I AM indeed, my dear
George, the most happy of human beings; happy in the paternal regard of the
best of parents, the sincere esteem of my worthy relations, Lord and Lady
Belmont; and the friendship, the tender friendship, of their lovely daughter,
the amiable lady Julia. An increase of fortune, which you are kind enough to
wish me, might perhaps add something to my felicity, but is far from being
necessary to constitute it, nor did it ever excite in my bosom an anxious wish.
My father, though he educated me to become the most splendid situation, yet
instructed me to be satisfied with my own moderate one; he taught me, that
independence was all a generous mind required; and that virtue, adorned by that
liberal education his unsparing bounty lavished on me, would command through
life that heart-felt esteem from the worthy of every rank, which the most
exorbitant wealth alone could never procure its possessors. Other parents hoard
up riches for their children; mine, with a more noble, more enlightened solicitude,
expended his in storeing my mind with generous sentiments and useful knowledge,
to which his unbounded goodness added every outward accomplishment that could
give grace to virtue, and set her charms in the fairest light.
Shall I then murmur
because I was not born to affluence? No, believe me, I would not be the son of
any other than this most excellent of men, to inherit all the stores which
avarice and ambition sigh for. I am prouder of a father, to whose discerning
wisdom and generous expanded heart I am so obliged, than I should be of one
whom I was to succeed in all the titles and possessions in the power of fortune
to bestow. From him I receive, and learn properly to value, the most real of
all treasures, independence and content.
What a divine morning!
how lovely is the face of nature! The blue serene of Italy, with the lively
verdure of England. But behold a more charming object than nature herself! the
sweet, the young, the blooming lady Julia, who is this instant stepping into
her post chaise with lady Anne Wilmot! How unspeakably lovely! she looks up to
the window; the smiles; I understand that smile; she permits me to have the
honour of following her: I’ll order my horses; and, whilst they are getting
ready, endeavour to describe this most angelic of womankind.
Lady Julia then, who
wants only three months of nineteen, is exactly what a poet or painter would
wish to copy, who intended to personify the idea of female softness. Her whose
form is delicate and feminine to the utmost degree: her complexion is fair,
enlivened by the bloom of youth, and often diversified by blushes more
beautiful than those of the morning: her features are regular; her mouth and
teeth particularly lovely; her hair light brown; her eyes blue, full of
softness, and strongly expressive of the exquisite sensibility of her soul. Her
countenance, the beauteous abode of the Loves and the Smiles, has a mixture of
sweetness and spirit, which gives life and expression to her charms.
As her mind has been
adorned, nor warped, by education, it is just what her appearance promises;
artless, gentle, timid, soft, sincere, compassionate, awake to all the finer
impressions of tenderness, and melting with pity for every human woe.
But my horses are in
the court, and even this subject cannot detain me a moment longer. Adieu!
YOUR raillery, my dear
Mordaunt, gives me pain; that I have the tenderest attachment to lady Julia is
certain; but it is an attachment which has not the least resemblance to love. I
should be the most ungrateful of mankind to make so ill a return to the
friendship lord Belmont honours me with, and the most selfish to entertain a
wish so much to lady Julia’s disadvantage. My birth, it must be confessed, is
not unworthy even her, since the same blood fills our veins; my father being
descended from the eldest broth of the first earl of Belmont, great grandfather
of the present: but it would ill become a man whose whole expectations are
limited to the inheritance of 700l. a year (long, very long, may it be before
the greatest of all misfortunes makes even that little mine!) to aspire to the
heiress of twice as many thousands.
What I feel for this
most charming of women is, the tenderness of a relation mixed with that soft
and lively esteem which it is impossible to refuse to the finest understanding
and noblest mind in the world, lodged in a form almost celestial.
Love, for I have tasted
its poisoned cup, is all tumult, disorder, madness; but my friendship for lady
Julia, warm and animated as it is, is calm, tranquil, gentle; productive of a
thousand innocent pleasures, but a stranger to every kind of inquietude: it
does not even disturb my rest, a certain consequence of love, even in its
earliest approaches.
Having thus vindicated
myself from all suspicion of a passion, which is the present situation of my
fortune I should think almost a criminal one, I proceed to obey you in giving
you the portraits of my noble friends; though, I assure you, my sketches will
be very imperfect ones.
Lord Belmont, who lives
eight months of the year at this charming seat, with all the magnificence and
hospitality of our ancient English nobility, is about sixty years old; his
person is tall, well made, graceful; his air commanding, and full of dignity:
he has strong sense, with a competent share of learning, and a just and
delicate taste for the fine arts; especially musick, which he studyed in Italy,
under the best masters that region of harmony afforded. His politeness is
equally the result of a natural desire of obliging, and an early and extensive
acquaintance with the great world.
A liberality which
scarce his ample possessions can bound, a paternal care of all placed by
Providence under his protection, a glowing zeal for the liberty, prosperity,
and honour of his country, the noblest spirit of independence, with the most
animated attachment and firmest loyalty to his accomplished sovereign, are
traits too strongly marked to escape the most careless observer; but those only
who are admitted to his nearest intimacy are judges of his domestic virtues, or
see in full light the tender, the polite, attentive husband, the fond indulgent
parent, the warm unwearied friend.
If there is a shade in
this picture, it is a prejudice, perhaps rather too strong, in favour of birth,
and a slowness to expect very exalted virtues in any man who cannot trace his
ancestors as far back, at least, as the Conquest.
Lady Belmont, who is
about six years younger than her lord, with all the strength of reason and
steadiness of mind generally confined to the best of our sex, has all the
winning softness becoming the most amiable of her own; gentle, affable, social,
polite, she joins the graces of a court to the simplicity of a cottage; and, by
an inexpressible ease and sweetness in her address, makes all who approach her
happy: impartial in her politeness, at her genial board no invidious
distinctions take place, no cold regards damp the heart of an inferior: by a
peculiar delicacy of good breeding and engaging attention to every individual,
she banishes reserve, and diffuses a spirit of convivial joy around her:
encouraged by her notice, the timid lose their diffidence in her presence, and
often surprized exert talents of pleasing they were before themselves
unconscious of possessing.
The best, and most
beloved of wives, of mothers, of mistresses, her domestic character is most
lovely; indeed all her virtues are rendered doubly charming, by a certain
grace, a delicate finishing, which it is much easier to feel than to describe.
The œconomy of her
house, which she does not disdain herself to direct, is magnificent without
profusion, and regular without constraint. The effects of her cares appear, the
cause is unobserved; all wears the smiling easy air of chance, though conducted
with the most admirable order.
Her form is perfectly
elegant; and her countenance, without having ever been beautiful, has a
benignity in it more engaging than beauty itself.
Lady Anne Wilmot, my
father, and myself, make up the present party at Belmont. Lady Anne, who
without regularity of features has that animation which is the soul of beauty,
is the widow of a very rich country gentleman; if it be just to prostitute the
name of gentleman to beings of his order, only because they have estates of
which they are unworthy, and are descended from ancestors whom the dishonour:
who, when riding post through Europe, happened to see her with her father at
Turin; and as she was the handsomest Englishwoman there, and the whim of being
marryed just then seized him, asked her of Lord, who could not refuse his
daughter to a jointure of 3000l. a year. She returned soon to England with her
husband, where, during four years, she enjoyed the happiness of listening to
the interesting histories of the chace, and entertaining the --mdash; shire
hunt at dinner: her slumbers broke by the noise of hounds in a morning, and the
riotous mirth of less rational animals at night. Fortune however at length took
pity on her sufferings; and the good ’squire, overheating himself at a
fox-chace, of which a fever was the consequence, left her young and rich, at
full liberty to return to the chearful haunts of men, with no very high ideas
of matrimonial felicity, and an abhorrence of a country life, which nothing but
her friendship for Lady Belmont could have one moment suspended.
A great flow of animal
spirits, and a French education, have made her a Coquet, though intended by
nature for a much superior character. She is elegant in her dress, equipage,
and manner of living, and rather profuse in her expences. I had first the
honour of knowing her last winter at Paris, from whence she has been returned
about six weeks, three of which she has passed at Belmont.
Nothing can be more
easy or agreeable than the manner of living here; it is perfectly domestic, yet
so diversified with amusements as to exclude that satiety from which the best
and purest of sublunary enjoyments are not secure, if continued in too uniform
a course. We read, we dance, we ride, we converse; we play, we dance, we sing;
join the company, or indulge in pensive solitude and meditation, just as fancy
leads; liberty, restrained alone by virtue and politeness, is the law, and
inclination the sovereign guide, at this mansion of true hospitality. Free from
all the shackles of idle ceremony, the whole business of Lord Belmont’s guests,
and the highest satisfaction they can give their noble host, is to be happy,
and to consult their own taste entirely in their manner of being so.
Reading, musick,
riding, and conversation are Lord Belmont’s favourite pleasures, but none that
are innocent are excluded; balls, plays, concerts, cards, bowls, billiards, and
parties of pleasure round the neighbouring country, relieve each other; and,
whilst their variety prevents any of them from satiating, all conspire to give
a double poignancy to the sweeter joys of domestic life, the calm and tender
hours which this charming family devote to the endearing conversation of each
other, and of those friends particularly honoured with their esteem.
The house, which is the
work of Inigo Jones, is magnificent to the utmost degree; it stands on the
summit of a slowly-rising hill, facing the South; and, beyond a spacious court,
has in front an avenue of the tallest trees, which lets in the prospect of a
fruitful valley, bounded at a distance by a mountain, down the sides of which
rushes a foaming cascade, which spreads into a thousand meandering streams in
the vale below.
The gardens and park,
which are behind the house, are romantic beyond the wantonness of imagination;
and the whole adjoining country diversified with hills, vallies, woods, rivers,
plains, and every charm of lovely unadorned nature.
Here Lord Belmont
enjoys the most unmixed and lively of all human pleasures, that of making
others happy. His estate conveys the strongest idea of the partiarchal
government; he seems a beneficent father surrounded by his children, over whom
reverence, gratitude, and love, give him an absolute authority, which he never
exerts but for their good: every eye shines with transport at his sight;
parents point him out to their children; the first accents of prattling infancy
are taught to lisp his honoured name; and age, supported by his bounteous hand,
pours out the fervent prayer to Heaven for its benefactor.
To a life like this,
and to an ardent love of independence, Lord Belmont sacrifises all the anxious
and corroding cares of avarice and ambition; and finds his account in health,
freedom, chearfulness, and "that sweet peace which goodness bosoms
ever." Adieu! I am going with Lord Belmont and my father to Acton-Grange,
and shall not return till Thursday.
WE returned yesterday
about six in the evening, and the moment we alighted, my Lord leading us into
the garden, an unexpected scene opened on my view, which recalled the idea of
the fabulous pleasures of the golden age, and could not but be infinitely
pleasing to every mind uncorrupted by the false glare of tinsel pomp and awake
to the genuine charms of simplicity and nature.
On a spacious lawn,
bounded on every side by a profusion of the most odoriferous flowering shrubs,
a joyous band of villagers were assembled: the young men drest in green, youth,
health, and pleasure in their air, led up their artless charmers, in straw hats
adorned with the spoils of Flora, to the rustic sound of the tabor and pipe:
Round the lawn, at equal intervals, were raised temporary arbors of branches of
trees, in which refreshments were prepared for the dancers: and between the
arbors, seats of moss for their parents, shaded from the sun by green awnings
on poles, round which were twined wreaths of flowers, breathing the sweets of
the spring. The surprize, the gaiety of the scene, the flow of general joy, the
sight of so many happy people, the countenances of the enraptured parents, who
seemed to live over again the sprightly season of youth in their children, with
the benevolent pleasure in the looks of the noble bestowers of the feast,
filled my eyes with tears, and my swelling heart with a sensation of pure yet
lively transport, to which the joys of courtly balls are mean.
