To Mrs. Seymour.

I trust my dear Mrs. Seymour is not to learn that the only advantage which wealth can confer on her friend, is the power of bestowing it on others. I never knew till now the value of money; much, indeed, shall I feel myself indebted to Providence, if it can in the smallest degree contribute to your health or enjoyment.

I will not injure your friendship, by supposing that you will refuse this small testimony of mine; but should you feel the slightest hesitation about ac­cepting it, think for a moment what you would suffer, if you saw me in distress which you could alleviate, but which a false and cruel delicacy on my part opposed, and rendered impracticable. Make this appeal to your own ingenuous heart, and I will trust my cause to its decision.

I ever am, with confirmed esteem, and tender affection,

To Lady Granville.

Did I stand in need of proofs of the most ge­nerous and constant attachment, the letter before me would supply incontestible evidence of yours.

With a mind weakened by disease, I dare hard­ly trust to the appeal you require. Something with­in this bosom, whether pride or delicacy I know [Page 16] not, revolts at the idea of receiving a gift of this nature, which it is utterly impossible I can ever re­pay. But from whatever principle these feelings are derived, I shall readily sacrifice them to the certainty of giving you pleasure, and the hope of proving myself worthy of the greatest of all blessings, your esteem and approbation.

These have long constituted the chief enjoy­ment of

To Lady Granville.

My mother has just informed me of the letter you have sent her. O Lady Granville! O my dear second parent! how can I restrain my gratitude, my admiration of your goodness, or rather how can I express it? Your noble generosity quite overpow­ers my heart. This gift to my mother, so surpris­ing, so unexpected—but why do I talk in this man­ner? Is there any thing great or good that is not familiar to Lady Granville? Dearest Madam! I can only thank you with my tears; but do not re­strain them; they are accompanied with a feeling so delightful, that I would rather weep with you than rejoice with all the world. Could envy find a place in the bosom of her whom you honour with your friendship, I should certainly envy you your present feelings. But I can truly say, had I the power, I should know no delight equal to that of obliging you.

Perhaps it may prove that I am not altogether unworthy of your goodness, when I declare, that [Page 17] though yours inspires me with equal pleasure and gratitude, you are the only person in the world from whom I could receive such an obligation, without feeling sensible pain. May I never forfeit your esteem, or forget your goodness; and may you, dear Madam, long live to fulfil the benevolent pur­poses of your heart; where, I trust, you will ever find a place for

To Mr. Beaufort.

As I never can enjoy any satisfaction in which my dear Beaufort does not partake, I hasten to tell you, that the tenderness with which I am treated by the best of parents, makes me almost forget the absence of my friend. Often have we admired to­gether, the great, the awful virtues of a Cato, a Brutus, and a Fabius: but with what superior de­light do I contemplate those of a mild, gentle, do­mestic nature, which are daily displayed at the cas­tle of Hastings! With what reverence do I behold the generosity, with what gratitude feel the affection of Lord and Lady Granville; who, forgetting the authority of parents, condescend to treat me with the confidence and familiarity of friends.

Upon my arrival here, I was introduced by my mother to her most intimate friend, the widow of Colonel Seymour; and her daughter, a beautiful girl about seventeen. The former appears to be sensible, modest, and agreeable, but in a very de­clining state of health. I would attempt a descrip­tion of the latter, but am aware of your raillery. I will confess, however, I never saw so interesting a countenance, or so much beauty joined with such engaging simplicity. For the last quality, she is probably indebted to her retired manner of life, which has been spent here at a sweet romantic farm called Springwood, purchased by Colonel Seymour, on account of its nearness to the castle; he and my father having been intimately acquainted when abroad.

[Page 22] These ladies are just set out on a visit to the Continent, as change of climate is thought essenti­ally necessary for poor Mrs. Seymour.

"With much pleasure should I have accompa­nied them, but my father wishes me to spend one year at Cambridge, in the midst of my friends, be­fore setting out on my travels. Adieu.

To the same.

You rally me, Beaufort, as I foresaw would be the case; you even pronounce me downrightly in love, and affirm, that my wound is already too deep to bear being probed: You tell me that conscious­ness alone could make me fear the raillery of my friend, and that it would have been more natural at twenty-two to have launched out in the praise of a young beauty, than to harangue on the virtues of an old father and mother.

Well; enjoy your fancied penetration: to dis­pute your opinion, I plainly perceive, would be to confirm you in error. Yet spite of your malice, I would attempt a description of this charming girl, were I not conscious that I am utterly incapable of doing justice, either to her mind or person.

Brought up at a distance from the gay world, she blends the modesty of innocence with the ease of politeness; she is a stranger to its customs; but from the readiness of her apprehension, the elegance of her manners, and the warmth of her heart, ap­pears only to be ignorant of its vices and follies.

[Page 23] The delicacy of her form agrees with that of her mind; I fear she possesses too great a share of that sensibility, which, though the source of our most exquisite enjoyments, often too occasions our most lasting inquietudes; by exposing us to danger from every quarter, and rendering us vulnerable on every side. To be serious, Beaufort, I should reckon an attachment to Miss Seymour a very real misfor­tune. She seems perfectly amiable, and qualified to adorn any station; but you are no stranger to the high spirit of my father, and cannot doubt that he would greatly disapprove of his only son entertain­ing a serious passion for the daughter of a private gentleman, with scarce any other patrimony than the liberal education he has bestowed on her.

I am extremely concerned for the situation of poor Talbot; his misfortunes will not be the less severely felt, for being the consequence of his own folly.

Poor fellow! he has many good qualities; but a certain pliancy of disposition, joined to an intem­perate love of pleasure, is his ruin. Could you wean him from the worst of all vices, gaming, I should still have hopes of his reformation; but that I fear is impossible. Take what method you judge most proper of conveying the inclosed to him; do not mention my name; but, if possible, prevent its be­ing lavished on villains and sharpers.

I shall be with you on Tuesday; till then adieu.

To Lord Hastings, at Cambridge.

I am pleased, my dear Henry, by my promise to you, to be under the necessity of indulging myself. You may be assured no employment can be half so agreeable as that by which my son may reap either pleasure or improvement.

It was with peculiar satisfaction I remarked during your last visit, that your studies had not been confined to what was only elegant and entertaining, but that you had made science rather than literature the object of your pursuit.

The possessors of the former are ever modest and reserved; those of the latter are generally proud and loquacious. The sphere of real knowledge is very narrow, but the immensity of space lies open to hypothesis, the favourite business of Literature.

The extent of her domain renders her insolent, and the deference paid to her opinions teaches her to over-rate her powers. The case is quite differ­ent with Science. Not content with the informa­tion of others, she explores truth by the help of her own eyes; but conscious that these are liable to de­ception, and take in only a very limited prospect, she is afraid to pronounce dogmatically on any ques­tion. She never impiously attempts to pass the boundaries which have been assigned her by Hea­ven, and is ever more ready to assume the character of the pupil than the preceptor.

Good taste, my dear Henry, is a powerful co­adjutor to reason in the conduct of life. The per­ception [Page 25] of moral beauty is much akin to that of natural; and a mind capable of receiving vivid im­pressions of the latter, will easily feel the influence of the former. Strive then to cultivate the love of every thing great, sublime, and beautiful, whe­ther in the natural or moral world; you will find this a powerful preservative against those dangers to which your youth, rank, and fortune peculiarly expose you. Unhappily they attack us most pow­erfully at that period, when we have neither strength to resist, nor skill to elude their force; but good taste, uniting with good principles, will enable you to stand your ground, and even baffle all the arts of seduction. Farewel. To preserve you virtuous, in order to render you happy, is the constant aim of your affectionate father.

To the same.

I send my dear Henry the draught he desires, but have doubled the sum, that he may be under no temptation to repress one wish of his generous heart.

Polished, or, in other words, luxurious na­tions, are peculiarly favourable to the growth of self-love; there, individuals feel so many wants, that their attention is chiefly engrossed by private concernments. Hence it arises, that men acquire an extraordinary importance in their own eyes, and center all their views in the single point of selfish gratification.

But though I hope you will ever [...]ind your highest enjoyment in the exercise of benevolence, [Page 26] yet let me warn you, not to be imposed on by those who are improper objects of your bounty. In this case, your intended charity not only deprives the virtuous poor of their claims, but proves an encou­ragement to vice and sloth. It is necessity, not choice, that incites the lower classes of mankind to action; and were the indigent secure of food and clothing from the opulent, there would be a final cessation of industry; and then what dreadful disorders would ensue?

The desire of knowledge at your age is both natural and proper; but take care that your pur­suit be properly directed. Metaphysical refinements and disquisitions, whilst they flatter the pride of man, mislead his judgment, and corrupt his heart; and whilst they deceive him with promises of supe­rior light, steal from him insensibly those hopes and fears, which Omniscience has assigned as the great springs of human conduct; and plunge him at length in darkness and despair. Religion is the only sure basis of morality. Do not even its ene­mies confess this, when they term it a political en­gine? In truth, human society cannot subsist with­out the aid of religion; and the wisest legislators have acknowledged, that it was safer for the popu­lace to have a fabulous creed, than none at all.

Make religion then, my dear Henry, a subject of attentive enquiry; but always remember it is its evidence, not its doctrines, of which you are to constitute reason the judge. Whatever is derived from a Being of infinite wisdom must be supposed to contain many things above human comprehen­sion. The path of duty is plain; be that your chief study.

[Page 27] Your mother had a letter yesterday from Mrs. Seymour, who has borne the journey to Dover pretty well. She and her amiable daughter present their compliments to you. Adieu.

To the same.

I have just been examining with attention, the absurd and monstrous opinions entertained by the heathen world, of the nature and attributes of the Deity, and confess myself shocked beyond expres­sion, at human weakness and error. Where was that reason which philosophers proudly boasted as an infallible guide in their researches after truth, when they adopted notions so repugnant to her dic­tates?

I am persuaded, we who are enlightened by Revelation are very incompetent judges of the ex­tent of unassisted reason; and often attribute to her natural force, what is the effect of supernatural il­lumination. Some trifling critics have condemned the ancient poets for ascribing the victories of their heroes to the interposition of their gods. "What merit," say they, "is there in obtaining a conquest by the assistance of Jove?" Homer has had juster notions of the importance of divine aid, than many who call themselves Christians. He saw that it was absolutely necessary to the performance of any great or good action.

The study of history I would particularly re­commend to my dear Henry. It presents a wide field, in which you may collect a variety of mate­rials, [Page 28] highly useful for the conduct of life. It has likewise the strongest tendency to exalt our ideas of the Divine government, by displaying to us the supreme Disposer of all events, educing good from evil, order from confusion, and rendering the deep­est laid plans of treachery and violence, not only subversive of the ends proposed, but evidently con­ducive to the contrary.

There too, you will discover the superior ex­cellency of Christianity wherever it has had its full effect. Its internal evidence, and natural tendency, is what I would chiefly have you to consider. In truth, my son, however abused by the weakness or wickedness of mankind, the Christian scheme is in­dubitably the only one worthy of its great Author. Adopt its principles, cherish its hopes, rely on its promises; they will give dignity and consistency to your character. Frequently contrast that of a man who joins piety to God with benevolence to men, and maintains his integrity through life, with that of the boasting infidel so strikingly described in these words:

To apologize to you for being serious, would be to affront your judgment, and injure that esteem and confidence, with which I am your sincere friend, as well as your affectionate father.

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

How little, my charming Adelaide, do they know of the tender tie which binds our very souls in one, who dread absence as injurious to the ardour and delicacy of real love! Ours has been but short, yet it has proved, that the right I derive from affec­tion to the undivided heart of the most amiable of [Page 37] women, is still stronger than I could have believed. It has convinced me more than ever, that I love you—O Adelaide! that I love you with a fondness, an admiration, an unremitting constancy, which no words can express. Surely, nothing should disturb me, whilst I read assurances of your happiness, and the most enchanting expressions of your affection; yet, oh, my Adelaide! my heart is a prey to num­berless anxieties. The distance that divides us, my dangerous situation, our circumstances—yet let me not cruelly add my inquietudes to those of my gen­tle love. Hope is the sweetest as well as the most salutary ingredient in the cup of life. Let us che­rish hope.

Let us trust, that the benificent Author of our being, who hath conducted us to each other, and blended our fates in that delightful union in which our chief happiness consists, will continue our pre­sent felicity, till that period arrive, when age shall ripen both of us for an unreluctant passage into that world, where love, secure against all apprehension, is indulged without measure and without fear.

The time I employ in reading your letters seems the only valuable portions of my existence. Write to me then, my beloved Adelaide, every little plan you form, and every incident that occurs in the execution of it. Think nothing that regards you too trivial for me. It will gratify me in a thousand ways; particularly by assisting that constant propensity of my imagination to accompany you in every situation. The heavenly bodies are now the only objects which we can behold at the same time; they are vehicles of a kind of silent intercourse between those who sigh at a distance from each other. Look up, and [Page 38] remember me at the hour of nine, the last we spent together. I will not fail, at the same hour, to think of my Adelaide, and fervently commend her to the protection of Heaven.

We have often agreed, that to us there are pleasures even in absence, more exquisite, more re­fined than any of those which bear that name in the world. What then, O Adelaide! will be our feli­city when we meet?—When, every anxious care and apprehension banished from our hearts, they shall glow with the constant aim, the delightful consciousness of rendering each other completely happy?

If these expectations are romantic and extra­vagant, time alone can correct them; for reason assures me, that there is no wish my heart can form, which the merit and tenderness of the most excel­lent of women is not capable of fulfilling.

Farewel! Let us support each other with re­flecting, that every hour is lessening the period that divides us, whilst it is adding strength to that de­lightful tenderness which shall bind us to each other for ever.

To the same.

At length, most beloved of women! your fond lover, your faithful friend tastes of real transport, by being able to communicate it to you.—A few mo­ments are all I can at present command, to express to you an affection which occupies my whole soul, and shall be as lasting as my life. On occasion yes­terday [Page 39] of a sally from the fort, I obtained permission to head a small party. We were successful beyond my hopes: The Mareshal applauded my conduct, in terms better suited to his generosity than my merit; and promised to advance me to the rank of major on the very first vacancy.

See, my best love! does not fortune already relent, and cease to oppose our wishes? Or rather, does not Heaven itself smile on an affection, which at once it inspires and approves? Cherish those hopes which now wholly possess my delighted bo­som; beguile the tedious lingering hours of absence, by constantly writing to me: Your letters animate me with the love of virtue, as well as of fame.—What would the latter avail towards that felicity to which we aspire, if not deserved by the former?

Adieu, dear sharer of all my joys; soon may they be redoubled by participation; soon may my eyes and my throbbing heart tell you, how tenderly, how constantly, you are beloved! Your own will best convince you, how unspeakably dear you are to

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

Unable to witness the affliction of the beauteous Adelaide, which can only be equalled by my own, I take this method of conveying to her the last adieu of the noblest, best of men.

O! may Heaven support you here, and unite you hereafter to him you loved! Of all the world, ye were alone worthy of each other.

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

A few moments are granted me by Heaven, to take a long, a last farewel. Oh, Adelaide! Oh, my adored mistress!—my fondly expected wife!—where are now our dreams of happiness? They are fled for ever; and have left me equally unable to tear myself from this world, or to prepare for another. Even whilst I write, my vital current stops; a wound in my side has almost drained its sources. The hope of soon returning to you, in­spired me with a courage too ardent and impetu­ous. Forgive me, Adelaide! I have ruined your peace by my rashness.

Strive to moderate your sorrow; the thought of it distracts me. Make now a voluntary sacrifice of yourself to Heaven, to which the zeal of your friends was impelling you. I trust it will be accep­ted.—The pen drops from my trembling hand.—Yet a few years, Adelaide, and we shall meet, ne­ver to fear separation more! Let this console you.—My soul! my Adelaide, farewel! Oh, farewel for ever! Love, pity, and forgive me; but never, O never forget

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

I am divided from you, my beloved friend, at the very instant when I most required your pious instructions and tender sympathy. My mother's complaints daily increase, and fear and suspense [Page 49] are now added to the affliction with which your misfortunes almost overwhelmed me. Oh? why am I not permitted to dwell with you at a distance from the world, or armed with more courage to encounter its dangers? Without parents—without fortune—almost without friends,—what, my Ade­laide, will become of me?—Strive to inspire me with a portion of your heavenly resignation, to arm me with the fortitude necessary for my present try­ing situation; and Oh! if possible, teach me to check those evil forebodings of a disturbed imagina­tion, which are a thousand times more insupportable than real calamity.

Write to me constantly, my beloved friend; the tenderness of your sympathy will at least allevi­ate my sorrow, if the influence of your example does not entirely regulate my conduct. Adieu.

To Miss Seymour.

My heart shares tenderly in the distress of my friend; but alas! I am neither qualified by years nor experience to be her conductress through the difficult mazes of life. I am not yet arrived at that blissful tranquillity on which you congratulate me. Officious memory still awakens such dear, yet dan­gerous recollections, as convey to my soul all the bitterness of disappointed hope. Oh, Louisa! there is a charm in loving and being beloved, in feeling one's self the continual source of joy and happiness to the object of one's best and most tender affections, that takes such hold of the imagination, as none of the sub­sequent evils of life have power to obliterate. Experi­ence [Page 50] has taught me too, that the heart will continue to sigh, even after the soul is resigned. Ah, my friend! what arrow pierces so deep, what wound bleeds so often, what anguish lasts so long, as that occasioned by the death of those we love? With what a tender mixture of pleasure and regret do we dwell on their virtues; with what eagerness listen to their praise; whilst fame does justice to their me­rit, and envy is silent, for there is no competition in the grave? Grammont! tears are the only tribute I can pay to thy merit; tears, due to youth, virtue, and bravery! Common laurels wither and decay, but that which is supplied and watered by such a stream shall never fade; it towers above the skies, and flourishes to immortality.

Do not, my Louisa, covet a life of seclusion from the world; we ought ever to be contented with the station allotted us by Providence. In re­tirement, we possess at best a kind of negative virtue: There our affections languish for want of proper objects to excite them; and our goodness consists rather in the absence of evil, than in any positive habits of rectitude or exertions of benevolence. It is in society alone that the genuine character can be as­certained. There, our virtue is tried; and if it stands the test, from that trial results our highest intellectual enjoyment,—the pleasing consciousness of superior worth, and the lasting meed of self-approbation.

Philosophy, my dear Louisa, may enable us to talk of fortitude, but religion empowers us to exer­cise it. Think often, my afflicted friend, on that glo­rious period, when freed from the mist of error, the perplexity of doubt, and the sophistry of passion, we shall contemplate with astonishment, and acquiesce [Page 51] with rapture, in the unerring decrees of eter­nal Providence.

Adieu, dear and amiable friend. You have the prayers, the best wishes, and most lasting affec­tion, of your

To Miss Seymour.

How many are the sources of elegant delight which memory opens to a mind fraught with sen­sibility! Who would forego the tenderness of me­lancholy for the tumults of pleasure, or the melt­ings of sympathy for the noise of applause?

Deprived of your dear society, Louisa, I have recourse to the past. I wander through those so­lemn scenes which witnessed the reciprocations of our mutual confidence and friendship. I strive to recollect not only your-words, but your looks and placid smiles. I listen to the soothing language of heavenly hope and pious resignation; I still hear you breathe the sigh of sympathetic tenderness; I still see your mild eyes bedimmed with the tear of sincere compassion. Ah, Louisa! it is still due to the secret sorrows of your friend! Nor is the pre­sent forgotten in the recollection of the past. I fol­low you in imagination through every stage of your painful journey. I strive to support and assist you in the melancholy duties of soothing and comforting a dying parent.

O! may the Father of the afflicted himself vouchsafe to strengthen you for every duty, and support you under every trial!

Let me entreat my Louisa to strive against me­lancholy; it will un [...]it you for the offices of social life. The cause of your present depression is an [Page 57] amiable one, and for this reason you ought to be on your guard with respect to its effects. We are apt to contemn ourselves when any personal affliction depresses our spirits; but when we languish by a sympathetic pang, a ray of self-approbation beams through the soul; we are flattered by our own sen­sibility, and cherish the sadly pleasing sensations, till they acquire a dangerous strength.

Let us reflect, my love! that the beneficent Parent of the universe can, in no sense, be the au­thor of evil; that the more wisdom which is dis­played in his moral government, the less can we possibly comprehend it; and what we, from igno­rance or blindness, perhaps too from perverseness, denominate evil, must certainly be good in his sight, who shall cause all the seeming disorders of the pre­sent scene to issue in the final perfection and felici­ty of his intelligent creation.

As one earthly prop is withdrawn, the heart of man fondly clings to another, till insensibly they drop one by one, and he is left desolate and solitary to encounter the storms of life. What were then the anguish of his soul, could he rest on no firmer stay than a mortal like himself,—could he look to­wards no more stable inheritance than this land of shadows, which even to his corporeal sight is fast passing away? Yes, my Louisa, though the streams of happiness flow here in narrow channels, are in­terrupted by accident, and embittered by misfor­tune, to the pious it is matter of everlasting conso­lation, that the great Fountain of existence and felicity is immutable, inexhaustible, and eternal. Farewel!

To Miss Seymour.

The stillness and quiet of my present situation grows every day more agreeable. Methinks, Lou­isa, at the age of twenty-two, I feel a strong convic­tion, that all is vanity, as Solomon did after a long [Page 61] life, in which all the wishes of his heart and pow­ers of his imagination were exhausted, in pursuit of a felicity, which, alas! these shadows of real good could never yield.

Affliction, I trust, has taught me true wisdom. It has brought upon me a sort of premature old age, which serves instead of experience. Though neither satiated with the pleasures of the world, nor disgusted by its disappointments, I shall rise satisfied from life's feast, and leave the banquet to those for whom it has the charm of novelty, and whose igno­rance of its dangers makes them behold it with desire.

With what calm indifference, Louisa! do I mark the silent lapse of time, and behold its several periods come to a close! Why should we indulge immoderate sorrow for the loss of those who are gone before us, when every day, every hour, every moment, is accelerating the blissful period of our re­union?

Books are now my chief amusement: Some of these represent life as bright and cheerful; others teach me to despise its storms, or inform me that they are salutary; whilst experience adds, that they are transient too. Methinks this consideration ought to silence both our peevish discontents and fantastic wishes.

Sometimes I direct my solitary walks to the si­lent mansions of the dead; and, forgetful of the world, and all its vexing inquietudes, seem to share for a while their blissful repose. But I advance a [Page 62] step farther, my Louisa, and find, even among the dominions of death, proofs of the soul's immortality.

Here is evinced, the amazing truth, that it is the same matter, variously modified, which consti­tutes both the earth and its inhabitants. Animals derive their subsistence from plants, which are nou­rished by the common mould; at the appointed season all these return to this their first principle. But since, in the visible creation, there exists no­thing analogous to mind, let us not imagine that the soul can ever be reduced to a state like that of beings which are altogether different from it.—Themes like these, my Louisa, cannot fail to be in harmony with your present feelings, since your last letters assure me that your dear deserving parent is past all hope of recovery. Let reflections like these support your soul in view of that afflicting event which either awaits you, or is already arrived. Oh, my Louisa! how much need have I to dwell on them myself! This day completes my twenty-se­cond year, the most eventful of my life. How lit­tle did I dream, at its commencement, that the fa­bric my fond hopes had reared was so soon to tum­ble into ruins! That he, for whose sake alone I welcomed its arrival, and wished its continuance, should, ere its close, be torn from my bosom, and hidden for ever from my eyes! But though these bodily organs no more behold thee, best and dear­est of men! thou art ever present to my mind's eye, in thy exalted virtues, thy spotless manners, and thy fair fame: These shall justify the tears with which I embalm thy memory, and convert my sorrows into virtue.

