tree. My only chance was to spring lightly over this pole, and seize the large limb of the poplar on which it rested. As I have ever been, you know, a little vain of my agility, I thought I could safely accomplish this hazardous step; and I was induced to attempt it by the agony of terror which was visible in every look and gesture of Violante, and by her extreme anxiety to preserve her reputation. After giving her a very hasty kiss, and receiving from her all the little aid she could afford me, I set my foot on the fatal pole, and, not being a squirrel, made it crack beneath me. I had just time enough to throw myself forward, and catch hold of some quivering boughs, which served, they tell me, in some degree, to break my fall, and saved me from instant death, though not from utter stupefaction.

How irresistible are the sudden emotions of humanity! Anxious as Violante was to save her own credit by removing her luckless paramour with the peril of his bones, she could not refrain from a loud shriek in beholding my fall: and that piercing shriek, which rung in my ears as I fell, is the last thing I can recollect till, after a suspension of sense and life, which continued, they tell me during several hours, I awaked to the full perception of pain and infirmity, in a lower apartment of the house.

Judge, my dear Edmund, of my equal astonishment and anguish, when, in first opening my eyes, I beheld the striking countenance of Don Manuel, who was employed at that moment in chasing my temples with all the kind anxiety of a medical friend! I fancy, a wounded conscience gives peculiar quickness to the powers of recollection, for, in the instant that I perceived the kindness of my majestic attendant, I felt more anguish of mind than pain of body, though my whole frame was in a very horrible condition. My head, though much bruised, had escaped, by luckily pitching on soft ground in a marvellous manner, especially as my body struck obliquely against an antique altar of marble, which stood as an ornament to the garden, and, wounding me with its rough broken edge, shattered two of my ribs, and lacerated my breast. Whether it was owing to my extreme weakness, from the blood I had lost, and the bruises I had sustained, or whether I may impute it to the natural sensibility of my temper, I cannot tell; but I must confess to you, that at the sight of Don Manuel I burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh, Seignor, I cannot endure this friendly attention from the man whom I have injured!" He answered me in Italian, with a mild dignity, "I entreat you, my young friend, to keep your spirits as calm as possible. I can assure you that you have not injured me, though you have, from an imprudence very natural at your age, engaged in a rash and perilous adventure, which has nearly cost you your life. I trust, however, that we shall save you; and if your name is Seymour, as I have some little reason to suspect it is, I shall have a particular delight in your preservation. You will easily conceive, my dear Edmund, how my astonishment redoubled when I found myself not only known, but endeared by being known, to my generous preserver. Don Manuel, it seems, is a very old friend of Giuliana's father, and has frequently been their guest at Genoa. In a late visit to them he heard the history of my restoring that angelic wanderer to the parental arms of Pinelli; and, as Manuel is himself a singular enthusiast, he conceived a great prejudice in my favour, and a vehement desire, as he tells me, that chance might introduce me to his personal acquaintance. It has now indeed accomplished his desire, and in a manner which shews me very forcibly how Providence seems to please itself in rewarding an action of disinterested benevolence. I little thought that the slight services which I rendered to Giuliana would ever procure me such an assistant in an hour of calamity.

As soon as I found that I possessed some unexpected influence on the generous spirit of the old Seignor, I began to exert it in behalf of the too attractive Violante. Upon my making some anxious enquiries and interceding for this lovely delinquent, her noble guardian imparted to me the private anecdote which I have mentioned in the opening of this long epistle, or rather series of epistles. He acquainted me also with his resolution of sending her home to her native city with a handsome provision for her life, and his hope of persuading his young enamoured friend to relinquish the preposterous idea of marrying a beauty whom the most splendid prospect of ambition could not reclaim from the most provoking incontinence. Poor Violante indeed is as frail and false as she is fair. The vehement quarrel between her and the old Seignor, which proved such a snare to me, arose from a very warm expostulation which her noble guardian thought it his duty to utter against a tendency which the lady had discovered to connect herself with a young Frenchman of fashion, whom the cautious Don Manuel had ingeniously contrived to remove in good time from the reach of her attraction. Her quick passions, irritated by this disappointment, had hastily made me the hapless instrument of her revenge. But here I must again drop my pen, not only for ease of posture, but to converse a little with my admirable kind friend and physician Don Manuel.

This noble Portugueze is a very engaging character: but alas! my dear Edmund, how different is the anguish of the wounds under which I am now smarting from that which confined me at Sedley-hall! My sufferings here are my shame; but there I had a delightful pride in every pang. Here is no tender Cornelia, to soothe and console me, to convert pain into transport, by that angelic sensibility and gratitude with which she shewed me how deeply she felt that honourable wound which I received in her service. Ah! my sweet Cornelia, perhaps I shall never see thy lovely compassionate countenance again. Yet, in my mind's eye I behold thee at this moment; yes, I behold thee, angelic as thou art, in all thy radient perfection. The mist of pride and indignation that did thee such cruel injustice is banished from my mind. Oh, Edmund! what an ideot! But I must not indulge this fond emotion of returning tenderness, nor lay thus weeping, like a sick girl, over my own infirmities. I will take a little chearing sustenance, and then endeavour to chat with you my dear Edmund, a little longer, and, if I can, in a more manly style.

I am much revived by a little wine and water, and still more by the blessed intelligence that I shall to-morrow see the long-wished-for Giuliana. I have the additional comfort of being pleased with myself a little for having just passed with some firmness and spirit through a scene that I thought would affect me in my present weak condition much more than it did. Poor Violante, who is just setting forth on her return to Venice, requested to be indulged in a conference with me, for the sake of being assured that I perfectly forgive her for all the severe sufferings which her amorous indiscretion has drawn upon me.— Our interview was very friendly, though not very tender on either side. The half-penitent and half-affrighted girl looked upon me rather with a look of terror than of tenderness, as a man whose death might throw a grievous burthen on her soul. I, on my part, surveyed her with a fixt and serious concern, in reflecting on the sad contrast between the probable misery of her life, and the rare accomplishments that she has received both from nature and from art.— Though every spark of desire was extinguished, as you may well suppose, in my shattered frame, I could not behold her without a kind of fond pity and fresh admiration of her exquisite beauty. These emotions, however, seemed to be confined to my eyes, for my heart was hardened against her insinuating voice by the remembrance of her unnecessary lyes. These were manifold: and as you know how much I despise a lyar in either sex, you will not wonder that they had entirely annihilated my esteem for this alluring fair. While she slowly approached me, I could not help murmuring to myself, in the words of Shakspeare,

That we can call these delicate creatures ours,

And not their appetites!

When she drew nearer, I discerned in her countenance such signs of timidity and compunction as made me eager to relieve her from the dread which I saw she entertained of my death. She threw herself on her knees by the side of a little tent-bed in which they had placed me. and in great agitation implored my forgiveness. You will easily conceive that I said every thing which I thought most likely to tranquillize her spirits; but you will not perhaps imagine that, in giving her my full pardon for all the deceit which she frankly confessed, I gave her also much sober advice.

Grieved as you will be for me, my dear Edmund, I think you will hardly forbear smiling at this picture of your impetuous friend, employed in preaching a sermon upon truth and continence to a Venetian Courtezan.

I preached, I believe (though speaking is very painful to me, as my lungs have been injured), with some energy of language, but I doubt with little effect: I mean, permanent effect on the future life of my fair auditor; for during my oration, which was often interrupted by my pain and difficulty of utterance, the poor trembling Violante professed to regard me as a Heaven inspired oracle of purity and peace. Indeed, Soloman himself was never in a condition to descant more feelingly on the vanity of voluptuousness. I spoke, however, not so much from the impression of present pain as from my long-settled sentiments; for assuredly no man was ever formed with a heart and mind less disposed to play the libertine, no man has a more perfect esteem for the chaste pleasures of genuine love, than I have ever felt, though it has not been my lot to obtain them; and now perhaps—But I will not touch a plaintive string. Violante is gone; and Heaven grant that I may prove, as she told me I should, the means of rescuing her from a course of life, whose first prospect appears to be Paradise, and whose latter stages are Hell, to repeat an expression from my Lecture to this very beautiful and temporary penitent. I am sorry to say that Don Manuel gives me little hope of her lasting reformation.

You would be highly pleased, my dear Edmund, with my noble friend of Portugal. He is wonderfully active for his age, which is full 65, both in body and mind. His eyes still retain all the fire of youth, though he is compleatly emancipated from the imperious folly of that season, and thanks Heaven, he says, like old Sophocles, that he has at length got rid of the wild beast. He considers Love as the transient madness of early life; and thinks it the duty of every man, to whom age has given the secure possession of his senses, to succour all who are labouring under this dangerous delirium. In short, he is one of the most lively, pleasant, and charitable elders, that I ever met with. My particular obligations to him are too great for any words to express. But alas! I am soon to lose the comfort of his society. Some very pressing and private affairs oblige him to revisit his own country with the utmost expedition. I am to be removed this evening to the house of his neighbour, the good courteous aunt of Giuliana, with whom the Seignor is intimately acquainted, and whom he has kindly prepared for my reception. I can write no longer at present; but will add a few lines from my new quarters to-morrow, and then dispatch to you the united fragments of a narration that will, I am afraid, afflict you, philosopher as you are, much more than it ought to do.

What a blessed set of beings are all who are related to Giuliana! Their courtesy is the courtesy of the soul. Here have I been watched half the night by the good old lady under whose roof I am, exactly as if I were her own son. My condition in truth is such as might excite pity in a less gentle bosom; for, bruised and shattered as I am, I make a most sorry spectacle. The motion in removing hither, though rendered as easy as possible, seems to have hurt me not a little; and I am seized now and then with tortures so sharp that I cannot suffer them in silence, though I endeavour to do so. Sad experience, my dear friend, has taught me, ‘That sighs and groans by nature grow on pain.’ I have within me some internal mischief, that my surgeon, who is a Frenchman sent from Rome, either does not comprehend himself, or will not explain honestly to me. I am almost as sick of his shrugs and evasions as of my wounds and bruises. What would I give for half an hour's conference with the sensible, pleasant, plain-speaking Brensil, my honest surgeon at Sedley-hall!—Ah! that dear house, and its divine mistress!—I can proceed no farther without some rest. These tender recollections overwhelm me.

Let me not alarm you, my dear Edmund, by my langor. I shall do very well in time, for my constitution has great soundness and strength. I am much better within these three hours for a sweet slumber; but I must sleep again after writing these five or six lines; for they have given me, I believe a very strong opiate, as my eyes are closing, I perceive, while the pen is yet in my hand.

Oh! joyous waking! I have waked, my dear! d•nund, to find my good angel seated on my bed. Giuliana is arrived. I cannot, I need not add more; for every thing good, every thing medicinal, every thing fraught with hope and comfort, is comprized in these happy words, "Giuliana is arrived."— "But whither are you flying, my too anxious friend? do not leave my chamber yet, I conjure you. Tell me not of rest and sleep. They cannot be so salutary or so delightful to a wretch in pain, as the fight and conversation of my heavenly Giuliana."—She comes again! she is seated by my side! She forbids me to write more! She will address a billet to you herself. Oh, Edmund! what a perfect angel she is! Heavens! how she has talked to me of my Cornelia! With what eloquence, what enthusiastic admiration, has she displayed the merit to which I have been so barbarously blind! How has she made me abhor all my past cruelty and injustice to the dear injured object of our mutual idolatry! But I must resume this animating subject at a calmer season. I am now doubly exhausted by pain and delight. I must lie quiet, and meditate with tears and gratitude on the exquisite angelic tenderness of this incomparable friend. Farewell, my dear Edmund. Pray divulge not my follies or my sufferings till I can speak of them as I ought to the dear circle at Audley-Grove. Heaven bless you and all you regard! Pray write very soon, and tell me, if you can tell me so with truth, that Cornelia has not contracted a contempt for the pride and barbarity of

Your sincere, affectionate, and self-reproaching, SEYMOUR.

LETTER XXVI. FROM GIULIANA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

OH! my good dear English Father Edmund! How surprise, and joy, and pity, and fear, have made your poor Giuliana to tremble! In what a state of body and mind have I •ound my guide, guardian and restorer, your beloved friend Seymour! Good God! if he should not do well! But let me not too much affright my gentle Edmund.—A French surgeon of deep skill assures me our dear Seymour is not in danger to die soon; yet doubts if he s••ll recover. Oh! if ever you can leave dear glorious England for poor Italy, as you once promised, come now, my generous father Edmund; and as dear England produces the best of all good things, bring one of your best Engl•sh surgeons to your beloved friend, whose poor b•dy endures, I can see, more torment than his brave great spirit will confess.

I have still much hope and it does me great good to see how happy he is in having me to come and attend him. He begins to see how hardly he has treated the sweet Cornelia.—Ah! what a divine lady is she! Alas! if she should be destined, like your poor Giuliana, to have her dear idol torn from her by cruel death, and a•l her treasure in Heaven! Yet, my good Edmund, there is a sweet melancholy and secur• delight in this bitter fate; and your true Giuliana would not change her dead love for any liv •ng one in the world. But may the good God 〈◊〉 make your charming couple of friends very •appy together upon earth; and afterwards with me and my dear adored Peverell in Heaven: 〈◊〉 •rays

Your grateful Genoeze daughter, GIULIANA.

Oh! if our dear Lucy would come with you, and bring the lovely injured angel Cornelia • Genoa!—How happy should we be to meet yo• under our own roof! and how delightful•• should we all unite together to make a speech perfect cure of the engaging, penitent, Seymour! When I said this to him, he replied, "No—it must not be. He felt he had deserves such kindness so little, that it would rather 〈◊〉 than revive him." His own words. But I know better and say again, "My dear Luc•• come and bring Cornelia, if you can. T•• good God bless you both! Encor adio,

LETTER XXVII. FROM SEYMOUR TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

ALIVE! Alive! my dear Edmund. But how can you, who know how much I live on that sweet food of the heart, good tidings from those I love, how can you suffer me to be so long without a letter from England! If the dear injured Cornelia has banished me from her mind, you, my faithful Edmund, will have only thought of me the more. But I am again injuring by my wild conjectures the divinest of women, who forgets every injury, and chronicles every benefit, in a heart as pure and perfect as the records of Heaven!—Yet why, my dear Edmund, are you silent so long? This unusual silence, in a correspondent so tenderly attentive to your absent friend as you have ever seen, fills me with a thousand fears. Some evil must have happened either to yourself, or to some one very dear to you.—No; my good consoling angel, Giuliana will not have it so. She says, the foreign posts are ill-conducted, and letters from dear England (her constant expression when she mentions our country) are frequently lost. oh, Edmund! this truly angelic comforter will not follow me to have a secret pain of mind or body that she can possibly prevent. I must •••bble volumes to you, if I attempted to give ••u a full idea of half what she has said and done 〈◊〉 preserve my life, and make it worth preservation. I am made indeed a new creature in many points by the tender vigilance and exert•ons of this heavenly attendant. Oh, Edmund! 〈◊〉 I recover—But why should I alarm you with •n if, when I am almost able to tell you that I 〈◊〉 recovered.—Within the six days that I have n•w been watched and cherished by my good 〈◊〉, for as such I must ever regard our dear G•uliana, I have made considerable advances ••wards health of body, and still more towards •ealth of mind. The most dismal appearances of my contusion are passed away; and though I am not perfectly free from internal pain at particular times, yet I can now not only stretc• myself out to my full length, which I could no• at first do without torture, but I can walk a l•ttle without appearing to suffer from motion.— The kind Giuliana has had a consultation o• surgeons, that she might indulge me in w•• (which I feel with an extreme solicitude that I cannot perfectly account for) of being remove• immediately to Genoa. My good old friend Pinelli, who is very anxious to have me un•• his own roof, is almost as eager for my removal •s I am; and I confess I am eager for it to a degree perhaps of childish impatience. I cannot bear to trouble any longer the very kind, but infirm, old lady of this mansion. Whethe• my destiny be life or death (and I thank God! I can abide the doubtful issue without any perturbations of unmanly terror), I most zealously wish to receive the appointment of Heaven in the house of the Pinellis, where I shall feel myself perfectly at home, and in the arms of a father and a sister to whom my heart is gratefully attached, and in whose presence I can most will •ngly meet either the pleasures of returning health or the awful though undreaded pangs o• d•ssolution. The kind Seignor has been very •••fy in making preparations, with the sanction of three surgeons, for my speedy removal. We are to travel partly by water, and partly by land; and every possible convenience is provided for •y safety and comfort. Oh, Edmund! I am overwhelmed with the sense of my unutterable ob•ig•tions to these dear and excellent friend. Pray assist me by expressing in your letters our ••••ed gratitude for all their goodness.—Write to me, I conjure you, the moment you receive this, and direct to Genoa. On the day that I arrive there, I will not fail to tell you how I have supported the removal. You have now my permission to mention my illness, but in such a manner as to awaken only a tender interest, and not a painful anxiety, in the feeling bosom of Cornelia. Alas! I have given that gentle bosom too much pain already. Whether I shall ever have the power to atone for that pain, as my heart and soul are desirous of making the atonement, Heaven only knows. Hope the best, my dear Edmund; and believe me, with our united good wishes to dear England, to use Giuliana's comprehensive words,

Ever your sincere and affectionate. SEYMOUR.

LETTER XXVIII FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER

MY VERY DEAR CHARLES,

IT was a good angel indeed (as Lucy said) that prompted you to engage me in this distant expedition. Had I not visited Italy, little, alas! would my chance have been of ever beholding the interesting countenance of our dear incons•derate Seymour again. Even now, when I am arrived at Genoa, I know not whether I may yet see him alive. It is with the deepest anguish of heart I inform you, that I find him not in this city, and here he is slowly travelling •ither, very grievously wounded by some hor ••d casualty, the particulars of which I am unable to learn; it is yet a great comfort to me to know that he is under the immediate care of our dear Giuliana and her excellent father.

I have been interrupted, just as I was beginning to pour out to you all the dark anxiety of a dejected spirit, by a most welcome, unexpected, and for some time unknown visitor. As we unluckily possess but little of each other's language, our conversation has passed more in gesture than in words. Our hearts, however, being both full of the same ardent wishes, understood each other completely; and mine has caught new life and hope from the honest affectionate creature, who laboured to the utmost of his power to inspire me with both.

This agreeable enlivening visitor is Pietro, the good old servant of Signor Pinelli, whose name and character you will recollect in Seymour's interesting account of Giuliana's return to the house of her father. The active Pietro had hastened to Genoa, to prepare all things at home for the reception of his family and their dear wounded fellow-traveller. The honest fellow, who did not quit them till they had passed through considerably more than half their journey, assures me that Seymour supports it to admiration, to use his own forcible expression. He seems, indeed, to think so highly of our friend's noble 〈◊〉, that I believe he hardly reckons him a 〈◊〉. At least, he will not allow me to har ••ur the grievous apprehension under which I began my letter, that our friend may not reach Genoa alive. Pietro protests that I shall see him much recovered to-morrow. Indeed the kind •ll•w offered, on seeing all my terror and anxi•t•, to set off with me again directly, though he is but just arrived, and escort me to surprize my friend on his way But this I would not think of for various reasons, especially as it is now evening, and the travellers are to come by water from Lerici, to avoid the mountain.

I have acquiesced, however, in another proposal of the good Pietro's, because it seemed as i• I should break the honest fellow's heart if I re •••ed his request. This is, to remove immediately from my inn, where I am now writing, and sleep under the roof of his master. He says, "he could never look in the face of the angel•c Giuliana again, if he suffered her dear English father (as I find she constantly calls me) to r•ma•n in any house but hers. There is a mixture of simplicity and energy in the manners of this affectionate old domestic that delights me ex••edingly. The comfortable hope which he has taught me to cherish has made me so partial to 〈◊〉, that I shall very willingly put myself under his direction, as I am convinced the Pinelli's will be particularly pleased to find me waiting to receive them in their own mansion. I will not, however, detain this paper to add an account of their arrival; but seize the departing post in my e•g••ness to send you most speedily this promising account; which I am the more anxious to do, because I think it probable that you have been alarmed by some history of the mischance, the particulars of which I tried in vain to collect from Pietro, who yet seemed, I thought, to know more than he chose to communicate even to me, though I have the honour of standing very high in his good opinion. I shall lay down my pe• in the chearful hope of resuming it to-morrow, to begin such a history as you will most wish to receive. Perhaps, my dear Charles, the painful incident, whatever it may prove, which has made me tremble for the life of my engaging friend, may ultimately be what you call a blessing in disguise; one of those heaven-directed events which lead us through transient affliction to lasting comfort, as some inundation• very richly repay by permanent fertility the ravage of an hour.