The ladies, who were
sitting in conversation with some of the oldest of the villagers, rose at our
approach; and, my Lord giving Lady Anne Wilmot’s hand to my father and honoring
me with Lady Julia’s, we mixed in the rustic ball. The loveliest of women had
an elegant simplicity in her air and habit which became the scene, and gave her
a thousand new charms: she was drest in a straw-coloured lutestring night gown,
the lightest gauze linen, a hat with purple ribbons, and a sprig of glowing
purple amaranthus in her bosom: I know not how to convey an idea of the
particular stile of beauty in which she then appeared.–Youth, health,
sprightliness, and innocence, all struck the imagination at once.–Paint to
yourself the exquisite proportion, the playful air, and easy movement of a
Venus, with the vivid bloom of an Hebe;–however high you raise your ideas, they
will fall infinitely short of the divine original.
The approach of night
putting an end to the rural assembly, the villagers retired to the hall, where
they continued dancing, and our happy party passed the rest of the evening in
that sweet and lively conversation, which is never to be found but amongst
those of the first sense and politeness, united by that perfect confidence
which makes the most trifling subjects interesting; none of us thought of
separating, or imagined it midnight, when, my father opening a window, the
rising sun broke in upon us, and convinced us on what swift and downy pinions
the hours of happiness flit away. Adieu!
NO, my friend, I have
not always been this hero: too sensible to the power of beauty, I have felt the
keenest pangs of unsuccessful love: but I deserved to suffer; my passion was in
the highest degree criminal; and I blush, though at this distance of time, to
lay open my heart even to the indulgent eyes of partial friendship.
When your father’s
death called you back to England, you may remember I continued my journey to
Rome: where a letter from my father introduced me into the family of Count
Melespini, a nobleman of great wealth and uncommon accomplishments. As my
father, who has always been of opinion that nothing purifies the manners, like
the conversation of an amiable, well-educated, virtuous woman, had particularly
entreated for me the honour of the Countess’s friendship, whom he had known
almost a child, and to whom he had taught the English language; I was admitted
to the distinction of partaking in all her amusements, and attending her every
where in the quality of Cecisbeo. To the arts of the libertine, however fair,
my heart had always been steeled; but the Countess joined the most piercing
wit, the most winning politeness, the most engaging sensibility, the most
exquisite delicacy, to a form perfectly lovely. You will not therefore wonder
that the warmth and inexperience of youth, hourly exposed in so dangerous a
situation, was unable to resist such variety of attractions. Charmed with the
flattering preference she seemed to give me, my vanity fed by the notice of so
accomplished a creature, forgetting those sentiments of honour which ought
never to be one moment suspended, I became passionately in love with this
charming woman: for some months, I struggled with my love; till, on her
observing that my health seemed impaired and I had lost my usual vivacity, I
took courage to confess the cause, though in terms which sufficiently spoke my
despair of touching a heart which I feared was too sensible to virtue for my
happiness: I implored her pity, and protested I had no hope of inspiring a
tenderer sentiment. Whilst I was speaking, which was in broken interrupted
sentences, the Countess looked at me with the strongest sorrow and compassion
painted in her eyes; she was for some moments silent, and seemed lost in
thought; but at last, with an air of dignified sweetness, "My dear
Enrico," said she, "shall I own to you that I have for some time
feared this confession? I ought perhaps to resent this declaration, which from
another I could never have forgiven: but, as I know and esteem the goodness of
your heart, as I respect your father infinitely, and love you with the innocent
tenderness of a sister, I will only entreat you to reflect how injurious this
passion is to the Count, who has the tenderest esteem for you, and would
sacrifise almost his life for your happiness: be assured of my eternal
friendship, unless you forfeit it by persisting in a pursuit equally
destructive to your own probity and my honor; receive the tenderest assurances
of it," continued she, giving me her hand to kiss, but believe, at the
same time, that the Count deserves and possesses all my love, I had almost
said, my adoration. The fondest affection united us, and time, instead of
lessening, every hour encreases our mutual passion. Reserve your heart, my good
Enrico, for some amiable lady of your own nation; and believe that love has no
true pleasures but when it keeps within the bounds of honour."
It is impossible, my
dear Mordaunt, to express to you the shame this discourse filled me with: her
gentle, her affectionate reproofs, the generous concern she shewed for my
error, the mild dignity of her aspect, plunged me into inexpressible confusion,
and shewed my fault in its blackest colours; at the same time that her
behaviour, by increasing my esteem, added to the excess of my passion. I
attempted to answer her; but it was impossible; awed, abashed, humbled before
her, I had not courage even to meet her eyes: like the fallen angel in Milton,
I felt
"How awful
goodness is, and saw,
Virtue in her own shape
how lovely."
The Countess saw, and
pitied, my confusion, and generously relieved me from it by changing the
subject: she talked of my father, of his merit, his tenderness for me, and
expectations of my conduct; which she was sure I should never disappoint.
Without hinting at what had past, she with the utmost exquisite delicacy gave
me to understand it would be best I should leave Rome, by saying she knew how
ardently my father wished for my return, and that it would be the height of
cruelty longer to deprive him of the pleasure of seeing a son so worthy of his
affection: "The Count and myself," pursued she, "cannot lose you
without inexpressible regret; but you will alleviate it by letting us hear
often of your welfare. When you are united to a lady worthy of you, my dear
Enrico, we may perhaps make you a visit in England: in the mean time, be
assured, you have not two friends who love you with a sincerer affection."
At this moment the
Count entered, who, seeing my eyes filled with tears of love, despair, and
admiration, with the tenderest anxiety enquired the cause. "I shall tell
you news which will afflict you, my Lord," said the Countess: "Signor
Enrico comes to bid us farewel; he is commanded by his father to return to
England; tomorrow is the last day of his stay in Rome: he promises to write to
us, and to preserve an eternal remembrance of our friendship, for which he is
obliged only to his own merit: his tender heart, full of the most laudable, the
most engaging sensibility, melts at the idea of a separation which will not be
less painful to us."
The Count, after
expressing the most obliging concern at the thought of losing me, and the
warmest gratitude for these supposed marks of my friendship, insisted on my
spending the rest of the day with them. I consented, but begged first to return
to my lodgings; on pretence of giving some necessary orders, but in reality to
give vent to my full heart, torn with a thousand contrary emotions, amongst
which, I am shocked to own, hatred to the generous Count was not the weakest. I
threw myself on the ground, in an agony of despair; I wept, I called Heaven to
witness the purity of my love; I accused the Countess of cruelty in thus
forcing me from Rome; I rose up; I begun a letter to her, in which I vowed an
eternal silence and respect, but begged she would allow me still the innocent
pleasure of beholding her; swore I could not live without seeing her, and that
the day of my leaving Rome would be that of my death.–But why do I thus tear
open wounds which are but just healed? let it suffice, that a moment’s
reflexion convinced me of my madness, and shewed the charming Countess in the
light of a guardian angel snatching me from the edge of a precipice. My reason
in some degree returning, I drest myself with the most studious care, and
returned to the Melespini palace, where I found the Abbate Camilli, a near
relation of the family, whose presence saved me the confusion of being the third
with my injured friends, and whose lively conversation soon dissipated the air
of constraint I felt on entering the room, and even dispelled part of my
melancholy.
The Count, whose own
probity and virtue set him far above suspecting mine, pressed me, with all the
earnestness of a friendship I so little merited, to defer my journey a week: on
which I raised my downcast eyes to Madam Melespini; for such influence had this
lovely woman over my heart, I did not dare to consent till certain of her permission;
and, reading approbation in a smile of condescending sweetness, I consented
with a transport which only those who have loved like me can conceive: my
chearfulness returning, and some of the most amiable people in Rome coming in,
we past the evening in the utmost gaiety. At taking leave, I was engaged to the
same company in different parties of amusement for the whole time I had to
stay, and had the joy of being every day with the Countess; though I never
found an opportunity of speaking to her without witnesses, till the evening
before I left Rome, when, going to her house an hour sooner than I was
expected, I found her alone in her closet. When I approached her, my voice
faltered; I trembled; I wanted power to address her: and this moment, fought
with such care, wished with such ardor, was the most painful of my life. Shame
alone prevented my retiring; my eyes were involuntarily turned towards the door
at which I entered, in a vain hope of that interruption I had before dreaded as
the greatest misfortune; and even the presence of my happy envied rival would
at that moment have been most welcome.
The Countess seemed
little less disconcerted than myself; however, recovering herself sooner,
"Signor Enrico," said she, "your discretion charms me; it is
absolutely necessary you should leave Rome; it has already cost me an artifice
unworthy of my character to conceal from the Count a secret which would have
wounded his nice honor and destroyed his friendship for you. After this adored
husband, be assured, you stand first of all your sex in my esteem: the
sensibility of your heart, though at present so unhappily misplaced, encreases
my good opinion of you: may you, my dear Enrico, meet with an English Lady
worthy of your tenderness, and be as happy in marriage as the friends you leave
behind. Accept," pursued she, rising and going to a cabinet, "these
miniatures of the Count and myself, which I give you by his command; and, when
you look on them, believe they represent two faithful friends, whose esteem for
you neither time nor absence can lessen."
I took the pictures
eagerly, and kissed that of the Countess with a passion I could not restrain,
of which however she took not the least notice. I thanked her, with a confused
air, for so valuable a present; and intreated her to pity a friendship too
tender for my peace, but as respectful and as pure as she herself could wish
it.
The Abbate Camilli here
joined us, and once more saved me a scene too interesting for the present
situation of my heart. The Count entered the room soon after, and our
conversation turned on the other cities of Italy, which I intended visiting; to
most of which he gave me letters of recommendation to the noblest families,
wrote in terms so polite and affectionate as stabbed me to the heart with a
sense of my own ingratitude. He did me the honor to accept my picture, which I
had not the courage to offer the Countess. After protracting till morning a
parting so exquisitely painful, I tore myself from all I loved; and, bathing
with tears her hand which I pressed eagerly to my lips, threw myself into my
chaise, and, without going to bed, took the road to Naples. But how difficult
was this conquest! How often was I tempted to return to Rome, and throw myself
at the Countess’s feet, without considering the consequences of so wild an
action! You, my dearest Mordaunt, whose discerning spirit knows all the
windings, the strange inconsistences, of the human heart, will pity rather than
blame your friend, when he owns there were moments in which he formed the
infamous resolution of carrying her off by force.
But when the mist of
passion a little dispersed, I began to entertain more worthy sentiments; I
determined to drive this lovely woman from my heart, and conquer an
inclination, which the Count’s generous unsuspecting friendship would have made
criminal even in the eyes of the most abandoned libertine; rather owing this
resolution however to an absolute despair of success than either to reason or a
sense of honor, my cure was a work of time. I was so weak, during some months,
as to confine my visits to the families where the Count’s letters introduced
me, that I might indulge my passion by hearing the lovely Countess continually
mentioned.