[Page 63] Write constantly to me, my amiable, afflicted friend! You know how tenderly I partake in your sorrows. Believe me, Louisa, to soften one pang of yours, even at the expence of sharing it, will be preferable, in my estimation, to all that the world calls pleasure.

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

Your letter has reached me, my friend, and conveyed to my soul the only consolation of which at present it is capable. Yesterday, all my cares for the best of women ended;—she is happy:—Shall I not then be resigned?—I trust I am so. Yet, oh, my Adelaide! it is difficult, it is impossible, to restrain the tears of nature, when the long endear­ed sacred tie of kindred and of friendship is rudely broken by death! Till that cruel moment, when the grave closes over those we love, we cannot suf­ficiently admire the excellence of that religion which teaches us to look beyond it. Ah, my friend, do they act agreeably to their own principles, who contend for the dignity of human nature, and yet believe that the soul of man—advancing daily in virtue and knowledge—aspiring after perfection—longing for immortality—cut off in the midst of its pursuits and wishes,—shall share the same fate with the meanest reptile that crawls on the face of the earth?

Alas! how dismal, how hopeless, must be the sorrow of such gloomy, such benighted minds!

Books, you say, supply your favourite amuse­ment. Our opinion, both of books and characters, [Page 64] is influenced by the tone of our mind at the time we become acquainted with them. Perhaps it is owing to this circumstance that I have perused the following fable with peculiar satisfaction this morn­ing; and in the hope of its producing the same effect on you, I shall here transcribe it.

In ancient times, says the fabulist, when the Creator of the world placed our first parents in Pa­radise, to p [...]vent them from growing weary of each other, he appointed Happiness, the fairest of his offspring, to reside with them.

For some time her charms were beheld with admiration, and her merit treated with respect. But beauty, by growing familiar, ceased to excite plea­sure; and merit, from want of novelty, soon in­curred neglect. The favourite, even of celestial beings, Happiness, could ill brook so unkind a re­ception from mortals; and one day, on occasion of a quarrel between her associates, in which they both betrayed marks of altered dispositions, she was so disgusted, that she hastily bade them adieu; and ascending to her former abode, entreated the great Ruler of the Universe that she might never more be sent to dwell with those who knew so ill to va­lue her society.

The moment she was gone, her companions became sensible of their error. They deplored her absence, and conjured her to return, in terms of the most earnest supplication. But Happiness was inexorable; and the utmost they could obtain from her, was a promise, that, provided they were never again heard to quarrel, she would depute her young­er [Page 65] sister, Contentment, to reside with them, and even occasionally visit them herself.

How far our primogenitors complied with these terms, we are still ignorant; but it would appear that Happiness, like other injured females, not only continued to resent former ill-usage, but even entertained constant suspicions of future mal­treatment. For it is universally known, that when­ever she deigns to visit these lower regions, she ne­ver stays longer than, just like those mortals who pretend to emulate her perfections, to receive the homage of her admirers, to make a display of her charms, and by bestowing some slight favours on each, to heighten the desires and secure the admira­tion of all her votaries.

To Mr. Beaufort, Cambridge.

Beaufort, I am most unhappy.—Your suspicions are justified:—I love;—but spare your friend, and let the acknowledgment of my weakness obtain for me your pity, as well as indulgence. Believe me, the knowledge of this secret is new to myself.—My thoughts are all confusion, else would I de­scribe [Page 69] to you the scene of this evening; till death shall expunge every trace from my memory, even that which it shall lose the latest—the image of Louisa, I will never, never forget it.

At eight this morning, I witnessed the interment of poor Mrs. Seymour; but, though my desire to see her charming daughter was inexpressibly great, I could not intrude on her at a moment so solemn. In the evening, my mother being indisposed, she desired me to go and attend Miss Seymour to the Castle

On arriving at Springwood, and enquiring for her young lady, the maid told me, that she believed she was walking in the garden. I followed; but not seeing her in any of the walks, I pursued that which leads to the park; in a retired part of which stands the family burial-place, surrounded with high trees and a wall, which concealed her from sight.

The evening was delightfully still; I stopt and listened to the sound of a distant cascade, which alone interrupted the awful silence. Having looked in vain for Miss Seymour, I was just about to return, when I observed the door of the burial-place open. My heart throbbed with strange emotions: I ap­proached without noise, and beheld—O Beaufort! an object that almost deprived me of my senses. It was Louisa herself, clothed in her mourning habit, and kneeling at the foot of her mother's grave. At her side lay the picture of her revered parent: Her hands were folded over her bosom, in an attitude of devotion, and her mild eyes, streaming with tears, were [...]ixed on Heaven—Beaufort! think what I felt at that moment! The lovely saint was [Page 70] startled by the suddenness of my appearance, and occasioned me dreadful alarms, by fainting at a distance from all help. She is now, thank Heaven, in he [...]lth and safety, in the next apartment with my mother, to whose care she was entrusted by her own, on her death-bed.

Oh, Beaufort! what will become of your friend? I recal to mind my father's [...]onversation—his views—my attentions to Lady Charlotte—per­haps her partiality!—Oh! can I offend against honour, duty, gratitude! Yet what do I say? I have never deceived Lady Charlotte; my father only wishes to direct, not constrain my choice. But I bewilder myself in a variety of reflections, and dare not trust to the decisions of my own mind in its present distracted state. Write to me, Beaufort, without a moment's delay. Calm the agonies of my mind—a [...]ure me I have not acted dishonoura­bly—and oh! say, if you can, that I may yet hope for Louisa's love;—without that hope I am miser­able! Farewel.

To Miss Seymour.

Though the heart of my dearest gentle friend shared tenderly in all my sorrows, yet perfectly to sympathise with the afflicted, we must ourselves have experienced affliction. Now my Louisa will know what it is to shed the tear of hopeless unut­terable grief over the grave of her best friend. Thank God! many yet remain to you; may Hea­ven [Page 75] increase their number! But let not the merits of any, however deserving, blot from your memory the image of your fond and faithful Adelaide.

I know your sorrow, my dearest Louisa, must be extreme; but allow me at least to endeavour to console you. Suffer me to remind you, that the traveller who has a long journey to accomplish, must not allow himself to be too much engrossed by any ob­ject, however pleasing, that he may meet with on his way. Friends, fortune, health, are blessings which a bountiful Providence supplies, to beguile the length of this weary pilgrimage, not to betray us in a forgetfulness of that better country to which we are hastening.

We are ever selfish in our sorrows: Were it not so, would we repine when the truly good are taken from a world unhealthful to their virtues? especially when in advanced life, and approaching to a second childhood.

If it requires our utmost fortitude to behold this beauteous fabric dissolving into dust, ought we not to rejoice, when we are spared the humbling spectacle of the soul also, as it were, in ruins?

'Tis true, amidst the decays of her uncomfort­able mansion, we know that the heavenly inhabit­ant remains unhurt; but as her powers all lie dor­mant, when proper agents are wanting to execute her will, she appears to us to partake in the ruin of her earthly habitation.

My health is very infirm, but my spirits calm, and my soul resigned. From this quiet harbour, [Page 76] Louisa, I look back with pity on those who still toil on the ocean of life, and felicitate myself, that my little bark will be so soon ashore. In the soothing recollection of past happiness, and the hope that it will ere long be restored, I acquire a peace which resembles the repose of the blessed.—Yes, my Lou­isa! the prayer of the amiable and compassionate Rochelle is granted.—Yes, though I can never expect happiness, I have at least attained re­signation.

To the same.

I have always considered it as a greater proof of heroism, to submit to live for a friend, than to die for one.—A few hours after dispatching my last letter, I was relieved from an illness that threaten­ed my life; and the first sentiment of which I was conscious after my recovery, was gratitude, not on my own account, but your's. Yes, my gentle friend, I know that at present my death would have greatly added to your affliction, and therefore I am thankful that life is lent me a little longer.

The quiet of a cloister, my Louisa, where there are few objects to engage attention, forces the mind to seek employment at home. In the words of your admired English Poet, I strive to find

There is something peculiarly delightful to the mind in tracing such analogies between the natural and moral world, as tend to throw light on many important subjects, and to confirm our saith in the sublime doctrines of our holy religion.

[Page 77] The origin and progressive stages of the butter­fly's existence are beautifully illustrative of the na­ture, changes, and future destination of man. The butterfly is produced from a caterpillar, which devours garden plants, and which, having moved for a season in its lowly, narrow sphere, falls into a state of torpid insensibility. Thus it continues during the gloom of winter; but when the gladsome beam of spring appears, it is re-animated,—bursts its confinement, soars aloft, acquires new beauty, power, and vigour. Its scene of action, its relishes, its exercises are changed; the substance is retained, but the modification is totally altered:—It is at once another and the same.—Have recourse then, ye infidels, to the demonstrations of annual experi­ence, and then say,—Why should it be thought incredible that God should raise the dead?

Themes like these, my Louisa, cannot be sup­posed frequently to employ your thoughts, in the midst of company and amusements. Let me from the quiet of a cloister, sometimes obtrude them upon you. Though my Louisa cannot expect amuse­ment from the walls of a convent, yet that situation, as it inspires the most solemn reflections, will plead my excuse, if mine should at any time seem offici­ous and impertinent.

Deprived of your beloved society, I naturally seek for that of the gentle Constance. Though her conversation cannot console me for the loss of your's, her a [...]ble dispositions bring you continually to my remembrance. In her good sense and sweet­ness of temper do more than compensate for the ab­sence of those shining talents,—which dazzle, but [Page 78] do not warm,—which awaken envy, but rarely conciliate affection.

Adieu, my dearest friend! May the cup of prosperity long be your's, unimbittered by any mix­ture of peculiar affliction;—may those that are necessary prove healthful;—and may its flavour be heightened, and its relish endeared, by the cordial friendship of your

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

Your tender solicitude to spare my anxiety, and reconcile me to my loss, merits my unfeigned acknowledgment. Oh, Adelaide! I have indeed wept over the grave of my best friend; but I have not, like you, buried there my hopes, wishes, and inquietudes. My bosom is not formed for the rest­less passions and pursuits of the world; it relishes peace even more than pleasure. In a few days we set out for Bath; and I confess to you, the prospect of mixing with the gay world, loads me with a de­jection I cannot shake off. But, like the bee, I must strive to improve my little hour of life, and to ex­tract honey from weeds as well as flowers.

Happily, my Adelaide, the eyes of imagination are not fettered by the laws that limit the corporeal [Page 81] sense. Though many hundred miles now divide us, still I behold the friend of my heart, still do I par­take with you the delightful solitude of St. Cire. I tread in fancy the same path we have often trod to­gether; the same trees which have witnessed our mutual expressions of friendship, seem to shade me; and I still stop to listen to the same profound silence, which used to inspire us with a pleasing dread, whilst wandering through the cloisters by the pale lamp of evening. I look back with regret on those hours, Adelaide, which shall never, never return!—Hours, which we often suffered to elapse in vain regrets for their short duration.—Such is the weakness, the inconsistency of human nature!—You would be equally unjust to your own merit and my friend­ship, did you believe that I could ever suffer your image to be banished from my heart. No, Ade­laide; others may engage my attention, or engross my time, but you will ever possess the confirmed esteem, and tender affection of

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

Our correspondence, my dear Lady Charlotte, is about to commence in a manner I little thought of. I will make no apology for engaging you in an act of humanity, because I am persuaded I cannot give you a higher proof of my esteem, than solicit­ing a favour; or confer a greater obligation on you, than by putting it in your power to do good.

The affair in which I am requesting your as­sistance, has given me inexpressible affliction. Per­haps you may remember to have seen at the Castle a beautiful young girl, named Sally Vernon, who [Page 85] staid there some days at Lady Granville's desire, waiting my mother's return from France. She was the only child of a favourite servant, who dying, bequeathed her to my mother's care. Sally waited on me, till the loss of my father's fortune obliged us to dismiss all our supernumerary domestics. My worthy parent, unwilling to expose this innocent girl to the dangers of the world, placed her with a chamber milliner at Cambridge. There she has continued for several years past, and behaved in a manner which gained her the affection of the whole family.

Some time ago, a young gentleman, of the name of Talbot, called to look at some ruffles: He saw the unfortunate Sally, wrote several letters to her, pretending he was the son of a wealthy farmer in the next county; and by various arts, prevailed on the unsuspecting girl to correspond with him, and listen to his addresses.

I cannot pretend to give you all the particulars of this shocking affair; I had them from her own lips, and spared her the painful relation. Suffice it to say, that in return for the most tender and confiding affection, he has betrayed her to ruin, and loaded her with shame.

Oh, my dear Lady Charlotte! how my heart swells with indignation against the perpetrator of this most cruel, this premeditated villany!—What will become of this wretched orphan I know not. He set off a few days ago for France, without say­ing farewel, or leaving one guinea for her support, notwithstanding her present deplorable situation.— [Page 86] How mean, how despicable does vice render the human character!

She asked to see me alone yesterday; and af­ter throwing herself at my feet, and ingenuously ac­knowledging her fault, which indeed would admit of many palliations, she conjured me, by the memo­ry of my revered parent, to save her from infamy and want. Her words were few, but the eloquence of her distress was irresistible. I dismissed her with a promise of soon finding an asylum proper for her, and desired her to say to the milliner, that having heard of something greatly to her advantage, I was about to remove her from Cambridge.

It immediately occurred to me, that your good old nurse whom we visited together, would be a proper person for such a charge, especially as she has no family, and her cottage stands remote from any other.—If Sally's ill-fated infant sees the light, I can easily find a nurse for it in this neighbour­hood.—Let me know if this plan meets with your approbation.

Whatever line Society is obliged to draw be­tween the strict [...] virtuous of our sex and such as err, O let not us, my dear Lady Charlotte! by too rigid a regard to its laws, debar unhappy wander­ers from again returning to the peaceful path from which they have unfortunately strayed.

"Your letter, which I shall impatiently expect, must be addressed to me at Bath.

To Miss Seymour.

I am shocked beyond expression, my dear Miss Seymour, at your account of the credulous and un­fortunate Sally. Poor girl! we must at least try to preserve her from public shame, if we cannot save her from self-reproach. Your plan meets my high­est approbation, and shall have every assistance in my power. I shall willingly take her home hereaf­ter to wait on myself.

Ah, Louisa! should the gallows be erected for the thief and robber, whom necessity, perhaps, has impelled to deprive the rich of what they can easily spare, and ought voluntarily to bestow;—and shall no punishment be inflicted on him, who steals the affection of the gentle unsuspecting heart, robs it of its innocence, and ruins its peace?—Yes, my friend! for such, punishment is prepared—a tribu­nal erected,—Conscience is the accuser, and God himself the judge:—From his power and justice there is no escaping,—from his righteous sentence, there lies no appeal!

Whence comes it, my friend, that men, who pride themselves on their integrity in their transac­tions with each other, should nevertheless hold them­selves excusable for practising perpetual impositions on the whole race of females?—There must cer­tainly be some physical cause of this, for in morals there is none.—I would apply to philosophers for a solution of this enigma—but, alas! are not philo­sophers men? and will not they then impose some fallacy upon us?—Indubitably they will. Upon a little reflection, however, I cease to wonder at it: [Page 88] "That power confers right," is a favourite maxim with that tender-conscienced sex; and from hence they derive their title, to enslave one part of their species, and cheat the other.

"I cannot express my admiration of your noble sentiments, and generous conduct, so superior to vulgar prejudice, and to the weakness of our sex in particular. May your humanity be its own reward, and your examplary goodness lead others to emu­late your conduct.—Adieu!—try to shake off a lit­tle of your monastic gravity; it is unnatural at your early age. I shall dispense with your tasting the waters at Bath; but I insist on your taking a Le­thean draught of its pleasures, that, like those who frequent it, you may forget, or seem to forget, all your cares! Impress your memory, however, at all times, with the assurance that I love you; and ne­ver forget

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

In what terms shall I thank my dear Lady Charlotte, for her ready concurrence with my plan for poor Sally! I have written, to acquaint her with your intended goodness, of taking her hereaf­ter into your own service: I dare answer for her gratitude, and will trust to you for having her con­veyed privately to—as soon as possible.

I fear my conduct in this affair has not been so disinterested as you suppose: Your approbation [Page 89] I have looked to as part of my reward; and, per­haps, even the indulgence of benevolence has self­gratification in view.—Were we at due pains, my dear friend, to examine the motives of our actions, we would often have cause to blush for those, on account of which we proudly arrogate to ourselves the praise due to superior merit.

Though I wish to obey you in all things, I shall find it impossible to forget my cares in the midst of a scene so full of them. Here, care takes possession of all ranks and denominations: The young care for amusement, and the old for money—the gay care for dress, and the serious for cards—the handsome care for admirers, and the ugly for want of them—the coquetts care for coxcombs, and the coxcombs for coquetts—the women care for every thing, and the men for nothing—but them­selves. For my part, instead of casting away care, I have got a huge addition to my former stock—the care of pleasing you; which I am so anxious to do, that, knowing affection to be of an assimila­ting nature, I am striving to imitate you; and, in hope of making you what you have never appeared to be—fond of yourself—am encroaching on your province, and affecting your style. Do not be afraid, however, that I shall rival you in it: I am so awk­ward an impostor, that every child might detect the cheat.

The only thing of which every person here seems careless, is that health, which they profess to make the sole object of their care.—One, I shall ever anxiously preserve—that of endeavouring to merit your friendship, and to justify to the world your kind partiality for me. Perhaps, in this in­stance [Page 90] alone, your judgment could ever be called in question: Be it my constant care to vindicate it. Adieu.

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

I now address my beloved friend, from the very centre of fashion and folly. Is this then the world, so much desired, so eagerly pursued, at the expence of health, peace—nay, even virtue itself?—Ah, my Adelaide! it has no charms for me; it never will have.

I am alarmed and disconcerted at every step: I am disgusted with the extravagant levity of the women, and the fulsome adulation of the men; who, in praising others, seem to be wholly engrossed by the care of displaying their own talents, and plac­ing their superficial accomplishments in the most advantageous light.—That indiscriminating polite­ness, which the courtesy of the world dignifies with the title of good-breeding, appears to me to be nothing better than a refined species of hypocrisy. I shrink from the view of those harsh and unamiable quali­ties, which the generality of our species are neither at pains to correct nor conceal; and seek in vain for the beloved circle of friends, with whom I am accustomed to converse with freedom and delight, in the quiet of the country. My heart is ever ready to speak, but there are none to hear or an­swer it: All here seem to have but one care, one object, one idol—and that is self—to whom they pay unceasing homage.

How thankful to Providence ought we to be, my Adelaide, who hath preserved our hearts from [Page 91] being corrupted by the world!—who hath endowed them with feelings too exalted, too refined, to be comprehended by those who are enslaved by fashion, and whose taste is depraved by vice and luxury!—How thankful, that the view of the sublime, the useful, and the beautiful, both in the natural and moral world, excites in our souls the most pure pleasure, the most devout gratitude, the most lively adoration and praise!—These are emotions at once exquisite and ennobling! Emotions which, alas! are but little known to the bulk of our species!—Pleasures which escape the regards even of those who profess no other pursuit but pleasure! Reserv­ed by God himself for those who love him—by rightly loving themselves; who fear him—by fear­ing to commit what is offensive to him; and who obey him—by following the best instincts of nature, the clearest deductions of reason; all which coin­cide with our only unerring guide, the divine light of revelation.

Your friendship for me, Adelaide, gives me a jealousy of myself, to which I was formerly a strang­er. She who hopes to maintain a place in that heart, where such noble candour, generosity, and friendship inhabit, ought to possess no vulgar share of these virtues. I fear to be unjust to a friendship like your's, by admitting another candidate for mine; yet, after all, my Adelaide, I feet, that though I may esteem and admire others for various good qualities, you, and you alone, are the friend of my heart.

About a week before we set out for Bath, the Marquis of Winchester, who has a fine seat in this neighbourhood, came with his daughter, to spend [Page 92] some days with Lord and Lady Granville.—I have never seen more dignity and grace united, than in Lady Charlotte Villiers: She is extremely hand­some, and possesses a ready wit, which, as it is never displayed either to attract admiration, or give unne­cessary pain, has the effect of rendering her con­versation in the highest degree entertaining. She distinguishes me by her notice; and, when we parted, solicited my friendship and correspondence, in a manner truly pleasing, and which did me much honour. But shall I confess to my Adelaide, I feel more admiration than complacency for Lady Char­lotte? I cannot shake off the restraint which differ­ence of rank imposes; and, through the nobleness of her sentiments, I can yet perceive that she values herself on the superiority of her birth. Besides, though highly accomplished, and extremely agree­able, Lady Charlotte wants that irresistible charm which sensibility adds to the female character. She sometimes amuses herself with laughing at the guilt­less weaknesses of her species, but never exposes them to public view. She despises popularity, and testifies her friendship, by placing your foibles in a light at once so striking and ridiculous, that, being neither able to excuse nor deny, you have no way left but to abjure them.

"I often draw a comparison between my beloved friend, and this admired beauty: Her perfections, like the meridian sun, dazzle and fatigue the sight—Your's, my Adelaide, resemble the soft mild lus­tre of the queen of Heaven, whose charming aspect we used to contemplate together, with such ineffable delight, in the gardens of St. Cire.—Oh! with what pleasing melancholy, what tender regret, do I re­call the hours spent there!—Is there not, my be­loved [Page 93] friend, something inexplicable in these sad­ly soothing frames of mind, when it pleases us to be pained, and when sorrow is mingled with satis­faction?

To Miss Seymour.

There is a tender pleasure, my Louisa, in re­flecting, that, perhaps at the same instant, though divided by many hundred miles, the same glowing affection is animating our hearts, the same pleasing task employing our hands.

Believe me, it is with real satisfaction I hear of your forming new intimacies: Do not be afraid, my amiable, my ingenuous friend, to admit Lady Charlotte to a share of your affection: I am confi­dent I shall not be a loser on that account. You cannot be unjust; and the unequalled fondness I bear you, is my security for the strength and con­stancy of your attachment.—Long accustomed to the study of those valuable characters who compose our favourite circle, and who are all the world to us, we come at length to believe, that within this circle is comprised all that is valuable in the world. Friendship annihilates their foibles and magnifies their virtues: Others lose greatly by comparison; and hence the social and benevolent affections come at length to be confined to a sphere far too narrow and limited for their healthful exercise. Intimacy with a viriety of characters gives the mind more enlarged ideas, and a more liberal turn; and by dis­covering various great and good qualities in indi­viduals, we are induced to give credit to our species for many more which we want opportunity to de­velop.

[Page 96] Let me warn my beloved friend against cherish­ing that false delicacy and excessive refinement which would wholly unfit her for commerce with the world, and that station which Providence hath assigned her there. Philanthropy, in some measure, conforms the human to the divine nature: Though there are harsh features in some characters, there are good qualities in all; and though the vices of individuals excite a virtuous indignation for our species, as a collective body, let us ever cherish the sweet glow of benevolence.

