LETTER I. MENTORIA, TO THE MISS WINWORTHS.

AFTER being accustomed to the society of my dear Miss Winworths for fifteen years, how solitary and comfortless is my situation. I every day feel my loss more severely. I look at the harpsichord, and expect my Sophia to come and practise her favorite lessons. I take up a book, and almost unknown to myself, call on Emily to read some passage that pleases or inter­ests [Page 21] me. I miss the dear lively sallies of Ger­trude, and the innocent prattle of Letitia: but though I so severely feel the privation of your beloved society, I am not so selfish as to wish you again in the shades of Cambray. I am certain of the necessity of your taking a part in the active scenes of life, and as your dear mother is now no more, your father will necessarily require the cheerfulness of his children to brighten his soli­tary hours, and it was but just that my beloved girls should appear in the station they were born to ornament.

I highly comment the prudence of your fa­ther, in taking Mrs. Clairville into his family, to be your chaperons on your first entrance into fashionable circles. She is a woman who has seen a great deal of polite life, has ever retained an unblemished reputation, and though reduced by misfortune to be glad to accept the situation your father offered her, has ever been received as a guest whose presence conferred an obligation, by some of the first families in England.

Though separated from you, I shall, as you desire, still continue your preceptress, and shall not at any time scruple to tell you of your faults; for partial as I am to your virtues, I am by no means blind to those errors to which human na­ture is ever subject, and which, if not timely era­dicated, [Page 22] will gain an ascendancy over your mind, and entirely hide those amiable qualities, which at present form the most striking traits in your character.

And to begin—I feel myself greatly hurt and offended by the letter I received from Gertrude, since your arrival in London. When it was first delivered into my hands, a joyful sensation dif­fused itself over my heart, and while reading the tender expressions of grateful affection that seemed to flow spontaneous from your pen, it expanded with pleasure; but when I came to these words, "My father received us with great affection, and has been very bountiful in presents, cloaths, pocket-money, &c. but yet for all that, my dear Madam, I cannot feel that perfect affection for him, which I know I ought. He has a great ma­ny peculiarities, some of them by no means plea­sing; and my sisters all agree, he is very much of the Bashaw."

Good Heavens! said I, and is this all the fruit I am likely to reap from the pains I have taken to instil into the minds of those dear girls a just idea of what is meant by the words, Filial Duty. That the very first letter I receive should point at the little foibles of a parent, who they ac­knowledge received them with affection, and has been extremely bountiful to them. Believe me, [Page 23] my dear children, if you wish to pass through life with any degree of pleasure to yourselves, you must early learn to submit, without murmur­ing, to the will of your father; be blind to his errors, or if they are so glaring that you can­not avoid seeing them, never expose them, or suffer others to speak disrespectfully of him in your presence.

You must sacrifice your own wishes to his, you must study his happiness and ease, and in so doing will most assuredly promote your own.

You no doubt remember the amiable Mrs. Railton, who favored me with her company for a few weeks last summer. I yesterday received news of her death, and as I am certain example is ever more efficacious than precept, I will give you a slight sketch of her history, as a model by which every young woman who wishes to pro­mote her own felicity, will regulate her con­duct.

Mr. George Campbell was the youngest son of a wealthy baronet, who having several livings in his gift, besides good interest at Court, brought him up to the church, with the sanguine expecta­tion of one day seeing him a bishop.

[Page 24] Unfortunately for George, before he had at­tained his twenty-third year he became attached to a young lady, who had every requisite to render the married state happy, but money—and money being the old gentleman's darling idol, he consequently thought she possessed no requisite worthy the wife of his son; but George was too far engaged to retreat with honor, he therefore told his father, he was resolved upon the union, and in a few days presented his be­loved Louisa to entreat his blessing.

When Sir James found they were really mar­ried, he thought it was in vain to fly in a passion, he received them cordially, and gave them, an universal invitation to his house, but in his heart he never forgave them. The livings were dis­posed of to other people, and at his death he left the whole of his estates to his eldest son.

Mr. Campbell had only a curacy of about eighty pounds a year, and as regular as the year came round, his wife presented him with a child. Poverty took up her habitation among them, and he bitterly regretted having, by an act of disobe­dience, not only brought on himself his father's displeasure, but involved an amiable woman, whom he loved, in a scene of penury and distress. These reflections sour'd his disposition, he became peevish and morose, nay sometimes went so far, as [Page 25] to reproach his wife as the cause of his abject situ­ation.

Mrs. Campbell took great care to instil into the minds of her children the respect and affec­tion due from them to their father. "My dear children," she would often say, "be assured, a breach of filial duty is ever attended with regret, and in general with misfortune."

Louisa was the eldest of five children, she was mild, meek, and affectionate. She attentively listened to the precepts of her mother, and laid them up in her heart as an inestimable treasure. Mr. Campbell's temper grew so extremely bad, that not only his wife, but his children came in for a share of his ill-humour. Louisa, in parti­cular, was sure to be wrong, in whatever she said or did, and it was seldom she was favoured with a kind or affectionate word, yet her manners were so amiable and her form so lovely, that though she laboured under the disadvantages of a narrow education and extreme poverty, her company was courted by some of the genteelest families in the village, but in compliance with her father's ill­humour, she was seldom allowed to stir from home.

When Louisa had reached her seventeenth year, Lady Mary Campbell, a distant relation of her [Page 26] father's came on a visit to a family who resided in the same village, Louisa's good qualities were resounded to Lady Mary from every mouth, and all unanimously agreed it was a pity so lovely a girl should be buried in obscurity and lost for want of a proper education.

Lady Mary was naturally of a humane disposi­tion, she expressed a desire to see Miss Campbell, and when introduced to her, finding her even su­perior to what she had been taught to expect, made her an offer of going with her to London.

This was a proposal, too much to Louisa's ad­vantage to be refused; the invitation was accepted, and the visit prolonged for three years, during which time Louisa had an opportunity of im­proving herself in the ornamental as well as use­ful branches of education.

Mrs. Campbell, who had for many years la­boured under an evident decline, was now sum­moned home by that power, who had been pleased in this life to try her with long and heavy afflic­tions. Lady Mary carried Louisa to receive the dying blessing, and pay the last duties to her ami­able mother.—That finished, she proposed her return to London. The lovely girl, penetrated with gratitude for the many favours she had re­ceived and tenderly attached to her generous be­nefactress, [Page 27] with difficulty restrained her tears, while she thus addressed her—

"Think me not ungrateful, dear Madam, if I beg to remain with any father; my brothers and sisters are engaged in learning occupations which may enable them to pass through life with in­dustry and without reproach. I cannot leave my father in this solitude after so recent an afflic­tion: he has been for many years used to the un­remitting attention and tenderness of my excellent mother, I must not suffer him too severely to feel her loss, but endeavour, as far as in my power, by affection and assiduity, to supply her place."

"And can you, my dear Louisa, said her La­dyship, so easily forego the ease and plenty you have enjoyed with me, to live a life of penury and labour, and that for a man, who, though he is your father, I must say, does not deserve such at­tention—did he not always treat you with unme­rited harshness?"

"Hold, my dear Madam," said Louisa, if, as you think, my father has not behaved to me with the kindness of a parent, it by on means re­leases me from my duty to him; had he a thou­sand errors he is my father still; as such I am called upon by nature and religion to do every [Page 28] thing in my power to render his life comfortable; if my endeavours to please can awaken his affec­tion, I shall think myself amply repaid; if not, the consciousness, of having performed my duty, will give me a satisfaction which no future event can ever rob me of."

It was in vain Lady Mary urged her to return—the lovely. elegant, accomplished Louisa, pre­ferred a low roofed mansion, scanty meals, and attendance on a sick peevish father, to the lofty apartments, plenteous table, and variety of amuse­ments, she might have enjoyed with Lady Mary. She attended him to the last, and by her tender so­licitude and affection smoothed the down-hill of his life, and cheared and comforted him in the most painful illness by her unaffected piety; he was moved by her filial duty, all the father rushed up­on his soul, he blessed her with his parting breath, and expired in her arms.

You may, perhaps, enquire, what benefit Lou­isa reaped from this rigid performance of her duty? The question is easily answered. She gained a contented happy mind, serenity dwelt in her heart and chearfulness beamed from her eyes.

She had a genteel competency left her at Lady Mary's death, married a deserving man, and [Page 29] shone as conspicuously in the characters of a wife and mother, as she had done as a daughter—she lived beloved by all and died universally re­gretted.

Be wise, my dear children, follow Louisa's ex­ample, so shall your lives be happy and your last moments peace.

LETTER II.

I AM sorry, my dear ladies to be under the dis­agreeable necessity of again taking up my pen to reprove,

Your letters to me of late, have arrived so sel­dom, and when they do arrive, are so short, so filled with dress, visits, and parties of pleasure, that I almost doubt whether some demon has not imitated your hand-writing, to impose upon me; for I can find no vestige of those sentiments I so anxiously strove to inculcate in your minds while in the shades of Cambray: from the tenor of your letters, I should imagine you live entirely in a crowd, if so, you certainly have no time to at­tend to those improvements I so strongly recom­mended to you not to neglect.

[Page 30] You seem also to have taken an unaccountable dislike to Mrs. Clairville. You say your father is a great deal too partial to her; this appears to me the evident effect of envy or jealousy; your father being perfectly sensible of that lady's merit, and conscious that her situation in his family is rather humiliating, by treating her with uncom­mon respect, shews the goodness of his heart, and sets an example which I should rejoice to find my dear girls would follow.

Another thing which seriously alarms me for your future happiness is, to find you have your friends and secrets, and form little cotteries, of which neither your father nor Mrs. Clairville have any knowledge; believe me, you cannot be too cautious in the choice of your intimates, many a girl, whose intentions have been perfectly inno­cent, has lost her reputation, by associating with women whose levity has rendered their characters suspicious. You cannot find in the whole circle of your acquaintance, a friend so sincere as your natural parent, to him you may without reserve, communicate every wish of your hearts, for trust me when I say, every thought you would hesitate to reveal to a parent, must be totally improper to be harboured in your bosom. Perhaps you will tell me, that having no mother, there are some emo­tions of the heart, which the natural timidity and delicacy of your sex would render it extremely painful to communicate to a father.

[Page 31] As I am sensible of the truth of this assertion, I must recommend to you to chose a friend from among those most esteemed by your father, let her be some years older than yourself, (for age, in ge­neral, learn experience in the arts of the world) and by her advice, she may, in some measure guard you from falling a prey to the dissimulation of many pretendens to love or friendship, who will assume the semblance of attachment, to draw the unsuspecting youthful heart into improper con­nections, which too often terminate in their ruin.

A numerous acquaintance is, in general, of dangerous consequence to young women, as it is impossible but in a multiplicity of characters there may be some, whose conversation and example it would be improper to follow, and such is the frail state of human nature, that bad habits are easily contracted, and can seldom if ever be eradicated. A girl just entering the state of womanhood es­pecially if she is possessed of any personal or men­tal accomplishments, and of an open ingenuous temper is surrounded with innumerable dangers; her reputation is of as delicate a texture, and may be as easily injured, as the fairest blossom; the malignant whisperings of envy, or the pestiferous breath of slander, may in an instant blast it; it will droop under the keen eye of suspicion, and too often those who most pretend to admire its sweets, will rudely pluck it from its parent stalk, [Page 32] deprive it of all its beauties, then throw it from them like a loathsome weed, leave it to perish unpitied and unregarded, and to be trod to the earth by every unfeeling passenger, who may perhaps cast on it a look of contempt, and cry, "Behold the once lovely."