Convinced at length of
the folly of thus feeding so hopeless a flame, I resolved to avoid every place
where I had a chance of hearing that adored name: I left Italy for France,
where I hoped a life of dissipation would drive her for ever from my
remembrance. I even profaned my passion for her, by meeting the advances of a
Coquette; but disgust succeeded my conquest, and I found it was from time alone
I must hope a cure. I had been near a year at Paris, when, in April last, I
received a letter from my father, who pressed my return, and appointed me to
meet him immediately at the Hague, from whence we returned together; and after
a few days stay in London, came down to Belmont, where the charms of Lady Julia’s
conversation, and the esteem she honors me with, entirely compleated my cure,
which time, absence, and the Count’s tender and affectionate letters, had very
far advanced. There is a sweetness in her friendship, my dear Mordaunt, to
which love itself must yield the palm; the delicacy, yet vivacity of her
sentiments; the soft sensibility of her heart, which without fear listens to
vows of eternal amity and esteem–O Mordaunt, I must not, I do not hope for, I
do not indeed wish for, her love; but can it be possible there is a man on
earth to whom heaven destines such a blessing?
OH! you have no notion
what a reformation: Who but Lady Anne Wilmot at chapel every Sunday? grave,
devout, attentive! scarce stealing a look at the prettiest fellow in the world,
who sits close by me! Yes, you are undone, Bellville; Harry Mandeville, the
young, the gay, the lovely Harry Mandeville, in the full bloom of conquering
three and twenty, with all the fire and sprightliness of youth, the exquisite
symmetry and easy grace of an Antinous; a countenance open, manly, animated;
his hair the brightest chesnut; his complexion brown, flushed with the rose of
health; his eyes dark, penetrating, and full of fire, but when he addresses our
sex softened into a sweetness which is almost irresistible; his nose inclining
to the aquiline; his lips full and red, and his teeth of the most pearly
whiteness.
There, read and die
with envy:
"You with envy, I
with love."
Fond of me too, but
afraid to declare his passion; respectful–awed by the commanding dignity of my
manner–poor dear creature! I think I must unbend a little, hide half the rays
of my divinity, to encourage so timid a worshiper.
Some flattering tawdry
coxcomb, I suppose; some fool with a tolerable outside.
No, you never was more
mistaken, Bellville: his charms, I assure you, are not all external. His
understanding is of the most exalted kind, and has been improved by a very
extraordinary education, in projecting which his father has employed much time
and thought, and half ruined himself by carrying it into execution. Above all,
the Colonel has cultivated in his son an ardent love of independence, not quite
so well suited to his fortune; and a generous, perhaps a romantic, contempt of
riches, which most parents if they had found would have eradicated with the
utmost care. His heart is warm, noble, liberal, benevolent: sincere and violent
in his friendships, he is not less so, though extremely placable, in his
enmities; scorning disguise, and laying his faults as well as his virtues open
to every eye: rash, romantic, imprudent; haughty to the assuming sons of
wealth, but to those below him,
"Gentle
As Zephyr blowing
underneath the violet."
But whither am I
running? and where was I when this divine creature seduced me from my right
path? Oh, I remember, at chapel: it must be acknowledged my digressions are a
little Pindaric. True, as I was saying, I go constantly to chapel. ’Tis
strange; but this lady Belmont has the most unaccountable way in the world of
making it one’s choice to do whatever she has an inclination one should,
without seeming to desire it. One sees so clearly that all she does is right,
religion fits so easy upon her, her style of goodness is so becoming and
graceful, that it seems want of taste and elegance not to endeavour to resemble
her. Then my Lord too loves to worship in the beauty of holiness; he makes the
fine arts subservient to the noblest purpose, and spends as much on serving his
Creator as some people of his rank do on a kennel of hounds. We have every external
incitement to devotion; exquisite paintings, an admirable organ, fine voices,
and the most animated reader of prayers in the universe.
Col. Mandeville, whom I
should be extremely in love with if his son was not five and twenty years
younger, leaves us tomorrow morning, to join his regiment, the shire militia:
he served in the late war with honour; but, meeting with some ill usage from a
minister on account of a vote in parliament, he resigned his commission, and
gave up his whole time to the education of my lovely Harry, whose tenderness
and merit are a full reward for all his generous attention. Adieu!
IL divino Enrico is a
little in the Penseroso. Poor Harry! I am charmed with his sensibility; he has
scarce been himself since he parted with his father yesterday. He apologizes
for his chagrin; but says, no man on earth has such obligations to a parent.
Entre nous, I fancy I know some few sons who would be of a different way of
thinking: the Colonel has literally governed his conduct by the old adage, that
"Learning is better than house and land;" for, as his son’s learning
advanced, his houses and lands melted away, or at least would have done, had it
not been for his mother’s fortune, every shilling of which, with half the
profits of his estate, he expended on Harry’s education, who certainly wants
only ten thousand pounds a year to be the most charming young fellow in the
universe. Well, he must e’en make the most of his perfections, and endeavour to
marry a fortune, on which subject I have a kind of a glimpse of a design, and
fancy my friend Harry has not quite so great a contempt of money as I imagined.
You must know then, (a
pretty phrase that, but to proceed) you must know, that we accompanied Colonel
Mandeville fifteen miles; and, after dining together at an inn, he took the
road to his regiment, and we were returning pensive and silent to Belmont, when
my Lord, to remove the tender melancholy we all caught from Harry, proposed a
visit at Mr. Westbrook’s, a plump, rich, civil, cit, whose house we must of
necessity pass. As my Lord despises wealth, and Mr. Westbrook’s genealogy in
the third generation loses itself in a livery stable, he has always avoided an
intimacy, which the other has as studiously fought; but, as it is not in his
nature to treat any body with ill-breeding, he has suffered their visits,
though he has been slow in returning them; and has sometimes invited the
daughter to a ball.
The lady wife, who is a
woman of great erudition, and is at present intirely lost to the world, all her
faculties being on the rack composing a treatise against the immortality of the
soul, sent down an apology; and we were entertained by Mademoiselle la Fille,
who is little, lean, brown, with small pert black eyes, quickened by a large
quantity of abominable bad rouge: she talks incessantly, has a great deal of
city vivacity, and a prodigious passion for people of a certain rank, a phrase
of which she is peculiarly fond. Her mother being above the little vulgar cares
of a family, or so unimportant a task as the education of an only child; she
was early entrusted to a French chamber-maid, who, having left her own country
on account of a Faux Pas which had visible consequences, was appointed to
instill the principles of virtue and politeness into the flexible mind of this
illustrious heiress of the house of Westbrook, under the title of governess. My
information of this morning further says, that, by the cares of this
accomplished person, she acquired a competent, though incorrect, knowledge of
the French language; with cunning, dissimulation, assurance, and a taste for
gallantry; to which if you add a servile passion for quality, and an oppressive
insolence to all, however worthy, who want that wealth which she owes to her
father’s skill in Change-Alley, you will have an idea of the bride I intend for
Harry Mandeville. Methinks I hear you exclaim: "Heavens! what a
conjunction!" ’Tis might well, but people must live, and there is 80,000l.
attached to this animal; and, if the girl likes him, I don’t see what he can do
better, with birth, and a habit of profuse expence, which he has so little to
support. She sung, for the creature sings, a tender Italian air, which she
addressed to Harry in a manner and with a look, that convinces me her stile is
l’amorose, and that Harry is the present object. After the song, I surprised
him talking low to her, and pressing her hand, whilst we were all admiring an
India cabinet; and, on seeing he was observed, he left her with an air of
conscious guilt, which convinces me he intends to follow the pursuit, and is at
the same time ashamed of his purpose. Poor fellow! I pity him; but marriage is
his only card. I’ll put the matter forward, and make my lord invite her to the
next ball. Don’t you think I am a generous creature, to sacrifise the man I
love to his own good? When shall I see one of your selfish sex so
disinterested? No, you men have absolutely no idea of sentiment.
IT is the custom here
for every body to spend their mornings as they please; which does not however
hinder our sometimes making parties all together, when our inclinations happen
all to take the same turn. My Lord this morning proposed an airing to the
Ladies, and that we should, instead of returning to dinner, stop at the first
neat farm-house where we could hope for decent accommodations. Love of variety
made the proposal agreeable to us all; and a servant being ordered before to
make some little provision, we stopped, after the pleasantest airing
imaginable, at the entrance of a wood, where, leaving our equipages to be sent
to the neighbouring village, we walked up a winding path to a rustic building,
embosomed in the grove, the architecture of which was in the most elegant stile
of simplicity: the trees round this lovely retreat were covered with wood-bines
and jessamines, from which a gale of perfume met our approach: the gentlest
breath of Zephyr just moved the leaves; the birds sung in the branches; a
spring of the clearest water broke from the rising ground on the left, and,
murmuring along a transparent pebbly bottom, seemed to lose itself in a thicket
of roses: no rude sound disturbed the sweet harmony of nature; all breathed the
soul of innocence and tranquillity, but a tranquillity raised above itself. My
heart danced with pleasure; and, the lovely lady Julia happening to be next me,
I kissed her hand with an involuntary fervor, which called up into her cheeks a
blush "celestial rosy red." When we entered the house, we were struck
with the propriety, the beauty, the simplicity of all around us; the apartments
were few, but airy and commodious; the furniture plain, but new and in the most
beautiful taste; no ornaments but vases of flowers, no attendants but country
girls, blooming as the morn, and drest with a neatness inexpressible.
After an elegant cold
dinner, and a desert of cream and the best fruits in season, we walked into the
wood with which the house was surrounded, the romantic variety of which it is
impossible to describe; all was nature, but nature in her most pleasing form.
We wandered over the sweetly- varied scene, resting at intervals in arbours of
intermingled roses and jessamines, till we reached a beautiful mossy grotto,
wildly lovely, whose entrance was almost hid by the vines which flaunted over
its top. Here we found tea and coffee prepared as if by invisible hands. Lady
Anne exclaimed that all was enchantment; and Lord Belmont’s eyes sparkled with
that lively joy, which a benevolent mind feels in communicating happiness to
others.
Lady Julia alone seemed
not to taste the pleasures of the day: Her charming eyes had a melancholy
languor I never saw in them before: she was reserved, silent, absent; and would
not have escaped Lady Anne’s raillery, had not the latter been too much taken
up with the lovely scene to attend to any thing but joy.
As friendship has a
thousand groundless fears, I tremble lest I should have been so unhappy as to
offend her: I remember she seemed displeased with my kissing her hand, and
scarce spoke to me the whole day; I will beg of Lady Anne to ask the cause, for
I cannot support the apprehension of having offended her.
It was with difficulty
Lord Belmont forced us at night from this charming retirement, which he calls
his hermitage, and which is the scene of his most pleasing hours. To Lady Anne
and me it had a charm it did not want, the powerful charm of novelty: it is
about four miles from Belmont house, not far distant from the extremities of
the park. To this place, I am told, Lord Belmont often retires, with his
amiable family, and those who are particularly happy in his esteem, to avoid
the hurry of company, and give himself up entirely to the uninterrupted sweets
of domestic enjoyment. Sure no man but Lord Belmont knows how to live!
LORD! these prudes–no,
don’t let me injure her–these people of high sentiment, are so tremblingly
alive all o’er– there is poor Harry in terrible disgrace with Lady Julia for
only kissing her hand, and amidst so bewitching a scene too, that I am really
surprized at his moderation;–all breathed the soul of pleasure;–rosy bowers and
mossy pillows, cooing doves and whispering Zephyrs–I think my Lord has a
strange confidence in his daughter’s insensibility, to trust her in these
seducing groves, and with so divine a fellow in company! –But, as I was saying,
she takes the affair quite seriously, and makes it an offence of the blackest
die–Well, I thank my stars, I am not one of these sensitive plants; he might
have kissed my hand twenty times, without my being more alarmed than if a fly
had settled there; nay, a thousand to one whether I had even been conscious of
it at all.
