LETTER I. MORTIMER TO CAROLINE.

YOUR affectionate solicitude, my amiable Caro­line, merits every return that grateful tender­ness and fraternal love can make; and the heart of Mor­timer offers you its warmest acknowledgments.

The long absence of which you so pathetically com­plain, arises from no common event, but all your con­jectures are ill-founded.— It is no misplaced attach­ment that makes me thus long a stranger to my native spot: it is no destructive infatuation which I am so re­luctant to avow; it is—and why should the heart of virtue blush to confess it?—the impulse of generous sen­sibility.

You smile, my penetrating sister; modern sensibility has been the frequent subject of my satyric powers; but it has been that superficial impostor, the offspring of pride and artifice, cherished by the undistinguishing ap­plause of vulgarity, that I have derided; the genuine effusions of a sensible and benevolent spirit I have al­ways revered. With me the plaintive voice of unaf­fected sorrow has ever been sacred: and the errors of humanity have never failed to find an indulgent advocate in my bosom.

This honest confession, my dear Caroline, is but the prelude to a tale of woe, which may, I think, convey a [Page 2] lesson of useful instruction, guard you against the delusions of the heart, and, by the irresistible power of truth, teach you to vanquish immorality, should it eve [...] dare to approach you.

As soon as I had transacted the business that brought me hither, I had adieu to the family of our worthy friend, and hired apartments in a neighbouring sea­port town, resolved to see every thing worthy the atten­tion of a curious traveller in this part of the world. In this pursuit I spent some time very agreeably, when, return­ing one evening from a pleasurable excursion, I found, in addition to the society I had left on going out, a young handsome military officer, and a most attractive elegant lady, who were, I was informed, united in the most sacred of all bands, and purposed to fix their resi­dence in that place during the summer season. The engaging emanations of exalted modesty, good sense, [...]eep sensi­bility, and plaintive softness, in the tout-ensemble of the lady, soon interested me in her favour: and I wished to know if the form and manners, so calculated to charm, were faithful emblems of as lovely a mind. To this end I assiduously cultivated the acquaintance of the captain; he seemed flattered by my attentions, and a short time produced an excess of sociability. I laughed, drank, sung, smoaked, and boasted of gallantry with him; and sometimes talked sentimentally with his fair partner, the enchanting Ela. I resolved to spare no pains to discover the native qualities of her soul, and soon found it was too perfect to need any disguise. Her lan­guage was that of virtue, adorned by the graces: every sentiment she uttered seemed the spontaneous effusions of an enlightened and elevated mind, and was worthy of being immortalised; yet, in the midst of apparent happiness, a sudden cloud of tender melancholy would arise, which in vain I endeavoured to penetrate. It often crossed her features without any apparent cause, but generally vanished in some benevolent or affection­ate effusion. In love as in every other gentle and ge­nerous sensation of the heart, I discovered her to be a perfect enthusiast. A stranger to every lukewarm im­pulse, her expressive eyes beamed unutterable tender­ness [Page 3] on the object of her choice, and frequently re­garded him with a kind of soft anxiety for which all my penetration was unable fully to account; but I thought I traced indifference, and sometimes more ungentle dis­positions in his aspect and behaviour. How often, when observing the impassioned attachment that evinced itself in all her looks, words, and actions, directed to him, have I appealed to the searcher of hearts, whether there was in existence a being capable of injuring so much ex­cellence? But I did not long wait for a discovery that brought the fullest conviction.

Having been absent near a fortnight on a visit to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who, finding in me a taste and sentiment congenial with his own, had given me repeated invitations to his house, I returned to my former habitation, designing to bid adieu to my newly acquired friends, and turn my thoughts and wishes to­ward home. But how was I amazed and shocked on en­tering the house, where I had so lately left them in ap­parent happiness, to find the amiable Ela alone, de­serted, exposed among unfeeling strangers, to all the horrors of poverty, and the most poignant anguish of heart! Pale and dejected she arose at my entrance, fixed her swimming eyes on my face, and reading the language of my heart, burst into a passionate effusion of wo, and was retiring. I could not speak—but seizing her hand, as she was about to leave me, she looked at me with an expression that will be forever engraved on my remembrance, and, sinking into a chair by my side, endeavoured to suppress her emotions.— Mine, I believe, were little less violent—Pity entire­ly possessed my soul; and shall I own it, my Caroline? —the unmanly tear bedewed the hand of the lovely sufferer.

Again, she raised her eyes, beaming with gratitude through the deepest gloom of sorrow, and pressing my hand to her agitated heart—"Noble stranger!" she exclaimed—"Do you weep for my sufferings?—A [...]as! you know not how little I merit such generous sympathy, such exalted goodness!"

"I know," replied I, "that you are unhappy— [Page 4] and is not that enough?" "Enough!"—repeated she, with emotion—"Yes," I added, "and I likewise believe you are truly amiable."

"Then you are mistaken," interrupted she, with ex­treme energy—"I am not—Indeed I am not! —I do not merit your friendship—nor can I dare to de­ceive you —Oh! I am lost! lost for ever!"—she clasped her hands in agony. "But your unexampled greatness of soul," added she, "merits more than I can say: and truth and sincerity is the only acknowledgment in my power.—Yes sir,"—said she, again rising, "you shall know who she is whose sorrows you thus condescend to regard;—and for your sake, I will yet believe, that vir­tue resides among the sons of men."

With those words she darted out of the room, leaving me in a state of mind to which no language can do jus­tice.

My steps turned involuntarily after her, when the ap­pearance of the mistress of the house convinced me of an error, and I accompanied her back into the par­lour.

"Ah! sir," said she, as we entered, "here has been sad doings since you left us—Well—who could think that such a handsome gentleman and such a fine lady would turn out so!—Why the captain is a downright rogue, sir—and his wife, as he called her, is no better" —"Oh!"—interrupted I,—"you should not so readily believe injurious reports.—I dare say it is no more than some little temporary derangement which has been greatly exaggerated: or, perhaps, entirely misrepre­sented."

"No, no Sir," replied the woman, "'tis too true— Why the lady exposed herself—Trouble, like children, generally speaks truth.—Not but I pity the poor thing; and yet I'm looser enough by them already; so if she can't pay what is due, I must stop all I can, and she must not think of staying here to spunge upon an honest woman."

"But you surely would not turn her out into the street!" exclaimed I.—

"It is nothing to me, sir, where she goes,"—return­ed [Page 5] she—"but I know she shan't take up my house-room and eat my victuals any longer, and so I am going to tell her."

"Stop!"—cried I, as she opened the door to put her cruel threats in execution —"Would you distress the wretched?"

"No;"—she replied— "nor they shan't distress me."

"Hear me then," added I,—"I will be answerable for every expence of this unfortunate lady."

"Well to be sure, you're a generous gentleman,"— said the woman with a malignant sneer, "and the loss of one is often the gain of two."

I paid no regard to her insolence, but depositing a bill of twenty pounds in her hand to prove the sincerity of my words, earnestly desired that her amiable charge might be treated with all possible respect and attention: and again assuring her of an ample reward, begged she would take to herself all the merit she might fancy there was in this conduct;—nor ever let the secret pass her lips, as she expected the performance of my promise.

With this injunction she readily acquiesced: and I left her, soothed by the magic power of gold into the most engaging benignity.

Consoled by the sweet assurance of having gratified a laudable impulse, I retired to my apartment, and was buried in a labyrinth of conjecture relative to the un­happy Ela—when the woman of the house tapped at my door, and requested to speak with me.

"The lady," said she, in a tone of alarm—"has fastened her door, and obstinately refuses to answer me."

A dreadful fear crossed my mind, and, without mak­ing any reply, I hastily followed her with trembling steps.

After trying every gentle means to procure admission without success, I acquiesced in the expedience of using forcible measures, and the door was broke open.

Impressed with terrible apprehensions I entered the room, and beheld the cause of my disquietude stretch­ed on the carpet with death marked on her features. Unmindful of vulgar censure I threw myself beside her, [Page 6] and mourned her lot, fully assured that her soul had taken its irrevocable flight. But I was soon most joy­fully undeceived. The people around me declared she was only in a fit, and a few minutes confirmed the truth of their assertion.

The recollection of her misery rushed like a torrent on her mind; and fixing her eloquent eyes on my face, she enquired, why I had suffered them to bring her back?—

"That we may all unite our endeavours to render you happy," I replied,—"Happy!" echoed she, with a gloomy smile—"You know but little of the heart of Ela." As she uttered these words her eyes met those of the mistress of the mansion—and, starting wildly from me, she exclaimed, "What, and is that woman too come to render me happy! O, righteous Heaven, why am I reduced to be the sport of abject cruelty!—But think not, worthy stranger," added she—"that I ungratefully class you among the unfeeling herd; O, no, the wretched Ela can yet distinguish such as you—your goodness is writ­ten here,"—pointing to her bosom—"in indelible cha­racters.—Yes, and it is written likewise on a table that corruption cannot destroy; where I, perhaps, may con­template it when this poor form is mouldered into dust: and where,"—added she, with an air of mild, yet most commanding dignity,—"I may forget too how that wo­man" (again fixing her eye on the abashed offender) "has dared to insult me."

"Me insult you!" cried the woman, whlie anger and shame spread their sanguine emblems, over her features— How can you say, Miss, as how I ever insulted you— I'm sure your're very spiteful, and"—

I found she was about to enlarge—and therefore ex­erting all my authoritative powers to awe her into silence, they happily produced such an effect, that muttering some unintelligible jargon, she quitted the room.

"I refused to admit that woman into my apartment, Sir," (said the gentle mourner, addressing me)—"be­cause she has used an insolence of language to which no misfortune shall ever make me base enough to submit;— but when I heard your friendly voice at the door, grati­tude [Page 7] burst on my oppressed soul, and unequal to the con­flict, I sunk into insensibility."

I entreated her ardently to endeavour to forget all that could disturb her repose, and ventured to palliate the misconduct of the landlady: who was, I sincerely assur­ed her, fully sensible and ashamed of her behaviour: and would not, I was convinced, in a cooler moment, scruple to own she had erred.

"I neither wish, nor am intitled to such a concession, Sir," she calmly replied. "Perhaps I am more unjust in resenting than she is in giving offence: so let it be re­membered no more."

She laid her head on the pillow, saying, that sorrow weighed down her eyelids, and sleep would, in her pre­sent state, be an inestimable blessing. Considering this as an intimation that she wished to be alone, I beckoned the servants to withdraw, and retired wishing that every gentle influence might descend to give her comfort, and effectually soften the anguish of her heart.

The mistress of the house met me as I descended the stairs. Anger still sparkled in her eye, and she began an harangue about the lady's unforgiving temper, and her own wrongs and eminent virtues:—i [...]eighing most bitterly against the captain, and honouring him, I be­lieve very justly, with every opprobrious epithet that in­vention could suggest; but I found means to allay the bitterness of her resentment, and make her accompany me amicably to the parlour, where she related all that she knew respecting the unfortunate Ela. That the cap­tain disappeared the day after I quitted them on the ex­cursion before mentioned, and all their efforts had proved insufficient to discover his retreat; that the lady in the anguish of her heart, occasioned by this desertion, had avowed herself the victim of enthusiastic love—and prov­ed that the destructive flame still lived in her heart, by execrating her own folly rather than his baseness.

These unguarded expressions it was that gave rise to the treatment she had experienced, and struck so forcibly on her heart.—But we are well convinced, by observa­tion, that a generous indulgence to the imperfections of mortality must not be expected from groveling minds.— [Page 8] True sympathy is the spontaneous growth of elevated souls—and not to be met with in common walks of life.

The conduct of the landlady was consistent with her character, and strictly natural.—It therefore, my dear sister, contains this useful lesson, that it is in general certainly a point of wisdom to conceal our sorrows; as by exposing them, we only expose ourselves to the con­tempt and derision of the bulk of mankind.—Sometimes, indeed, we meet with a distinguishing and generous spi­rit;—but let us not too easily believe the soft persuasive voice, the gently-soothing accent, or even the tear-fraught eye.—All these, experience teaches us, are easily, and, I fear, very frequently assumed to gild the serpent's heart; and, by throwing us off our guard, precipitate us the more readily into the snares of the designing. Let discretion then always mark the bounds of confidence. —Let us remember one of the best approved maxims of the wisest of men, and, by keeping a bridle on our tongue, guard ourselves against the dangers of credulity.

You will laugh in the gaiety of your heart, and call this preaching.—Be it so—The sermon flowed unstudied from my pen, and why should I suppress a thought that may eventually contribute in the smallest degree to the welfare and happiness of my Caroline?

But your amiable impatience to know more of the in­jured Ela, I am well assured, far outstrips the pen of the readiest writer. Hence then digression. Your curiosity is the offspring of the virtues, and merits every gratifica­tion and indulgence.

The immediate consequence of Ela's exquisite sufferings was a dangerous fever.—Her life was despaired of, and I was the constant attendant of her couch. Death seemed the blessing to which all her wishes aspired;—but her prayers were rejected. The cup of her sorrows was not full. She was reserved, no doubt, for some wise purpose; and youth triumphed over the consuming fires of a [...]read­ful disease.

During its progress I watched each movement of her soul, and was confirmed in my first belief, that it was governed by the love of virtue: and in the practice of that alone could it hope for happiness.

[Page 9]The ejaculatory effusion of wounded peace dwelt for ever on her lips—and she prayed incessantly to be deli­vered from a world where poignant misery must inevita­bly await her steps, and poison every offered delight—But still the lamp of life was unextinguished; a few weeks revolved in doubtful sadness, when health again began to relume her eye, and irradiate her cheek.—But corro­ding anguish still possessed her mind, and the gentle voice of consolation spoke in vain.

Unmerited tenderness likewise still dwelt in the inmost recess of her devoted heart, and consecrated a temple for the worship of an idol whose destructive image, she ought, from every consideration, to expel.

Thus deluded, she languished for the soothing but dan­gerous indulgence of retirement; and avoided even my society with the most visible solicitude. But guided by the impulse of humanity, I refused to act in conformity to her wish, and obtruded my unwelcome society perpetu­ally upon her; regardless of the truly painful tribute her ardent gratitude constantly imposed, until the fol­lowing letter put an end to my friendly intrusions.

LETTER II. ELA TO MORTIMER.

WHY will the most exalted of mankind still conti­nue to participate in the sorrows of a wretched girl?