The recent alarm which I have suffered for Seymour absorbed my thoughts so entirely that I have said little of myself. I will not, however, close my letter, without confessing to you, my dear brother, what I know you will hear with fraternal satisfaction. I begin to think myse•f an example of your maxim, that to a mind disposed to sarcastic sceptici•m nothing is so salutary as a sudden unexpected blow on the heart. Mine has bled indeed from the wound it received so suddenly in England, much more than I thought it could have done from a wound of that kind. But I now perceive that I wanted the correction; and I trust it is sufficient. Heaven preserve my friend! Let me not run into a melancholy key, just in the moment when I intended to close with a very chearful adieu! A thousand thanks to you all for your extreme kindness to my dear little Fanny; pray give her a parental embrace for me, and believe me, dear Charles, with the most fervent good wishes to all around you,

Your very grateful and affectionate brother.

LETTER XXIX. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

AT length, my dear brother, they are arrived; and never did any meeting of anxious and grateful friends more abundantly call forth the tears of tenderness and delight, mingled, alas! on my part with the keenest sensations of pity and of terror.—I will not attempt, my dear Charles, to chear you with any hopes that I feel not myself; and I am therefore under the painful necessity of telling you, that the grievously altered appearance of our friend alarms me in the greatest degree! Heavens! what a deplorable change in his gay and gallant figure has this •orrible calamity produced! His florid cheeks are grown as pale and hollow as the very image of death, his whole frame emaciated and feeble. — Yet his native chearfulness and good temper appear unimpaired; and there is a look of intellectual vigour in his countenance, superior, I think, to what I ever observed in his most healthy days, though intelligence was at all times the characterist•c of his features. We can easily account indeed for his being so extremely reduced, as he has taken no sustenance but liquids, and those only in small quantity, since the horrible mischance. Whenever he has ventured on the smallest portion of solid food, even of the simplest kind, his cough and pain became almost insupportable. But I will not speak farther on this point at present, as I am resolved to draw up his case in the most circumstantial manner that I possibly can, and enclose it in this letter, entreating you to send us Brensil's opinion upon it immediately, and desiring him to let that opinion be followed by others, which I request him to procure from those persons in London whom he would himself wish to consult. They tell me here, that I am too much alarmed; that I do not make suff•cient allowance for the depressive and fearful effect which a sudden sight of the great alteration in his figure has produced on my ••vious spirits. They say that time alone, ass••t•d by Seymour's very fine natural constitution, at his period of life, would undoubtedly accomplish a cure. But as the injury sustained was extensive and complicated, the cure must be a work of considerable time. Heaven grant that the•e hop•ful conjectures, in which the warm-hearted Giuliana and her father have much greater confidence than I have, may prove justly founded! At all events we shall try every possible expedient to restore him; and at present even I, with all my fears, must allow there is no immediate sign of impending death.

I have quitted my paper to take a fresh view of this dear, interesting patient, and have this instant left him under the care of his good angel, as he calls Giuliana, who is reading to him some chapters of St. John, from her Italian Bible. I have prevented his answering your very kind letter to-day, which he wanted to do. It affected him so much, that he dropt tears of gratitude on every page of it; and, having perused the whole with great but silent emotion, he gave it to Giuliana, with the following expressive words, and a look still more expressive: "Here, my good angel! here is a letter that you will read with delight, because it was dictated by a spirit as angelic as your own." Giuliana did not think less favourably of the writer; and you will give me credit, my dear Charles, for the joy I felt in hearing praise most cordially bestowed on a brother whom I have every reason to love. But my best way of th•nking you for all your kindness to my friend will be, to pursue the purpose for which I resumed my pen, and to give you as good an account as I can of our meeting here, and of such conversation as we have hitherto held together.

My eagerness to salute the travellers with a welcome they little expected, made me loiter yesterday for some hours by the water-side, till Pietro, finding me faint and almost sick with expectation and anxiety, persuaded me to retire for refreshment, and wait to receive them at home, promising to tell them nothing more than that an English gentleman was arrived with letters, as I wished to have the pleasure of surprizing them. I had refreshed myself, and endeavoured to beguile the anxious minutes in the Seignor's very noble library, where taking up a volume of Metastasio, I had just thrown my nerves into a very tender vibration by his sweet description of Friendship in the opera of Olimpiade, when the dear friend, for whom I waited so anxiously arrived.

Having heard that a gentleman from England was waiting in the library, Giuliana darted first into the room, with that celerity of motion which quick affections inspire. "O Heaven! exclaimed the lovely enthusiast, it is my dear father, Edmund!" So saying, she threw herself into my arms in a transport of gratitude; "This is kind indeed, she continued; it is almost a miracle: surely you cannot have received my letter?" "No, my angelic daughter." "And have not you heard of our poor Seymour's sad accident?" "Yes I have." "Then surely, my dear Edmund, you are a magician, and have some secret art of knowing what happens to your absent friends, and some supernatural method of conveying yourself to comfort them in distress. Bless the good Spirits who have brought you to the house of your far distant child, just in the moment when she most wanted you to assist her in restoring your favourite friend!" Here she embraced me with fresh emotions of truly filial delight. But recollecting how I must be shocked at the dreadful alteration in the countenance of her dear patient, she was beginning to prepare me for a sight of him, when his emaciated figure appeared slowly creeping through the half-open door. Giuliana had supposed him to be resting himself in another apartment; but his quick ears had caught the sound of Edmund on her first lively exclamation, and he had followed her as fast as his infirm and painful condition would allow him to do. The first sight of me affected him so much, that I believe he would have fainted, if I had not sprung forward, and supported his languid frame in my arms. He fell on my neck, and burst into tears; but soon recovered himself enough to express the most lively joy on my arrival. He declared, with his usual kindness and warmth, that my society would do him more good than all the surgeons in Europe; and that now he had a perfect assurance of a speedy cure, provided, said the affectionate invalid with a look of anxious enquiry, that you can truly tell me you have left all the dear circle well at Audley-grove. "All well, I replied, or very nearly so, I can assure you, and the circle as numerous as it was, for I have sent Lucy to fill the vacancy made by the return of the young Louisa to Ireland." "What happy chance then, my dear Edmund, conducted you hither; for you must have quitted England, I think, before the news of my calamity could have reached it? "O, he is certainly a magician, as I have told him, said the smiling Giuliana. He has conveyed himself to us in a very marvellous manner to-day, and to-morrow, I suppose, by a flourish of his wand, he will transport even the divine Cornelia into this apartment; and then, my dear patient, he will have doubly ratified your cure." "Not so, indeed, my good angel, cried Seymour with a ghastly smile. If your magician were to exhibit such a proof of his art at th•s season, instead or restoring he would utterly demolish me. There is nothing that I could so ill sustain as unmerited kindness from the injured object of my idolatry, before I have had time to make any kind of expiation." Oh! exclaimed the quick Giuliana, I love you for your ideas of expiation; but, if the dear magician can set the idol before us, I will answer for it that all past injuries shall be soon expiated and soon forgiven. This, I trust, we shall see in due time: at present it would be wrong perhaps to make such rapid and encroaching demands on so kind a magician. He has already done much for me; and the blessed hour is now come, in which I may in my turn afford him perhaps the very pleasure which his heart is most eager to receive." "Oh! my dear Edmund, continued the lovely enthusiast with an air of more serious delight, I cannot rest another moment without informing you that the cruel impediment is removed. We have only to restore the health of this dear invalid, to confer upon your divine Cornelia all the happiness she deserves." "You delight me indeed, said I, pressing her hand in a transport of religious joy; and I am thoroughly sensible what thanks are due to our good angel for so blessed an event." "Oh! my good English father, repl••d my lovely and most grateful hostess, how often have I hoped that Heaven would indulge me with some opportunity of expressing my gratitude to you in person! Did Seymour tell you, after he had conducted your poor broken-hearted Giuliana to her distant home; did he tell you how often and how vainly I argued with man in our travels? did he mention one evening in particular (it was at Avignon) when my anxiety for his salvation had shaken my very soul? I threw myself on my knees, and addressing the spirit of my dear sainted Peverell, I prayed most fervently that in some period of my life I might have the blessing to behold my generous, misguided friend and protector, awakened to a just and timely knowledge of that God whom my dear departed love had taught me to worship with rational adoration! That prayer, my dear Edmund, that fervent prayer was heard. You may now tell the most severely-tried and the most meritorious of women, that all the cruel conflict in her bosom may cease for ever. You may tell the incomparable Cornelia, that she may now indulge without a scruple all the exquisite tenderness of her heart, for the God whom she has served so f••thfully, gives a sanction to her love."

"But where is my other father?" cried the lovely enthusiast, recollecting that I had not yet been the old Seignor. "Oh, Edmund! it has pl••ded Heaven to bless me also by an equal •••ange in his spirit: though it has not been my destiny, as I wished, to pass my life with my dear Peverell, yet my pure love for that most perfect of mortals has proved a source, I trust, of eternal blessedness, not only to my own soul, but to others as dear to me as my own." Here she darted a smile of devout chearfulness on Seymour, and after charging him not to hurt himself by conversing too eagerly with me, she left us to ourselves, and went in quest of her father.

"What a perfect angel she is! cried Seymour to me as our dear hostess withdrew. Oh, Edmund! I am convinced that your calm and boasted Philosophy is but a plausible cheat; and that Sentiment and Honour, the more eagerly-followed guides of my early life, are no better than luminous vapours to a benighted mind that lead it we know not whither. Your brother, my dear friend, is assuredly in the right. It is Religion alone, as he says, that can give solid value and real permanent lustre to human life. It is Religion alone that can remove danger from prosperity, and anguish from affliction. Let me conjure you, my dear friend, to contemplate the beneficent efficacy of this principle in this angelic conduct and heavenly state of mind that you will find more and more reason to admire in Giuliana; and if an opposite example may be also instructive, I need not point it out to my dear Edmund's attention. But on this subject we shall both, I trust, have leisure for much private discourse, when talking will be more easy to me. Let me now enquire into a point that fills me with a most uncomfortable alarm; the letters that I have lately written to you. I would not for the universe have them fall into the hands of the dear injured Cornelia. Yet, if Lucy opens them, she, in the simple, affectionate frankness of her heart—I interrupted him, to quiet this fear; and assured him his letters would be perfectly safe in your hands, as you have the most tender solicitude to keep the gentle spirit of Cornelia as free from all painful agitation as it can be kept after all that has passed. He was perfectly satisfied with this assurance, and spoke of you with the most cordial esteem, gratitude, and confidence. He then questioned me very closely on the immediate cause of my expedition. I told him all that I have recently suffered; dwelling, my dear Charles, with particular satisfaction on the great comfort you afforded me in my distress, and your invaluable kindness to my dear little Fanny. We were both affected too vehemently in the course of my sad story, and I was afraid that the extreme sympathy of my tender-hearted friend might be very injurious to him in his present weak state. But he assured me to the contrary; and I observed with pleasure that my mournful narrative considerably encreased that religious turn of mind which I have mentioned in our friend, and which, as I know, my dear Charles, it is the great object of your benevolent wishes, I am desirous of displaying to you exactly as it shewed itself to me.

Just as I had finished my melancholy tale, we were agreeably relieved from the sad impression it made upon us, by the entrance of the majestic Pinelli and his incomparable daughter. I never beheld a scene of joy so touching as the joy of Giuliana, in introducing her two fathers, as she calls us, to each other. Indeed my vanity, or I may rather say the honest pride of my heart, was never more gratified than by the many kind and grateful things that were laid to me on this occasion. As to Giuliana, her delight seemed to have in it something supernatural; placing herself between us, as I and the Seignor stood together, she clasped us in her lovely arms with a graceful energy of gesture peculiar to herself, and her fine face became indeed as radiant as the face of an angel. There was a circumstance that I have not yet mentioned, which completed the plenitude other joy. Her noble father having conducted his infirm guest and his daughter to his own door, stept without imparting his design to them to the neighbouring house of a very old medical friend, who lives retired from business, and is only consulted as an oracle upon great emergencies. The answer of this oracle to the point on which he was consulted inspired the benevolent Pinelli with the most lively hopes of our dear friend▪s during well; and the forcible manner in which the zealous Giuliana imparted to us this intelligence added not a little to the general felicity of the moment.

You will allow me, my dear Charles, to close my long, though hasty letter, with this animating pressage; Heaven grant it may be true! At all events you may depend on receiving fresh intelligence very soon. In the mean time I submit it entirely to your superior judgment and tenderness to communicate as much or as little as you think proper of this information to our very tender and interesting Cornelia. Accept and distribute to all around you the ardent good wishes of this house, and particularly those, my dear Charles, of

Your very grateful and affectionate EDMUND.

LETTER XXX. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

IT was very kind and considerate in you, my dear Edmund, to send me so speedy a letter from Genoa, without waiting for the arrival of your expected friends. I had indeed, according to your conjecture, been alarmed in no moderate degree, by an account of Seymour's misfortune, which he had addressed to you. The privilege of perusing the letters which have arrived in your absence has cost me dear: they have filled me with inquietude the more painful, because it was such as I felt myself under a necessity of confining to my own bosom. I could not venture to impart this alarming accident either to Lucy or Harriot, as neither would have had the power of keeping such a secret from the piercing eyes of our anxious Cornelia, whose affections have so quickened her senses, that I could hardly trust myself, with so agitating a secret in my bosom, within the reach of their scrutiny.

I am grown, however, less fearful, since I have been comforted by the lively hopes of the honest Pietro, and still more by the last letter addressed to you from Seymour. There is a passage in this letter which inspires me with the most delightful of all expectations; I mean, a happy change in the religious sentiments of our friend, which, if his life is out of danger, as I trust it is, will ensure to him that felicity in marriage which we are all so eager to see him attain. As to the present state of our dear Cornelia's affections, I shall enable you to form a perfect idea of them, by imparting to you a few particulars of our private conversation. She is eager to seize all opportunities of chatting with me alone, on the flattering pretence that she draws from my conversation the power of correcting the infirmities of her own tender mind, but in truth (though I believe she is not aware of this motive) to indulge herself in conversing on her favourite topic, and to draw from me all the intelligence she can. As we were yesterday alone together, and engaged on our perpetual theme, I said to her, "Now, my gentle friend, as there is a lovely frank simplicity in your nature, infinitely superior to the artificial reserve of your sex, tell me candidly which would give you most pain, to hear that Seymour was dead or married." She started at my idea; and after the pause of a moment replied, "This is a cruel question indeed; but I will be as frank as you desire, and tell you that my mind immediately proclaims one answer, and my heart mutters another. Married! No! Distract me not with such an idea. Yet what right, what reason have I—Oh! my good Audley, why will you shew me to myself in such a hateful point of view! My Friend, my Guardian, my Director, clear my heart, I conjure you, if you can, from all these wild excesses of a hopeless passion, whose tyranny and injustice I perceive and detest." Here she pressed my hand in an agony of tears that made me reproach myself for the idle barbarity of my question, though I hoped to make her ample compensation for all the pain it occasioned. But before I had time to do so, "Heavens! exclaimed the fond sufferer, what a hideous insight have you given me into my own troubled thoughts! how have you made me abhor the turn of mind that I have lately fallen into, and which I never condemned before, because I never understood the secret cause of it till this moment!" Here my curiosity was very strongly excited. I requested an explanation. "Do not hate me, my good Audley, said this ingenious self-accuser, while I confess to you, I have lately thought it would be a blessing to Seymour, to be taken early from the world. I reasoned thus: At present his life can be stained with no important evil; and he has hitherto employed himself in generous, munificent, and charitable deeds. In such a character surely Heaven will either pardon his youth the unintended crime of incredulity, or in closing his existence reveal to him in a merciful hour those important truths to which he has hitherto been so unhappily blind. But if his days are prolonged under the tyranny of those proud and disppointed passions which have driven him abroad, what calamities may ensue, what a horrid change may be wrought in his noble nature! Thus under the idea of securing his everlasting welfare, my fond and feverish imagination has been sometimes inclined to hurry him from the earth. But you have shewn me the hideous source of these ideas. I now feel for the first time, that they sprung from a corrupted heart, labouring under a secret horror of beholding this object, so cruelly dear to me, the husband of another. Oh! Audley, is it possible that Love, which boasts of being the most disinterested, the most generous of all the passions, can be the most selfish of all? If it is, may I henceforth be alive only to that parental affection which partakes or the purity, though not the peace of Heaven▪ You flatter me on the resolution with which I have tried to discharge the great duty of a mother; but I am willing to shew you all the unworthiness which lurks in the spirit you have flattered, that I may the better engage you to assist me in correcting it. Aid me, I beseech you, with those stronger powers of mind, where have given such envied tranquillity to your life. Help me to eradicate from my bosom a weakness so tormenting, so disgraceful; and make me f•• my own comfort and your credit, more deserving of your praise." She uttered the last sentence with a tear and a smile that doubly en¦deared to me the tender frankness of her hear How I thought it best to tranquillize her agitated spirit, you will easily guess. To an enamoured woman, a particle of hope is of more not value than a ton of reason; and as I had so•e good and honest hope to give, I bestowed it or my gentle friend with particular delight, what I assured her that I had solid grounds for believing that Seymour had lately resolved never to form a connexion with any other woman, He soft and sad features became almost as radient• ever. I mentioned his accident very slightly and as a mere trifle. It alarmed her, howe¦ver, considerably; but I gradually dissip••• that alarm, and finally dismissed our love friend from this private conference, very visibly cheared and enlivened. Having rendered this pleasing little service to a fervent though unwillingly votary of Love, let me perform another, equally pleasing, for a certain parent, who, though new to me in that character, is not the less interesting for such novelty. Let me assure you, my dear Edmund, that your sweet little Fanny is grown, not only dear to us on her own account, but as much at home as if she had been educated here from her cradle. You would be diverted, as I am, to see what rivals Cornelia, Lucy, and Harriot, are, for the highest place in her affection. I am convinced, however, this distinction belongs completely to Cornelia, and from a cause which does honour to the heart of the dear little damsel. She has observed the air of melancholy and mental, or rather cordial distress, which is often visible in the sweet countenance of Cornelia; and this has awakened her early sympathy, and made the tender Fanny attach herself peculiarly to the widow. She is, however, as sprightly and playful as you would wish her to be; and to give you our idea of her character in a few words (which I should tell you are the words of Lucy), she has all your engaging qualities without one of your foibles.

I am obliged to bid you hastily farewell; but I do so with the less regret, as I hope to receive to morrow or next day the confirmation of our hopes, and to tell you immediately with what joy that confirmation is received by

Your affectionate brother.

P. S. My Three Graces, as I sportively call them, salute you with every kind wish; and commission you, not only to bring Seymour home to us as soon as you can, but the noble Seignor and Giuliana, to whom you are desired to say for us every thing that is friendly.

LETTER XXXI. FROM SEYMOUR TO CHARLES AUDLEY.

MOST truly and most successfully, my dear Audley, have you followed a sublime precept of the Religion which you so happily profess. You have indeed overcome evil by good. In reading the letter which you so generously sent me by our dear unexpected Edmund, I know not which was the stronger, my sense of your extreme kindness, or of my own demerit. How indulgent, how parental, has your conduct been towards me! and how ungrateful the return that I have hitherto made to such favours! But my hour of retribution is come, not only towards you, my dear ill-treated friend, but towards that bright injured angel whose exquisite perfections you so nobly endeavour to impress upon my heart. I have, perhaps, towards her ‘Beyond atonement sinn'd;’ or I should rather say, that Heaven will probably, with great justice, preclude me from an earthly blessing, whose real value I have been so slow to understand and acknowledge.