There are many women in the world lovely in their persons, elegant and engaging in their manners, who are yet very improper connections for girls, who wish to preserve their reputation unsullied; of this description I greatly fear your favorite Matilda is—the strong dislike she ex­presses at the idea of your bringing either your father or Mrs. Clairville to see her, convinces me there must'be something in her character which she would not like to have discovered. Remem­ber it was at a public ball you first formed an acquaintance with her; that a gentleman intro­duced her to you, and chance afterwards led you in a morning excursion to ride by her little chateau; you confess she lives in an elegant man­ner, that she is highly accomplished, and yet is always by herself. Would any woman of cha­racter and fortune, do you think, live thus re­cluse, have no female friends to associate with, no little chearful parties to enliven her solitude, and when she went into public, would she go only accompanied by gentlemen? You say there is an air of mystery about her; and, believe me, if [Page 33] that mystery was developed, it would discover nothing to her advantage. Let me intreat my dear girls to drop the acquaintance, or inform your father of it: if after a proper enquiry con­cerning her character, he should approve the con­tinuation of your visits, I shall be happy to find you have so agreeable a member added to your society, and severely blame myself for having judged so harshly.

I should not have so many fears concerning your intimacy with Matilda, had I not, some years ago, known a very amiable girl, who entirely forfeited her good name, and in the end her life, by associating with a woman of light cha­racter.

Harriet Harding had the misfortune to lose her mother when very young, and at a very early age took upon herself the choice of her own acquaint­ance. She had been at the play one night, when a lady in the same box had shewn her many civi­lities, and at parting gave her a card, and begged to have the honour of seeing her.

Mr. Harding had remarked what passed, and on returning home, warned his daughter against forming any acquaintance with her, as she was a woman publicly kept by a man of fashion.

[Page 34] Harriet was giddy, thoughtless and fond of pleasure; chance threw her again in the way of Amelia, and she entirely forgot her fa­ther's injunction. A strict intimacy ensued, she was frequent in her visits to Amelia, often went with her into public, and was charmed with the incense of flattery that was offered to her by the men. Mr. Harding had business which called him to a distant part of England, Harriet was left mistress of her own actions, and chose this op­portunity to go with Amelia on an excursion in the country; in this excursion they were attended by the gentleman who kept Amelia, and one of his friends, who was particular in his attentions to Harriet; the time flew on the wings of plea­sure, and when they returned to town, (Mr. Harding being still absent) it was proposed she should accompany the party to a masquerade.

Harriet was a stranger to this sort of amusement, her spirits were exhilerated—she did not think of leaving it till a late hour, and when she mentioned going home Amelia was not to be found. The gentleman who had been her protector all the evening, begged permission to see her home, she consented, and at the hour of five in the morn­ing arrived at her father's house; a servant who had arose carly to perform some particular work let her in, and the gentleman followed her up stairs. She was surprised, but could not he so [Page 35] rude as to tell him to leave the house; but how was her surprise increased, when throwing aside his mask and domino, he proceeded to take li­berties she had ever been used to think of with abhorrence. Unable to defend herself from his insults, she shrieked aloud, and in a moment her father, who had returned the evening before, burst into the room—her shame and terror over­came her, and she fainted; an explanation en­sued between the father and the gentleman who had insulted her, who shocked at the impropriety of his behaviour asked Mr. Harding's pardon, and staying till Harriet was recovered, gave her this advice at parting.

"I trust, my dear young lady, this will be a warning to you in future, how you choose your intimates. Amelia is a woman so publicly known, that it was next to impossible for you not to have been acquainted with the lightness of her charac­ter, I am now fully convinced that you are a wo­man of strict honour, but, believe me, till this day I always thought you a girl who had either no reputation to lose, or paid very little attention to so material a concern. I am sorry to say there are numbers of persons, of both sexes, who have seen you with Amelia, who think the same, and whom it will be a very difficult matter to convince to the contrary; let me beg of you to break off a connection so derogatory to your honor, and [Page 36] by the future propriety of your conduct regain that reputation, which your intimacy with so in­famous woman has considerably injured."

Harriet could answer only with her tears, which flowed plenteously, not only at hearing these dis­agreeable truths, but from the reflection, that when the stranger was gone she had still her fa­ther's anger to endure; had this been all, Harriet might have thought herself happy, as by her fu­ture behaviour she might have hoped to regain his confidence and favour, but the heedless girl too soon found, that not only her father watched her actions with a suspicious eye, but all her female friends received her visits with coldness, forbore to return them, and in a short time entirely dropped her acquaintance; to add to her morti­fication, a young gentleman who had for some time addressed her on an honourable score, broke off the connection, and she found herself as so­litary and as much neglected as though she lived in a desert."

"The consequence was, that on her father's decease, which happened soon after, finding her­self, without society, she renewed her intimacy with Amelia, and from being accustomed to an intimate acquaintance with vice in others, she sunk so low as to practise; it herself, without compunction or remorse; till overtaken by dis­ease [Page 37] and want (the sure attendants on riot and intemperance) she sunk to an early grave, a victim to her own folly."

You see, my dear girls, Harriet was not natu­rally of a depraved inclination, she shrunk with horror from the first approach of vice; her attach­ment to Amelia was founded on a love of plea­sure, she enjoyed every luxury while with her, led a life of indolence, and was continually re­ceiving presents of something to decorate her per­son; these were indulgences she could not enjoy at home, for though Mr. Harding was a very substantial tradesman, he would by no means al­low his daughter to launch into extravagance, ei­ther in her housekeeping, dress, or pleasure—he wished to see every hour usefully employed, and as youth in general are much more found of plea­sure than employment, Harriet was delighted with the acquaintance of a woman in whose so­ciety she could enjoy the one in its utmost extent, without ever hearing of the other.

I know my dear girls will tell me, there is no danger of Matilda drawing them into any im­proper scenes, by gratifying their desire of dissi­pation, since their father indulgently allows them to enjoy every pleasurable amusement the metro­polis affords. But you are totally unacquainted with the world, there are a thousand ways by which [Page 38] an artful woman may steal upon the undesigning heart, a thousand ways by which she may lead them to destruction. Be wise then, my sweet young friends, and drop this acquaintance, before you feel any of its disagreeable consequences.

I shall in some future letter give you a few hints concerning the proper use of time, certain that however harsh you may for a moment think my reproofs, the native goodness of your hearts, will convince you they are meant solely for your good, and that you have not a more affectionate friend than

LETTER III. MENTORIA TO MISS WINWORTHS.

IN my last I gave you a striking instance of the dangerous tendency of improper acquaintance; be assured, there are more women led into errors by the bad precepts and examples of their own sex, than you would be apt to imagine, not only in forfeiting their good name, but every preten­sion to happiness. I do not know how otherwise [Page 39] to account for so many lovely, amiable women entailing misery upon themselves and their poste­rity, than by the romantic ideas they entertain of love and friendship.

Love, my dear children, is a noble, generous passion, and when kept under the guidance of rea­son, exalts and elevates the human soul; but the juvenile mind is apt to mistake a transient like­ing, or a sudden impulse of gratified vanity, for love; and many a girl from at first being pleased with the company of those who indiscriminately offer the incense of adulation to every young fe­male begins to fancy one more particular than the rest, and that one is undoubtedly designed to be her husband. From the moment this idea takes place, Miss is most violently in love, sleeping or waking the dear youth is continnally in her thoughts, she lives but in his presence, when he is absent she only exists. She unbosoms herself to some dear girl nearly of her own age, and she being her friend and confidant, the secret is to be kept inviolable. For want of some laudable pursuit to employ her time and engage her attention, she indulges her foolish penchant, which originated first in vanity and was afterwards nursed by fancy, till at length she is in reality attached to a man, who perhaps never entertained a serious thought of her; he marries some other woman, and Miss is left to sigh at her hard late, com­plain [Page 40] of the perfidy of mankind, and indulge in a luxury of delicate ideal misery. Nor is this all, her dear and faithful friend betrays her se­cret to all the Misses of her acquaintance, who (though perhaps guilty of the same folly them­selves) will not scruple to laugh at what they will term, her indiscreet and foolish conduct.

Though such a situation is certainly sufficiently mortifying, yet it is by no means the worst that may happen. A girl who imagines she must be in love with the first man who says a few civil things to her, lays herself open to the designs of the object of her ideal passion, who if he should happen to be an artful man, may take advantage of her partiality and credulity, to draw her into indissoluble engagements, which is in general the case when there is a fortune in the way, or where that charm is wanting, to plunge her into infamy.

I once knew a girl, who, possessed of every advantage which could be derived from wealth, beauty, honorable relations, and a polite liberal education, at the early age of eighteen fell a victim to a romantic passion, and in the very mo­ment when she sacrificed the regard of her friends the hopes of future advancement in life, in short, every thing that was valuable, she fancied she had done a praise-worthy action, by evincing her [Page 41] constancy and disinterested attachment to the ob­ject of her first love.

Belinda Dormer went to the same school with me, we contracted a great friendship for each other, and when the holidays separated us, by calling each to her respective home, we trea­sured up every little incident in our memories, whether of pain or pleasure, that when we met we might exchange confidence, and live over our pleasures, or soothe the remembrance of our lit­tle uneasinesses by participation.

Bell was a lovely brown girl, elegant in her form, accomplished in her manners, and lively in her disposition; her heart was tender and af­fectionate, without the least tincture of art or affectation, good-natured, easy, and credulous. She left school at the age of seventeen, and was ushered into the world, prepared to admire her, for she was reputed heiress to an immense for­tune. The Christmas before she was taken home, during the holidays, her father gave a hall in honor of her birth-day, a young officer, whose only recommendation was an handsome person and polite address, and who depended on Mr. Dormer for father advancement in the army, requested the honor of her hand, and in the course of the evening danced himself so far in­to her esteem, that she implicitly believed him, [Page 42] when he told her she was the loveliest creature in the world, and that he should be miserable if she did not suffer him to hope he was not altoge­ther indifferent to her.

Mr. Dormer had placed great confidence in this young man, he had taken him from a state of abject penury, placed him at a genteel academy, and when he imagined him capable of discharg­ing his duty, as became a man of honor and a soldier, purchased him an ensign's commission in a regiment going to America, where he raised himself to the rank of captain, and was now just returned to England. Mr. Dormer ever intend­ed to be the friend and patron of young Horton, but never dreamt of his aspiring to his daughter, he therefore gave him a general invitation to his house, nor once thought but that his gratitude and honor would be sufficient to prevent his forming any improper designs on the person or fortune of Belinda, besides he was near ten years older than Miss Dormer, and therefore there was no fear of an attachment taking place between them.

But Horton was an artful ambitious man, he long had wished to enjoy the benefits of an in­dependent fortune, and looked on Belinda as the person by whose assistance he could obtain so desirable an acquisition. He had always been [Page 43] successful with the ladies, but the true state of his finances being generally known, he found it impossible to succeed in any matrimonial scheme, except it was with the innocent and unsuspicious, and Belinda was exactly suited for his purpose. He flattered, swore, knelt, wept, and acted every extravagance, till the simple girl made some confessions in his favor, he then prevailed on her to keep her partiality a secret from her mo­ther, for he knew that her parents designed her for the bride of a young nobleman, who was at at that time abroad. He expatiated on the folly and cruelty of parents choosing partners for their children, and launched out in praise of disin­terested love, talked of the union of souls, and a deal of soft sentimental nonsense, about a life of uninterruped felicity with the object of her own choice, though she was to live in the meanest cottage.

When Belinda returned to school, she fancied herself as much in love as it was possible for any sentimental heroine to be, and declared, for her sweet Horton she would be coutent to relinquish all the elegancies and indulgencies to which she had ever been a customed, and live upon the coarsest viands, in an obscure mansion. It was in vain I endeavoured to argue my young friend out of these ridiculous notions, she remained [Page 44] fixed in her determination, to marry Horton or not marry at all.

Unfortunately for Belinda, at that time I had as chimerical ideas of friendship as she had of love, and should have supposed it an inexcusa­ble breach of confidence, to discover her de­signs to her mother, though it would have been the best proof of real friendship I could possi­bly have given her.

She was taken from school with a design of being introduced to Lord Gaymore; she went home one day, had a meeting with Hor­ton the next, and the third morning by five o'clock set off in a chaise and four to Scotland, without having even seen the person her parents so earnestly wished her to be united with.

