VOLUME I (continued 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XV.

TO Lady STANLEY.

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

LOUISA GRENVILLE.

LETTER XVI.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

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

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XVII.

To Miss GRENVILLE.

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

THE LETTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told you, you were surrounded with dangers; the greatest perhaps comes from the quarter least suspected; and for that very reason, because, where no harm is expected, no guard is kept. Against such a man as Lord Biddulph, a watchful centinel is planted at every avenue. I caution you not against him; there you are secure; no temptation lies in that path, no precipice lurks beneath those footsteps. You never can fall, unless your heart takes part with the tempter; and I am morally certain a man of Lord Biddulph's cast can never touch your's; and yet it is of him you seem most apprehensive. Ask yourself, is it not because he has the character of a man of intrigue? Do you not feel within your own breast a repugnance to the assiduities he at all times takes pains to shew you? Without doubt, Lord Biddulph has designs upon you;—and few men approach you without. Oh! Julia, it is difficult for the most virtuous to behold you daily, and suppress those feelings your charms excite. In a breast inured to too frequent indulgence in vicious courses, your beauty will be a consuming fire, but in a soul whose delight is moral rectitude, it will be a cherishing flame, that animates, not destroys. But how few the latter! And how are you to distinguish the insidious betrayer from the open violator. To you they are equally culpable; but only one can be fatal. Ask your own heart—the criterion, by which I would have you judge—ask your own heart, which is intitled to your detestation most; the man who boldly attacks you, and by his threats plainly tells you he is a robber; or the one, who, under the semblance of imploring your charity, deprives you of your most valued property? Will it admit of a doubt? Make the application: examine yourself, and I conjure you examine your acquaintance; but be cautious whom you trust. Never make any of your male visitors the confidant of any thing which passes between yourself and husband. This can never be done without a manifest breach of modest decorum. Have I not said enough for the present? Yet let me add thus much, to secure to myself your confidence. I wish you to place an unlimited one in me; continue to do so, while I continue to merit it; and by this rule you shall judge of my merit—The moment you discover that I urge you to any thing improper, or take advantage of my self-assumed office, and insolently prescribe when I should only point out, or that I should seem to degrade others in your eyes, and particularly your husband, believe me to be an impostor, and treat me as such; disregard my sinister counsel, and consign me to that scorn and derision I shall so much deserve. But, while virtue inspires my pen, afford me your attention; and may that God, whom I attest to prove my truth, ever be indulgent to you, and for ever and ever protect you! So prays

Your SYLPH."

Who can it be, my Louisa, who takes this friendly interest in my welfare? It cannot be Lady Melford; the address bespeaks it to be a man; but what man is the question; one too who sees me every day: it cannot be the Baron, for he seems to say, Ton-hausen is a more dangerous person than Lord Biddulph. But why do I perplex myself with guessing? Of what consequence is it who is my friend, since I am convinced he is sincere. Yes! thou friendly monitor, I will be directed by thee! I shall now act with more confidence, as my Sylph tells me he will watch over and apprize me of every danger. I hope his task will not be a difficult one; for, though ignorant, I am not obstinate—on the contrary, even Sir William, whom I do not suspect of flattery, allows me to be extremely docile. I am, my beloved Louisa, most affectionately, your's,

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XVIII.

TO Lady STANLEY.

Blessed, forever blessed, be the friendly monitor! Oh! my Julia, how fortunate are you, thus to become the care of heaven, which has raised you up a guide, with all the dispositions, but with more enlarged abilities than thy poor Louisa!—And much did you stand in need of a guide, my sister: be not displeased that I write thus. But why do I deprecate your anger? you, who were ever so good, so tender, and indulgent to the apprehensions of your friends. Yet, indeed, my dear, you are reprehensible in many passages of your letters, particularly the last. You say, you cannot suspect Sir William of flattery; would you wish him to be a flatterer? Did you think him such, when he swore your charms had kindled the brightest flames in his bosom? No, Julia, you gave him credit then for all he said; but, allowing him to be changed, are you quite the same? No; with all the tenderness of my affection, I cannot but think you are altered since your departure from the vale of innocent simplicity. It is the knowledge of the world which has deprived you of those native charms, above all others. Why are you not resolute with Sir William, to leave London? Our acquiescence in matters which are hurtful both to our principles and constitution is a weakness. Obedience to the will of those who seek to seduce us from the right road is no longer a virtue; but a reprehensible participation of our leader's faults. Be assured, your husband will listen to your persuasive arguments. Exert all your eloquence: and, Heaven, I beseech thee, grant success to the undertaking of the dearest of all creatures to,

LOUISA GRENVILLE.

LETTER XIX.

To Miss GRENVILLE.

Ah! my dear Louisa, you are single, and know not the trifling influence a woman has over her husband in this part of the world. Had I the eloquence of Demosthenes or Cicero, it would fail. Sir William is wedded—I was going to say, to the pleasures of this bewitching place. I corrected myself in the instant; for, was he wedded, most probably he would be as tired of it as he is of his wife. If I was to be resolute in my determination to leave London, I must go by myself and, notwithstanding such a circumstance might accord with his wishes, I do not chuse to begin the separation. All the determination I can make is, to strive to act so as to deserve a better fate than has fallen to my lot. And, beset as I am on all sides, I shall have some little merit in so doing. But you, my love, ought not to blame me so severely as you do. Indeed, Louisa, if you knew the slights I hourly receive from my husband, and the conviction which I have of his infidelity, you would not criticize my expressions so harshly. I could add many more things, which would justify me in the eye of the world, were I less cautious than I am; but his failings would not extenuate any on my side.