You will undoubtedly have a faithful account from Edmund, who is all kindness and attention to me, of my real apparent situation: but you cannot hear from him what I think it best to conceal at present from the infinitely tender and too anxious friends who surround me; I mean, my own strong persuasion, not only that I shall never behold dear England again, but that I shall drop this poor early-tattered vestment of mortality much sooner than my friendly attendants here will allow themselves to imagine. Nor should I, my dear Audley, imparts this idea to you, had I not observed with what peculiar justice and felicity you have long estimated life and death. For my own part, I am thankful to my Creator that timidity has never been characteristic of my frame. When my mind was in utter darkness concerning futurity. I was a stranger to the dread of dissolution; and since that blessed Power, to whom I was blind too long, has illuminated my spirit with his promise of a superior existence, since he has allowed me (to use the words of a great living Poet who is rich in religious eloquence)

A flight into his arms

••e yet mortality fine threads give way,

I feel doubly confirmed in the idea, and in the sensation, that Death is the last thing which mortal ought to sear. Yet how many objects my dear Audley, now press upon my fan•• that might render earth for some years a para¦dise to me! With what delight should I bend myself seated once again in that circle of perfect benevolence, your hospitable mansion, awakened as I now am to a full sense of all the 〈◊〉 merit by which it is ennobled! with what trans¦port should I receive from your friendly has that inestimable treasure which you have wi•• such generous ardour excited me to deserve Oh! my dear friend, the being must be de•• to every fine emotion of the heart, who would not wish to live, while earthly bliss of such purity and lustre seems to solicit his enjoyment. I wish indeed—but I have learned at last to submit the most presum tuous of my wishes is the will of Him "in whom we live and more and have our being."

How, just my dear Audley, was that mo•∣tory remark of yours, which I once refused is admit, that pride was the great source of all m• errors, and all my infelicity! You allowed, • remember, it was a generous pride; and so ••∣deed it was in its appearance, but not in its effects. I entered young into splendid life, hea•∣thy, opulent, uncontrouled; conscious that my heart was free from every malevolent and every mean propensity, I trusted entirely to the native impulse of an ardent and affectionate spiri• I thought that Honesty and Honour, to whom felt myself inviolably attached, were unexception¦able and sufficient guides for my conduct. As early insight into the despicable characters • some unworthy priests gave me a strong prejudice against Religion. I felt no attraction towards a faith, whose ministers of every sect appeared to me as a band of intellectual gladiators; who seemed to have done the very thing which a certain Philosopher, with a benevolent sarcasm recommended to the Athenians, and as a preliminary to their conflicts, to have pulled down the altar of mercy. We agreed, I remember, on this point, my dear Audley when you were so good as to converse with me so patiently (and, alas! to so little good effect at that time) on the sources of incredulity: we agreed, that the ferocity of Christian Divines to each other is a common and extensive source of Laical Irrelig•on. How can a youth who has never studied h•• Bible, expect quiet and comfort from the Go•pel, when he sees those who preach it very furiously mangling their brethren, like the savage rebels of Scotland who were routed by the gallant Montrose, and who used for their word of battle, "Jesus and no Quarter?" I am convinced by my own past feelings on the subject, that no source of Infidelity is more powerful than this. It has pleased Heaven to correct in a very pa•ticular manner those early prejudices of my mind which I have still such singular reason to lin•ent. I have beheld the beneficial influence or Religion one of its most striking examples; I have seen it not only bind up the broken heart o• Giuliana, but confer upon her an angelic serenate, sweetness, and strength of mind, which under her cruel calamity, nothing else could have given her; it has enabled her not only to ••bdue the most depressive of passions in her own t••••n, but to new-mould the heart and spirit of an exasperated and worldly-minded father; and finally, my dear Audley, it has enabled her ••∣accomplish that conversion which has been it much the object of your friendly desires. Her• far the bodily anguish, the shame, and the disgust, which I have felt in reflecting on some recent occurrences, may have contributed to this event, I will not attempt to examine. ‘A Fever argues better than a Clarke,’ is a sensible and spirited line of Young's, that you quoted to me, I remember, in expressing a hope that you might one day see our dear ••∣mund also converted; a fraternal hope, which, i• must tell you, my good Audley, is even now as the point of being fulfilled, and which, if it is as I believe my destiny to die soon, I most sincerely pray that my death may complete. F•• my own part, at the earnest request of our angelic Giuliana, I have devoted the daily leisure of an invalid, to hear and meditate on the Gospel. It has been very assiduously preached to me by this lovely and eloquent preacher, whose owe life affords so strong an argument in its f•∣vour; it has entered into my heart and soul by listening deliberately to the New Testament, I am indeed completely persuaded that Christ • the true Ambassador of God! I require no other c•edentials than his own affecting history, with the marvellous power of his precepts, to militate against every evil by which human nature our be assailed, and to counteract all the agents • darkness. After a cool and cand•d, though brief comparison of Philosophy and Revelation, I f••l most strongly impressed with the idea that no being could have delivered a system of instruction so perfectly adapted as the Gospel is to all the weaknesses and wants of man, except a personage inspired and commissioned by his Creator. If I examine the conduct of individuals, or of communities, I perceive that every abuse of Christianity, every deviation from its primary precepts, is attended either by misery or peril. If I search into my own bosom, I find the fullest internal proof that Christianity alone (as you, my dear Audley, once said with so much kindness and truth) can supply me with a proper corrective for the constitutional impetuosity of my spirit, and an antidote to the poison of my own presumptuous and delusive imaginations. I am not afraid of tiring you on this subject, because I know all the warmth and all the tenderness of your friendly zeal. As I have formerly given you much pain by uttering the prouder sentiments of my misguided spirit, I am the more solicitous to shew you at present how truly I stand corrected; though, alas! for our temporal happiness this correction is come too late. Ah! my dear Audley, must I give you so hard a proof of the strength and sincerity of my new faith, as to resign without a murmur that inestimable blessing, which you, in exhorting me to subdue my incredulous pride, so generously proposed to me as an incentive and a reward? Must I expire without a benediction from that offended angel Cornelia? without expressing to her with my own lips the perfect homage of my corrected heart? and without receiving from hers a single, tender kiss of reconcilement, peace, and pardon?

Perhaps it is better that I cannot be indulged in so fond an inclination; perhaps it is ordained so by that God of Mercy whom I acknowledge and obey, in compassion to that dear and deep sufferer: shaken as her health has been by the barbarity of my frantic love, she could not now support the anguish of such a personal adieu.—No, my divine Cornelia, I will not wish to soften even the pangs of death by an indulgence that might prove so injurious to thy lovely frame.—Let me rather strive to emulate thy perfection, and make the fondest emotion of my heart submit with resignation to the will of that God to whom thou hast adhered with a tenderness, truth, and fortitude, so angelic. Oh! thou most exquisite of women! my proud spirit, which once insulted thee so cruelly, now does thee full justice. Thy triumph is complete —my heart at this moment idolizes thee more than ever, and at the same time I revere thee in my soul. Thy sister-angel Giuliana yields the palm to thee; that generous admirer of thy excellence, if I commend her as a striking example of religious virtue, will hardly allow that she has any merit compared to my Cornelia. "I have done nothing, she says, which I did not learn to do from the man I adored; and perhaps his pure spirit has ministered to my support. If I attached myself to God, it was in the hope and the conviction that He would lead me to my love.—How different, how superior, is the heavenly perfection of your Cornelia, who, in a trial the most excruciating that could be devised for a bosom so tender, tore herself from the idol of her heart, and adhered to Heaven!"—Such is the affectionate applause that our lovely foreigner bestows on the unseen Cornelia! How would she speak of her, were she as thoroughly acquainted with the enchanting graces of her person, as with the purity of her conduct!—To you, my dear Audley, who know it so well, it seems superfluous to speak of my Cornelia's perfection; but it is the paramount subject of my thoughts; and as I am writing to you most probably for the last time, I restrain not my pen, but pour out every idea as it arises in my mind—it is time however, both for your sake and my own, to close this long letter.—Farewell, my indulgent, my generous friend: if it prove my lot, as I am more and more persuaded it must, never to clasp again your benevolent hand, let me live in your remembrance! Think of me, I need not say kindly, for kindness is the characteristic both of your temper and your religion!—Let me intreat you, though I feel indeed that such a request is unn•cessary (yet, to relieve my own heart, let me entreat you) to break by all your gentle and friendly address the shock of my unexpected death to Cornelia. I know, pure angel as she is, I know that I am very dear to her; and even now, while my life is rapidly vanishing away, I feel a delicious pride in that knowledge, which, however short my existence may be, I would not relinguish for the world. I am aware that her affection for me must produce on this occasion no trifling anguish in her tender bosom; but that anguish will be blended with more permanent delight, the delight of reflecting on our mutual love, not only without those cruel pangs of terror and remorse which have hitherto attended such reflection, but with hopes as firm as the veracity of Heaven, in whose beatitude I am confident we shall finally be united. I will employ my last hour on earth, if I have strength to do so, in bidding her farewell.—If I have not, you, my dear Audley, will remember my intention, and sooth her sorrow for me, by every testimony of my love —you, my friend, will be a better guardian than I could have been to her two charming boys. Let not the brave little heart of the heroic William forget me utterly; but recall me now and then, I beseech you, to his tender recollection. What exquisite delight I might have had in training this noble-minded child into that engaging, accomplished, manly character, which I trust, for his own and his lovely parents sake, he is destined to form; but I have not indeed deserved such delight. The justice, and I should say, perhaps, the wisdom of Providence assigns me a very different fate. Yet I feel for this dear, interesting boy; who will have all the quick sensibility of his mother, with all the fire of his own sex; I feel for him at this moment the most poignant parental solic•tude. I am forcibly struck by an idea that it is possible for me to prove a very useful monitor to him long after I shall have ceased to exist, if I had yet strength enough to execute a design I have conceived. But, alas! my dear Audley! the shades of death are even now gathering round me—the pen drops from my hand; a faintness like dissolution itself begins to steal upon my senses—it is but transient—it comes—it goes—it returns— O! my dear friends! and dearer than every friend, my Cornelia! my heart is not yet chilled; it still embraces you with its native impassioned ardour, and struggles against this death-like langor, that it may bestow upon you all the fervent benediction of

Your truly faithful and affectionate SEYMOUR.

LETTER XXXII. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

ALAS! my dear Charles, what heart-rending scenes have I had to sustain! but they are passed. We have lost that enchanting friend whose heart I verily believe was the warmest and most generous that God ever bestowed upon a mere mortal.—Our beloved Seymour expired yesterday evening. Giuliana and myself had the grievous, yet delightful office, of catching his latest sigh. He died with his head resting on her bosom, and his hand clasped in mine.— No human eye ever beheld a more affecting or more enviable death; it was indeed the death of a true Christian, and such as might induce the most callous Infidel to renounce his Infidelity, and exclaim in a devout triumph,

O Grave, where is thy Victory?

O Death, where is thy Sting?

He had in a most singular degree what he had particularly prayed for the full possession of his faculties to his last moment; indeed they were rather brightened than impaired.— I do not remember to have read of any person except the French Chancellor Seguier, whose intellectual powers appeared with such luminous vigour in the closing hours of life. All the engaging peculiarities of our dear Seymour attended him to the last. His generosity, his courage, his imagination, were never more conspicuous than on the day of his decease — Through the whole course of his malady, he discovered a perfect exemption from that very common and pitiable selfishness, which is so apt, even in noble characters, to spring up with disease, and contaminate the closing scene of many honourable lives. So far from feeling the timidity of an invalid, and being anxious to spare himself, he considerably encreased his bodily sufferings, and accelerated perhaps, in some degree, his last moment, by his repeated exertions in writing, from which we found it impossible to restrain him. His long reply to your kind letter he intended to dispatch to you immediately; but after he had sealed it, he changed his mind, and begged me to enclose it with a short billet (which he hoped, he said, to write to Cornelia,) in the first packet that I should send you upon his death; besides these letters, he has written others which affected him very much, but he took particular pains that I might not know to whom they are addressed; a reserve which surprizes me the more, because he has fully talked to me on the disposition of all his extensive property, and appointed me his executor. He insisted on writing his own will, which is by no means a short one; and it was indeed to the dear invalid a work of considerable labour and pain. He has fully displayed in it all the tenderness and magnanimity of his corrected spirit. I am persuaded that he has not omitted a single person who had any claim, however inconsiderable, to his remembrance; at present, however, I will only mention to you a few of his bequests.—After giving his landed and patrimonial estate to his namesake and legal heir, with expressions of regard and esteem, he disposes of his personal effects, which are various and valuable. To Cornelia he gives only a picture of himself, and the watch he wore; but he assigns a considerable sum, from which he requests her to take annually an hundred pounds on the birthday of her eldest son, and bestow this sum, or more if she thinks proper, as a marriage portion on the most meritorious humble pair within the wide circle of her patronage. To her eldest son he bequeaths a casket of jewels, which he has sealed up himself, and which is not to be opened till the period fixed for its delivery, the day when young Sedley shall be of age, a day which the testator desires me and Lucy, if we are alive, to assist in celebrating at Sedley-Hall. I believe this legacy is of very singular value. Most of these rare gems belonged to the mother of our friend; and as he valued them more for her sake than for their own costly charms, he has ever kept them within his reach; and in his hours of tender regret for her untimely loss, I have seen him kiss her favourite ornament of intermingled emeralds and diamonds with as much fond devotion as a Catholic would bestow on the reliques of a Saint. To balance this bequest to the elder Sedley, he has given his excellent library to the younger boy. To y•u, my dear Charles, he has given the choice of three pictures; to honest Danvers, a thousand pounds; to the Monsons, two.— But I cannot bear to talk any longer on this subject, and thus to repeat his whole testament with the apathy of a Jew by items; yet I must mention one memorial of his truly Christian forgiveness. He has bequeathed a ring with a ruby of considerable value to Dr. Ayton; and with an expression borrowed from his favourite Sterne, he bequeaths it as a peace-offering to a true and conscientious minister of God, from a man who once thought and spoke of him with injurious asperity. Surely no man ever quitted the world with a greater degree either of benignity or of courage. These indeed were his two primary characteristics; and he displayed them to the last, with the most affecting frankness, but without a particle of ostentation.— When the angelic Giuliana expressed to him her comfort in beholding him so singularly free from the fear of death; "O! my good angel, he replied, though I leave in this world what the human heart may be allowed to regret, yet surely •n the next I can have nothing to fear: I have done, I acknowledge, some foolish and some wicked things; but I trust they are fully expiated by my sincere contrition, and perfect resignation to the will of the Almighty. Under circumstances peculiarly trying to a spirit so affectionate as mine, perhaps, my dear Giuliana, I could not meet Death so composedly as you now see me sinking into his arms, if I were not impressed with an idea that my early departure from the earth, like that of your beloved Peverell, may prove a greater blessing to some objects of my regard, than my life perhaps might have proved." In uttering these words, he cast a look of inexpressible kindness upon me—for he alluded to a discourse which had passed between us a few days before, and which he had closed with this tender and memorable expression. "I exult, my dear Edmund, in the idea that my death will ratify your conversion."—There could indeed be no stronger persuasive to Christianity, than the death of such a Christian. Who could refuse to acknowledge the beneficial influence of Religion, in seeing how it had given both softness and energy to a spirit once so impatient of discipline and advice—in seeing that it taught him, not only to relinquish life without murmuring, and just at a period when it offered him the very object of his impassioned idolatry, but to chear his mind with a persuasion that his death might prove religiously beneficial to those whom he loved?—About two hours before he expired, he threw his arms round Giuliana and me, as he rested between us, and exclaimed with a most pathetic fervency of spirit, "Oh, God! let me not prove a source of injurious grief and anguish to these dear friends. —No, I beseech thee, make me, both living and dead, make me only an instrument of good to all the objects of my affection!"—Nothing has comforted him so much as the idea that his death may be ultimately more a blessing than a misfortune to Cornelia. In this idea, which he first conceived in remarking the angelic state of mind so visible and striking in Giuliana, he has been encouraged by that good angel, ever since she found that there was no chance of his recovery, and that it almost offended him to suppose he could recover. It is impossible to describe to you all her infinite attention and kindness to her dear patient—but I must mention the manner in which Seymour spoke or it.— As she quitted his room yesterday morning, he said to me—"How kind, how admirable is Giuliana, never to distress me by tears! Her tenderness towards me is extreme; it surpasses the tenderness of woman; it has all the calm sublimity of angelic visitation! Her love to Peverell has made her the blessed being that we admire. Oh, Edmund! there is nothing more sublime, or perhaps more desirable in l•fe, than affection thus tempered by piety, and strengthened instead of being impaired by the unexpected removal of its idol from earth to Heaven. Let me but persuade myself that I shall prove in dying as much a source of good to my Cornelia, as Peverell has proved to Giuliana; and under that persuasion I can most thankfully embrace my fate! It is possible that I may be so yet more than Peverell! Oh, Edmund!"—Here he seemed inclined to impart to me something that he thought of moment: but he repressed himself; and one of his frequent fits of extreme langor coming on, he did not resume again the subject, whatever it was, that I thought him preparing to communicate.

I grieve to add another piece of painful intelligence to this melancholy letter. The good old Seignor is confined by illness to his bed, so that Giuliana has had double occasion for all her strength both of mind and body. Her exertions have been almost supernatural. I believe her father will recover, but I cannot leave her while he continues so ill. I have given orders to secure the dear remains of our departed friend in a leaden coffin; and as soon as my worthy old host revives, I shall set forth on my return with my mournful charge, and perhaps take my passage in some vessel from hence. At all events I will land at Dover, where I entreat you my dear Charles, to let me find letters waiting for me from you; and do not fail to inform me how our poor Cornelia supports this unexpected calamity. Alas! she has not so strong a frame as Giuliana; but it is the blessed privilege of Religion, to support both the strong and the weak. I am inclined to wish that Lucy and my dear little girl could meet me at Dover. Yet, on second thoughts, I cannot bear to expose them to many tedious days, perhaps, of disappointed expectation at an uncomfortable inn. Let me find, however, soothing letters from you all; for I feel that the office of conducting our dear breathless friend to that shore, where I hoped to see him receiving and imparting delight to so many that are dear to me, will be a b•tter office indeed to the dejected spirit of

Your grateful and affectionate EDMUND.

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LETTER XXXIII. FROM SEYMOUR TO CORNELIA. Inclosed in the preceding.

MY ever ardently beloved, though once insulted Cornelia! it pleases Heaven to chastise my proud and blind barbarity towards you, by taking me hastily from the earth just when I might render its prime ornament my own. The pride, the fierceness, the arrogance, the ingratitude, the impiety of your misguided but affectionate Seymour, are now corrected for ever.— Of all my vehement sentiments towards you, I retain only those of love and admiration. My admiration and my love were never more intense than in this hour, when I feel my life hastening to its end; they will adhere to me to the latest moment of my mortal existence, if my memory continues unimpaired; and they will attend me, I am persuaded, into a blessed futurity. I have written to you more than once within these two days, and burnt my letters.— My heart and soul tell me they have a million of kind and serious things to say to you; yet when I attempt to throw any of these things on paper they offend me, by being either too weak for my feelings, or too strong for yours. My fluttering spirit is divided between the eager desire of sending you a last farewell, expressing all my encreased, improved, enlightened affection for you, and the anxious dread of giving more pain to that infinitely tender bosom which I have barbarously tortured already. O! thou most lovely most ingenuous of women; with what delight should I expiate my past offences towards thee, by living only to cherish and applaud thy perfection. But Heaven requires a very different, a severe expiation: the hand of death is upon me; it tears me from my Cornelia!— I must be either less or more than man, could I refrain from telling you how I feel in every fibre of my heart the unutterable anguish of such a separation; yet I acknowledge the graciousness of God, who, in dividing me from an object so intensely dear to me, has called me to himself. O Cornelia! this alone could have enabled me to quit thee thus, I cannot say without pain, but I can say without a murmur. O Heaven! behold my resignation, and, if it is meritorious (as I trust it is), reward it by pouring the purest of thy blessings on that justly valued idol of my heart, from whom I depart at thy command. Let me live in her affection, not to afflict, but to sooth, to animate, to fortify her mild, gentle spirit. Let my fatal errors be made sources of instruction and security to her beloved children. Oh, my Cornelia! thy precious boys are as dear to me as to thy own maternal heart. I have endeavoured—alas! I have not strength enough to tell you what in time will tell itself. I am dying—but I die with my eyes perfectly opened to the mercies of my God, and to all the rare merit of my insulted and idolized Cornelia, the most lovely of his works, as well as the most faithful of his votaries. Oh! Cornelia, I am dying; but in death I feel a pride (it is a pardonable pride) in your affection; you have loved me, you will continue to love me; and that angelic attachment, though saddened by grief, yet now untroubled by terror of self-reproach, will be dearer and more delicious to your heavenly spirit, than all the gay vanities of the world. O Cornelia! what a proud heart have I had, since I can discover pride (but, I thank Heaven, it is a purified sort of pride) blending itself even in these moments with my love, and with my religion! I bow to the will of God; I feel that I am going to his presence; my soul is not terrified, but impressed with sentiments for which I have no language. I feel only that I am going to appear before Him who created, and who will support my Cornelia, as he has supported her sister angel Giuliana, just seated by my side, and uniting at my request her tender benediction to this adieu! O ye two lovely and blessed spirits! sisters in affliction, in tenderness, in purity, reflect only on the obligations which I acknowledge to you both! Ye have been the ministers of grace, who have opened to me the gates of that Heaven for which I am departing. While you continue pilgrims of the earth, pray cultivate your friendship for each other, and remember that I bid you farewell in the firmest confidence that we shall be eternally united in the beatitude which is promised to us by Him whom you have taught me to revere! Farewell, thou idol of my heart, whom I can only behold in idea! Yet so strongly art thou present to my affection, that I seem to clasp thy hand at this moment. Oh, Cornelia! let me indulge this fond illusion, and seem to pour into thy tender bosom the last affectionate sigh of thy expiring

SEYMOUR.