Though sensibility adds grace to virtue, if it becomes so exquisite as to occasion more pain and disgust than pleasure to its possessor, it can no longer be regarded as a blessing. Approbation is a pleasant sentiment; but it is a real misfortune to have ac­quired that degree of refinement, which gives us a disrelish for the ordinary pursuits and satisfactions of life.—When we enter the great theatre of the world, we find two representations of human life: One, the work of imagination, a young giddy enthusiast,—the other, that of experience, a sober skilful artist. The first presents you only with exaggerated features, deceitful proportions, and random strokes, which confound and mislead the judgment. In the work of the other, light and shade are judiciously blended; and through the whole you may trace beauty, symmetry, and design: Every feature is mellowed by time; and if you are not dazzled with its lustre, neither will you be disgusted with its faults.

To view this picture in the fairest l [...]ht; in other words, to make the best of every thing, is the great art of life.

To Miss Seymour.

Professions of esteem and affection, are among those truths which we find so agreeable to the inter­ests of self-love, that we seldom incline to question their sincerity. Your's I receive with implicit faith, and hold them as sacred as my creed, in spite of surly conscience, who cavils at the foundation on which they are built.—I wish, Louisa, you would get rid of that antiquated, useless virtue, modesty, which every body admires, and nobody rewards. How often shall I assure you, that your letters give me pleasure;—that I peruse them with eagerness;—that I sigh when I come to their close? Oh! I an­ticipate your malicious inference; but I assure you, it is the shortness, not length, of your letters which occasions my sighing. Perhaps, I ought rather to applaud, than blame your generous caution; you know sweet morsels are apt to pall, and tremble lest you should give me a surfeit.

With that dissidence which always accompa­nies genuine merit, you disclaim the praise due to your late conduct to poor Sally, and alledge that your generosity proceeded from a desire to indulge yourself. You wrong yourself, my Louisa; plea­sure has been the reward, whilst virtue was the source of your conduct.

I know there are some who arrogate to them­selves the title of Philosophers, but who in fact are no lovers of wisdom, but mere lovers of paradox, that derive all our actions from the selfish principle. Let us detect the fallacy. No man could rightly [Page 98] estimate the pleasure of goodness, till he had himself been good. From what motive then arose the first benevolent action?

Again, you affirm, that your charity was not disinterested, because you hoped by it to obtain my approbation. Our actions, my dear Miss Seymour, are seldom the result of a single principle, but flow from a complex variety of motives. To wish for the approbation of the good, is at least innocent, and cannot therefore contaminate the action to which it gives rise. And, although your charity may have looked to this as a part of its reward, yet a deed which in part was prompted by compassion, is not therefore to be stripped quite naked of merit. Let us guard against pride, by an impartial exami­nation of the hidden springs of our conduct; but let us shun also too severe a scrutiny, lest deprived of the support of self-approbation, the vigour of our minds fail, for want of that reviving cordial which our benignant Creator hath provided as an encou­ragement to perseverance in virtue.

You tell me, you are surprised that a person with my advantages, and living so much in the gay world, should have nothing of the coquette in her disposition.—To my father, Louisa, I am indebted for this. Deprived in infancy of my mother, his whole attention has been bestowed on me, and I have been his constant companion from a child.

He knows human nature; and having made my temper his peculiar study, took advantage of my high spirit, to inspire me early with the lauda­ble [Page 99] ambition of excelling in mental, rather than personal qualifications. He opposed one passion to another, and taught the pride of superior intelli­gence to combat the rage for admiration.

Perhaps you will think he has still much to conquer, when, in the course of one letter, I can betray two foibles, vanity and loquacity.—See the confidence I have in your friendship!

Though your last very flattering letter would not perhaps have gratified the very learned and cu­rious Athenians, who delighted chiefly in hearing something new, yet it contained some old truths which one never tires of hearing. Repeat them often, my dear Louisa; and be assured, that to ob­tain your affection and esteem, will gratify the high­est ambition of

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

You rally me, my dear Lady Charlotte, on my seriousness and love of retirement, which you term unnatural at my age. Truth is, though we may live in the world without adopting its prejudices, or being corrupted by its vices, we can hardly avoid being conformed to its customs and manners, which are utterly repugnant both to my principles and taste.

The absurdity of these will not strike your mind, because they have long been familiar to you; [Page 100] but permit me to ask, what can be more unnatural, ridiculous, disingenuous, and even criminal, than the whole life and conduct of a fine Lady!—Let me attempt the picture: At the expence of health and duty, she wastes in sleep or sloth those still, se­rene, delightful hours, which ought to be devoted to the improvement of her mind and regulation of her family. She gets up with uneasy reflections on the losses, disappointments, and mortifications of the preceding day; or else with no reflections at all. Her temper is fretted during the tedious du­ties of the toilette, by discovering in her face the sure, though silent, ravages of time and dissipation. Chagrined with herself, she vents her ill-humour indiscriminately on all who approach her; and her caprice and injustice teach even her children and domestics to despise her. Utterly ignorant of hap­piness, she wastes the precious hours of life in vain­ly contriving the means of rendering them happy. To dissipate that time, which she knows not to en­joy, yet whose silent lapse she marks with terror, and deplores with anguish, she sets out on a round of visits, in full confidence of being denied admit­tance by all who call themselves her friends, and whom she would indeed rank as enemies, did they consent to see her. But if, by some unfortunate mistake, their doors are opened to receive her, she execrates the fault; and with consummate art, and heroic dissimulation, instantly converts her frowns into smiles, and flies with open arms to meet the very person, whom in her heart she hates, despises, envies, and defames.—Company joins her at her superb, but joyless and inhospitable meal. There, want of confidence and esteem throws restraint and coldness into conversation; for where there is no mutual desire to please and be pleased, disgust and [Page 101] indifference must take place of social intercourse, harmony, and cheerfulness.—Public amusements fill up the tedious night;—amusements! grown not only tasteless but burthensome by repetition. Frivolous conversation, unmeanning gallantry, in­sipid pleasures, and ruinous gaming, sum up the joys of a fine lady.—She may, indeed, be said to walk in a vain show; for her life is a train of un­successful deceit, which cannot impose upon the world, and which neither promotes her interest nor comfort. Her rankling passions increase with her years; her heart is the receptacle of pride, envy, malevolence, and disgust:—Her youth is wasted in folly, her age has no friends: She lives without en­joyment, she dies without hope!

Perhaps, my dear Lady Charlotte, you think me too severe. Believe me, it was Truth that guid­ed the pencil, and Experience that finished the piece. The glowing colours of imagination had no place there.

I confess I am shocked and disgusted beyond expression with the levity, and even rudeness, of those, who call themselves the polite world. Would you believe it, I have been frequently ridiculed here, for my present mourning habit? The only out­ward testimony I can give, of that reverence I shall ever feel, for the memory of the best of mothers!

Two young ladies of fashion stood near me last night; when, after disconcerting me extreme­ly, by scanning me from head to foot, with looks of ineffable contempt, This deep mourning for a mother, said one of them, who has already been dead two months, is absurd affectation.—Ah, [Page 102] my dear, replied the other, this mushroom beauty, whom nobody knows, is not so ignorant as not to perceive the effect black has, in heighten­ing the delicacy of such a skin and complexion.

I am not conscious of being vain or conceited, Lady Charlotte; but if I am, this is not the proper way of correcting me.—I will not allow myself, however, to feel lasting resentment, where, perhaps, no insult was intended. These young ladies were not conscious of the pain they were inflicting, and, besides—they had not lost a mother!—With res­pect to changing my dress, I shall not regulate my conduct by their opinion. I can never regard the practice of wearing mourning solely in the light of compliance with custom: It seems intended as a security against those wounds, which a heart, yet sore from recent distress, would feel, from witness­ing the extravagance of mirth, or thoughtlessness of levity.—Intemperate must that mind be, which the presence of a person, whose countenance and habit express the real mourner, will not awe for a little into something like seriousness.—Another custom, too, prevails in the world, which I think both cruel and unnecessary—That of admitting into the pre­sence of one in deep affliction, all those who, under the pretence of sympathy, seek only to gratify an impertinent and most disgusting curiosity. Non [...] but those who intimately know the heart, are qua­lified deeply to sympathise in its sorrows; and the sorrows of the heart are of too sacred a nature to be laid open to the inspection of every superficial acquaintance and idle visitor.

Adieu, my dear Lady Charlotte; the friend­ship with which you honour me, gives me a right [Page 103] to share in both the pains and pleasures of yours. To alleviate the one, and augment the other, will ever add to the enjoyment of

To Miss Seymour.

You tell me, my amiable friend, that my let­ters at once amuse and delight you: I can easily believe that a heart so tender, will find sensible plea­sure in sympathising in the feelings of mine;—but indeed, Louisa, the quiet and uniform tenour of the conventual life, furnishes but very few topics of amusement.—There is nothing, however, from which a contemplative mind may not derive in­struction. Whether we confine our views to earth, or raise them to Heaven, we shall find new cause to admire the wisdom and extol the goodness of the Creator, God!

Like you, I am a passionate, admirer of the simple beauties of nature. Artless expressions are ever the most pethetic; and therefore those objects which owe their charms to nature alone, are most in harmony with my present feelings.—But whilst we, my friend, felicitate ourselves on possessing a taste which can derive pleasure from so many sour­ces, ought we not to adore that Being, who, atten­tive not only to the necessities, but enjoyment of his creatures, hath adjusted these to their various capacities of happiness?

[Page 104] The scenes, my Louisa, which contribute to my instruction, as well as pleasure, are those to which I most frequently resort. The weak state of my health making change of air necessary, my mother, with permission of the Abbess, has brought me once more to the scenes of my earliest, happiest years. With what mournful pleasure, what tender regret, do I look back on those years?—Happy! healthful! and innocent!—Ah! my friend, how ignorant are we then of the value of these bles­sings? It is not till the streams of prosperity are dried up, that we are sensible how plenteously they have flowed: Mine, Louisa, are cut off for ever!

Nothing presents a more striking emblem of Time, than a silent and smooth-flowing river; such as that I have just been contemplating. To the careless and inattentive eye, it seems always the [...]ame; but the various portions of which it is com­posed, are gliding imperceptibly away, whilst the little flowerets that enamel its banks, and which it matures in its course, are likewise secretly under­mined by its current.

But a few months are passed, since we traced together the course of this river: Its waters were then pure and transparent;—we admired its beauty, and were refreshed with its coolness. How is the scene changed? Swollen by a torrent of descending rains, it hath burst its bounds; and, dark, troubled, impetuous, it rolls along, involving, in its wasteful progress, every herb and flower which it formerly nourished!—So fares it with the human soul—There, whilst the affections flow in their smooth and natural course, the seeds of virtue spring, and its flowers blossom. But no sooner does the storm [Page 105] of passion arise, than every noble thought, and ge­nerous wish, and useful aim, are violently swept away into the gulph of oblivion!

Be it our care, my Louisa, to preserve the stream of our affections pure from every stain; and to cherish those virtues which Heaven hath com­mitted to our care, till they shall grow up to beauty and perfection, and be transplanted to a milder clime, where they shall imbibe the rays of a never­setting sun, and flourish, with increasing strength, beauty and vigour, for ever!

Adieu, my amiable friend—Let us think of­tener of the blessings which remain, than of those which are taken away from us; and of the cala­mities we escape, than on the slight evils we are obliged a little while to endure.—Adieu.

To Miss Seymour.

—Well, Louisa, I shall positively become a convert to modern philosophy, if I continue long in this world; and, disclaiming all confidence in the testimony of my senses, believe that there is noth­ing real in the universe, but that all we see, and hear, and act, is nothing more than a bundle of fallacious impressions, inconceivable ideas, unper­ceivable perceptions, and I know not what.

Do you know I have for ever offended Miss—, by my reserved behaviour yesterday. You may remember, when she left the country, she was a little, thin, red-haired, puny girl;—but mark what metamorphoses one winter in London produces!— [Page 106] Not Ovid, nay, nor Circe herself, could effect what lead-combs, paint, and powder atchieve in that mart of vanity and school of deceit.—I was surprised to be addressed yesterday, on coming out of church, by a stranger, in a manner so vulgarly familiar, as quite shocked me. It was a tall, rosy, brisk, bour­geois figure, with dark eye-brows and chesnut hair; and whom I should just as soon have taken for the Cham of Tartary as Miss—.

Pray, my dear, do you think in your consci­ence, that one is obliged to know one's friends un­der such disguises? Who shall hereafter pretend to determine on identity of person, when it is in the power of the milliner, mantua-maker, persumer, and friseur, to new-model and make us just what they please?

You have drawn such a true, but shocking picture of fashionable life, that I am terrified with the view of it;—and now, being heartily sick of this world, and not quite ready for a better, you must positively reconcile me to my allotted station here, by giving me, in opposition to the "unnatu­ral, ridiculous, disingenuous, and criminal character of a woman of fashion," a just representation of what you deem a natural, proper, agreeable, and virtuous tenour of conduct;—in other words, the picture of an unfashionable [...]an.

Having succeeded so happily in your portrait of a fine lady, I must insist on immediately seeing her counterpart—a lifeless, sober, insipid dowdy, I suppose, commonly called 'a good sort of woman;' but, in my opinion, the worst woman in the world—who tires one to death with relating facts which [Page 107] every body knows—affirming truths which nobody disputes—descanting on characters which nobody cares for—and proving herself beyond dispute a woman good for nothing but plain work, cookery, and breeding.

Like your fine lady, and every body who is displeased with themselves, I can be pleased with nothing besides. Hasten then to restore me to tem­per, by a more agreeable picture than that you have set before me. Ah! Louisa, though Bath doubtless contains many such caricatures as you represent, it is at Bath at present I would look for virtue in her fairest form.—You need not take that trouble; for in some cases you are so obstinately blind, that I know you will never discover her, under the veil which modesty throws over every perfection of that object, who is often present to the thoughts, and always dear to the heart of her

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

You are resolved to punish me for my presump­tion, my dear Lady Charlotte, by imposing on me a task, to which I am by no means equal. Your approbation flatters me exceedingly; but beware how you nourish my self-conceit. I may dispute my own merit, but cannot question your judgment; and your influence over mine, renders you in some measure responsible for my conduct. Though my power to amuse you is very limited, my inclination to oblige you is boundless: As a proof of it, at your [Page 108] desire, I resume my pen, in order to delineate, in the best manner I can, my idea of a reasonable woman.

Your model of a good sort of woman is every where to be found; but where are we to look for a reasonable one? Perhaps you will alledge it has no existence but in my own imagination. Let us try at least, my admired friend, by our conduct, to realize it.

After a night of healthful repose, the reasona­ble woman rises in that happy tranquil frame of mind, which results from pleasant reflection on the past day, and anticipating the temperate plea­sures and important duties of the commencing one. Its first moments are devoted as due to that Being whom she regards with filial love, gratitude, and reverence; and whom she approaches, not with the lifeless prostrations of fear, but with the devout and cheerful homage of the heart. Before engag­ing in domestic cares, she prepares her mind for meeting with firmness, or bearing with patience, the little rubs and vexations of [...] day [...] ▪ She plans a thousand schemes of benevolence and [...]; and the good she cannot perform, but generously intends, is [...] in Heaven as virtue—The time necessarily spent at her toilette, is short; it is, however, rendered pleasing by the delightful hope of becoming, by means of its adventitious [...] more agreeable in the eyes of a husband▪ [...]om she loves too tenderly to omit a single opportunity of complying with his taste, or confirming his esteem.—Books, work, and above all, the important duty of impressing the infant minds of her children with that love of goodness which insensibly leads to the [Page 109] practice of it, fill up the rest of the morning.—Through the day, she checks the little sallies of her own temper, and, unobserved, steals from others, by the influence of her good humour, every dis­quieting care. To them her time, her taste, are often sacrificed; but conscious benevolence does more than repay her.—Her conversation, equally remote from chilling reserve and petulant loquacity, has no aim, but to instruct or amuse; and in her care to please others, she seems wholly to forget herself.—Her elegant, yet frugal board, presents a striking emblem of her mind. There, plenty is seen without profusion, and neatness without osten­tation. Good-taste, good-breeding, good-sense, and mild complacency, teach her guests to forget they are strangers, and to feel they are friends.—Her husband beholds her with mingled pride and plea­sure; and his approbation, though silent, diffuses joy through her heart, and cheerfulness through her conversation.—The evening is passed amidst the chosen circle, with whom she knows no reserves, and whose accumulated happiness becomes her own. Conversation, if useful or agreeable, is en­couraged; if dull, relieved by the aids which the fine arts supply to those who cultivate them. Mu­sic, dancing, cards, are occasionally called in; and even those amusements for which she has no relish herself, she cheerfully adopts, in the hope of contri­buting to the enjoyment of others.—Public diversi­ons are sometimes visited, but always tend with the reasonable woman to increase her love of social and domestic pleasures.—When in public, she appears with propriety and modesty. She envies not beau­ty,—she covets not grandeur,—she seeks not to en­gage attention; for, in the pleasing consciousness [Page 110] of discharging her duty, in the love of her husband, and esteem of her friends, she finds complete hap­piness. Such is a reasonable woman! The very opposite of a fashionable one. If we hesitate to which to give the preference, we may, perhaps, with much propriety, deserve to be ranked in the latter class; but we certainly can form no pretensions to the name or character of the former.

After all, my dear Lady Charlotte, is it not astonishing that we are at so little pains to become reasonable women? We whose limited and dome­stic situation renders the cultivation of the lesser mo­rals, the mild and gentle virtues, essential to our comfort. There are few people who are not capa­ble of great and generous actions, when they know by them they will excite admiration and obtain applause; but in private life, where our virtues pass unheeded, we are at little pains to become disinterested, benevolent, or self-denied. It is in pri­vate life, however, that opportunities are constantly occurring for the exercise of these virtues, and where we can at once witness and profit by their effects: But mankind, in general, prefer the un­meaning voice of the multitude to the soothing ap­probation of their own minds.

Adieu, my friend! If I continue to moralize any longer, you will with justice pronounce me, a most UNREASONABLE WOMAN.

I have strictly observed your Lordship's injunc­tions;—no eye but my own has seen this picture. I have folded the hands in the form of adoration, as you directed, and think the whole piece im­proved [Page 117] by this circumstance. Your Lordship's gen­erous present I accept with gratitude, as a proof that my labours have obtained your approbation.

To Miss Seymour.

How happy, Louisa, should I be, if, in loving you, I durst believe I was loving myself! But you are an artful little sophist; and by imposing this fallacy upon me, are slily pilfering away the little remains of that heart, of which you had almost en­tirely robbed me.—

But why do I talk of love?—Envy and jea­lousy now wholly possess me!—You not only suc­cessfully intimate, you excel me at my own wea­pons! What mortal could bear to be thus out­shone?—Not even your reasonable woman, Louisa;—how much less a fashionable one?

[Page 119] I verily believe the word love will be expunged from the English vocabulary, and pride, vanity, and interest placed in its stead. You know I hate to be pitied; but how can you withhold your pity, when you behold your poor friend, rivalled, at once in genius, love, fortune, and fame? I do not wish to kill you with surprise; but whatever is the conse­quence, I must inform you, that Miss Nelson, the young—the gay—the beautiful—the ALL FOR LOVE! is married to the old—the gouty—the peevish—the good-for-nothing Lord Westdale. She has wedded wealth and grandeur:—May she taste all the hap­piness they are calculated to bestow!—Is not this wish, Louisa, like a REASONABLE WOMAN?

But I must tell you all in due order. I went to dine to-day at—A bustle on the street drew me to the window: I threw up the fash; but, Heavens! what was my astonishment, my mortifi­cation, when I beheld my quondam lover, Lord Westdale, setting out with his bride, with all the charming apparatus of marriage sinery—carriages—liveries—favours! My heart died within me, and my pangs were increased by the bitter reflection, that all this happiness might have been my own. In the midst of my affliction, however, I have derived some consolation from the prudent suggestions of good aunt Gertrude. She is of opinion, that there is still room for hope, since he has already buried three wives; and kindly adds, that if I am fortunate enough to be successor to the present incumbent, I shall pro­bably see him out, and remain mistress of the field.

I shall be with you in a few days, that I may be able to judge of the effects of Bath. I doubt not it has produced a total revolution in your opi­nions, [Page 120] and fitted you for living in that world where you are so well qualified to shine. May your re­formation become every day more complete; may I see you spend the whole morning at your toilette, the whole evening at cards, the whole night in dancing, and the whole day in sleep.—Nay, not contented with seeing you become exemplary in fashion, and eminent in folly, may I live to hear you transmitting your precepts and improvements to posterity; and instructing your favourite grand­daughter in the manner following:

You ask me, my dear child, the name and his­tory of that pretty boy with a bow and quiver, whom you see in the arras?—You must know, that long, long ago, this roguish archer was a mighty favourite, especially among the little misses. But, in process of time, their wise parents began to dis­cover, that he taught them a thousand mischievous tricks, by means of these very arrows; which they used to steal from him, and shoot at the poor harmless boys, who were minding not one earthly thing but their book and exercises. To say truth, I believe he had no ill intention; but being forbid the house, whenever he ventured to revisit his old companions, they were obliged to conceal him with the utmost care. Unluckily, some of them, who had been expressly ordered to dismiss him (and you know good children always do as they are bid) were discovered harbouring him in a secret corner, where they thought no one could see him.—Upon which it was agreed by their papas and mammas, to bring a great tall fellow, called Interest, to chace him out of the world.—The poor boy, in terror for his life, fled with the utmost precipitation, till he was met by Poverty, [Page 121] who took him along with her into her hovel: His innocent prattle used to sweeten her toil, and he assisted her in her labour, in reward for the shelter she afforded him. It is greatly doubted whether he still exists; and as he has not been seen in the world these many years, if he does live, it must certainly be in some remote corner, with this poor ragged companion.—'Indeed, Grandmamma,' says Louisa the third, with tears in her eyes, I am very sorrow for poor little Master Cupid; and if I knew where to find him, I would feed him with my own victuals, and carry him in my bosom like my doll.—'No, no, my good child,' answers grandy, your doll is a much more harmless toy; besides, you'll soon grow up, and become a fine lady, and get acquainted with Interest, who, to say truth, since he has been universally received into genteel company, is grown a very handsome and agreeable fellow.

Now, my dear Louisa, to complete the sum of my pious wishes, may both your instructions and example have their full effect in the world; and, for the good of others, I pray Heaven that your children, and grand-children, and latest posterity, may in all things exactly resemble yourself.

To Miss Seymour.

With judgment and penetration like your's, I cannot suppose that you are ignorant of the senti­ments which have long taken possession of my heart: With such constant opportunities of discovering the excellence of your's, how could I remain insensible to your merit?—Conscious, however, of the pre­sumption of cherishing those hopes it inspired, I have long struggled to conceal a passion, which was painful to me, only because I feared it would be dis­pleasing to you. A certain coldness and restraint, but too visible of late in your manner, leaves me no room to doubt either of your knowledge or disap­probation of the most respectful, sincere, and con­stant, though, I fear, unfortunate attachment.