I have laughed her out
of her resentment, for it is really absurd; the poor fellow was absolutely
miserable about it, and begged my intercession, as if it had been a matter of
the highest importance. When I saw her begin to be ashamed of the thing,
Really, my dear, says I, I am glad you are convinced how ridiculous your anger
was, for ill-natured people might have put strange constructions.–I know but
one way of accounting rationally–if I was Harry, I should be extremely
flattered–one would almost suppose–This answered;–I carried my point, and
transferred the pretty thing’s anger to me; it blushed with indignation, drew
up, and, if mamma had not happened to enter the room at that instant, an
agreeable scene of altercation would probably have ensued: she took that
opportunity of retiring to her apartment, and we saw no more of her till dinner,
when she was gracious to Harry, and exceedingly stately to me.
O mon Dieu! I had
almost forgot: we are to have a little concert this evening; and see, my dear
Lord appears to summon me. Adio! Caro!
YES, my dear son, you
do me justice: I am never so happy as when I know you are so. I perfectly agree
with you as to the charms of Lord Belmont’s hermitage, and admire that genuine
taste for elegant nature, which gives such a spirited variety to the life of
the wisest and most amiable of men.
But does it not, my
dear Harry, give you at the same time a very contemptible idea of the power of
greatness to make its possessors happy, to see it thus flying as it were from
itself, and seeking pleasure not in the fruition, but in the temporary
suspension, of those supposed advantages it has above other conditions of life?
Believe me, it is not in the costly dome, but in the rural cott, that the
impartial Lord of all has fixed the chearful seat of happiness. Health, peace,
content, and soft domestic tenderness, the only real sweets of life, driven
from the gilded palace, smile on the humble roof of virtuous industry.
The poor complain not
of the tediousness of life: their daily toil makes short the flying hours, and
every moment of rest from labour is to them a moment of enjoyment. Not so the
great: surrounded from earliest youth by pleasures which court their
acceptance, their taste palled by habit and the too great facility of satiating
every wish, lassitude and disgust creep on their languid hours; and, wanting
the doubtful gale of hope to keep the mind in gentle agitation, it sinks into a
dead calm, more destructive to every enjoyment than the rudest storm of
adversity. The haughty dutchess, oppressed with tasteless pomp, and sinking
under the weight of her own importance, is much less to be envyed than
"the milk-maid singing blithe," who is in her eyes the object only of
pity and contempt.
Your acquaintance with
the great world, my dear Harry, has shewn you the splendid misery of superior
life: you have seen those most wretched to whom Heaven has granted the amplest
external means of happiness. Miserable slaves to pride, the most corroding of
human passions; strangers to social pleasure, incapable of love or friendship,
living to others not to themselves, ever in pursuit of the shadow of happiness,
whilst the substance glides past them unobserved, they drag on an insipid
joyless being: unloved and unconnected, scorning the tender ties which give
life all its sweetness, they sink unwept and unlamented to the grave. They know
not the conversation of a friend, that conversation which "brightens the
eyes:" their pride, an invasion on the natural rights of mankind, meets
with perpetual mortification; and their rage for dissipation, like the burning
thirst of a fever, is at once boundless and unquenchable.
Yet, though happiness
loves the vale, it would be unjust to confine her to those humble scenes; nor
is her presence, as our times afford a shining and amiable example, unattainable
to Royalty itself; the wife and good, whate’er their rank, led by the hand of
simple unerring nature, are seldom known to miss their way to her delightful
abode.
You have seen Lord
Belmont (blest with wisdom to chuse, and fortune to pursue his choice,
convinced that wealth and titles, the portion of few, are not only foreign to,
but often inconsistent with, true happiness) seek the lovely goddess, not in
the pride of show, the pomp of courts, or the madness of dissipation; but in
the calm of retirement, in the bosom of friendship, in the sweets of dear
domestic life, in the tender pleasing duties of husband and of father, in the
practice of beneficence and every gentler virtue. Others may be like him
convinced; but few like him have spirit and resolution to burst the magic
fetters of example and fashion, and nobly dare to be happy.
What pleasure does it
give me to find you in so just a way of thinking in regard to fortune! yes, my
dear Harry, all that in reality deserves the name of good, so far as it centers
in ourselves, is within the reach, not only of our moderate income, but of one
much below it. Great wealth is only desirable for the power it gives us of
making others happy; and, when one sees how very few make this only laudable
use of extreme affluence, one acquiesces chearfully in the will of Heaven,
satisfied with not having the temptation of misapplying those gifts of the
Supreme Being, for which we shall undoubtedly be accountable.
Nothing can, as you
observe, be more worthy a reasonable creature than Lord Belmont’s plan of life:
he has enlarged his own circle of happiness, by taking into it that of all
mankind, and particularly of all around him: his bounty glides unobserved, like
the deep silent stream; nor is it by relieving so much as by preventing want,
that his generous spirit acts: it is his glory and his pleasure that he must go
beyond the limits of his own estate to find objects of real distress.
He encourages industry,
and keeps up the soul of chearfulness amongst his tenants, by maintaining as
much as possible the natural equality of mankind to his estate: His farms are
not large, but moderately rented; all are at ease, and can provide happily for
their families; none rise to exorbitant wealth. The very cottagers are strangers
to all that even approaches want: when the busier seasons of the year are past,
he gives them employment in his woods or gardens; and finds double beauties in
every improvement there, when he reflects that from thence
"Health to himself
and to his infants bread,
The labourer
bears."–
Plenty, the child of
industry, smiles on their humble abodes; and, if any unforeseen misfortune nips
the blossoms of their prosperity, his bounty, descending silent and refreshing
as the dews of Heaven, renews their blooming state, and restores joy to their
happy dwellings.
To say all in one word,
the maxims by which he governs all the actions of his life are manly,
benevolent, enlarged, liberal; and his generous passion for the good of others
is rewarded by his Creator, whose approbation is his first point of view, with
as much happiness to himself as this sublunary state is capable of. Adieu!
YES, I am indeed fond
of your Italiano; it is the language of Love and the Muses: has a certain
softness and all that;–and by no means difficult to understand–at least it is
tolerable easy to understand as much of it as I do, as much as enables one to
be conceited, and give one’s self airs amongst those who are totally ignorant:
when this happens, I look astonished at the Gothic creatures.–"Heavens! my
dear Madam, not know Italian? how I pity your savage ignorance! bit know
Italian! La Lingua D’Amore? Oh! Mirtillo! Mirtillo! Anima mia!"– The dear
creatures stare, and hate one so cordially, it is really charming.–And if one
now and then unluckily blunders upon somebody who is more in the secret than
one’s self, a downcast look, and "Hovergogna, Signora," saves all,
and does credit at once to one’s learning and one’s modesty. Flattered too by
so plain a confession of their superiority, they give you credit for whatever
degree of knowledge you desire, and go away so satisfied–and exclaim in all
companies, "Upon my word, Lady Anne Wilmot is absolutely an exquisite
mistress of Italian, only a little too diffident."
I am just come from
playing at ball in the garden, Lord Belmont of the party: this sweet old man! I
am half in love with him, though I have no kind of hopes; for he told me
yesterday, that, lovely as I was, Lady Belmont was in his eyes a thousand times
more so. How amiable is age like his! so condescending to the pleasure of the
young! so charmed to see them happy! He gains infinitely in point of love by
his easy goodness; and as to respect, his virtues cannot fail to command it.
Oh! à propos to age, my
Lord says, he is sure I shall be a most agreeable old woman; and I am almost of
his opinion. Adieu! creature! I can no more.
By the way, do you know
that Harry’s Cittadina has taken a prodigious Penchant for me, and vows no
woman on earth has so much wit, or spirit, or politesse, as Lady Anne Wilmot?
Something like a glimmering of taste this: I protest I begin to think the girl
not quite so tolerable.
My Lord,
AN unforeseen
inevitable misfortune having happened to me, for which a too careless œconomy
had left me totally unprovided, I find it necessary to sell my estate and quite
the country.
I could find a ready
purchaser in Mr. Westbrook, who, with the merciless rapacity of an
exchange-broker, watches like a harpy the decline of every gentleman’s fortune
in his neighbourhood, in order to seize on his possessions: but the tender
affection I bear my tenants makes me solicitous to consult their good as much
as possible in the sale, since my hard fate will not allow me longer to
contribute to it myself: I will not here say more, than that I cannot provide
more effectually for their happiness than by selling to your Lordship.
S I R,
I AM extremely
concerned any accident should have happened, which makes it possible I should
lose from my neighbourhood a gentleman of family, of so very worthy a
character, land one I so greatly esteem: but I hope means may be found to
prevent what would be so extremely regretted by all who have the pleasure of
knowing you.
As I have always
regarded the independent country gentlemen as the strength and glory of this
kingdom, and the best supports of our excellent constitution, no increase of
power or property to myself shall ever tempt me to lessen the number of them,
where it can possibly be avoided. If you have resolution to enter on so exact a
system of œconomy as will enable you to repay any sum you may want in seven
years, whatever that sum is, I shall be most happy in advancing it, and will
take it back in the manner most easy to you. I think I could trace out a plan
by which you might retrench considerably in a manner scarce perceptible. I will
to-morrow morning call upon you when I am riding out, when we will talk further
on this subject; be assured, none of the greedy Leviathans of our days can feel
half the pleasure in compleating a purchase that I shall do in declining this,
if I can be so happy as to keep you amongst us. Your accepting this without
hesitation, will be a proof of your esteem which I can never forget, as it will
shew you think too highly of me to fear my making an ill use hereafter of
having had the happiness of doing for you what, if we were to change present
situations, I know you would rejoice in doing for me. I have a fund, which I
call the bank of friendship, on which it is my rule to take no interest; and
you may command to its utmost extent.
WE have been dining Al
fresco in a rustic temple in a wood near the house: romanesque, simple; the
pillars trunks of ancient oaks, the roof the bark of trees, the pavement
pebbles, the seats moss; the wild melody of nature our music; the distant sound
of the cascade just breaks on the ear, which, joined by the chaunt of the
birds, the cooing of the doves, the lowing of the herds, and the gently-
breathing Western breeze, forms a concert most divinely harmonious.
Really this place would
be charming, if it was a little more replete with human beings; but to me the
finest landscape is a dreary wild, unless adorned by a few groupes of figures.–There
are ’squires indeed– well, absolutely, your ’squires are an agreeable race of
people, refined, sentimental, formed for the Belle passion; though it must be
owned the ’squires about Belmont are rational animals compared to those my Caro
Sposo used to associate with: my Lord has exceedingly humanized them, and their
wives and daughters are decent creatures: which really amazed me at first, for
you know, Bellville, there is in general no standing the country misses.
Your letter is just
brought me: all you say of levees and drawing rooms is thrown away:
"Talk not to me of
courts, for I disdain
All courts when he is
by: far be the noise
Of kings and courts
from us, whose gentle souls
Our kinder stars have
steered another way."
Yes, the rural taste
prevails; my plan of life is fixed; to fit under a hill, and keep sheep with
Harry Mandeville.
O mon Dieu! what do I
see coming down the avenue? Is it in woman to resist that equipage? Papier machée–highly
gilded–loves and doves–fix long-tailed grey Arabians–by all the gentle powers
of love and gallantry, Fondville himself–the dear enchanting creature–nay then–poor
Harry–all is over with him–I discarded him this moment, and take Fondville for
my Cecisbeo==fresh from Paris–just imported –Oh! all ye gods!