You have been a ministering angel appointed to re­deem me from the power of death, and whisper peace to the bosom of despair: and let that suffice; no longer persecute your generous heart by attempting what is im­practicable. The sorrows of Ela are not to be con­quered by argument.—Leave me then, I humbly be­seech you.—I am unworthy of your attention; let me add, incapable of receiving from it any benefit. You would persuade me to forget him whom I have vowed to love for ever.—And shall I?—O, never, never!—Let [Page 10] me be convinced of his perfidy, and then I will despair indeed; but even then memory will obtrude his image on my distracted heart—till oblivion draws its thickest veil between us. In the first moments of his mysteri­ous absence, madness seized my soul, and my betraying tongue pronounced him assuredly false. But cooler rea­son now tells me I have wronged him. Some direful mis­fortune has certainly overwhelmed him, which, his fond attachment will not permit me to share; and, while I have been accusing him of perfidy, his soul has been to­tally engrossed by the contemplation of his Ela, and torn by the severest conflicts.

No longer, then, worthy Sir, persist in applying the balm of consolation to her whose case admits of but one cure.—In my agitated bosom hope still exists—and, should that fail me, the light of Heaven within, aided by re­flection and solitude, will be my best restoratives; and you only shall be made acquainted with the event, be it what it may.

I would say much more.—I would endeavour to de­scribe the impression your philanthropy has made on my mind, but language is much unequal to the task,—and your own heart will best delineate the grateful sensations of mine.

Thus, Sir, I have acquitted myself of a wish that has long lain heavy upon me: —and with the deepest sense of your exalted worth, I request, in addition to your past favours, that you will send me an address, by which I may be enabled to transmit a faithful narrative of the fate that awaits me; and suffer me again to add an ar­dent entreaty, that you will no longer make yourself a voluntary prisoner to the unhappy,

LETTER I.

THE fabrick of misguided enthusiasm at length sinks into oblivion.

The delusions of a fatelly believing heart vanish before the [Page 24] most unequivocal conviction; and the only refuge my mi­series can hope, is through the awful regions of death. Thither all my wishes aspire. Shame and affliction for ever await me here; but there is one who judges not by the ri­gid dictates of erring mortals. To him I dare submit my cause, and his blessed assurances of peace and pardon bids each tumultuous passion rest for ever.

Thus, assured, the busy clamours of unmerited ten­tenderness no longer disturb my repose: but truth erects her standard in my soul, and long estranged reason re­assumes her sway.—By their aid I clearly discern the folly of my past life, and while the tears of penitence burst from my heart, piety and charity bid me forgive, and hope offers the best consolations and never failing rewards.

No, longer then, my inestimable friend, my more than brother, continue to grieve for those sorrows that cease to exist.—They are gone to prepare the asylum to which I am hastening:—and all that remains for me is to ensure a happy reception and pour the effusions of a grateful heart into your benevolent bosom.

In the first moments of thankfulness for the generous part you took in my sorrows, I said you should know who she was for whom you were thus interested; but while false hope, and the most torturing anxiety kept my mind in a constant state of dreary suspence, I was unequal to the per­formance of that promise;—now each corroding passion seems at rest, and tranquillity wooes me to what was before insupportable.

Born in the lap of luxury, the only darling of parental fondness, care was a stranger to my heart 'till it approached me in the alluring garb of love.

On the sultry plains of Indostan I received my existence. The God of Day surely pr [...]sided at my birth, and inspired me with all his ardors. I was early distinguished by a soul of fire, and often emphatically declared to be a daughter of the Sun.— Fatal distinction! It is this native fervour of soul that led to all my sorrows; incapable of guile myself, I never suspected it in others;— nor once thought it possible for cruelty to lie concealed under the most solemn professions of love, honor, and fidelity; but the dreadful assurance [Page 25] now stands unveiled before me, and I fall in the early bloom of life, the martyr of my own deluded heart.

My father, at the remembrance of whose indulgent good­ness suspended anguish rushes like a torrent on my mind, was a man of eminence in that quarter of the globe. My mother I never knew; the moment that gave me being, consigned her to the grave; and I believe contributed to endear me to the heart of my remaining parent, by whom she was so tenderly beloved, that the mention of her name, after a very considerable lapse of time, never failed to call forth emotions too powerful to be suppressed. The uncon­querable regret her loss occasioned, undermined by slow degrees his health, and certainly hastened his death.

Oh, best of men! How does that awful scene croud, with every affecting circumstance, on my awakened feel­lings? How does it recal sensations I could wish to cancel from the book of memory! His dying words never broke through my perjured soul.—I behold the most wronged and amiable of mankind, the all accomplished and excellent Granville Clifford, whispering sweetest consolation to my sorrow, while in vain he endeavours to suppress his own.

The parents of Granville Clifford were English adven­turers, whose numerous virtues and amiable manners ensured them the friendship and esteem of my father.—But they both met an early grave soon after their arrival in India; and with their latest breath committed their helpless orphans, and their humble fortune, to the protection of their only friend; who soothed their anxious hearts with the most solemn and generous assurances, of which his actions have proved the sincerity.

Granville Clifford was at that period, a beautiful boy of five years old; myself only six months. My father soon felt a particular attachment to him, and he shared with me his tenderest affection. Thus we grew up together, and a sen­timent of filial love took deep root in my infant mind, and strengthened with increasing years. The extreme loveliness of his person, the remarkable endowments of his mind, and the winning graces of his manners, daily increased the affection to which his defenceless infancy gave birth in my father's generous bosom, and he approved himself worthy of the charge with which he was entrusted.—He [Page 26] always gave him the endearing appellation of son, and deter­mined to hallow both on him and me every advantage that could be desired from the most finished education. But his affairs rendering it impossible for him to quit India, his extreme tenderness, and the delight he experienced in our innocent endearments would not suffer him to part with us; he therefore procured the best masters for us from England, France, and Italy, and inspecting our studies him­self, spared neither expence nor trouble to accomplish us in every useful and polite science: and render us a blessing to himself and society. How far his endeavours have been crowned with success in me, is now, alas! too evident to need any further demonstration.

The culture of our expanding minds was the sole em­ployment of my father's leisure hours He strove to impress us with the principles of morality; and his own example powerfully enforced the truths he taught.

The amiable Clifford imbibed instruction as fast as it could be offered him. He made a rapid progress in every valuable attainment: and the improving beauties of his mind and person made him universally caressed.—I was the da [...]ling object of his fond regard: to me his early preference was directed, and he aspired to render me as perfect as him­self.—To inspire me with the same love of beauty, harmony, and order, was his constant aim; and to him I am indebted for every virtue or accomplishment that I possess.

Ah! hal [...]y [...]n days of blissful innocence how does your remembrance recal embittered anguish to my heart! When I think with what [...]tive fondness the lovely youth endeavou [...]ed to infuse the lessons of wisdom into my open­ing mind▪ the teacher seems not less divine than his doctrine but madness seizes me as I turn to the reverse of the picture and contemplate the delusions of the human heart.—I seek the records of truth; I trace, in idea, the fables of romance; but amidst all the ruins of unimpassioned tendernes [...] I cannot discover one instance similar to mine. Eloisa suffered— greatly suffered; but her honour was a vo­luntary sacrifice—and the ardor of her lover knew no dimin [...]tion —He was the occasion of her fall; but he was likewise the partaker of her repentance, and the kind con­soler of her sorrows.—His endearing accents soothed [Page 27] her latest pangs, and she breathed out her soul in the blessed assurance of being re-united to him in a state where all im­perfection is done away.—Even Julia, the self-devoted Julia Etange, was supported by the unalterable attachment of her beloved St. Pr [...]ux, under parental severity, and the con­flicts of a heart full of sensibility, and capable of the most exalted affection.—But for me no friendly haven appears, where my ruined bark can safely fly to shield herself from the headlong storm. The boundless ocean of eternity seems my only refuge; and there all my hopes are centered.

The uncertain prosp [...]cts of futurity fleet before me—the sad recollection of the past presses for audience.—I feel my­self unequal to the task assigned; but will resume it when tranquillity again vouchsafes to attend

LETTER II. ELA TO MORTIMER.

CONVINCED that my few sad days will soon be num­bered, I hasten to conclude my narrative ere the inevi [...]able stroke arrests my trembling hand, and consigns my name to the mercy of slanderous injustice.

Blessed with every felicity that the approving smiles of the best of fathers, the fond attention of the amiable Clifford▪ and the endearments of all around me could be­stow: [...]al gratitude and exalted friendship possessed my soul, and every [...]ational pleasure, every refined delight that affection can administer, or sensibility receive, gilded my days, until I attained my fifteenth year. Fatal period! from whence I may date the commencement of all my sorrows.

The anniversary of my birth was always devoted to mirth and festivity. My friends and companions crouded to offer their congratulations: the day was spent in every refined and innocent delight, and usually concluded with a ball and supper in the highest style of elegant simplicity. The heart of my indulgent father seemed always dilated with unusual gladness on that occasion; and the expressive features of Granville Clifford beamed unutterable things.

[Page 28]It was in the midst of such a scene as this, while in a pa­vilion fitted up for the night, every heart beat responsive to the power of harmony, and every age sparkled with pleasure, that the arrival of Henry Dormer was announced. He came with warm recommendations to my father, and was welcomed with heartfelt cordiality into our blissful abode. That evening, that fatal evening, the sad delusion began.

I was dancing a minuet with Granville Clifford, when my father entered with the charming stranger. His eyes instantly paid me the most flattering distinction A crim­son glow full used my cheek, and a sensation alto [...]ether n [...]w invaded my heart. I actually trembled as Granville led me to my seat. My father approached us and introduced the stranger. Granville welcomed him to India, with all the winning grace by which he was most happily distinguished; I fal [...]ered out an attempt to do the same, but acquitted myself most wretchedly, and felt both conscious and cha­g [...]ned at the defect. I [...]vetted my eyes on the floor; and again raised them to the most pleasing object they had ever before contemplated. He was—but why [...]eed I describe him to you! you know the manly beauty, the elegant symmetry by which nature had distinguished him; but you can never know by what indes [...]ibable, irresistable attractions that beauty was then adorned. (He was alter­ed, strang [...]ly altered ere you beheld him, in every opi­nion but mine; my deluded heart had received the infatua­tion too deeply, to discover any change.) In him I thought every mortal perfection centered, and his elo­quent eyes were fixed on me with equal approbation. My father requested him to join us in the dance, and as a stranger, he was complimented with my hand for the re­mainder of the evening. No longer I beh [...]ld any object but him—no longer could I attend to any melody, but that of his enchanting accents.—My unsuspecting heart greedily snatched at the delicious poison that fell from his tongue, and I was irre [...]rievably lost ere I saw the smallest danger.—He whispered a language new and delightful; the solicitude which Granville Clifford constantly evinced for my im­provement, declared that he thought me deficient in excel­lence; and while it spoke the sincerity of his regard, it [Page 29] humbled my vanity; but Henry Dormer uttered a language very different, he told me that I was all perfect,—and I believed him.—The fascination gained daily strength.— From that evening the persidious Henry spared no pains to ensure his conquest;—but while his tender assiduities were pointed at me, he was equally attentive to secure the favour of my father and Granville, who, strangers to guile, never once suspected the emotions he had excited in my bosom, but encouraged my evident wish of appearing agreeable in his eyes;—and while my worthy parent assured him of his perfect friendship, and zealous services, the gentle Clifford shewed him the most marked attention and omitted nothing that seemed likely to promote his welfare and happiness. — But I was no longer the same—No more did I listen with enraptured ear to the instructions of the best of parents— nor did my charmed soul attend to the language of Gran­ville Clifford's heart. No longer was I foremost at our morning studies—our noon-day haunts, were now neglected, and the grotto, where I had so often delighted to accompany the warbling flute with my voice, was totally deserted.— The murmuring water-fall no longer wooed me to its deep recess; nor the wild musicians of the groves invited me to join their song of gratitude. The stranger, engrossed all my thoughts. To him all my wishes aspired, to him my every thought, word, and action were addressed, and all the rest of the creation was forgotten. For him I dressed, s [...]ng, touched the trembling string, or displayed my skill in the ma [...]y dance; possessed of his approbation I wished for nothing more, and every other affection of my soul seemed absorbed by this ardent passion.—I certainly con­tinued to love my excellent father with the utmost tender­ness, but at that time I seldom thought of him; I like­wise still esteemed Granville Clifford, in the same degree, as I should have done an amiable and affectionate brother; but I carefully avoided his so [...]iety, and shrunk like the sens [...]tive plant▪ from his tender assiduity.—These deep re­cesses, these delightful labyrinths, through whose enchanting m [...]anders, Granville Clifford had often led me, with a heart where sportive innocence loved to reside, now bore witness to the secret vows of Henry Dormer.—In these sweet haunts, sacred to every noble and elegant sentiment that can [Page 30] exalt the human heart, Henry Dorm [...]r charmed me with the first avowal of his profane passion.—Love it was not, love it could never be; but I believed it so—and in artless strains confessed the impressions he had made on my heart. —He heard me with rapture, he sealed his extacy on my lips a thousand times, but hinted some fears about my father; —but I assured him they were ill-founded —"My father," said I, "is more than I can speak him. It is impossible you should yet know half his worth, nor can I describe it. He has enough to render his Ela happy, nor will he withhold it. Already he esteems and admires you. Go then! pour out your heart before him, assured of success."

Thus encouraged, he clasped me again in his arms, promised forever to obey me—called me his best, his only treasure; bestowed on me every endearing appella­tion that the most endearing tenderness could possibly suggest—and after numerous repetitions of his ardent vows, I hastened our return to the house that he might put his determination in practice; but turning down an unfrequented path, which we had before made choice of to avoid interruption, I beh [...]ld a tyger cou [...]hing just be­fore us.—Terrified for the danger of my adored Henry, unmindful of myself, I uttered a piercing shriek, and bid him fly: he instantly obeyed, and was out of sight in a moment. My destruction seemed now it evitable. The tyger panted at my heels, and offering up my ardent prayer, I r [...]signed myself to my apparent fate; when the generous Clifford sprang from an a [...]joining inclosure, and threw himself before the ravenou [...] animal. I uttered a shriek, wild as before, and threw my arms involun­tarily around him: but he flung me from him, and draw­ing his sword with the quickness of lightning, he plunged it into the heart of the f [...]aming monster, and conveyed me fainting to the house. Gratitude was the first impulse that engrossed my returning senses.—The assurance of Dor­mer's safety dwel [...] strongly on my mind; but again throw­ing my arms affectionately round the dear brother of my soul. I ardently blessed Heaven for his almost miraculous escape, and wept in his bosom. Then, raising my eyes— "You have saved me,"—said I,—"dear generous Granville, [Page 31] you have saved the life of Ela."—He made no reply, but printing a gentle kiss on my forehead he joined his cheek, wet with tears, to mine, and pressed me still closer to his heart. My father witnessed the scene with silent transport▪ and after my first emotions had subsided, my eyes invo­luntarily turned toward their still more favoured object. But deep confusion dyed his cheek, and his eyes carefully avoided mine. Ah! little did he then know the heart of the devoted Ela,—little did he then suspect that the wound was given, which neither time nor chance can ever cure. Distressed by his embarrassment, every thing else was forgot­ten; but when the affectionate enquiries of my father brought back the scene of danger to my remembrance, a variety of tender palliatives arose at the same instant to en­tirely exculpate my beloved Henry. His desertion I attri­buted wholly to surprize, and believed him, when he swore by every sacred power, that his own death would, in the cool hour of reflexion, be far less dreadful then, than losing me. Thus I neglected the warning hand of mercy, and giving myself wholly up to the guidance of my infatuated heart, I regarded the conduct of my preserver as an act of common humanity—and continued to cherish the viper in my bosom, who after having deprived me of all that renders life valuable, now throws aside every disguise, and robs me of that likewise.