Would you believe that any man, who wished to preserve the virtue of his wife, would introduce her to the acquaintance and protection of a woman with whom he had had an intrigue? What an opinion one must have in future of such a man! I am indebted for this piece of intelligence to Lord Biddulph. I am grateful for the information, though I despise the motive which induced him. Yes, Louisa! Lady Anne Parker is even more infamous than Lady Besford—Nay, Lord Biddulph offered to convince me they still had their private assignations. My pride, I own it, was more wounded than my love, from this discovery, as it served to confirm me in my idea, that Sir William never had a proper regard for me; but that he married me merely because he could obtain me on no other terms. Yet, although I was sensibly pained with this news, I endeavoured to conceal my emotions from the disagreeable prying eyes of my informer. I affected to disbelieve his assertions, and ridiculed his ill-policy in striving to found his merit on such base and detestable grounds. He had too much effronterie to be chagrined with my raillery. I therefore assumed a more serious air; and plainly told him, no man would dare to endeavour to convince a woman of the infidelity of her husband, but from the basest and most injurious motives; and, as such, was intitled to my utmost contempt; that, from my soul, I despised both the information and informer, and should give him proofs of it, if ever he should again have the confidence to repeat his private histories to the destruction of the peace and harmony of families. To extenuate his fault, he poured forth a most elaborate speech, abounding with flattery; and was proceeding to convince me of his adoration; but I broke off the discourse, by assuring him, "I saw through his scheme from the first; but the man, who sought to steal my heart from my husband, must pursue a very different course from that he had followed; as it was very unlikely I should withdraw my affections from one unworthy object, to place them on another infinitely worse." He attempted a justification, which I would not allow him opportunity of going on with, as I left the room abruptly. However, his Lordship opened my eyes, respecting the conduct of Lady Anne. I have mentioned, in a former letter, that she used to give hints about my husband. I am convinced it was her jealousy, which prompted her to give me, from time to time, little anecdotes of Sir William's amours. But ought I to pardon him for introducing me to such a woman? Oh! Louisa! am I to blame, if I no longer respect such a man?

Yesterday I had a most convincing proof, that there are a sort of people, who have all the influence over the heart of a man which a virtuous wife ought to have—but seldom has: by some accident, a hook of Sir William's waistcoat caught hold of the trimming of my sleeve. He had just received a message, and, being in a hurry to disengage himself, lifted up the flap of the waistcoat eagerly, and snatched it away; by which means, two or three papers dropped out of the pocket; he seemed not to know it, but flew out of the room, leaving them on the ground. I picked them up but, I take heaven to witness, without the least intention or thought of seeing the contents—when one being open, and seeing my name written in a female hand, and the signature of Lucy Gardener, my curiosity was excited to the greatest degree—yet I had a severe conflict first with myself; but femaleism prevailed, and I examined the contents, which were as follow, for I wrote them down:

"Is it thus, Sir William, you repay my tenderness in your favour? Go, thou basest of all wretches! am I to be made continually a sacrifice to every new face that strikes thy inconstant heart? If I was contented to share you with a wife, and calmly acquiesced, do not imagine I shall rest in peace till you have given up Lady Anne. How have you sworn you would see her no more! How have you falsified your oath! you spent several hours tête à tête with her yesterday. Deny it not. I could tear myself to pieces when I reflect, that I left Biddulph, who adored me, whose whole soul was devoted to me,—to be slighted thus by you.—Oh! that Lady Stanley knew of your baseness! yet she is only your wife. Her virtue may console her for the infidelity of her husband; but I have sacrificed every thing, and how am I repaid! Either be mine alone, or never again approach

LUCY GARDENER."

The other papers were of little consequence. I deliberated some time what I should do with this precious morçeau; at last I resolved to burn it, and give the remainder, with as much composure as possible, to Sir William's valet, to restore to his master. I fancied he would hardly challenge me about the billet, as he is the most careless man in the universe. You will perceive there is another case for Lord Biddulph seeking to depreciate my husband. He has private revenge to gratify, for the loss of his mistress. Oh! what wretches are these men! Is the whole world composed of such?—No! even in this valley of vice I see some exceptions; some, who do honour to the species to which they belong. But I must not whisper to myself their perfections; and it is less dangerous for me to dwell upon the vices of the one than the virtues of the other. Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XX.

To Miss GRENVILLE.

To keep my mind constantly employed upon different objects, and prevent my thoughts attaching themselves to improper ones, I have lately attended the card-tables. From being an indifferent spectator of the various fashionable games, I became an actor in them; and at length play proved very agreeable. As I was an utter novice at games of skill, those of chance presented themselves as the best. At first I risked only trifles; but, by little and little, my party encroached upon the rules I had laid down, and I could no longer avoid playing their stake. But I have done with play for ever. It is no longer the innocent amusement I thought it; and I must find out some other method of spending my time—since this might in the end be destructive.

The other night, at a party, we made up a set at bragg, which was my favourite game. After various vicissitudes, I lost every shilling I had in my pocket; and, being a broken-merchant, sat silently by the table. Every body was profuse in the offers of accommodating me with cash; but I refused to accept their contribution. Lord Biddulph, whom you know to be justly my aversion, was very earnest; but I was equally peremptory. However, some time after, I could not resist the entreaty of Baron Ton-hausen, who, in the genteelest manner, intreated me to make use of his purse for the evening; with great difficulty he prevailed on me to borrow ten guineas—and was once more set up. Fortune now took a favourable turn, and when the party broke up, I had repaid the Baron, replaced my original stock, and brought off ninety-five guineas. Flushed with success, and more attached than ever to the game; I invited the set to meet the day after the next at my house. I even counted the hours till the time arrived. Rest departed from my eye-lids, and I felt all the eagerness of expectation.

About twelve o'clock of the day my company were to meet, I received a pacquet, which I instantly knew to be from my ever-watchful Sylph. I will give you the transcript.

TO Lady STANLEY.

"I should be unworthy the character I have assumed, if my pen was to lie dormant while I am sensible of the unhappy predilection which your ladyship has discovered for gaming. Play, under proper restrictions,—which however in this licentious town can never take place—may not be altogether prejudicial to the morals of those who engage in it for trifling sums. Your Ladyship finds it not practicable always to follow your own inclinations, even in that particular. The triumphant joy which sparkled in your eyes when success crowned your endeavours, plainly indicated you took no common satisfaction in the game. You, being a party so deeply interested, could not discover the same appearances of joy and triumph in the countenances of some of those you played with; nor, had you made the observation, could you have guessed the cause. It has been said, by those who will say any thing to carry on an argument which cannot be supported by reason, that cards prevent company falling upon topics of scandal; it is a scandal to human nature, that it should want such a resource from so hateful and detested a vice. But be it so. It can only be so while the sum played for is of too trifling a concern to excite the anxiety which avaricious minds experience; and every one is more or less avaricious who gives up his time to cards.