When they returned, Mr. Dormer, though highly offended at the rash conduct of Belinda, and the black ingratitude of Horton, forgave them, and settled an handsome annuity on her, but told them the bulk of his fortune was en­tailed on Lord Gaymore, (who was the nearest male relation) in case of her refusal of him.

Belinda was soon settled, and I took an early opportunity to visit her; I sound her, according to her own words, "superlatively happy! Her [Page 45] Horton was the kindest best of husbands, her home was a paradise, she would not be Lady Gaymore for the world! What was affluence? Nothing when put in competition with love and Horton." But this was the language of ro­mance.

I called on her again in about six months. I found her fitting in extreme dishabille, her face was pale, her eyes sunk, and as she pensively leaned her head upon her hand a tear now and then stole down her cheek. I asked tenderly the cause of her sorrow. "Oh! my friend," said she, "I have undone myself! Horton is no longer the attentive tender husband." I, smiling, told her, that she must not expect the solicitude of the lover to last for life, but be content with the more calm and lasting esteem of a friend.

"Alas!" replied Belinda, "I have no friend, I find, too late, my violent attachment to Hor­ton was the romantic whim of a lively imagina­tion; and that the union of souls, the similarity of sentiment, which I had vainly thought would make the fetters of Hymen easy, and even delight­ful, existed only in my ideas. Horton has nei­ther sense, good nature, or politeness at home, though he appears to possess those amiable quali­ties so eminently abroad. He is extravagant, vain, and too fond of his own person, to be long [Page 46] attached to any woman, except his passion is excited by interested motives; he has not scru­pled to own, it was the hope of possessing my for­tune alone induced him to address me, and that had he known the estate was entailed on Lord Gaymore, he never would have troubled himself to make love to a puny, baby-faced girl, when there were so many fine women who would have thought themselves honoured by his notice. In­deed, continued she, redoubling her tears, he seldom comes home but I am insulted with a re­cital of the many women of fashion who make him advances, and I am debarred of every inno­cent amusement, stinted in my dress, and almost kept without pocket-money, that he may appear with elegance in company, and have plenty of money to la vish in expensive pleasures.

I was greatly chagrined to find my dear young friend had really such just cause for complaint, but endeavoured to comfort her, and lead her to hope, that by constant affection, attention, and good-humour, she might recal her wanderer, and awaken in his bosom reciprocal tenderness. But I found by her reply, these were fallacious hopes.

She had been to visit her parents, and had there formed an acquaintance with Lord Gay­more, Unfortunately the ill-fated Belinda dis­covered [Page 47] this once dreaded nobleman to be pos­sessed of every real virtue, of which Horton had assumed the semblance; his person was hand­some, without being effeminate, his heart glowed with humanity and benevolence; he was a man of refined sense and strict honor, with a mind enlightened and expanded by a liberal education and a thorough knowledge of the world. Belinda saw him, and acknowledged the full value of the happiness she had voluntarily cast from her.

I warned her against making comparisons to the disparagement of her husband; and hinted the folly and danger of suffering any other per­son to stand higher in her esteem. She acknow­ledged the truth of my remarks, said she would en­deavour to be patient and content, but she greatly feared she had lost sight of happiness for ever. And so indeed it proved, for though at the death of her father she received a very handsome legacy, so great was Horton's extravagance, that it was presently gone, lavished away on the worst of wo­men for the most infamous purposes.

Belinda had children very fast, and before she was thirty years old was left a widow with eight helpless children, to struggle with the accumulated evils of poverty, contempt, and a broken heart—Horton's extravagance having obliged her to sell her annuity, she had no resource but to accept a [Page 48] small yearly allowance from Lord Gaymore, who was then married, and allowed her a hundred pounds a year, for the education of her eldest boy, to whom he was god-father.

I will leave you my dear girls to imagine the pain and mortification of such a dependence, and while you pity Belinda's misfortune, cautiously avoid her errors! I shall renew the subject next post, till when and ever believe the your friend,

LETTER. IV.

AS my subject is love, my dear children may perhaps once think an old woman enter­taining; but when they find my intention is only to expose the dangers which are attendant on that passion, instead of following the example of more juvenile scribblers, by expatiating on its plea­sures, you will throw down my letter in a pet. But I shall not let this deter me from following my intended plan, and endeavouring to convince you that there cannot be a more critical period in the whole course of your lives, than that in which you are surrounded by lovers; nor can there be any thing of more dangerous tendency than a young woman suffering a lover to approach her [Page 49] in a clandestine manner, or encourage addresses which she has any reason to think her parents or friends would disapprove; such a conduct is gene­rally attended with disagreeable consequences.

I have a collection of letters in my possession, which I think might well be termed a school for lovers, and will, I am certain, be of more ef­fect in convincing you of the impropriety of clan­destine marriages, than a whole sheet of dull precepts. I have sent them for your perusal, and by way of preface, shall give you an account of the means by which I became possessed of them.

A favourite servant of your grand-mother a who had been my nurse, had married a reputable tradesman, but, through unavoidable misfortunes, they were reduced, and the husband thrown into prison. Martha lived in an obscure lodging, and had been for some months extremely ill. My lady encouraged me in going to see her, and car­rying her little presents.

One day my lady was gone out to dinner, the servants were all in the kitchen, and I took that opportunity of going out unobserved to visit Mar­tha. Charmed with the idea of going by myself (for I usually had a servant with me) I tripped nimbly along, in my way laying out my whole stock of pocket money, which amounted to five [Page 50] shillings, in tea, sugar and biscuits, for my nurse. As I went up stairs to Martha's apartment, I ob­served in a small back room, the door of which was taken off the hinges, a tall well-made man, in an old rusty black coat, his face pale and meagre, his arms folded upon his bosom, his eyes fixed seemingly on the floor, but instead of the vacant inanimate stare, there was a mixture of hor­nor and despair depicted in them. Curiosity prompted me to draw near the door of the room; at the farther and, on a bundle of straw, the only furniture the wretched apartment afforded, sat a woman, whose features told she had once been lovely; on her lap lay an infant asleep, beside her sat a fine boy, who, with a piteous accent was asking for bread; the woman paid no attention to his entreaties, but with her eyes fixed on the youngest child, appeared like misery personified. Young as I was, I felt my heart greatly afflicted at this scene, and running hastily up stairs into Martha's room, unable to articulate a word, I burst into tears. Martha astonished at the agony I was in, tenderly inquired the cause. I told her what I had seen. "Alas! my dear child," said she, "those people are in more distress than it is possible for you to conceive; they have lodged in this house about six weeks, in which time I am certain they have had nothing to support them­selves and children but what they could raise from the sale of a few cloaths; they are now a fortnight [Page 51] in arrears for rent, and the inhuman landlord has taken the door off the hinges, and the windows out of the frames, to oblige them to quit the apart­ment. Alas, poor souls, they have no means of procuring another shelter from nocturnal dews, when they relinguish this. I have not seen him stir out these two days past, and am apt to think in that time they have had no food except a slice of bread and meat which I gave the eldest child yesterday.

How at that moment did I regret my money be­ing all spent, five shillings appeared to me a for­tune, which might preserve these unfortunate peo­ple; however, I had not even a single halfpenny, nor could I bear the thought of taking from Mar­tha any part of what I had given her. I there­fore hastily bade her good bye, and flew rather than walked home, inquired for the house-keeper, related the afflicting situation of the family, and requested the loan of half a guinea. The house­keeper was an unfeeling, mercenary woman, she never heard a tale of distress but she imagined it fictitious, nor would she ever bestow any relief, lest the object relieved should be an impostor. She refused my request. I then had recourse to the nursery maid, but could borrow no more than one shilling.

With this trifle I eagerly returned to the poor [Page 52] sufferers, entered the apartment, and under pre­tence of kissing the infant, dropped the shilling into the mother's lap. The exclamation which broke from her, when she saw the money, con­vinced me she was a foreigner; and the demeanour of the man was vastly above the common rank of people.

Unfortunately my Lady did not return from her visit till after supper, so that I was not permit­ted to set up to see her; but though I retired to bed I could not sleep, my mind had been too much agitated, and the starving family had left such an impression on it, that the moment I closed my eyes they were present to my imagination. Early in the morning I stole to Lady Winworth's chamber, told my little story, and on my knees intreated some money to carry to them.

Her Ladyship, though from infancy nursed in the lap of ease and affluence, had an heart over­flowing with compassion towards her suffering fel­low-creatures; she gave me two guineas, and or­dered the footman immediately to attend me.

I cannot describe the joy that expanded my heart as I proceeded to G— Street. The master of the house was just risen, and was open­ing his shop. I asked for the foreign gentleman. Gentleman, returned he with a sneer, the French [Page 53] beggar I suppose you mean, I don't know where he is, I turned them out last night; people who cannot afford to pay for their lodgings, must lay where and how they can. Cruel inhuman wretch, said I, and turned from him with every mark of abhorrence.

It was yet early, the morning was inviting, and I thought a walk in the fields might cheer me after my recent disappointment; however, I previously determined every inquiry should be made after the poor foreigner and his family.

Crossing a field in the vicinity of Mary-le­bon, the voice of a child crying caught my ear, I turned my head, and saw at a little distance, seated on a log of wood, the very person I had been seeking, one child was in his arms, the other stood by him, his wife lay on the ground. I ran to him, spoke to him, bade him take hope, and put the two guineas in his hand—he looked at the money, then at me. Angel of mercy, said he, with a deep sigh, it is too late, my Agnes has left me. I saw his intellects were disordered and shuddered with horror. Thinking the wife would be better able to take care of the money, I stooped in order to awaken her—I called her, she moved not—I took hold of her hand, it was dreadfully cold; she is in a sit, said I, and raised her head upon my knee, Never, oh! never, [Page 54] my beloved girls, will the spectacle that presented itself to my eyes, be banished from my memory. Her eyes were partly closed, her mouth half open, her lips black—Death had that night re­leased her from a world of misery. I shrieked and fainted. When I recovered I found myself in my dear Lady's arms, who told me, the body of the poor young woman was taken care of, that the man was quite distracted and entirely un­able to give any account of himself, though from an unfinished letter, addressed to the Marchioness Savillion, which was found in the woman's pocket they had reason to suppose they were of a good family.

The man survived his wife but a few days, my Lady took care of the children.

About six months after I was sent to a convent near Paris, in order to finish my education, and perfect myself in the French language. Among a number of boarders who resided at the convent, I was particularly noticed by one, who was dis­tinguished by the title of St. Augustina; she was of a weakly constitution, and often confined to her bed, when she was always pleased if I would work or read beside her. One day she gave me her keys, and desired me to unlock a cabinet and take out a curious piece of needle­work which she said had been executed by a once [Page 55] loved friend. As I took the work from the drawer, a miniature picture attracted my notice; methought I knew the features; I took it up to examine it more minutely, and immediately re­collected the interesting countenance of the un­fortunate Agnes. Upon inquiry I found I was right in my conjecture; St. Augustina was the Marchioness Savillion, whom Lady Winworth had made numerous fruitless inquiries after. She had been the friend and companion of Agnes, but had married and left the convent where they both boarded just before that young lady, and her last pathetic letters never reached her till it was too late to administer relief; the Marchio­ness had since lost her husband and two fine children, by fire, which accident had so impaired her health and depressed her spirits, that she had retired from the world, and meant to spend the remainder of her days in the convent where she had passed her youth. She shewed me all Ag­nes's letters, and before I left France suffered me to take copies of them.

LETTER I. AGNES TO THE MARCHIONESS.

WHY have you left me, my Augustina, why are you away at the moment I most want your advice?—Selfish Agnes, methinks I hear [Page 56] you say, to regret the happiness of your friend, because it interferes with your own. Oh! no, I do not regret your felicity, my sweet friend, I rejoice, I exult in the reflection that you are for ever exempt from the pangs which at present rive the heart of the wretched Agnes.