Think not, dear Miss Seymour, that hope has dictated this confession—Ah! no; it is fear—it is apprehension alone, which has forced it from me: It is the dread of losing your esteem, which is im­pelling me to a measure that may, perhaps, for ever forfeit it. I hardly know what I write—Oh! Miss Seymour, pity the distraction of my mind; say, you forgive my presumption: If possible, allow me [Page 126] to hope, from time, assiduity, and, above all, the exalted generosity of your heart, that it will one day reply to the sentiments of mine. If you can­not do this, teach me to abandon the only hope which could make life desirable!—Ah! Miss Sey­mour, rather teach me to forget it, in the enjoy­ment of that peace, which I possessed before I rash­ly aspired to a dearer name than that of friend!—Alas! I fear, you never can restore my lost tran­quillity; yet do not, I beseech you, by your chil­ling indifference, add the bitterness of felt contempt to the anguish of disappointment.

I will not offend you with my complaints—on­ly do not banish me from your sight—do not de­prive me of my only consolation, that of justifying to myself the indulgence of a passion I cannot conquer, by daily beholding new proofs of those virtues which first inspired it.

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

IT is with inexpressible satisfaction I learn, that the friend of my soul has in some measure regained the tranquillity of her's. This, more than any other circumstance, will contribute to the reco­very of your health. Oh! may Heaven perfect it, and spare you for the friend, the guide, the com­fortress of your Louisa!

Trust me, Adelaide, I almost envy you the re­pose you so feelingly describe, and which, I fear, I have lost for ever! I cannot be so unjust to your tender and generous friendship, as to hide from you the anxieties that prey upon my heart.—Hast­ings, the son of my benefactress—the noble, gene­rous, accomplished Hastings, has, I fear, made too deep an impression there!

I will not conceal from you, that I believe I am beloved; but small is the consolation that thought should afford me! Birth, fortune, every thing for­bids my aspiring wishes;—gratitude alone ought for ever to repress them. But my Adelaide will pity me; she knows that all these obstacles seem nothing to love.

[Page 4] In the midst of a thousand tormenting inquie­tudes, your friendship is a never-failing source of pleasure and consolation. When fatigued with company, or sick of my own reflections, I retire to a sweet apartment in the garden, which is elegant­ly fitted up, and adorned with one ornament more valuable than all the rest—it is your picture, Ade­laide, with which a thousand, thousand tender ideas are connected: This little idol hallows the place in my imagination, and I regard it as the temple of friendship—I look up to it with a mournful attention—I gaze on it till it almost seems animated—I try to make it speak the language of my wishes, and your heart! It is silent—I unfold your letters, and there find a faithful transcript of both.

Write to me constantly, my revered friend; Remind me of what I owe to Lady Granville—to Lord Hastings—to myself▪—Your letters will in­spire me with resolution to perform my duty, which I too plainly see, but, alas! am unable to follow.

To Miss Seymour.

Help me to rail, Louisa! I am out of all pati­ence.—This morning I got up earlier than usual; I dispatched all my domestications; and ordered the coach the moment breakfast was over, that I might fly to my beloved friend, and spend the whole day with her. Armed at all points,—ready alike for flirting with Hastings, philosophising with his father, or moralising with you, I was just in the very act of stepping into the coach, when that of Mr. Alderman Sagely, and a whole squad of his city [Page 5] sons and daughters, arrived, not for a flying visit of a how-do-ye, as they instantly told me, but for a "kind neighbourly visit of a week."—Insupportable! Had you seen my countenance at that moment, Louisa, it would have given the lie to my education, which, though confessedly that of a fashionable woman, has not taught me to become a disingenuous one. Principle, however, got the better for once of feel­ing. It is surely immoral, Louisa, to make a fel­low-creature suffer any species of uneasiness that you can prevent.

I ought to do justice to my own patience and meekness, by attempting a description of this city invasion,—but the thing is impossible!—I really do not think there ever was collected together in one family such a miscellaneous set of disagreeables. I shall find as much difficulty to arrange them on pa­per, as in my drawing-room.

The Alderman, though first in course, yet last in command, having no character at all, we shall set aside. His wife aspires to that of a fine lady, which she mistakes for that of an invalid; and talks of no­thing but spleen, nerves, vapours, green tea, and assa-foetida.—His daughters aspire to be wits, and become maimed registers of low witticisms, dull jests, stale puns, and murdered sense. His son as­pires with better reason to be a jockey; and descants, for aught I know, very learnedly, on the betts at Newmarket, the victories of the turf, and the me­rits of a chesnut filly, whom he would not exchange for the Trojan horse of heroic memory, nay, nor for Pegasus himself. But however ill-founded the pretensions of some of the family, in one thing they [Page 6] all succeed, that of rendering themselves supreme­ly ridiculous.—After tea, I dispatched the young fry on a fishing party: seated the Alderman in my father's study (who was fortunately out of the scrape being gone to Lord Ashbury) with "the four last acts of parliament" for his companion; and was preparing to enjoy all that was left me, the fresh air, and the delightful evening, when Madam arrested me with—"La! Lady Charlotte! sure your La'ship would not be so rash as to walk in the gar­den after sunset? I remember, last May—no, it was June,—no, no, I am right again, it was May,—when Mr. Sagely carried me out to see our neigh­bour Sir Josiah Olive's improvements, at his sweet little box at Newington Butts—"But as it might not improve your patience, Louisa, to hear a de­scription of the beauties of Newington Butts, and an enumeration of all the evils attending this ill-fated walk, I shall pass them over in silence, as Mrs. Sage­ly did not do.

Can you figure a restraint more irksome and intolerable, than that of being obliged to wear an air of sadness for half a day, when all the while you feel the strongest propensity to laughter?—Who can help it, when one sees a woman, with the appearance of health, imagine herself afflicted with every distemper under Heaven? Sure I am, I may now be qualified to prescribe for all of them; for, not contented with tiring me to death with the his­tory of her complaints, I really believe there is not an alterative, an anodyne, or a cathartic, in the whole materia medica, with whose various qualities, operations, and effects, I have not been made ac­quainted.—This querulous humour is the very bane of society. What satisfaction, can this poor [Page 7] wretch possess, whilst groaning under a load of fan­cied, still worse than real distress?—Yes, Heaven is ever just; and has surely compensated for her imaginary evils, by making complaint an exquisite gratification to her.

I went yesterday to visit your poor Sally in her new habitation, which is very comfortable. She prayed for blessings on us both, and thanked me with her tears. She says, she is in tolerable health, but seems very weak and low; and wears that look of quiet uncomplaining sorrow, that makes its way to the heart, without asking leave of the judg­ment. The distress of those in higher station meets with general sympathy:—But who shall pity the obscurely miserable, especially when they become so by their own misconduct?—Ah, my friend! does this circumstance lessen their claim to compas­sion?—does it not greatly enhance it?

Adieu! Since I cannot hope to get to the Ca­stle for some days, have pity on me, and render them less irksome by your presence. If I can nei­ther promise you pleasure nor instruction from my present associates, I can at least assure you of pe­tulance, pertness, and officious politeness from them, and a most grateful and cordial reception from your

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

A new cause of perplexity and distress, my Adelaide, engages me at present to write to you. Were I not assured that no state of mind is so irk­some [Page 8] as that of listless indifference, too often the companion of a convent, I would not so soon make fresh demands on the patience and sympathy of my friend.

I have long suspected that the attentive kind­ness of Mr. Stanhope proceeded from a sentiment still more tender than that of friendship. Fear ren­dered me but too quick-sighted on this occasion. Before leaving Bath, he wrote to me, making a de­claration of a passion, which does me honour, but never can be productive of any thing but distress to us both.—I strove to spare him the mortification attending an unsuccessful suit, by shunning every opportunity of seeing him alone; but on meeting me this morning in the garden, I was obliged to hear him on the painful subject. What answer I made to his earnest solicitation, I know not; but being greatly agitated, and dreading to pain a mind of such sensibility and delicacy as his, I fear I have not been sufficiently explicit: I resolve, therefore, to write to Mr. Stanhope, and convince him, that the only way to secure both my peace and his own, is to renounce a pursuit which can never be attend­ed with success.

His presence here, I plainly discover, gives pain to a heart in whose every uneasiness mine too tenderly sympathises. O, Adelaide! what can I do to soften that pain? I am shocked at my own injustice and inconsistency. I pity in Hastings, what I disapprove of in Stanhope; I condemn in him, what I indulge myself; and urge him, on ac­count of its hopelessness, to abandon a passion, whilst I, in opposition to honour, gratitude, nay hope itself, cherish it in my inmost soul. Oh, my [Page 9] Adelaide! are all the votaries of love thus unreason­able and inconsistent?

The cheerful and healthful serenity, which I had just begun to recover, is already clouded with care, anxiety, and solicitude. What a mixed and ever-shifting scene is this of human life! What a variety of vain and restless inquietudes sum up the term of our transient existence here!—Ah! could I, like you, keep my thoughts fixed on Heaven, how trivial would appear all the sorrows of earth!

Pity me, advise me; and never, oh! never cease to love me, my friend! my monitress—my counsellor—my best and dearest Adelaide!

To Mr. Stanhope.

It is impossible to express the concern and agi­tation into which your letter and conversation have thrown me. My former ignorance of your senti­ments was real, not affected. Would to Heaven I could have continued ignorant of them for ever!

The real esteem and friendship I have always professed and felt for you, demands from me, on this occasion, a confidence, which I should not have tho't it incumbent on me to repose in any other man. Be assured, Sir, that I am grateful for the preference you have shewn me; and wish your happiness so ardently, that I would gladly purchase it at any expence, but that of my own honour, which I [Page 10] should certainly forfeit, could I consent to give you my hand, when my heart is in the possession of another.

Let this singular proof of my esteem, and reli­ance on your honour, at once confirm your friend­ship, and convince you of the impossibility of any other connection ever subsisting between us. It is with this view alone I have prevailed with myself to discover to you a secret, which I know will for ever remain concealed within your friendly bosom.

If you have courage to conquer a passion, whose strength and delicacy will suggest to your ingenu­ous mind new motives for attempting it; if you can behave to me with the same ease and freedom, which formerly made us both happy, and bury all that has passed on this subject in oblivion: in short, if you can cease to be my lover, you shall always find a sincere, faithful, and affectionate friend, in

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

At length the die is cast, and my misfortunes are without remedy. Lady Granville, my dear se­cond mother, from a motive which I am at no loss to divine, and the generosity of which claims my utmost gratitude, has communicated to me in the strictest confidence, a plan of Lord Granville's, which has long been a favourite one,— [...] [...]f unit­ing the families of Winchester and Granville, by a marriage between Lord Hastings and Lady Char­lotte.

[Page 11] My heart is so sick, and my thoughts in such confusion, that I cannot pretend at present to give you the particulars of this conversation. I do not even know whether Lord Hastings is acquainted with his father's designs—whether he approves of them. Ah, my Adelaide! can he indeed approve of them? But let me no longer deceive myself with fallacious hopes; too long have they deceived me. In what a delirium have my senses been lost! It is time to return to reason and duty. Oh, my friend! I dare not promise that I will cease to love Lord Hastings; but surely I must, I ought to make the attempt. Happy Lady Charlotte! what wonder that your spirits are unbroken? A little time will banish Louisa from the thoughts of your destined husband, and he will return to you and his duty—What then will become of your wretched friend, Adelaide? Tho' the difference of our religion for­bids my assuming the veil, there is no difference in our sentiments: Our hearts have long been united, and misfortune will rivet the ties of friendship!—I will come to you, my Adelaide! I will repose my sorrows in your bosom. Your tender sympathy will pour consolation into mine. You will teach me to [...]ive co [...]tented, to die resigned, and with your's shall my dust be mingled!

To the same.

I am certainly right, my friend. Through the thin disguises of a heart that abhors deceit, and is unaccustomed to practise it, Lady Granville, the humane Lady Granville, has discovered my senti­ments, and took the step I mentioned in my last to prevent the fatal effects of their indulgence. A [Page 12] thousand little circumstances have occurred lately to persuade me that it must be so; and that, al­though her gentle heart pities my weakness, her duty and interest combine with her reason to con­demn it. Of this truth the following incident will serve to convince you.

One day, when walking with my benefactress in the garden, the conversation happened to turn on poetry.—You know Lady Granville had the mis­fortune to lose, in early life, a daughter, who, though no more than six years, was every thing her sond parents could desire. Among her other ex­cellencies, she shewed a remarkable genius for po­etry, which her indulgent mother encouraged, as it was a source of much amusement to her during the frequent confinement occasioned by a delicate con­stitution;—the usual concomitant of exalted genius. Striving to recollect a few stanzas written by her daughter during her last illness: and being unable distinctly to repeat them, she gave me her keys, and told me, I would find them in one of the draw­ers of her cabinet. The first I opened contained the picture of Lord Hastings. I was instantly seiz­ed with such a desire to obtain a copy of it, that I slipt it into my pocket; and next morning, on pre­tence of purchasing some things at—, a town about six miles from the Castle, I ordered the horses to be put to the carriage; and driving directly to my milliner's asked if she knew whether there was any painter of eminence in the town? She directed me to one who was said to have same merit; I left the carriage and wal [...] [...] to his Louse.—After giving him [...] charges to keep the picture con­cealed, and finish the copy wi [...] [...] [...]elay, I paid for it; and des [...]red it to be s [...]aled up, and sent to [Page 13] the milliner's, who promised to have it conveyed in safety to me. There is something inexpressibly pain­ful to an honest and ingenuous mind, in the little arts and subterfuges necessary in the management of all clandestine affairs. The mean evasions to which they lead, wound our delicacy, and do vio­lence to all our feelings. In vain, my friend, would we chicane with conscience on these occasions. Her decisions are clear, and this is her language: "In whatever words you express your meaning, if they convey not to others that sense in which you un­derstand them yourself, you are a deceiver, and speak not the truth from your heart."

I was questioned on my return by my unsus­pecting friend, about the business on which I had gone; and having neglected to purchase any thing at the milliner's, felt myself confused and embarras­sed by her question, in such a degree, as obliged me to shift the discourse; and, by my awkward manner of doing so, probably called Lady Gran­ville's attention to a circumstance, which would have otherwise passed unheeded.

A few days after I had restored the picture to its place, which, in order to obtain Lady Granville's keys, again forced me to have recourse to an arti­fice I detested, we received a visit from a lady in the neighbourhood; one of those good sort of gos­siping people, who think it incumbent on them to talk, whatever be the subject.—"I hear, Madam," said she, "Lord Hastings is just going abroad; and sincerely congratulate your Ladyship on having obtained so fine a picture of your son, which will certainly be mighty agreeable to you when he is at a distance."—"I do think myself fortunate on that [Page 14] account," answered Lady Granville; but pray, Ma­dam, may I ask how came you to know of this cir­cumstance?"—"O," replied Mrs. Rawlinson, with a shrug and a significant look, "I saw it last week; but I suspect there is a secret in the case, and that it is intended for a mistress rather than a mother,"—"How so, Madam?" demanded Lady Granville.—"Why, because, on my opening the drawer which contains the unfinished pictures, to see what additions were making to his collection, Mr.—entered the room, and seemed in great vexation, on perceiving me hold your son's in my hand; telling me, that nobody was permitted to examine any of the pictures, except such as were placed in the glazed box, for the inspection of the public. But trust me, Madam, if you wish this affair to be con­cealed, I will be the very last person in the world to divulge it. Nobody detests the idea of betraying a secret more than I do."—"Indeed, Madam," re­plied Lady Granville gravely, and fixing her pene­trating eyes on my face (the first time I ever thought them unpleasing) "if there is any secret in the case, I am entirely ignorant of it."

The perturbation I suffered during this dis­course, is not to be described—Unable to support the presence of Lady Granville, I rose and left the room. I saw, with anguish, that she entertained suspicions, which every attempt to remove would only serve to corroborate, and involve me in fresh perplexity and listress. I resolved, therefore, to take no notice of what had passed, and rather to hazard the displeasure of Lady Granville, than de­viate from the straight path of sincerity.

[Page 15] The day following, she sent for me into her dressing-room.—I entered it with the horror of a self-condemned criminal.—Oh, Adelaide! what must be the anguish of guilty remorse, when an error like mine could awaken such painful consci­ousness?—Lady Granville took hold of my hand, and, with a look of earnest solicitude and compas­sion, "My dear child," said she, "your's is a no­ble soul—I am going to give you a proof that I know how to admire, how to value your merit—Would it were mine to reward it!" She then com­municated to me the earnest wishes of Lord Gran­ville to accomplish an union between his son and Lady Charlotte; enumerated the various circum­stances that combined to make this union proper and desirable for both families; and concluded with saying, "To you, my Louisa, I confide the im­portant trust of my son's honour and happiness: Strive, my generous Louisa, during his absence, to impress Lady Charlotte with a favourable opinion of his character; as I shall, to give him a just idea of her's."

Ah, Adelaide! is not this too much to demand from me?—Is it not enough to be forced to aban­don hope?—Must I be driven to absolute despair?—Yes, Hastings! I will strive, in obedience to ri­gid duty, to banish thee from my heart; but never will I be so disingenuous as to recommend thee to that of a rival.

Stanhope continues to solicit my friendship—my pity—since he can no longer hope to convert it into a more tender sentiment. Heaven knows, I both pity and esteem, but never, never can love him.

[Page 16] Lord Hastings sets out in a few days for the Continent; he will be the bearer of a letter to my friend. I long anxiously that you should see and converse with him;—perhaps you will then be dis­posed to excuse, as well as pity, the weakness of your afflicted

To Miss Seymour.

Ah! Louisa, is it necessary that I should see—that I should converse with Lord Hastings, in order to pity and excuse what you term your weakness? Alas! I need but to recollect my own. But shall I indeed bestow that name on the sweetest, most ennobling affection of the soul?—Oh! Grammont, was it weakness to love thee? Is it criminal to de­plore thee?—My offence then will end but with my life!—The walls of a convent may conceal our sorrows from the world, but it will not banish them from our thoughts; its solitude and silence are but too favourable to their indulgence.

This day, my Louisa—this memorable day—was the last of my earthly happiness!—It was that on which Grammont informed me of his success, and added to all my pleasing hopes, that of his spee­dy return.—Alas! how soon were they blasted for ever!

Yet think not, Louisa, that I always indulge these melancholy reflections.—No; I do not, in bewailing the loss of my dearest blessing, ungrate­fully overlook those which still remain. I even at times look back on past pleasures with more real [Page 17] satisfaction than half the world experience in the enjoyment of those that are present. There is a conscious dignity as well as tenderness in virtuous sorrow;—and far rather would I recall to mind the virtues of Grammont, and weep for his loss, than have lived to witness either the frailties or faults of a character so loved and revered: And who can hope, in this mortal state, to be entirely exempted from either?—Though he shall never return to me, I shall soon go to him; and then what will all the sorrows, sufferings, and vexing inquietudes of this life appear, but as the confused shadows of a trou­bled dream, from which we awake to real and sub­stantial felicity!

Let reflections like these carry peace and con­solation to the gentle bosom of my friend; and let us not dwell on evils that are past, and which never would have been present, had not some important purpose rendered them necessary.

Do not regret interesting me in your sorrows, Louisa. A dead calm is the worst state of the hu­man mind. Some agitation is necessary to maintain its proper temperament; and it is best when this is the effect, rather of the social than the selfish principle. The one is like the breath of Heaven on the peaceful lake, whose gentle motion purifies and clears;—the other resembles a vortex in a trou­bled pool, which absorbs every thing of worth, and sends its feculencies to the surface.

You tell me, that "tears of mingled admira­tion and gratitude interrupt your perusal of my let­ters." How soothing, how flattering is such praise? [Page 18] How preferable to the applause of a giddy and ca­pricious world? The applause of that world is too often obtained by the mere display of those talents, in the possession of which there can be no merit; it lies solely, my friend, in the just application of them.

Adieu, my Louisa—I pity, I sympathise in your sorrows; would I could relieve them!—You have my prayers, my wishes, my constant tender affection. O! may no restless passion long disturb the tranquillity of that bosom, which Heaven has formed to be the residence of every amiable and gentle virtue!—Adieu.

The inclosed letter leaves me no room to doubt of my misfortune, and sufficiently explains to me the cause of your late dejection. If you generously permit me to be the means of removing it, I shall still taste happiness in your's, and learn to put a just value on the goods of fortune. May these, and every blessing, be your portion, and that of the deserving partner of your heart! In possessing your's, he will possess the only treasure which in this world could excite the whole hopes, wishes, and desires, of

To Lord Hastings.

Your noble, your generous intentions, I accept with all that gratitude and admiration they justly claim. Could they have availed to my happiness, I would not have returned these proofs of a friend­ship, which it shall be my study and ambition to deserve; but other obstacles oppose my felicity; perhaps will for ever oppose it.

In the exercise of those exalted virtues, which form your character, and conciliate universal esteem, may you, my Lord, find that happiness they are calculated to bestow, and which none can better deserve.

To Miss Seymour.

I wonder not, my friend, that you wished me to see and converse with Lord Hastings; it is im­possible [Page 35] to do either without pleasure and admiration. He has paid me several visits, each of which has served to confirm my opinion of his noble and gene­rous character.—He spoke but little of my Louisa; when he did, it was the language of unfeigned praise. He asked a thousand questions about Ro­chelle; every one of which betrayed the interest his heart took in the subject; but instructed by your letter, I purposely avoided it: This he saw, and I doubt not his suspicions were confirmed by it. The Count de Rochelle was married some time ago to Madamoiselle St. Hermoine; and I plainly perceive, is suspected by Lord Hastings of having acted dishonourably by you. I told him I had the highest opinion of Rochelle; at which he seemed much astonished: But I presently changed the subject, as I wished not to come to an ecclaircissement on that head.—He quits Paris to-morrow, and promises to visit me on his return from Italy, where he proposes to spend the winter.

I still write to my friend from the Ville de St. Croix, the scene of my earliest, happiest days: But though this scene has proved favourable to my health, I fear, Louisa, it is not so to my peace!

It is impossible to describe to you that variety of painfully pleasing emotions I experience, whilst wandering alone amidst these delightful shades—once the habitation of love, and hope, and joy—now the asylum of grief, inquietude, and even de­spondent melancholy! Not a tree, not a shrub ap­pears around me, that is not hallowed by memory, as having witnessed the tenderness of love, the en­thusiasm of friendship, or the fervor of devotion.—However whimsical such a sentiment may appear [Page 36] to those who are ignorant of the tender associations from which it takes its rise, I confess, that my at­tachment to these inanimate objects strongly re­sembles that we retain for those friends who have watched over us in infancy—who have sustained our weakness, absolved our errors, and cherished the seeds of every amiable virtue.

On entering a little arbour to-day, in a retired part of the wood, to which Grammont knew I of­ten resorted, I beheld the initials of my name, cut on the smooth bark of a beech, by that hand which is now mouldering in the dust.—To you, Louisa, I need not describe the feelings of that moment!—O, Grammont! if they are known to thee—if thou art an invisible witness of my secret, my hopeless, my unceasing sorrows—behold them with pity, and compassionate the weakness thou canst not approve!