My wearied spirits now se [...]k the balmy-blessing of sleep —the only cessation that my sorrows can ever taste, until the final, the ardently wished-for summons comes that brings an eternal release.

LETTER III. ELA TO MORTIMER.

AGAIN I am enabled to resume my sad narration. The hours of darkness passed heavily along; but return­ing light seems to have brought a new supply of resigna­tion; and although it sometimes costs my heart a p [...]g, I return to my self-imposed duty, [...]er to pay your good­ness the only tribute of gratitude in my power.

[Page 32]The adventure related in my last, trivial as was the impression it made on my mind, caused a considerable alteration in our society. A very perceptible gloom hovered around the so lately gay and gallant Dormer. My father seemed labouring with some concealed emo­tion—and more than common happiness was visible in Granville Clifford. I was perplexed by each of them,— but the behaviour of Dormer appeared the most in­explicable, and dwelt strongly on my mind. He seemed to avoid my converse, and no longer sought to charm me with the music of his tongue. Then it was that anguish first seized my heart. Two days passed in a state of in­conceivable wretchedness. In vain I endeavoured to ac­count for the silent dejection of Dormer; the extreme vivacity of Clifford; or the mysterious air of my father: anxiety preyed deeply on my heart, and sleep was a stranger to my couch.—In this state I was, when the second night after the escape from the jaws of the tyger, the splendour of the heavenly luminaries, the sweet serenity of the air, and the melancholy murmur of a distant wood-dove, added to the melody of a nightingale, close to my chamber window, tempted me to indulge my contemplations in a small piazza, with which it was united. The moon shone with unclouded radiance on a fine sheet of water that fronted the house; I walked some time, buried in reflexion, when the sound of a gentle noise behind me made me turn round, and I beheld a beau­tiful little spaniel that belonged to Dormer running to­wards me I eagerly caught the pretty animal in my arms, and loaded it with caress [...]s. "Phaon," said I, "sweet little Phaon, where is your master?" The creature strug [...]led for his liberty to give me the desired information, bu [...] it was unnecessary. Dormer ascended a flight of steps that led from an avenue at the end of the piazza, and approached me with a pensive air. The impropriety of my dress occurred, and I was retiring; but springing suddenly forward he effectually prevented me. "Lovely Ela," he exclaimed, seizing my hands—"will you indeed leave me to despair?" I was incapable of making any reply. [Page 33] "Will you," added he—"angelic maid, scorn the most ardent passion that ever informed the heart of man? Can such unequalled goodness condemn her adoring Henry to madness and death?"

"Oh! never, never!" I exclaimed—"Why do you talk thus?" "Because," he replied, "looking firmly in my face, "your father has given you to Granville Clif­ford." "My father!" exclaimed I, sinking on a bench beside us. "Yes," he rep [...]ated wildly, "I heard the bar­gain sealed—I heard it and distraction seized me.—But I will never live to see it ratified." "It never can, indeed, it never shall,"—said I, looking tenderly at him. "Oh! but I fear, I fear it is inevitable,"—he replied—"unless my adored Ela;—but what was I about to say?—Your father's heart is set on the accomplishment of this long-destined union:—they fondly think you love this Clif­ford, and it is certain he doats on you. But, what do I say? (added he, after a pause) it is certain he shall never have you, for have you not generously declared your heart is mine?—Oh! that accursed tyger!—It was that which confirmed the destiny of your father. Clifford is exalted to a hero; but for me, what remains?"—"Love and happiness," I replied; "then envy not this really ami­able young man the acquisition of a little empty ho­nour"—"No," he exclaimed, "I cannot envy him any thing, but your affections."—"To-morrow," added he, "I go to enter on an employment, which the interest of your [...]ather has procured me; but alas! it will remove me far from all my soul holds dear.—This propitious night has led me thus happily to your feet, and let us not lose the precious moments.—I have been buried in the shades of yonder grove since the silent hour of midnight —and your sweet image burst like a heavenly vision on my eyes as I ascended the steps to return to my apartment. Swear, then, charming maid, ere I consent to part with you▪ that you will be mine: swear, in the awful face of Heaven, that no allurements shall ever shake your faith." I was about to comply with his request, when the soft sound of an approaching footstep struck [Page 34] our ears. We started from each other, Dormer disap­peared in an instant; returning day broke through the distant clouds, and my father stood before me. I could gladly have sunk into the earth to avoid his presence: till that moment I never felt the stings of self-accusation. He approached me with his usual benignity, and seating himself beside me—"What," said he, kissing my check, has thus early disturbed the slumbers of my sweet girl!" I threw my arms around him. I hid my face in his bo­som, but could not speak. "Ela," said he, in a more solemn tone, "you are unhappy. I have seen you so for many days; and the painful discovery has wounded the breast of your father."—"Oh! wretched girl" ex­claimed I, raising my streaming eyes, "to make my ex­cellent parent unhappy likewise." "Explain then, my child,"—said he, still holding me in his arms, "what is it that preys upon your heart?—and let your fond parent banish it." "Yet," added he, after a long "pause, why should I ask a confession that may give you pain, when I already know all that you can tell me?—My Ela is incapable of disguise."—"Yes, dear sir," said I, clasping his hands between my own, "indeed I am not, I will not, cannot attempt to conceal my heart from you." "Nor give it away without my acqui [...]scence, I hope," replied he with quickness.—I felt my face glow, and a­verted my eyes from his penetrating regard—"Yet," added he, "the little flatterer has been strongly tempt­ed; but beware, my lovely girl, how you listen to the delusions of an inexperienced heart. Happiness as per­fect as mortality can taste, courts you in the form of the accomplished, the elegant, the truly estimable Granville Clifford.—You know his bright endowments—his uncom­mon excellencies.—His grateful, let me add, generous soul, knows no ambition equal to that of being your pro­tector, your gentle friend and counsellor, through all the thorny paths of life; to lead you, from step to step, up to the fountain head of all perfection, and accompany you into those mansions of eternal peace and love, where I trust your virtues will gain you admittance. This, my dear Ela, is no tumultuous, sordid passion, that [Page 35] vanishes ere it is well understood; but real love, whose sole aim it is to promote the happiness of its object; which will always increase with time, and soar far above all the misfortunes or cruelty of the world. Such is the attachment of Granville Clifford.—I [...]ead the secret monuments of his ingenuous mind, and [...] well assured, that had he empires to bestow, you would be equally his choice as now. A heart, like his is a jewel that is seldom found—an inestimable gem, indeed, which all the treasures of the world can never purchase. This heart my child now waits your acceptance, and I have too firm a reliance on your innate excellence to entertain a doubt of your being thoroughly sensible of its value.— Gratitude will bring back the scene where his life was endang [...]red to rescue yours—and point out the return which that conduct merits:—justice will likewise draw comparisons on that occasion which cannot but be obvi­ous, and you will learn to subdue every foolish or trou­blesome enemy that may have disturbed your repose!— fully convinced, that your happiness is the first wish of your fond father's heart, and that my zeal in the cause of Granville Clifford, can arise from no other motive.— Experience, my dear girl, enables me to view objects through a juster medium than can possibly be expected from your early years, and unchequered mode of life. You are as much a stranger to the bye-paths and indirect, crooked ways of the world as if your days had passed in the vale of Abyssisinia; but I am fully assured you will not shut your ears, and obstinately contemn the voice of instruction, which now warns you to avoid all those who would, under any form whatever, seek to allure you from the paths of duty and strict rectitude; for those that dare to do so, whatever name they may assume, can only have their own gratification, not your happiness in view. I see, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, the native fervor, the exquisite sensibility of your mind;— yes, I have long seen it; and while I cannot but approve, I likewise tremble. Convinced therefore,—(you weep, my dear Ela, but medicine however nauseous, is some­times necessary) that this emaciated form will very soon [Page 36] be united to its kindred dust, I wish, ardently wish, to see you as securely sheltered from the storms of life as the uncertain [...]y of human events, and the falla [...]iousness of human foresight can admit. I know but one worthy of the charge. The one I have appointed my substitute, my representative—your guardian;—nay, more, your husband— Together you have grown up, and attained a blooming and promising maturity; your kindred virtues were early visible—an overuling power designs you for each other: let no ividious hand then interpose between you. The happiness of my few remaining days—the hap­piness of the amiable Clifford, and your own happiness, be assured, depends on the accomplishment of this event, which lies heavy at my heart. Mistake not then, I con­jure you, the glow of a transient approbation, raised on the airy basis of a fine person, adorned by the charms of novelty, and insinuating manners, for a serious attachment of the heart. Granville Clifford I am well convinced, is the real possessor of your affections; and however, an ignis fatuus may delude you for a short time, they will soon return to their proper object, and own him the worthy arbitrator of your future fate."

I was drowned in tears. He arose with mild dignity, and pressing me tenderly in his arms—

"Retire, my beloved Ela," said he, "the morning air is penetrating, and you are too carelessly guarded against it;—go then to your chamber, and reflect on what parental anxiety, and a tenderness that cannot be ex­ceeded, has prompted me to say." I obeyed, deeply affected, as I now am, by the recollection of a scene that can never be effaced from the heart of

LETTER IV. ELA TO MORTIMER.

THE final stroke seemed now given to all my blissful hopes, floods of tears fell from my eyes, and sighs of anguish burst from my heart. Unthankful for the nume­rous [Page 37] blessings by which I was surrounded, I execrated my very being, and impiously besought Heaven to recal the gift that was now become insupportable. Ah! Mis­taken, wretched Ela! how easily didst thou suffer thyself to be carried away by the tide of passion! Forgetful of what I owed the best of fathers, and most generous of friends—every valuable affection of my soul was lost in this intoxicating stream, and no consideration could prevail on me to forego its fatal draught. I revolved, deeply revolved what my father had said. It penetrated the inmost recesses of my heart; but when the image of my loved Henry recurred, apparently struggling with all the pangs of love, every thing else was forgotten, and, and I mourned only from the dreadful fear of losing him forever.—The amiable form of Granville Clifford then stole upon my mind. I reproached him with cruelty, I called him friend and brother, but bade him never hope for more. Ten thousand times I accused him mentally as the cause of all my distress, and felt myself, at that distracted moment, inclined even to hate him. In this agitated state the hours were spent, until a servant summoned me to breakfast; but the traces of sorrow, visible in my face, rendered me an object really unfit to be seen, and I pleaded indisposition as an excuse for keep­ing my chamber. The fear of a visit from my father struck me as I delivered this message to the servant; I called her back, and bade her say I was asleep.—My heart smote me as I thus assumed the despicable veil of hypo­crisy to conceal my real emotions. I seemed degraded in my own opinion—I wished to recall the message, but it was too late. "Gracious Heaven," said I, "what have I done that should need the mask of falsehood, that should prompt me in any shape to deceive the best of fathers? I have condescended to a meanness that must sink me even in the estimation of my servant; but there is no resource. I would not, methinks, for worlds offend or distress this good parent; and at this juncture I fear I could neither suppress my emotions nor bear his presence. But his tenderness, claims every return in my power, and I will sacrifice each wish of my own to promote his [Page 38] happiness.—Yes, I will try to conquer the struggles of this inbred rebel; endeavour▪ oh severe task! even to forget the dear enchanting Dormer, and yield implicit obedience to my father's will;—but then he loves me, alas! I could with fortitude bear any suffering of my own in silence;—but how shall I support those of my Henry?—The bare idea of his being wretched is torture. Oh! fatal, fatal attachment! it has, I fear, forever ba­nished peace from my bosom; and, perhaps, involved the most charming of men in misery."

In reflections like these I was buried until the hour of dinner approached, and I began to dress for that occasion; but before I had risen from the toilet, my father sent to enquire if I was well enough to attend him in the music-room; I replied in the affirmative, and in a few minutes followed the messenger.—Granville Clifford was with him; I trembled and felt a sanguine glow mount into my cheeks as I approached them; but the sweet compla­cency of my dear father's features, reassured me.—His eyes delicately avoided to scrutinize my altered looks; but giving me an open letter—"Here is a sweet compa­nion for you, my dear Ela," said he, just arrived from England."—I glanced my eyes over the letter: it was from a much esteemed friend of my father's, warmly recommending a young orphan lady (who destitute of any portion but an uncommon share of personal and mental graces, had evinced a desire to visit India) to his protection.

"This amiable lady," said my father, as I returned him the letter, "if she answers the description here given, will, I hope, in some measure, compensate to our little society, for the loss of our agreeable Dormer, who quitted us early this morning." I felt the colour desert my cheeks as he pronounced these words My heart seemed to die within me, and I was very near sinking to the ground; but summoning all my strength. I seated myself in a chair by his side, and assuming an air of in­difference, very foreign to my heart, expressed my sur­prize at the suddenness of Dormer's departure; then, to prevent any more being said on the subject, I took up [Page 39] an Italian composition that lay beside me, and flying to a harpsi [...]hord, played on it, while Granville Clifford hung over the back of my chair, and heaved repeated sighs. My father, whose soul was harmony itself, was lavish in his encomiums on my musical powers; and re­minding Clifford of the fair stranger, the carriage was ordered, and they both went to conduct her from the ship. Never was a poor wretch, whose hard fate had long estranged him from the chearing beams of the sun and the joys of liberty, more rejoiced at being again restored to light and freedom, than I was at being left to the unmo [...]ested indulgence of my feelings.—Again I retired to my chamber, and dropped the tear of bitter regret for the loss I feared I had sustained, in being for ever separated from the savoured obj [...]ct of my tender choice. Yet, I still resolved that fillal piety should triumph over every other impulse, when an Indian, who h [...]d occa­sionally attended Dormer during his stay with us, hastily entered, and delivered me a paper, containing the fol­lowing words:

"In a state of mind, which no language can paint, I tear myself from the most lovely of her sex; but let no consideration tempt the charming Ela to forget the man who lives but for her."