You ever knew the aversion and horror that seized my heart when I reflected on the intended union between myself and the Count de la Rue. Alas! my Augustina, the time approaches when that aversion will become a crime, and yet I feel it every day increase. Shall I own to the sympathizing bosom of friendship, that my heart has made its election, and that election has not fallen on the man for whom my parents have de­signed me. I know you will blame me, I know you will bid me endeavour to conquer my grow­ing passion, and call in reason to my assistance. Alas! what power has reason over the heart torn by contending passions? Duty bids me stifle my sighs, and bend my thoughts and wishes to­wards the Count, love triumphs over duty, and I can only think of Vieurville.

The day after you left our convent, Madamoi­selle Vieurville requested me to attend her to the parlour, where her brother and lover waited to see her. "You must go, Agnes, said she, or my brother will be quite at a loss how to amuse [Page 57] himself, while I converse with Montrose." I was easily persuaded, and on entering the parlour, was struck with the noble mein and elegant man­ner of young Vieurville; we chatted for some time on indifferent subjects, his vivacity and wit, (through which it was easy to discover a fund of good sense) delighted me, and when I retired with Mademoiselle, I could not help expressing my ad­miration; he is a charming young man indeed, said she, and had I not known that you were on the point of marriage, I should not have ventured to introduce him to you, for fear you might lose your heart; for you must know (continued she, paying no regard to the visible emotion which I am certain agitated my features) that Louis is to be married the same day that I am, to a beautiful Spanish lady, who is expected in Paris next month. Has he ever seen his intended bride? said I, affecting indifference. Oh! no, she re­plied, but if Donna Clara be but half as lovely as her picture represents her, he must inevitably fall in love. It is odd, said I, that he should consent to marry a woman he has never seen. I dare say it appears so to you, replied Mademoiselle, but when I shall tell you how it came about, your wonder will cease.

My mother was the only daughter of an ancient wealthy Spanish family, and eloped with my fa­ther [Page 58] from a convent, where she was placed for education. The match was very unequal; her father was irreconcilably offended, and would never suffer her to be named in his presence.

My mother was tenderly beloved by her bro­ther, who, at the old nobleman's decease, paid her a handsome fortune, and vowed their families should ever live in the strictest amity.

My uncle was married to a woman of whom he was passionately fond, and when, in giving birth to Donna Clara, she departed this world, he took a solemn oath that no other woman should ever supply her place, but that the whole of his future life should be devoted to the care of his daughter. My mother at that time lying in of a son, the two infants were contracted to each other, and my brother, at his uncle's decease, is to inherit the estate and titles devolving to him from his grand­father. My uncle is expected to bring his daugh­ter to Paris this winter, when the marriage is to be completed, and I shall be delivered from this horrid convent.

I cannot describe my feelings during Mademoi­selle's recital. I know not what could be the cause of my agitation, but I could hardly restrain my tears, while I remained in her apartment. When I retired, I began to take my heart to task, [Page 59] and determined to repel a rising passion, which had thus suddenly taken possession of it: I fore­bore making any comparison between my intend­ed Lord and young Vieurville, and determined never to see the latter again; but the next morn­ing vanquished these good resolutions.

I was but just arisen, when one of the lay-sisters informed me a gentleman requested a few mo­ments conversation. Imagining it to be either the Count, or some messenger from my father, I repaired without hesitation to the parlour. Judge of my surprise when I found myself in the presence of Monsieur Vieurville. Supposing the nun had made a mistake in calling mé instead of Made­moiselle, his sister, I was going to retire, when he intreated me to stop, assured me there was no mistake, and taking my hand, led me to a chair, and seated himself beside me.

I come, dearest Madam, said he, to entreat a few moments serious attention from you, and a candid answer to a question, which though abrupt in its nature, yet from the circumstances which we both at present are in, demands an ex­plicit reply. My sister has informed me, that your parents design you for the wife of Count de la Rue; however presumptuous the supposition may be, I cannot imagine your heart has any in­terest in the intended union. My heart, Sir, [Page 60] replied I, will ever follow the dictates of duty, and rejoice in ratifying any engagement which I am certain will give my parents so much plea­sure.

But was that heart left to make its free choice, would it then have selected the Count as the ob­ject of its dearest affection?

I know not, Monsieur, what authority you have to make these enquiries, nor do I think myself obliged to answer them.

I rose to quit the parlour—lovely Agnes, said he, catching my hand, I know I have been a­brupt, but let my situation plead my excuse. You no doubt have heard from my sister, that I am designed the husband of a woman I have never seen; till yesterday I ever believed my heart un­susceptible of the power of beauty, and imagined I might be as happy with Donna Clara as any other woman, but I am now convinced, that indif­ference only proceeded from the want of a proper object to call forth the affections of my heart. I have seen the lovely object who has that power, I feel my bosom glow with new and unutterable sen­sations, and though I would have married Clara had I continued in a state of indifference; I will never wed her now, my heart is firmly attached to another. You, adorable Agnes, are the only [Page 61] woman who ever gave my heart a single pain, or taught it to throb with rapture; if your affections are already engaged, I will condemn myself to eternal silence, but if you will grant me one ray of hope that you are not altogether indifferent to my suit, the world shall not tempt me to enter into any engagement with Donna Clara.

Oh! my beloved Augustina, at that moment reason, honour, fortitude, forsook me, enchanted with the convincing proof he offered to give me of inviolable attachment, I suffered him to per­ceive my partiality. I thought not on the irrepar­able injury I should do Vieurville's family, I for­got the duty I owed my parents, the respect I owed myself, and confessed that he alone was the master of my affections.

I see your anger, my dear friend, I hear you blame my imprudence; shall I lose your friend­ship, Augustina, will you chase the imprudent Agnes from your bosom! Alas! If you do, where will she find another resting place? The thought overpowers me, I can write no more.

LETTER II. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I ACKNOWLEDGE your reproof, I see my error, but I have not power to renounce it. You bid me exert my fortitude; I have no forti­tude, my friend, it all forsook me when I was parted from Augustina, what little I ever possessed was but a gentle spark of virtue caught from her bosom. I am nothing of myself, a feather, an atom of thistledown is heavy when weighed a­gainst the stability of Agnes. Donna Clara is ar­rived, and Vieurville has refused to fulfil the engagements his father had entered into; his sister suspects the cause, I have lost her friendship, I have endured her reproaches; yes, my friend Agnes de Romani has subjected herself to re­proach, and conscious that she deserved it, re­ceived it in passive silence, nor dared to vent her full heart in aught but tears. Oh! Augusti­na, how am I fallen! I have this morning received a summons to return home; to-mor­row I leave the convent, to-morrow I bid adieu to Vieurville. I am expected to receive the hand of the Count—'tis a vain hope, I am deter­mined to refuse him—I cannot be the wife of Vieurville, I will never be the wife of another—my grave would be a welcomer bridal bed, than [Page 63] to share a diadem with De la Rue. Augustina, pity me, but do not hate me.

LETTER III.

I HAVE refused him. I have borne a fa­ther's anger, a mother's tears, but still con­tinue resolute. Alas! Augustina, how easy is it to assume courage and fortitude when the heart is interested. Methinks for Vieurville I could bear, without complaining, the heaviest ills to which human nature is subject.

My father has just lest me, he has offered the Count my younger sister Theodora, he has accepted her, and I am to take the veil, and give up my fortune in return for this condescen­sion, I have consented with alacrity. Oh Vieur­ville, what a sacrifice I make for you. To-mor­row I return to the convent, and enter on my novitiate. Augustina, pity me, pray for me, and, if you can forget her errors, still love your

LETTER IV.

EIGHT months of my novitiate is past, and I have never heard of Vieurville. But what is Vieurville to me? Am I not going to re­nounce the world and all its pleasures; am I not going to devote my future life to my maker? Augustina, are not my thoughts free, and though my body is immured within the walls of a cloister, may not my fancy wander, free as air, to Vieurville. Oh! the tortures of suspence! Could I but know where he was, could I but be satisfied he still remembers Agnes, methinks I could be content. Write to me, my friend, en­deavour to calm my mind; tell me, Augustina, when I have thrown off the trappings which mark a child of vanity, will not sweet peace in­habit my bosom, when simplicity has attired my person? And when the irrevocable vow has past my lips, will not my perturbed spirits be hushed to rest, and all my soul be rapt in religious har­mony. Oh! no, no, my sweet friend, the massy doors that close on us poor captives, cannot shut out the busy meddling passions, or stifle the feel­ings we receive from nature. The simplicity of our habit is not an index of the purity of our mind, nor is the kneeling posture, or lifted eye, true indications of the fervor of religion! Au­gustina, [Page 65] hypocrisy may dwell in a convent, so may love, hatred, jealousy, and despair. And is an heart agitated by these contending passions, a sit sacrifice to be offered at the throne of grace? Will not your Agnes be the worst of hypocrites, to vow eternal love and faith to her Maker, when her whole soul is absorbed in a passion for a frail mortal!

I know I distress you, my friend, Oh! par­don the wretched Agnes, if with her complain­ing she sometimes dashes with bitter the cup which overflows with blessings; if you refuse to hear my complaints, where shall the unhappy Agnes seek for compassion—hadst thou never left me I should not have been the wretch I am.

Adieu. May every blessing heaven can be­stow, or you desire, be your portion, prays the lost

LETTER V.

AUGUSTINA, you will tremble when you receive this, you will think it a meritori­ous act to drive from your heart the remembrance of Agnes de Romani; but if thou hast any re­maining gleam of compassion in thy gentle bosom, [Page 66] oh give it way, renounce not thy unhappy friend, but chear her with one forgiving line.

I have seen Vieurville, I have forfeited my vows, left the convent, and become a fugitive and an exile, my brain is distracted when I think what I have suffered this last fourteen days, nor can all my husband's tenderness soothe me. My pulse throbs, my veins are scorched with heat—I must throw aside my pen, my eyes are dim. Augustina, thy dying friend lifts up her soul in prayers for thy happiness.

After three weeks being confined to my bed, I am at length permitted to address the com­passionate friend of my youth. Raised from the confines of the grave, I once more pour forth my soul into the bosom of Augustina. I will now at­tempt to give you some regular account of the proceedings of last month. Alas! my friend, my heart will bleed afresh as I trace the painful scenes, painful they will ever be to my remem­brance, for I have drawn inevitable ruin on the man my soul doated on.

As I had never heard any tidings of Vieur­ville, from the time I was taken from the convent, with a design of being married to the Count, till within three days of the time when my novitiate was expired, I began to look on my profession as [Page 67] inevitable, and endeavoured to bring myself to think of it with calmness, but still corroding thoughts would sometimes intrude, and overturn my best resolutions. My only wish was to hear whether Vieurville was alive or dead, or whe­ther he was married to my rival; but these were particulars I was never able to discover, as his father and family had quitted Paris soon after my return to the convent.

There remained but three days now before I was to take the veil, and I endeavoured to fortify my mind against the awful day, with every argu­ment reason or religion could supply. I was busy in reflecting on the change a few short hours would make, when one of our boarders asked me to accompany her to the grate; I complied, and we amused ourselves sometime in chatting to two English ladies, who were in the parlour; the ladies were just preparing to leave the convent, when a violent ringing at the gate alarmed us; the portress ran to open it, and in a moment Vieurville rushed into the parlour. I know not what I said or whether I spoke at all—a sudden mist obscured my sight and I fell to the ground; when I recovered, my friend, the boarder, told me, that seeing the impetuosity of my lover, she had advised him to leave the convent, and if he had any thing particular to communicate, to do it by letter, and inclose it to her. Her friendly [Page 68] soothing greatly contributed to calm my spirits, and as none of the sisterhood had seen Vieurville, they all remained ignorant of the interview.

In about three hours I received a letter, in which he told me, nothing but absolute force should so long have kept him from me; that he had been detained in Spain by various stratagems, but having at last eluded the vigilance of his guards, he hurried to Paris, where he presently learnt the sacrifice I was about to make, he urged my leaving the convent and being united to him by the most indissoluble bonds; and said, he made no doubt but my father would be easily led to forgive us. I shewed the letter to my young friend, she joined the persuasions of Vieur­ville, and said she would undertake to manage my escape on the very morning on which I was to become profest.