LETTER XXXIV. FROM GIULIANA TO CORNELIA. Inclosed also in Edmund's Letter with the preceding.

Very dear though never seen Friend.

I MUST tell you in few sad words that my sense of what your poor gentle heart has now to suffer, makes all my old wounds to bleed afresh. We are veritably sisters in affliction, as our dear dying Seymour has said; but the good God who supported unworthy me so graciously, will not fail to support my pure gentle sister, who has title so much better than I to protection from Heaven. O, how the good God shewed his goodness in making obedient and truly Christian the high and long-rebel spirit of our dear friend! How did I wish to die as he died, in his place; that might have made us all happy; but our Almighty good governor knows what is best for us, better than we know; and, my dear sick father still wants his poor child upon earth; if it please God to make him well again, we will come to dear England, and I will tell my sweet gentle sister in affliction much more than my troubled mind can now write. I will come and sooth her bleeding heart, by telling her what thousand things her dear dying Seymour said, and all so divinely just and kind, of his beloved Cornelia. I will come and talk and weep with you, my dear sister-mourner, day after day; but at present I can only repeat, May the good God support and console you! I know you will kindly receive this brief cordial prayer from

Your truly sympathetic and affectionate sister GIULIANA.

LETTER XXXV. FROM MR. AUDLEY TO HIS BROTHER.

PREPARED as I was, my dear Edmund, for the grievous event which your last kind letter imparts to me, it has afflicted me so deeply as to shake even my health. What a bitter issue to all our friendly hopes and projects! But we must not murmur; and it would be particularly wrong to do so, when the Almighty and Allwise Disposer of events is so gracious as to mingle consolation with our distress. However wrong and misguided the life of our enchanting friend may have been, he has died the death of the righteous; and we ought not, perhaps, to mourn so deeply for him on earth, when there is joy over him in Heaven: but it is impossible not to feel extreme pain in the loss of a being whose qualities were so delightfully engaging. For my own part, I must confess, his pathetic farewell to me has made such an impression upon me, that my nerves are become almost as tremulous as those of our poor Cornelia, who is, I will not say afflicted, but Affliction itself. I never beheld sorrow more poignant, or indulged with more avidity. She says, "the anguish of heart that she endures on this occasion is a very just punishment for her having thought so inhumanly that his death would be no misfortune." But I am forgetting, my dear Edmund, that at the time you will open this letter, which I dispatch to wait for you at the port appointed, you will be able to procure speedy, and I hope better intelligence of us all, from those who are as eager to fly into your arms in the hour of your landing, as you can be to embrace them. I have a most fortunate opportunity of gratifying your wish in this article; an obliging friend has just offered me the use of his vacant and commodious apartments in Dover-Castle, upon my accidentally mentioning your wish. Lucy and her dear little charge are preparing to set forth from hence, and are as happy as our present state of general mourning will allow them to be, in the idea of waiting in the comfortable quarters that I have accepted for them, to receive you in the hour of your arrival. I will not detain you from their embraces, by adding more to this letter, except a request: that, as soon as you have discharged your last duties to our dear departed friend, you will bring both our sister and the dear little Fanny back again to this house; where Affliction, my dear Edmund, longs to fate itself on all the many mournful things you have to tell us minutely, where every person is wishing to see you arrive, and none more heartily than

Your affectionate Brother.

LETTER XXXVI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

Dover Castle.

I WILL write only to my most afflicted friend; and I should be a valuable comforter indeed, if my powers of soothing her sorrow we•e equal to the influence that she has upon my thoughts. Absorbed as you are in grief, it will, I know, still please you to hear, that I and my dear little companion are safely arrived, and safely lodged in our Castle. Our accommodations are so good, our prospect of the town below us, and of the calm quiet sea beyond it, is so soothing to my mind in its present pensive and melancholy state, that I almost repent of having opposed my dear Cornelia's idea of attending us; yet it is surely better for you, my dear suffering friend, to remain in the more soothing solitude which you may command at Audley Grove, with the additional advantage of comforters so tender and sympathetic as Harriot and my brother. For Heaven's sake, let me speedily have the satisfaction of being assured, by your own hand, that you are a little revived! —that your pure, noble, and truly angelic spirit begins to triumph over that deplorable depression which seemed to rob you of more than half your existence! Consider, my incomparable friend, what duties, what delightful duties, you have long to fulfil on earth! Where can we behold a mother who has a fairer prospect of parental gratification, not only from the extreme loveliness of her children, but from the honest praise which all who love her bestow on the superlative merit of her maternal conduct? To quarrel with this merit as a source of our present bitter affliction, must be not only extreme injustice to yourself, but no less ingratitude to God, who even in afflicting us, as the kind Audley observed to you, has granted the first object of all our prayers.—Recollect, my dear Cornelia, a noble, affectionate, angelic sentiment of your own, that you once uttered to Harriot. You told her, and I am sure it was with sincerity you told her, "that you would gladly renounce all expectations, and every wish, of seeing Seymour again in this world, if some kind angel would give you an assurance of meeting him in heaven." We have now this blessed assurance—our spirits devoutly embrace it as heavenly consolation; but, alas! our hearts have still of much of human weakness about them, that they ache with selfish agony, even while we are striving to contemplate only the beatitude of the beloved friend we have lost—Out upon the vanity of consolatory discourse, it is not worth a rush! I am a consistent creature indeed, to exhort you not to grieve so intensely, when my own heart at this moment is bursting with grief, and tears gush upon my paper. Time only, co-operating with Religion, can do us essential good, under a loss so grievous and unexpected. Write to me, my dear friend, I entreat you, as soon as you have even the slightest perception of their lenient effect; and believe me, with the kindest wishes to you and all with you,

Ever your affectionate and sympathetic LUCY.

LETTER XXXVII. FROM CORNELIA TO LUCY AUDLEY.

•OU are very good, my dearest Lucy, to •w such kind attention to the poor half distract • and half stupified creature who has but too ••ch occasion, as Heaven knows, for all the •••dness of her friends, to raise and awaken her • juster sense of her duty; but, frank and •ere soul as you are, how can you flatter me • such unmerited, and therefore such cruel •se! — O! thou dear and compassionate con ••nt of my most secret thoughts and sufferings, had truly so much virtue as your partiality •i•es, why does it not comfort and support •ow? why do I feel as if this terrible stroke of Providence had plunged me in a state fa• worse than annihilation, as if it had left me only a withered and wasted spirit, which seems to have no faculty but that of seeing and lamenting its own misery and unworthiness? You talk to me of maternal delight; but, alas! my good girl, what delight can I take as a mother, when in looking on my children, my own miserable sensations suggest to me that it would have been better, both for me and for them perhaps, i• such a wretch as I am had never been born—O God! pardon me, I beseech thee, for these unr•ghteous murmurs of a wounded heart, that break from it perforce. I confess their iniqu•t• I abhor their ingratitude. I acknowledge, I am thankful for thy mercy, which, in taking so suddenly from the earth the dear object of my hapless affection, has called him into thy presence, where I also, if I can but sustain this better trial as I am bound to do—O! gracious God look with pity on my distress and terror; •t not the subtle enemy of souls take such advantage of my extreme weakness, as to darken and debase my spirit with such black and rebelliou• thoughts as may render me blind to thy goodness, and unworthy of thy protection!

Oh, Lucy! I have been forced to lay down ••y pen, and seek, what I thank heaven I have not sought in vain,, some immediate relief from the indulgence of tears, and continued ferven¦cy of prayer—my bosom is lighter than it wa• and my spirits are more composed. I am g•• I followed your advice (which you gave me kind as it was, with reluctance) in remainin• here; for I am so deplorably weak in body, a•• still more so in mind, that I should have prov•• a sad burthen to you and the dear little feeling Frances, who has shewn for me a solicitude so uncommon, and so peculiarly affecting, at her tender age. Indeed I am hardly fit to converse with any human being except our incomparable Audley, who, since I wrote the first part of this letter, has talked to me for a considerable time, and with an art that belongs to himself, has been indulgently trying to turn even my weaknesses to my advantage. "Pray consider, said this invaluable friend, pray consider, my dear dejected Cornelia, if you find it so difficult to bear the severity of a wise and merciful God, how could you have supported such agony of heart as in your situation there was a great chance of your having inflicted upon you by the common barbarity of man? Suppose our dear misguided Seymour, whom the indulgence of Heaven has taken to itself suppose he had pursued the usual course of young men; suppose he had brought a mistress or a wife to this country, and in the cruel pride of mortified affection had insulted you with an ostentation of felicity; such events are by no means rare in human life. I have seen some women support such a test of their fortitude, but not under circumstances so peculiarly painful. You still imagine, my generous Cornelia, as you said, I remember, on the day when I imparted to you our most afflicting loss, that, if you could but restore him to life with all the happy lustre of his enlightened mind, you would chearfully submit to the anguish of seeing him united to another. Ah! my gentle friend, this idea is but the transient illusive heroism of sudden and immoderate grief, which, like all the vehement passions, gives a brief energy to our sentiment that nature is unable to sustain. Trust me, I know you better than you know yourself; and I am convinced, by many remarks which I have occasionally made on your very tender and acute feelings, that, if the supposed event had happened, you would have lost either your life or your senses; and our beloved friend, instead of being, as he now is, a triumphant angel in Heaven, would have been tortured himself by these barbarous effects of his precipitate and vindictive love." "O, my good Audley! I replied, by shewing me how weak I am on every side, you will lead me, I hope, to the Almighty Source of all strength; you will teach me how to acquire, what I grievously want, a more cordial obedience, and a more fervent and faithful devotion to God. How criminal must I be if I fail to acquire this, when my beloved Seymour has set me such a blessed example of resignation! But I shall acquire it by degrees. The divine spirit which breathes in every line of the precious letter addressed to me by the dear expiring convert, now begins to sooth and to reanimate my heart, as I know that most affectionate of human beings intended it should do. You saw, my dear Lucy, how dreadfully weak I was in receiving it; how, instead of consoling me, it convulsed my whole frame. But this dear, this invaluable letter begins to operate as the softest balm to my wounded spirits. I read it constantly at stated periods of every day, and then lay it on my heart, after the example of poor Caroline; this excellent creature has hardly suffered less than myself, on the loss of her generous protector, though our feelings are so different. She almost made me smile just now, by a little circumstance that marked her attachment to him; and to relieve you a little, my dear friend, from the mournful gloom of what I have written, I must attempt to relate it to you. As I passed the parlour door, where the Monsons happened to be with a friend who had called here to see them, I heard the voice of Caroline very loud, and with a tone of indignation very foreign to her nature. I clearly distinguished the words—"No! good as she is, I shall hate her if she ever loves another man as long as she exists!" As soon as I saw Caroline alone, I questioned her concerning the expression which I had accidentally overheard; and, with her native frankness, she declared it related to me, and had been drawn from her by a very foolish and ill-timed jest of their visitor on the probable duration of my grief. You will easily believe that my heart was pleased with her vindication of its truth. I can indeed say, with the honest Caroline, that I should hate myself were it possible for me to let Seymour have any successor in my affection.—No! my dear Lucy, on that point I know myself, and fear not. The dear dying prophet himself has told me, that I shall continue to love him; and every movement of my heart and soul impress upon me the conviction that his prophecy is true.

I have only to implore the Great Searcher of all hearts, to temper and correct the affliction now arising from this love; and so to blend it with my love for my children, that these ardent affections, no longer opposite, but religiously united, may form all together the ruling possion of my life. This, my dear friend, is my hope, my belief, my prayer, concerning all the future days that Heaven may allot to me upon earth. Your excellent brother comforts me by an assurance that time will so far restore my shattered nerves, as to give me the power of being every thing that I wish to be to my dear boys. Ah! what feeling spirits they will have! I am both afflicted and delighted by the sensibility with which my dear William continues to shew us his remembrance of that beloved object whom even sportive infancy cannot forget. God bless the sweet innocent! he has asked me a thousand distressing questions since you left us, which I can neither bear to answer nor to forbid. I have referred the dear affectionate little enquirer to your brother Edmund, for whose arrival we are all panting, whom I both long and dread to see. I must have much conversation with him, though I feel it will make me much worse than I am at present, yet finally I hope better. Would to Heaven we could see Giuliana at the same time! but this I must not expect. Farewell, my dear friend. Did you think the weak creature you left, could have written you so long a letter? But my strength has seemed to encrease with the idea that you would estimate my regard for you by my exertions to converse with you in this bitter season of my debility and distress—Heaven bless you and your dear little companion!—Do not fail to pray for

Your weak, dejected, and affectionate CORNELIA.

LETTER XXXVIII. FROM LUCY TO MR. AUDLEY.

AT length, my dear brother, the long and mournful expected vessel, freighted with death and with affliction, is arrived. The dear remains of our hapless enchanting friend are safe on his native shore; and our beloved Edmund, who looks I think more than half dead himself, though he assures me his health is much better than it was has desired me to inform you of his arrival. He is himself engaged in settling the necessary arrangements for the funeral; and I must tell you, that we are both as much pleased as we can be at such a time by the very flattering marks of attention, esteem, and respect, which Edmund has found here, on his landing, from the relation of our lost friend. Every precaution has been taken to render my brother's mournful office as little troublesome as possible. All things have been kept in readiness here, to conduct the funeral procession from hence in any manner that Edmund may direct; and the liberal heir of our dear Seymour is waiting at his seat to receive my brother, who had announced to him his intention of attending the remains of the dear deceased to the vault of the family at Seymour Park. Edmund finds that, without driving indecently fast, he can reach the spot in two days and a half, by crossing the country; and as he thinks a scene of this solemn nature may make a useful impression on a young mind, he has determined to take little Frances and me with him in one of the mourning-coaches. The fourth seat in this carriage is to be occupied by a person whose presence at this juncture affords me more pleasure than I thought myself capable of receiving. And now, my dear Charles, can you tell whom I mean? No, I think you cannot! Our beloved Seymour seems to retain, even in his coffin, the enchanting power of surprising and delighting those who love him by new instances of tenderness and munificence. This unexpected and welcome person is the old and venerable Danvers, who has a heart so overflowing with grief and gratitude, that he is to me at this season one of the most interesting companions that I could possibly have met with, especially as the occasion of his joining our party does so much honour to the heart of the dear friend we lament. As soon as our beloved Seymour found there was a probability of his death, he wrote to his cousin, whom he has ever treated as a friend, and who, as he really wanted no increase of fortune, is, I believe, sincerely sorry to gain it by such a loss. Among a few private requests which our Seymour made to his namesake in case of his early death, was the following, "that whenever the old and infirm incumbent should drop, the living which belonged to the proprietor of Seymour Park should be given to Danvers." It so happened that this aged minister died very lately at Bath, while the present Mr. Seymour was residing there, who immediately wrote to Danvers, to acquaint him, with his cousin's intention in his favour. As Danvers, though old, is full of activity and gratitude, he went to return his personal thanks for a letter which filled him both with joy and anxiety, as it mentioned the illness of his distant and considerate patron. He was actually conversing with Mr. Seymour in the moment when that gentleman received Edmund's letter, announcing the death of our dear generous friend. Judge, my dear Charles, what the good warm-hearted old man's sensations must have been at that time: he says the death of one of his own children did not affect him more; and in truth I believe him. Before he quitted Bath, he entreated permission that he might wait to receive the body at Dover, escort it to the grave, and preach a funeral sermon on the occasion. It seems the good old man has a little tincture of professional vanity; and in this particular and now almost neglected office of a Divine he has long taken a very pardonable pride; but he is this moment come in, not only to cut short the little sketch I was about to give you of his character, but to tell me I must instantly prepare for our mournful procession.—God bless you all! I can only say to our dear Cornelia and Harriot, that I consider this letter addressed to them as well as to you. I entreat you all to suppose that I have said every thing kind to you for myself, Edmund, and Frances. Once more, God bless you all! I will certainly write again from Seymour Park, •f the affecting ceremony I am to go through does not overwhelm and suspend all the poor faculties of

Your very faithful and affectionate LUCY.

LETTER XXXIX. FROM LUCY TO CORNELIA.

OUR distressing duties are done. The dear remains of that enchanting friend, who still holds his empire over the affections of us all, have been deposited, with the most aweful solemnity and universal sorrow, by the side of his departed parents. O! my very dear Cornelia, though once I confess I wished to have you with me, I am truly glad that we opposed your strong desire to be present at a scene whic• I am now convinced by my own experience you would have been utterly unable to support. I, you know, have ten times your present bodily strength; and my feelings for the dear deceased are certainly not so exquisitely painful as yours; yet, I protest to you, the sadness of the spectacle was too much for me, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I continued during the whole ceremony in the church.—All the numerous dependants and rural neighbours of our universally idolized Seymour were assembled; the face of genuine sorrow was so multiplied, that wherever I turned my eyes some visage struck me which reflected back upon me with new force the powerful anguish of my own heart. There were many infirm persons in the congregation, who owed their subsistence to the bounty of the dead. Never surely was any man so young distinguished by charity so extensive and considerate. The good Danvers did noble justice to his virtues, and without varnishing his foibles. This worthy preacher has in truth the rare talent in which, as I told my brother Charles in my last letter, he has long indulged a very innocent pride. In our journey hither, he spent more than half of each night that we passed on the road in composing alterations and additions to his occasional sermon; and I question, my dear Cornelia, if your favourite Massillon himself ever made an audience weep more by a funeral discourse: most assuredly he never delivered one that came more immediately from the heart. This excellent old man was indeed so thoroughly affected himself, that at last his feelings became too strong for his powers, and this very circumstance increased not a little the pathetic effects of his eloquence. As he drew towards the end of his di•course, while all were weeping or sobbing around him, he caught the infection so strongly, that his voice began to fail —he paused—he wept—he attempted to proceed —his utterance was •im•e•f •—he paused again, and gave vent to h•s te•rs—he tried again to conclude—he could not articulate more than half a sentence.—he h•d his face—but after the pause of a few minutes he closed his book with an air of religious triumph, and said aloud. ‘O! my friends and brethren, you want not more words from my faultering voice! —The virtues of the dead are speaking more forcibly in your hearts; let me only request you to remember that the most grateful honour which any of us can pay to the spirit of a good man made perfect is to imitate to the utmost of our ability his benevolence and goodness. May the gracious God, who has called our departed example to his heavenly reward, give us grace and power to persist in that purer and more perfect tribute to his memory; so that all of us who are now mourning for our generous friend and benefactor, by being fond and faithful copies of his Christian merit upon earth, may finally be his associates in the beatitude which this merit has secured to him in Heaven!’

So ended our venerable preacher, whose white locks and affecting simplicity endeared him to all his audience. Pressed as I am for time (for the post is on the point of departure), I could not help sending my dear Cornelia the close of a discourse, to which I know her pure and full heart will so devoutly add an Amen. As there is a chance that you may see us in a few hours after the arrival of this letter, I will only add, that from the amiable new master of this noble mansion we have received every soothing civility. He is, you know, a widower; and his only daughter is about the age of Frances, a circumstance that has proved of great use to me in managing our dear little feeling child. Edmund has still some business to adjust with our obliging host; but he tells me it will all be finished early to-morrow. We are equally impatient to fly as fast at possible to the dear mourners at Audley-Grove, and indulge with them at leisure in all the quiet luxury of grief.—Accept our united love to all; and believe me ever

Your affectionate LUCY.