If your ladyship could search into the causes of the unhappiness which prevails in too many families in this metropolis, you would find the source to be gaming either on the one side or the other. Whatever appears licentious or vicious in men, in your sex becomes so in a tenfold degree. The passionate exclamation—the half-uttered imprecation, and the gloomy pallidness of the losing gamester, ill accords with the female delicacy. But the evil rests not here. When a woman has been drawn-in to lose larger sums than her allowance can defray—even if she can submit to let her trades-people suffer from her extravagant folly;—it most commonly happens, that they part with their honour to discharge the account; at least, they are always suspected. Would not the consideration of being obnoxious to such suspicion be sufficient to deter any woman of virtue from running the hazard? You made a firm resolution of not borrowing from the purses of any of the gentlemen who wished to serve you; you for some time kept that resolution; but, remember, it lasted no longer than when one particular person made the offer. Was it your wish to oblige him? or did the desire of gaming operate in that instant more powerful than in any other? Whatever was your motive, the party immediately began to form hopes of you; hopes, which, being founded in your weakness, you may be certain were not to your advantage.

To make a more forcible impression on your mind, your Ladyship must allow me to lay before you a piece of private history, in which a noble family of this town was deeply involved. The circumstances are indubitable facts—their names I shall conceal under fictitious ones. A few years since, Lord and Lady D. were the happiest of pairs in each other. Love had been the sole motive of their union; and love presided over every hour of their lives. Their pleasures were mutual, and neither knew an enjoyment, in which the other did not partake. By an unhappy mischance, Lady D. had an attachment to cards—which yet, however, she only looked on as the amusement of an idle hour. Her person was beautiful, and as such made her an object of desire in the eyes of Lord L. Her virtue and affection for her husband would have been sufficient to have damped the hopes of a man less acquainted with the weakness of human nature than Lord L. Had he paid her a more than ordinary attention, he would have awakened her suspicions, and put her on her guard; he therefore pursued another method. He availed himself of her love of play—and would now and then, seemingly by accident, engage her in a party at picquet, which was her favourite game. He contrived to lose trifling sums, to increase her inclination for play. Too fatally he succeeded. Her predilection gathered strength every day. After having been very unsuccessful for some hours at picquet, Lord L. proposed a change of the game; a proposal which Lady D. could not object to, as having won so much of his money. He produced a pair of dice. Luck still ran against him. A generous motive induced Lady D. to offer him his revenge the next evening at her own house. In the morning preceding the destined evening, her lord signified his dislike of gaming with dice; and instanced some families to whom it had proved destructive. Elate, however, with good fortune—and looking on herself engaged in honour to give Lord L. a chance of recovering his losses, she listened not to the hints of her husband, nor did they recur to her thoughts till too late to be of any service to her.

The time so ardently expected by Lord L. now arrived, the devoted time which was to put the long-destined victim into the power of her insidious betrayer. Fortune, which had hitherto favoured Lady D—, now deserted her—in a short time, her adversary reimbursed himself, and won considerably besides. Adversity only rendered her more desperate. She hazarded still larger stakes; every throw, however, was against her; and no otherwise could it be, since his dice were loaded, and which he had the dexterity to change unobserved by her. He lent her money, only to win it back from her; in short, in a few hours, she found herself stripped of all the cash she had in possession, and two thousand five hundred pounds in debt. The disapprobation which her husband had expressed towards dice-playing, and her total inability to discharge this vast demand without his knowledge, contributed to make her distress very great. She freely informed Lord L. she must be his debtor for some time—as she could not think of acquainting Lord D. with her imprudence. He offered to accept of part of her jewels, till it should be convenient to her to pay the whole—or, if she liked it better, to play it off. To the first, she said, she could not consent, as her husband would miss them—and to the last she would by no means agree, since she suffered too much already in her own mind from the imprudent part she had acted, by risking so much more than she ought to have done. He then, approaching her, took her hand in his; and, assuming the utmost tenderness in his air, proceeded to inform her, it was in her power amply to repay the debt, without the knowledge of her husband—and confer the highest obligations upon himself. She earnestly begged an explanation—since there was nothing she would not submit to, rather than incur the censure of so excellent a husband. Without further preface, Lord L. threw himself on his knees before her—and said, "if her heart could not suggest the restitution, which the most ardent of lovers might expect and hope for—he must take the liberty of informing her, that bestowing on him the delightful privilege of an husband was the only means of securing her from the resentment of one." At first, she seemed thunder-struck, and unable to articulate a sentence. When she recovered the use of speech, she asked him what he had seen in her conduct, to induce him to believe she would not submit to any ill consequences which might arise from the just resentment of her husband, rather than not shew her detestation of such an infamous proposal. "Leave me," added she; "leave me," in perfect astonishment at such insolence of behaviour. He immediately rose, with a very different aspect—and holding a paper in his hand, to which she had signed her name in acknowledgment of the debt—"Then, Madam," said he, with the utmost sang-froid—"I shall, to-morrow morning, take the liberty of waiting on Lord D. with this." "Stay, my Lord, is it possible you can be so cruel and hard a creditor?—I consent to make over to you my annual allowance, till the whole is discharged." "No, Madam," cried he, shaking his head,—"I cannot consent to any such subterfuges, when you have it in your power to pay this moment." "Would to heaven I had!" answered she.—"Oh, that you have, most abundantly!" said he.—"Consider the hours we have been tête à tête together; few people will believe we have spent all the time at play. Your reputation then will suffer; and, believe me while I attest heaven to witness, either you must discharge the debt by blessing me with the possession of your charms, or Lord D. shall be made acquainted with every circumstance. Reflect," continued he, "two thousand five hundred pounds is no small sum, either for your husband to pay, or me to receive.—Come, Madam, it grows late.—In a little time, you will not have it in your power to avail yourself of the alternative. Your husband will soon return and then you may wish in vain that you had yielded to my love, rather than have subjected yourself to my resentment." She condescended to beg of him, on her knees, for a longer time for consideration; but he was inexorable, and at last she fatally consented to her own undoing. The next moment, the horror of her situation, and the sacrifice she had made, rushed on her tortured imagination. "Give me the fatal paper," cried she, wringing her hands in the utmost agony, "give me that paper, for which I have parted with my peace for ever, and leave me. Oh! never let me in future behold you.—What do I say? Ah! rather let my eyes close in everlasting darkness;—they are now unworthy to behold the face of Heaven!" "And do you really imagine, Madam, (all-beautiful as you are) the lifeless half-distracted body, you gave to my arms, a recompence for five-and-twenty hundred pounds?—Have you agreed to your bargain? Is it with tears, sighs, and reluctant struggles, you meet your husband's caresses? Be mine as you are his, and the bond is void—otherwise, I am not such a spendthrift as to throw away thousands for little less than a rape."