Perhaps, he thought a period might arrive, when, divided from the partner of his heart, these proofs of his constant affection might serve to a­waken in her's the remembrance of a passion which neither time nor absence could in the slightest de­gree impair.—How unnecessary such a remem­brancer! Shall that day ever awaken me to life and consciousness, that shall not also witness the admiration of thy virtues, the love of thy goodness, the grateful recollection of thy unequalled tender­ness, cherished in my afflicted heart?—No, Gram­mont! best and dearest of men—till that heart, like thine, shall for ever be congealed by the cold hand of death, thy loved image shall never be eras­ed from it!—Meantime, the soothing recollections of the past, shall maintain a sweet, though silent intercourse between us—till that solemn welcome [Page 37] hour arrive, when the veil that now divides us shall be rent, the burthen of mortality shaken off, and we shall meet, first and only object of my vows, in perfect, secure, and immortal felicity!

It is this prospect, my Louisa, that becalms the griefs, and supports the soul of your friend. Much, much does she need every support.

I return to St. Cire to-morrow, on account of Constance, who is very ill, and begs to see me: Se­cure in the sympathy of a friend, whose misfor­tunes have qualified her to feel, and whose weak­ness to absolve the frailty of others, she seeks to re­pose her sorrows in my bosom. Like a tender flow­er, blighted by an untimely frost, she is drooping space—nor will every feel the reviving influence of another spring!—Adieu, dearest Louisa! adieu.

To Lord Hastings.

By this time my dear Henry will have reached Paris, and mingled with the promiscuous crowd that forms the society of that large and licentious metropolis.

Amidst a people learned in the arts of seduc­tion, and ardent in the pursuit of pleasure, how much will it behove you to maintain that manly firmness of character, for which I have so often ap­plauded you.—I apprehend no danger to you from the grossly vicious, or openly profane: Such inspire a mind like your's, with horror and disgust. But I [Page 38] confess, my son, I am not without fear, from the insidious arts of the reasoning sceptic, and systema­tic libertine. The ridicule thrown on every thing serious, by the polite circles of our sex, is severely mortifying to the delicate sensibility of youth, and highly discouraging to virtuous conduct. And the cruel refinements of a mistaken philosophy, have of late years given double weight to opinions, over which passion and appetite had ever too powerful an in­fluence.—The sole preservative of popular morality, is religion. Whenever the vulgar are taught to scorn her restraints, they soon despise those of virtue. Vice rushes in like an impetuous torrent, which has overwhelmed its bounds, and carried all before it.—The dim-sighted multitude are unable to perceive the nice discriminations between real and apparent interest. Religion held forth a faithful glass, to aid their imperfect sense: Infidelity dashes this to earth, and in its stead, presents the rabble with a delusive mirror, which magnifies contiguous objects, and shews them in alluring colours, whilst it imbibes the rays which would delineate the back ground.

You know I have always been of opinion, that piety is the only sure foundation of moral conduct.—What ingenuous motive can affect that mind, which is regardless of its obligations to infinite be­neficence?—Sophists may argue and refine as they will, but there can be no genuine virtue, independ­ent of true piety.

We daily see proofs of the inefficacy of specu­lative opinions, to regulate the actions of men. The understanding often assents to truths which never reach the heart. A feeling and habitual sense of Deity—a love of those divine precepts—a belief of [Page 39] those sublime doctrines—a hope of those eternal rewards he hath revealed, will be found absolutely necessary to counterbalance the suddenness of temp­tation, the force of example, and the constant soli­citations to criminal indulgence.

One consideration will have much weight with a mind possessed of sensibility like your's: the in­fluence of your example may extend much farther than you are aware of. To a generous soul, how en­nobling, how elevating is the thought, that by a truly amiable and virtuous conduct, we may induce the wicked and unhappy to quit the paths of vice and destruction, and pursue those that are pleasant­ness and peace; not only in their termination, but in their tenor also.—A corrupt society is to the world, what a corrupt member is to a society. The whole seems in a great measure dependent, even on its smallest parts. What solid value should this idea give us in our own estimation; and how cautious ought we to be, lest our errors prove in­ductive of evil, where our goodness may never reach.

Should you continue, my dear Henry, to per­severe in the practice of virtue and goodness, my utmost ambition in this world will be gratified; and the heart of a father, to whom you are unspeaka­bly dear, will triumph in the conscious pride and joy of paternal affection.

To Miss Seymour.

I am so greatly agitated at present, my dear Louisa, with the affecting scene I have just wit­nessed, and which your weak spirits could never have supported, that I am very unequal to the task of writing.

Alas! our poor afflicted Sally is no more!—I received a note this morning from nurse, begging to see me immediately: I set out for her cottage [Page 41] without a moment's delay. On my arrival, the worthy creature met me at the door, and, with eyes swimming in tears, told me that poor Sally was de­livered last night of a [...]ine girl, who was stout and healthy, but she feared the mother was in great danger.

Though she bore her sufferings with much pa­tience and resolution, the moment she heard the child cry, she burst into a violent flood of tears, which greatly agitated her weak frame. She asked to see it as soon as it was dressed; on its being brought, she took it in her arms, gazed on it, kissed and bathed it with her tears; then taking a little locket from her own neck, containing its father's hair, she tied it round that of the infant, saying, "Unfortunate innocent!—Alas! this, and the name of Sally, is all I have to bequeath thee!—Thou must not presume to claim that of thy unkind father!

This exertion was too much for her feeble bo­dy and exhausted spirits: She was seized with faint­ings, which threatened to put an instant period to her life. The physician ordered her to be kept per­fectly quiet, and begged nurse to have the child re­moved as soon as possible, as the sound of its voice always threw her into agonies. She had sometimes dropped asleep through the night, but constantly waked starting, with some exc [...]mation of terror; she complained of violent sickness and palpitation at her heart, and had been delirious for several hours.

On hearing her talking to herself in a low voice, I slipped softly to the bed-side: Her eyes were shut, but I heard her distinctly pronounce the [Page 42] following sentences: "Cruel deceiver!—faithless Talbot! why did you leave me?—Did I not give you my whole heart?—I never did any thing to offend you, but loving you too fondly. If Heaven forgives my offences, oh, Talbot! you might have pardoned this!—Shall these eyes never again be­hold thee?—Unkind Talbot! wilt thou never, ne­ver, never return? But I shall soon be at peace."—Then hearing her infant cry—"Pitying God!" she exclaimed, "defend this helpless, desolate babe! It is guiltless of its mother's crime!—Oh, Talbot! hadst thou heard this voice, unkind as thou art, thou couldst not have left me?—Yet, do not re­turn; it would grieve thee to see my grave—I would die rather than grieve thee!—I shall soon go to Heaven—Ah, Talbot! could I but hope to meet thee there!

She fell into a slumber for a few minutes. I sat down by her bed-side.—Oh, my Louisa! who could behold unmoved such a scene of woe?

Again starting up, and hastily drawing back the curtain, she exclaimed, looking wildly round her, "Where, oh! where is he?—Did I not see him here?—Gone again! Gone for ever!"—Then sinking down on her pillow, pale and exhaust­ed, she slowly repeated, in a solemn tone—"Trou­ble and anguish are come upon me!—My purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart!—As for my hope, who shall see it?"—Here she paused, as if to recover breath; and then proceed­ed:—"My kinsfolk have failed, and my familiar friends have forgotten me: They whom I loved are turned against me!—Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God [Page 43] hath touched me!—There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease: But man giv­eth up the ghost, and where is he? He lieth down, and riseth not, till the Heavens be no more!"—After again pausing a few minutes, she clasped her hands together, and, raising her dim eyes to Hea­ven, prayed, in a low and feeble voice, interrupted with sighs: "Impute not, gracious God! who knoweth our frame—O, impute not guilt!—Pity the errors of youth, not perverseness.—Father of the afflicted! protect my child—save from ruin him I loved—Receive, oh! receive thy humble penitent to the arms of thy everlasting mercy!"—Here her faintings succeeded each other so rapidly, that nature, unable longer to support so unequal a strug­gle, sunk altogether; and in a few minutes she ex­pired in my arms.

Just Heaven! wilt not thou avenge the cause of innocence like her's?

O, my Louisa! come to me, and let us min­gle our tears together! Tears of exquisite sorrow, and virtuous indignation, over the breathless corpse of her who has fallen a victim to perfidious cruelty, and who has neither kindred nor friends to bewail her!

Yesterday, when she felt her labour approach­ing, she sat down and wrote the inclosed to you; and having sealed it, delivered it to nurse, desiring her to keep it in a safe place, till she should get well.

"Again let me entreat you to come to me im­mediately, that we may concert together proper [Page 44] measures, both for the private interment of the mo­ther, and removal of the child. Ill-fated innocent! I almost regret its having survived her!

To Miss Seymour.

Forgive, dear and honoured Madam, forgive the boldness of your unhappy Sally, who presumes once more to address you—it will be the last time.

My hour of trial fast approaches; and, in spite of all your goodness and compassion to me, I am persuaded, it will put a period to my short and un­fortunate life.—My heart is broken with unkind­ness. All are humane and compassionate to me; but that one from whom I deserve the most, will shew me no pity!

My dear Miss Seymour, though you are all goodness, I know you dare not come to me. I have none to comfort and encourage me, at the time I shall most need comfort: Even a living child, that gives joy to the heart of a mother, will only in­crease the bitter anguish of mine!—No father waits to receive my helpless babe, and bless her who bore it!—If I live, I have no example to propose for its imitation;—if I die, I have no portion to bequeath it but poverty—no inheritance but shame!

Though I have forgotten your lessons of vir­tue, O my dear, kind mistress! do not abandon my [Page 45] desolate child, if that merciful Being who beholds the penitence of its mother, permits it to see the light!—Oh! do not suffer the infant of your once favoured Sally, to become an object of public cha­rity—perhaps, of public scorn: It may then learn to wander from the path of innocence, like its wretched mother!—Alas! she had not that excuse for wandering!

I can write no more.—Do not accuse any one of my death; nor reproach any one with unkind­ness to me. My own credulity has undone me—the fondness of my weak heart betrayed and ruin­ed me!

Farewel, my loved, revered mistress! You must be happy, because you are virtuous.—O! may Heaven's best blessings ever surround my dear Miss Seymour; and may that sweet peace be her's, which will never again in this world visit

To Adelaide de St. Croix.

I am persuaded, my loved Adelaide, that it is not from agitation of mind, but vacancy of heart, our forest sufferings arise. Lord Hastings is gone—Lady Charlotte has left me—the gloomy winter is commenced, and corresponds but too well with my present feelings. How painful now do I feel [...]y absence from my best and dearest friend! That friend, who alone, of all the human race, could en­ter into every sentiment of my soul; and, without the aid of language, comprehend its every motion, sooth, its every inquietude, look compassion, sigh re­lief, and smile approbation.

[Page 50] Whilst the presence of Lord Hastings kept my mind in continual fear and agitation, though my spirits were sometimes depressed, they were never so perfectly overwhelmed as since these fears have lost their object.

My present dejection, which I struggle in vain to conceal, has not escaped the observation of the humane Lady Granville. She is apprehensive on account of my health, though too delicate to ex­press these apprehensions, and, under pretence of improving her own, has proposed that we shall spend Christmas with Lord Salisbury, and make a round of visits before returning to the Castle.—I am grate­ful for her kind intentions, but fear I shall not profit by them!—My mind of late seems sunk into a kind of lethargic insensibility, from which no ex­ertion, however vigorous, can rouse it. Though innumerable sources of enjoyment are in my pos­session, I can enjoy nothing: The very aspect of nature is changed to me; the sun has lost its cheer­fulness, and the fresh air no longer revives me. Sur­rounded with friends, kind and attentive, I seem at times to myself the most desolate being on the face of the earth. The disingenuity and ingratitude of this rebellious spirit, adds remorse to the weight of my affliction!—What can I do, my Adelaide?—O! pity, console, and, if possible, reconcile me to myself!

I am just returned from church, where I have regained that heavenly calm, and felt that sweet elevation of soul which we experience, whilst, with [...]ixedness of thought, we contemplate the sublime of existence, and rejoice in the perfection of bene­volence! An employment, how noble, how de­lightful, [Page 51] how suitable to a rational, immortal, ac­countable being!

There is no situation, my Adelaide, in which the sorrowful and dejected heart may not derive consolation from the exercise of ardent, unfeigned piety. But ah! to descend from these exalted heights—to feel the tide of frailty and passion return again—to sink again into dejecting melancholy—to be again overwhelmed with suspense, fear, and in­quietude: This, oh this, my Adelaide, is painful, is distracting to the soul of

To Lord Hastings.

It is now, my dear Henry, that, laying aside that standard by which you judged of mankind, and which you found in your own uncorrupted heart, you begin to open your eyes, and to see them is they really are, instead of what you wished them to be. It is with pain we first make this discovery; for the errors of the judgement are always more mortifying to our self-love, than those of the heart. On entering the world, the delicacy of our taste, as well as the foundness of our principles, receive so rude a shock, that, for a while, we become ab­solute misanthropes. Time, however, and a more intimate acquaintance with ourselves, change our sentiments, and correct the severity of our strictures on others.

In reality, mankind are more deserving of pity than contempt. Want of reflection, not malevo­lence [Page 52] of intention, is their ruin. And when one considers how difficult it is, especially in early life, to resist the allurements of pleasure, and combat the pleas of indolence, it seems rather surprising, that they are not always the slaves of vice, than that they are not always the slaves of vice, than that they should sometimes become the dupes of folly.

I would not have you enter the world with an unkind and indiscriminating jealousy of your species. But as I know, in youth, the heart generally decides before the understanding, and the imagination often, leads them both astray, I would have you cautious in forming opinions of characters, and modest in delivering your own; and whilst you behave with affability to all, reserve your confidence for those, of whom long acquaintance hath discovered the sterling merit.

One's heart swells with honest indignation, to see the great, the venerable, the respectable virtues, passing unheeded through the vale of obscurity, whilst the mean, selfish, servile arts of cunning and hypocrisy, engage public notice, and even advance the possessor to shining and elevated stations. Let us, my son, despising the vile craft of the sycophant, whilst we remain obstinate in virtue, cultivate that universal complacency and good-will, which is the offspring of good sense, principle, and humanity.

You tell me, "you are shocked to find every thing serious treated with contempt and ridicule, by those who arrogate to themselves the name of fine gentlemen; though neither their talents nor man­ners seem to qualify them for that sphere."—Con­tempt and ridicule, my dear Henry, are the last [Page 53] wretched resource of hardened vice and determined libertinism; and for what do they thus wantonly make a jest of things sacred?—To raise a laugh—to gain the empty and momentary applause of fools and coxcombs—to eradicate entirely from the minds of youth the last sad remains of a virtuous educa­tion?—How wretched the purpose! how mean the triumph!

May Heaven preserve my son from the conta­gious manners of that gay and busy world, by mix­ing with which, I fondly flatter myself, he will re­turn with double relish to the rational and elegant pleasures of a domestic life, and the embraces of his ever affectionate

To Miss Seymour.

Well, Louisa, here I am, in a vortex of delight, in cash, in health, and in spirits. How long they may last, I know not, but am resolved they shall not lie a dead stock on my hands.

You are very unkind;—you, who have not one earthly thing to do, but rise and go to bed, and go to bed and rise—to be a whole week without writing! Intolerable.—I, whose every moment is precious, can affirm, that I have thought of you at least once every day since we parted. What a noble, what a singular instance of modern friend­ship!

I hear you have been visiting at Hawthorn­hill.—Pray, my dear, what is become of poor Sir [Page 54] William? Is that woe-fraught heart of his still un­broken? Surely i [...] must be made of harder materi­als than even the flint and adamant, of which he alledges mine is formed.—If no birchen inhabitant of the adjacent wood yet bows under the weight of him and his sorrows, or if there are no hempen cords in the neighbourhood, I will myself remove this obstacle to his release, rather than suffer the poor wretch to pine away, and wither in his bloom. But you need not declare my intentions to the world, as, in the case of such donations, I would hate to appear oftentatious; besides, if he hangs himself at once, he will be deprived of a thousand opportuni­ties of convincing me of the violence of his passion, by being tortured with doubt, racked with fear, drowned in despair, and overwhelmed with appre­hension.

A-propos, of this same disease called Love: Do you know, it is actually become epidemical here! and I am not without some apprehension of sharing the general fate.

The symptoms of this malady are so various, I cannot pretend to enumerate them; but, in order to put you on your guard, I shall mention those that are most frequent.

Some are seized with silence and stupor; others are inspired with sudden phrenzy. Some feel an insatiable thirst for gold; others are sensible of a violent longing after—the goods and chattels of their neighbours.

What the ancients thought of this disorder, I cannot say; but they and the moderns differ widely [Page 55] in their manner of treating it. The former recom­mended absence, change of objects, and, in extre­mity, death itself. The latter only prescribe a bit­ter potion called Matrimony, which is found effica­cious, even in the most desperate cases. It is, indeed, a severe remedy, and gives the patient such a loath­ing, that, in case of a relapse, he hardly ever has recourse to it a second time.

I cannot bear to think of your spending the whole winter in the country.—I protest, Louisa, before the end of it, you will be fit for no other society than that of bats, owls, Thomas-a-Kempis, and dowagers of quality.—What would thousands here give, for a pair of such bright eyes as you ri­vet a whole day to your book or embroidery? Turn them at least sometimes towards your pen, ink, and paper, and give more heart-felt pleasure than any which London can afford, to

To the same.

I sit down to scold you, Louisa; and if you tell me it is an improper occupation for a lady, I can answer, that my propensity is not to be controuled. This, you know, is the language of that sex, who pretend to be our superiors in understanding, yet scruple not to plead irresistible impulse, whenever they violate its dictates: Now, as we are allowed to be the weaker vessels, our impulses must confessedly be still more irresistible than their's.

[Page 56] How can you load me so unmercifully with praise?—When undeserved, as in my case, it be­comes the most humiliating censure. But as I am not ignorant of the magical powers of self-love, who, with the same optics, can magnify natural ta­lents to the size of cardinal virtues, and diminish real faults to that of amiable weaknesses, I must warn you not so lavishly to bestow that sweet potion on me, lest the cunning sorceress convert the balm in­to aconite.—You should reflect too, my dear girl, that in praising your friend you are lavishing enco­miums on yourself; for our sentiments are alike on most subjects, and every talent with which nature hath endowed me, you possess in a much superior degree.

Here I anticipate a lecture on the part of Hu­mility; but let that scrupulous virgin consult with her sister Truth, before she enter her caveat against this last sentence. I will then trust my cause to be plead by Friendship, against your advocate, Modes­ty, whom, in spite of having wronged you a thou­sand times, you still retain in your service; and, farther, you may be pleased to inform her, that if she cites me to answer for partiality at the bar of Opi­nion, I will instantly appeal to Judgment, whose se­cretary, Common-sense, has assured me, that I shall come off with credit and reputation.

Is it not humiliating, Louisa, to the boastful pride of man, to feel how much this etherial spirit of his is affected by mechanical causes?—A cold day damps his hopes, a dark one clouds his pros­pects, and a week of rain drowns him in the depths of despondent melancholy! But no sooner does the sky clear, the clouds disperse, and the sun shine, [Page 57] than his hopes revive, his prospects brighten, his dejection vanishes, and the aspect of every object is changed to the eye of his enlivened imagina­tion.

Perhaps you will alledge, that mine has directed the pencil, in the piece I have just been drawing. Alas! no; Experience traced the outline, and Truth finished the picture.

Three days of thick fog have so altered my temper, that I am persuaded the ill success of Sir William's suit has been occasioned by his making love to me in the month of November.—Mine for you, Louisa, is fixed beyond the reach of every thing, except the chilling frost of indifference; and I date venture to affirm, will know no change from times or seasons, but glow with as equal and fer­vent a heat amidst the snows of December, as in the sultry dog-days.—Adieu.

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

Our conviction, my dear friend, insensibly co­incides with our inclination. You have taught me to believe that my letters give you pleasure: I am too happy in being able to do so, not to embrace every occasion of addressing you. The praises I be­stow on you, my dear Lady Charlotte, are from the heart;—you are sufficiently acquainted with its ge­nuine language, to give credit to this assertion; and surely would not wish me either to disguise or sup­press its dictates, when writing to you.

[Page 58] I cannot agree with you, "that in praising you, I am lavishing encomiums on myself." You for­get that we always incline to contemn what we al­ready enjoy, and admire what we do not possess.—I must not, however, be perverse, or attempt to im­pose on you by my sophistry. However this may hold with respect to the goods of fortune, it does not apply to the gifts of nature. It is confessed, we are all sufficiently disposed to over-value our mental qualifications.

Do not be afraid to scold me, whenever you think I require such discipline. Though you have heard me confess, that I would suffer extreme pain on being told my faults by a person I loved, from the dread of forfeiting their esteem, this is unpar­donable weakness. What friend expects to find us perfect?—and who is so proper to correct, so like­ly to reform us, as those we love?—Let me conjure you then, my dear Lady Charlotte, to tell me can­didly whenever you see me fall into any error, that I may prove, by my eagerness to amend it, how de­sirous I am of becoming all you wish me to be.

Nothing, I am persuaded, is so fatal, either to the interests of love or friendship, as those little dis­gusts which take their rise from trifles, but which, by alarming the delicacy, and wounding the pride of affection, by being often ren [...]wed, increase in­sensibly to coldness, indifference, dislike—nay, aver­sion itself. We ought not to expect perfection; but in all connections of the heart we ought care­fully to avoid giving pain, by discovering our own imperfections.

I entirely agree with my friend, in thinking the observance of the lesser morals highly requisite [Page 59] in such connections. But if a very nice attention to these become necessary, will not this occasion restraint? and does not restraint, like a secret poi­son, impair the very vitals of friendship?—Me­thinks, along with that fearfulness of offending, which flows from goodness of heart, there should be an equal aversion to taking offence. Indeed, if we are at pains to examine our own minds, we shall find, that security of meeting with indulgence, is the first thing that prompts to unbounded confi­dence.

We are at present on a visit at Lord Salisbu­ry's; one of the noblest and most extensive estates in this country. But there is an air of sullen and solitary grandeur about it, that depresses the spirits, and dissatisfies the heart.—How unlike the cheer­ful, hospitable Castle of Hastings!

The houses of five gentlemen in this neighbour­hood are desolate and tenantless, and their estates swallowed up in that of Lord Salisbury. This cruel depopulation deprives him and his family of the most essential blessing of life—an agreeable society.—Ah! if to be feared, disliked, deserted—if to possess a palace whose apartments are uninhabited, a territory where one can never hope to meet "the human face divine"—if this is to be rich and great, may Heaven preserve from wealth and grandeur

To Lord Hastings.

I have often thought, my dear Henry, that there is not a more surprising principle in the mind [Page 60] of man, than that by which he is led on from day to day, in pursuit of a felicity, which, in the calm hour of reflection, he will acknowledge to be unat­tainable whilst on earth.—Despising the blessings which the present offers to his enjoyment, he rests all his hopes upon the future. Yet, alas! what more can he know of the future, than that it will resemble the past, which has already deceived, and grievously disappointed him?

Mankind, in their eager pursuit after happiness, overlook the means of obtaining it; for this eager­ness, leaving them no leisure to form just notions con­cerning the nature of their chief good, hurries them into a thousand wild and extravagant schemes, ab­solutely destructive of it. By such men, happiness is believed to consist in a quick succession of rap­turous enjoyments, where every desire obtains its completion, and every pursuit is crowned with suc­cess.