I pressed the insensible paper to my bosom. I [...]athed it with my tears; and, like Juliet, I madly sought to know, "Why Heaven delighted to practise stratagems upon so soft a subject as myself?" when the sound of the returning carriage struck my ear; and as soon as I had composed my features I hastened to receive our new guest. All the pictures my imagination had eve [...] formed of the Goddess of Beauty and Love, now seemed realized in this fair stranger.—Her form was exquisitely proportion­ed; her eyes bright, yet languishing, looked like hea­venly intelligencers of the most melting sensibility: every other feature was equally expressive, of all that can delight the eye, and fascinate the heart; her com­plexion was a charming assemblage of delicacy and health, and a pro [...]u [...]ion of bright hair played with grace­ful negligence around her finely turned forehead, and [Page 40] added beauty to the dazzling whiteness of her neck— I addressed her with a blushing consciousness of inferio­rity—I was at that moment reconciled to the absence of Dormer—I was even weak enough to congratulate my­self, that he was removed far from the power of such dangerous charms; I likewise formed a hope, that they might eventually lead to the accomplishment of all my wishes, by attaching the heart of Granville Clifford, who regarded her with marked attention, and withdrawing his preference from me.

But if I was struck with admiration, by the beauties of the fair stranger's person, how greatly was that ad­miration increased by the graces of her mind and man­ners. She appeared some years old [...]r than myself; her understanding naturally good, had been most happily cultivated, her wit was sparkling, tempered by a modesty that enhanced its worth; she excelled in every bright ac­complishment, and her every look, word, and movement, was attended by a grace I never yet saw equalled; her ten [...] was mild and amiable, and the qualifications of her he [...] [...], I believe, fully equal in excellence to tho [...] [...]er form. Every new day shewed some, before undiscovered, charm in her: My esteem for her increased in proportion to her merits; and I soon conceived a very tender affection for her, which seemed to meet an abundant return.—We were never asunder: we formed a variety of amusive schemes; and Granville Clifford spared no pains to render them delightful. My native vivacity was unbounded, and I endeavoured to exert it all in compliment to our lovely guest. By appearing gay I was believed to be happy; while the image of Henry Dormer still possessed my whole soul, and melancholy never failed to draw her secret sombre shade across the brightest scenes.—My father smiled serenely on our inno­cent pleasures: [...]e fancied that all that disturbed my repose was forgotten; he was infinitely delighted with the beautiful St. Clare, and showed her every possible mark of friendship and distinction.—Festivity reigned around us. Splendid entertainments, balls, masques, &c. were given in honour of our charming favourite, [Page 41] which effectually introduced her to our Indostan neigh­bours, and she was soon distinguished as the fair Sultana of the day. Adorers flocked in crouds around her: she had soon some very splendid offers, but those that made them were not happy enough to obtain her favour: co­vered with blushes, in the gentlest accents, she acknow­ledged the great honour done her by their generous pro­posals; but frankly owned that her heart forbade her ac­ceptance of them.—My father silently wondered at this conduct: others censured it as some of the gentlemen were, in the general eye, unexceptionable; but guided by my own experience, I read some tender secret in the fair Augusta's eyes, and believed her heart, like my own consumed by a hopeless yet devouring flame: yet why then come to India? Why subject herself to (suffer me to say) the censure of indelicacy by commencing an adventurer, if unable to support that character, and taste its proffered fruits?—This was an enigma which I was unable clearly to solve;—yet, a perhaps, sometimes crossed my mind, that the amiable Clifford was the barrier to her golden prospects. I saw the soft blush frequently suffuse her cheek when he addressed her—I frequently observed her fine eyes rivetted on his face when she be­lieved herself unnoticed; but I was fully assured, that if she had unhappily fixed her affections there, it was without the smallest probability of ever meeting a return; for he only paid her the cold tribute of common politeness —His unhappy unmerited attachment to me, seemed w [...]ven with the thread of his existence, and he beheld Augusta's wonderous charms unmoved. Thus several months revolved.

My father heard frequently from Dormer, who met with great success in his new employment.—Clifford repeatedly avowed his ardent and pure attachment; I som [...]times wept, but endeavoured to submit to what ap­peared inevitable, and consider him the arbitrator of my future sate. I wrote a letter to Dormer, declaring this to be my final resolution, and preparations were making for our nuptials, when my honoured father, who had long been in a declining state of health, was sud­denly [Page 42] confined to his bed, and death made its awful approach. Every heart around him mourned on that sad occasion, and every countenance bore the ensigns of sorrow. A few hours before he expired, he summoned me to his bedside.—"Ela," said he, "I am snatched from you ere the first wish of my soul is accomplished; but I leave you with the firmest reliance on your duty, your fidelity, and your judgment." He raised his eyes, and be­held Granville Clifford enter the room.—"Yes," continued he. "I cheerfully commit my dearest treasure to this most excellent young man."—The eyes of Granville streamed their grateful testimonies; the dying saint raised himself in the bed; and I was totally absorbed in unutterable wo. He took each of our hands, and joining them together, "Be blessed,"—said he, "be happy, and mourn not for me.—I am about to be released from all my pains—im­mortal glory already beams upon my soul.—Adieu—my children!"

He sunk on his pillow as these words broke faintly from his lips.—And here, my estimable friend, bitter reflection suspends my yet unfinished tale, and forces me to grant a respite, to myself and you.

LETTER V. ELA TO MORTIMER.

IN vain should I attempt to describe the poignancy of my sorrow, on the ever regreted occasion, with the account of which my last letter concluded; but a heart like yours full of sensibility, and awake to all the tender claims of nature, will easily conceive them; why then should I labour to recal a scene, the remembrance of which fills my soul with inexpressible torture, and greatly augments my present sufferings!

Insensible to all the gentle arguments of love and friend­ship, my mind dwelt deeply on the irreparable loss I had sustained, and the voice of consolation was unheard.—The loved idea of my ever honoured parent engrossed every house: even Henry Dormer was unthought of at that dis­tressful [Page 43] period. I avoided as much as possible the salutary counsel and tender assiduity of the distressed but ever anxi­ously attentive Clifford, and even the presence of the ami­able Augusta St. Clare was unwelcome. I wished for the unrestrained indulgence of my wo I secluded myself whole days within my chamber, absorbed in gloomy soli­tude; and was not without great reluctance, prevailed on to join their society.—Never child mourned more truly for a parent's loss; never one had greater reason; but the pre­cepts of virtue delivered in the softest accents of empassion­ed tenderness▪ at length pierced the deep gloom of affliction by which my mind was enveloped; I listened to the elo­quent intreaties of my more than brother, enforced by the mild persuasions of my charming friend, and resignation diffused its blessings around me.

My father had made no disposition of his effects, every thing therefore devolved to me. This was a conduct I did not expect, nor was I at all gratified by it, as I wished and always believed, he would certainly ensure Granville Clifford an independency; but at the same time it determin­ed me to make him every compensation in my power for this apparent neglect. It was certainly this belief from whence this extraordinary step of my father's originated. —He judged of my heart by his own: but, alas! the conclusion was most fatally deceptive.—He did not reflect that the human heart is not to be relied on; and a heart in­clined like mine still less so than any other. He believed me just, generous and sincere; the event proved me false, cruel, and treacherous.—in the first moment of reflection on my future conduct, justice and discretion marked out that plan I ought to pursue; and I formed solemn resolutions of acting in exact conformity with what was universally known to be the long avowed design, and dying wish of my worthy father; but how soon were those resolves destroyed by the force of a bl [...]nd enthusiastic passion!—unworthy, I now, when too late, discover; totally unworthy the appella­tion by which it came recommended. Granville Clifford indeed truly loved; but impressed with a painful sense of his situation, his generous soul strove to suppress its emotion, and bore its pangs in silence. No longer his ardent vows assailed my reluctant ear—but sadness marked [Page 44] his elegant features, and a pensive habit took possession of his soul.—His fond attachment now looked up to me as a prize to which he durst not aspire—and he determined no more to persecute me with, as he termed it, his unworthy love, but to mourn the deprivation of all his hopes in secret, and gladly sacrifice his own happiness to my interest. Often had he marked the reluctance with which I attended to the language of his heart; but, unsuspicious of my pre­ference for Dormer, he hoped every thing from time, and the encouragement and interest of my father: but now he had lost that, he resolved to withdraw his claims, and (to use his own words) leave me to some brighter fate. What then was his joy, his unspeakable amazement, while tor­tured by contending passions, to hear me in compliance with the impulse of rectitude, and the laudable resolution I had formed pronounce, unsolicited, the most solemn assur­ances of being only his?—A flood of rapture burst on his dejected mind—he threw himself passionately at my feet. —his emotions were too powerful for utterance—but the eloquence of his eyes rendered all other language needless. I was deeply affected. Penetrated to the soul by the tender and respectful ardour of his attachment, and the fullest conviction of his exalted merits, I sincerely partook of his felicity; and a consciousness of having acted right, tri­umphed over every sensation that had warred against my peace; when the door of the room suddenly opened, and, quite unsuspicious of intrusion, Augusta St. Clare entered, followed by Henry Dormer.—They both started back— Clifford changed colour, and I fainted in his arms. On my recovery, the first object that presented itself was Dormer kneeling by my side: tenderness and keen reproach marked his features, he ventured to embrace me with ardour; he pressed his lips to my cheek; I reclined involuntarily on his bosom; and burst into tears. But remembrance soon awakened me from the fond delirium. I disengaged my­self from him, and raising my eyes, beheld Granville Clifford witnessing the scene, while an expression of deep melancholy overspread his lately animated countenance. The impropriety of my behaviour rushed upon my mind. Dormer still held one of my hands between his, but pre­senting the other to Clifford, I bade him no longer be [Page 45] anxious on my account, for I was quite recovered. He seemed totally insensible of my condescension, he still hung over the back of the chair, and gazed at me in gloomy silence; then suddenly withdrawing his penetrating eyes, he struck his hands on his forehead, and darted out of the room. I was deeply affected by his manner: memory brought back the just departed scene; and the solemn vows I had so lately uttered filled me with the most sensible re­gret. The dying words of my revered father arose upon my mind, and conspired to rack me. The beauteous Au­gusta regarded me with gentlest sympathy, and Dormer sat between us absorbed in thought. The appearance of dinner proved a welcome relief: a servant was dispatched to inform Clifford we waited for him; but he returned for answer, that a sudden but violent illness rendered him incapable of attending. I was inexpressibly alarmed at this account—embarrassment hovered around Dormer, and a tender sadness was visible in Augusta: our meal was cheerless, the unsocial gloom was only disturbed by a few tender enquiries relative to my health from the amiable Augusta, and some broken unintelligible sentences from the agitated Dormer.—An insufferable load of conflicting passions overwhelmed my heart: and as soon as dinner was removed I pleaded an excuse for retiring, and hastened to the chamber of Clifford. He was reclining on a couch when I entered, the picture of death;—but, all pale and trembling, he started up at my approach, and I seated my in silence by his side. "Are you ill?" said I, leaning tenderly towards him.—"Oh, yes," he replied, averting his face, I am, indeed, ill; but, let, me not disturb your happiness."—"Happiness!" I repeated with emotion, "Can I be happy and see my dearest friend thus?"—"Am I that friend?" said he, raising himself and fixing his eyes ardently on my face.—"Is it possible that I can be blest with such an appellation, and does my long adored Ela drop these precious tears for my sufferings? [...]—"Can Granville doubt it," said I, "after the avowal I have made?" —"Oh! pardon me, most loved maid," exclaimed he, "but, indeed, I am that infidel;—yet, what do I say? No, I do not doubt your pity;—but your love, charming Ela —your love—Oh! where am I?—You must be happy, [Page 46] indeed you must, and think no more of the wretched Clif­ford."—His tears fell on my hand; I was incapable of making any reply;—he started wildly from me and traver­sed the room—Fever glowed on his cheek, and distraction glared in his eye—he clapped his hands on his forehead, looked mournfully at me, and again declared he was very ill. I was little better; my agitation could not possibly be exceeded—he observed it, although so greatly oppressed himself, and his looks sufficiently declared that he was deep­ly sensible of the obligation he thought my compassion con­fer [...]ed. I hid my face with my handkerchief, and quitted the room to procure him assistance.

But my wearied spirits now compel me to break off, and de [...]e [...] the conclusion of my sad narrative to another oppor­ [...]ity.

LETTER VI. ELA TO MORTIMER.

THE illness of Clifford increased with such rapidity, that in a very few hours the faculty pronounced him in im­minent danger.—My grief was sincere, his innumerable vir­tues dwelt forcibly on my mind, and for several days and nights no persuasions could prevail on me to quit his side. The name of Ela dwelt for [...]ver on his lips, sometimes ac­companied with that of my father; but much oftner by that of Henry Dormer. I administered his medicines with my own hands, and, kneeling, fervently besought that Heaven would endow them with the power of restoration. The lovely Augusta lent her friendly aid, and shared my anxiety, Dormer sometimes ventured to intrude, and never failed to remind me of the injury my health must inevitably sustain from the deprivation of rest; but no in­treaties could prevail on me to quit this scene, until mental and bodily fatigue, added to my having neglected the ne­cessary refreshment of food and sleep totally over powered me, and the third night of my watching I was conveyed in a state of insensibility to my chamber.

[Page 47]This fatal weakness was the inlet to all my succeeding misfortunes; Dormer had now every opportunity to display his feigned attachment, nor did he neglect to avail himself of it. Too well assured of my unhappy predilection, he called forth all his arts to render it subservient to his cruel purpose. He incessantly assailed me with letters, whose melting language was formed to captivate the coldest heart. I pleaded my solemn engagements with Granville Clifford, added to the gratitude he so justly merited, and my duty to the best of fathers; but all I could urge was insufficient to dissuade him from the pursuit.—His gentle reproaches, ear­nest intreaties, and passionate complaints, pierced my yielding soul; he tenderly accused me with breach of faith, and swore he could not, would not live without me. Charm­ed with the language of his treacherous heart▪ and lulled in­to a forgetfulness of all that is just and honourable, by the still more dangerous delusions of my own [...] I consented to a midnight interview in that spot where the foot-step of my father had before surprized us.—There I no longer remem­bered what was due to the memory of that most excellent man, to Clifford, or myself:— no longer my heart retain­ed any impression but those of love and Dormer.