"Oh! thou most hateful and perfidious of all monsters! too dearly have I earned my release—Do not then, do not with-hold my right."

"Hush, Madam, hush," cried he with the most provoking coolness, "your raving will but expose you to the ridicule of your domestics. You are at present under too great an agitation of spirits to attend to the calm dictates of reason. I will wait till your ladyship is in a more even temper. When I receive your commands, I will attend them, and hope the time will soon arrive when you will be better disposed to listen to a tender lover who adores you, rather than to seek to irritate a man who has you in his power." Saying which, he broke from her, leaving her in a state of mind, of which you, Madam, I sincerely hope, will never be able to form the slightest idea. With what a weight of woe she stole up into her bed-chamber, unable to bear the eye of her domestic! How fallen in her own esteem, and still bending under the penalty of her bond, as neither prayers nor tears (and nothing else was she able to offer) could obtain the release from the inexorable and cruel Lord L.

How was her anguish increased, when she heard the sound of her Lord's footstep! How did she pray for instant death! To prevent any conversation, she feigned sleep—sleep, which now was banished from her eye-lids. Guilt had driven the idea of rest from her bosom. The morning brought no comfort on its wings—to her the light was painful. She still continued in bed. She framed the resolution of writing to the destroyer of her repose. She rose for that purpose; her letter was couched in terms that would have pierced the bosom of the most obdurate savage. All the favour she intreated was, to spare the best of husbands, and the most amiable and beloved of men, the anguish of knowing how horrid a return she had made, in one fatal moment, for the years of felicity she had tasted with him: again offered her alimony, or even her jewels, to obtain the return of her bond. She did not wish for life. Death was now her only hope;—but she could not support the idea of her husband's being acquainted with her infamy. What advantage could he (Lord L.) propose to himself from the possession of her person, since tears, sighs, and the same reluctance, would still accompany every repetition of her crime—as her heart, guilty as it now was, and unworthy as she had rendered herself of his love, was, and ever must be, her husband's only. In short, she urged every thing likely to soften him in her favour. But this fatal and circumstantial disclosure of her guilt and misfortunes was destined to be conveyed by another messenger than she designed. Lord D—, having that evening expected some one to call on him, on his return enquired, "if any one had been there." He was answered, "Only Lord L." "Did he stay?" "Yes, till after eleven."—Without thinking of any particularity in this, he went up to bed. He discovered his wife was not asleep—to pretend to be so, alarmed him. He heard her frequently sigh; and, when she thought him sunk in that peaceful slumber she had forfeited, her distress increased. His anxiety, however, at length gave way to fatigue; but with the morning his doubts and fears returned; yet, how far from guessing the true cause! He saw a letter delivered to a servant with some caution, whom he followed, and insisted on knowing for whom it was intended. The servant, ignorant of the contents, and not at all suspicious he was doing an improper thing, gave it up to his Lordship. Revenge lent him wings, and he flew to the base destroyer of his conjugal happiness.—You may suppose what followed.—In an hour Lord D. was brought home a lifeless corpse. Distraction seized the unhappy wife; and the infamous cause of this dreadful calamity fled his country. He was too hardened, however, in guilt, to feel much remorse from this catastrophe, and made no scruple of relating the circumstances of it.

To you, Madam, I surely need make no comment. Nor do I need say any more to deter you from so pernicious a practice as gaming. Suspect a Lord L. in every one who would induce you to play; and remember they are the worst seducers, and the most destructive enemies, who seek to gain your heart by ruining your principles.

Adieu, Madam! Your ever-watchful angel will still hover over you. And may that God, who formed both you and me, enable me to give you good counsel, and dispose your heart to follow it!

Your faithful SYLPH."

Lady STANLEY in Continuation

Alas, my Louisa! what would become of your Julia without this respectable monitor? Would to heaven I knew who he was! or, how I might consult him upon some particular circumstances! I examine the features of my guests in hopes to discover my secret friend; but my senses are perplexed and bewildered in the fruitless search. It is certainly a weakness; but, absolutely, my anxiety to obtain this knowledge has an effect on my health and spirits; my thoughts and whole attention rest solely on this subject. I call it a weakness, because I ought to remain satisfied with the advantages which accrue to me from this correspondence, without being inquisitively curious who it may be; yet I wish to ask some questions. I am uneasy, and perhaps in some instances my Sylph would solve my doubts; not that I think him endued with a preternatural knowledge; yet I hardly know what to think neither. However, I bless and praise the goodness of God, that has raised me up a friend in a place where I may turn my eyes around and see myself deprived of every other.

Even my protector—he who has sworn before God and man;—but you, Louisa, will reprehend my indiscreet expressions. In my own bosom, then, shall the sad repository be. Adieu!

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XXI.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

As you have entertained an idea that Sir William could not be proof against any occasional exertion of my eloquence, I will give you a sketch of a matrimonial tête à tête, though it may tend to subvert your opinion of both parties.

