VOLUME I (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thy tender and affectionate father,

E. GRENVILLE.

LETTER X.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XI.

TO Lady STANLEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dearest Julia, adieu!

Believe me your faithful

LOUISA GRENVILLE.

LETTER XII.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XIII.

TO THE SAME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For man the lawless libertine may rove."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will in all my best obey you," said I.—"Then go to bed," said he—"To bed, my love, and I will follow thee."

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

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XIV.

TO THE SAME.

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

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

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

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