Advertisement by the Editor.

{inverted ⁂} It may be proper to inform the reader in this place, that the subsequent letters were written above fifteen years after the preceding; it is not however necessary to detain him by a relation of any events which happened in that interval, as the important ones are mentioned in the two letters which immediately follow.

LETTER XLVIII. FROM MRS. MORETON TO CORNELIA.

MY DEAR MADAM,

IF the name of Moreton is a stranger to you, which I am vain enough to think it is not, may I still flatter myself that you have a perfect and friendly remembrance of a person whom you once called "the pretty madcap of Ireland?" —Mercy on us! what long years have rolled away, a•d what cruel events have happened, since you bestowed that flattering affectionate appellation on the pelt and flippant Louisa at Audley-Grove! Alas, dear Audley-Grove! Ah! my dear Madam, what a loss have we there! —how bitter is it to me in my return to England, after passing twelve terrible and trying years in the East, to miss relations so dear, the most benevolent and most engaging friends of my you•h! I had the consolation of hearing from my mother, that my beloved aunt Harriot died (according to a wish that we have both heard her express) very soon after her incomparable husband, and that she consigned to you, my dear Madam, (the long and justly valued friend of her bosom!) the care of her dear little Lucy, that sweet child, who used to divert us so much by the petty caprices of infantine sensibility. How I long to see what a lovely girl she is become under a guardian, or rather a second mother, so tender and accomplished! But is she at present under your roof? and may I have the happiness of finding you both together if I can contrive to reach Sedley-Hall? I am now, they tell me, not above forty miles from you, at the seat of Colonel Moreton's father. We have been only five days on shore: After paying our duty to the aged parents of my husband, he has kindly promised that we shall proceed to visit my poor infirm mother in Ireland. We are to make London in our way; and it will add not a little to my delight if you will allow me admission at Sedley-Hall, at the end of our first day's journey from hence.—I long to present to you my noble Colonel and two playful little Eastern monkies that make a part of our train. I must certainly blush as much as a sallow Asiatic skin will allow me to blush, in presenting to you my second husband, if you ever read, as doubtless you have, the panegyric that I sent to Audley-Grove on my first.—Poor Major Mas •ey was in truth a glorious character; and I was preparing to return, as you probably heard, to lament him in Europe, when my generous Colonel, who thought it wrong that such a little shatter-brained woman should wander so far to find comforters, took on himself the kind office of soothing my sorrow, and tempted me to relinquish my immediate passage to England, for which I had actually engaged.—Now, my sage Cornelia, you must not think the worse of your Irish madcap for this speedy iteration of nuptials, to use a saucy phrase of my favourite Congreve; for, to tell you a truth, of which you serious ladies in the cool salubrious climate of England may not be perfectly aware, a poor European female, who is got into the burning •ustle of the East, has no time to indulge herself in the slow decencies of sentiment. She must scramble as well as she can in a scene where interest rages through all ranks like an epidemical disease, and where Death is so rapid in his visits that his usual harbinger Grief has hardly an opportunity of appearing in his suite. You see, after all my troubles and adventures, I am returned as great a •attle as I went.— Alas! my pertness is the only article in which you will not find me most dismally altered. As to beauty, of which your partiality once gave me credit for more than I ever possessed, I have not a particle remaining; the horrid suns of India have burnt it all to ashes; so pray, my good friend, be thoroughly prepared to see the once rosy, light, and capering, Louisa metamorphosed into a sallow, heavy, and waddling gossip, in complexion somewhat like a withered leaf, where green and yellow are contending for pre-eminence; in person, not very unlike a certain little fat and grotesque Chinese animal, that used to divert the children at Audley-grove. —I can now laugh at myself, you find, as I used in those days to laugh at every body else, not sparing even our beloved and admirable Cornelia. You know, my dear Madam, that I always piqued myself on not having a spark of envy in my composition; and I am now going to prove to you my perfect exemption from that base foible, which the men very impudently and iniquitously presume to be most prevalent in our sex. It is surely proved that I have it not, when, after telling you how sadly I am altered myself, I express the sincerest pleasure in the very different representation that I have received of you.—I have just been told by some visitors here, who have the honour of your acquaintance, that your health is perfectly recovered from those severe shocks which it sustained from the most cruel afflictions at an early period of life; that you are handsomer than ever; and, to use the words of a gentleman who spoke Of you with a spirit for which I was almost ready to embrace him, that you enjoy a tranquil happiness and dignity of character very rarely attained by mortals of either sex. Your sweet boys, they say, are grown two most promising and delightful young men.—Believe me, my heart exults to find that Providence has rewarded you for all you endured from your tender attachment to that dear, fascinating, and cruelly lost friend of ours, whose name I will not allow myself to write, as I could not write it without a tear, and I wish to salute you in this epistle as chearfully as I can.—The account I hear of you has indeed made me happy, but at the same time it has made me almost wild to hear and see more. Pray take compassion on my affectionate impatience; and as we must not move from hence under three weeks at least, have the goodness to write me a letter of comfortable length. I have a million of questions to ask, yet will not allow myself at present to ask one: remember, however, I beseech you, that while I was in India all the intelligence I gained of my European friends was miserably imperfect—many, many letters were lost that I wrote, and that I should have received. I have some reason to believe that no letter of mine ever reached your hand, though I really wrote to you at three different times, and once sent you a little Oriental present, but of no great value, which w•nt, alas! with an unfortunate friend, who promised me to deliver it into your own hand, to the bottom of the sea. But of all these matters when we meet. At present, I will only add, that my dear Colonel is almost as eager to be presented to you as I am to fly into the arms of my incomparable friend, who is still, I find, the admiration of all her acquaintance, and who formerly used to look with endearing indulgence on all the idle flippancy of

Her affectionate LOUISA.

LETTER XLIX. FROM CORNELIA TO MRS. MORETON.

WELCOME, most cordially: let me again say, welcome, my dear Louisa, to that country from which you have been absent so long, and where some of those friends are still remaining whom you used to enchant with the sweet pleasantry of your sportive youth. I have often grieved at not hearing from you, for all your three pacq•ets to me were lost; and I have hardly felt a sensation so joyous, during the long interval since we parted, as I felt on the agreeable surprise of this charming letter which has told me you are returned. Yet my present joy is very singularly mingled (as all my joys have been) with regret. In rejoicing most heartily on your happy return, I cannot help lamenting that our dear Harriot has not lived to see a day which was so frequently the object of our hopes and our prayers. With the fond inconsistency of affection, I have almost wished to call her back from Heaven, that she might share with me in the delight of receiving our long lost Louisa, whom her warm heart never ceased to love as a child of her own. Ah, Louisa, I have indeed been singularly familiar with affliction since we bade each other farewell at our beloved Audley-Grove. Never did any mortal lose two more valuable friends than I lost in the late dear possessors of that lovely spot. But I have learnt to be very grateful to Heaven, for having lent them to me so long, and at a season when I had such bitter occasion for all the balm of their friendship, instead of murmuring at the heavy loss I have sustained in their decease. I had the melancholy satisfaction of attending them both in their last hours; and must tell you that they both died, as they had lived, models of tenderness and fortitude. I ought certainly to grieve the less, from our dear Harriot's having left me (to use her own lively expression) her corrected and embellished self in her daughter, who, as the dear ingenuous parent truly said, has all her good qualities, without her particular foible, if that indeed ought to be reckoned a foible which rendered her so very dear to us all; I mean, a little excess of spirit, and eagerness in projects that she loved to form for the advantage of her friends. Her milder and blooming Lucy is now, I think—but positively I will not tell you, as I was going to do, what she is; you shall see, and judge for yourself. I will only say, she is as impatient to embrace you as I am; and, in truth, my dear Louisa, except my two boys, or rather young men, as I believe it is high time for us to call them, there is no traveller in the world whose arrival under my roof can delight me so much as yours. I must, however, beg your indulgence in one point, and desire you to let me receive you, with your noble and happy Colonel, the dear Eastern little creatures, and all your train, not at Sedley-hall, but in St. James's Square. The truth is, I have promised my sons, who are now returning from Italy, to be waiting for them in London the week after this. You, I am sure, will readily pardon a mother for not breaking such an appointment. As my sons are so unfashionable as to say they set a high value on their mother's society, and as they are certainly to me the most interesting companions in the world; I have lately taken into my own hands again our great London house, and hope to play the chearful house-keeper to them both till one of them shall desert me for a wife; a kind of desertion that I shall be more solicitous to encourage than prevent. Come then, my dear Louisa, to a house where you know there is plenty of room for us all, and where, believe me, your presence will add not a little to the gaiety and happiness of the domestic circle. To shew you how very free I intend to be with you, and that I do not stand in awe even of your military lord, I shall begin to scold you on paper for your abominable flattery. Surely, my dear, you must have brought home with you all the Eastern arts of adulation, since you can address such fine flourishing personal compliments to a simple, quiet, motherly woman, not far from forty, who has been for some years so perfectly emancipated from all the personal vanities of her sex, that she lives only in her children. Ah, Louisa, my former and more selfish life was a sad troubled scene, as you know but too well. Heaven grant that my new life (in which self has truly as little to do as possible) may be more tranquil and more fortunate! It will be hard upon me indeed if, after being almost a martyr myself to a calamitous passion, I am destined to see my children suffer from any hapless affection. I have endeavoured to guard against this evil by every precaution in my power. I have done every thing that I could do to render myself a pleasing companion and a bosom friend to my sons. Alas! how weak and fruitless are such expedients against all the perils of passion! Ah, my friend, the dear youths are just arrived at that stormy season. Can I think of scenes that you and I so well remember, and not tremble for them? O Louisa, I have an additional circumstance to quicken my anxiety. I did not mean to communicate to you in this letter what I now feel an irresistible impulse to impart to you. You know what an eager benevolent projector our dear Harriot was on the wide and dangerous sea of affection, in bequeathing to me the care of her sweet Lucy; it was the fond hope of her friendly and maternal heart, that the dear girl's residing with me might ultimately make her the wife of my eldest son. The connexion would delight me as much as it could have delighted my dear departed friend; but, alas! how chimerical and how perilous in general are such distant parental projects! I said all that discretion could urge against her idea; but you know the affectionate vehemence of our dear Harriot; and your quick spirit will conceive in a moment how full of hopes and fears, of a thousand delicate and distressing perplexities, my present situation must be. Your chearful and benevolent spirit seems restored to me by Heaven, to give me new animation at this critical period. My sons have been absent from me almost two years; but I have great reason to be pleased with their conduct and their improvements in that time. They are returning to make their first appearance in the world. William will be of age in less than two months, and a seat is prepared for him in parliament, where I have set my heart on his proving what his independent father, and a certain person who loved him also with paternal affection, often prophesied that he would prove; I mean, a manly and ingenuous character, equally distinguished by talents and integrity. I think you will smile, my dear and still sportive Louisa, when you see how far maternal love has made a politician and a patriot of me, in the simple and good sense of those hacknied words. But of this and a million of other matters when we meet. Come, and call me old Polonius in petticoats if you please, provided you will but assist me in promoting the happiness of the dear young Ophelia. Deuce take this ill omened allusion, which has in it an air of propriety in one sense that wounds me; for, between ourselves, I am already convinced that the dear girl loves the young prince more than the young prince appears to love her. God forbid he should ever drive her to distraction! If he does, he destroys us both. O Louisa, a charge so delicate presses upon my mind and heart with a formidable weight. Hasten, therefore, I conjure you, and give, with your benevolent vivacity, new energy to the spirits of

Your faithful and affectionate CORNELIA.

P. S. Your cousin Lucy joins me in a very earnest request, that you will delay your expedition to Ireland, and return with us from London, to celebrate my son William's birth-day at Sedley-Hall. We are sure your good mother, however impatient to see you, will indulge us with the privilege of detaining you on this occasion, as it will give you an opportunity, which you may not otherwise find, of meeting some, friends who love you very much, particularly your old swain Edmund and Lucy the Elder. They are both still single, and as amiable as ever, though poor Edmund has been lately teized with frequent fits of the gout. Pray remember, if you do not write by the first post, to direct to St. James's Square; and pray also remember that you are to proceed immediately to that quarter whenever you arrive in town. The first thing that I shall do there will be to order the best apartments in the house to be instantly prepared for our dear Eastern magnificient and yet laughter-loving Princess Louisa.

LETTER L. FROM MRS. MORETON TO CORNELIA.

"ILL meet thee at Phillippii"—

Aye, and I will put to flight this ugly phantom that haunts the imagination of my dear Cornelia, famous as she is (like Brutus himself) both for gentleness and fortitude. But, in plain English, my very dear Friend, let me return you a thousand thanks for your most affectionate letter; and, above all, for the dear communication of a secret so precious; it delights, it enchants me. Bless the memory of my charming aunt Harriot! She was indeed an affectionate projector. But though she failed in one of her darling schemes, her projects were generally successful. This her posthumous project, as I may call it, has quite set me on fire with zeal to assist in its completion. Courage, my excellent friend, thou most delightful of guardians and mothers. What should we fear? Cannot you and I (adroit and experienced as we are in affairs of Love) cannot we easily manage the pliant hearts of an ingenuous youth of twenty-one and a sweet simple blooming girl of eighteen. I warrant you: trust me, my dear, they shall be a pair of amorous obedient puppets in our hands. We will so pull and direct the wire of their ductile passions, that they shall represent for our pleasure the most interesting drama in the world. We know indeed that, in the common puppet-shows of Love and Matrimony, the Devil plays a very busy and tyrannical part; but in ours he shall not exhibit even a nail's breadth of his cloven foot. No my dear, it shall be all virtue, harmony, and delight. Well, I am returned at a happy juncture indeed, to assist in preparing the machinery for such an entertainment. But, my good Cornelia, when we have taught this lovely young couple to be deeply and furiously enamoured of each other, you must not come forth with a common matronly maxim, "that early wedlock is imprudent, that misses should wait till they are twenty-five," &c. &c. Positively I will have nothing to do with any scheme of keeping two lovers in a flaming purgatory for I know not how many years. For my part, I think of marriage as Macbeth talks of murder:

If it were well when it is done, 'twere well

It were done quickly[*].

A good match, in my not humble opinion, can hardly be celebrated too soon. The objection most universally urged against early marriage deserves, I think, no consideration at all. The people who fear that their children may tread too closely on their heels do not deserve the blessing of a child; and had better not marry till they can escape all probability of such an incumbrance You see, my dear friend, I have brought home again my old romantic spirit. All the heats of India could not draw it out of me. But you and I shall hardly differ on this article; and, if we do, we shall have time enough to adjust our respective opinions in amicable debate. At present I scribble in extreme haste, to salute you with my thanks and ardent good wishes before you set forth for the great city. A good journey to you, and a most happy meeting with the dear travellers, whom you must expect with the most affectionate impatience. Poor Ireland must forgive me if I am more slow than I ought to be in paying my filial duty there. My sin shall be thrown on your shoulders; and Heaven knows you have merit enough to counterbalance the sins of half your acquaintance; yet to me you are a wicked tempter, and I confess myself unable to resist the lure that you have thrown out to detain me in England.

My Colonel desires me to say a great many fine things for him; but I answer, "Not one;" for he will not sleep under your London roof; though he says he will pay his personal devoirs to you very soon, and very assiduously. These men are proud creatures, my dear, and they must have their way. My commander, "take him for all in all," is one of the best, I believe, of these lordly beings. I will venture to say you will not dislike him; and be assured you will see enough of

Your very grateful and affectionate LOUISA

Tell the dear Lucy I am so eager to see her, that I dream of nothing else.

Notes

*

Note by the Editor.

Louisa has here quoted Shakespeare very inaccurately; but her inaccuracy gives at least a clear meaning to a passage quaint and obscure.

↵

LETTER LI. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,
London.

DISTANT as I am from you, I can turn to you only for counsel in a most cruel surprize and consternation that almost robs me of my senses. On my arrival here, I find an anonymous letter left for me at this house; of which I inclose you a copy. For Heaven's sake, tell me what I ought to think of it. I am distracted with a thousand contradictory ideas. Is it only a barbarous trick to torment me? Yet whom can I have provoked to such inhumanity of malice? Is it an artifice to gain money? Alas! I am ready enough to relieve the indigent without forcing them into fraud. Is it, finally, a calamitous truth, that must render my latter days more wretched than my early life? GOD in his mercy forbid! Surely, if such peril existed, the sensible, honest, and vigilant Monson must have perceived it, and would have given some notice of it before this time either to me or to you. I am quite bewildered in the maze of my own thorny conjectures. Pray give me your instant advice. Yet, before I can receive it, I shall probably venture on a step for which I should have been glad of your sanction. I feel suspence so torturing in a point where the lasting happiness of my child is deeply concerned, that I would rather face the most formidable creature existing than not to try to put an end to such suspence. I must see and converse with this terrible Unknown. The moment I gain any farther light, you shall hear again from

Your infinitely distressed, but ever affectionate, CORNELIA.

P. S. Love to Lucy and Frances. I should have had infinite delight in telling you and them that Louisa is returned from India, and will meet you all on William's birth-day, had not this cruel blow rendered me at present insensible to joy.

LETTER LII. ANONYMOUS TO CORNELIA.

MADAM,

THOUGH I must confess that self-interest, or rather passion, is the prime motive to this letter, in which I must surprize and give you pain, yet be assured I mean well to you, and we may prove very useful friends to each other; though for various reasons, you must excuse my adding a name to this unexpected epistle.

Let me assure you, however, that I am a gentleman, and subject, I own, to many of the distressing follies too often found in that character. My present distress is of such a kind, as you I am sure, if you are the amiable and indulgent and generous parent that I have heard you represented, will be most ready to pity. It is distress of heart, arising from a passion certainly not wise in its excess, and, I must own, not the most honourable in its purpose; yet, under a passion so circumstanced, I am bold enough to hope and to solicit your assistance, even while I regard you as a paragon of virtue, because in assisting me, you may probably preserve your eldest son, who is above all praise of mine, from the imminent hazard of wretchedness and dishonour.

Be not too much alarmed, my good lady; and let me conjure you, by all that is dear to us both, to treasure up in your own breast the very important secret which I am going to confide to your honour and your discretion. If you make any imprudent, any ungenerous, any unguarded use of it, we are both ruined; for, unconnected and different beings as we are, this momentous secret, my dear Madam, involves the happiness or misery both of your life and mine. Perhaps if you will condescend to let the writer of an anonymous letter have a private conference with you, and will give him your word of honour, not to betray your knowledge either of him or his designs; perhaps in this case I may converse with you on a topic so painfully interesting to us both, for I have a thousand things to say that I cannot crowd into a letter. But let this be as we may find expedient hereafter. My present business must be to give you as clear an idea as I can upon paper of certain circumstances, which threaten much anguish to your maternal heart, and have already given tortures of a very different nature to mine.

In explaining this mystery, I had better, I think, say too much than too little. Perhaps, Madam, as you have lived, I understand, a most virtuous, happy, and retired life, perhaps you know not even the name of a most celebrated fair creature, who, though confessedly not a model of virtue, is universally reckoned the most bewitching object that was ever followed by licentious idolatry. The person I mean is the famous Emily Belmont: she is the daughter of a deceased British general by a Venetian actress; and inherits, not all the opulence, but all the spirit, and all the captivating qualities of both her parents. After being the mistress of three peer and two commoners, and after rejecting offers of marriage from an elderly duke and a young viscount, Emily went last year to Rome with lord T—. In Italy, for our mutual inquietude, I fell in love with her; and she fell in love with your eldest son. As Emily p•ques herself on a peculiar frankness or spirit, she told me very honestly, that she had given her whole heart to Sedley. "To Sedley (she said in a tone that expressed the most passionate fondness) to Sedley, more beautiful than all the boasted marble Gods and heroes in this country; and, alas, half as cold!'—So far her generosity told me, to effect my cure. But she did not tell me what I had the address, or, I should rather say, the good luck to discover, by a certain female friend of hers; I mean, that her love to Sedley was utterly unlike all the attachments that she had hitherto formed. She is seriously in love, and for the first time in her li•e It is the great ambition of her heart and soul to make herself the wife of your son. She is now pursuing this point with such a mixture of cordial sincerity and refined artifice, as those only can thoroughly conceive who have had opportunities of studying her very singular and fascinating character. I have kept the keen eyes of jealousy upon all her movements, and can fortunately apprized of all her private machinations. She has animated the marble whose coldness made her sigh; she has wound up the passions of her young Adonis, by granting him many indulgences that could excite, and not one that could abate, the fervency of desire. She has produced in him what all her exquisite talents and attractions have been exerted to produce, a sentimental delirium. In short, my dear Madam, affairs have been thus settled between them. The fair penitent, expressing a graceful horror for her former illicit life, has deserted Lord T—, and is already in London. Your son, who cannot, I think, be here under a fortnight, has promised that he will not attempt to see her till he has settled all his concerns at the important period of his being of age, which I understand is very near; and in the following week they are to be privately married.