Yesterday morning I was sitting in my dressing-room, when Sir William, who had not been at home all night, entered it: He looked as if he had not been in bed; his hair disordered; and, upon the whole, as forlorn a figure as you ever beheld, I was going to say; but you can form very little idea of these rakes of fashion after a night spent as they usually spend it. To my inquiry after his health, he made a very slight or rather peevish answer; and flung himself into a chair, with both hands in his waistcoat pockets, and his eyes fixed on the fire, before which he had placed himself. As he seemed in an ill-humour, and I was unconscious of having given him cause, I was regardless of the consequences, and pursued my employment, which was looking over and settling some accounts relative to my own expences. He continued his posture in the strictest silence for near a quarter of an hour; a silence I did not feel within myself the least inclination to break through: at last he burst forth into this pretty soliloquy.

"Damn it; sure there never was a more unfortunate dog than I am! Every thing goes against me. And then to be so situated too!" Unpromising as the opening sounded, I thought it would be better to bear a part in the conversation.—"If it is not impertinent, Sir William," said I, "may I beg to know what occasions the distress you seem to express? or at least inform me if it is in my power to be of service to you."—"No, no, you can be of no use to me—though," continued he, "you are in part the cause."—"I the cause!—for God's sake, how?" cried I, all astonishment. "Why, if your father had not taken advantage of my cursed infatuation for you, I should not have been distressed in pecuniary matters by making so large a settlement."

"A cursed infatuation! do you call it? Sure, that is a harsh expression! Oh! how wretched would my poor father feel, could he imagine the affection which he fancied his unhappy daughter had inspired you with, would be stiled by yourself, and to her face, a cursed infatuation!" Think you, Louisa, I was not pained to the soul? Too sure I was—I could not prevent tears from gushing forth. Sir William saw the effect his cruel speech had on me; he started from his seat, and took my hand in his. A little resentment, and a thousand other reasons, urged me to withdraw it from his touch.—"Give me your hand, Julia," cried he, drawing his chair close to mine, and looking at my averted face—"give me your hand, my dear, and pardon the rashness of my expressions; I did not mean to use such words;—I recall them, my love: it was ungenerous and false in me to arraign your father's conduct. I would have doubled and trebled the settlement, to have gained you; I would, by heavens! my Julia.—Do not run from me in disgust; come, come, you shall forgive me a thoughtless expression, uttered in haste, but seriously repented of."

"You cannot deny your sentiments, Sir William; nor can I easily forget them. What my settlement is, as I never wished to out-live you, so I never wished to know how ample it was. Large I might suppose it to be, from the conviction that you never pay any regard to consequences to obtain your desires, let them be what they will. I was the whim of the day; and if you have paid too dearly for the trifling gratification, I am sorry for it; heartily sorry for it, indeed, Sir William. You found me in the lap of innocence, and in the arms of an indulgent parent; happy, peaceful, and serene; would to heaven you had left me there!" I could not proceed; my tears prevented my utterance. "Pshaw!" cried Sir William, clapping his fingers together, and throwing his elbow over the chair, which turned his face nearer me, "how ridiculous this is! Why, Julia, I am deceived in you; I did not think you had so much resentment in your composition. You ought to make some allowance for the derangement of my affairs. My hands are tied by making a larger settlement than my present fortune would admit; and I cannot raise money on my estate, because I have no child, and it is entailed on my uncle, who is the greatest curmudgeon alive. Reflect on all these obstacles to my release from some present exigencies; and do not be so hard-hearted and inexorable to the prayers and intreaties of your husband."—During the latter part of this speech, he put his arm round my waist, and drew me almost on his knees, striving by a thousand little caresses to make me pardon and smile on him; but, Louisa, caresses, which I now know came not from the heart, lose the usual effect on me; yet I would not be, as he said, inexorable. I therefore told him, I would no longer think of any thing he would wish me to forget.—With the utmost appearance of tenderness he took my handkerchief, and dried my eyes; laying his cheek close to mine, and pressing my hands with warmth,—in short, acting over the same farce as (once) induced me to believe I had created the most permanent flame in his bosom. I could not bear the reflection that he should suffer from his former attachment to me; and I had hopes that my generosity might rouze him from his lethargy, and save him from the ruin which was likely to involve him. I told him, "I would with the greatest chearfulness relinquish any part of my settlement, if by that means he could be extricated from his present and future difficulties."—"Why, to be sure, a part of it would set me to rights as to the present; but as for the future, I cannot look into futurity, Julia."—"I wish you could, Sir William, and reflect in time."—"Reflect! Oh, that is so outré! I hate reflection. Reflection cost poor D—r his life the other day; he, like me, could not bear reflection."

"I tremble to hear you thus lightly speak of that horrid event. The more so, as I too much fear the same fatal predilection has occasioned your distress: but may the chearfulness with which I resign my future dependence awaken in you a sense of your present situation, and secure you from fresh difficulties!"

"Well said, my little monitress! why you are quite an orator too. But you shall find I can follow your lead, and be just at least, if not so generous as yourself. I would not for the world accept the whole of your jointure. I do not want it; and if I had as much as I could raise on it, perhaps I might not be much richer for it. Riches make to themselves wings, and fly away, Julia. There is a sentence for you. Did you think your rattle-pated husband had ever read the book of books from whence that sentence is drawn?" I really had little patience to hear him run on in this ludicrous and trifling manner. What an argument of his insensibility! To stop him, I told him, I thought we had better not lose time, but have the writings prepared, which would enable me to do my duty as an obedient wife, and enable him to pay his debts like a man of honour and integrity; and then he need not fear his treasure flying away, since it would be laid up where neither thieves could break through, or rust destroy.

The writings are preparing, to dispose of an estate which was settled on me; it brings in at present five hundred a year; which I find is but a quarter of my jointure. Ah! would to heaven he would take all, provided it would make a change in his sentiments! But that I despair of, without the interposition of a miracle. You never saw such an alteration as an hour made on him. So alert and brisk! and apishly fond! I mean affectedly so; for, Louisa, a man of Sir William's cast never could love sincerely,—never could experience that genuine sentimental passion,

"Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone To bless the dearer object of its soul."