Friday Morning. I left you
somewhat abruptly; and am returned to fill up my epistle with the adventures of
yesterday.
The great gates being
thrown open, and the chariot drawn up to the steps, my charming Fondville,
drest in a suit of light- coloured silk embroidered with silver, a hat with a
black feather under his arm and a large bouquet of artificial flowers in his
button-hole, all Arabia breathing from his well-scented handkerchief,
descended, like Adonis from the carr of Venus, and, full of the idea of his own
irresistibility, advanced towards the saloon–he advanced, not with the doubtful
air of a bashful lover intimidated by a thousand tender fears, but in a minuet
step, humming an opera tune, and casting a side glance at every looking glass
in his way. The first compliments being over, the amiable creature seated
himself by me, and began the following conversation:
Well, but my dear Lady
Anne, this is so surprizing–your Ladyship in Campagna? I thought Wilmot had
given you a surfeit of the poet’s Elysium–horrid retirement! –how do you
contrive to kill time? –though Harry Mandeville indeed–a widow of spirit may
find some amusement there.
Why really, Fondville,
a pretty fellow does prodigiously soften the horrors of solitude.
Oh, nothing so well.
And Harry has his
attractions.
Attractions! ah L’Amore!
the fairest eyes of Rome–
But pray, my dear Lord,
how did the court bear my absence?
In despair: the very
Zephyrs about Versailles have learnt to sigh, La belle Angloise.
And Miremont?
Inconsolable: staid
away from two operas.
Is it possible? the
dear constant creature! how his sufferings touch me!–but here is company.
Any body one knows?
I rather think not.
What! the good company
of the Environs, the Arriere Ban, the Posse Comitatus?
Even so: my Lord
"brings down the natives upon us," but, to do the creatures justice,
one shall seldom see tamer savages.
Here the door opening,
Fondville rose with us all, and, leaning against the wainscoat, in an attitude
of easy indifference, half bowing, without deigning to turn his eyes on those
who entered the room, continued playing my fan, and talking to me in a half
whisper, till all were seated; when my dear Lady Belmont, leading the
conversation, contrived to make it general, till, tea being over, my Lord
proposed a walk in the gardens; where having trifled away an hour every
pleasantly, we found music ready in the saloon at our return, and danced till
midnight.
Lord Viscount Fondville
(he would not have you omit Viscount for the world) left us this morning: my
Lord is extremely polite and attentive to him, on the supposition of his being
my lover; otherwise he must expect no supernumerary civilities at Belmont; for,
as it is natural to value most those advantages one possesses one self, my Lord,
whose nobility is but of the third generation, but whose ancestry loses itself
in the clouds, pays much greater respect to a long line of illustrious
ancestors than to the most lofty titles; and I am sorry to say my dear
Fondville’s pedigree will not stand the test; he owes his fortune and rank to
the iniquity of his father, who was deep in the infamous secret of the South
Sea bubble.
’Tis however a
good-natured, inoffensive, lively, showy animal, and does not flatter
disagreeably. He owns Belmont not absolutely shocking, and thinks Lady Julia
rather tolerable, if she was so happy as to have a little of my spirit and
enjouement.
Adio! A. Wilmot. O Ciel!
what a memory! this is not post day. You may possibly gain a line or two by
this strange forgetfulness of mine.
Saturday. Nothing new, but
that La Signora Westbrook, who visited here yesterday, either was, or pretended
to be, taken ill before her coach came; and Harry, by her own desire, attended
her home in Lady Julia’s post chaise. He came back with so grave an air, that I
fancy she had been making absolute, plain, down-right love to him: her
ridiculous fondness begins to be rather perceptible to every body: really these
city girls are so rapid in their amours, they won’t give a man time to breathe.
I Have just received a
letter which makes me the most unhappy of mankind: ’tis from a lady whose
fortune is greatly above my most sanguine hopes, and whose merit and tenderness
deserve that heart which I feel is not in my power to give her. The general
complacency of my behaviour to the lovely sex, and my having been accidentally
her partner at two or three balls, has deceived her into an opinion that she is
beloved by me; and she imagines she is only returning a passion, which her
superiority of fortune has prevented my declaring. How much is she to be
pitied! my heart knows too well the pangs of disappointed love, not to feel
most tenderly for the sufferings of another, without the additional motive to
compassion of being the undesigned cause of those sufferings, the severest of
which human nature is capable. I am embarrassed to the greatest degree, not
what resolution to take; that required not a moment’s deliberation; but how to
soften the stroke, and in what manner, without wounding her delicacy, to
decline an offer, which she has not the least doubt of my accepting with all
the eager transport of timid love, surprised by unexpected success.
I have wrote to her,
and think I shall send this answer; I enclose you a copy of it: her letter is
already destroyed: her name I conceal. The honor of a lady is too sacred to be
trusted, even to the faithful breath of a friend.
NO words, Madam, can
express the warmth of my gratitude for your generous intentions in my favor,
tho’ my ideas of probity will not allow me to take advantage of them.
To rob a gentleman, by
whom I have been treated with the utmost hospitality, not only of his whole
fortune, but of, what is infinitely more valuable, a beloved and amiable
daughter, is an action so utterly inconsistent with those sentiments of honor
which I have always cultivated, as even your perfections cannot tempt me to be
guilty of. I must therefore, however unwillingly, absolutely decline the
happiness you have had the goodness to permit me to hope for; and beg leave to
subscribe myself,
Madam, with the utmost gratitude and most lively esteem, your most
obliged and devoted servant, H. Mandeville. I
ought perhaps to be more explicit in my refusal of her; but I cannot bring
myself to shock her sensibility, by an appearance of total indifference. Surely
this is sufficiently clear, and as much as can be said by a man sensible of,
and grateful for, so infinite an obligation.
You will smile when I
own that, in the midst of my concern for this Lady, I feel a secret, and, I
fear, an ungenerous, pleasure, in sacrifising her to Lady Julia’s friendship,
tho’ the latter will never be sensible of the sacrifise.
Yes, my friend, every
idea of an establishment in the world, however remote or however advantageous,
dies away before the joy of being esteemed by her, and at liberty to cultivate
that esteem; determined against marriage, I have no wish, no hope, but that of
being for ever unconnected, for ever blest in her conversation, for ever
allowed, uninterrupted, unrestrained by nearer ties, to hear that enchanting
voice, to swear on that snowy hand eternal amity, to listen to the unreserved
sentiments of the most beautiful mind in the creation, uttered with the melody
of angels. Had I worlds, I would give them to inspire her with the same wishes!
I Can’t conceive,
Bellville, what it is that makes me so much the men’s taste: I really think I
am not handsome– not so very handsome–not so handsome as Lady Julia,–yet I don’t
know how it is– I am persecuted to death amongst you– the misfortune to please
every body–’tis amazing–no regularity of features–fine eyes indeed–a vivid
bloom–a seducing smile–an elegant form–an air of the world–and something
extremely well in the Toute ensemble–a kind of an agreeable manner–easy,
spirited, degagée–and for the understanding–I flatter myself malice itself
cannot deny me the beauties of the mind. You might justly say to me, what the
Queen of Sweden said to Mademoiselle le Favre, "With such an
understanding,
are you not ashamed to be handsome?" Thursday Morning. Absolutely deserted. Lord and Lady
Belmont are gone to town this morning on sudden and unexpected business: poor
Harry’s situation would have been pitiable, had not my Lord, considering how
impossible it was for him to be well with us both à Trio, sent to Fondville to
spend a week here in their absence, which they hope will not be much longer.
Harry, who is viceroy, with absolute power, has only one commission, to amuse
Lady Julia and me, and not let us pass a languid hour till their return.
O Dio! Fondville’s
Arabians! the dear creature looks up–he bows–"That bow might from the
bidding of the gods command me"–
Don’t you love quotations?
I am immensely fond of them: a certain proof of erudition: and, in my
sentiments, to be a woman of literature is to be–In short, my dear Bellville, I
early in life discovered, by the meer force of genius, that there were two
characters only in which one might take a thousand little innocent freedoms,
without being censured by a parcel of impertinent old women, those of a Belle
Esprit and a Methodist; and, the latter not being in my style, I chose to set
up for the former, in which I have had the happiness to succeed so much beyond
my hopes, that, the first question now asked amongst polite people, when a new
piece comes out, is "What does Lady Anne Wilmot say of it?" A
scornful smile from me would damn the best play that ever was wrote; as a look
of approbation, for I am naturally merciful, has saved many a dull one. In
short, if you should happen to write an insipid poem, which is extremely
probable, send it to me, and my Fiat shall crown you with immortality.
Oh! heavens! à propos,
do you know that Bell Martin, in the wane of her charms, and past the meridian
of her reputation, is absolutely married to sir Charles Canterall? Astonishing!
till I condescend to give the clue, She praised his bad verses. A thousand
things appear strange in human life, which, if one had the real key, are only
natural effects of a hidden cause. "My dear sir Charles, says Bell, that
divine Sapphic of yours–those melting sounds–I have endeavoured to set it–But
Orpheus or Amphion alone–I would sing it–yet fear to trust my own heart–such
extatic numbers–who that has a soul"– She sing half a stanza, and,
overcome by the magic force of verse, leaning on his breast, as if absorbed in
speechless transport, "she fainted, sunk, and dyed away". Find me the
poet upon earth who could have withstood this. He married her the next morning.
Oh! Ciel! I forgot the
Caro Fondville. I am really inhuman. Adieu!
"Je suis votre
amie tres fidelle." I can absolutely afford no more at present.
YOU can have no idea,
my dear Mr. Mandeville, how weary I am of being these few day only in town:
that any one, who is happy enough to have a house, a cottage, in the country,
should continue here at this season, is to me inconceivable: but that gentleman
of large property, that noblemen, should imprison themselves in this smoaking
furnace, when the whole land is a blooming garden, a wilderness of sweets; when
pleasure courts them in her fairest form; nay, when the sordid god of modern
days, when Interest joins his potent voice; when power, the best power, that of
doing good, solicits their presence; can only be accounted for by supposing
them under the dominion of fascination, spell-caught by some malicious demon,
an enemy to human happiness.
I cannot resist
addressing them in a stanza or two of a poem, which deserves to be written in
letters of gold.
"Mean time, by
pleasure’s sophistry allur’d,
From the bright fun and
living breeze ye stray:
And, deep in London’s
gloomy haunts immur’d,
Brook o’er your fortune’s,
freedom’s health’s decay,
O blind of choice, and
to yourselves untrue!
The young grove shoots,
their bloom the fields renew,
"The mansion asks
its lord, the swains their friend;
While he doth riot’s
orgies haply share,
Or tempt the gamester’s
dark destroying snare,
Or at some courtly
shrine with lavish incense bend.
"And yet full oft
your anxius tongues complain
That careless tumult
prompts the rustic throng;
That the rude village
inmates now disdain
Those homely ties which
rul’d their fathers long:
Alas! your fathers did
by other arts
Draw those kind ties
around their simple hearts,
And led in other paths
their ductile will:
By succours, faithful
consul, courteous chear,
Won them the ancient
manners to revere,
To prize their country’s
peace, and heaven’s due rites fulfill."
Can a nobleman of
spirit prefer the rude insults of a licentious London rabble, the refuse of
every land, to the warm and faithful attachment of a brave, a generous, a free,
and loyal yeomanry in the country? Does not interest, as well as virtue and
humanity, prompt them, by living on their estates, to imitate the Heavens,
which return the moisture they draw from the earth, in grateful dews and
showers?