Now, it is evident, that such felicity is abso­lutely incompatible with our present state of disci­pline, where plenty is the fruit of toil, health the effect of temperance, rest the reward of labour, and pleasure the concomitant of pain; where virtue must be tried by adversity, and the character formed by frequent acts of fortitude and self-denial.

But, further, mankind err, in affixing to par­ticular situations and circumstances, the idea of a quality which results from the exercise of worthy and generous affections, and the harmony of a pi­ous and well-regulated mind.

The same objects do not affect any two of the human species exactly in the same manner.—The [Page 61] serious and contemplative find their chief enjoy­ment in the retired walks of life, in exploring the treasures of science, and contemplating the beauti­ful and sublime of nature.—To the young and gay, society affords variety of pleasures; the indolent find their's in ease, and the active in business.—How vain is it then to affirm, that happiness results from a fortunate combination of external circum­stances, when we see, that it must vary with every different mode of situation, constitution, and taste.

Let us try then, by forming just notions of our present state, to determine what must constitute our greatest happiness: Let us consider ourselves as placed here, not long to suffer, or exquisitely to enjoy; but by properly maintaining our allotted part, to prepare ourselves for future enjoyment.

Objects of high gratification are rare, and dif­ficult to be acquired; and our anguish, when de­prived of them, must ever be proportionable to the transport they have afforded us. Objects of com­placency and satisfaction are always within reach of a benevolent heart and well-regulated mind; and when Providence demands them from us, we can resign them, without that poignant regret which in­capacitates the soul for the enjoyment of such as remain.

Let us then endeavour, by habituating our­selves to be satisfied with such temperate pleasures as are easily attained, and suited to our present cir­cumstances, to cultivate that healthful cheerfulness and equality of temper which disposes us to view the best side of life, which gives a zest to all its in­nocent pleasures, and which we can never know, [Page 62] whilst, restless and unsatisfied, we grasp at an ima­ginary bliss, and forfeit substantial peace, in vainly striving for exquisite enjoyment.

You tell me, that "bad health has at times an influence, even on the gentle temper of Dr. Mel­ville." Remember, my dear Hastings, it is the pe­culiar privilege, as well as province of friendship, not only to bear with the little sallies of passion and peevishness, to which all of human kind are liable, but, with superior delicacy, to steal from us our vexations and inquietudes, without [...]eeming to perceive that they exist.

We are all pretty well, except Miss Seymour, who looks very thin and pale, but assures me she has no complaint. We have been going a round of visits, which, I hope, will amuse her; she is too thoughtful and studious, but always amiable. She joins your mother and me, in wishes for your safety, and regrets for your absence, which seems to be felt by all, but by none more than

To Miss Seymour.

—The clock strikes eleven—one hour yet re­mains of this departing year; let it be an hour of solemn reflection; let it be devoted to my friend!

How like a confused and troubled dream, do the last twelve months appear?—Ah, Louisa! would [Page 63] to Heaven they would bear away with them our vain inquietudes and sinful sorrows!—Who can look back on the past, without self-reproach, or antici­pate the eventful future, without timid apprehen­sion?

May perfect confidence in the divine goodness, which we have so often experienced, and in the divine wisdom, which we profess to venerate, quiet every anxious wish and turbulent emotion of our souls, and preserve them in that state of cheerful sereni­ty, which philosophy vainly laboured to introduce into the restless heart of man.

It was with much reason, my Louisa, that I urged you, whilst young, to extend the circle of your amicable connections. When any of these are dissolved in afte [...] life, the soul revolts from the idea of entering into new alliances, or of suffering the tender enthusiastic attachments of youth to be succeeded by the dull, frigid, cautious connections of interest or prudence.

The fate of the gentle Constance, is a melan­choly proof of the danger of resting all our hopes on one object, and deriving all our pleasures from one source.—You know, some time before your ar­rival in France, she lost her amiable and only friend. Accustomed from childhood to a daily interchange of kind offices, and boundless affection, the death of Agnes not only robbed her of all her enjoyment, but even deprived her of power to enjoy. After vainly struggling, in obedience to duty, to recover the vigour of her exhausted mind, in the tumult of the world, she was permitted to retire from it, and to follow her inclination, in striving to moderate, [Page 64] in the quiet of retirement, that deep-rooted sorrow, which death alone could cure.

I well remember, the first time you saw the silent dejected mourner, you remarked, that there was something in her very look and manner, which strongly indicated her nearness to Heaven—a puri­ty, a sensibility, an abstraction, which convinced one she would not long be a sojourner in this vale of tears.—Accordingly, she has bidden an eternal adieu to it, and, I trust, is again associated with her kindred spirit, in the realms of light, and truth, and love, where their services shall know no inter­ruption, and their felicity no end.

The wonderful affection which united the very souls of these friends, was allowed, I fear, to exceed the bounds prescribed by reason and duty. It was such a copious and overflowing tide, as laid waste, or swallowed up in its course, many of those kind and lesser benevolences due to society; whose sour­ces, perhaps, remained in their hearts, but whose streams were not sufficiently diffused through their lives.

The gentle Constance has fallen a victim to the indulgence of that exquisite sensibility, so sooth­ing and flattering to young minds, and which a thousand circumstances, in this region of sorrows, are ever at hand to cherish. From the natural de­licacy of her constitution, on which her mind has doubtless had a powerful influence, her peace, her health, even her life, has been sacrificed to this de­lightful, but fatal tenderness. With this nervous­ness of soul, it was impossible for her to taste of happiness in a world where vice is so prevalent, and [Page 65] misfortune so irremediable.—The miseries of hu­man life were to her an insurmountable obstacle to the enjoyment of its blessings: And unless her friends could have borne to see her become less amiable and interesting, they never could hope to behold her more happy.—Joined to this endearing weakness, Constance possessed a temper so reserved, that many [...]stook for pride what was the effect of diffidence alone. Hence she was less generally be­loved than many who were her inferiors in every quality, but that unreservedness which is as often the effect of a weak and intemperate mind, as of a warm and generous heart.

Such was Constance! So ill fitted for this world, so desirous of another, should those who loved her, regret her early escape from this dark region of shadows? And whilst Time, like a silent thief, is daily pilfering from our little hoard of com­fort, should we, my Louisa, wish to linger here, till he has robbed us of all?

It is the natural effect of grief, to unhinge the mind, and render us superstitious: Were I to in­dulge the present suggestions of mine, I would be­lieve, that I was not long to survive my friend.—This, my Louisa, is a soothing, but a very selfish idea. When I know that my life is the object of your prayers and wishes, ought not this considera­tion to give it value in my eyes?—It shall, my love; and if Heaven is pleased to prolong it, I will yet indulge the pleasing hope of once more embracing my friend.

To Miss Seymour.

I think I told you lately, Louisa, that matri­mony was become epidemical here. They are re­solved not only to have me married, but in love too!—Was ever any thing so unreasonable?—My father dined yesterday at the French ambassador's, where he was introduced to the young earl of Leister, who is just returned from the grand tour; elegant, po­lite, handsome, rich; and, if I may credit the Mar­quis, he has collected all the improvements, graces, and accomplishments, that ever were acquired by travelling, and brought them home in a bundle, for the good of his countrymen. I hope he will have the charity to bestow some of them on his fellow­peers, who, if want forms a claim, may surely make large demands on his bounty. Perhaps, in return, they may teach him one science, of which, with all his acquirements, he may be still ignorant; I mean—cookery. I have heard a member of par­liament descant more learnedly on a receipt for a pasty, than he could have done on the bill of rights; and lately ate a beef-steak dressed by a peer, which the Grand Monarque's cook needed not to be asham­ed of. Considering the shortness of human life, if a man arrive at perfection in one art, it is all that can reasonably be expected. It would really be unconscionable to suppose that Lord Dale must be both a first-rate cook and a pillar of the state.

Tell me, Louisa, my dear serious girl, how is all going on at the Castle? Doubtless in the same dull, unvarying round of rational enjoyment and domestic duty. Ah! my friend, to mind like your's, these may be satisfactory; but my pleasures must have a higher flavour, a more poignant relish, [Page 67] the exquisite zest of dear variety. Tell me honest­ly, Louisa, do you never envy me the possession of such?

My father is gone to the play: I had devoted this whole evening to you; was in the very humour for addressing you in the style you love, serious, sententious, and sentimental; when a servant came to inform me, that Mr. Danvers, a gentleman my father had invited to supper, was in the parlour.

It was but just eight—strangers to each other, the prospect was dismal. We canvassed the affairs of state, and amusements of the season, till we found we had worn both subjects thread-bare: We yawn­ed, we sidgeted, we spoke, we were silent, and my chagrin and vexation increased every moment;—some sulky hints were dropped of letters to write—of the tedious length of the play, &c. &c. Ah, Louisa! was this like your friend?—I felt that it was not!

This is a stranger, whispered Hospitality.—What injury has he done you? demanded Justice.—He knows not that he has offended, said Conscience.—He would not have treated you unkindly, sighed that Charity which suffereth long, and is patient.—There was no resisting this plea: My blood took a "moral flow," and covered my cheek with blushes; I summoned every perverse particle that had soured the milk of human kindness in my breast, and ex­ [...]rcised them with such fury, as, I trust, will for ever prevent these diabolians from returning.

The pure spirit of benevolence now took possessi­on of my heart, and rendered me so docile, that I [Page 68] accompanied the stranger to Grand Cairo, without one symptom of fatigue or inattention;—which I fancy is more than you can say, after reading this long letter:—Therefore adieu.

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

I participate sincerely, my dear Lady Char­lotte, in every thing which contributes to your en­joyment; but cannot envy you the possession of pleasures which I never could relish. Surely Hea­ven has annexed to those that are simple and natu­ral, a charm unknown to the votaries of luxury and fal [...]e refinement.

Friendship, reflection, devotion, and retire­ment, supply real enjoyment to a temperate mind; but the manners, and, far more, the vices of the world, wear off the keen edge of that delicate sensi­bility which is the general organ by which all ex­quisite pleasure is conveyed to the soul.

It is the misfortune of young women in parti­cular, who are trained in the gay world, to have their native abhorrence of vice insensibly lessened, by being familiarised to it, and hearing many things talked of there with ease, which they ought never to think of, but with horror. In particular, they should be left in ignorance, both of the licenti­ous manners of men, and the pernicious and libertine principles on which they pretend to vindicate them. To make girls acquainted with such, is like placing edge-tools in the hands of a child, with which, una­ble to use them, it will certainly destroy itself.

[Page 69] Such, in my opinion, ought to be the purity of the female mind, that a virtuous woman would feel herself criminal, in thinking of what a vicious man will not scruple to act.

But, my dear Lady Charlotte, though I do not share in your turbulent pleasures, think not that I am without your loved variety. In the course of eight weeks, we have visited as many neighbouring families, some of whom would afford subjects suited exactly to your lively pen. We are at present at Squire Randall's, who, to all his other practices, adds that of physic: He compounds an eye-water, in particular, which was never once known to fail, though its qualities are directly opposite to Lethe's, as it smarts the patient too severely to let him for­get his care.—It grieves me to see so many caresses and so much white meat, bestowed by the good lady on a parcel of senseless, sorry cats. Heaven seems to have endowed all its creatures with a cer­tain portion of affection, which must be expended: Some lavish it on deserving, some on unworthy ob­jects. A dog, a cat, a man, or a monkey, usually engrosses the hearts of our sex;—pleasure, interest, ambition, are the idols to which the other sacrifice. Which of us makes the wisest choice, I leave you to determine.

You tell me, "you can have no conception of a heaven, without the society of your friends." Perhaps, by the time you have known some of them ten years, you may alter your opinion. Meantime, as we are left in ignorance of celestial enjoyments, I think you have as good a right as your neighbours, to form an elys [...]um to your mind; and, perhaps, may be as near the truth, as those sublime theo [...]o­gists, [Page 70] who give us as minute a description of paradise as if they had just returned from thence.

My dear Lady Charlotte, I have asked you twenty times, without receiving an answer, When do you think of returning to the country?—I be­gin to have no small jealousy of Lord Leister.—Would my heart were as light as your head, and your absence as short as your memory!—Adieu.—In all situations and humours, continue to remem­ber your truly affectionate

To Lord Hastings.

I share in your pleasures, my dear Henry, whilst wandering with a tender and reverential me­lancholy, through scenes for ever hallowed by the efforts of genius, valour, and virtue. To tread those paths where every foot is classic ground, can­not fail to inspire a mind like your's with those sub­lime ideas, and solemn reflections, which are akin to those exalted spirits we then admire; and which by freely communicating, you give pride, as well as joy, to the heart of your father.

What you tell me of the miserable fate of Tal­bot, shocks me beyond measure. How short, how shameful has been his career! how guilty, how dreadful its close!—What a melancholy proof does he exhibit of the fatal effects of early and vicious habits.

Though passion is a violent and insolent master, it will sometimes relax of its severity; but habit is [Page 71] an obdurate and relentless tyrant, that holds the mind enslaved in cruel and perpetual bondage.

Besides the unbounded indulgence of criminal propensities, another cause has contributed to the ruin of the wretched Talbot. You know his mind, naturally active and inquiring, was early poisoned by the maxims of modern philosophy and scepti­cism. Surely men are not aware of the consequen­ces, when they publish their libertine opinions to the world. They usually claim the title of moral men; but what can be more immoral than such conduct? Their metaphysical subterfuges, and so­phistical arguments, are only calculated to lull the voice of conscience, and give scope to every lawless appetite to tyrannise with impunity. Meanwhile, the unhappy vulgar, deprived alike of ability and leisure for reflection, and prone to indulge to the same excesses, implicitly acquiesce in the opinions, and eagerly follow the example of their superiors. What should we think of the man, who could snatch from the sinking mariner, the plank on which his last hope depended?—Inhuman, far more in­human is he, who, in midst of the dangers which continually surround us, can rob us of that hope which is the anchor of the soul, and plunge us in the perplexity of doubt and horror of despair.

The bulk of our species, my dear Henry, em­ploy themselves not in abstract speculation, but in concerting schemes of pleasure and emolument: they affix the idea of happiness to the possession of certain favourite objects, and expect, with impati­ence, the hour that shall ensure their felicity, by the completion of their wishes: that hour arrives; but alas! it brings only heaviness and disappoint­ment. [Page 72] Again they indulge the same fond hopes, again renew the unsuccessful cha [...]e, till, tired at length of their vain pursuits, they resign themselves, in old age, to peevish discontent, and, without hope or comfort, drop unlamented in the grave.

How different is the course of that man, whose conduct is regulated by true wisdom—who consi­ders this life in connection with the next—who moderates his desires, and preserves the powers of his mind in equal balance!—His wishes can ne­ver be disappointed, because the object of them is immutable; his schemes can never be frustrated, because they are built on the foundation of truth; and time, which accelerates the destruction of all things mortal, speeds on the hour of his safety, his triumph, his everlasting joy!

We are once more returned to the Castle, with that sweet satisfaction which home affords to those who are happy in their domestic connections, and endowed by Heaven with the true relish for happiness.

We have found all your favourites in health, and wanting you, bestow on them the kindness due to their master. I ride Sorrel with much pleasure during the [...]ine weather. Old Cato, in imperial state and ease, rests on a cushion, by the side of the fire, in your mother's dressing-room;—and little Phyllis is fed every day by the fair hand of Miss Seymour, whom she gratefully caresses, and attends in all her solitary rambles.

Farewel, my beloved son;—may the Supreme Disposer of all events render the journey of life [Page 73] both pleasant and prosperous, as far as may be safe for you! So prays sincerely

To Miss Seymour.

All is over, Louisa!—my fate is determined—Lord Leister is the man.—But to proceed in order.

I have been in the most delightful hurry these eight days past, making preparations for my first appearance at court. Accordingly I was presented yesterday, and just as I was returning to the bot­tom of the circle, to avoid those scrutinising eyes that were turned on me from every quarter, mine encountered the most striking figure I ever beheld.—I could be at no loss with regard to the person, who was no other than the Earl of Leister him­self.—He had waited a few minutes at the lower end of the room, till the ceremony of my introduc­tion was over, and then went through the same himself, with a grace and dignity that drew upon him a number of encomiums, and shewed that he was familiar in the courts of princes.

He was received very graciously by the sove­reign, who conversed with him for several minutes;—he then paid his compliments in the politest man­ner to my father, who brought him round, and presented him to me.—I kn [...]w not what was the matter, Louisa; but I felt myself far more embar­rassed with his notice, than that of his Majesty.

[Page 74] We are to sup together this evening at the Duke of Marlborough's: I shall then be able to tell you a little more of my mind. If his intellects bear any proportion to his form and manners, I am un­done!—But as I cannot be in love with a fool, and he is an earl, I have two chances in favour of my freedom.

So our sage philosophical friend has got a son!—Poor little urchin, it has made its appearance too soon in the world, and I fear will hardly have fair play for continuing in it. I suppose, by this time, its learned father, in the sublimity of metaphysical madness, is busied in investigating the cause of its first squall, exploring the number of its in [...]ate ideas, analising the milk with which it is nourished, cor­recting its propensities, thwarting its desires, and, by grieving its nurse, provoking its aunts, and per­plexing its mother, is converting the joyful gratu­lations of the wholefemale gossips, into sullen mur­murs, discontent, and disappointment.—Were I his wife, I should consent to his amusing himself in his study with plans of education, as absurd and impracticable as any of those with which vanity and ignorance have pestered mankind;—but would surely contend for the exclusive possession of my little treasure during the first year, when an infant is confessedly the most improper of all subjects for whim to try experiments upon.

After experiencing the warmth of June in the end of February, the cold of last week has been intolerably severe, and has occasioned universal murmurs.—Thus, when the cold blasts of misfor­tune assail us, we forget the days of sunshine we have [Page 75] enjoyed, and convert the past bounty of Heaven in­to means of increasing our present discontents.

You see, Louisa, it is possible for a fine lady sometimes to be serious.

Be assured, in every situation, circumstance, and humour, you are remembered, esteemed, and beloved, by

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

"Indeed, my dear Lady Charlotte, I am incli­ned to echo your opinion.—Yes, your fate is de­termined, and Lord Leister is the man."—A friend of Lord Granville's, who met with him abroad, has given me his character in terms that might sooth even the partial ear of a mistress.—I long to hear your's; as I do not think you are yet so much in love, as to make me distrust the evidence either of your judgment or senses.

Lord Granville came into the room some days ago, with a letter from his son in his hand, contain­ing an account of the shocking fate of Sally's sedu­cer, Talbot, with whom Lord Hastings had been acquainted at college.—Having involved himself so much by every species of extravagance, that he could not any longer continue in England, he bor­rowed a considerable sum from his young friends, on pretence of going to take possession of an estate in Wales, left him by a relation; and embarking at Dover, made the best of his way to Paris.—As his [Page 76] rage for gaming was unconquerable, he soon was discovered to have money, by a company of sharp­ers, who fleeced him of every guinea. That even­ing he lost his last stake, he went home and wrote a letter to his unhappy father, attempting to justify his conduct on the principles of modern infidelity. He then, with his own hand, put an end to that life, which guilt had rendered obnoxious to others, and a burden to himself.—Ah! my friend, what a dismal, what a shocking exit.

Ye, whom the love of fame, or pride of sin­gularity, conducts into the dismal labyrinths of error, in pity to mankind, remain contented with your fancied superiority, your boasted discoveries. But leave them, O leave them, in happy ignorance! Expose them not to the perplexity of doubt, or the anguish of suspense; deprive them not of those consolatory hopes, obscure not to them those glo­rious prospects, which alone can render life sup­portable. Consider, that with one half of your species, the hope of the future is all of good the present affords.—Alas! would you then wish to deprive them of their all?

My dear Lady Charlotte, ought we to speak of distress, with whose sorrow neither guilt nor shame is mingled?—When we shed the tear of nature or friendship over those we love, we feel our virtues increased, our sentiments ennobled by the generous sorrow;—but who dare mention the name of Talbot to his afflicted father, or renew his shame, and redouble his anguish, by expressing compassion?

Happy are they, who, amidst the darkness and perplexity of this toilsome journey, keep their eyes [Page 77] fixed on that land of rest to which it conducts them.—Who neither annoy their fellow-travellers by un­kindness nor injustice; but, by a thousand gentle and quiet attentions, strive to lighten their burdens, and beguile the length of the way—and who, by every new discovery of human error and frailty, learn to be more watchful over themselves, and more indulgent to the weakness of others.—Adieu.

To Lord Hastings.

On going into the library this morning, I found your friend, Miss Seymour, seated there, with her favourite Shakespeare, whose Twelfth Night she was reading; and whose touching por­trait of Viola she at present resembles more nearly than we could wish.—She has lost much of her usual blooming healthy aspect, which gives us much concern. She is truly a most amiable and intelli­gent young creature, and almost tempts me to dis­pute our sex's claim to superior judgment and abi­lities.

For my part, the more I know of the world, the more equality I discover between the sexes; and it must be allowed the other have this in their favour, that with hearts more susceptible, and judg­ments less informed, they are often able, through the strength of principle alone, to resist and con­quer those passions, to which we give unbounded licence, in spite of that superior strength of mind, by which we pretend to be distinguished.

The characteristics of the two sexes are widely different:—to ours belong the bold, hardy active [Page 78] virtues; to theirs the patient, gentle, amiable gra­ces.—How absurd is it then to draw comparisons between the two, when the comparative excellence of each must depend on their di [...]s [...]militude?

The female heart, my dear Henry, is naturally tender and unsuspicious; and before mixing with the world, ignorance of its manners, vanity, or self­love, often leads young women to construe into marks of a particular preference, those little atten­tions and gallantries, which result from complacen­cy and good breeding alone.—Let me advise you, when in company with the other sex, to avoid too minute complaisance—to wrap yourself up in your natural reserve, and rather to appear less amiable, that you may prove more truly estimable.—Won­der not at this advice; it [...]lows from observation and long acquaintance with life. You can hardly con­ceive the distress in which many women have been involved by the vanity and inconsiderateness of men—of men too, who would shrink with h [...]rror from the idea of cruelty, at the very instant, when, by their misleading and too pointed attentions, they are laying the foundation of misery in those gentle bo­soms, whose most ardent wish is their happiness.

Your observation is certainly just;—our pas­sions are always superficial in their inquiries, and impetuous in their sallies. Reason, on the contrary, is accurate and slow. Hence the former often mis­lead the mind, before the latter arrives to direct it in the right path.—Miserable state of man! ex­claims the caviller: How useless that boasted facul­ty!—too tardy to oppose our impulses, it comes but to upbraid us for yielding to them.

[Page 79] Such complaints, however, are as ill-founded as they are peevish.—Omniscience has assigned us another co-adjutor in the task of self-government—conscience—which remonstrates against every vici­ous tendency, with a promptitude which equals thought in quickness. Let us submit, then, to the tuition of this faithful instructor. He is the Al­mighty's delegate, and therefore his dictates must be right. Mankind may indeed wrest his language to guilty purposes; but this does not disparage him; on the contrary, it is an evidence of his integrity; for if his obvious meaning were not reprehensive of their vices, they would hardly be at so much pains to misinterpret his speech.