No, his passions are turbulent—the madness of the moment—eager to please himself—regardless of the satisfaction of the object.—And yet I thought he loved—I likewise thought I loved. Oh! Louisa! how was I deceived! But I check my pen. Pardon me, and, if possible, excuse your sister.

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XXII.

TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

What are we to make of this divine and destructive beauty? this Lady Stanley? Did you not observe with what eager avidity she became a votary to the gaming-table, and bragged away with the best of us? You must: you was witness to the glow of animation that reigned despotic over every lovely feature when she had got a pair-royal of braggers in her snowy fingers. But I am confoundedly bit! She condescended to borrow of that pattern of Germanic virtue, Baron Ton-hausen. Perhaps you will say, why did not you endeavour to be the Little Premium? No, I thought I played a better game: It was better to be the second lender; besides, I only wanted to excite in her a passion for play; and, or I am much deceived, never woman entered into it with more zeal. But what a turn to our affairs! I am absolutely cast off the scent; totally ignorant of the doubles she has made. I could hardly close my eyes, from the pleasing expectations I had formed of gratifying the wishes of my heart in both those interesting passions of love and revenge. Palpitating with hopes and fears, I descended from my chariot at the appointed hour. The party were assembled, and my devoted victim looked as beautiful as an angel of light; her countenance wore a solemnity, which added to her charms by giving an irresistible and persuasive softness to her features. I scrutinized the lineaments of her lovely face; and, I assure you, she lost nothing by the strict examination. Gods! what a transporting creature she is! And what an insensible brute is Stanley! But I recall my words, as to the last:—he was distractedly in love with her before he had her; and perhaps, if she was my wife, I should be as indifferent about her as he is, or as I am about the numberless women of all ranks and conditions with whom I have "trifled away the dull hours."—While I was in contemplation anticipating future joys, I was struck all of a heap, as the country-girls say, by hearing Lady Stanley say,—"It is in vain—I have made a firm resolution never to play again; my resolution is the result of my own reflections on the uneasiness which those bits of painted paper have already given me. It is altogether fruitless to urge me; for from the determination I have made, I shall never recede. My former winnings are in the sweepstake-pool at the commerce-table, which you will extremely oblige me to sit down to; but for me, I play no more.—I shall have a pleasure in seeing you play; but I own I feel myself too much discomposed with ill fortune; and I am not unreasonable enough to be pleased with the misfortunes of others. I have armed my mind against the shafts of ridicule, that I see pointed at me; but, while I leave others the full liberty of following their own schemes of diversion, I dare say, none will refuse me the same privilege."—We all stared with astonishment; but the devil a one offered to say a word, except against sitting down to divide her property;—there we entered into a general protest; so we set down, at least I can answer for myself, to an insipid game.—Lady Stanley was marked down as a fine pigeon by some of our ladies, and as a delicious morçeau by the men. The gentle Baron seemed all aghast. I fancy he is a little disappointed in his expectations too.—Perhaps he has formed hopes that his soft sighs and respectful behaviour may have touched the lovely Julia's heart. He felt himself flattered, no doubt, at her giving him the preference in borrowing from his purse. Well then, his hopes are derangé, as well as mine.—But, courage, mi Lor, I shall play another game now; and peradventure, as safe a one, if not more so, than what I planned before.—I will not, however, anticipate a pleasure (which needs no addition should I succeed) or add to my mortification should I fail, by expatiating on it at present.

Adieu! dear Montague! Excuse my boring you with these trifles;—for to a man in love, every thing is trifling except the trifle that possesses his heart; and to one who is not under the guidance of the soft deity, that is the greatest trifle (to use a Hibernicism) of all.

I am your's most cordially,

BIDDULPH.

LETTER XXIII.

To Miss GRENVILLE.

Well, my dear Louisa, the important point I related the particulars of in my last is quite settled, and Sir William has been able to satisfy some rapacious creditors. Would to heaven I could tell you, the butcher, baker, &c. were in the list! No, my sister; the creditors are a vile set of gamblers, or, in the language of the polite world—Black-legs. Thus is the purpose of my heart entirely frustrated, and the laudably industrious tradesman defrauded of his due. But how long will they remain satisfied with being repeatedly put by with empty promises, which are never kept? Good God! how is this to end? I give myself up to the most gloomy reflections, and see no point of time when we shall be extricated from the cruel dilemmas in which Sir William's imprudence has involved us. I vainly fancied, I should gain some advantages, at least raise myself in his opinion, from my generosity; but I find, on the contrary, he only laughs at me for being such a simpleton, to suppose the sale of five hundred a-year would set him to rights. It is plain, I have got no credit by my condescension, for he has not spent one day at home since; and his temper, when I do see him, seems more uncertain than ever.—Oh! Louisa! and do all young women give up their families, their hand, and virgin-affections, to be thus recompensed? But why do I let fall these expressions? Alas! they fall with my tears; and I can no more suppress the one than the other; I ought, however, and indeed do endeavour against both. I seek to arm my soul to support the evils with which I see myself surrounded. I beseech heaven to afford me strength, for I too plainly see I am deprived of all other resources. I forget to caution you, my dear sister, against acquainting my father, that I have given up part of my jointure; and lest, when I am unburthening the weight of my over-charged bosom to you, I should in future omit this cautionary reserve, do you, my Louisa, keep those little passages a secret within your own kind sympathizing breast; and add not to my affliction, by planting such daggers in the heart of my dear—more dear than ever—parent. You know I have pledged my honour to you, I will never, by my own conduct, accumulate the distresses this fatal union has brought on me. Though every vow on his part is broken through, yet I will remember I am his wife,—and, what is more, your sister. Would you believe it? he—Sir William I mean—is quite displeased that I have given up cards, and very politely told me, I should be looked on as a fool by all his acquaintance,—and himself not much better, for marrying such an ignorant uninstructed rustic. To this tender and husband-like speech, I returned no other answer, than that "my conscience should be the rule and guide of my actions; and that, I was certain, would never lead me to disgrace him." I left the room, as I found some difficulty in stifling the resentment which rose at his indignant treatment. But I shall grow callous in time; I have so far conquered my weakness, as never to let a tear drop in his presence. Those indications of self-sorrow have no effect on him, unless, indeed, he had any point to gain by it; and then he would feign a tenderness foreign to his nature, but which might induct the ignorant uninstructed fool to yield up every thing to him.