I wrote to my dear Vieurville, and my friend enclosed it in one from herself, directing him in what manner to proceed. That very evening Edella, (which was the name of my friend) was seized with a violent indisposition, which would have made a dupe of even me, had I not been in the secret. She continued ill all night, and the next day when she desired the abbess to send to a relation she had about seven miles from Paris, re­questing she would send her coach for her the [Page 69] ensuing morning at eleven o'clock, as she thought a few days spent in the country, would be of in­finite service to her. Vieurville was ordered to send a carriage at nine, and it being the last morn­ing of my novitiate, I desired not be disturbed till it was time for me to enter the chapel. This re­quest I knew would be complied with, as it would be supposed, I wished for time for meditati­on. Accordingly I early left my cell, and go­ing to Edella's apartment, dressed myself in some of her cloaths, and put on a long black hood which would pull over the face; thus attired, I waited anxiously for a ring at the gate and guessing it was the coach, hurried down stairs, and so prevented the portress from coming up to call Edella. I met several of the nuns as I passed from her apartment to the door, but they neither spoke to me, nor attempted to stop me. I got out of the convent unsuspected, and in less than an hour was in a place of safety, where a priest immedi­ately united me to my dear Vieurville. My first desire was that we should fly to my father for his protection, intreat his pardon and blessing, and through his intercession be again received into the church, from whence I was certain we should be excommunicated. It was midnight when I arriv­ed at my father's, he had been returned from Pa­ris near four hours, whither he had rapaired to see me take the veil, and was then, overcome with fatigue and disappointment, just retired to [Page 70] rest. I would not permit the servant to inform his master that I was come home, but following him up stairs, threw myself on my knees by his bed-side. He started at seeing me, fury flashed from his eyes, and grasping my hand with vio­lence, he cried, Agnes, ungrateful girl, why are you here? With tremulous accents, I in a few words told him I was married, and intreated his pardon and friendship.

Oh! never shall I forget his answer, twas aw­ful, 'twas more than nature could support. He spurned me from him, he cursed me, and impre­cated the wrath of heaven on his head if ever he forgave me. "I will not, said he, precipitate your impending fate, by betraying you to the ecclesiastical powers; go hasten to leave France, and if you can be happy oppressed by the weight of a father's curse, may you be so!—Hence, begone, you offend my sight."

Vieurville forced me out of the room. During the time of my petitioning for pardon, my mother had arose, she followed me down stairs, blessed me, and promised to use her interest with my fa­ther, to effect a reconciliation. She gave me all the cash she possessed and some jewels that had been presented me by a relation. When I em­braced her for the last time, it seemed like rend­ing soul and body asunder; but hope, that sweet [Page 71] soother of the human mind, bore me up, and I flattered myself we should one day meet again.

When we left my father's house, we set for­ward immediately for Calais, and from thence embarked for Dover, where, overcome by agita­tion and fatigue, I was seized with a sever which brought me to the verge of the grave. During my illness Vieurville wrote to his father, and we now anxiously await the arrival of an answer. Oh! may it be propitious, but my sad heart presages I shall never more know happiness: For myself, I could have borne it patiently, but when I think I have involved my dear Vieurville in mise­ry, my brain sickens and almost madness ensues.

My dearest Augustina, if you do not resolve to hate me, by one kind line convey some gleam of comfort to the agonizing heart of.

LETTER VI.

WHEN will my portion of misery be full, when shall I say there is 'no more to suf­fer. When I am laid in the silent grave, when my eyes close on this world and open to immor­tality, then Augustina may say, Agnes is at peace!

[Page 72] Though I have not received a line from your once friendly hand, I still think you have not forgotten me, and having no other prop where­on to lean, I still pour forth my sorrows to you. My mother, my only friend, is torn from me, and I have the additional misery of thinking my disobedience precipitated her end; she drooped from the day I left France, and her confidential servant informed me, her last breath was spent in intreating my father to pardon me, but he was inexorable.

Vieurville has received an answer from his father; but, oh! my Augustina, what killing lines did it contain. Donna Clara had conceived a passion for her cousin, and from the time of his leaving Spain, fell into a profound melancholy, and when she heard of his marriage, the agitati­on of her spirits became too much for her weak frame to support, and a rapid decline carried her an early victim to the grave. Vieurville is disinherited, disowned, and loaded with a fa­ther's anger; but will you believe it, my friend, he still loves the woman who has brought those misfortunes upon him; but that love, that warm mutual affection that subsists between us serves only to heighten our misery—for oh! what tor­ture can compare to that of seeing the object we love overwhelmed with distress we have not the power to mitigate?—

[Page 73] I am a mother, Augustina, but far from feel­ing transport when clasping my infant to my heart, methinks his innocent eyes reproach me with bringing him into the world, when his only birth-right is wretchedness. Poverty, with hag­gard countenance, and famine, with cold grip­ing hand, have taken up their abode in our dwell­ing. Must I write it, must the daughter of de Romani tell her friend, she is in want of al­most the common necessaries of life!—Oh! bitter reflection, hard, hard task, Agnes must so­licit charity of her friend Augustina!—And, alas! my friend, unless relief comes soon, we must perish! for in this strange land what can we do? We cannot work, and (notwithstand­ing the known humanity of the British nation) we are ashamed to beg.

Oh! how blind are the dictates of passion! how erroneous are its judgments! may none of my sex henceforth listen to its delusive argu­ments, but by adhering to the precepts of reason, avoid the miseries of.

LETTER VII.

IF ever this reaches the hand of my ever­loved Augustina Savillion, enquire for my children, and be to them a mother; intreat the Marquis to take them under his protection, for a few short days will render them orphans. We have passed from one degree of wretchedness to another, till a bundle of straw, a dry crust, and a few rags that cover our emaciated frames, are the whole of our worldly possessions, and to en­crease my affliction, six weeks since I brought into the world another child of sorrow.

Gracious heaven! could words convey to my Augustina the extent of my misery, could she but for a moment, even in idea, experience my sufferings;—but may the beneficent power that rules the world avert from her even the shadow of such afflictions, may my bitterest enemy ne­ver experience the pangs that at present harrow up my soul.

I am a mother, I hear the darling of my heart, the child of my bosom asking for food, and have it not to give him. I am a wife, and see my adored, my almost idolized husband, sinking under the complicated evils of famine, [Page 75] grief and sickness, yet have neither comfort or consolations to offer. Let the wife, the mother, judge of my tortures, they are agonies that may be felt, but cannot be described.

Augustina, this is the last time I shall ever address you; this night the wretched Agnes must lay her head upon the earth, with no ca­nopy but the skies. Oh! my children, Oh! my beloved Vieurville, thy mother, thy wife has murdered thee.

Adieu. If thou hast any children, tell them my story, and teach them to subdue their passi­ons. We are incompetent judges of what will promote our own happiness. Oh! that I had never—

Here the unfortunate Agnes breaks off, this was the letter found in her pocket, and in all probability was written the day before her death.

To attempt a comment on this story would be an insult to your snderstandings; I shall there­fore leave you to make your own reflections, and wishing you every happiness, throw aside my pen. Adieu, I need not tell you how much I am your friend,

LETTER VI. MENTORIA TO THE MISS WINWORTHS.

STILL am I to complain of the shortness of your letters, and receive the trifling excuse, that you have no time. Fye, my dear girls, I am ashamed to read so very childish an apology, your want of time must proceed from your own bad management, for surely no rational being will give more to the pursuit of amusement than what might just serve to give a zest to retirement; and, believe me, you will find retirement alone the source of true happiness, and promoter of in­dustry—and on the contrary, an eager pursuit of fashionable folly, which seduces you under the semblance of pleasure, always tends to debilitate the faculties of the mind, and lead you into habits of idleness and indolence at once prejudicial to your tranquillity and interest, not only your tem­poral, but what is of far more consequence, your spiritual interest.

If, my beloved pupils, you cannot find time once in several weeks to write a few lines to a [Page 40] friend, who regards you with a tenderness nearly maternal; tell me, and tell me truly, I entreat, how much time you can spare to devote each day to the Creator and giver of all good? Ah! my young friends, I fear but a little, very little por­tion is allotted for that service; yet trust me it is a service which cannot be neglected but by the ungrateful and unthinking. Is there one mo­ment of your lives that passes unmarked by his blessings? Have you not health, chearfulness, friends, and the most valuable of all blessings, the power to dry the tear of affliction, to comfort the widow, protect the orphan, release the poor debtor, and perform all the good works of peace and mercy?

How should your hearts overflow with gratitude to that God, who thus bountifully spreads around you the means of happiness, do not then my dear children, throw the blessing from you, and con­tinue squandering your time, and trifling with your health 'till the first is nearly spent, and the latter irretrievably ruined, and you will awaken too late to a just sense of your error, when your mind, evervated by the weakness of your frame, vainly shall endeavour in the few remaining years to regain those sources of mental delight which ever slow from a proper exertion of the reasoning faculties.

[Page 41] When you were with me, was there ever a day too long? I hear you readily answer no. Every moment was fully and pleasantly em­ployed; true, but had we not always time for reading, writing, music, drawing, needle-work, and every other amusing or useful employment. And did we ever, my dear girls, rise from the sweets of repose, or retire to our chambers at night, without remembering our duty to him through whose mercy alone we enjoyed all those blessings? and certain I am, you were at that time as happy as it was possible for young people to be; you were blithe as the woodlark, bloom­ing as Hebe, and innocent as the dove, who tries his new fledged wings in little circles round its mother's nest.

Think not, my young friends, that I wish to deprive you of innocent amusement, far from it. In the sphere where it has pleased providence to place you, it is certainly right that you should partake in moderation of all the diversions of the metropolis; but if those diversions are too fre­quently repeated, they lose their effect, and you return from them weary, disgusted and dis­satisfied.

But how different are the pleasures arising from the amusement to be found within ourselves. The pursuit of either of the fine arts, the study [Page 42] of nature, in all her varieties and beauties, the ex­cellencies of christianity, the delights arising from benevolence—here are inexhaustible sources of entertainment, rational sublime pleasure, that the farther you pursue it, the more enchanting ap­pears the prospect, new charms arise to your asto­nished view; and though the joys of youth tran­siently fleet away, you will still have pleasures within your reach, that can render old age not only easy to yourself, but delightful to others.

I am no stranger to the many enticements youth and inexperience meet with in the gay world to allure them from the paths of reason. I myself spent my youth in London, but it was my lot to be placed in a family, where nothing was deemed pleasure, however specious its ap­pearance, that was not sanctioned by reason.

Your grandmother, my dear girls, was a wo­man remarkable for the elogance of her manners and the chearfulness of her disposition; yet be­lieve me she was as truly pious as a primitive christian. Surrounded with affluence, she was humble, benevolent, tender hearted, and easy of access to the meanest petitioner. In affliction resigned, patient and uncomplaining.

When it was first my happy fate to be taken under her protection, she was scarcely twenty-six [Page 43] years old, extremely lovely in her person, en­dowed with every accomplishment, admired wherever she appeared, respected by her friends, and adored by her husband: yet she was not tainted by vanity, but made it her study to con­ciliate esteem, when love and admiration should be no more. She paid a strict attention to her domestic affairs, attended personally to the mo­rals and education of her children, never suffer­ed an hour to pass unemployed, or a day without paying her devotion to her maker.

This is an example I could wish you to fol­low, as it cannot sail of making you as truly happy, as it is possible for human nature to be.

LETTER VII. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

AND so you really feel yourselves mightily offended because your father thinks of a se­cond marriage, when you should rather rejoice to find he has chosen so amiable a woman as Mrs. Clairville.

You are to consider that it is more than pro­bable in a few years you will all of you be settled in a matrimonial way, and then how extremely un­comfortable will your father find himself, after being so long accustomed to the society of an amiable woman, to feel himself at once deprived of it, how solitary would be his house, how pen­sive his breakfast hours.