May we, my son, ever listen attentively to his gentlest remonstrances; and act such a part now as shall secure his future approbation.—Adieu.

To Miss Seymour.

My Louisa will undoubtedly be anxious to know something more than common report, of a man who already interests the heart of her friend, and who distinguishes me by a preference equally obvious and flattering.

Lord Leister discovers, on every occasion, a sound judgment and a correct taste;—a delicate sense of propriety, a constant, not too eager desire to oblige, arising from a wish to make others happy, rather than to be distinguished himself; a refined humanity, a just discernment, and, above all, a mo­desty [Page 80] so engaging and unassuming, as adds a lustre to his other good qualities.—These I have already had opportunity to discriminate; and, you may be­lieve, am inclined to give him credit for at least a hundred more.

Whilst we were sitting yesterday on one of the benches in the Park, a genteel young woman, whose countenance expressed the deepest sorrow, approached, with a little child in her hand, who seemed extremely fatigued; but on seeing the bench occupied, was about to retire.—To the unfortunate, more than ordinary attention is due.—I begged her to sit down, and Lord Leister, with great humani­ty, took the sweet little boy on his knee. Good-manners prevented me from asking any questions of the afflicted lady, whose spirits seemed so de­pressed, that it was with difficulty she could restrain her tears. In a few minutes the child got up, and, taking hold of her hand, ‘Come, mama, said he, in a cheerful tone, I am able to walk now—let us go home to poor papa.’ She rose to thank me; but on attempting to speak, the anguish of her heart denied her utterance, and she burst into a flood of tears.—I begged to know the cause of her extreme agitation, and assured her I should feel myself hap­py in the power either to assist or relieve her.

She told me, that she was niece to Lord—;whom, by marrying an officer of family, but no fortune, she had for ever disobliged: That her hus­band, whose name was Williams, having received a wound in his breast, which entirely ruined his health, was obliged to return to England, where he had languished in all the misery which neglect, po­verty, and disease can inflict on a noble and inge­nuous [Page 81] spirit: That she had made many applicati­ons to her uncle, and their other great friends, or rather relations, who had not only refused them as­sistance, but, by insolence and contempt, had em­bittered all their sufferings!

Gracious Heaven! is it not enough to make the noble mind feel the whole weight of dependence, by being forced, with shame, to implore that relief which ought to be voluntarily bestowed? Must the breaking heart be torn with unkindness? Must un­merited contempt and reproach render the cup of grief, and the bread of misery, still more bitter?—Is it really then, in the eyes of this generation, a crime to be poor?—Surely, to revile the unfortu­nate, is to reproach that Being by whom the lot of every creature is disposed!

We accompanied Mrs. Williams to the entry of Spring-garden, where my carriage waited. On handing me in, Lord Leister begged me to stop a few minutes, whilst, with an attentive humanity worthy of himself, he carried Mrs. Williams and her son into the neighbouring coffee-house, and pro­cured them some refreshment. We then set them down near Golden-square, where Lord Leister as­sured her, he would soon wait on Captain Willi­ams.

It is alledged, that prosperity renders us care­less of the happiness of our fellow-creatures. For my part, Louisa, I have ever felt my concern for the welfare of others, bear a proportion to my own felicity. Nor is this wonderful: Conscious that, for wise ends, Heaven hath so constituted mankind, that they cannot so cordially sympathise in our joys [Page 82] as our sorrows, we are afraid to forfeit the benevo­lent regards of our species, by appearing to triumph in that prosperity, which places us beyond the reach of their good offices. Hence the strong propensity we feel, to aggravate the account of our distresses, and to touch lightly on those peculiar marks of good fortune, by which we may be distinguished.

You once told me, that to receive obligations, gave you pain; which you attributed to the pride of your heart. Favours and obligations, my dear Louisa, are terms unknown to real friendship. To bestow a favour on a friend, is to confer happiness on one's self; and to receive an obligation, is in some measure to repay it, by supplying one's friend with an opportunity of tasting the most refined pleasure.

But though I respect too highly every feeling of your heart, ever willingly to do violence to any of them, it surely cannot give you pain to accept of a very small gift from one, who is ambitious of a very large share of your esteem; and who means not this trifle as expressive of her regard, but of her earnest desire of being sometimes remembered by you while at a distance—But should I indeed of­f [...]nd you by my present, in your indulgence I will trust for my pardon. I flatter myself too, that your justice is equal to your elemency; and, therefore, that you will believe me unfeignedly your loving, admiring, devoted friend,

To the same.

You date your last letter eight o'clock, Sun­day evening, and maliciously inquire, "how I am [Page 83] employed at that hour?"—Fie, fie, Louisa; was this done in the spirit of Christian charity?—Can you have any doubt about the matter? But lest you should, I will honestly inform you.

Know then, that at eight o'clock on Sunday e­vening, I was employed—not like you, in saying my prayers, or reading dull sermons, for that I had dis­patched already—not in supplying the want of cards, by want of compassion and principle, and, under pretence of harmless conversation, tearing to pieces the reputation of my neighbours—not very like a saint, nor yet like a sinner—not quite like an angel, nor just like a devil; but like a being who is a compound of all the four—A WOMAN: In short, I was employed in trying on a charming new cap at the glass, in which I was to meet Lord Leister next morning, to take our accustomed walk in the Park.

Do not think, however, I am altogether neg­lectful of my duties and devotions: I have just been reading over the service for matrimony, and considering the matter in a more serious light than I have ever done before. To love and honour, seem very easy terms in the matrimonial compact, but our sex boggle at the fearful word obey. Now, for my part, Louisa, I think the whole difficulty lies in the two first articles: Obedience is the natural effect of respect and affection; and if we cannot obey from love, we must from fear;—but how few are there among the other sex, whom we can swear through life to love?

You accuse me of indolence in not writing; and that which you condemn as a fault, compre­hends I know not how many virtues: Patience, [Page 84] mortification, and self-denial.—Indeed, my dear, the continual interruptions I meet with, call forth all these into exercise, when they force me to fore­go one of my chief enjoyments.

For once, however, I can resign my pen with pleasure, even though employed in writing to you. Would you were here, to share in the pleasure which this agreeable intruder conveys to the heart of

To Miss Seymour.

It is long since I addressed my friend—that friend who takes so tender an interest in all my sorrows!

Bad health gives a depressing languor to the mind, which indisposes it for every exertion.

This season, Louisa, this enchanting season awakens the remembrance of the past, and renews all my poignant and deep-rooted sorrows!—It was the season Grammont admired—it witnessed the commencement of the tenderest, truest affection that ever warmed two human hearts.

I see all nature reviving around me; but to me the soul of nature seems [...]led. I stri [...] to speak the delight I used to feel—but [...] to hear me!—I wander where we [...] toge­ther—I listen for the voice of [...]— [...] mark the flowers he planted, but the [...] tended them, and the tongue which blessed me, are silent in the dust!

[Page 85] I fear, Louisa, I greatly fear this idol of my affections has been to me that ALL IN ALL, which the blessed source of existence and perfection should alone be to his rational offspring.

All nature revives, but soon shall it reach its prime, and hasten to decay.—Louisa, the renovati­on which awaits us, will tend equally to our dura­tion and felicity. O happy, happy state! when we shall be no more liable to error, exposed to danger, nor subject to death! When we shall be perfect in virtue, incorruptible in substance, immortal in feli­city!

Oh, Grammont! pure and exalted spirit! art thou stin conscious to the sentiments of that heart thou lovedst, and which ever, ever must love thee?—Dost thou witness the generous joy of my soul, which exults in the reflection, that thou art for ever exempted from the bitter sorrows which over­whelm mine? Dost thou behold me checking every selfish regret, striving to support with courage that life I can no longer enjoy, confiding in the divine goodness, and acquiescing in the divine will?—Surely, if thou art conscious of these sentiment [...], thou must approve of them, as worthy of her thou lovedst; and to know that she merits thy approba­tion, must enhance to thee even the joys of Heaven.—Didst thou, even in the hour of death, strive to restore my peace, and shall I do nothing to regain it?—Is it by my tears alone that I am to preserve and consecrate thy memory?—Oh, no; I will strive, by imitating thy virtues, to shew that I have profited by thy example; that I hope ere long to be admitted to thy beloved society.

[Page 86] My heart speaks to my friend, and will not be restrained. This dangerous subject too much en­grosses it. At present I can write on no other—therefore adieu.

To the same.

The disordered and agitated state in which I last wrote, was but too apparent to my friend. But be not disquieted on my account—I have once more regained my usual tranquillity; and if I am not happy, I am at least serene.

When any terrestrial object is suffered to usurp the whole dominion of the heart, the intellectual oeconomy is utterly deranged, and the balance of the mind destroyed: Passion prevails over reason; prejudice obscures judgment, and inclination is sub­stituted in the place of conscience. Ought I then to consider as a misfortune, the only event which could restore me to my God and my duty, without giving me a severe idea of his government?

We fondly flatter ourselves that we have over­come the world, because, in times of deep distress, we feel a perfect indifference to its pleasures and pursuits. But, alas! though our deceitful passions may a while be lulled to rest, they will again be awakened by their proper objects, and, like a man swimming against a stream, we must either strug­gle hard to overcome its violence, or be borne back by its current.

To [...]ly in time of danger to a superior Being, is not the result of reasoning alone, but the imme­diate [Page 87] impulse of nature. How ought I to bless that kind and pitying Father, who, by making me feel the emptiness of earthly enjoyment, is bringing me gently back to himself; and who hath placed me here in circumstances so comfortable, as to ex­clude that solicitude about the future, which might prevent me from improving the present? Blessed be God, though to all the enjoyment of the present is not permitted, yet, by all, the hope of the future may be indulged.

Thus it is, my Louisa, that the lots of mankind, however various, are in some degree equal. The beneficent Parent of the universe hath allotted to all his creatures a portion of good; hath sweetened with health the cup of poverty, made plenty the reward of industry, and hope the companion of toil; and, by withholding the pleasures of taste and science, hath precluded from the heart of the la­bourer many of those restless desires, disgusts, and inquietudes, which poison the enjoyment of his morce refined, but less happy lord.

Adieu, my Louisa. I have now no friend to listen to my complaints; to suggest excuses for a passion too fondly indulged, a sorrow too long pro­tracted. Day after day insensibly comes to a close; one year steals upon another; yet a little while, and time itself shall be swallowed up in the vast ocean of eternity!—Let us reflect on the shortness of life, and resignation will scarce seem a virtue.—Adieu.

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

The agreeable method you take to correct the errors of your friend, cannot fail to insure my re­formation.—I accept your elegant present with sin­cere pleasure, and abjure my former heterodox opi­nions; convinced, that if they were to become ge­neral, there would be no room in the world for two most exalted virtues, generosity and gratitude.

I am charmed with the active benevolence of Lord Leister; which, in procuring a pension for Captain Williams, will probably excite some of his relations to exert themselves in behalf of his nume­rous young family: Shame often acts more pow­erfully on mankind than principle.

Why, oh why do the men of the world, the professed votaries of pleasure, deny themselves the exquisite delight arising from the indulgence of be­nevolence? Why destroy, by their excesses, their native relish of the tender and elegant pleasures which [...]low from the exercise of the generous and social affections?—To a feeling heart, benevolence is a spring of pure and constant satisfaction; nor do I know any scene so proper for its indulgence as the country. In towns and cities, the distresses of our fellow-creatures are so often the consequence of their vices, that, though principle and humanity may induce us to relieve them, we cannot feel for them that tender complacency and good-will which constitutes my idea of benevolence. In the coun­try, we can both judge of the desert of those who claim our pity, adjust our relief to their circumstan­ces, and enjoy the refined and exquisite pleasure of seeing the happy fruits of our beneficence.

[Page 89] Were I inclined to indulge that indolence of which you accuse me, I might use the common plea of having nothing to say; for at present I am as much a recluse, as if immured within the walls of a convent. But whatever arts conscience may acquire, from residing with the gay and polite in town (if ever he resides there) we cannot teach him to be silent, when we wish, here in the country. He stares me rudely in the face, whenever I at­tempt forming such frivolous excuses for laziness; and at this moment is so impertinent as to remind me, that the plea of having nothing to say, could never be admitted on the part of a woman, unless when in church, or asleep.—To say truth, Lady Charlotte, I and conscience are of the same mind for once. It is affirmed of some bodies, that, by their extreme velocity, they expend their force in a short time; but I have never heard that a woman's tongue was of that number—and, from my own observation, I should incline to think, that, in this instance, activity and heat increase motion.

I smile, my dear friend, to think on the differ­ent manner in which you and I spend our time: Whilst you are arranging the oeconomy of your toilet, I am visiting my dairy, or feeding my poul­try;—whilst you are hurried in preparing for an assembly, I am carelessly wandering towards nurse's cottage;—whilst you are listening with rapture to the warbling voice, or delicate concerto, I am heark­ening to the tremendous roar of the wind, through the high trees that surround Castle Hastings;—whilst your eyes sparkle at the sight of beaux, belles, and radiant lustres, my eyes are fixed on the pale lamp of evening;—whilst you are plunging into [Page 90] the gaieties of this world, I am almost sighing after the peaceful repose of the next.

Think not, by this comparison, I mean to de­preciate your merit and advance my own; neither of us can claim praise on account of following our inclination. Let us admire, however, the wisdom of Providence, which, by diversifying our tastes, prevents many dangerous competitions.

Adieu; and judge of the extent of my affec­tion by the length of my letter.

To Miss Seymour.

—Well, Louisa, all things go on swimmingly.—I really never saw so sensible and agreeable a man as Lord Leister: His choice is sufficient to prove the first, and his eyes tell me every moment that he thinks the very same of me. How fortu­nate is it, Louisa, when two such people are of one mind!

The world has already determined the match, and, though without consent of the parties, you know one must pay a due regard to the opinion of the world—when it happens to be one's own; tho', in affairs of this nature, it generally decides, before the parties themselves know any thing of the matter.

For my part, Lord Leister shall have my yea and amen, to take Lady Charlotte Villiers, for bet­ter, for worse, as soon as he pleases. She has long been a troublesome and vexatious companion to me; [Page 91] and that I have not sooner got rid of her, has been none of my fault, as all the world can witness.—As I never yet could make her what I wished, and have little hopes of a change from time, I have ad­vised her to turn all her thoughts towards a future state—(N. B. I do not mean Heaven—you cannot mistake me so far; neither do I at present think of purgatory.)—And I flatter myself, that, when all connection between her and I shall cease, Lord Leister will find in his wife, a more agreeable com­panion, a more docile pupil, a more sincere friend, and a more amiable woman, than I have hitherto found in Lady Charlotte Villiers.

Heavens, Louisa! is it really possible that the gay, young, beautiful Miss Stanley is married to Lord Anson?—I must have more than newspaper authority, before I can credit so monstrous, so pre­posterous an event.—Assuredly, Louisa, our sex hold it as part of their creed, that marriage is essen­tial to salvation, and that there is no place in Hea­ven for old maids.

That I may not be behind-hand with the world in congratulations, I send you a billet, fabricated in such a manner as will neither do violence to my friendship nor ingenuity; and beg you will con­vey it to her without delay.

MADAM,

On this joyful and singular occasion, permit me to join the circle of your friends, in wishing that your happiness may be greater than your merit, and exceed even your most sanguine expectation.

I have long entertained a high opinion of your sense and prudence—an opinion in which the whole [Page 92] world will readily acquiesce, now that you have preferred your interest to every other consideration. You judged rightly that you was past fifteen, the age of romance, and therefore love would have been superfluous in your list of marriage articles. If there be any virtue in self-denial and mortification, you have laid in a stock that will last for life; and if the consciousness of virtue be its reward, your's must be a rich one.—If it can add to happiness like your's, to reign unrivalled, I will venture to presage, that you will have no competitor for the possession of your empire: Your lot will indeed be singular, for your felicity will be unenvied; nor will even the most covetous or malicious seek to deprive you of it.

I am, Madam, with all that respect and es­teem due to merit, courage, and fortitude like your's,

To Lady Granville.

—I will not attempt painting, to my tenderly beloved parent, that grief, of which her own heart will give her but too just an image: I even fear to add to your extreme affliction, by the expressions of my own.—The pleasures of memory, the tenderness of friendship; above all, the consolations of religi­on, are your's. Let them, dearest Madam, have their full influence.

In the attentions and sympathy of Miss Sey­mour, you will doubtless find all the comfort on this occasion, which the balm of pity can pour into the wounds of grief. Soon shall my duteous cares be joined with her's, to sooth and support you, at this most afflicting period—Soon shall you be convin­ced, that it is the most ardent desire of my heart, and shall be the unremitting study of my life, to make you happy.

[Page 96] May God long preserve my dear mother, and restore to her affectionate bosom, her dutiful, affec­tionate, and sympathising son,

To Miss Seymour.

At length, my beloved, my admirable friend, your singular and superior virtues are going to meet with their just reward: The amiable Hastings has this moment left me. He acquainted me with the death of his father; and, whilst he expatiated on his worth and tender affection, the tear of filial piety and sorrow trembled in his eye, and for­ced its way down his manly cheek.

Why, my friend, should men blush to betray marks of that sensibility they so greatly admire in our sex?—However modelled by education, or restrained by custom, are not the leading features of the human mind the same in all the human species?—Let others applaud that stoical firmness, for which men are more frequently indebted to con­stitution than philosophy; I shall always think his [Page 97] character the most perfect, who unites sensibility with fortitude, and whose heart is ever ready to correct the severe strictures which his judgment is forced to make on the conduct of others.

He again introduced the subject of Rochelle [...] "I know, Madam," said he, "you have long been the bosom friend of Miss Seymour. May I pre­sume to ask whether there did not once subsist a very tender attachment between her and the Count?"—"Indeed, my Lord," said I, "they are almost en­tire strangers to each other."—"Good Heavens!" exclaimed he, passionately, "what am I to think?"—Then, after a pause, "It is in vain, Madam," continued he, "to attempt concealing from you the tender interest my heart takes in every thing that con­cerns Miss Seymour.—Oh! might I, consistently with honour, with delicacy, entreat to know, whe­ther that gentle heart is still disengaged?"—"My Lord," interrupted I, "this subject is too tender to be longer insisted upon."—"I confess it," replied he; "I implore your forgiveness; but surely the gentle Adelaide will pity the torment I suffer from suspense, and the dreadful distraction and confusion of my thoughts; surely she may say, consistently even with that sacred friendship I revere, whether there be any other attachment?—My whole earth­ly happiness depends—" I rose; and, retiring from the grate to hide my emotion, which almost equalled his, "If Miss Seymour, Sir," said I, "has formed any attachment, Lord Hastings cannot doubt that the object of her preference must be such a one as will justify her both to the world and her own heart."—After again conjuring me to forgive a fault, which he seemed every moment in hazard of re­peating, he took his leave, telling me, that he ho­ped [Page 98] from my generosity a share of that friendship, which his behaviour would convince me he could not claim from my justice.

Whilst you read this letter, my dearest Louisa, I see your delicacies all in arms, and your heart throbbing with apprehension; but what, my friend, had you to fear from your Adelaide? Does not this heart respect every tender emotion of your's? Am not I capable of guarding the most sacred of all de­posits, the honour, the delicacy of a friend? Believe me, your's is not more safe in your own possession than in mine.

All the happiness I can now enjoy must be de­rived from that of my friends: your's, I trust will soon be complete: I would pray that it might be lasting, but correct the vain presumptuous wish, and resign the disposal of your lot and my own, to that wisdom which cannot err.

What consolation would it afford me, could I once more behold and converse with you! Perhaps, even in this region of sorrow and disappointment, this happiness may yet await me; at least I will encourage the pleasing hope. Hope, my Louisa, is the refreshing cordial of life. Ah! how insup­portable without it!—Hope animates us in every pursuit, sustains us under every trial; is our first guide, and latest friend.

Amidst all the vicissitudes of this perplexing scene, may that hope be ours which will never de­ceive! Adieu, best and dearest of friends.

To Miss Seymour.

The very unexpected death of the estimable Lord Granville gave my father and me unspeakable concern; assure his afflicted Lady of our most cor­dial sympathy with her in her distress. How hap­py is she in the cares of my amiable friend!—Ah, Louisa! if I mistake not, she will soon have a title to claim them, on the score of duty.

Heavens, Louisa! what have I done?—I am so terrified and breathless, I can hardly tell you; Lord Leister has just been here—popt upon me whilst finishing the last sentence—laid violent hands on all my scrupulosities—urged the necessity of his setting off immediately for—shire;—vowed he would not go without me;—ungenerously took ad­vantage of my good humour;—made me swear—no, I never swear, but think and say just what he pleased.—And, to-morrow!—yes, Louisa, to­morrow, wind, tide, and my mind serving, I quit the bleak and barren shore of Maidenland, and em­bark on the sea of Uncertainty, for the continent of [Page 101] Matrimony. As our course lies by the Cape of Good Hope, we have no certain compass to steer by; especially as its variations of late have been many. We must therefore trust to the strength of our vessel.

The prosperous fate of former adventurers has induced us to explore foreign climes, in search, per­haps, of imaginary treasures. I confess I have many fears; I know Terra Incognita is a danger­ous region to wander in; and we have seen many settlements made there at great expence, that have proved hardly worth keeping. No more the sooth­ing breezes of flattery shall waft my barge and swell my sails!

Pray for me, Louisa, that I may be preserved from that shelves and quicksands of pride and jea­lousy, that I may neither split on the rocks of im­prudence, be lashed by the waves of censure, nor chilled with the cold blasts of indifference; that I may never be tempted by my enemies to traffic in contraband goods; but exchanging largely in the article affection, in lieu of gentle offices, I may have frequent returns of gratitude and love; that without crowding my sails, or expecting to reach the Happy Islands, while tost on the waves of Time, I may suffer its tide to convey me gently into the quiet haven of Content.

You have long suspected a change in my sen­timents, and a rival in my heart. I will not pretend to deny the fact: they have, indeed undergone a total revolution, as you must suppose, when, after so many professions of never-ending friendship, I am going, for the sake of a newer favourite, to [Page 102] bid you forever adieu; and assure you, that this is the very last letter you will receive from

To Lady Charlotte Villiers.

Had I been disposed to doubt the report of your marriage, and loss of my late amiable friend, Lady Charlotte Villiers, in the gulph of matrimony, the altered style of your last letter would have fur­nished incontestible proof of both; and of your resolution, agreeably to the practice of all ladies, of squeezing every amicable attachment to death in your wedding-ring.

Permit me, Madam, in regard of our former friendship, to wish you all that happiness which a state of subjection can admit of. You have formed fetters for yourself; and, however irksome or into­lerable the bondage, must now for life submit to wear them: That they may sit easier on you than on many of your cotemporaries, is my sincere wish; and that, however galled by them, you may never imprudently attempt to shake them off, my serious advice. But to change the metaphor—tired of the future limited sphere of your activity (but ill calcu­lated for a belle of your magnitude) impelled by the centrifugal force of matrimonial authority, and at­tracted by the influences of gaiety and splendour, should you at length incline to fly off at a tangent, then Heaven pity you!—for, however fond of liber­ty, you must absolutely submit to be ruled, impel­led, and directed by superior power, else you will infallibly be swallowed up by the vortex of law, [Page 103] and at last suffer a total eclipse. Then, though you may continue to exist, you can no longer hope to shine, nor be, as now, the brightest star of all our lower hemisphere.