Perhaps he knows it not; but I might have instructors enough;—but he has taught me sufficient of evil—thank God! to make me despise them all. From my unhappy connexions with one, I learn to hate and detest the whole race of rakes; I might add, of both sexes. I tremble to think what I might have been, had I not been blessed with a virtuous education, and had the best of patterns in my beloved sister. Thus I was early initiated in virtue; and let me be grateful to my kind Sylph, whose knowledge of human nature has enabled him to be so serviceable to me: he is a sort of second conscience to me:—What would the Sylph say? I whisper to myself. Would he approve? I flatter myself, that, insignificant as I am, I am yet the care of heaven; and while I depend on that merciful Providence and its vicegerents, I shall not fall into those dreadful pits that are open on every side: but, to strengthen my reliances, let me have the prayers of my dear Louisa; for every support is necessary for her faithful Julia.

LETTER XXIV.

TO THE SAME.

I have repeatedly mentioned to my Louisa, how earnestly I wished to have more frequent communications with my Sylph. A thought struck me the other day, of the practicability of effecting such a scheme. I knew I was safe from detection, as no one on earth, yourself excepted, knew of his agency in my affairs. I therefore addressed an advertisement to my invisible friend, which I sent to the St. James's Chronicle, couched in this concise manner.

TO THE SYLPH

"Grateful for the friendly admonition, the receiver of the Sylph's favour is desirous of having the power of expressing it more largely than is possible through this channel. If still intitled to protection, begs to be informed, how a private letter may reach his hand."

I have not leisure nor inclination to make a long digression, or would tell you, the St. James's is a news-paper which is the fashionable vehicle of intelligence; and from the circumstance alone of its admission into all families, and meeting all eyes, I chose it to convey my wishes to the Sylph. The next evening I had the satisfaction of finding those wishes answered; and the further pleasure (as you will see by the enclosed copy) of being assured of his approbation of the step I have taken.

And now for a little of family-affairs. You know I have a certain allowance, of what is called pin-money;—my quarter having been due for some time, I thought I might as well have it in my own possession,—not that I am poor, for I assure you, on the contrary, I have generally a quarter in hand, though I am not in debt. I sent Win to Harris's the steward, for my stipend. She returned, with his duty to me, acquainting me, it was not in his power at present to honour my note, not having any cash in hand. Surprized at his inability of furnishing a hundred and fifty pounds, I desired to speak with him; when he gave me so melancholy a detail of his master's circumstances, as makes me dread the consequences. He is surrounded with Jew-brokers; for, in this Christian land, Jews are the money-negotiators; and such wretches as you would tremble to behold are admitted into the private recesses of the Great, and caressed as their better-angels. These infernal agents procure them money; for which they pay fifty, a hundred, and sometimes two hundred per Cent. Am I wrong in styling them infernal? Do they not make the silly people who trust in them pay very dear for the means of accomplishing their own destruction? Like those miserable beings they used to call Witches, who were said to sell their souls to the Devil for everlasting, to have the power of doing temporary mischief upon earth.

These now form the bosom-associates of my husband. Ah! wonder not the image of thy sister is banished thence! rather rejoice with me, that he pays that reverence to virtue and decency as to distinguish me from that dreadful herd of which his chief companions are composed.

I go very little from home—In truth, I have no creature to go with.—I avoid Lord Biddulph, because I hate him; and (dare I whisper it to my Louisa?) I estrange myself from the Baron, lest I should be too partial to the numerous good qualities I cannot but see, and yet which it would be dangerous to contemplate too often. Oh, Louisa! why are there not many such men? His merit would not so forcibly strike me, if I could find any one in the circle of my acquaintance who could come in competition with him; for, be assured, it is not the tincture of the skin which I admire; not because fairest, but best. But where shall a married-woman find excuse to seek for, and admire, merit in any other than her husband? I will banish this too, too amiable man from my thoughts. As my Sylph says, such men (under the circumstances I am in) are infinitely more dangerous than a Biddulph. Yet, can one fall by the hand of virtue?—Alas! this is deceitful sophistry. If I give myself up to temptation, how dare I flatter myself I shall be delivered from evil?

Could two men be more opposite than what Sir William appeared at Woodley-vale, and what he now is?—for too surely, that was appearance—this reality. Think of him then sitting in your library, reading by turns with my dear father some instructive and amusing author, while we listened to their joint comments; what lively sallies we discovered in him; and how we all united in approving the natural flow of good spirits, chastened as we thought with the principles of virtue! See him now—But my pen refuses to draw the pain-inspiring portrait. Alas! it would but be a copy of what I have so repeatedly traced in my frequent letters; a copy from which we should turn with disgust, bordering on contempt. This we should do, were the character unknown or indifferent to us. But how must that woman feel—who sees in the picture the well-known features of a man, whom she is bound by her vows to love, honour, and obey? Your tenderness, my sister, will teach you to pity so unhappy a wretch. I will not, however, tax that tenderness too much. I will not dwell on the melancholy theme.