When I first came to
Belmont, having been some years abroad, I found my tenants poor and dejected,
scarce able to gain i hard penurious living. The neighbouring gentlemen
spending two thirds of the year in London, and the town, which was the market
for my estate, filled only with people in trade, who could scarce live by each
other: I struck at the root of this evil, and, by living almost altogether in
the country myself, brought the whole neighbourhood to do the same: I promoted
every kind of diversion, which soon filled my town with gentlemen’s families,
which raised the markets, and of consequence the value of my estate: my tenants
grew rich at the same rents which before they were unable to pay; population
encreased, my villages were full of inhabitants, and all around me was gay and
flourishing. So simple, my dear Mr. Mandeville, are the maxims of true policy:
but it must be so; that machine which has the fewest wheels is certainly most
easy to keep in order.
Have you had my old men
to dine? at sixty I admit them to my table, where they are always once a
fortnight my guests. I love to converse with those, "whom age and long
experience render wise; and in my idea of things, it is time to slacken the
reins of pride, and to wave all sublunary distinctions, when they are so near
being at an end between us. Besides I know, by my own feelings, that age wants
the comforts of life: a plentiful table, generous wines, chearful converse, and
the notice of those they have been accustomed to revere, renews in some degree
the fire of youth, gives a spring to declining nature, and perhaps prolongs as
well as enlivens the evening of their days. Nor is it a small addition to my
satisfaction, to see the respect paid them by the young of their own rank, from
the observation of their being thus distinguished by me: as an old man, I have
a kind of interest in making age an object of reverence; but, were I ever so
young, I would continue a custom which appears to me not less just than humane.
Adieu! my esteemed, my
amiable friend! how I envy you your larks and nightingales!
Positively, Bellville,
I can answer for nothing: these sylvan scenes are so very bewitching, the
vernal grove, and balmy Zephyr, are so favourable to a lover’s prayer, that if
Fondville was any thing but a pretty man about town, my situation would be
extremely critical.
This wicked Harry too
has certainly some evil design; he forms nothing but enchanting rural parties,
either à quarrée, or with others of the young and gay: not a maiden aunt has
appeared at Belmont since his reign commenced. He suffers no ideas to enter our
imaginations but those of youth, beauty, love, and the seducing pleasures of
the golden age. We dance on the green, dine at the hermitage, and wander in the
woods by moonlight, listening to the song of the nightingale, or the sweeter
notes of that little syren Lady Julia, whose impassioned sounds would soften
the marble heart of a virgin of eighty- five.
I really tremble for my
fair friend; young, artless, full of sensibility, exposed hourly to the charms
of the prettiest fellow upon earth, with a manner so soft, so tender, so much
in her own romantic way–
A rap at my door–Fondville
is sent for away–company at his house–sets out immediately–I must bid the dear
creature adieu–
I am returned: pity me,
Bellville!
"The streams, the
groves, the rocks remain;
But damon still I seek
in vain."
Yes, the dear man is
gone; Harry is retired to write letters, and Lady Julia and I are going to take
a walk, Tete à Tete in the wood. Jesu Maria! a female Tete à Tete!–I shall
never go through the operation –if we were en confidence indeed, it might be
bearable: but the little innocent fool has not even a secret.
Adio!
OH! Mordaunt! I am
indeed undone: I was too confident of my own strength: I depended on the power
of gratitude and honor over my heart, but find them too weak to defend me
against such inexpressible loveliness: I could have resisted her beauty only,
but the mind which irradiates those speaking eyes–the melting music of those
gentle accents, "soft as the fleeces of descending snows"–the
delicacy, yet lively tenderness of her sentiments–that angel innocence –that
winning sweetness–the absence of her parents, and Lady Anne’s coquetry with
Lord Fondville, have given me opportunities of conversing with her, which have
for ever destroyed my peace–I must tear myself from her–I will leave Belmont
the moment my Lord returns–I am for ever lost–doomed to wretchedness–but I will
be wretched alone–I tremble lest my eyes should have discovered–lest pity
should involve her in my misery.
Great heavens! was I
not sufficiently unhappy? to stab me to the heart, I have just received the
following letter from Lord Belmont.
THE present member of
parliament for being in a state of health which renders his life extremely
uncertain, it would be very agreeable to me if my dear Mr. Mandeville would
think of offering himself a candidate to succeed him. I will however be so
plain as to tell him, he will have no assistance from me except my wishes, and
has nothing to trust to but his merits and the name of Mandeville; it being a
point both of conscience and honor with me, never to intermeddle in elections.
The preservation of our happy constitution depends on the perfect independence
of each part, of which it is composed, on the other two: and the moment, Heaven
grant that moment to be far distant! when the House of Lords can make a House of
Commons, liberty and prerogative will cease to be more than names, and both
prince and people become slaves.
I therefore always,
though the whole town is mine, leave the people to their free and uninfluenced
choice: never interfering farther than to insist on their keeping themselves as
unbiassed as I leave them. I would not only withdraw my favor from, but
prosecute, the man who was base enough to take a bribe, tho’ he who offered it
was my nearest friend.
By this means I have
the pleasure also of keeping myself free, and at liberty to confer favours
where I please; so that I secure my own independence by not invading that of
others.
This conduct, I cannot
help thinking, if general, would preserve the balance of our glorious
constitution; a balance of much greater consequence to Britons than the balance
of power in Europe, tho’ so much less the object of their attention. In this we
resemble those persons, who, whilst they are busied in regulating the domestic
concerns of their neighbours, suffer their own to be ruined.
But to return from this
unintended digression: You will perhaps object to what I have proposed, that,
during your father’s life, you are not qualified for a seat in Parliament. I
have obviated this objection. Lady Mary, the only sister of my father, has an
ample fortune in her own power to dispose of: some part of it was originally
her own; but much the larger part was left her by her lover, Sir Charles
Barton, who was killed in Queen Anne’s wars, the very morning before he was to
have set out for England to complete his marriage. Being the last of his
family, he had made a will, in which he left his estate to Lady Mary, with a
request, that, if she did not marry, she would leave it to one of the name of
Mandeville. As she loves merit, and has the happiness and honor of our house
warmly at heart, I have easily prevailed on her to settle 500&L;. a year on
you at the present, and to leave you a good part of the rest at her death. Her
design hitherto, I will not conceal from you, has been to leave her fortune to
my daughter, of whom she is infinitely fond; but Julia has enough, and by
leaving it to you she more exactly fulfils the will of Sir Charles, who, tho’
he has not expressly made the distinction, certainly meant it to a male of the
Mandeville name. The estate is about 2000&L;. a year; her own fortune of
14000&L;. I shall not oppose her leaving to my daughter.
I know too well the
generous sentiments of your heart to doubt that, in procuring this settlement,
I give to my country a firm and unshaken patriot, at once above dependance on
the most virtuous court, and the mean vanity of opposing the just measures of
his Prince, from a too eager desire of popularity: not that I would have you
insensible to praise, or the esteem of your country; but seek it only by
deserving it, and tho’ it be in part the reward, let it not be the motive of
your actions: let your own approbation be your first view, and that of others
only your second.
You may observe, my
dear Mr. Mandeville, I only caution you against being led away, by youthful
vanity, to oppose the just measures of your Prince: I should wrong the
integrity of your heart, if I supposed you capable of distressing the hands of
government for mercenary or ambitious purposes: a virtuous senator will regard,
not men, but measures, and will concur with his bitterest enemies in every
salutary and honest purpose; or rather, in a public light, he will have no
enemies, but the enemies of his country.
It is with caution I
give even these general hints; far be it form me to attempt to influence your
judgment: let your opinion be ever free and your own; or, where your
inexperience may want information, seek it from the best, and most enlightened
of mankind, your excellent father, who has long sat with honor in the same
house.
Let me now, my amiable
friend, thank you for your obliging attention, not only to the ladies, of whom
I could not doubt your care, but of my tenants; one of whom writes me word,
that, coming to enquire when I should return, with a look of anxiety which shew’d
my return was of consequence to him, you took his aside, and, enquiring his
business, found he wanted, from an accident which had involved him in a
temporary distress, to borrow 100&L;. for which you gave him a draught on
your banker, with a goodness and sweetness of manner, which doubled the
obligation; making only one condition, which the overflowing of his gratitude
has made him unable to keep, that it should be a secret to all the world.
Can Lady Mary do too
much for a man who thus shews himself worthy the name of Mandeville, the
characteristic of which has ever been the warmest benevolence?
Another would, perhaps,
insist on returning the money to you, but I will not rob you of the pleasure of
making an honest man happy: you will however observe, that it is this once only
I indulge you; and that you are the only person from whom I have ever suffered
my family, for such I esteem all placed by Providence under my protection, to
receive an obligation: ’tis a favour I have refused even to your father.
Do not answer this: I
shall possibly be with you before a letter could reach me.
Adieu. Your affectionate Belmont. Can
I, after this letter, my dear Mordaunt, entertain a wish for Lady Julia,
without the blackest ingratitude? no, tho’ I will not accept his generous
offer, I can never forget he has made it. I will leave Belmont–I will forget
her–What have I said? forget her? I must first lose all sense of my own being.
Am I born to know every
species of misery? I have this moment received a second letter from the Lady I
once mentioned to you, filled with the softest and most affecting expressions
of disinterested tenderness: indiscreet from excess of affection, she adjures
me to meet her one moment in the rustic temple, where she is waiting for me;
her messenger is gone, and, as I will not hazard exposing her by sending my
servant, I have no choice left but to go: Heaven knows how unwillingly! Should
we be seen, what an appearance would such a meeting have! I left Lady Julia to
write letters, and on that account excused myself from attending her: yet can I
leave her, whom love alone has made imprudent, to the consequence of her
indiscretion, and the wild sallies of a mind torn by disappointment and
despair! I will go: but how shall I behold her! how tell her pity is all I can
return to so generous a passion? These trials are too great for a heart like
mine, tender, sympathetic, compassionate; and softened by the sense of it’s own
sufferings: I shall expire with regret and confusion at her sight. Farewell.
OUR party last night
did not turn out so much in the still-life way as I expected –unfortunate as I
am–two rivals at once–la bellissima Julia has most certainly a penchant for
Harry–’tis absurd, for the thing is impossible. In the first place, I am rather
afraid he has a kind of attachment to this creature; and in the second, I know
Lord Belmont’s sentiments on this head, and that, with all his generosity, no
man breathing has a greater aversion to unequal marriages: the difference is so
immense in every thing but birth and merit, that there remains not a shadow of
hope for her. But these people of high heroics are above attending to such
trifling things as possibilities–I hope I am mistaken; but the symptoms are
strong upon her, as you shall judge.
I left you last night,
to accompany Lady Julia to the wood we are both so fond of: the evening was
lovely beyond description, and we were engaged in a very lively conversation;
when, as we approached the temple, we saw Harry, who had just left us on
pretence of writing letters, come out of it with the detestable Westbrook
leaning familiarly on his arm, her pert eyes softened into languishment, and
fixed eagerly on his: the forward creature started at seeing us, and attempted
to fly, which Harry prevented, and, withdrawing his arm from hers, as if
mechanically, advanced slowly towards us, with a look so confused, a mien so
disordered, so different form that easy air which gives ten thousand graces to
the finest form in the world, as convinced me that this meeting was not
accidental. Lady Julia stopt the moment she saw them; a deep blush overspread
her face, she fixed her eyes on the ground, and waited their approach silent
and unmoved as a statue. Not so the cit: the creature’s assurance, and the ease
with which she recovered herself and addressed Lady Julia, excited equally my
astonishment and indignation. She told her, she came to wait on her Ladyship,
and the fineness of the evening had tempted her to leave her coach at the
entrance of the wood: that as she walked thro’ she happened to meet Mr.