Infatuation wrapt me in her thickest mantle, and fond delirium soothed each accusing remembrancer with its Le­the and draught. "Let us, my adored Ela," said the perfi­dious Henry—"nobly resolve to sacrifice every meaner consideration on the altar of mutual attachment. Love is imperfect unless tried by difficulties.—These are the ob­stacles that evince its sincerity, and prove a thorny way to ages of happiness.—Let us then think only of each other —Let us fly from every intruder, and on the happy plains of my dear native isle, consecrate our lives to bliss."

My ears greedily drank in these delusive words, and my fond heart became their easy convert▪

"This▪" added the too charming betrayer, folding me with rapture in his arms, "this, lovely maid, is the golden opportunity to escape from all that can molest▪ the white moment which the gentle deity▪ who has united our hearts, now offers to ensure his future favour, may, perhaps, ne­ver return. Will it not then be impious to neglect the prof­fered blessing? But the souls of Ela and Henry are incapa­ble [Page 48] of such a prophanation. Come then my dear selected bride, banish all fears; a vessel now waits to wast us to the favoured land of liberty."

I know not whether I made any reply, but incapable of opposition, I followed him to the steps that descended from the p [...]azza, where I beheld several Indians waiting with a carriage. On a nearer approach I discovered them to be my own attendants. Breathless and almost fainting, I suf­fered Dormer to lift me into the carriage. "Say," my dearest love," said he, as soon as we were seated, "where these faithful creatures may find such necessary cloaths as will suffice for the voyage."—I marked out some trunks well stocked with linen, several riding dresses, and all my jewels; and, under the covert of the night, we arrived in a few hours on the sea-shore; the Indians following with our bag­gage. The very winds seemed bribed to promote the wishes of the base Henry, and hasten my destruction; they filled the fluttering sails, and conveyed us with rapidity from the Indostan shores. But the morning light seemed to bring back suspended reflection. A variety of bitter accusers [...]rouded round my heart. My eyes eagerly sought the dear haunts of my nativity—these scenes of innocence and artless joys forcibly recurred to my distracted mind—the image of Granville Clifford arose with them: I beheld him languishing on the bed of sickness;—methought I heard him once more request to see his long-loved Ela, and bless her ere he died.—Unequal to the conflict, remorse and poignant anguish seized me, and I wept passionately in the bosom of the soft seducer. But he soon found means to sooth my troubled soul, and banish every image but his own. He prevailed on me to sign a writing, empowering a person, in whom he dared confide, to turn all my effects into mo­ney, and transmit their value to England by the first op­portunity. This end accomplished. Dormer devoted all his time to alleviate the anxiety that sometimes preyed upon my peace. But the righteous vengeance of Heaven pursued my cruel perfidy. A dreadful storm arose just as we gain­ed fight of England; and, after perils almost incredible, we were wrecked on a dangerous coast in the western part of the island. There deprived of all means of subsistence, but from the charitable aid of some neighbouring gentry; [Page 49] the weak state in which I quitted India, added to the recent struggles of my mind, the bodily sufferings I had just en­countered, brought on an illness that threatened my life; but youth, added to the humane attentions of a worthy pair, who welcomed us with hospitable cordiality into their peaceful abode, averted the final blow, and I was again re­stored to health and reason.

The first thing that struck my observation was, that Hen­ry had imposed me on those excellent people for his wife; and, guided by the sophistry of his baleful arguments, I be­lieved myself in fact such. Here, fain would I draw a veil over my own conduct, but justice forces me to submit to the humiliating confession, and own, while deep repentance wrings my heart and tears stream from my eyes, that, in obedience to his will, I meanly dared to join in the guilty deception.

Methinks I see your upright soul turn with horror from the picture I have drawn of myself; but soft-eyed pity is the child of goodness, and the fullest conviction assures me that she is the native inmate of your exalted mind. This blessed assurance, although I dare no longer expect your esteem, bids me still hope for the continuance of your generous sympathy; and while you drop a tear over the errors of enthusiastic love, you will, perhaps, rather lament than condemn its victim.

Having thus sacrificed the rank, I am encouraged to be­lieve I have hitherto held in your opinion, to the dictates of truth, my trembling hand disqualifies me to attempt the sequel of my story at present, and compels me to resign the pen with the deepest and most grateful sense of the innume­rable obligations you have conferred on

LETTER VII. ELA TO MORTIMER.

IN the peaceful solitude where genuine philanthropy sheltered us from the raging element, and added its most powerful exertions effectually to preserve the being it had snatched from impending destruction; near twelve months [Page 50] elapsed in all the habits of conjugal endearment; and con­scious of possessing all the affection and fidelity that could possibly inform the heart of the tenderest wife, I certainly forgot that I was not so in reality, nor once reflected that religion, morality, and the laws of our country, required a solemn and public avowal of our choice. The fondness of my Henry filled my whole soul; every valuable precept impressed on my mind by education and example was lul­led asleep by his deluding tongue; and so entirely did I doat upon the dear betrayer, that I seemed incapable of distin­guishing between right and wrong, but as he pronounced them. His sentiments, his wishes were sure to be mine, and I could not figure to myself any higher gratification than that of seeing him happy, and being for ever blessed with his tender approbation.

Our kind entertainers believing us such as we appeared, soon evinced the most flattering partiality for us, and im­pressed with sincere compassion for the misfortunes that led us to their hospitable roof, hearing Dormer mention our expected remittances from India, earnestly besought us to remain with them until they arrived. We were easily pre­vailed on by their friendly importunity; and when the fleet, by which we hoped to receive the produce of my effects was announced, sadness again enveloped my mind; but Dormer testified the most impatient anxiety, and wrote to his correspondent in London by every post, to give us the earliest intelligence. Several weeks elapsed in a state of the most tedious uncertainty, when Dormer received an account from his friend in India which sufficiently awaked me from my dream of happiness, by presenting to my mind the most terrifying views. It informed us that Hy­d [...]r-Ali had entirely ravaged that part of the country where my possessions stood, and carried all that were not imme­diately sacrificed to his brutal cruelty into captivity.— This dreadful intelligence filled me with distraction. My tortured imagination painted the good, the amiable Clif­ford, and the beauteous Augusta St. Clare, butchered by the hands of merciless barbarians; or, at the best, borne away into a no less dreadful slavery. Their pathetic com­plaints penetrated my soul; and, "Oh!" I exclaimed, raising my streaming eyes to Dormer, "some horrible pu­nishment [Page 51] will assuredly overtake me, since excellence like their's is thus permitted to suffer!—I am, oh! bitter truth, treacherous and most forsworn! I have merited the chas­tisement of Heaven; but for these spotless victims, why should they bleed?" A deep gloom overspread Dormer's countenance, and he stood gazing at me in mournful silence, while the letter fell from his trembling hand to the floor, "Hark," said I, "do you not hear the generous injured Clifford praying for me, faithless and cruel as I am, even in the agonies of death?—Do you not see the lovely Augusta imploring mercy for him, rather than herself? Oh! my Henry, justice must force you to allow his worth, and par­ticipate in my distress." "I do, I do," said he, turning from me with emotion, "God knows I feel it powerfully."

"And does not this loss seem the award of righteous equity?" said I.—"Was I not most cruel and ungrateful to leave that excellent young man a beggar? Oh! severe ad­dition, and at such a time too, languishing under sufferings which his unhappy attachment to me had occasioned; it surely was a baseness unprecedented—and I can never cease to lament it."

"But be pleased likewise to remember, madam" said Dormer sternly, "that you are now yourself little better than a beggar, and let that suffice you to lament about. If you preferred this boasted Clifford to me, why not evince it sooner? I have sacrificed every thing to my fatal fondness for you?"

Amazement seized me at this unexpected, and surely most unfeeling reproach; and nearly choaked by emotions, I could only murmur out—"Unjust Henry—what have I not sacrificed?"—when the appearance of the lady of the house prevented his reply. She enquired the cause of my tears, sincerely compassionated our loss, and called forth every argument that humanity could suggest to alleviate our distress. Dormer listened to her in sullen silence; and a servant entering▪ delivered to him another letter, which came by a private ship, from his Indian correspondent, inform­ing him that he had disposed of my desolated lands for their utmost value▪ and transmitted their produce in invest­ments to a Dutch house in Amsterdam. This news seemed in some measure to dispel the cloud that overhung the brow [Page 52] of Dormer; at least so well he feigned returning tenderness, and deep regret for what he termed a sudden gust of passion, solely arising from his extreme anxiety on my account, that I could not retain the smallest doubt of his sincerity, and his late unkindness was instantly forgotten in the transport of again beholding the soft seducing smile adorn his cheek, suffu [...]ed by the consciousness of having erred;—and while a tender apology escaped his lips, I suffered him to press me to his bosom; and bade him to remember the late un­pleasing scene no more.

Thus we were again restored to apparent tranquillity, and Dormer proposed his immediate departure for Lon­don, there to wait the remittances from Holland; but ad­vised my remaining with our hospitable friends until their arrival. "when," said he, again folding me in his arms, "I will hasten on the wings of love to conduct my Ela to the fair metropolis of England, and there confirm our sa­cred vows unobserved by the eye of censure; to avoid which we have ventured to impose. I think, a pardonable falshood on these honest rustics, whose rigid opinions might, per­haps, have inclined them to judge severely of my charming girl for trusting herself, unsanctioned, to the protection of her adoring Henry."

Sooth [...]d by his false blandishments I readily acc [...]ded to this proposal, and he left me the following morning, with assurances of writing by every post▪ and returning with all possible expedition.—I was inexpressibly affected. I bade the hours fly swiftly to bring him again in health and safety to my arms. I invoked each right [...]ous power to guide his steps, and may justly say, with faithful I mogen,

was each night's task.—My kind entertainers exerted all their endeavours to render me cheerful and content; and, from a grateful s [...]nse of their benevolent attentions, I strove to appear so, while anxiety hovered around my heart Henry was punctual to his promise of frequent writing; every post came fraught with the most impassioned repetitions of [Page 53] inviolable love; when one evening, after waiting many hours for the arrival of the messenger, who constantly brought my letters from the neighbouring marke [...] town, I received the heart-felt intelligence of the Dutch house hav­ing failed soon after the receipt of my property from India, and Dormer's being arrested for debts contracted previously to his embarkation for the East. All language is much un­equal to delineate my feelings at that juncture: deaf to the intreaties of all around me, I procured a post-chaise with all possible expedition, in which I sat off for London, a­bout the hour of midnight; and, without granting a mo­ment's respite to the claims of hunger and watching, I tra­velled with such unceasing rapidity, that, on the third even­ing after my departure from our hospitable western friends, I arrived at the dreary mansions which contained all that my soul held dear. I found him in a wretched apartment, surrounded with, (as it appeared to me, unaccustomed to such scenes) every species of misery.—Deep despair marked his countenance; he started when I entered, but instead of flying to embrace or console me, kept his seat and hid his face with a handkerchief.—I threw my arms passionately around him, and shed floods of tears for his distresses, to­tally regardless of those that must inevitably await myself: I then endeavoured to whisper consolation, by directing his mind to hopes that had no existence in my own; but he seemed quite insensible to all my tenderness, and with­out making any reply, put me gloomily from him: then starting from his seat, he traversed the room in extreme agita­tion. I earnestly conjured him not to indulge such violent emotions—when looking at me, with a kind of fury, he exclaimed,—"Oh! you have undone me! My bane, my curse, my ruin▪ you have destroyed me!—And now, smil­ing mischief, what do you wish for more?"—The stroke of death would, I am fully assured, have inflicted much less pain than these cruel words.—My heart seemed to die within me, and sinking to the ground I continued, I believe, many hours in a state of insensibility.— Happy would it have been for me had I then been released from misery— for the recollection of Dormer's unkindness was the first ob­ject that returning reason presented to my distracted mind— and—"Oh! dear cruel Henry," sell involuntarily from [Page 54] my lips. But Henry was not present, either to hear my complaints, or pity my distress; he had left me in that de­plorable state to the care of those unfeeling beings by whom he was surrounded; and it was not till many minutes after my recovery, when my spirits were nearly reduced to their former state, by repeated entreaties to see him, that he en­tered the room with sullen aspect and averted eyes. A stranger to every species of disguise, I could not suppress the feelings his behaviour had excited—adding, "it is sure­ly most unkind to add unmerited reproach to anguish which is already insupportable; for what would I not do to allevi­ate the distress of my Henry?" "And what would you do."—said he, in the same harsh strain as before—"What can you do?" "Sooth you with unfeigned, unalterable tenderness," I eagerly replied—"and by sharing every pain that can invade your heart, render it▪ perhaps, less acute." He threw himself carelessly into a chair by my side, as I pronounced these words. I arose, and taking from my arms a very rich pair of bracelets that had been my mother's, and were set with brilliants, with a [...]ing that had likewise been her's, and the picture of my father, which hung at my bosom, and was superbly ornamented with rose dia­monds, I threw them on a table, saying, "Yes, I will do more, I will sacrifice even these dear tributes of parental fondness to the far more eloquent claims of unbounded love. [...] The countenance of Dormer assumed a milder ex­pression.—"But let them," I added pointing to the pre­cious emblems—"let them, my Henry, be our last re­source—for a variety of tender, penetrating recollections, recu [...] to endear them to my heart.—This, then, shall be the first victim." drawing from my pocket a most elegant gold watch, embossed with an infinite variety of precious stones, "which we offer up on the altar of necessity."