But you cry, you do not like a step-mother. Can you suppose that Mrs. Clairville will assume any improper authority over you when she becomes Lady Winworth?—

[Page 45] Believe me, my children, while you behave with tenderness and propriety towards her, she will never appear otherwise than your friend and companion. Besides, you should reflect that your father having discharged his duty towards you, by giving you a liberal education, and re­maining unmarried till you have attained to years of maturity, has now an undoubted right to please himself, and chuse a companion suited to his age and disposition.—And shall you, the chil­dren of his affection, whose happiness he has so much studied, whose felicity is the first wish of his heart, shall you ungratefully murmur at his choice, and by your discontent embitter the life of him it is your duty to love and reverence.

No, no.—I think my dear girls know too well the many obligations they are under to this dear father, to attempt any thing which would be pre­judicial to his happiness. Consider, my dear girls, how much it will be your interest to endeavour to conciliate the affection and esteem of the wo­man whom your father thinks proper to place in so respectable a situation. You must regard her as the representative of your deceased parent, and by tender assiduity and attention, make her your sincere friend; such a conduct will make you dearer than ever [...] the heart of your father, and a delightful tranquillity will diffuse itself through your own bosoms, conscious that to the [Page 46] utmost of your power you have performed your duty.

Perhaps you may tell me, there is no actual duty due to a step-mother. I confess it is not so much a duty incumbent for you to obey the commands or submit implicitly to the will of any but your natural parent, but remember my fair friends, if you voluntarily perform an exalted action, where perhaps it was not expected, and could not be demanded, how much more will it redound to your honor, than the simple dis­charge of an obligation.

I am sensible that many young women have been rendered extremely unhappy by their fa­ther's choosing second wives, but then it has been the error of judgment in his choice; where pas­sion has so blinded him that he could not discover the faults of the person who had attracted his af­fection. Perhaps she has been ignorant, ill-na­tured, illiberal, or fantastic; nay, it has been the unhappy fate of some girls to have for a step-mother, a person in whom all those disagree­able circumstances are combined. But what a different choice has your father made, Mrs. Clair­ville is elegant, accomplished, gentle and unas­suming. She will render your father's evening of life like the parting rays of a mild autumn day, where though we cannot but see the visible [Page 47] approach of winter, there is such a soft serenity, such various beauties scattered over the prospect, that the reflecting mind cannot but prefer it to the more gaudy tints that embellish the appearance of spring.

Your own felicity too may be augmented by this union, as I am certain, however vanity or folly may for a moment mislead your understand­ing, you will all sincerely rejoice in an event that will ultimately tend to insure the most re­fined pleasure to so good, so valuable a father, as Lord Winworth, by uniting him to a woman, whose highly cultivated understanding renders her at once the chearful rational companion, and the disinterested friend.

You may remember, my dear girls, how un­kind you thought me, when I positively refused to accompany you to London; perhaps you may now perceive the justice of that refusal. Had I complied with the polite invitation of your fa­ther, and yielded my own better judgment to your pressing entreaties, I should have undoubt­edly long ago forfeited, in your opinion, all right to your affection.

Some years before Lord Winworth beheld your truly amiable mother, he so far humbled himself as to make me a tender of his hand and fortune. I [Page 48] will not dwell on the reason that urged me to re­fuse an offer so very far above my deserts, least my dear Miss Winworths should think I boasted of my great fortitude and resolution; believe me, it was only an exertion of reason, and I felt amply compensated for all I suffered in this self-denial, (for I will not deny that my heart pleaded strong­ly in your father's favor) by the reflection that I had acted with honour and propriety, and evinced the sincerity of my gratitude to my dear benefactress.

Affections that have been deeply impressed on our hearts in extreme youth, are often revived again at the remote period of mature age, and I feared to lose the friendship of my young friends, by awakening in the bosom of their father the ten­derness he once honored me with, by professing—.

Before I drop this subject, I will give you two instances that have fell under my own immediate knowledge, to shew you how very possible it is for an obstinate misjudging child to trifle away both her own and father's happiness, by being wil­fully blind to the merits of his second wife; and also shew how truly amiable the daughter must appear, who makes the tranquillity of her parent her chief study; and if her own peace is in some measure interrupted by the caprice of a step mo­ther, she will seek in resignation, piety and hu­mility, a sweet consolation and comfort.

[Page 49] Celia Markham had the misfortune to lose her mother at the early age of twelve. Mr. Mark­ham was doatingly fond of his daughter, he placed his chief felicity in the hope of one day seeing her the most amiable, accomplished and happy girl in England.

He had placed her at an eminent boarding school, but he knew too much of the world to suppose, a girl of her volatile disposition, espe­cially when she was lovely in her person, and reputed heiress to a large fortune, could be so safe any where as under the immediate protec­tion of a father. He had no female relation whom he could with propriety invite to his house, and he thought he could not do his daugh­ter a more acceptable service, than by choosing the amiable Miss Nelson to preside in the place of her departed mother.

Miss Nelson was at that time upwards of thirty, she had rendered herself universally beloved and respected by all who knew her, for the innate goodness of her heart was conspicuous in every action. She had received a most liberal education, and her mental endowments were far superior to the generality of what is termed accomplished women—yet so timid and unassuming in her manners, that those with whom she conversed by [Page 50] degrees discovered her excellencies, and after some years acquaintance would be daily finding something new to admire. She had by the most exemplary conduct as a daughter, convinced the world what might be expected from her as a wife and mother. She was uniformly humane, pious and gentle; in person attractive, and in manners elegantly simple.

Such was the woman whom Mr. Markham thought would help to form the manners, culti­vate the understanding, and direct the studies of his darling Celia.

Miss Markham no sooner was informed of her father's intended union, than she conceived the most violent and ill founded dislike toward the innocent object of his affection.

As Celia was so young, Mr. Markham never had an idea of consulting her on his proposed mar­riage, having therefore obtained from Miss Nel­son leave to name an early day for the ceremony, he wrote to his daughter an affectionate letter, informing her how much he had studied her hap­piness in providing her so amiable a friend and preceptress, at the same time requesting her go­verness to prepare her to be present at the wed­ding.

[Page 51] Celia was a girl of high spirits, her under­standing had remained entirely uncultivated, while large sums had been expended on the far less ne­cessary superficial accomplishments of music, dan­cing, drawing, and fancy works. Religion she knew but by name; it is true, there were prayers read twice a-day in the school, and she went with the other ladies regularly to church twice every Sunday, but there it rested. There had been no pains taken to instil into her mind a true knowledge of what religion meant; she had not been taught that to keep her passions under the controul of reason, to submit, without repining, to the will of those whom heaven had placed over her; to be meek, merciful, and just, and let every action of her life be a continued work of gratitude to hea­ven, and good will to her fellow creatures, was to follow the precepts of true piety.

She had been early taught to value herself, upon the trifling advantages of birth and fortune, for she saw the visible difference between the at­tention and respect paid by her governess and the teachers to herself and those young ladies who had neither of those advantages to recommend them.

She was naturally vain, and that vanity was augmented by the constant adulation which she daily received from those girls, whose [...] [Page 52] of spirit induced them to cringe to her superior wealth.

From constantly contemplating those fancied endowments, she began to imagine she was born for universal sway, had settled it in her own mind, that in a few years she should be called home to preside at her father's table, have the manage­ment of the family, and partake of all the fa­shionable pleasures with which the metropolis abounds.

How great then was her disappointment when she found all these pleasing expectations at once frustrated—when she found she was to be still con­sidered as a child, and under the controul of the most dreaded of all characters, a step-mother.—

She knew Miss Nelson, but far from admiring her amiable qualities, she had considered her as a dull, precise, insipid old maid. She had no idea that chearfulness and unaffected piety constantly in­habited the same breast, nor could she conceive that rational conversation, study, useful employ­ment, and innocent amusement, could amply di­versify the scene, and be a source of tranquil hap­piness without the aid of public entertainments, dress, parade and folly.

[Page 53] It may be easily conceived, that two tempers so diametrically opposite would never agree.

Mr. Markham had seen these erroneous traits in his daughter's disposition, but he flattered himself, the amiable example and condescend­ing behaviour of Miss Nelson would so far ope­rate on her temper, as to make her love and en­deavour to imitate her virtues.

It is impossible to describe the rage and grief that displayed itself in the countenance of Celia, on the receipt of her father's letters, regarding only what she foolishly imagined would be preju­dicial to her own happiness. She gave vent to her passion in the most unbecoming terms, called her father cruel, unjust and unfeeling, and vowed she would die sooner than call Miss Nelson mother. "I will go to the wedding, said she, because that woman shall not have a moment's happiness of which it is in my power to deprive her."

With this laudable resolution she sat forward for her father's house, where upon being tenderly embraced by him, instead of returning a cordial salute, and wishing him joy, she turned her face from him and bursting into tears, (which pro­ceeded more from passion than sensibility) said she was sorry to find her dear mother was so soon forgot.

[Page 54] Not forgot, my beloved; replied Mr. Mark­ham, for I have sought a woman who is her coun­ter-part in every amiable quality.

They then proceeded to church, where, after the ceremony was performed, tears and sullen curt­seys were all the gratulations Celia offered to her new mother.

Mrs. Markham was naturally a woman of great sensibility she attributed Celia's melancholy to a cause that did honour to her own heart, and in­stead of taking offence, endeavoured to soothe and entertain her during the whole day. But alas! the gentle Mrs. Markham knew not the difficulty of the task she had undertaken. She had known Celia some years before her mother's death, and always thought her an a­miable, lively girl, and judging of her dispo­sition by that of her parents, imagined there would be no difficulty in modelling her accord­ing to her own wishes.

But these fallacious hopes were soon no more. Celia from the day of her father's marriage took every opportunity in her power to thwart and vex her mother-in-law.

Though Mrs. Markham was a woman of too much sense, to let the caprice of such a girl ruffle [Page 55] the uncommon serenity of her temper, yet was it totally impossible for a woman of her exqui­site sensibility, to enjoy any tolerable degree of happiness while she saw the darling child of the man she loved and esteemed of so froward and perverse a disposition.

Celia was volatile, and thoughtless to excess, fond of company, and so entirely unqualified to amuse or entertain herself, that the most improper society was preferred to being alone. Her mo­ther-in-law was of too grave and rational a turn to afford her any pleasure by her conversation, and to read or work required so much attention, that she termed it fatigue.

It was with infinite regret that Mr. Markham discovered the little felicity he was like to enjoy in this second union. He saw the child of his tenderest affection restless and discontented; he saw with anguish the many fruitless endeavours of Mrs. Markham to reclaim and make her pursue the direct road to happiness.

Whenever the tender attention of this amiable woman lead her to remonstrate with Celia on the impropriety of her conduct, and the miserable waste of her time, the petulant girl would burst into tears, and cry, "Oh! that my dear mother was living, I should not then be treated thus cru­elly, [Page 56] and abridged of every innocent pleasure, by a woman, who having stolen from me my dear father's affections, now usurps and undue authority over both him and me."

These continual disputes greatly embittered Mrs. Markham's life.—Mr. Markham was at a loss how to conduct himself so as to give pain to neither wife or daughter. In short, the whole family was unhappy from the capricious beha­viour of her, whose chief study should have been to promote their felicity.

Celia had her friends, her parties, and her secrets, in which Mrs. Markham was not allowed to participate; the consequence was, that she at a very early age had her lovers also.

Among the many candidates for her favor was a Captain Parslow, he was a man of no fortune, ignorant, conceited, and a complete coxcomb. He soon discovered the weakness of Celia, he flattered her foibles, took her part against her mo­ther-in-law, and, in short, so far won on the foolish thoughtless girl, that she consented to elope with him, and take a trip to Scotland.

By the dropping of a letter Mrs. Markham discovered the plan; she talked to Celia in the accents of friendship and send solicitude but re­ceived [Page 57] in return, only impertinence and disre­spect.

Mrs. Markham thought it her duty to acquaint her husband with the discovery she had made. Grieved to the soul, he sent for his daughter, and in the most pathetic terms entreated her to desist from so fatal a step.