Now, my dear Madam, I am confident that you are as eager as I am to counteract with your whole heart and spirit this alarming design. But how to do so is the grand question. For Heaven's sake, do not trust to your maternal influence. You are indeed as sincerely beloved by your son as a mother can be; but what are the entreaties or the commands of a parent to a young man whose more imperious love has been so artfully excited? Trust me, such commands are but chains of flax, that are instantly burnt asunder in the flames of opposed desire. I speak from fatal experience. Pardon me if I speak too strongly; but what is to be done? I have long cracked my brains to find the most effectual expedient, and to save you at the same time from all painful explanations, and all dissention with your son. I think I have found this expedient, if I can persuade you, Madam, to condescend so far as to have a secret interview with a female in a rank of life so different from your own. But on this point, I persuade myself, your pure and noble heart will not hesitate for the preservation of your child.

Emily notwithstanding her frailties, is in truth a creature of sentiment and soul. In her heart and understanding, even you, Madam, will find much to admire; for I may justly say (setting aside the fond prejudice of a lover) that she has every female virtue except chastity. I cannot give you a more forcible idea of her character, than by telling you what is literally true, that she quitted a certain earl, who loved her passionately, for no other reason but to restore the injured health of his sister, a lady of tender spirits, and of a scrupulous conscience, who made herself seriously unhappy from her brother's illicit attachment. I happened to learn all the particulars of Emily's very singular and generous conduct on this occasion; and they suggested to me the first idea of the plan that I am now recommending. I know that this accomplished, though frail beauty, has a noble mind, that abhors the idea of proving a source of inquietude to any amiable family. I also know, my dear Madam, that she has a very great and tender veneration for your character; and I will tell you how she acquired it, by being indulged in the privilege of reading your letters to your son, which I have heard her commend as the most exquisite letters that ever flowed from a parental pen; and in points of literature, she is allowed to possess great discernment and delicacy of taste.

Now, my dear Madam, situated as you are, and possessing, as I have heard, the most insinuating sweetness of manners; what influence may not you hope to gain over the feeling and generous Emily, if you will condescend to converse with her on the great object of our terror! You must not, however, betray me, however tempted you may be to do so. This would effectually ruin our hopes. But you may say, that certain hints have been given you by the tutor of your son; that maternal anxiety made you resolve to obtain an interview with a person whom you have heard very singularly commended, both for generosity and truth. Emily is indeed a model of both; and I question if any mortal exists in either sex that has a more magnanimous disdain of uttering a lie. If you can but contrive to see her in private, of this you may be sure, that although she may not perhaps think it prudent or just to your son to acknowledge to you the whole truth, yet she will not attempt to deceive you by any absolute falsehood. As I understand, Madam, that you are very opulent, I could wish you to make a forcible impression on the heart of Emily, by a liberal unexpected offer of promoting her independence. What sum might be sufficient for this purpose I cannot precisely say; but I fancy it might be done upon terms very easy to you. I know she has a private revenue, not inconsiderable, though not equal to her wishes, because I have heard her say, that if she possessed an independent income to a certain amount she would settle herself for life at a favourite spot on the Continent.

Perhaps your maternal tenderness and generosity may incline you to give her the power of gratifying this desire, as the noblest means of obtaining from her the great sacrifice of her very dangerous attachment to your son; yet, supposing you are willing to do so, I have still some doubts whether it may be possible even for you. to prevail on the high-spirited Emily to accept your bounty. This I perfectly know, she would not accept such a gratuity from any man breathing. Perhaps to a lady of your admirable character her very singular and honest pride may feel itself more indulged than mortified in being materially indebted. In this article I am really unable to judge how she may act; but you will have a still more effectual expedient for preventing the dreaded marriage by shewing her, with mild maternal eloquence, the misery it must produce, not so much from her rank in life (for there I know your generosity will spare her) but from the no less material inequality of age; for Emily is at least nine years older than the youth she loves; but, alas, at thirty she is a thousand times more fascinating than all the younger damsels in the universe.

At length, my dear Madam (pray let our mutual hopes and fears excuse the familiarity of my address), at length I have said to you all that I think it necessary to say in a letter, for the prolixity of which I should apologise, if that prolixity had not been occasioned by my earnest desire to gratify the natural curiosity of the amiable parent whom I have been obliged to alarm for the honour and happiness of her child. Pray consider what I have said with your best judgment, but without consulting too many friends; and have the goodness to let me know what steps you think it most prudent to take at this very alarming and critical time. I enclose, on separate slips of paper, a direction to the house near Portman-Square which Emily has just taken, and a fictitious name by which you may direct to me at the St. James's Coffee-house.

I will earnestly implore the favour of at least a line from you within these two days, for the time you know is pressing; and you will have the goodness to remember, that although my terrors on this occasion are very different from those of a mother, they are not less tormenting. Heaven guide you, my dear Madam! Rest assured that I most sincerely wish to be as useful a friend to you, in this perplexing affair, as you can desire any mortal to be, and especially,

UN INCONNU.

LETTER LIII. CORNELIA TO THE UNKNOWN.

SIR,

IF you are (as I must suppose from your letter) a gentleman who really wishes well to the unhappy mother whom you have both terrified and obliged, I must entreat the favour of a personal conference with you in St. James's-Square, at eleven to-morrow morning. You will see only myself and a very old female friend of mine. Believe me, you may depend on the secrecy of both. Indeed the subject of our conference is of a nature too painful to be lightly and indiscreetly communicated to any person from whom you could wish it to be concealed by,

Sir,
Your faithful, afflicted, humble servant CORNELIA SEDLEY.

LETTER LIV. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,

BEFORE I can receive your answer to my last distracted letter, I think myself bound to give you the satisfaction of knowing that I am a little relieved from my extreme perturbation, though not, alas! from my chief terror, by the sudden and unexpected arrival on the dear a•imating Louisa. This warm-hearted, friend has left her noble Colonel with his aged father; and being as impatient to see my boys as I am, she has kindly flown with her usual vivacity to wait with me here, to welcome their return. She could not have arrived at a more seasonable moment; the sight of her has afforded me inexpressible comfort. I have opened my full heart to her, which gave me the more ease, as I had carefully concealed the horrid contents of the distressing anonymous letter from my dear little tender Lucy. It would have cost her many pangs of the heart, not less bitter than those I endure; and it shall be the constant study of my life to secure this sweet girl as much as possible from pain, if I cannot establish her happiness in the manner I would wish.

By Louisa's advice, I have just dispatched a billet to my anonymous correspondent; and, having such a second in my lively friend, I have ventured to invite this terrific Unknown to a private conference in my own house. I hope I have not done wrong; but I shall be content to wander a little from the strait line of propriety and decorum, if I can but preserve this dear impassioned boy. Oh, Seymour! thy prophecy in this point is but too true! This beloved youth has all the perilous sensibility that embittered the early days of his mother. Gracious God teach me how to save him from this horrible impending mischief, without alienating from me his filial affection!

Farewell, dear friends! for I speak to all; and all, I know, will feel kindly anxious for the restoration of my peace. I long for your opinion of the distressing letter. I think, when I have seen and talked with the writer, I must feel a little more at ease. Heaven knows I am far otherwise at present! Adieu! You shall very soon hear again from

Your troubled, affectionate CORNELIA.

LETTER LV. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

MODERATE, I beseech you, my very dear friend, the fond excess of your maternal apprehensions. Though I must confess you have puzzled your privy counsellor, still I maintain that you ought not to harrass your tender spirit, by giving way to the worst suggestions of your affectionate terror. Surely we have time enough before us to prevent any serious mischief from this impending danger, whatever it 〈…〉. After repeated perusals of the alarming letter, I am utterly unable to form a settled opinion whether this threatened danger is real or fictitious; but I strongly incline to believe the latter. There have been so many accomplished and ingenious personages ruined of late by dissipation, and reduced to prey upon unwary opulence by the dexterity of their devices, that fraud, like many of the nobler arts, has been cultivated and refined among us to a surprizing degree. From many anecdotes which I have lately heard of this kind, I am led to suspect that your anonymous letter forms a part of a subtly-fabricated project, to draw a considerable sum of money from the unguarded purse of a mother, whose opulence is well known, and whose tenderness and generosity cannot have escaped the notice of any keen necessitous adventurer, who might wish to draw from them, by fradulent ingenuity, an immediate supply for his distress. You may reckon me perhaps a too timid and suspicious recluse, when I prophesy that your terrific Unknown and his boasted Emily will turn our two profligate worthless characters, not utterly unlike our old acquaintance Don Raphael and Camilla in Gil Blas. It strikes me as a capital stroke of pecuniary contrivance in a necessitous courtezan, to practise on the liberal fondness of a mother, by pretending to sacrifice a perilous passion for her son. I give Emily (however handsome or plain she may be) great credit for this idea; but I must give you also one caution, my very dear and generous friend. If you really feel disposed in this business (as I know you can afford it) to throw away a considerable sum, rather than enter into a painful perhaps, and rather indelicate explanation with your son, I entreat you let the money be paid in Paris, and to the formidable lady in person. This point your friendly banker will readily manage for you with great ease; and I think, if you generously incur any such expence, you ought to be rewarded by the most perfect assurance that the fair object of your alarm is safely out of the kingdom. I have lived so sequestered a life for some years, that I know almost as little of this celebrated Emily as you can do. I am indeed acquainted with her name, and I know a channel by which I can speedily obtain the fullest information in respect to her real character. For this I will immediately apply, and have it dispatched to you with the utmost secrecy and expedition. You judge very generously and very justly of Monson: he mentioned once, but very slightly, this alarming fair-one in a letter to me; but his apprehension subsided, and if any sort of connexion exists between the parties (which I do not believe), it has completely eluded his vigilance: this circumstance itself is highly improbable; and the more I ponder on the whole affair, the more I am persuaded the all-accomplished Emily will be found only a delicate Impostor. Whatever she may prove, I foresee that you will be tempted both to see and converse with her. What mother with such feelings as yours would not feel curious to see a fair creature, who desperately loves, or desperately pretends to love, a son so idolized by herself? Well, my dear friend, you are certainly a privileged character, and I see no mischief that can ensue from your indulging such a desire, except perhaps the trifling mischief of your being tempted by the nobleness of your nature to throw away more money than the object may deserve. But if the hapless fair creature strikes your fancy, and interests your feelings, you may surely indulge yourself in the charitable pleasure of putting a few loose hundred pounds in her pocket, and send of the beautiful jade to the Continent. I am persuaded my young friend William will be too happy in his return to you, to grieve very long for the absence of such a lady; and I am still more persuaded that he is much too wise to have ever seriously thought of marrying a courtezan who is almost twice as old as himself.

That I may reply to you as rapidly as possible, I will only add our united love, and our cordial prayers, that you may be thoroughly repaid for your present cruel inquietude, and for every past suffering, by seeing the dear object of our general anxiety as happily married as we all wish him to be. Lucy the elder gives a deep sigh for her dear young namesake on this occasion. But I repeat, my excellent Cornelia, you and my sister are frightened too much. I need not tell you with what eagerness we shall expect a farther account. Farewell! and believe me ever,

Your faithful EDMUND.

LETTER LVI. From the Unknown to CORNELIA.

MY DEAR MADAM,

I AM highly flattered and pleased, and yet, I own, a little distressed by your obliging appointment. Forgive me if I request your word of honour before I make my appearance, that if you happen to recollect my features (for I must confess you have seen them formerly), you will never communicate either my follies or my zeal to serve you (which are strangely blended, as Vice and Virtue too frequently appear) to any of my relations.

Do but favour me with this assurance by the bearer, who waits for your reply; and you shall instantly behold

Your devoted INCONNU.

LETTER LVII. From CORNELIA to the Unknown.

SIR,

YOUR billet has considerably encreased my very eager solicitude to see you. I do not hesitate to give you, in the most unequivocal manner, the promise you require. Whatever confidence you may think proper to place in me, I will venture to say that you shall have nothing to apprehend from the treachery or indiscretion of

Your obliged and faithful servant, CORNELIA SEDLEY.

LETTER LVIII. From CORNELIA to EDMUND AUDLEY.

COMFORT! comfort! my very dear, though too timid and too courageous friend. In one, and, alas! the great important point, you confide too much in the discretion of the dear ensnared youth; but, in regard to other persons and circumstances, your suspicions and your fears have outrun the truth.—No! my dear cautious counsellor, the terrific Unknown is not a Don Raphael, I can assure you. He bears indeed a greater resemblance to poor Gil Blas himself, though I must not allow you to suppose for a moment that Emily is a second Camilla: she is believe me, in my estimation, a very different and interesting character; though I shall not be surprized if, when you arrive at the end of this letter, you think me a simpleton and a dupe, and incline to the very opinion concerning Emily which I tell you I would not have you entertain.

I have so much to tell you, and am so flurried between joy for what has passed, and apprehension of what may still happen, that I hardly know how to begin relating you to the many things that I wish to you hear. First, for my Unknown, I am bound, as you will see, by the two enclosed billets which passed between us, and which I send you as an apology for my reserve; I am bound, I say, not to tell you who he is. But have a little patience, my very dear and affectionately curious friends! by to-morrow's post a certain person, without any treachery, will impart to you this teazing secret, which (though I hope the sage Edmund will bear the inquietude it may give him like a man) our dear and truly feminine Lucy the elder will be dying to know. Let me just say for her relief, that this alarming Unknown is a person for whose welfare and reputation I am interested in no trifling degree.—Nay, I absolutely love him, and certainly not the less for finding him inflamed with a vehement passion for the same dangerous and enchanting object who has captivated my son.—My new friend, as you will naturally suppose, is as eager as I can wish him to be in his zeal to assist me in the preservation of my child. The great wish of my soul is, to preserve them both. If I can accomplish this, I shall think myself blest indeed! I am more sanguine than usual in my hopes upon the subject, because Providence seems inclined to befriend me, by having conducted some little incidents in such a manner as to surprize and support me with unexpected comfort, and I may say delight. All this riddle will be explained to you to-morrow; at present I must only talk to you of the alarming, the dangerous, the attractive, the fascinating, and, let me add with gratitude, the admirable Emily. You have a good guess, my dear Edmund, at the secret feelings of a fond mother. I confess to you, I felt a great longing, to see this too interesting personage. I have seen her; and what will you think of me when I also confess, that I am almost as much in love with her as my poor artless William, or my more experienced—? Fie on my slippery pen! it had nearly written the name of my not-to-be-named Unknown: but I was speaking of this fascinating creature, who puts all discretion to flight in both sexes. Never did I behold any female who would be so likely, if I were a man myself, to make me the absolute slave of her attractions. Instead of that insolent or alluring vivacity of feature which often marks her condition, the face of Emily has all the exquisite modest sweetness and simplicity that a painter would wish to represent in a new-created Eve. The charms of her conversation are still more captivating than those of her countenance!—You will not wonder that I thought them so, when I tell you, she perfectly convinced me that her passion for my son is no fictitious, no artificial, no self-interested passion. Believe me (and experience, alas! has made me too good a judge in this particular) it is genuine, ardent, and miserable love; the love of a woman, unfortunate indeed in her condition, but exquisite in understanding as in beauty! Fully sensible of her own infelicity and disgrace, yet noble enough to be ready to sacrifice her fond ambition, which she wants not perhaps the power of indulging, to the real happiness and honour of the youth she loves!—Oh! generous Emily, thou hast my pity, my affection. Now, my dear Edmund, do not laugh at me; do not ridicule that cullibility of heart, which, to use your own abominable phrase, you have sometimes told me, makes a part of my character; do not think me an egregious fool, when I tell you what I have done—assuredly I have not paid too high a price for the satisfaction that I at present enjoy. You remember the advice g•ven me by the friendly Unknown concerning a pecuniary offer to Emily. As many circumstances, upon the truth of which I could rely, had fully convinced me that this unfortunate fair-one has a very generous heart; I determined that my offer should be so considerable, as to make a forcible impression on her feeling spirits—The large sum which, you know, I have saved for the pleasure of presenting it to my two boys, when each shall become his own master, supplied me most conveniently on this occasion: I felt no scruple in making free with this money, because I knew that, if I even expended all which I designed to give Charles, that dear generous boy would one day tell me that I could not have employed his property more to his deli•ht, than by making it conducive to the preservation of his brother. Animated by these ideas, I went well prepared to be liberal to Emily: after a very long conversation, which cost us both many tears, and in the close of which she most gracefully acquiesced in the plan, which I wished her to follow, of retiring to the Continent; I presented to her a set of notes payable to herself in Paris, for ten thousand pound. Her reply to me was this, "O! my dear Madam, how you delight and torture me in the same moment!" -It is indeed a triumph for the wretched Emily to have engaged the tender regard of such a pure and exalted being as you are: but what would my felicity •ave been, if my destiny had saved me from perdition, and made me such a daughter as you might have received without a blush? Abject as I now feel myself in your presence, allow me, my dear Madam, to imitate in some degree the nobleness of your mind: of the sum which you so generously offer, I will accept only as much as may be sufficient to relieve your parental inquietude, by convincing you that the object of your fear is as far removed from this country as you justly wish her to be—let me but flatter myself that I carry with me your esteem, and you shall find me a voluntary exile. Here a little generous contest arose between us, which was at last amicably settled by my insisting on her taking five of the ten thousand; and this she would only consent to do, on my promising to receive it again, whenever opulence, which her superlative beauty may indeed command, shall enable her conveniently to replace the sum that I forced upon her.

Shall I own to you the whole extent of my weakness? Shall I tell you that I not only wish to make this beautiful frail-one independent, but I wished also to make her virtuous and devout? Here, alas! I have no chance of being gratified: this lovely infidel, who is as far from being a hypocrite as she is from being a saint, unveiled to me her inmost soul. The fatal philosophy of France, in which she has been trained, has so alienated her mind from all ideas of true Religion, that I could not hope to influence her conduct by any arguments that I might draw from thence.—Happily, however, for the great object of my immediate anxiety, I found her most tremblingly alive to all the motives of honour, sentiment and affection. I am convinced that her love for my son is genuine, by the manner in which she consented to sacrifice her own gratification to his advantage. Though I was prepossessed in her favour, by the impassioned report of The Unknown; I was yet greatly surprised to find a person, who had plunged for some years in a life of such splendid infamy, still possessed of feelings so visibly acute, so delicate, and refined. As to her age, my anonymous friend must surely be mistaken: I cannot believe that she is more than four years older than William: she has at least youth enough to make all the mother tremble in my heart. When I think of my poor fond and fiery William's attachment, alas! what has this dear simple ardent youth to suffer, even on the best possible regulation of this unfortunate affair! I should not love him so intensely as I do, had he been of a nature not framed to feel agony in the loss of an idol so attractive. I shudder, not only at the thoughts of the anguish which I know his poor guileless deluded heart must feel from disappointed passion, but still more from a dread of losing his filial affection. Though my son has great tenderness in his nature; yet he has also a great portion of that uncontroulable imperious spirit which belongs to most of your lordly creatures. If in the delirium of his early love, he believes his passion to be under the guidance of virtue, he will not only disobey, but he will even hate me, should he discover that I have secretly laboured to prevent its indulgence—O! merciful God! let me not become, I beseech thee, an object of abhorrence to my child—the very idea convulses my whole frame. Alas! this Emily is so singularly captivating, and her own passion is so vehement, that I even doubt her own power of keeping the promise which I am confident she made to me with cordial sincerity. What have I not cause to apprehend from two beings so unhappily under the dominion of a blind and fatal passions, when even I myself, while; was conversing with this fascinating Emily, felt a strange succession of vehement and even opposite emotions! There were minutes, during our long conference, in which I was almost tempted to fold her to my bosom with pity and admiration; and there was an instant in which my brain seemed to be on fire with momentary madness and horror. From an expression that she dropt, a sudden idea darted across my mind, that it was just such a frail enticing sorceress that occasioned the untimely death death of my ever idolized Seymour.—All my admiration, all my pity, all my humanity, were gone; and I darted upon the poor suppliant creature a look of terror and detestation, which seemed for a minute as she afterwards said, to annihilate her existence. Tears relieved her from the icy and wretched stupefaction which the sudden (and to her not perfectly accountable) ohange in my countenance produced upon her. In seeing her weep, I began to weep myself, and so by degrees was softened into a compassionate human creature again. But oh, my good old friend! whose experience has given them more reason than I have, to dread the fierce tyranny of the passions in a young ardent frame, so inexpressibly dear dear to me as my son? oh, thou dear and never to be forgotten victim of a similar delirium! oh, my beloved Seymour! if thy purified spirit has any knowledge of the perils that now surround thy still fond and faithful Cornelia, save, if thou canst, the lovely youth, whose promising infancy was so dear to thee; save him! entangled as he is, save the son of thy Cornelia, from those fatal snares which hurried thee to thy early grave!