"Generous, charming girl." exclaimed the re-animated Henry—"But can you with-hold the rest, and suffer me to languish in this detested place?"—"Oh, no!" I replied, "I cannot with-hold any thing that will contribute to restore you to liberty and smiling peace: for what are these poor hau [...]les; indeed what is all that the universe can afford me, compared with the heart-felt delight of seeing you happy?" —He poured out a rhapsody of tender protestations, and [Page 55] again attributed his late behaviour to an excess of love; and the readiness with which I admitted his apologies, and pro­nounced his pardon, fully verified the justness of the adage, that, ‘"What we wish, we easily believe."’ I then enquired, if all I was possessed of would procure cash enough to extricate him from his present difficulties; to which, after a long pause he replied in the affirmative; and I was all impatience to put my design in execution.— Dormer overwhelmed me with his fond effusions, and wrote a letter to a friend of his, who had, he informed me, been one of his pleasant companions, and had dissipated a very large fortune by living freely; but was still a most worthy, generous, good-natured fellow, and would gladly undertake this business, for which my inexperience rendered me unfit, and might be depended on to dispose of my jewels to the best advantage. A hackney coach was then procured for me, and, unattended, I instantly went in pursuit of this gentleman, guided only by a written direction from Dor­mer; and, after a long search through a variety of obscure places, attended by innumerable difficulties, I found him in a really deplorable habitation, situated in a narrow dirty lane, near one of the Inns of Court. His tall emaciated figure was rendered disgusting by the paltry gaudiness of his apparel; his coat had once been scarlet, but had acquir­ed a kind of dull purple from long service; he had a blue satin waistcoat loaded with tarnished embroidery, and spangles; a pair of enormous buckles, where the copper peeped through their once glittering vest, kissed the ground as he tottered toward me; an immense bag hung suspended by his few gray hairs, and a rusty military hat, adorned with a large cockade of the same complexion, lay on an old sopha, from which he arose at my entrance. He ap­peared to be about fifty years of age; his face long, lean, and sallow, was ornamented with a large pair of dark greenish eyes, which glanced at the same instant to every point of the compass; and the entire loss of his teeth brought his nose and chin in a constant state of salutation.— He had a large black patch on his forehead, and another on one of his cheeks; I started back on beholding him, and would gladly have withdrawn from an object that looked [Page 56] like a burlesque on the human form: but advancing with a grin of ineffable delight, rendered infinitely striking by the glare of his extended eyes, he made me the most pro­found bow I had ever before witnessed, and eagerly enquir­ed to what blessed chance he was indebted for the honour of my presence. I was quite incapable of making him any reply, but by a low curt [...]sey, and the delivery of Dormer's letter. He seemed quite transported at the perusal of it, and enquired how long his friend and favourite Harry had been in England. I answered him very concisely, and seating himself beside me on the sopha; which, with an old worm-eaten table, and a large chest, prevented from falling to pieces by some cords tied round it, formed the entire furni­ture of his attic abode: he pathetically lamented our mis­fortunes, poured out an mundation of friendly professions, and offered to accompany me back to the prison. I readily acceded to this proposal, and the coach that brought me there waited to conduct us. Dormer was extremely embar­rassed when we approached.—He arose with perturbation, and deep confusion marked in his air and features:—my escort saluted him with the same easy gaiety as if he had found him surrounded by every species of happiness; and with his native grin of self-complacency, welcomed him to England. Dormer made him no reply, but turning hastily to me, whispered a request that I would retire for a few moments, with which I instantly complied, and the keeper of the prison sent his wife to attend me. In a short time I received a message from Dormer, desiring my return to his apartment. His visitor was gone, and my father's picture, with the bracelets and ring that had been my mother's, lay on the table. "I have sent all but these, my love," said he, pointing to the dear memento's—"Your watch and all your jewels, which my friend assures me will bring near three hundred pounds, and my debt is but a hundred and fifty, so that the rest may support us till I can do something better." —"Thank God!" I exclaimed, "who has made me the blest instrument of your enfranchisement!"—"And thank you, my charming girl!"—he cried, pressing my hand passionately to his lips. My tears dropped one by one on the bosom of my riding shirt, which was fastened in the middle with a pin that Granville Clifford had given me. [Page 57] It contained a knot of his bright ches [...] [...]hair, set in gold, and surrounded with pearls. He had [...] England for it, and begged my acceptance of it as a faint tribute of his early love.—My eyes were on it. I considered it as some­thing sacred.—It was, indeed, the gift of a saint; and no pious mussulman ever contemplated the relicks of his [...] ­phet with more sincere veneration. "I am glad," said I, with my eyes still fixed upon it, "that I have not lost you. —No, I will never part with you, never fear it.—"You shall not my Ela," cried Dormer, imagining these words were addressed to him. "Be assured we will never part." —"I hope not," said I, not daring to▪ undeceive him.—His tenderness penetrated every avenue of my soul, the image of Clifford disappeared; and I repeated with emotion, "No, no, we will never part. What should I be without my Henry! Nothing! nothing! Oh! worse, a mass of in­describable wretchedness!—Horrible picture! I cannot bear it; but it will never be realized;—it never can."—Henry echoed my last words. I threw my arms around him, and wept passionately in his bosom.

But the time is now come! The picture is realized!— Oh! my passionate friend, my senses are quite overpowered. —Adieu for the present—I can add no more.

LETTER VIII. ELA TO MORTIMER.

WITH a heart full of impatience I waited the return of Dormer's deputy.—Two days elapsed in a state of fruitless and painful expectation, and we both expressed our surprize at the delay and silence of our supposed friend, in whom Dormer still professed to repose the most entire confidence. The third morning passed with­out our wished-for visitor appearing. Dormer seemed un­easy, but said little. I was extremely alarmed. I pro­posed paying a second visit to the habitation of his boast­ed friend, and with apparent reluctance he acquiesced. On my arrival at the house, I was informed by the peo­ple [Page 58] belonging to it, that their lodger had quitted them the evening of that day on which Dormer had entrusted him with my jewels, telling them, that he was engaged to accompany a young nobleman in his travels through Europe—This intelligence almost distracted me. I could not conceal my emotions, but quitted the house in silence I burst into tears as soon as I was re-seated in the coach, and wept passionately as it conveyed me back to the pri­son.—Dormer flew to receive me, with a look of eager enquiry; but the traces of sorrow on my countenance rendered all other information needless. "Are we ru­ined, cheated, robbed?"—said he.—Then after a pause, he added, "Oh! yes, I know, I feel we are!—And what remains?"—"What indeed?" said I, endeavouring to suppress my tears. Dormer echoed my words, in an empassioned tone, and slung himself in an apparent agony into a chair. I said every thing that love like mine could suggest to give him comfort and palliate the severity of this blow; but the loss of liberty dwelt forcibly on his mind, and he was insensible to all I could say. Near two years revolved in this state of wretchedness. The dear memento's of my revered parents, which Dormer had providentially reserved from the sangs of that plausible devouring harpy, who had so cruelly deceived us, were now appropriated to obtain the necessary means of exist­ence; and I added something to the little stip [...]nd by my labours. The jail-keeper's wife was a humane being: she gently soothed my sorrows, and dissipated by her mild persuasions many a gloomy thought. To her I was indebted for reaping both profit and amusement from the exertion of my unworthy talents. She procured painting, drawing, embroidery, and various kinds of needlework for me. I accquitted myself so as to give general satisfaction, and was liberally rewarded. Dor­mer wrote to all his relations, and many of those that had professed themselves his friends; but not one of them condescended to take the smallest notice of his applications. These [...]peated disappointments sunk deeply on his mind, a [...] had a very unpleasant effect on [Page 59] his temper. I sometimes experienced the consequences of it; but my devoted heart never failed to offer a mul­titude of apologies in his behalf, "His passions are ar­dent."—I often mentally said—"His sensibility is ex­treme, and his tender fears on my account renders it more tremblingly alive to the slightest touch. He would not feel thus for himself only. Shall I then reproach him for a fault arising from an excess of tenderness for me? Shall I not rather forgive a caprice which flows from so delightful a source, and endeavour to soften the wounds I have undesignedly inflicted? For me, the na­tural sweetness of his temper is injured; and shall I cruel­ly dare, even in thought, to condemn him for what ori­ginates solely with myself? Oh, no; let me endeavour to sooth his perturbed spirits, and gently lead him in­sensibly back to his native serenity."

These were the reflexions that supported me during the heavy hours of my Henry's confinement; at length the joyful hope of his enfranchisement darted its glad­some ray across my mind. After many tedious delays, we received the little wreck of my once large possessions from Holland. Its amount was barely eleven hundred pounds.

I poured out ardent acknowledgments to Heaven, I invoked benedictions on the head of my Henry, as I de­livered into his hands the welcome sum. I know not the half I said, but I do not think that a moment of more sincere delight and lively gratitude ever visited my heart. Henry seemed touched by my enthusiasm, and the day concluded with a felicity from which I had long been estranged.

"To-morrow," said Henry, "to-morrow, my dear­est love, I shall again taste the sweets of liberty."

Heaven knows with what sincerity I shared his raptures, and eagerly anticipated the promised blessing. Henry, to-morrow, and liberty filled my whole soul. The bliss­ful words seemed to fleet before my eyes in dazzling cha­racters, and sunk, with deep impression, on the tablets of my heart.

[Page 60]I arose early the next morning to hail the welcome day and facilitate Dormer's enlargement. His debts were soon discharged, and after some necessary forms, we quit­ted our dreary abode. The jail-keeper's wife shed tears at our departure—she was a worthy creature, and had formed a real attachment to me. I was inexpressibly af­fected at her effusions of artless good will, and after pre­vailing on her to accept a trifling acknowledgment of her kind attentions, I left her with sensible regret.

We hired elegant apartments in a polite quarter of the metropolis, and Dormer laid out the most considerable part of what money remained from the payment of his debts, in purchasing that commission which he now holds. The private solemnization of our nuptials was again pro­posed; but some unlucky circumstance always started up to delay its performance. Again Dormer applied re­peatedly to his numerous relations, but was equally un­successful as before. It was at that period that the wor­thy Barlow was engaged in our service. He one evening rescued Dormer from a band of merciless street-robbers. My heart overflowed with gratitude: the honest creature told a tale of artless woe: I prevailed on Dormer to re­tain him in quality of a domestic, and amply were we re­warded by his fidelity, and marked attachment. Twice afterwards he saved his master's life and mine, in the short course of a fortnight; once from a daring party of house-breakers, whose weapons trembled at our throats when Barlow entered with the officers of justice, and seized every one of them: and a few days after, by sa­ving us, at the imminent danger of his own existence, from the fury of a raging fire, which had consumed all the under part of the house ere we awaked; and our apartment was sinking in ruins when Barlow appeared at the window with a ladder of ropes, and conveyed me in his arms, to an adjoining house. Thus calamity await­ed us which ever way we turned. Our loss was consider­able from the last misfortune. A trunk, containing a part of our cloaths and papers, snatched from the de­vouring flames by Barlow's vigilance, was all that escaped destruction. The extreme shock that my spirits received, [Page 61] brought on a severe and dangerous illness, during which time the unwearied attentions of Barlow far exceeded my highest praise. After a confinement of some weeks, I began again to recover. I experienced a chilling cold­ness and cruel neglect on the part of Dormer: the hu­mane William often witnessed it with tearful eyes. Whole days and nights would his master be absent, while I was confined to the bed of sickness; but I can with truth declare that a murmur never passed my lips. Dormer, I have now every reason to believe, at that time engaged in a new and not most eligible set of acquaintance, and perhaps by their baleful influence formed the cruel design of deserting me His nightly revels generally concluded with riot and intoxication. His noisy associates often occasioned shameful confusion at the door of our habitation: but he never introduced one of them to my presence; and I now suppose, if ever I was mentioned among them, it was, as being one of those wretched females who live the slaves of [...]nfamy and lawless man.

Poverty soon stared us in the face with all its horrors. Barlow was dismissed unpaid. Clamorous demands for money perpetually assailed us. We had run up a con­siderable bill with the people of the house, and all the terrors of a prison recurred to Dormer's mind, and filled him with distraction. Often, in his frequent fits of fury and impatience, did I tremble lest some act of despera­tion would ensue. The produce of his commission was, to a man of his turn, too inconsiderable to be mentioned. It was barely sufficient, he always declared, to pay his hair-dresser. In this dilemma he mentioned the ne­cessity of leaving our lodgings clandestinely, and proposed borrowing a trifling sum on his commission, and imploring the protection of our worthy friend in Cornwall, until the present storm was overblown, and time unfolded brighter prospects to our view. I highly approved the latter part of his scheme, but revolted at the thought of deliberate injustice. My soul started at the idea of wronging those who had provided us the means of ex­istence, and tenderly administered every comfort in their power to me, when agonizing on the bed of sickness; [Page 62] but the appearance of Barlow relieved my struggles. He entered the room without waitin [...] for permission. A big tear stood on his cheek. A variety of emotions labour­ed for utterance. He threw himself on his knees be­tween us, and drawing from his pocket a parcel, he laid it softly at my feet, saying, in a low and interrupted voice, "Here, here, best of ladies, Heaven sent it me for you," and rising, he hid his face with the skirt of his coat, and darted out of the room. I stooped down and took up the parcel, which contained bank notes to the amount of two hundred pounds. Dormer stood motionless with amazement, and a servant entered and gave him a pan [...] con [...]aining these words:

P. S. I will presume to wait upon your honour to­morrow. I hope you will consider of the favour I have asked by that time, and not make me miserable by refusing it; nor say any thing about my boldness when I saw you last; for I am sadly afraid my lady and you was very an­gry; but hope your goodness will excuse me."

"Excuse him!" I exclaimed▪ glancing my eye over this transcript of humble wor [...]h—"Excuse him! gracious God, what a noble▪ disinterested, generous spirit! But we must not take any advantage of it, we must not accept his gold."

"We must, we must," cried Dormer hastily, "in­deed we must: to hesitate at such a time as this would be the h [...]ight of madness." "But where," said I, "could he get it?" "That▪" replied Dormer, "there is no doubt of his accounting for very sufficiently; and we shall, I hope, be enabled to repay him." "How" I enquired. A cloud of passion arose on Dormer's brow He started from his seat, travers [...]d the room, muttered something, wherein I distinct­ly heard the words, "scrupulous, absurd, fool, troublesome, mad-woman"—and putting the notes in his pocket, he left me.

I saw him no more until day-break the next morning, when sitting in my room, ruminating on the times that [Page 63] were past, he entered with haggard looks and wild disor­dered air, and, clasping me frantickly in his arms, ex­claimed, "It is all over, Ela, it is all over!"—and striking his forehead furiously against the arm of my chair, he fell senseless on the carpet. I gave a piercing shri [...]k, and our guardian angel, Barlow, rushed into the room. He raised Dormer from the floor. I know not what I said, but casting on me a pitying look, he cried, "Tell me nothing, dear lady, I know all." "And what," said I, "do you know William?" "Know!" he exclaimed, "know that"—he paused—"know enough," he added—"Oh! madam—but my master must not stay here—we must get him away instantly." "Away,' said I, as my tears fell in torrents on Dormer's pallid face, "where would you take him away? William, William▪ he is gone already!" "No!" he exclaimed, "but he must be gone, or"—"What?" he repeated—"I will tell you another time—but we must all go."—"Go!" I cried, "William, explain this my­stery.—Where can we go now?" "Any where, Madam▪" he replied, "for safety. Indeed we must go without delay."