Mandeville, quite by chance she assured her Ladyship; as he would testify.
Harry disdain’d to confirm her falshood even by an assenting look: his silence,
the coldness of his manner, with the air of dignity and spirit Lady Julia
assumed, almost disconcerted her: we walk’d silently to the house, where the
girl only stay’d till her coach was order’d round, and then left us; her eyes
ask’d Harry’s attendance, but he chose not to understand their language.
This evening was the
only unpleasant one I ever past at Belmont: a reserve, unknown before in that
seat of sincere friendship, took place of the sweet confidence which used to
reign there, and to which it owes its most striking charms. We retired earlier
than common; and Lady Julia, instead of spending half an hour in my apartment,
as usual, took leave of me at the door and passed on to her own.
I am extremely alarmed
for her–it would have been natural to have talked over so extraordinary an
adventure with me, if not too nearly interested–There was a constraint in her
behaviour to Harry all the evening–an assumed coldness–his assiduity seemed to
displease her–she sighed often–nay once, when my eyes met hers, I observed a
tear ready to start–she may call this friendship if she pleases, but these very
tender, these apprehensive, these jealous friendships, between amiable young
people of different sexes, are exceedingly suspicious.
It is an hour later
than her usual time of appearing, and I hear nothing of her: I am determined
not to indulge this tender melancholy, and have sent up to let her know I
attend her in the saloon; for I often breakfast in my own apartment, it being
the way here for every body to do whatever they like.–
Indeed! a letter from
Lady Julia!–a vindication?–nay then–"guilty upon my honor."–Why
imagine I suspect her?– Oh! Conscience! Conscience!
Her extreme fear of my
supposing her in love with Harry is a convincing proof that she is, tho’ such
is her amiable sincerity, that I am sure she has deceived herself before she
would attempt to deceive me; but the latter is not so easy; sitters by see all
the game.
She tells me, she
cannot see me till she has vindicated herself from a suspicion which the
weakness of her behaviour yesterday may have caused: That she is not sure she
has resolution to mention the subject when present; therefore takes this way to
assure me, that, tender and lively as her friendship for Mr. Mandeville is, it
is only friendship; a friendship which his merit has hitherto justified, and
which has been the innocent pleasure of her life. That born with too keen
sensibilities (poor thing! I pity her sensibilities) the ill treatment of her
friends wounds her to the soul. That zeal for his honor and the integrity of
his character, which she thinks injured by the mysterious air of last night’s
adventure; her shock at a clandestine and dissembled appointment, so
inconsistent with that openness which she had always admired in him, as well as
with the respect due to her, now so particularly in her father’s absence under
his protection, had occasioned that concern which she fears may make her appear
to me more weak than she is.
In short, she takes a
great deal of pains to lead herself into an error; and struggles in those toils
which she will find great difficulty in breaking.
Harry’s valet has just
told my woman his master was in bed but two hours last night: that he walked
about his room till three, and rose again at five, and went out on horseback,
without a servant. The poor fellow is frighted to death about him; for he is
idolized by this servants, and this man has been with him from his child-hood.
But adieu! I hear Lady Julia upon the stairs. I must meet her in the saloon.
Eleven o’Clock. Poor soul!
I never saw any thing like her confusion when we met: she blushed, she
trembled, and sunk half motionless into her chair: I made the tea, without
taking the least notice of her inability to do it; and by my easy chit chat
manner soon brought her to be a little composed: though her eye was often
turned towards the door, though she started at every sound, yet she never asked
the cause of Harry’s absence, which must however surprize her, as he always
breakfasts below.
Foreseeing we should be
a very aukward party to day à Trio, I sent early in the morning to ask three or
four very agreeable girls about two miles off, to come and ramble all day with
us in the woods: happily for poor Lady Julia, they came in before we had done
breakfast; and I left them to go and look at some shellwork, whilst I came up
to finish my letter.
Harry is come back, and
has sent to speak with me; I am really a person of great consequence at
present. I am in a very ill humor with him; he may well be ashamed to appear;
however, the worst of criminals deserves to be heard. I will admit him: he is
at the door. Adio!
GREAT Heaven! what a
night have I past! all other fears give way before that of displeasing her.
Yes, let me be wretched, but let her not suppose me unworthy: let her not see
me in the light of a man who barters the sentiments of his soul for sordid
views of avarice or ambition, and, using means proportioned to the baseness of
his end, forges a falsehood to excuse his attendance on her, seduces an heiress
to give him clandestine assignations, and in a place guarded, doubly guarded at
this time, by the sacred and inviolable laws of hospitality, from such unworthy
purposes.
I will clear my
conduct, though at the hazard of exposing her whose love for me deserves a
different treatment: let her be the victim of that indiscretion by which she
has ruined me.–And can I be thus base?–Can I betray the believing unsuspecting
heart?–My mind is distracted– but why do I say betray? I know Lady Anne’s
greatness of mind; and for Lady Julia–yes, the secret will be as safe with them
as in my own bosom.
Shall I own all my
folly? I cannot, tho’ she shall never know my passion for herself, support one
moment the idea of Lady Julia’s imagining I love another.
I will go to Lady Anne,
as soon as she is up, and beg her to convince her lovely friend my meeting this
Lady was accidental; I will not, if I can avoid it, say more.
I cannot see her before
this explanation. I will ride out, and breakfast with some friend: I would not
return till they are gone back to their apartments, that I may see Lady Anne
alone.
Twelve o’Clock. Lady Anne
has probed me to the quick; I have trusted her without reserve as to this
affair; I have begged her to vindicate me to Lady Julia, who is walking in the
garden with some Ladies of the neighbourhood: we are going to follow them, I am
to take the Ladies aside, whilst Lady Anne pleads my cause: she calls me.
Farewell.
Twelve at Night. She
forgives me, and I am most happy. Lady Anne has told her all, and has had the
goodness to introduce me to her as we walked, unobserved by the Ladies who were
with us. I have kissed her hand as a seal of my pardon. That moment! Oh!
Mordaunt! with what difficulty did I restrain the transport of my soul!
Yes, my friend, she
forgives me, a sweet benign serenity reigns in her lovely eyes; she approves my
conduct; she is pleased with the concern I shew at giving pain to the heart
which loves me; her chearfulness is returned, and has restored mine; she rules
every movement of my heart as she pleases: never did I pass so happy a day. I
am all joy; no sad idea can enter; I have scarce room even for the tender
compassion I owe to her I have made wretched. I am going to-bed, but without
the least expectation of sleep: joy will now have the same effect as I last
night found from a contrary cause. Adieu!
I Have reconciled the
friends: the scene was amazingly pathetic and pretty: I am only sorry I am too
lazy to describe it. He kissed her hand, without her shewing the least symptom
of anger; she blushed indeed; but, if I understand blushes–in short, times are
prodigiously changed.
The strange misses were
of infinite use, as they broke the continuity of the tender scene (if I may be
allowed the expression) which, however entertaining to Les Amies, would have
been something sickly to my Ladyship, if it had lasted.
And now, having united,
it must be my next work to divide them; for seriously I am apt to believe, the
dear creatures are in immense danger of a kind of partiality for each other,
which would not be quite so convenient.
I have some thoughts,
being naturally sentimental and generous, of taking Harry myself, merely from
compassion to Lady Julia. Widows, you know, are in some degree the property of
handsome young fellows, who have more merit than fortune; and there would be
something very heroic in devoting myself to save my friend. I always told you,
Bellville, I was more an antique Roman than a Briton. But I must leave you: I
hear Lady Julia coming to fetch me: we breakfast à Trio in a bower of roses.
Oh! heavens! the plot
begins to thicken– Lucretia’s dagger–Rosamonda’s bowl– Harry has had a letter
from his charmer– vows she can’t live without him–determined to die unless the
barbarous man relents. –This cruel Harry will be the death of us all.
Did I tell you we were
going to a ball to-night, six or seven miles off? She has heard it, and intends
to be there: tells him, she shall there expect the sentence of life or death
from his lovely eyes: the signal is appointed: if his savage heart is melted,
and he pities her sufferings, he is to dance with her, and be master of her
divine person and eighty thousand pounds, to-morrow; if not–but she expires at
the idea–she entreats him to soften the cruel stroke, and not give a mortal
wound to the tenderest of hearts by dancing with another.
You would die to see
Harry’s distress– so anxious for the tender creature’s life, so incensed at his
own wicked attractions, so perplext how to pronounce the fatal sentence –for my
part, I have had the utmost difficulty to keep my countenance.–Lady Julia, who
was to have been his partner, sighing with him over the letter, intreating him
not to dance, pitying the unhappy love-sick maid, her fine eyes glistening with
a tear of tender sympathy.
The whole scene is too
ridiculous to be conceived, and too foolish even to laugh at: I could stand it
no longer, so retired, and left them to their soft sorrows.
You may talk of women,
but you men are as much the dupes of your own vanity as the weakest amongst us
can be. Heaven and earth! that, with Harry’s understanding and knowledge of the
world, he can be seriously alarmed at such a letter. I thought him more learned
in the arts "of wilful woman labouring for her purpose." Nor is she
the kind of woman; I think I know more of the nature of love, than to imagine
her capable of it. If there was no other lover to be had indeed,–but he is led
astray by the dear self-complacency of contemplating the surprizing effects of
his own charms.
I see he is shocked at
my insensibility, and fancies I have a most unfeeling heart; but I may live to
have my revenge. Adio! I am going to my toilet. "Now awful beauty puts on
all its charms."
Five o’Clock. The coach is at the
door: Harry is drest for execution; always elegant, he is to-day studiously so;
a certain proof, to be sure, that his vanity is weaker than his compassion: he
is however right; if she must die, he is to be commended for looking as well as
he can, to justify a passion which is to have such fatal effects: he sees I
observe his dress, and has the grace to blush a little. Adio! Caro! Votre
WE are again at
Belmont. But Oh! how changed! all our heroicks destroyed–poor Harry! I can’t
look at him without laughing.
Our journey thither was
pensive, our conversation sentimental; we entered the ball-room trembling with
apprehension; where the first object which struck our eyes was the tender,
lovesick, dying maid, listening with the most eager attention to Fondville, who
was at the very moment kissing her hand; her whole soul in her eyes, her heart
fluttering with a pleasure which she could not conceal, and every feature on
the full stretch of coquetry.
An involuntary frown
clouded the lovely countenance of my Harry, which was not lessened by his
observing a malicious smile on mine: he advanced however towards her, when she,
not doubting his design was to ask her to dance, told him, in a faltering
voice, with a mixed air of triumph and irresolution, her eyes fixed on her fan,
that she was engaged to Lord Fondville.
Harry was
thunderstruck: a glow of indignation flushed his cheek, and he left her without
deigning to make her any reply; which I observing, and fearing she might
misinterpret his silence, and that the idea of his supposed disappointment
might flatter the creature’s vanity, took care to explain to her that he was
engaged to Lady Julia before we came; a piece of information which made her
feel to the quick, even through the pleasure of dancing with a Lord; a pleasure
which has inconceivable charms for a citizen’s daughter, and which love itself,
or what she pleases to call love, could not enable her to resist.