Alas! my dear Edmund, though I began this long letter with some degree of calmness and even gaiety, I have now thrown my poor agitated bosom into painful perturbation, by indulging perhaps too much the apprehensions that haunt me. I ought certainly to reflect with considerable satisfaction, and great thankfulness to Heaven, on the unexpected comfort and hope that I have been enabled to derive from the surprizing incident which you are to hear to morrow. I ought also to comfort myself not a little, with the very strong assurances which I received from the generous Emily, that she will quit •ngland directly, and go by the way of Brighthelmsione and Dieppe to Paris, to avoid the great char•e of meeting my son at Dover or Calais, in which case she ingenuously confessed to me, that she could not confide in the resolution she had formed, or the promise she had given.—This frankness, I must own, (for frankness you know is a favourite quality with me), encreased my good opinion of her sincerity. Whatever may happen you may depend on receiving immediate intelligence. I have just heard that my dear boys will most probably arrive in a day or two. I call them still boys; and almost wish, alas! that they were still in their leading strings Alas! that unlucky word reminds me, that when they were so, I was far from being either tranquil or happy.—Am I ever to be so?—Heaven only knows—and let me trust in Heaven.—As soon as they arrive, I shall hurry them down to Sedley-Hall. Pray, my dear friend, contrive to come to us there as soon as you can; for, believe me, your presence will be an inexpressible comfort to the terrified and trembling parental spirit of

Your affectionate CORNELIA.

LETTER LIX. FROM LOUISA MORETON TO LUCY AUDLEY THE ELDER.

AND so, my dear agreeable old friend, you are really a confirmed and contented spinster, as they tell me.—Well! Providence, who regulates our various destiny, ordains, I am persuaded, what is best for us all.—Never was mortal in a better mood for saying fine grateful things of this said grand and invisible Governess, Providence, than I at this minute; for, behold! here am I, your old rattling madcap, formerly called Louisa Mount-Maurice, a most striking and happy example of the care that Providence often takes in directing those who are unable to direct themselves.—And what does all this mean?—Patience, my dear—I am the very person destined to tell you the secret that you are dying to know.—What you! Louisa, you! who have been twelve years out of our world, are you come, like a conjurer, to find out this terrific Unknown?—Patience again my dear; I must have the pleasure of telling my own delightful little secret in my own way.—Well! but do not fret, dear Lucy; I will not be so cruel as I used to be, and tantalize you for half an hour before I impart what you are so eager to hear. Come, let us be grave, and all sober serious attention on both sides.—Well then, you have already heard how this terrible Unknown was appointed. Our dear ••derly Cornelia was waiting in high order to ••ceive him in her dressing-room; but it happened that, when he rapt at the door, the flattern Louisa was up in her chamber, where I was detained, for I know not how many minutes, by your sweet engaging namesake.——Well, my dear, be as impatient as you please, to hear of the Unknown—I positively will not say a word of him, till I have said that this dear niece of yours is one of the very loveliest girls that I ever beheld, and then so enchantingly like her dear lost mother, my incomparable aunt! Well, I must not speak of the poor departed Harriot a present, nor let a single tear stain this letter, that I wish to be all joy. To proceed then in my joyous story: As soon as I could shake off the sweet insinuating Lucy, whose tender curiosity made her a little restless • not being permitted to share with me the pri •ilege of seeing this important stranger, I hastened to appear at the private conference, where our dear trembling Cornelia had told me she should depend so much upon me as her second. Though not very subject to fear, it was with some trepidation that I opened the door of her dressing room. But judge my astonishment and my transport! when this terrific Unknown, who had his back towards me as I entered, turned suddenly round, and with equal astonishment discovered himself to be—my eldest brother—aye, verily! the gay, honest, impudent Archibald Mount Maurice himself.—Surely Heaven suggested to me my scheme, which appeared at first only one of my wild romantic vagaries; I mean, the scheme of leaving my dear Colonel and his eldest boy with his good old father, and of flying hither to pass a little time with Cornelia, for the sake of assisting her •n a certain parental project that she has kindly imparted to me. By my arrival here, I have had the delight of being very useful to her. I shall share with her, I trust, the blessed office of saving her son, and I hope also of reclaiming my less endangered but improvident brother — He had no idea of my being in England; though from an apprehension that Cornelia might shew his letters to some person acquainted with his hand, he had taken the precaution of employing a secretary even in his two little billets. He is, I fancy, too much engaged by other ladies, to be very minutely inquisitive concerning the movements of his sister.—I must, however, say for him, that he could not well have heard of my arrival, as we came in a Portugueze vessel to Lisbon; and our return was not notified in the public papers, like the arrival of passengers in our India ships. Poor Archibald was both delighted and confounded by the unexpected sight of a person so likely to lecture him severely on the present occasion — But affection triumphed over fear. The rogue loves me in his heart, which is in truth as warm and as well-meaning a heart as was ever over-heated in the fiery furnace of Love. And now, my dear Lucy, as affectionate projects are in fash on among us, I will tell you an affectionate project of mine; but be upon your guard: you must not at present, for your life you must not say a word of it to the discreet and cautious Edmund. I want to make this honest idle brother of mine walk as unhurt in the said fi•ry furnace, with me like a good angel by his side, as you remember the three men with hard names did in no metaphorical furnace, according to a book that I should not lightly quote under the roof of our dear devout Cornelia. But, to speak in plain English, I have conceived a most eager desire to make a match for Archibald with a certain niece of yours, named Frances, who is, they tell me, not only a sweet character, as I •hould suppose a disciple of yours must be, but marvellously like the lovely woman whom my brother had the misfortune to lose, when she was just going to make him happy, by a fondly expected son and heir, who shared the untimely fate of his beautiful and lamented mother. I am persuaded that between serious advice and sarcastic rai•lery, I shall effectually cure Archibald of his licentuous desires; and, if I succeed, he will, you know, be what is commonly called a very good match for almost any girl in the kingdom. He has a good paternal estate; but the idle rogue, for want of a good young woman to take care of him, has contracted some foolish debts, and should not in discretion marry without a fortune of seven or eight thousand pounds. Pray tell me between ourselves, if you think your sweet Frances may have a sum like this on her marriage. If my idea pleases you, as I confess it does me, I am persuaded we shall be able to manage so desirable an event; for it is a maxim with me, that a little confederacy of two or three sensible women may guide and fix the passion of an honest warm-hearted man on any fair object they chuse. Bold doctrine this! yet, believe me, I have seen it frequently verified, and hope to do so at present in more instances than one; I am just called away from my paper; but will contrive, if I can, to scribble a little more to you before I seal up this pacquet for the post.—Adieu for some hours!

Joy! joy! rejoice with us my good friends all! Here are our two young demigods just alighted among us; all the distressing apprehensions of our dear and truly parental Cornelia are drowned for the present in the fulness of her delight. Well indeed may she be proud of such sons, and anxious for their felicity. What a heavenly pair! the twin-brothers of the beautiful Helen could not be more gracefully engaging. For my part; I am glad I am a safe sallow-faced old-woman. Mercy on the hapless damsel, whatever her condition may be, whose destiny condemns her to love one of these godlike creatures, without meeting an adequate return! But, above all, may Heaven avert such a calamity from our little, lovely, modest, and sensible Lucy! she must be the wife of the manly heroic William. What a singular expression of sweetness and dignity this enchanting youth has in his countenance! yet, handsome and gentle as he appears, he looks to me as if he could be very impetuous, very strong-minded, in his love. His features give me the idea of Achilles, while Charles, though like him, is yet so different, that, from his serious and contemplative air, I could almost take him for a Platonic philosopher. But I suppose our young sage will soon prove himself an impassioned mortal; and as for our young Achilles, I almost tremble to think how desperately he may rage, when he finds that his haughty Brifeis is torn from him. But courage, my dear! have we not the sweet soothing Lucy, to mollify and humanize the outrageously indignant hero? Courage! I say again — I am determined to hope that every thing will end happily, though our present situation, Heaven knows, affords but too much room for inquietude and anxiety. I meant to have requested the favor of a long letter from you while I remain in town; but I now say, do not write but come to us as soon as you can in the country, for the dear discreet mother has resolved that we shall pass but one day more in this dangerous city. The morning after to-morrow we are to set forth all together for Sedley-Hall; and I have happily prevailed on my half reformed brother to join our party, which affords infinite satisfaction to Cornelia, as she hopes by his assistance to gain a greater insight into William's amorous secrets than she could probably obtain by any other channel. She has determined (and there is, I think, as much wisdom as delicacy in her determination) to abstain, if possible, from all conversation with her son on the perilous subject. Heaven bless this incomparable parent, and make her as happy as she deserves to be! This is an honest little prayer, in which I am sure, my dear Lucy, you will most cordially join

Your very sincere and affectionate LOUISA MORETON.

P. S. I have been delighted in hearing from Cornelia, that the person we used to talk of so incessantly, the admirable Giuliana, had the address to turn her old father, the Italian merchant, into an English gentleman; and that, after burying his old bones in this land of liberty and good sense, she is happily settled in your neighbourhood. I am charmed with the prospect of soon seeing this interesting personage. Don't you remember my saying, in my madcap-days, that I could willingly walk an hundred miles for a sight of her?—Ah, Lucy! my legs cannot move as they used to do in those days; but my spirits, thank Heaven! have their old or rather young nimble motion and affectionate alacrity, as I hope very soon to convince you in person. Farewell!

LETTER LX. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

Sedley-Hall.
My very kind and considerate old Friend.

I THANK and love you as I ought to do, for sending me two such comfortable and animating guests as your sister and Giuliana so soon after my return. Think me not ungrateful or unreasonable, if I add, that even with these dear friends and comforters around me I feel a painful anxiety and impatience for your arrival.—Indeed I want a person of your experience and authority to direct we in all my conduct on this very bitter emergency. I have learnt from the apparently frank and friendly Mount Maurice, in whom I am half-willing and half-afraid to confide, though his excellent sister assures me he is a very trusty confidant; I have learnt that Emily has written to my son. Her letter is a very tender and eternal adieu: alas! I see but too plainly the excess of poor William's passion, in his change of countenance and behaviour since this letter arrived. His sufferings pierce me to the soul. I try to sooth him in vain; and I feel it very necessary to check myself in my endeavours to do so, lest I should betray what his offended passion would hardly forgive. I hope, however, that the charming little groupe of friends assembled here may gradually dissipate his touching melancholy, especially if we can detain him here; and, as his birth-day is now so nigh, he cannot form any decent pretence for leaving us before that festival arrives, for which we are already beginning to make chearful preparations. Alas! I make them with a very trembling heart. Should this dear and most unhappily enamoured youth make a precipitate and blind use of the privilege which the approaching important day will confer upon him, all my hopes will be blasted, and I must be miserable for ever.

You kindly assure me, that you and Frances will certainly be with us on the evening before this interesting day. Must then such a long and tedious fortnight pass, before I can have the comfort of talking so you on the great subject that presses so heavily on my heart? Pray get rid, if possible, of your unseasonable guests; and be assured, that every additional day which you can bestow upon me, before the period you have named for your arrival, will be a real benefit, as well as an inexpressible obligation, conferred on

Your most anxious and affectionate CORNELIA.

LETTER LXI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

INDEED, my dear brother, we want you here very much. Our poor Cornelia has just been surprized, and is almost distracted, by a very unexpected letter from this tormenting abominable Emily. There is nothing violent or insulting in her letter; on the contrary, it is full of the most 〈◊〉 •espect: but this bewitching creature has • paid all the money she accepted, and seems to intimate, though ambiguously, that her motive for this restoration is a distant hope of aspiring to that honour which, with a modest propriety, she had once, you know, utterly renounced.

This intimation, ambiguous as it is, has put Cornelia on the rack: we are all puzzled to account for the contents of this alarming letter; and the more so, as we are certain that the poor enamoured William has not written to his mistress since he received that epistle from her which threw him into a wild and wayward melancholy. In that point his pride triumphed over his affection: but this perilous affection is just blown afresh into a blaze of joy, for he also has a letter from •m•ly, as we learn from Mount Maurice, with the contents of which he is visibly transported, though our capital spy has not yet been able to ascertain these contents. But here is the good zealous sister of that spy: here is Louisa just come to tell me the whole mystery, while her brother is imparting it to Cornelia. Emily, it seems, did actually set out for France; but she was recalled, to receive a considerable legacy just fallen to her by the death of a peer, with whom she once lived, and whom she quitted (as you will remember we heard) from generous motives of tenderness to his sister. Were this all, we should perhaps have but little to fear; the worst is yet to come. Fortune, in her caprice, seems resolved to lavish all her favours on this frail and mischievous beauty. She has just received from a certain amorous prince on the Continent the most dazzling overtures—nothing less, I assure you, than the offer of a splendid establishment for life, and a title of dutchess. This offer the bewitching Emily has enclosed to her beloved William, in the ardent hope that so striking a sacrifice of ambition may atone for all past deficiencies in point of chastity, and induce even his mother to think her not unworthy of his hand. The fond youth, as you may suppose, is almost frantic with joy and eagerness to embrace the fair, who prefers him to a prince. Mount Maurice told his sister, "That from the impetuosity of his young friend in their private conversation on this topic, he did not believe any power in the world would be sufficient to prevent the marriage:" but the latter part of this information Mount Maurice has very prudently resolved not to communicate to Cornelia till you arrive.—No words can tell you how very eagerly your speedy presence is prayed for by all the poor frightened cabinet-council here, and particularly by

Your affectionate Sister.

LETTER LXII. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

OH! my dear friend, my last resource! though your kind sister tells me, she has written you a most pressing letter, and acquainted you with all my distress, I must send a few lines to you myself. Alas! my dear counsellor, I begin to fear that this impending evil (surely the most bitter that could have befallen me) is now becoming inevitable. My poor impassioned and impetuous William will be as deaf as the wind to any thing that I can dare to say to him. I ventured just now (being alone with him) to touch, though distantly and lightly, on the terrific subject. I ventured to express a hope, that he would never marry without my concurrence. —He replied, "That, my dearest mother, is more than I must promise even to you."— "Why so?"—"Because, Madam, the prejudices of Virtue are sometimes as violent as those of Love; and when they are so, believe me, they are more cruel and unjust." He said this with an air at once so tender and imperious, that I could hardly help exclaiming with a bursting heart, "Alas! my child, thou art a second Seymour!" Oh, Edmund! if he is destined to prove, like our lost and ever lamented friend, the victim of precipitate passion, though in a different manner; what but extreme misery in the various periods of my life can be the portion of

Your afflicted and almost hopeless CORNELIA!

For Heaven's sake, hasten to us as fast as possible.

LETTER LXIII. FROM EDMUND AUDLEY TO CORNELIA.

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,

IT grieves me to the soul that I cannot instantly appear upon a summons which my heart is so willing to obey; but, alas! a most cruel, unsettled, and tormenting gout, is flying about me in such a manner, that it is utterly impossible for me to quit my own house. All I can say at present is, that before this letter reaches you, my dear Frances (whatever I may suffer from the absence of such an invaluable attendant) shall be on her road to your house, and entrusted with that casket of jewels which I had vainly proposed to myself so much pleasure from the hope of delivering in person. Trust, however, I conjure you, my excellent friend, in Heaven, and the influence of your own pure angelic mind over your son, in a conference which you wisely defer to the last moment. When you find him on the point of leaving home, you must be silent no longer; but open your whole over burthened heart to him, and exert all the tenderness and all the authority of a parent. If it is possible for me to be with you before that distressing explanation should take place, you shall certainly see

Your very faithful and affectionate, though very infirm and much tormented, EDMUND.

P. S. Pray tell my young friend, that as I send my daughter as my proxy to celebrate his birth-day, if my present malady renders me unable to follow her (and I fear it will), I shall depend on receiving very soon a charitable visit from him: tell him, I think both his gallantry and his gratitude will induce him to escort my sister and Frances home again, when he considers how sensibly such a poor invalid as I am must feel their absence.

I flatter myself my dear Madam, that I might have some influence over his mind, if I were able to hold a long and private discourse with him, and if I continue unable to move, you will, I hope, use your best endeavours to procure for me the opportunity that my bodily infirmities will not allow me to procure for myself. I might say much to him, that so gentle a mother could hardly say. Think of this; and I conjure you not to despair. Adieu!

LETTER LXIV. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,

I THOUGHT nothing could distress me more than your illness at this unfortunate time: but I believe I love your child still better than yourself; and I have been terrified almost out of my senses for our dear Frances. Be not however, alarmed; she is safe, I thank Heaven, under my care, after a providental escape from a most alarming accident, which has added to the miserable confusion that now reigns, to my infinite sorrow, in this troubled house. But our dear girl, I must repeat to you, is safe; and though she has a severe gash in the upper part of her left arm, her health is not injured, and her lovely person not materially disfigured. The mischief happened not more than three or four miles from this place. A coach full of holiday people, with drunken men and wild horses, either accidental or with wanton malice, drove against your chaise, and overset it. Most fortunately, the glass on the side of our dear Frances was down; but the violence of the shock threw her forcibly forward, cut her left arm with the front glass, and stunned her for some little time by beating her head against the door. Her thick hair very happily saved her from material injury; or we might have lost, my dear Edmund, the chief support and delight of your life and mine, by this horrible mischance. Let us think of this escape, and be as thankful as we ought to be. The dear Frances behaves with her usual sense and spirit. Her wound has been dressed by the intelligent Brensil, who assures us all, that we have not even the slightest ill consequence to apprehend; the sweet girl, however, is much troubled in her mind by a loss for which she is certainly not to blame, especially as that loss seems to have arisen from her extreme care of the precious deposit with which she was entrusted. She had the little mahogany box containing the casket of jewels in her hand at the moment of the mischance, and supposes that the shock, which stunned her, threw what she held from her hand into the road. But the confusion was too great for any thing to be known very clearly. Martha and Stephen confess, that they thought only of their bleeding young mistress; and I believe, indeed, they would both have given all the jewels in the world, if they had been under their care, to have staunched the blood of our idolized Frances. However the evil might happen, the casket is lost; the road has been searched in vain; and I think it proper to send off an express to you with this painful intelligence, as I apprehend you may wish to send an account of the loss to London, and perhaps to advertise some description of the jewels, which nobody can do but yourself. I cannot say but I am bitterly grieved for the loss of this casket; but what, alas! are the most costly jewels but vain remembrancers of splendid misery to persons so sick at heart as the dear unfortunate mistress of this noble mansion is at this moment! Her affectionate and gentle spirit is bent indeed to the earth; though, with a sweetness and generosity peculiar to herself, she labours to hide her own various afflictions, and exerts herself to the utmost to sooth and console the immediate vexation of poor Frances.

I have delayed lending this, although the man and horse have been waiting for it some hours, to take the chance of a second search on the road; but this has been as vain as the former. During this interval, I had some private conversation with Cornelia, that has made me as wretched as herself. She has been apprized of of all the danger from Emily; she has had a secret conference with her son; it was very short; and you will judge of her present anguish of mind from my only repeating to you the last words of that conference: "Reflect, my dear child; and tell me what your feelings will be if you find that the woman you have married is treated with contempt by all the world!"— "I can answer you, my dear Madam, most clearly: I shall feel proud that my own heart has more justice than all the world; and, believe me, I shall return its contempt ten-fold." —"I have done, thou dear unhappy youth: thou art under the influence of a fatal, though a generous delirium, from which I foresee it will not be in my power to save thee. I have only to pray to God, which I do with my whole aching heart, that he will either take me from the earth, or allow me to mitigate in some future years that excess of misery which I perceive thou art determined to draw upon thyself."

