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The Sylph, Volume I and II

by Duchess of Devonshire Georgiana Spencer Cavendish · English · Gutenberg #38525 · 459,613 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Sylph, Volume I and II

Author: Duchess of Devonshire Georgiana Spencer Cavendish


        
Release date: January 8, 2012 [eBook #38525]
                Most recently updated: April 3, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SYLPH, VOLUME I AND II ***

THE SYLPH

BY

GEORGIANA

DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE


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

     POPE's Rape of the Lock.




Table of Contents


  VOLUME I        VOLUME II

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




VOLUME I




LETTER I.


TO LORD BIDDULPH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lordship's devoted,

W. STANLEY.




LETTER II.


TO THE SAME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W. STANLEY.




LETTER III.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER IV.


TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

Dear JACK,

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

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

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

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

BIDDULPH.




LETTER V.


TO Lady STANLEY.

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

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

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

LOUISA GRENVILLE




LETTER VI.


To JAMES SPENCER, Esq.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HENRY WOODLEY.




LETTER VII.


TO HENRY WOODLEY, Esq.

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

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

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

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

J. SPENCER.




LETTER VIII.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IN CONTINUATION

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

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

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

Your's most sincerely,

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER IX.


TO Lady STANLEY.

My Dearest Child,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thy tender and affectionate father,

E. GRENVILLE.




LETTER X.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XI.


TO Lady STANLEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dearest Julia, adieu!

Believe me your faithful

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER XII.


TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XIII.


TO THE SAME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "For man the lawless libertine may rove."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XIV.


TO THE SAME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XV.


TO Lady STANLEY.

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

LOUISA GRENVILLE.




LETTER XVI.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

JULIA STANLEY.




LETTER XVII.


To Miss GRENVILLE.

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

THE LETTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told you, you were surrounded with dangers; the greatest perhaps comes
from the quarter least suspected; and for that very reason, because,
where no harm is expected, no guard is kept. Against such a man as Lord
Biddulph, a watchful centinel is planted at every avenue. I caution you
not against him; there you are secure; no temptation lies in that path,
no precipice lurks beneath those footsteps. You never can fall, unless
your heart takes part with the tempter; and I am morally certain a man
of Lord Biddulph's cast can never touch your's; and yet it is of him you
seem most apprehensive. Ask yourself, is it not because he has the
character of a man of intrigue? Do you not feel within your own breast a
repugnance to the assiduities he at all times takes pains to shew you?
Without doubt, Lord Biddulph has designs upon you;--and few men approach
you without. Oh! Julia, it is difficult for the most virtuous to behold
you daily, and suppress those feelings your charms excite. In a breast
inured to too frequent indulgence in vicious courses, your beauty will
be a consuming fire, but in a soul whose delight is moral rectitude, it
will be a cherishing flame, that animates, not destroys. But how few the
latter! And how are you to distinguish the insidious betrayer from the
open violator. To you they are equally culpable; but only one can be
fatal. Ask your own heart--the criterion, by which I would have you
judge--ask your own heart, which is intitled to your detes

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