Dormer began to recover. He had wounded his forehead against the chair; and I, not till then, observed his cloaths stained with blood in many places. Barlow prevailed on him to drink a glass of wine and water; and whispering me that he would soon return▪ quitted the room. "I must fly!" said Dormer, suddenly star [...]ing from me, "or veng [...]ance will find me." "Vengeance!" I echoed, fol­lowing him▪ —"Vengeance!—Oh! my ever dear Henry, what means all this?"—He lea [...]ed his head on his clasped hands, looked fearfully in my face, but made not any reply. Barlow ent [...]red—"A chair wai [...]s. Sir.—and you had better retreat ere day gets high" "Had I!" said Dor­mer, fixing his eyes on Barlow, with an expression that seemed to demand how he knew the necessity of such a step—"Had I, William?" he repeated—"Surely, Sir," replied Barlow. "We are convinced the time is dangerous —and one minute's delay may be fatal."—"And would you tear him from me?' I exclaimed▪ throwing my arms round him. "No, Madam," replied Barlow▪ "you shall follow with me▪ and I will shew the expediency of this step. I have satisfied the people below, and will fetch your [Page 64] things to-morrow;" with those words he left me to at­tend Dormer to the door; and when he returned, I silently accompanied him out of the house.

An humble lodg [...]ng which Barlow had hired for himself when we dismissed him, was now converted into our asylum; and during our melancholy wal [...] to it, he com­municated, at my repeated and earnest importunity, the following dreadful information. That, passing the door of a well known gaming-house the preceding evening, he observed his master entering amidst a crowd of sharpers; and desirous of witnessing his conduct, he disguised him­self and followed him. On his entrance he found him engaged in a warm contest: fortune was, as usual on those occasions, very fluctuating; one moment she poured heaps of gold into his lap, the next left him almost pennyless; till at length he was stripped of all he had, and his lucky anta­gonist refused to play any more, although Dormer borrowed a guinea from one of the bye-standers.—Exasperated at this conduct, and reduced by his ill-fortune to a state of despe­ration, Dormer struck him; a scuffle ensued—swords were drawn, murder was echoed through the house, Dormer escaped, and Barlow was prevented from following imme­diately by his fears of creating suspicion; he therefore mix­ed among the pursuers, found they had no knowledge of our abode, and then hastened to give us every aid in his power, not doubting but Dormer would, ere long, be traced to our late lodging.

Judge you, who are possessed of genuine sensibility▪ what my sufferings must have been as I listened to this shocking relation. Murder and ruin resounded through my terrified imagination, and all the gentle palliatives that Barlow could invent were insufficient to sooth my fears. In a state of mind, little short of insanity, I reached the place that held the wretched Henry. There we spent some mournful days; when our before proposed journey to the West was again mentioned as highly expedient, and Barlow highly approv­ed it. "I hate still," said he, a little reserve. There is another hundr [...]d—my old aunt in the North died and left me [...]ou [...]" (putting a pocket-book into my lap). "What I before ventured to lay at your feet, my dear lady, was a part of it, and"—he could add no more.—I held the [Page 65] pocket-book towards him. I was deeply affected—"No," said I, "kind, good William, we must not make you a beggar."—"You will not, indeed you will not.—I must share it with you—I must always attend you—I ask no more," he replied, with interrupted voice. I could not speak—"Keep it, pray keep it, Madam," he added—"I only beg to stay with you." "You shall forever," cried Dormer, taking up the pocket-book that had fallen from my hand. We will never part with you—yo [...] shall be henceforth our friend, not servant;—and, perhaps, we may be happy —all happy."—"God send it," said Barlow—My [...]art repeated his prayer. The mistress of the house entered, and informed Barlow, there had been two men below en­quiring if Captain Dormer lived there, but that she had re­plied in the negative. Dormer changed countenance. Barlow thanked her caution, and put a guinea into her hand.

"We must not continue here," said Dormer, as soon as she was gone. Barlow owned it to be unsafe. I was in­expressibly alarmed; and it was agreed that we should ins­tantly set off on our proposed expedition. Fully assured of a cordial reception, I only penned a few lines to apprize our friends in the West of our design, and we instantly de­parted. But when we arrived at the spot where we had experienced such proofs of genuine friendship, we found the house, where we hoped to have been welcomed by these generous villagers, uninhabited, and some neigh­bouring peasants informed us, that the lady had been many months in an ill state of health, and they were gone to reside in the South of France.—This was a heart-felt dis­appointment; at such a juncture it came with accumulated force. I believe we all felt it very sensibly; and the following day conveyed us back to the place where we first saw you.— And fearful of being traced by his real name, Dormer assum­ed that of Temple. Barlow soon received unequivocal assur­ances from London, that the person wounded by his master was entirely out of danger. This intelligence restored Dor­mer's native levity; and the recollection of former woes seemed no longer to hold a place in his memory; but around my heart they still shed their baleful influence. Granville Clifford haunted my dreams. Augusta St. Clare [Page 66] never failed to accompany him. The image of my father seemed to hover perpetually over me—and peace was a stranger to my breast.—Dormer proposed our continuing in that place, during the summer, hinted a hope that our friends would▪ ere its expiration▪ return from France. I have since thought, that it was his design to throw me on their charity. But if that was his purpose it proved abortive. You are already acquainted with what followed—you know the artifice by which he prevailed on the generous, unsus­pecting Barlow to desert me likewise; why should I re­peat it?

I have now fulfilled my arduous undertaking. It has re­called the sensibility, which, when undertook it. I vainly hoped was vanquished. But it is just I should suffer.—I dare not repine these are, I humbly trust, some of my last pangs.—Oh! dear injured Clifford—and you, my once doa [...]ing father▪ if your pure spirits now witness the woes that rend my heart, de [...]gn, like Heaven, to compassionate, and accept my sincere pen [...]tence. And you, my inestima­ble friend, vouchsafe to pardon the ills I have occasioned you; in my heart they often expel the memory of my own. How many worthy beings are involved in my ruin? —Oh! rem [...]mber Barlow—himself and Heaven will reward your goodness; but I hope he has found an advocate in your own breast, and needs not any from me.

Fully conscious of my own errors, I could wish to warn others against the same fatal delusions—and shewing them the [...]ni [...]s that never fail to attend a deviation from the paths of [...]titude, inspire them with fortitude to subdue every temptation to quit the sweet and peaceful paths of duty and innocence. Be this your care—I am every way in­capable of directing y [...]ur judgment.

The cold the rigid, and unfeeling, will loudly execrate my follies: perhaps you alone will pity them. They will condemn my wilful blindness, my guilty perseverance: and m [...] heart acqui [...]s them of injustice; yet, while with a strong sens;e of superiority they contemplate my fate, and exclaim with the self-righteous Pharisee, "God, I thank thee, that I am not like one of these!"—may they imbibe a lesson from the fountain of every excellence, who was graciously pleased to accept the prayer of the despised penitent, that [Page 67] impressed with a poignant sense of his iniquities, smote his breast with deep humility, and besought mercy.

Wish not, my ever valued friend, to detain a weary suf­ferer in this darksome region. My soul is impatient to escape this wretched prison, and lay down her sorrows at his foot stool, who weighs all things in the balance of Eternal Truth. I have transgressed the laws of morality—the world deems me a cast-away—I stand condemned beyond all pow­er of appeal; and am, like Cain, a miserable wanderer on the earth. But shall I likewise wander comfortless through the ages of eternity? Oh! no—the Christian system darts its glorious lustre through my beclouded soul! Blessed effulgence of heavenly love! I feel your all-powerful effica­cy. The shadows of eternal night disappear. Pardon and immortality open to my view, and peace dawns around me.

May the prayers of a broken spirit, which the Supreme has promised he will never reject, shower the choicest be­nedictions of Heaven on all your paths: may you be hap­py here, and may we meet hereafter, is the ardent, and will be the last petition that hovers around the heart of

LETTER III. MORTIMER TO CAROLINE.

AFTER a considerable lapse of time I again resume my pen to conclude the woe-fraught narration, which has so greatly interested the gentle heart of my Caroline; who, ever tremblingly alive to the claims of humanity, will, I am assured, on that score, pardon my long silence, and exculpate her brother from the charge of neglect.

My coward spirit shrinks from the deline [...]tion of scenes whose deep and mournful impression can never be effaced from my memory until it ceases to exist; but your elo­quent intreaties triumph over all the pleadings of timi­dity, and I submit to the painful recital, which, while it cannot fall to re [...]al anguish to my heart, conveys also a [Page 68] striking lesson of morality, and inspires me with courage to subdue every reluctance, and obey the powerful im­pulses of justice and truth. Our journey to this place, in compliance with the earnest wish of Ela, mentioned in my last, was such as you will easily conceive. The truly excellent Barlow accompanied us, and sadness hovered around our little party. Ela's increasing weakness, and deep oppression of mind, occasioned many delays; when passing through a deep glen, as we drew near to our place of destination, the piercing shriek of female dis­tress assailed our ears, and a voice exclaimed, with most affecting vehemence, "villain, monster, tell me what is become of her!" Ela started wildly, and suddenly open­ing the door of the carriage, was going to jump out, regardless of the consequences; but I prevented the exe­cution of this dangerous attempt, by catching her in my arms. She struggled to elude my hold—"Cruel, cruel tyrants," said she, "why will you keep me from him? Will none of you have pity?"—"And you too,"—added she, looking at me with an expression of poignant an­guish—"will you detain me from the dear, dear injured," —she could no more. Barlow pulled the string—the carriage stopped—the screams still continued. We lifted Ela out in our arms; and beheld at a small distance a confused group, among whom was Dormer leaning against the shattered trunk of an old tree, with his face conceal­ed between his hands, and the most perfect manly form that ever before struck my eyes, encircled in the arms of a lady from whom the screams proceeded, were most conspicuous. We could not discern either of their faces, but their figures were equal in symmetry. Ela withdrew her hand from mine, and darting from us, threw herself before them. They both clasped her alternately in their arms, with silent transport, and they mingled their tears together. I witnessed this scene with emotions that cannot be described. Poor Barlow fell on his knees and prayed aloud, that there might not be any more mischief. Another lady, tall and majestie, appeared leaning on the a [...]m of a servant to support her trembling [Page 69] form. Her eyes wandered fearfully around her, but resting on Dormer—"What means this!" she repeated­ly exclaimed—"Who are these—and why do they ac­cuse you?"—"Hush, hush, hush," he cried, furiously snatching up a pistol that lay at the stranger's feet— "This answers all!" As he uttered these scarce articu­late words, the bullet pierced his raging brain, and he fell prostrate before his interrogator. But all description is unequal to the scene that ensued. Heart-rending shrieks echoed through the air. Ela's empassioned, un­conquerable love, soared far above her wrongs: agoniz­ing with accumulated sufferings, she threw herself on the ensanguined earth, and folded the expiring Henry in her affectionate embrace, with a kind of frantic tenderness. His head rested on her bosom, his eyes were eagerly rivetted on her face—The words "own, and only wife," died on his lips, which still seemed to beg forgiveness. She besought Heaven to pity the sad effects of a distrac­ted moment—and graciously extend his unbounded mer­cy to a crime, which no excess of wretchedness can justify, nor any argument excuse. In broken accents she blessed his fleeting soul with welcome sounds of pardon;—and what presumptuous mortal shall dare to scan the un­searchable depths of futurity? The self-devoted victim raised himself with a look of penetrating horror on be­holding Barlow and myself:—we each extended our hands to him—his spirit departed with a deep sigh; the remembrance of his crimes was absorbed in compassion for his fate, and every atom in my frame trembled in uni­son with the emotions of my heart.

Ela continued holding the corpse in her arms; and with a look of fixed despair, repeated, in a deeply mournful voice—"it is over, oh, it is all over!" The elegant young man, who had so greatly interested me, quitted his fair companion, and kneeling beside Ela, hung over the woe-fraught scene, while horror and heart-felt anguish con­vulsed the finest features, and most faultless form that ima­gination can picture. The lady, who had demanded of the wretched Dormer an explanition of the mystery before her, now lay stretched on the earth, apparently as lifeless as [Page 70] himself:—and the other beautiful unknown still sat motion­less on the grass, and concealed her face with her garments. The big drops stole slowly over Barlow's cheek, and I was unable to interupt the awful silence. My eyes were fixed on Ela, whose attitude and looks no art can possibly deline­ate: the quick transition from all the wildness of horror to deep despair, that marked her countenance, surpasses all the powers of language, and sets description at defiance. Her fine expressive eyes, seemed rooted in the firmament; then, with a sudden start, she clasped her hands together, sunk on the bosom of the handsome stranger by her side, murmured out—"I go, I go, Clifford—bless me" and fell into strong convulsions His heart certainly complied with her request; but his tongue refused its concurrence. He held her struggling in his arms, and his tears fell one by one on her pallid face. My soul seemed to echo the name of Clifford—I before believed it to be him—his amiable character was deeply engraved on my memory, and I con­templated with him a mixture of admiration and lively esteem. The beauteous form, in whose arms I first beheld him▪ approached us with agitated air and trembling steps: the description of Augusta St. Clare stole upon my mind— never did I behold such delicacy, such animation, grace, symmetry, and elegance. She stooped down, hung over the struggling Ela, then raised her streaming eyes to Clifford and faintly exclaimed, "Here's desolation!" "Retire▪ my love," said Clifford—"pray quit this scene; you are already ill. "I am," she cried, leaning her head on her hand, "I am indeed ill; but where can I go?" She grew paler and paler. I raised her in my arms▪ assist [...]d by Barlow, placed her in one of the carriages, and left her to proceed slowly onward to our destined place under his care. On my return, I found the other lady recovering. She poured a torrent of tears on the body of Dormer; then suffering me to lead her from the mournful scene, I saw her seated in her own chariot, and committing her to the care of one of her attendants, they followed the other carriage, and I re­turned to the spot that held our poor lost Ela▪ and her guardian friend. In our arms we conducted her to a neigh­bouring cottage; there she continued near two days in a constant succession of those dreadful fits. After the necessary [Page 71] forms, Dormer's remains were deposited in the parish church-yard, and his death ascribed by the voice of the law, to lunacy. Barlow brought us hourly intelligence of our fair fellow sufferers, who were both ill, but he hoped not dangerously, and his services were extended to us all. Ela was at length restored to the bitter recollection of the past. Her emaciated form was barely animated by exist­ence, and she now really seemed what she before vainly sup­posed, incapable of feeling another pang. "The wounds of injured sensibility," said she, as the last tear dropped from her eye, "are closed forever.—I think my sufferings are now over.—This poor deluded heart seems callous to all that can ensue"—she paused, "yes, dear Clifford," she added, "you forgive me, promise likewise to bury my memory in oblivion, and be happy;—and the bitterness of death is past." "Rather say," replied Clifford, tenderly supporting her drooping form, "that you will endeavour to live and make us all happy." "Live!" she faintly ex­claimed, "can my friend, my brother, wish me to live? Can Granville Clifford desire I should continue to groan un­der this heavy, heavy oppression?—Oh, mistaken good­ness!— But no, no, Ela Spencer must not, will not live." We were both too deeply affected to add any more; but, under the guidance of Barlow, soon joined the rest of our mournful party. The fair Augusta arose at our entrance, and after embracing Ela with tenderness, while the com­passionate tear bedewed her lovely face, Clifford pressed her to his heart, and gazing alternately in each of their faces— "Oh!" she eagerly exclaimed, "I have found a parent!" "And I," added her companion, approaching us with the mildest dignity, "a long lost child; the oft lamented pledge of mutual attachment, the dear memento of my early, only love." "Yes, generous Clifford," she added, after a pause, —"blessed guardian of defenceless innocence, if wealth and rank can gratify a mind like your's, they both await you, and you alone are wo [...]hy to possess them."—Asto­nisment marked the features of Ela and Clifford; and Augusta stood motionless beside them "Know," conti­nued her mother, "exalted son of philanthropy," pointing to Augusta, "that when you took this unhoused wanderer to your arms, you wedded not Augusta St. Clare▪ but [Page 72] Isabella Waldron, the last survivor of that noble house, and the rightful heiress of its vast estates, which some my­sterious cause has hitherto estranged her from, and which after the death of her grandfather, devolved to its present lately deceased possessor."—"Welcome sounds," exclaimed Ela,—"has then Granville Clifford triumphed, nobly tri­umphed over the delusions of his heart, and married the only woman that could ever deserve him! My few remain­ing days will now glide gently by, and I shall lay down my head in peace, blessed with the sweet assurance, that the friends of my heart will be happy." A moment of silence ensued, when Clifford tenderly embracing his lovely partner said, "Yes, this is my wife, my charming much-loved wife, whom I value for herself alone—Yet, madam," he added, "think me not insensible to your generous good­ness in thus readily adopting an unworthy stranger.—I do not, madam, nor ever can deserve such a distinction.— True, madam, I have taken happiness to my bosom under the semblance of Augusta St. Clare; and if that is a sufficient claim to your favour, gratitude may, in some degree▪ com­pensate for the deficiencies of merit."—"But how," he continued, turning with still more affecting voice and air to Ela, "how shall I sufficiently thank my charming friend?" "By forbearing,"—replied the gentle mourner, "to distress her by acknowledgments of which she is unworthy." Her spirits were quite exhausted. She expressed a wish to retire, the other two ladies attended her;—and Clifford related the uncommon vicissitudes that had befallen himself and his lovely charge after the sudden and mysterious loss of Ela; but I must defer the description of these particulars till leisure enables me to resume the pen, for I am this mo­ment summoned to the apartment of that injured fair one.