Alas! my dear Edmund, what a wretched morning is this, to make part of a day most eagerly expected and destined in our visions (so cruelly delusive!) to a general festivity of heart!

I have just left the dear long-suffering and now overwhelmed Cornelia reclining on her bed, with our angelic Giuliana by her side. She has one of these oppressive head-achs that arise from such perturbation of heart and soul; but this incomparable mother is resolved, if possible, to collect a little strength from repose, and appear with tolerable serenity at this inauspicious feast, from which she has had some thoughts of withdrawing, but where, at the intreaty of her she has consented to preside. Heavens, what a festival! All the house seems in trouble, though many know not why, and particularly our sweet innocent niece. Poor little Lucy is certainly, as Cornelia says, deeply enamoured of William; and we have, therefore, made a point of keeping her as much in the dark as possible. This circumstance affects our tender Cornelia so much, that whenever she speaks to this sweet girl, she is ready to burst into tears, yet contrives to conceal from her the real cause of her emotion.

I must not detain the messenger any longer, on account of the pressing business of the lost jewels; I will only add, that, distressed as I am, I will endeavour to draw some good out of evil, and if possible chear myself with the hope that this returning express will bring me a better and a more speedy account of your amendment in health than I should otherwise have had. To hear that your disorder has left you, or at least is settled into the safest appearances, will, I assure you, be a very comfortable medicine, to the dejected spirits of

Your affectionate Sister

Our dear Frances salutes you with the fond•st expressions of duty and affection.

LETTER LXV. FROM CORNELIA TO EDMUND AUDLEY.

OH my very dear and excellent old friend! why are you not well, and with us, to make the happiness of Cornelia complete?—Yes the happiness of Cornelia!—You will leap for joy, in spite of the gout itself, at those welcome words; and my letter, I am confident, will accelerate your recovery; for what cordial in the world is so powerful as unexpected generous joy to such a warm and benevolent heart? Yes, my dear anxious Edmund, the distracted mother is made happy—happy for the first time in her life! happy to such a degree as language is unable to express! But you will guess at the exquisite nature of my present sensations, when I tell you that I have recovered the alienated spirit of my son? He loves me; he obeys me; he will be every thing that I wish him to be; and the delight of all delights is, to be indebted, as I am for this unutterable blessing to the provident tenderness, to the godlike spirit, of our beloved Seymour!—Oh, Edmund! I am so wild with transport, that you will hardly understand perhaps what I write; yet I should think myself an ungrateful wretch, if I did not attempt to you with my own hand a full history of the blessed change in my fate. I will begin where your sister Lucy left off; for she says she dispatched to you a sad picture of me, reclining on my bed. I had rested there about an hour quite alone, and felt my spirits a little composed by quiet and silent prayer; when I was agreeably surprized by your sister, with my son William in one hand, and the lost casket in the other, followed by Giuliana, with her arm round the half reluctant Lucy the younger, who was afraid of intruding.

The warm-hearted and active Mount Maurice, being deeply touched by the sweet Frances's lamentation for the loss of the casket, had set himself at day-break this morning to make a very laborious and patient search to recover it, by examining a watery ditch by the side of the road, into which Frances imagines she must have cast it in her sudden terror of its being crushed to pieces. When he returned in triumph with his treasure, Giuliana particularly requested that the casket might be opened immediately in my chamber, and only in the presence of the few persons whom I have mentioned. You, my dear Edmund, who have known all my fondness for our lamented friend, will easily conceive the emotions of my heart, when your sister, as your representative unlocked this inestimable casket, and after taking out the rich jewels (which the young Lucy only was calm enough to admire) delivered two papers to my son; one of these appeared to be a letter directed to him, which Giuliana entreated him to read aloud. He did so; and here is a copy of what he read.

FROM SEYMOUR TO WILLIAM SEDLEY.

MY VERY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,

I AM confident, from the endearing spirit of your childhood, that, at the period when I intend you shall receive this letter, you will be one of the most promising and accomplished characters of your time; I hope the ornament of your country, and, above all, the delight of your incomparable mother. At that period the hand which is now writing to you (though I am now but a few years older than you will then be) will be mouldered into dust! My whole frame very sensibly feels the influence of approaching death; but my hand is yet guided by a heart that still glows with a parental anxiety for your welfare, and with a most ardent wish to prove a valuable friend to you, even long after the close of my existence. You will be, my dear William, what I have been, a young man of a high spirit and keen affections, with an affluent fortune; and Heaven will, I trust, preserve you from what I consider as the chief source of my misfortunes, the early loss of an inestimable mother! You will, I hope, long have in yours a friend of the sweetest manners, a counsellor of unquestionable integrity, a guide to whom all the great rulers of the human mind, reason and habit, religion and love, will conspire, I am persuaded, to render you obedient.

But, my dear William, perverse incidents are very apt to arise in the life of a young man, which may tempt him, with the best heart in the world, to question both the wisdom and the authority even of such a guide. The blind tyranny of an impetuous passion may hurry him into a frantic and resolute opposition to this faithful and disinterested counsellor, whose precepts, his own conscience will tell him, it is hardly possible to disregard and be happy.

Oh, my dear Sedley, should it be ever your lot to fall into circumstances of this kind, before you take any decisive step, listen, I conjure you, to me, repeatedly peruse the papers I bequeath to you. Alas! who can be more qualified by experience than I am, to speak as a monitor to any young man under the impulse of a dangerous desire; for whose passions have been more precipitate or more fatal than mine? But I mean not, my dear William, to give you a tedious sermon on a hacknied subject, the blindness and the perils of youthful passion. I am the less disposed to talk to you, my young friend, of such perils, because, if I have read your future character with a just prophetic eye, you will be as averse as I have been to be influenced by the mere selfish motives of fea• or caution. But you will possess a heart alive in the keenest degree to all the noble feelings of gratitude; and I am therefore most eager to tell you (what surely no one can tell you so as myself) the rare, the superlative claims of your angelic mother to the gratitude, the tenderness, the idolatry of her children.— You will have heard undoubtedly that in the richest bloom of her youth and beauty, when the tender affections of her feeling bosom had been awakened and quickened into the fondest attachment, she had the resolution to tear herself from the idol of her heart, and, allow my vanity to say, from an idol that few women could have relinquished. She had the persevering virtue to triumph over a passion that she could hardly oppose, and live; and this she accomplished, in spite of every remonstrance, every entreaty, every stratagem, employed by the man she loved to make her renounce a resolution which tortured his heart as intensely as it did her own. She was inflexible; she was convinced that she could not gratify her own ardent affection, without endangering the relious principles of her children; she perferred their distant security to all the immediate allurements of fervent and reciprocal love. What struggles, what agonies, she endured; what admirable faculties, and what exquisite virtue she exerted in this conflict; you will perfectly understand, by reading the papers that you will find with this l•tter. They contain a long and very circumstantial narrative of a trial perhaps the most severe that ever an impassioned woman sustained. Oh, my dear William! she loved me with an affection as fond, as vehement, as sincere, as the female bosom can feel; but the love of her children, refined and strengthened by her just attachment to God, was the predominant passion of her soul.— What does a son owe to such a mother? Your own generous heart will answer, undoubtedly, "a life of the fondest veneration, and the most devoted obedience." Oh, my dear William! were it possible for a precipitate passion to hurry you towards a marriage which would render this incomparable parent unhappy; you must be the most unfeeling and most ungrateful of beings to complete it. You could not do so; or, if you co•ld in the delirium of desire, as soon as that subsided, you must grow an object of abhorrence to yourself, and of pity, if not of detestation to all the world.

But let me banish these painful and distressing images—let me chear my exhausted spirits by a prospect which time, I flatter myself, will most happily realize. It is my hope and my persuasion, that this letter will find you, my dear William, in domestic comfort, joy, and harmony, with that angelic parent to whom you are so deeply indebted; yes, as my life is ebbing fast away, I seem to be blest with a clear prophetic vision of those sweet scenes of family concord and delight which I most fervently wish my dearest friends to enjoy, and which Heaven, I am confident, reserves as a reward for the most meritorious of women. Your excellent mother, my dear William, will naturally wish you to marry early in life. Allow me the privilege of decorating your bride with jewels that belonged to a woman of beauty and of virtue. I had once vainly hoped to place them on the more lovely person of my adored Cornelia! Those hopes are past. Let me now please myself with the idea that her hand may place them as a nuptial ornament on some fortunate fair, as lovely, it possible, in your eyes, my dear William, as the perfect Cornelia was in mine. But remember, it is the request of your dying friend, that these jewels may never decorate any bride of yours, however beautiful, if she wants the noble ornament of my Cornelia's esteem and affection. Ah! how vain is this charge! What mother can be so tenderly disposed towards a daughter, as our gentle Cornelia will be towards any lovely girl that you can think worthy to be your wife? Her judgment and her tenderness can never be corrupted by any sordid motives of avarice or ambition; and she is, therefore, peculiarly entitled to be your prime counsellor in this most important article of human life. O! my dear William, may you be happy in your choice! You can hardly be otherwise, if you have the sanction of that invaluable parent, who is at once a perfect judge and a consummate model of female loveliness and perfection. Build your happiness on hers; make her the architect and the partner of your felicity; be to her, I entreat you, the attentive, obedient, and grateful son, which she has so singularly deserved to find you; and may your virtues and your happiness long and amply reward her for all she has suffered from the hapless but not ungenerous love still glowing in the heart which, while the shadows of death are hovering over it, thus anxiously folds you to itself in a paternal embrace, and begs you to remember with tenderness

Your most affectionate SEYMOUR.

I will not attempt, my dear Edmund, to describe to you our various emotions while this letter was read. I will only say, that my dear feeling William soon found his voice falter. Giuliana offered to relieve him. He declined her assistance; and continued to read, but could not advance without frequent pauses. At one passage, which you will easily guess, he terrified me by starting up abruptly to quit the room; but he said in a tremulous tone as he went out, "I will return in a few minutes." These minutes were dreadfully long; a thousand terrors, mixt with a gleam of the brightest hope, darted across my mind in this affecting interval. He had the letter in his hand, and the paper annexed to it, which proved to be a full narrative of all that passed in the house of my good old friend Mr. Danvers.

My son did not return to us, as he afterwards confessed, till he had perused this paper; and the effects of it on his heart and mind were as full and forcible as our infinitely dear and provident Seymour could have wished them to be.

That animated sweetness and benignity which you have often admired in the countenance of my dear William, but which for some days had utterly disappeared, was visible again when he re-entered my chamber, where the little party remained in almost breathless expectation of his return. Seating himself by my side, he seized my hand, and kissed it as he began to read the following words, "But let us banish these painful and distressing images," &c.

He concluded the letter in a very audible, uninterrupted voice, but not without dropping tears on the close of it. Then throwing himself into my arms with an air of unutterable tenderness, he exclaimed, "Dearest and most admirable of parents, you have not suffered in vain; I feel the hand of Heaven itself, in the wondrous co-incidence of these dying admonitions, and the perilous folly of your son. Oh generous Seymour, thou wert indeed inspired by the spirit of heavenly benevolence. Oh, that thou couldest have lived to have directed! But I will yet obey thee as my father. Take my dear Madam, take to your own bosom these invaluable memorials of your unexampled merit, and let them be the pledges of my unlimited obedience. Yes, most perfect and most beloved of mothers, it shall be the chief pride of my life to be fully sensible of your perfection, and to comply with all your desires."

Oh, my dear Edmund! I could make no answer to my child but by folding him to my heart. My voice was utterly drowned, and the tears of the two Lucys were almost as abundant and overwhelming as mine. Our dear and more spirited Giuliana did not weep; but her keen eyes flashed with a kind of fiery exultation and with that liveliness of gesture which is peculiar to herself, she caught William in her arms, and kissed him; saying, "Now indeed you are the true son of our Cornelia; but come, you have done but half your duty; I must, teach you the rest." We all gazed upon her with astonishment, and were utterly at a loss to conceive her meaning; but she soon explained herself by new and significant gestures. Taking a very beautiful cross from the jewels that lay before us she slipt a little silk cord into the loop at the top of it, and having rapidly fastened it on the neck of your niece, she exclaimed, "Here, William, is the only girl in the world to whom these jewels can properly belong. Lucy, having been trained, like yourself, by your incomparable mother, is the only person alive who can love you both as you both deserve to be loved." I confess to you, my dear Edmund, that I was hath pleased and frightened by this rapturous and almost indiscreet sally in our dear warm-hearted Giuliana. But she has since truly said to me, that she is no bad judge of the human heart; and she felt it was a moment when a bold stroke in a young maiden's favour might be safely taken. The dear modest Lucy was indeed distressed by the speech, and was covered with those eloquent blushes that say a great deal to an intelligent heart. My son, with very tender gallantry, kissed both the cross and the damsel, exclaiming, "If my sweet cousin can really love me as a husband, let her join me in vowing implicit obedience to this best of parents." "Oh! replied the poor Lucy (with a most maidenly embarrassment), that is a vow I have sufficiently made already." "But you will not (cried William, with a kind of half-jealous quickness, that I own delighted me), you will not, my dear Lucy, refuse to renew such a vow at my request." "Most assuredly not," said the sweet girl with more courage. And here I folded them both to my bosom, and put an end to a conversation that I now thought it prudent to check, by entreating William to call his brother, that I might make him and all our guests below immediate partakers of my felicity.

Our festival, though it began in the most gloomy manner, has thus, my dear Edmund, proved a day of cordial delight, which wanted only your presence to render it complete. In some measure, however, I seem to have had you present in your lovely daughter, who is universally admired, and particularly by one gentleman to whom I confess myself partial: but Louisa charges me not to speak on this subject, as she says it belongs to her; and she threatens to come and talk to you in person. I have now been chatting to you a great part of the night. No great sacrifice, believe me; for I am much too much elevated in spirits to go soon to sleep, though my guests, after the happy festivity of the evening, are gone peaceably to their pillows. I shall dispatch this to you by an express before the break of day, not only from my eagerness to compensate for all the pain I have given you, by admitting you as speedily as possible to your due share in my present happiness; but to receive, I hope, a most favourable as well as speedy account of your returning health. Adieu! A thousand kind wishes salute you from this house, and particularly from the grateful heart of

Your affectionate and happy CORNELIA.

Colonel Moreton, who arrived here to dinner, says he was a school-fellow of your's, and that he longs to renew his acquaintance with you.

LETTER LXVI. FROM LUCY AUDLEY TO HER BROTHER EDMUND.

MY VERY DEAR BROTHER

THE excellent account which you have been so good as to give me of yourself has set my heart quite at rest. I was very uneasy about you, in spite of the gaiety here; but now I am all peace and exultation. The delicious scene of domestic harmony and happiness before me has made me quite young again; and as I have wisely resolved not to fall in love any more for myself, I have actually fallen in love for your daughter. Seriously, I am persuaded that you will find the frank and pleasant Mount Maurice a husband not unworthy of our dear Frances. They seem to be in a very fair way of being sufficiently pleased with each other. Now do not, with your usual quickness of parental anxiety, order a chaise, and, gouty as you are, post away to Sedley-Hall. No, my dear Edmund, you may trust me, you know, for a Duenna, the only part that I am now fit to play. In sober truth, you must not come hither, though you seem to hint at such a design.—Why so pray?—Well, do not be alarmed—the real reason is, because the whole party here have it in agitation to surprize you with a visit; to ask your blessing, to be sure, &c. &c.

Our enchanting young host here declares, that he considers it as a point of duty, honour, and gratitude, to accept your friendly invitation; and that he is bound in person to restore your lovely daughter to the father who was so kind as to indulge us all with her sweet society at such a time. It was indeed very good in you; and we are all grateful. Heaven will reward you, if I prophecy aright, by providing here just such a son-in-law for you as I have often heard you wish to find. Trust me, Mount Maurice is perfectly cured of his furious passion for Emily; and, as he justly observed to me, a little taste of true virtuous delight is sufficient to wean an honest heart from licentious allurements. He does however great justice to many singular good qualities in poor Emily; and frankly confesses, that he once foolishly offered an immense sum to purchase her favours without succeeding.—William has written to her; and sent her a very elegant present, with which his mother supplied him, being charmed, as she told me, with the spirit and delicacy of his letter. I was delighted as she was, by his amiable ingenuousness, in giving her a sight of this letter. He has just received poor Emily's reply. Cornelia brought it to me this moment; and, as she knows your secrecy, allows me to transcribe it.

TO WILLIAM SEDLEY.

YOUR delicate and tender farewell, my very dear Sedley, has only told me what my own reflections had told me more cruelly before; for, believe me,

These are counsellors

That feeling persuade me what I am.

The dream of my fondest ambition, which suggested my last letter to you, dissolved of itself, when I reflected more on the character of your incomparable mother. Pray tell her, my love for you is so genuine, that your letter, though it cost me many tears, gave me more satisfaction than sorrow. Ah, Sedley! this is a severe, but a perfect test of my sincerity. Our destinies call us different ways. You are hastening, I hope, to domestic harmony and delight; I, to magnificence and disgust. Yet I cannot be completely wretched, if I hear you are happy; and I shall feel a spark of honest pride in my bosom, if your angelic parent (who is better known to me, perhaps, than you suppose her to be) can add a little portion of her esteem to that tender pity with which I am confident she will often think on the ill-fated

EMILY BELMONT.

Your elegant little present I accept with humble gratitude, from the endearing circumstance which you tell me concerning it. I dare not say more.—Adieu for ever.

And now, my dear suspicious Edmund, I know you will think Cornelia and me little better than a couple of watery-eyed simpletons, when I tell you we wept in concert over this little billet, and gave the writer full credit for the sincerity of her affection.

But we will talk no more of such personages. Thank Heaven, the period is now come, for which we have so often and so ardently prayed. I see the heart of our incomparable friend as full of delight as we have formerly seen it of affliction. I need not tell you, that I take a most lively share (who does not?) in her transport. After bitter apprehensions of finding myself a false prophet, I exult at length in the veracity of my prediction; and with a delightful confidence I go on to prophesy, that I shall have the cordial satisfaction of seeing both our matchless Cornelia and my dear Edmund very thoroughly rewarded for every past suffering in the happy marriage and future permanent happiness of their children. The prospect for both is as fair as we can wish it to be; and I boldly foretell, that the event in each case will be of the same charming complexion.

Pray, as I have not the youth and beauty of a Cassandra, let me have the comfort of having my prophecies believed; and believe me also on every occasion,

Your faithful and affectionate LUCY.

Our dear Fanny speaks for herself in a separate letter.

THE Editor has only to acquaint his benevolent reader, who may wish to know whether the friendly Lucy was a true prophetess or not, that her prediction in the last letter was verified completely.

Cornelia is at this time among the happiest of human beings, and a singular example how a fond and tender spirit, that has struggled meritoriously through the tempests of early passion, may enjoy a delicious serenity in the evening of life. She is surrounded by a numerous and beautiful groupe of her descendants, of whom she is still the idol and the director. While she shares in all their innocent and lively pleasures, she is particularly careful to animate and fortify the young mind with a seasonable and deep sense of Religion. She considers this both as the sole security and prime ornament of a rational being. She esteems it the only source of permanent satisfaction.

She has a peculiar delight in deriving every blessing she enjoys from the religious purity of her own maternal conduct, and from the provident devout tenderness of the man she loved, to whose memory her heart has been inviolably faithful.

Information about this book

Title statement

The young widow; or the history of Cornelia Sedley: in a series of letters. ... [pt.2]

Hayley, William, 1745-1820.

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5124

ID [isbn10]

1106021231

ID [isbn13]

9781106021236

ID [TCP]

K101669.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3303187350

ID [ECHG]

0645300402

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Source

— The young widow; or the history of Cornelia Sedley: in a series of letters. ..., Hayley, William, 1745-1820.. 2v. ; 12⁰. Dublin :: printed for Messrs. L. White, P. Byrne, P. Wogan, H. Colbert, A. Grueber, [and 3 others in Dublin],. 1789.. [Anonymous. By William Hayley.] [Two names in the imprint of vol.2 are misspelt: P. Woogan, and A. Gruebier.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT127663.] [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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