The artful Celia thought this was the time to alienate her father's affections from his wife—she positively denied the whole charge, and declared she believed it must be a contrivance of Mrs. Markham';; begged if her dear father thought her capable of such imprudence, he would send her abroad, and shut her in a convent. "I know, continued she, with well dissembled tears, that you have been taught to consider your poor girl as an abandoned wretch, who consulted only her own happiness, but indeed, indeed my be­loved father, you have been deceived. I am not the guilty creature you think me. But, alas! I have long seen my presence is a bar to your hap­piness, send me from you, then, dear Sir; since it is impossible we can both enjoy content, let me be the victim, and may your felicity be un­bounded."

This artful speech had the desired effect, and Mr. Markham believing his daughter perfectly [Page 58] innocent, began to treat the woman with coolness whom he imagined had attempted to create dis­sention between him and his only child.

Celia saw she had now completely made her mother-in-law unhappy, and exulted in her cru­elty, adding insult to the already poignant suffer­ings of the patient and amiable Mrs. Markham.

But Celia had not sufficient art to elude or evade the solicitude of her admirer. Parslow still continued his devoirs, and Miss Markham listened to his flattery and received his assiduities with too much pleasure to give any room for despair; in a short time she eloped. Her father was amazed, and how much was his astonishment increased when the following letter was put into his hand.

The feelings of a father on the receipt of such a letter are more easily conceived than described. He had long considered his innocent wife as a person who bad disturbed the peace of his family, and now that he imagined himself convinced of her unjust conduct towards his daughter, his dis­pleasure knew no bounds; rage, invective, and bitter reproach, were all the gentle, meek, un­complaining sufferer received from a husband [Page 60] who once fondly esteemed her. But though Mrs. Markham complained not the distress of her mind preyed upon her delicate frame, she sank under this unexpected misfortune, and a rapid decline in a few months put a period to her exist­ence.

In the mean time Celia and her husband had been received and forgiven by Mr. Markham; but, alas! that too indulgent father soon disco­vered, that in the loss of his wife, he had been bereft of every earthly comfort; his daughter ra­ther triumphed in, than endeavoured to soothe his melancholy—she threw out the most illiberal censures on the memory of the deceased Mrs. Markham, and having no longer any particular end to attain by pretending violent affection to her father, she at first began to flight and at length totally neglected him.

He felt, acutely felt, her unkindness, but still his affection led him to lavish immense sums to support the extravagance of herself and husband 'till unable any longer to keep them from ruin, he gave up all but about one hundred pounds a year, with which he retired into the country, and ended his days in what he called peaceful obscurity.

And to the last his prayers were offered at the throne of grace for his ungrateful child—but alas! [Page 61] Celia, by her own conduct counteracted the effects of those pious prayers. Neglected, nay despised, by her husband, she launched into every species of dissipation, and was in a few years reduced to a state of absolute penury, where remorse is not the least painful of her many heavy afflictions, all which she has brought on herself by an illiberal obstinate conduct; for had she rightly considered the virtues and amiable deportment of Mrs. Markham, she might have contributed to the felicity of her fa­ther, and, in the end, ultimately insured her own.

How different was the behaviour of Serena—But as my letter is already of a considerable length, I shall reserve her story 'till the next post.

Adieu, my beloved pupils, once more believe me, to be completely happy yourselves, you must study the happiness of all with whom you are con­nected; for there is more real pleasure flows from the reflection of having promoted the welfare and tranquillity of a fellow creature, than can proceed from the highest self gratifications the world can afford. The one is like a transient vapour that for a moment illumines the sky, passes and is for­gotten; but the other, like the glorious sun, glads the whole face of nature, by its enlivening beams, through the day, and even lends its rays to the silver moon, to chear the horrors of approaching [Page 62] night. So does the remembrance of good actions gild the day of life, and chear the heavy night of approaching death.

God bless you, my dear girls, believe my friendship sincere and unchangeable, while life's warm fluid animates the heart of

LETTER VIII. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

I HAVE taken up my pen, without farther preface to proceed on my promised story, and shall leave my dear Miss Winworths to apply the moral themselves; sensible that they do not went sense to discover right from wrong, and sincerely hoping they will not let folly, vanity, or illiberal prejudices mislead their judgment.

Mr. Osborne was left a widower at a very early age, with only one daughter, named Serena, who, when she had the misfortune to lose her mother, was scarcely three years old. She inhe­rited by the death of her mother, a genteel inde­pendence, and was reputed heiress to her father's fortune, which was not inconsiderable.

Not long after this melancholy event Mr. Os­bore, being on a visit to a friend in the country, became acquainted with Miss Withers.

[Page 64] She was, it must be confessed, beautiful in the extreme, but that acknowledged, and there was not another favorable circumstance to be men­tioned in her behalf. She was the daughter of a man who enjoyed in a country town, a consider­able and lucrative post under government; his wife had brought him four or five thousand pounds, which had been accumulated by her father, who regarded not the cries of the fatherless, or the tears of the widow.

This woman's education had been such as might be expected for the child of a poor petty-fogging lawyer, who by dint of chicanery and dirty em­ployment, was scraping a little sordid dross to­gether, and thought by leaving her a fortune, he left her every necessary recommendation to secure her advancement in life; the consequence was, that to the most illiberal contracted ideas and con­summate ignorance, she added the pride and self conceit of a first-rate woman of fashion; she was extravagantly fond of dress, parade, and show; but had no idea of any difference being necessary between the education of a gentlewoman, and that of a tradesman's or farmer's daughter.

Brought up under such a mother, with such confined notions, Miss Withers had been táught to believe that the good housewife and accom­plished [Page 65] woman, were one and the same thing. She perfectly understood the art of cookery, pick­ling preserving, and all the long &c's. necessary to form a complete house-keeper.

She could work tent-stitch, tambour, and cross­stitch, make all her father's, and indeed, all the family linen, knew the cheapest ways of going to market, how to scold and keep her servants in order; in short, had been brought up as a com­plete Mrs. Notable.

But to the fine arts she was a perfect stranger. Music, dancing, or drawing, had no charms for her, nor had she the least idea of the pleasures resulting from a well informed, elegantly culti­vated mind. Haughty, yet mean; ignorant, yet obstinate in her opinion, however absurd, and deaf to the voice of conviction.

She had been educated in the strictest principles of methodism, yet was she of no fixed religion, having been wearied in her youth by being too rigidly obliged to conform to her parents man­ners; she contracted a dislike to her religious du­ties, and at the time Mr. Osborne first saw her, was of no particular sect whatever.

She had, by the death of her mother, who had [Page 66] been extremely anxious to make her dear Jemima a fortune, just come to the possession of ten thou­sand pounds, and was so insinuating in her man­ner, that she was universally well received in all companies, and called one of the best kind of girls in the world.

Mr. Osborne was captivated with her lovely person and specious manners, and having made proposals to her guardians, was accepted, and the lady, in due time, became Mrs. Osborne.

She had from the first of her acquaintance pre­tended a violent attachment to the little Serena, I say pretended, because I have been since con­vinced she regarded her with an eye of envy and ill-nature from the moment she became her mo­ther-in-law.

In about twelve months Mrs. Osborne pre­sented her husband with a little girl, and solemnly declared, at the time of her birth, it was im­possible for her to love any child better than she did Serena; and that it should be her chief study to make no difference between the chil­dren.

This was a declaration I, who was present, was by no means pleased with, as I knew it was [Page 67] not in nature for a woman to love another child so well as her own offspring—and though a strong sense of duty, and a naturally compassion­ate heart, might lead a woman to treat with the utmost tenderness, a girl, deprived of her natu­ral parent, and thrown, as it were, on her pro­tection; yet it was impossible but inclination must lead her to give the preference to her own child.

As Serena and Jemima (the name of her little half-sister) grew up, light and shade could not be more opposite than their dispositions. Serena was sensible, volatile, and chearful, of a bright genius, fond of the pursuit of knowledge, yet meek, mild and innocent as it was possible for a human being to be.

Jemima was sullen, proud, obstinate, and so stupid, that it was not in the power of any masters whatever to cultivate a mind rendered impene­trable by nature.

The excellencies which discovered themselves in the mind and disposition of Serena were so many faults in the eyes of Mrs. Osborne, nor did she fail to aggravate every error to which her vo­latility, or thoughtless innocence might betray her, into crimes, so that by degrees her father's affection [Page 68] became alienated from her, and it was almost impossible for the poor girl to speak, move, or look so as not to give offence. As she advanced towards womanhood, her troubles increased—her high sense of her religious duties was termed hy­pocrisy—her strong sensibility, art; and her fine taste, and brilliant genius, follies, which would in the end lead her to ruin.

When she had attained the age of sixteen, the bequest of a large fortune obliged her father to visit Jamaica; he resolved to take his family with him, and had not been there long before Mrs. Osborne was seized with one of those fevers inci­dent to the climate.

Tenderly and with the utmost care did Serena watch over her for many months when the disor­der had left her in a weak emaciated state, did she never quit her bed-side, administering every medicine, nor ever taking rest except what she procured at intervals on a matrass in the same a­partment. And what was the return she received? Pettishness discontent, and repining. Frequently did Mrs. Osborne ask, if she was brought to that strange place to be murdered—if it was intended she should be poisoned—and whether Serena did not know that the doctor designed to kill her; and these expressions were not the effect of de­lirium, [Page 69] but spoken with a coolness and asperity that tore the heart of the mild affectionate girl to whom they were addressed.

Mrs. Osborne at length recovered, when it pleased heaven to take her husband from her, and she was left involved in a disagreeable law suit, which was finally terminated to her disadvantage, she was cast with costs of suit, and returned to England with little more than five hundred pounds remaining.

Now it was that Serena shewed herself to be the amiable girl I had ever thought her.

When she received her fortune, she settled an handsome annuity on Mrs. Osborne, and divided the residue between Jemima and herself; though at her father's death she had been, by their arts, deprived of any advantage from his fortune, the whole being by will left to Mrs. Osborne and her daughter, but providence had ordained that they were not to enjoy it.

To the last hour that she remained with her mother-in-law, she studied her happiness only, though I have been informed it was seldom in­deed that she received even the smallest token of approbation. Her society was circumscribed, her [Page 70] amusements abridged, her most innocent actions censured, and the gaiety of her heart construed into levity, and reprimanded at vice; nay, after the alteration in their circumstances, she was suf­fered to perform the most menial offices: in short, my dear girls, her education had been confined, her genius cramped, and had she not been a girl of an uncommon good heart, her disposition must have been totally perverted by the constant re­straint she lived under and the severity with which she was treated; while Jemima was indulged in idleness, her fault glossed over, and her perverse haughty disposition called laudable pride. Yet did I never hear that Serena ever used an unbe­coming expression to her mother, or made any complaint of unkindness.

She has been now for some years married to a deserving man, and still continues to treat Mrs. Osborne with the highest respect, and her daugh­ter with affection, though the ingratitude of Je­mima often appears, by her unkind neglect of a sister who sacrificed her own interest to the in­terest and happiness of her mother.

Serena, though happy in her matrimonial con­nection, is not in affluent circumstances.

Jemima is lately married to a man of large for­tune, and removed to a distant part of England, [Page 71] where, she can seldom find time to write to her sister, and when she does so far condescend, it is with such apparent carelessness, coldness, and distance, that the warm heart of Serena is chilled by the perusal of her letters; yet will I venture to affirm Serena the happier woman of the two.

I happened to mention one day the unmerited treatment she had received, not only from them, but from her other relations; and mark, my dear girls, the answer I received.

"Were I to say their unkindness did not give me pain, I should be guilty of falsehood, because I have that warm affection in my heart, which expands it with brotherly love towards all my fel­low creatures, and never yet breathed a wish to the disadvantage of a single individual. I mourn their afflictions, and rejoice in their prosperity. I am therefore, conscious of not deserving their unkindness, and wrapt in the integrity of my own heart, from my soul pity the bosom that can har­bour malice or ill will towards any one."