But I lose sight of my purpose, in thus contrasting Sir William to himself; I meant to infer, from the total change which seems to have taken place in him, that other men may be the same, could the same opportunity of developing their characters present itself. Thus, though the Baron wears this semblance of an angel—yet it may be assumed. What will not men do to carry a favourite point? He saw the open and avowed principles of libertinism in Lord Biddulph disgusted me from the first. He, therefore, may conceal the same invidious intention under the seducing form of every virtue. The simile of the robber and the beggar, in the Sylph's first letter, occurs to my recollection. Yet, perhaps, I am injuring the Baron by my suspicion. He may have had virtue enough to suppress those feelings in my favour, which my situation should certainly destroy in a virtuous breast.—Nay, I believe, I may make myself wholly easy on that head. He has, for some time, paid great attention to Miss Finch, who, I find, has totally broke with Colonel Montague. Certainly, if we should pay any deference to appearance, she will make a much better election by chusing Baron Ton-hausen, than the Colonel. She has lately—Miss Finch, I should say—has lately spent more time with me than any other lady—for my two first companions I have taken an opportunity of civilly dropping. I took care to be from home whenever they called by accident—and always to have some prior engagement when they proposed meeting by design.

Miss Finch is by much the least reprehensible character I have met with.—But, as Lady Besford once said, one can form no opinion of what a woman is while she is single. She must keep within the rules of decorum. The single state is not a state of freedom. Only the married ladies have that privilege. But, as far as one can judge, there is no danger in the acquaintance of Miss Finch. I own, I like her, for having refused Colonel Montague, and yet, (Oh! human nature!) on looking over what I have written, I have expressed myself disrespectfully, on the supposition that she saw Ton-hausen with the same eyes as a certain foolish creature that shall be nameless.

LETTER XXV.

Enclosed in the foregoing.

TO Lady STANLEY.

The satisfaction of a benevolent heart will ever be its own recompense; but not its only reward, as you have sweetly assured me, by the advertisement that blessed my eyes last night. I beheld, with pleasure, that my admonitions have not lost their intended effect. I should have been most cruelly disappointed, and have given up my knowledge of the human heart as imperfect, had I found you incorrigible to my advice. But I have heretofore told you, I was thoroughly acquainted with the excellencies of your mind. Your renunciation of your favourite game, and cards in general, give every reason to justify my sentiments of you. I have formed the most exalted idea of you.—And you alone can destroy the altar I have raised to your divinity. All the incense I dare hope to receive from you, is a just and implicit observance of my dictates, while they are influenced by virtue, of which none but you can properly judge, since to none but yourself they are addressed. Doubts, I am convinced, may arise in your mind concerning this invisible agency. As far as is necessary, I will satisfy those doubts. But to be for ever concealed from your knowledge as to identity, your own good sense will see too clearly the necessity of, to need any illustration from my pen. If I admired you before—how much has that admiration encreased from the chearful acquiescence you have paid to my injunctions! Go on, then, my beloved charge! Pursue the road of virtue; and be assured, however rugged the path, and tedious the way, you will, one day, arrive at the goal, and find her "in her own form—how lovely!" I had almost said, as lovely as yourself.

Perhaps, you will think this last expression too warm, and favouring more of the man—than the Rosicrusian philosopher.—But be not alarmed. By the most rigid observance of virtue it is we attain this superiority over the rest of mankind; and only by this course can we maintain it—we are not, however, divested of our sensibilities; nay, I believe, as they have not been vitiated by contamination, they are more tremblingly alive than other mortals usually are. In the human character, I could be of no use to you; in the Sylphiad, of the utmost. Look on me, then, only in the light of a preternatural being—and if my sentiments should sometimes flow in a more earthly stile—yet, take my word as a Sylph, they shall never be such as shall corrupt your heart. To guard it from the corruptions of mortals, is my sole view in the lectures I have given, or shall from time to time give you.

I saw and admired the laudable motive which induced you to give up part of your settlement. Would to heaven, for your sake, it had been attended with the happy consequences you flattered yourself with seeing. Alas! all the produce of that is squandered after the rest. Beware how you are prevailed on to resign any more; for, I question not, you will have application made you very soon for the remainder, or at least part of it: but take this advice of your true and disinterested friend. The time may come, and from the unhappy propensities of Sir William, I must fear it will not be long ere it does come, when both he and you may have no other resource than what your jointure affords you. By this ill-placed benevolence you will deprive yourself of the means of supporting him, when all other means will have totally failed. Let this be your plea to resist his importunities.

When you shall be disposed to make me the repository of your confidential thoughts, you may direct to A.B. at Anderton's coffee-house. I rely on your prudence, to take no measures to discover me. May you be as happy as you deserve, or, in one word, as I wish you!

Your careful

SYLPH.

LETTER XXVI.

To THE SYLPH.

It is happy for me, if my actions have stood so much in my favour, as to make any return for the obligations, which I feel I want words to express. Alas! what would have become of me without the friendly, the paternal admonitions of my kind Sylph! Spare me not, tell me all my faults—for, notwithstanding your partiality, I find them numerous. I feel the necessity of having those admonitions often inforced; and am apprehensive I shall grow troublesome to you.

Will, then, my friend allow me to have recourse to him on any important occasion—or what may appear so to me? Surely an implicit observance of his precepts will be the least return I can make for his disinterested interposition in my favour—and thus, as it were, stepping in between me and ruin. Believe me, my heart overflows with a grateful sense of these unmerited benefits—and feels the strongest resolution to persevere in the paths of rectitude so kindly pointed out to me by the hand of Heaven.

I experience a sincere affliction, that the renunciation of part of my future subsistence should not have had the desired effect; but none that I have parted with it. My husband is young, and blest with a most excellent constitution, which even his irregularities have not injured. I am young likewise, but of a more delicate frame, which the repeated hurries I have for many months past lived in (joined to a variety of other causes, from anxieties and inquietude of mind) have not a little impaired; so that I have not a remote idea of living to want what I have already bestowed, or may hereafter resign, for the benefit of my husband's creditors. Yet in this, as well as every thing else, I will submit to your more enlightened judgment—and abide most chearfully by your decision.

Would to Heaven Sir William would listen to such an adviser! He yet might retrieve his affairs. We yet might be happy. But, alas! he will not suffer his reason to have any sway over his actions. He hurries on to ruin with hasty strides—nor ever casts one look behind.

The perturbation these sad reflections create in my bosom will apologize to my worthy guide for the abruptness of this conclusion, as well as the incorrectness of the whole. May Heaven reward you! prays your ever grateful,

JULIA STANLEY.