As my learning has not seen the light these ten years, no wonder if it requires rubbing up.

Let me quit this unnatural jargon, the labour of the head, and address you as usual in the flowing language of the heart. I hope soon to offer Lord Leister the same good wishes. Assure yourself then, my dear Lady Charlotte, that among all the nume­rous circle of your friends, you have not one more sincere and affectionate, or who more cordially shares in your present happiness, and ardently prays for its continuance, than

To Mr. Beaufort.

My heart feels, and gratefully acknowledges, the share you take in my sorrow, on account of the loss of the worthiest of friends, and most indulgent of fathers. I have hardly yet had leisure to feel the weight of my misfortune: My affectionate and afflicted mother demands my constant care. But oh, Beaufort! when I retire to my apartment, and recall the idea of my revered parent, a crowd of tender recollections press on my soul, and almost overwhelm it with sorrow!—Be it our care who survive, by treading in his steps, to repair, in some measure, the injury society has sustained, by the loss of so respectable and valuable a member.

I found my mother in a very weak state of health and spirits. Louisa, the amiable, the en­chanting Louisa, is, if possible, more beautiful, more engaging than ever. That air of sober sadness which the late melancholy incident has impressed on her features, gives them an expression of tenderness which melts the very soul. Mine is still held in painful suspense; still am I tortured with those perplexing doubts and fears, to which it gives rise.

Sometimes I fondly flatter myself, that through the timid and modest reserve of the most amiable of women, I can see some sparks of that peculiar tenderness, with which I ardently wish to inspire her. O, Beaufort! at these moments, my heart throbs with unutterable transport!—At other times there is a caution, a timidity, a restraint in her man­ner, that blasts every bud of hope, and overwhelms me with dejecting melancholy!

A thousand times a-day, I resolve to speak my sentiments to Louisa, and, if possible, discover her's. [Page 105] But the fear of offending, the dread of disgusting, the apprehension of losing her friendship by solicit­ing her love, still withholds me.

I met with an incident to-day which has strange­ly perplexed me. On riding slowly down the lane that leads to the Castle, I saw a clean, decent look­ing woman, standing at the door of a cottage, with an infant in her arms, whose features so strongly resembled the unhappy Talbot, that I had the curio­sity to stop my horse, and inquire to whom the child belonged. The woman looked surprised at the question, and, upon my repeating it, "Indeed, please your honour," said she, "that is more than I can tell; but I'm sure, whoever my little Sally belongs to, need not be ashamed to own her, for your honour will not see a stouter child in a sum­mer's day; but for that matter, she is cared for by the best gentry in all the country, though I say it that should not."—My first suspicion was now con­firmed; but what was my astonishment, when she thus proceeded: "Mayhap, your honour is going to the Castle?—If so, you will see there the best friend my poor baby has in this world."—"How, nurse," demanded I, "is it Lady Granville that befriends your child so much?"—"No, no, Sir," replied she; "I believe as how Lady Granville is a very good lady, and very kind to the poor; but it is young Miss Seymour, an' please you, that is so kind to me and my sweet little poppet."—The arrival of her husband, and some gossips, put an end to this curious dialogue.

To find a child of Talbot's here, deserted and disowned, is by no means surprising; but how Miss Seymour should be particularly interested in the [Page 106] care of such a child, is an enigma I cannot unrid­dle.—I fancy, however, upon further acquaintance, I may prevail on honest nurse to speak out. If she is enjoined secrecy, I should detest myself, could I bribe her to betray her trust; but if prudence alone occasions her caution, that watchful dame may be caught napping, and nurse open her lips at the sight of all-prevailing gold.—Adieu.

To Miss Seymour.

It is with much truth I have formerly affirmed, that when we consider the shortness of human life, Louisa, resignation scarce seems a virtue. Instead of looking back with criminal and unavailing sor­row, on account of those gone before us, we ought to look forward and rejoice, because we are so soon to follow.—Yet a few years, and the sorrowful shall rest in silence with them they deplore;—yet a few years, and all the griefs, and cares, and inquietudes, that disturb the short hour of life, and poison its enjoyments, shall be as nothing!

Again they have brought me here, to try the effects of my native air, in restoring an exhausted and feeble constitution. But my disease is seated in my heart, and is without remedy!

Let not this afflict my gentle friend; let it ra­ther bring her comfort to hear, that the hour of my release is fast approaching, and that I am about to receive my reward, before bearing the burden and [Page 107] heat of the day.—We have been long separated from each other: Where is the difference, Louisa, whether we are divided by seas and mountains—or by the grave?—Yes, my loved friend, there is a great, an essential difference—Whilst separated by distance, we are continually harassed with fear and anxiety, on account of each other; but no sooner does the grave receive those we love, than all our restless inquietudes end.

In proportion as earth and its concerns recede from view, the grand, the solemn scenes on which we are about to enter, come forward to cheer and support the mind under the decays of nature. Let these have due influence on your's, should Heaven see good to remove from you the friend you have long loved; and having improved to our advance­ment in piety and virtue on earth, the most tender and lasting attachment, let us confide in our bene­ficent Creator, that he will admit us to perfect, in the society of the blessed, a friendship which here is liable to be impaired, may be interrupted, and must one day suffer dissolution.

We are all prone, Louisa, to forget our present is a state of discipline, and regard the blessings we possess, not as the gifts of a bountiful Benefactor, which he is at liberty to resume at pleasure, but as an inheritance to which we have an indefeasible right. It is necessary that we should frequently be reminded of our absolute dependence on God, and be brought back to him, by feeling that all besides is vain, unsatisfying, and evanescent.

No one can properly assent to this truth, that has never lost a friend. That stroke, which loosens our dearest tie to earth, forms also, as it were, new [Page 108] attractions for us in Heaven. Thither, my beloved friend, let us direct the current of our heart's best affections: There alone, the immortal desires of the soul will find suitable and permanent objects.

Adieu, dearest Louisa, adieu. If we meet no more here, we shall hereafter.

To Miss Seymour.

—At length, beloved friend of my heart, the solemn, awful hour approaches! This is the last letter you shall ever receive from your Adelaide! Already my hand is so feeble, it can hardly direct my pen.

[Page 121] I know how this will afflict my gentle Louisa; I feel for the anguish my death will occasion you; yet something whispers me, your heart shall be soothed, your sorrows divided—and this hope gives consolation to mine.

Waste not, dearest Louisa, those precious mo­ments which shall never return, and which so ma­ny important duties demand, in excessive and una­vailing sorrow. Too, too many of them have we spent, in fond, presumptuous schemes of unmingled felicity, which falls not to the lot of mortals.—Oh, my friend, vain alike are the pleasures that engross, and the cares that disquiet, he transient moments of our present existence!—At this awful crisis, what do all the concerns of time appear, in com­parison with the hopes of eternity!

My heart would say much, but my dim eyes and trembling hand refuse their aid.—To the God of love and goodness I fervently commend you; to that God who will not leave the soul of his servant, desolate and forlorn, to wander in the unseen world—nor the body to remain for ever a prisoner in the loathsome grave.

Farewel, friend of my soul—best loved and latest remembered!—My Louisa, oh, farewel for ever!

To Lady Leister.

—Already, my dear friend, that singular hap­piness, on the possession of which you so warmly congratulate me, has suffered a cruel interruption; already tears mingle with my joy!—Ah, with hu­mility and moderation does it become man to en­joy that prosperity, which a thousand accidents are ever at hand to embitter—which, however great, cannot be lasting—and which must, in this state of trial, be one day succeeded by that adversity, which, by contrast, it renders more severe.

The kind, the generous Hastings, who prevents or indulges every wish of my heart, carried me to St. Cire the very day after our arrival.—How shall I describe the variety of feelings, with which I once more entered that sacred abode of piety and peace!—My trembling apprehensions were soon exchang­ed for fatal certainty!

I had a long conversation with the venerable abbess, who informed me, after expatiating on the exemplary virtues of the dear deceased, that she not [Page 125] only quitted life with cheerful resignation, but tri­umph and joy!—With her dying lips she blessed me, bequeathed a little casket to me, as a memorial of her friendship, and bade those around tell me, "that though divided for a little, we should surely meet again."

I cannot help regretting my absence from this solemn, affecting scene. Yet, alas! why should I regret it? My affliction would only have rendered death more formidable—might have disturbed her heavenly composure, and clogged her ascending spirit.

I resolved to visit all that now remained of the beauteous, amiable, admired Adelaide.—As I ap­proached the lowly dwelling, "I go to meet my friend," said I; "but where are now the open arms, the smiling countenance, and throbbing heart that were wont to welcome me?"—The lay-sister pointed out the humble, undistinguished spot, where the first of women reposes, and retired: "That faithful heart shall beat no more!—No more shall sorrow heave that clay-cold bosom!—The shower of spring shall return—but no leaf of her's shall arise!—She is gone, she is gone for ever, and the place that once knew her, shall know her no more!"

As I uttered this sentence, I was startled by something which moved the sod with which the grave was covered: It was her little dog Fidelle, the last gift of Grammont, on which she doated, and who had made itself a bed under the sod at the foot of her grave, which nothing could induce it to quit since the hour of her interment. The affectionate little animal knew me, and looked pi­teously [Page 126] in my face; but immediately on perceiving its mistress was not with me, laid down its head, and resumed its former posture.

This little affecting circumstance quite over­came me.—My ever watchful attentive Hastings, afraid that this scene might prove too severe a trial for my weak spirits, approached; and giving me his arm, led me back in silence to the convent.

I then retired, to visit her cell, that I might be more composed before returning to the parlour:—Her chair, her bed, her books, surrounded me! The very pen with which she had last addressed me, lay on her table!—How pathetic was the silent language in which they spoke to my sad soul!—There was a becoming stillness in the desolate dwel­ling, that gently harmonized my feelings and com­posed my mind.—I reflected with gratitude on the happiness our mutual friendship had supplied; and blessed God, that from the hour of its com­mencement, we had never given each other a mo­mentary pain, nor wounded the delicacy of each other's affection, by careless neglect or culpable in­gratitude.

And now, having recovered tolerable compo­sure, I came back to the parlour, where Hastings impatiently waited for me; and taking a last look, and breathing a last sigh to St. Cire, and the me­mory of its tranquil pleasures, returned to Lady Granville.

On opening the little casket, I found it contain­ed the picture of Grammont; a beautiful landscape, supposed to be the scenery round the fort of—, [Page 127] where he died; her crucisix and rosary; and, what I hold as invaluable, a small manuscript, intitled, "Reflections of Adelaide de St. Croix, in the Convent of St. Cire."

These, my dear Lady Leister, were all the treasures she possessed; and these will be inestima­ble to me. I will keep from every eye this little hoard of grief; and when [...] I am in danger of forgetting myself, in too secure and presumpt [...] prosperity, I will contemplate these sacred relics; and the virtues of Adelaide will reform her friend.—Adieu—adieu.

To the same.

—You reproach me with being unkind to my beloved Hastings, and even ungrateful to Heaven, for suffering the death of Adelaide to cloud the ve­ry dawn of our happiness.—Ah, Lady Leister, how little do you know of this heart, when you accuse it of coldness and ingratitude! Believe me, I trem­ble to feel how strongly every affection of my soul is rivetted to one dear, deserving, engrossing object!

The situation in which we now find ourselves, is perhaps the most delightful which the human imagination could paint. The late distressing events have mingled all the softness of pity with the ar­dour of passion, and brought us insensibly to a de­gree of confidence and intimacy, which would scarce appear credible to any person acquainted with the situation of our minds a short month ago. But what need is there of caution or reserve, with a man who can read every sentiment of my soul; who would die, sooner than give me the [...]ghtest pain, [Page 128] and whose refined manners, exalted honour, and glowing affection, are a source of ever increasing delight!

Oh, my friend, will it always be so? Will the heart of Hastings be ever and only mine?—Secure now in my boundless affection, will he not [...]spise or neglect a conquest, which no more ob­ [...]cles oppose, and of which [...]e knows no power [...]n earth will deprive him.—Ah, Lady Leister, [...]hould he ever be less kind, [...]ess gentle, less respect­ful!—I might support his neglect; but his con­tempt—O, Heaven, defend me from deserving it!—I must lay down my pen.

—How differently, my dear Lady Leister, do we view the same object, whilst under the in­fluence of passion and of reason?—I am so ashamed of the above, that I will do penance for my folly, by disclosing it without reserve to my friend.

Just as I had finished the last sentence, Has­tings sent to request me to walk, as his mother had retired to take a little rest in her own apartment: I really was unable to quit mine; and, for the first time in my life, begged to be excused. On inquir­ing of Patty how I was employed, the simple girl informed him, and added, out of her great affec­tion, "I'm afraid, Sir, my mistress has received some bad news, for she is writing of letters, and seems in great affliction. I really wish your honour would step up stairs, and talk to her; for she for­bade me to return, and I'm sure, Sir, none can comfort her if you can't."—He entered the room, which greatly increased my agitation. He earnestly inquired the cause: I was silent; but on his urging [Page 129] to know, I tried to force a smile, and told him, that he must not so soon begin to exercise his au­thority. He clasped my hand; "Ah, Louisa," said he, "this is my time; let me then enjoy my short-lived power—hereafter, it will be your's to reign."

To av [...]d the subject, I asked him to read to me [...]. He [...] u [...] volume of Shakespeare, which lay on the table, and read the mournful sol [...]oq [...] of the melancholy Jacques.—My spirits, exhaust [...] by the little exertion I had just made, forsook me altogether. Regardless of the play, my thoughts retraced the sad fate of Grammont and Adelaide.—I fixed my eyes on Hastings—I recollected that ere long his would be closed by the inexorable hand of death—I even fancied he looked more languid and pale than usual.

On looking up, he beheld me motionless as a statue, my head resting on my bosom, and my eyes streaming with tears: He [...]lew to my assistance, pressed me to his bosom, and conjured me, as I valued his peace, to tell him the cause of this inex­plicable distress. Unable to speak, I pointed to the letter I had been writing. He read it, and return­ing to me, strove to calm my agitated spirits with the most soothing, the most endearing tenderness: "Why, O why, my dearest Louisa," said he, "would you embitter our exquisite enjoyment, by anticipating melancholy events, and even impossible evils; for such I deem any change in our present sentiments for each other. We are not, my love, to expect either lasting or unmixed happiness on earth; but let us not deal ungratefully and disinge­nuously with Heaven, lest, by refusing to enjoy the [Page 130] blessings bestowed, they should be withdrawn from us. We do not, my best Louisa, expect to find each other perfect, or always the same: We can­not suppose that we shall meet, after an absence of a day, with the same glowing transports we experi­ence when meeting, after many months have di­vided us;—the human mind could not long sus­tain such inpetuous sensations.—But I am confi­dent we shall ever feel for each other that comfirm­ed esteem, that mild complacency, that animated tenderness, that will ensure the highest enjoyment of which our natures are capable."

"Ah, my friend, had you seen me at that mo­ment, you would neither have thought me unkind nor ungrateful. I took hold of his hand, and, for­getting that it was not the soothing accents of Ade­laide to which I then listened, reclined my head on his bosom; then looking up to my best instructor, "Tell me, Hastings," said I, "will not this intoxi­cating affection bind us to that world we must soon leave, and render our separation altogether insup­portable?"—He looked at me some moments: tears swelled into his eyes: then again folding me to his heart, "No, best and dearest of human beings," replied he, "the sacred affection that unites our souls, shall not bind us to the world, but teach us to rise above both its pleasures and its pains; and when that God who united us, shall see good a little while to divide us, he will enable the survivor patiently to support that life which can be no longer enjoyed."

O, my friend! the recollection of this deeply interesting conversation swells my heart almost to bursting! Never, never again shall your Louisa injure the sacred affection of her Hastings, by one [Page 131] anxiety or apprehension so unworthy of herself, so unjust to him. Never shall this breast harbour sus­picion, or this brow be clouded with care; but har­mony and peace, and smiling approbation, cheer every future hour of that life which shall be wholly devoted to make him happy.

At your request, I send you a short extract from the manuscript of Adelaide. If it affects you as tenderly as it does me, you shall have a longer one hereafter.

Lady Granville, unable to mix with society, or relish pleasure, already begins to talk of return­ing to England.—Three months are elapsed since the death of Lord Granville, and his son insists on the conditions stipulated for by his mother, immedi­ately after the conclusion of the fourth!—My heart consents with pleasure to every wish of his; and I long as much for home and quietness, as my dear Lady Granville.

One of the most agreeable of my future pros­pects, is that of confirming my esteem of Lord Lei­ster's character, by intimate acquaintance. Assure him and yourself of the respect and tender attach­ment of

REFLECTIONS of ADELAIDE DE ST. CROIX, in the Convent of St. Cire.

RETIRED to solitude and silence, I yield up my mind to reflection. Alas! what pleasure can mine afford—and to whom should I communicate them?

[Page 132] Grammont! thou no longer sharest in the sentiments of the heart that loveth thee! Thou knowest them not—thou never more shalt know them!

Oh, my disastered soul! too well hast thou proved the va­nity, not only of the pride and pageantry of life, but even of its most blameless pleasures!—By forgetting the decree of Heaven, which determined this a state of discipline, thou hast opposed the will of the Most High; by confining all thy enjoyment to the possession of one object, thou hast lost, with that, the power to enjoy: and by too eager a pursuit of happiness, hast banished her from this mortal habitation for ever!

Return then, oh my disastered soul! return again to thy quiet re [...]t: Seek no more after lying vanities—indulge not use­less sorrow—check vain and impious regret. Let the shortness of life moderate thy affliction, and its evils animate thy desires after a better.

Though I cannot always approve, neither ought I rashly to censure, the conduct of those around me. Alas! should I con­demn another, who know not that I am right, unless by the as­ [...]tance of that very reason, which others possess in a far superior degree, who yet seem bewildered in the mazes of error?

O thou, that art the pure fountain of truth, direct me in my [...] endeavours to discover it!—Impute not my errors to [...] but w [...]kness:—I look up to thee for the supplies [...] for me; and I [...]mplore thy [...]avour, which is better than life itself!

Thou only seest the heart, and knowest that combination of circum [...]tances, by which the judgment is mi [...]ed and the w [...] [...]—Thou only canst determine [...] f [...]r the [...]ors of thy [...] are voluntary; and to th [...], Omni [...]cient, it belongs to condemn or acquit:

O, let no t [...]e, strong as that thy [...] unloosed, again rivet my affections to [...] of my earthly hopes may prove the [...] o [...] my heavenly preparation!

Once more I begin to ta [...] of [...] and [...] reconcile [...] me to the absence of pleasant.— [...] o [...] [...] [...] ­ [...]ity. I strive to substitute present resignation, in the room of past enjoyment.

[Page 133] I know that millions are born but to die. Alas! that many more exist, only to abuse the privilege of existence! I am assured, that infinite wisdom cannot err, nor infinite benevolence be un­just; I bow, therefore, before the Most High, and adore that wis­dom I cannot comprehend.

Are we better judges of our proper sphere than Him who appointed it; and will we presumptuously grasp at the prize, before we have reached the goal? Is it for us to complain of our insignificance among the creatures of his power, whilst there breathes a human being whom we can assist by our advice, relieve by our alms, or encourage with our approbation; to whom our pity can supply comfort, and our affection pleasure?—Let us ask our own hearts if there are not many such, and blush for their ungrateful disingenuity.

O vain world! that still promises, and still deceives!—O, most vain man, who still relies, and is still disappointed! No more do I covet thy gay prospects—no more welcome thy de­ceitful hopes: They once looked bright and alluring, but the veil of death has dropt, and hidden them from my view for ever!—Farewel—a long farewel—to thy pains and pleasures:—Soon, oh soon, Grammont, will I join thee! Then, though obscure, forgotten, unlamented, a friend, perhaps, may visit my grave—perhaps a Louisa weep over it!

To Lady Leister.

To-morrow, my dear Lady Leister, we begin that journey, which, I trust, is to bring us in health and happiness to our native land.

My time now is chiefly employed in concer­ting, with my dearest Hastings, that future plan of conduct, by pursuing which we shall ensure self-approbation, if we cannot uninterrupted felicity. I have the best model before my eyes, in the cha­racter of Lady Granville; with whom you are yet but half acquainted.

You have formerly testified approbation of my portraits—let me attempt that of a person who [Page 134] unites that of a lady of fashion with a reasonable woman!

Unenslaved by the prejudices, and uncorrupt­ed by the practices of the world, Lady Granville maintains, in the midst of it, that rectitude of con­duct, and simplicity of manners, which accords with th [...] spirit of those doctrines she adorns, and the example of that Divine Master, whose steps she professes to follow.

By maintaining an exemplary conduct in her family, and by her judicious choice of books be­stowed on her domestics, and even read to them on proper occasions, she lays the best foundation for insuring their good conduct, by properly informing their minds.

Her piety is without o [...]entation, and her zeal without bigotry. The complacency of her man­ners diffuses cheerfulness and good humour around her; and from her, youth meets with indulgence, modesty with encouragement, and merit with ap­probation.

How pleasing is it, my dear friend, to see peo­ple, possessed of rank and fortune, uniting with them all those amiable and respectable qualities which add lusture to titles, and dignity to birth?

Were I inclined to be revengeful for your for­mer ill usage, I [...]i [...]ht, perhaps, with equal truth, assure you, "that a newer favourite has supplanted you in my heart, and that this is the very last letter you wi [...]l receive from

To Lord Hastings.

No longer shall I dispute the pre-eminence of your sex—I see, I confess you are our superiors in every thing.

Whilst women, weak and pusillanimous, are held enslaved by the prejudices of education, the bonds of principle, and the terrors of conscience, with what superior courage do men shake them off, and assert their native freedom!

If we venture even on a slight prevarication, how does the moral flow of our blood cover our cheeks with blushes, and betray our offence?—But men, with exalted courage, break the bonds of confidence and good faith, and, nobly superior to remorse and and shame, laugh at our credulity, and proclaim aloud their triumph.

But not only must we yield to you, on account of your facility in making and breaking promises, but in the superior and peculiar art you possess, of forgetting them altogether.—Your last words when we parted, were, "I will write to you frequently."—How you have fulfilled your engage­ment, let Conscience answer.—O, cry you mercy? I believe he is not of your acquaintance, or else you lords indulge him with a perpetual vacation.

Tell me truly, is it that, in plighting your faith to one woman, you consider yourselves as absolved from observing it with all besides? Or that you think the marriage vow so large, that it should swal­low up all the lesser promises that preceded it?

[Page 136] But I will no longer argue with one I so hear­tily despise, or rather pity, for his deplorable infatua­tion, in voluntarily renouncing what he once might have enjoyed—the inestimable privilege of my cor­respondence.

Assure Louisa, she shall have no good wishes from me, on account of her approaching nuptials; she is possessed already of more happiness than she knows how to use. As for your's, it is too complete to admit of any addition.

As we shall be with my father about the time of your arrival, I hope we shall see you before the honey-moon expire.—Take comfort, Hastings;—we have been married four months, and our's is not yet on the wane. Nay, from its mild and gen­tle aspect, I flatter myself it may continue to enlight­en our hemisphere for life.—Adieu, caro amico.