Thus, my dear Miss Winworths, you see how much our own happiness depends on our strenu­ously cultivating such philanthropy of temper as may lead us to regard ourselves but as secondary [Page 72] objects; the felicity we promote for others will return with double force to our own bosoms, and conscious of having always regarded our fellow creatures as ourselves, we can look up with con­fidence to that good providence who will never forsake the children of obedience.

LETTER IX. MENTORIA TO MISS G. WINWORTH.

I ADDRESS myself singly to you, my dear Gertrude, because the delicacy of your pre­sent situation demands my serious attention, and calls up all my tenderness.

I am inexpressibly pleased to find you have made choice of so worthy a man as Sir Arthur Fitzgerald, and that your father approves the ob­ject of your selection

I think you have acted like a woman of sense and prudence, and I make no doubt but you will preserve the same propriety of conduct when a wife, as has evidently characterised you while single.

I admire that real delicacy which impelled you to give an immediate dismission to all those pre­tenders who solicited your hand without being able to influence your heart in their favor. There [Page 74] cannot be a more despicable passion than that in­satiable thirst for admiration, which leads a wo­man to encourage indiscriminately the forward advances of every coxcomb, who shall pay them the incense of flattery, and be continually spread­ing their lures to attract adulation, however in their hearts they may despise the person who of­fers it.

I am sensible, my dear Gertrude will pardon me, if anxious for her future happiness, I venture to give her my advice and opinion for the preserva­tion of her felicity in the married state; it has often been remarked, that a heart is much easier gained than kept, and, believe me, it is a very judicious observation.

There requires more care, attention, and soli­citude, from the wife to the husband, than from the mistress to her adoring lover. The lover be­ing but seldom with you, sees you only in part, it is natural to suppose you would neither appear before him in a slatternly dress, or with a peevish aspect. Your clothes will be always put on with neatness, and your face dressed in smiles. On the contrary, the husband being always in your company, has an opportunity of discovering every little defect or blemish in your person, manners, or disposition, and the chief study of a wife should [Page 75] be to guard against every thing that might create distaste, or excite disgust.

And in the first place let me recommend a most scrupulous regard to delicacy and neatness.

Many young women foolishly imagine, as soon as they are married, they have a right to under­stand and laugh at an indelicate allusion, but from this fault, the native purity of your mind will, I am certain, preserve you, since nothing but ex­treme ignorance or levity could lead any woman to listen with apparent pleasure, to an improper tale, or ill timed jest.

There are too many men, nay, even among those who call themselves gentlemen, who will not scruple to shock a woman's ears with conver­sation of this kind; but the look of marked disap­probation and silent contempt, will never fail to silence them, unless they are either brutes or fools, and to such there is no fear of your being exposed.

The next thing is neatness in your person and dress and an equanimity of temper to be pre­served towards your husband, and your servants;—nothing degrades a gentlewoman more than her suffering her temper to be so far ruffled as to use improper language to her dependants, nor can [Page 76] any thing be more disgusting to a man of sense than to see his wife give way to sudden starts of passion.

To every relation and friend of your husband, shew a polite attention and marked preference; shew him, that to be related to, or esteemed by him, is a sufficient claim upon your regard—whatever be his errors, confine the knowledge of them to your own bosom, and endeavour, by the midest persuasions, to lead him to the path of rectitude. Discretion must direct you as to the proper season to offer your advice and opinions, since men in general are so tenacious of their pre­rogative, that they start from every thing that has the least appearance of controul or opposi­tion. Never atttempt to restrain his pleasures; if he should be fond of company, dissipation and expensive amusements, be it your study to de­tach his mind from those pursuits, by endeavour­ing to render his home delightful, let your face be ever arrayed in smiles at his approach, form a so­ciety of those he loves and esteems most, exert your various abilities to charm and entertain him, and believe me, he who constantly meets chear­fulness and smiles at home, will seldom wish to seek abroad for pleasure.

Above all things never suffer any person to speak disrespectfully of him in your presence, and [Page 77] guard your heart from the least approach of jea­lousy; should there even be occasion for suspi­cion, be careful not to let him see you have dis­covered his dishonorable conduct, and never suf­fer any one, more especially a man, to hear you complain.

Avoid reproaches, they in general increase ra­ther than alleviate the distress; if patient suffer­ing and the mild remonstrance of an afflicted un­complaining spirit, will not work a reformation, reproach and discontent will have no effect.

You must not be above attending to his interest so far as may lead you to inspect the expences of your family; have stated and regular times for examining your house-keeper's accounts, and be­ing satisfied that your trades-people are regularly paid, and do not let trifles put you aside from this very necessary point.

Let your own expences be regulated by pru­dence void of parsimony, and suffer not a passion for finery, and a wish to eclipse your acquaint­ance, prompt you to overstep your income, or deprive you of the inexpressible pleasure of re­lieving indigent merit.

Though I would not have you sacrifice too largely at the shrine of that idol, fashion, I would [Page 78] have you follow her so far as may make your ap­pearance alway deserve the appellation of ele­gantly neat; nor must you confine this appear­ance only to your going abroad or receiving com­pany at home; though you were to be in the country for months, and see none but your hus­band and servants, never neglect the real neces­sary duties of the toilet, it is a respect due to him, it shews a wish to appear agreeable in his eyes, and that you prefer his approbation to that of all the world beside.

There is one more circumstance I must men­tion, although a thorough knowledge of your dis­position renders it almost unnecessary; yet I have seen so many couples made inexpressibly miser­able by it, that I cannot resist my inclination to warn you of so dangerous a conduct.

Never permit any man, however clothed with the mask of friendship, to treat you with fami­liarity. There are many freedoms, which to a girl may be perfectly innocent, and yet become almost crimes when offered to, or received by a married woman.

A married woman should never suffer a man to entertain her in a strain of [...]antry, a pressure of the hand is an affront, and an attempt at a sa­lute (except where the nearness of the relation [Page 79] authorises such a liberty) is, and should be resented as an insult.

There is a decent gravity of manner that will at once excite admiration and respect, and yet ex­clude all improper familiarity, nor can any thing be more ridiculous, than to see the mistress of a fa­mily, perhaps the mother of four or five children, affecting a giddy flirting carriage, that would be hardly excusable in a girl of sixteen—it may, in some instances, proceed from an innocent gaiety of heart, but it hardly ever fails of degenerating into levity and imprudence, always lays a woman open to insult, of which she cannot complain, because she evidently invited it; and too often ends in the total loss of honor, happiness, and repu­tation. Be chearful, condescending, and polite to all, but let there ever be that dignity in your manner which may keep impertinent fools, or de­signing villains at a proper distance.

Pardon the length of this epistle, and believe it proceeds from a friend who loves you. Re­member me affectionately to your dear sisters.—Adieu, may every blessing be your portion here and hereafter.

LETTER X. MENTORIA TO LADY FITZGERALD.

THE news that you were safe in bed, and mo­ther to a daughter, my dear Gertrude, will, believe me, give as much satisfaction to my heart, as any sublunary pleasure possibly can; and, weak as I am, tottering as it were on the very brink of a vast eternity, I cannot resist the desire I feel, of once more writing to my beloved pupils, for in addressing Lady Fitzgerald, I suppose my­self also writing to her sisters.

But first a few words to yourself, in regard to this dear, this precious little charge, with which it has pleased heaven to entrust you. May it ever be impressed on your mind that the future hap­piness or misery of this child depends greatly on the treatment she receives during her puerile years.

Let not a too great fondness prompt you, by extreme indulgence, to enervate the faculties of [Page 81] her soul, or pervert her disposition, and by so doing render her totally unfit to bear the many inconveniences and crosses she must necessarily meet with in her passage through life.

And on the contrary, do not, by an ill-judged severity, drive her to mean subterfuges, falshoods and deceit, through fear of your anger.—Many an amiable girl has been totally ruined by such treatment; it leads them to fear but not love their parents, it prompts them to make companions of their servants, and often ends in the entire per­version of their principles.

Teach her to fear to disoblige you, but let it be through fear of losing your affection, not from the apprehension of punishment. Do not be too anxious to have your child praised for an early progress in her education; a young mind should not be loaded, it spoils the memory, and often occasions a dislike to study in more advanced life, besides, children accustomed to hear themselves commended are apt to think themselves sufficient­ly wife and accomplished before their education is well begun.

Do not encourage her in a love of finery, or suffer her to be told she is handsome, they will both be very pernicious to her future tranquil­lity.

[Page 82] There is one thing which parents are very apt, not only to do themselves, but to suffer their ser­vants to do the same; that is, when any little master visits at the house nearly of miss's age, she is told that he is her little husband, and that she must hold up her head and behave like a woman, or she will never be married,

Thus is the idea of love and lovers introduced into ther little hearts, before they are capable of understanding what the word means.

This is, to me, the most foolish conduct in the world, and nothing would offend me so soon, as having such ridiculous things said to any child in whose education and future prospects I was any ways concerned. Teach them the difference be­tween right and wrong, and convince their rea­son, by pointing out the real way to promote their own happiness, and merit the regard and esteem of their friends.

Do not introduce your girl too early into pub­lic, it will give her a taste for dissipation: in proper time let her partake in moderation of all the amusements of the metropolis, so as to pre­vent the bad effects of curiosity ungratified; but at the same time accustom her to find resources within herself, that may, at all times, enable her to banish that monster Ennui.

[Page 83] Trust not the cultivation of her mental fa­culties, or the forming of her moral character, to any one but yourself; and as she advances towards womanhood make her your friend and compa­nion: let the distance between mother and daugh­ter be forgot, and by treating her with a degree of confidence that flatters her self-consequence, encourage her to make your bosom the repository of all her secrets, and be ready to apply to your better jugment to direct all her actions.

I am certain there would not be half the impru­dencies committed by girls in general, if they were not kept at such an awful distance by their mo­thers; that fearing either ridicule or reproof, they dare not entrust them with their little plans and disappointments, and relying either on the ad­vice of some one as inexperienced as themselves, or to the suggestions of their own simple hearts, they involve themselves in troubles, which en­danger their peace of mind and ruin their reputa­tion, but so it will ever be while mothers forget they have ever been girls themselves, and make no allowance for the volatility of youth, and the innocent impulses of a heart unburthened by the cares of the world.

I have written much more than I intended, but the subject interested me, and there is yet another which dwells still nearer my heart, that is, my [Page 84] beloved Gertrude, the necessity there is of giving your child a proper sense of the high advantages of early piety, but this must not be done by teach­ing her to say long prayers, of which she cannot comprehend the meaning, or by making her read books of dull theology.

It is example, my dear friend, must teach her the true principles of the Christian Religion; let her see you in the act of devotion, let her curio­sity be awakened, and then, as you answer her questions lead her by degrees to love, worship and adore the Almighty giver of all good; convince her of her dependence on his bounty for food, raiment, and all the blessings of life; teach her to place her whole confidence in his mercy, to re­ceive even the smallest blessing with gratitude, and to bow under the heaviest affliction with patience and humility.

But above all things, mind that your example does not contradict you precept. What confidence can a child place in the religion of its parent, when the parent lives in direct opposition to the principles of that religion.

Oh! my dear friend, this is the one thing needful! this the heavenly comforter, that sup­ports us through life, and will cheer us in the hour of death!

[Page 85] Our duty is plainly marked and so easy, that when we do not perform it, we take more pains to court misery, than would suffice to make us truly happy. What can be more easily com­prehended even by the meanest understanding. "Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly." ‘ Love thy Creator above all things, and thy neigh­bour as thyself! forgive as you hope to be forgiv­en.’ And remember, "That with the same mea­sure you mete, the like shall be given to you again."

My dear young friends, think me not too seri­ous. I am old, and sinking to the grave, I am convinced of the necessity of living well, if we hope to die in peace; and solicitous for the wel­fare of all dear to the family of Winworth. I have exerted myself to write this, which you may consider as my last farewell.

God preserve and bless you all, may peace reign in your hearts, and true piety direct your actions; may you so pass through this transitory life, as not to dread the approach of the messenger that shall convey you to eternal rest.