Adieu! my Caroline, and believe me with unalterable affection,

LETTER IV. MORTIMER TO CAROLINE.

OUR tragedy draws to a conclusion, the sorrows of Ela will soon cease to exist, and the universal conqueror assumes a milder form than usual to conduct her to happier climes.

As soon as I had dispatched my last letter to you, accom­panied by the truly noble Clifford, I hastened to the cham­ber that held our fair friends. Ela was seated between them; her pallid cheek reclined on the shoulder of one, and the other supported her in her arms. Their eyes dwelt with soft compassion on her face, and pensive sadness marked their inimitable features. It was a scene for the heart, and I contemplated it some minutes without interruption. Clif­ford leaned his arm on my shoulder, unconscious, and a deep sigh stole from him unobserved by any but myself. F [...] gently raised her languid eyes; we both approached her, and I can only judge of Clifford's emotions by my own. The drooping mourner pressed each of our hands between her's, and looking at us with a benignant and placid countenance, "Oh!" she exclaimed, "how does this blest union of according minds gratify every wish of my soul, and irradiate the gloomy cavern into which I am entering Mourn not," she added, with a smile of sweet­est resignation, "the end of my suffering is near—the blest [...]eprieve is come; love and friendship unite to reward your virtues—the sweetest assurance of your being happy, ex­tracts the barbed arrow from affliction—and seems to lead me through the flowery paths to those mansions—where sin and sorrow are forever excluded;"—she paused, and then —"One wish," she added, "still lingers round my heart, and you will not, I think, refuse it.—The ransomed cap­tive rejoices to regain his freedom his friends eroud to offer their congratulations, and festivity crowns the scene—and how much rather should you, my only friends below, cele­brate this glad occasion—when the weary prisoner is per­mitted to exchange her galling setters for an immortal crown! Let not then the short hours I remain among you be spent in unavailing sadness.—Start not," she continued, [Page 74] "at what I am going to propose—the marriage of Clifford and my charming friend, is imperfect in the eye of the law —and what time more proper than the present to have it continued?"—We were all silent — but our eyes revealed the eloquent language of our hearts—Ela's alone were dry —"Refuse not," she cried, looking alternately in the faces of Clifford and his Isabella, this last and only request.— "Refuse you?" repeated Clifford in impassioned and in­terrupted accents, "Oh! who could refuse you any thing?" She smiled serenely on him, pressed his hand gratefully to her lips, and sunk exhausted on the bosom of the beauteous Isabella.

This last wish of Ela is now accomplished. A few hours since, the nuptials of the loveliest pair that surely ever graced the Hymeneal temple, were again solemnized—and the God attended with his brightest torch to illume the house of mourning. Never saw I, till now, a pair so matched in excellence, so equal in perfection; and although my pen can never give you a true idea of the impression, which the scene I have just quitted has left on my mind; I will en­deavour to trace some faint resemblance of it. The ceremo­ny was performed in the chamber of Ela. The native charms of Isabella were heightened by the elegant simpli­city of her dress. She wore a fine India muslin, trimmed with narrow fringe, and lined with lilac, linen correspond­ent, and her fine auburn tresses turned simply up under a large cap, which added delicacy to a set of features, and complexion that scorns the power of imitation;—and as, with a graceful tenderness, she gave her hand to Clifford and pronounced the solemn vow, I sent up a mental prayer that Heaven would bless me with such a bride;—for, like the lovely Roman, she improves her charms,

Her mother, who is that lady, to obtain whose gold, Dor­mer plunged into the deep abyss of guilt, fate in pensive at­titude by Ela's side, while her eyes dwelt full of tender­ness on her amiable children. Clifford led his blushing bride toward her, and kneeling, pressed her extended hand [Page 75] to his lips; she blessed them both, and my heart felt the scene too, too affecting. Clifford's elegant features were marked by a sombre shade, which all his efforts were insuf­ficient to conceal; and while he pressed his Isabella in his arms, he stole a pensive look toward the emaciated form of Ela, and a tear started from his eye. Barlow stood behind us, Mrs. Barrymore arose; and giving him a paper, "ac­cept," said she, "this small acknowledgment of our esteem, your worth exceeds reward."—He eagerly opened the pa­per— it contained bank notes, which nearly doubled what he had bestowed on Ela. With much difficulty he was prevailed on to acquiesce:—and unable to express his grati­tude, or conceal his emotions, he silently quitted the room. —A momentary lustre shone in Ela's eyes, and a mild suffu­sion of heart-felt joy crossed her features; but the heralds of approaching dissolution soon resumed their seats▪ the living principle faded fast away, and I snatch the present moment while a deep sleep has overpowered her, to trans­mit these particulars to my beloved Caroline. As I con­cluded the last word—a servant brought a m [...]ssage from Mrs. Barrymore, requesting my immediate presence.—I attend her while sad presages hover round my heart.

[In continuation.]

THE final blow is given, death throws a veil over the de­lusions of the heart, and the spirit of Ela is released from all its woes.

When I laid aside my pen, I hastened to her apartment. —She was breathing out her last prayer in the arms of Clif­ford, beseeching Heaven to shower the choicest benedictions on our heads; then earnestly conjuring us not to mourn for her; she added, "lay me in the grave of Dormer;" and her soul departed with a serene smile.

Adieu! I am too deeply affected to add another word, but to assure you, that I shall as soon as possible conclude this narrative, and am always

LETTER V. MORTIMER TO CAROLINE.

THIS day I have shed the last tear over the lifeless Ela, and seen it deposited beside the sad remains of him, whose penitence, though late and momentary, was, I hope, sincere, and found acceptance.

To-morrow we set off for the seat of Mrs. Barrymore, and shall soon hasten again to embrace my Caroline, and in her society endeavour to conquer the dejection that now preys upon my mind.—I have just parted with my amiable friends for the night; but sleep refuses its gentle influence to sooth my perturbed spirits; and I will try to lose the painful sense of recent scenes, by gratifying your amiable curiosity, so strongly awakened to know the adventures of Clifford and Isabella.

The unwearied attention, and marked tenderness of that lovely woman, during a long and dangerous illness, which commenced previously to the departure of Henry and Ela, and was greatly augmented and prolonged by that event, convinced him of what he had before suspected, that he had undesignedly attacked her heart.—The devastations of Hy­der-Ali soon followed, and when he saw her beauteous form rudely seized by the hands of savage tyrants, his heart loudly proclaimed her interest there. He flew, regardless of his own life, to her aid; but one of the barbarians soon stretched him, covered with wounds, at his feet, and were carrying them into a dreadful captivity, when a party of troops met them, and, after a long contest, obliged the sa­vages to fly, and rescued all the prisoners Isabella and Clifford were conducted to the house of the commanding officer, where they resided some months, and perfect esteem and tender admiration was ripened by gratitude into as lively a passion in the bosom of Clifford as that by which Isabella was agitated. Heaven looked down well pleased on the virtuous union of congenial souls. Clifford received a summons from England; intimating that, from a series of remarkable events, a noble estate had devolved to him, and that his presence was necessarily required to take possession [Page 77] of it.—The hope of yet again beholding his once adored Ela, his lamented friend and sister, rendered this acquisi­tion doubly welcome. But his heart pronounced Augusta St. Clare arbitress of his future happiness: without her par­ticipation he felt the strongest assurance that joy must ever be a stranger to his heart; and the gifts of lavish fortune be bestowed in vain. He flew to pour out the language of his generous soul at her feet. A stranger to affection, or ar­tifice, she owned the interest he had long possessed in her heart; and superior to the scruples and assumed delicacy of less exalted minds, permitted him the following day, to lead her blushing to the altar; and they immediately em­barked in the fleet that was ready to sail for England.— Here their fruitless researches after Ela alone interrupted their felecity; when chance directed them to the spot where Dormer and she had experienced such friendly aid after their escape from the fury of the waves, and where they had been so long detained with the most cordial hospitality. But here their hopes of tracing the fugitives were equally unsuccessful as before; and they were hastening back to the metropolis, when they overtook Dormer, and his destined bride, and the scene already pourtrayed instantly ensued. His intended union with Mrs. Barrymore was prevented by a delay, which testifies an over-ruling Providence, and for which she now looks up with heart-felt gratitude. Deprived of her natural protectors, ere she could be sensible of the loss, at a very early age, she engaged the affections of a most accomplished youth, the only son of a wealthy family, to whom she was nearly allied; but under whose roof her childhood passed in a state of dependance much worse than servitude; a state which the delicate mind of my Caroline will readily conceive, and a good heart never fail to com­passionate.— The attachment was mutual, a private marri­age took place, the birth of Isabella led to a discovery, and wretchedness ensued. The tender wife was torn from the arms of her distracted husband, hurried, with her lovely infant, on board a vessel, and condemned to perpetual exile from the object of her fond attachment. There she lan­guished some years a stranger to joy, but what arose from contemplating the softened features of her adored husband, visible in her beauteous child; when the sudden account of [Page 78] his death seemed to complete the measure of her woes. Long she stood trembling on the brink of eternity, wrapt in delirium; and the first object her senses fought, was the sweet pledge of mutual love, the only solace of her sorrow­ing widowhood. But the heart-rending intelligence, that death had likewise robbed her of that blessing, excluded every ray of consolation, and many years revolved in woe that would not admit of alleviation.—When, after repeated struggles with her own heart, gratitude prevailed on her to reward the generous love of an amiable foreigner, and she accompanied him to her native shores; she found that the o [...]durate parents of her adored Edward had not long surviv­ed him, and the estate had devolved to a distant part of the family. She endeavoured to drown the remembrance of the past in every species of fashionable dissipation. Again she became a widow; again was prevailed on to accept the golden fruits that Hymen offered—and ere she attained her six and thirtieth year▪ found herself again at liberty▪ with an income of eight-thousand a year. She then mentally resolved no more to wear the hymeneal chain;—but how weak are female resolutions? Her's was not proof against the arts of Dormer; when a summons from the person that succeeded to the estates of her loved Edward, requesting instantly to see her at his house in Wales, to impart to her ere he died, a secret which lay heavy at his heart, delayed the promised nuptials:—her lover murmured;—but her commands were absolute; and, with a very ill grace, be bowed submission, but was permitted to attend her. The dying penitent informed her, that her daughter was, by his hands, torn from her bosom to secure to himself the inherit­ance to which he had long aspired. That, under the name of Augusta St. Clare, she was educated in a convent in France; that from a fear that her uncommon beauty and accomplish­ments had attached the heart of his only son, he had forced her to India soon after her return; and that Heaven had pu­nished his cruelty, by the full conviction of having murdered his child, who survived her loss but a few months, and de­clared, with his dying breath, th [...] he died the victim of pa­rental rigor. The recital of this story seemed deeply to af­fect Dormer. The well known name of Augusta, no doubt, brought bitter accusation to his heart. He mention­ed [Page 79] the performance of their vows; but Mrs. Barrymore firmly declared, that until she folded her long lost child in her arms, joy must be a stranger to her bosom.

Despairing of ever accomplishing his wishes if she held that determination, he called forth all his rhetoric to shake it, but in vain. They bade adieu to Wales, and their jour­ney was a scene of murmurings and altercation. When the sound of Granville Clifford's voice resounded through his heart, he raised his eyes, and beheld the dreaded interroga­tor, with the equally formidable Augusta by his side.—Des­peration at that moment seized him, Clifford bade him alight;—he threw himself from the carriage—and aimed his sword at his breast; but their attendants interposed, and the sequel you are already acquainted with.

Bereft of all her arts Vice stands exposed in her native deformity. The Wisdom of Virtue is no less conspicuous. The finger of Truth points at the folly of wickedness; and the inevitable misery, by which it never fails to be attended, even in this world, is surely sufficient to deter every think­ing mind from the practice of it, without alluding to what must as certainly await it in a future state.

Let us then, my dear sister, remember that wholsome medicine may be extracted from the most poisonous plants; and while sympathy drops a tear over the grave of Ela, and silence throws a veil over the memory of Dormer, let us profit by their sad example, and apply the warning voice to our hearts; and we shall feel the strongest conviction, that happiness can never reside with depravity;—nor, however it may suffer for a time, will the bosom that rectitude inha­bits ever want a support. May these truths be indelibly engraven on the mind of my Caroline, is the ardent wish of