The attention of all
the company was now turned on Harry and Lady Julia, who were dancing a minuet:
the beauty of their persons, the easy dignity of their air, the vivid bloom of
their cheeks, the spirit which shone in their eyes, the inimitable graces of
their movement, which received a thousand additional charms from (what, I hope,
no one observed but myself) their desire of pleasing each other, gave me an
idea of perfection in dancing, which never before entered my imagination: all
was still as night; not a voice, not a motion, through the whole assembly. The
spectators seemed afraid even to breathe, lest their attention should be one
moment suspended: Envy herself seemed dead, or to confine her influence to the
bosom of Miss Westbrook. The minuet ended, a murmur of applause ran through the
room, which, by calling up her blushes, gave a thousand new charms to Lady
Julia, which I observed to the cit, adding also aloud that it was impossible
any body should think of dancing minuets after them; in which sentiments every
body concurring, we began country dances. Harry never looked so lovely; his
beauty and the praises lavished on him, having awakened a spark of that flame,
which her ambition had stifled for a moment, the girl endeavour’d, at the
beginning of the evening, to attract his notice, but in vain: I had the
pleasure to see him neglect all her little arts, and treat her with an air of
unaffected indifference, which I knew must cut her to the soul. She then
endeavoured to pique him by the most flaming advances to Fondville, which,
knowing your capricious sex as I do, rather alarmed me; I therefore determined
to destroy the effect if her arts by playing off, in opposition, a more refined
species of coquetry, which turned all Fondville’s attention on myself, and
saved Harry from the snare she was laying for him, a snare of all others the
hardest to escape.
When I saw I had by the
most delicate flattery chained Fondville to my carr for the night, and by
playing off a few quality airs inspired him with the strongest contempt for his
city partner, and threw myself into a chair; where, affecting an excess of
languor and fatigue, and wondering at the amazing constitutions of the country
Ladies, I declared my attention of dancing no more.
Sir Charles Mellifont,
who danced with me, sat down on one side, and Fondville on the other, pouring
forth a rhapsody of tender nonsense, vowing all other women were only foils to
me, envying Sir Charles’s happiness, and kissing my hand with an affectation of
transport, which pleased me as I saw it mortified the cit, who sat swelling
with spite in a window near us, in a situation of mind which I could almost
have pitied.
I sat a full hour,
receiving the homage of both my adorers, my head reclined, and my whole person
in an attitude of the most graceful negligence and inattention; when, observing
the Cittadina ready to faint with envy and indignation, turning my eye
carelessly on her, Oh, Heavens! Fondville, said I, you are in inhuman creature;
you have absolutely forgot your partner: then, starting with Sir Charles,
rejoined the dance with an air of easy impertinence, which she could not stand,
but burst into tears, and withdrew.
You most know this
affair was all of my contriving; I was determined to try the reality of the
girl’s passion, to quiet Harry’s conscience as to cruelty of rejecting her
suit, and remove those apprehensions for her life, which seemed so infinitely
to distress him.
Full of these ideas, I
wrote by one of my servants to Fondville, immediately after Harry communicated
to us the Cittadina’s tragedy-letter, commanding him to be at this ball, drest
for conquest; to enquire out Miss Westbrook, whom he had never seen; to pretend
a sudden and violent passion for her; and to entreat the honor of being her
partner: that it was a whim I had taken into my head; that I would explain my
reasons another time, but insisted on his implicit obedience.
"He came, he saw,
he conquered," as I imagined he would: I knew her rage for title, tinsel,
and "people of a certain rank," and that Fondville was exactly
calculated for the meridian of her taste, understanding, and education. The
overcharged splendor of his dress and equipage must have infinite advantages,
with one who had so long breathed city air, over the genuine elegance of Harry
Mandeville’s; nor was it possible in the nature of things for the daughter of
an exchange-broker to prefer even personal perfection to the dazzling blaze of
a coronet; Harry’s charms gave way before the flattering idea of a title, and
the gentle God resigned his place to the greater power, Ambition.
Things to be sure have
taken rather a disagreeable turn; but she must thank her own inconstancy, and
be content for the future with making love to one man at a time.
I have only one more
scene of mortification in view for her, and my malice will be satisfied; I
would invite her to a ball at Belmont, let Harry dance with Lady Julia, take
Fondville myself, and pair her with the most disagreeable fellow in the room.
You have no notion how
Harry’s vanity is hurt, though he strives all he can to hide it; piqued to
death; just like one of us, who are pleased with the love, though we dislike
the lover; he begins to think it possible she may survive his cruelty.
Lady Julia is all
astonishment, had no idea of such levity–the amiable ignorant– how little she
knows us–the character of half the sex. Adio! I am going, with Lady Julia, to
pay some morning visits in the environs.
Three o’Clock Till this
morning I had no notion how much Lord and Lady Belmont were beloved, or, to
speak with more propriety, adored in their neighbourhood: the eager enquiries
of the good Ladies after their return, their warm expressions of esteem and
veneration, are what you can scarce conceive: the swell of affection, which
their presence restrained, how breaks forth with redoubled impetuosity.
There are really a
great many agreeable people hereabouts: Belmont is the court of this part of
the world, and employs its influence, as every court ought to do, in bringing
virtue, politeness, and elegant knowledge into fashion. How forcible, how
irresistible are such examples in superior life! who can know Lord and Lady
Belmont, without endeavouring to imitate them? and who can imitate them without
becoming all that is amiable and praise worthy?
Do you know, Bellville,
I begin extremely to dislike myself? I have good qualities, and a benevolent
heart; but have exerted the former so irregularly, and taken so little pains to
rule and direct the virtuous impulses of the latter, that they have hitherto
answered very little purpose either to myself or others. I feel I am a comet,
shining, but useless, or perhaps destructive, whilst Lady Belmont is a
benignant star.
But, for Heaven’s sake,
how came the spirit of reflection to seize me? There is something in this air.–O
Cielo! una Carrozza! –my dear Lord Belmont. I fly– Adio!
THEY are come; the
impatient villagers crowd the hall, eager to behold them, transport in every
eye, whilst the noble pair scarce retain the tender tear of glowing
benevolence. How lovely a picture was the audience they come from giving! how
sweet the intercourse of warm beneficence and ardent gratitude! my heart melted
at the sight. This evening is devoted to joy–I alone–O Mordaunt! have I known
this paradise only to be driven for ever from it?
I cannot to-night
mention leaving Belmont; to-morrow I will propose it; I am in doubt where to
go; my father is absent from camp on a visit of a fortnight to the Duke of ––,
his colonel. I have some thoughts of going to Lord T––’s, till his return:
perhaps I may come to town; all places but this are equal to me yet: I must
leave it; I am every moment more sensible of my danger: yes, Mordaunt, I love
her, I can no longer deceive myself; I love her with the fondest passion;
friendship is too cold a name for what I feel, too cold for charms like hers to
inspire: yet, Heaven is my witness, I am incapable of a wish to her
disadvantage; her happiness is my first, my only object–I know not what I would
say –why does fortune for ever oppose the tender union of hearts? Farewell!
MY Lord has brought us
a thousand presents, a thousand books, a thousand trinkets, all in so exquisite
a taste– He is the sweetest man in the world certainly –Such delight in
obliging–’Tis happy for you he is not thirty years younger and disengaged; I
should infallibly have a passion–He has brought Harry the divinest horse; we
have been seeing him ride, "spring from the ground like feather’d
Mercury"–you can have no conception how handsome he looks on horseback –poor
Lady Julia’s little innocent heart–I can’t say I was absolutely insensible
myself–you know I am infinitely fond of beauty, and vastly above dissembling
it: indeed it seems immensely absurd that one is allowed to be charmed with
living perfection in every species but our own, and that there one must admire
only dead colours: one may talk in raptures of a lifeless Adonis, and not of a
breathing Harry Mandeville. Is not this a despicable kind of prudery? For my
part, I think nature’s colouring vastly preferable to the noblest attempts of
art, and am not the less sensible to the graces of a fine form because it is animated.
Adieu! we are going to dine at the hermitage; Lord Belmont is to be my
Cecisbeo.
HOW inconsistent is the
human mind! I cannot leave Belmont, I cannot give up the delight of beholding
her: I fancy a softness in her manner which raises the most flattering ideas;
she blushes when her eyes meet mine.–Tho’ I see the madness of hope, I indulge
it in spite of myself. No one can deserve her; yet, as Lord Belmont honors me
with his esteem, I would persuade myself fortune alone forbids –I will struggle
with impossibilities; I have many and powerful friends; we have a Prince in the
early prime of life, the season of generous virtue: a Prince, to whom the
patriot glow, and that disinterested loyalty, which is almost my whole inheritance,
cannot but be the strongest recommendations; to him it may be merit to have
suffered, when the basest of the people rose on the ruins of their country.
Those ample possessions, which would have descended to me, and might have
raised my hopes to the most angelic of womankind, were gloriously spent in
endeavouring to support the throne, when shook by the rage of faction and
narrow-minded bigoted enthusiasm; the younger branch of our family escaped the
storm by having a minor at it’s head: to this accident, the partiality of an
ancestor, and the military talents of his father, Lord Belmont owes the
affluence he so nobly enjoys, and which I only, of all mankind, have cause to
regret.
These circumstances
raise a flattering hope–my views are confused, but I will pursue the track. If
I succeed, I may openly avow my passion; if not, the secret of my love shall
die with me: never, my friend, will I attempt her heart by unworthy means: let
me endeavour to deserve, and leave to Heaven to determine whether I shall
possess the noblest gift it has to bestow. Farewell.
I Have heard from my
father on the subject of Lady Mary’s intended settlement, who extremely
disapproves my intention of entirely declining it, which he thinks cannot be
founded on any motives worthy of me, but on a false pride of disdaining to be
obliged, which is in this case unjust, and greatly below my character: that I
might as well object to receiving a part of his estate, which he intends to
settle on me at the same time; he says, Lord Belmont acts properly, and
consistently with himself, and does not at all mean to break in on that
independence which can never be too highly valued: that Lady Julia would scarce
perceive such an addition to her already splendid fortune, whilst this
settlement fixes in some degree of affluence the elder branch of the family,
which lost its superiority, by the injustice of an ancestor, and that heroic
loyalty which has ever characterised our house. That he will talk further with
me on this subject when we meet, but in the mean time advises me, as a friend
zealous for my interest, yet not the less attentive to my honor and the
propriety of my conduct, to accept the immediate settlement of 500 &L;. a
year, which will enable me to be serviceable to my country; but to postpone to
some distant time settling the whole, and to insist that Lady Mary be convinced
I deserve her friendship before she lavishes it so profusely on me.
This advice gives me
pleasure, as it coincides with my own present sentiments: eager to pursue my
scheme of rising to such consequence as my justify my hopes of the only event
desirable to me in this world, I am happy in the thought of appearing in every
light in which I can attract the notice of my Prince; and, by steadily serving
him and my country, whose true interest must ever be the same, deserve that
favor on which all my designs are founded.
The time not being yet
arrived when I can serve the noblest cause in the Senate, I will go to Germany,
and endeavour first to signalize myself in the manner most suited to my period
of life, the season of action, not of counsel: it is shameful, at my age, to
recline in the flowery bower of indolence, when the whole world is in arms; I
have not yet begun to live; my time has hitherto been less passed in acting,
than in preparing to act, my part on the great theatre of human life.
Oh, Mordaunt! should I
succeed in my views! should the hour come when I may openly avow my passion for
the ;most lovely of womankind! this is the sweet hope which fires my soul, and
animates me to the glorious pursuit. Why do closeted moralists, strangers to
the human heart, rail indiscriminately at love? when inspired by a worthy
object, it leads to every thing that is great a noble; warmed by the desire of
being approved by her, there is nothing I would not attempt. I will to-day
write to my father for his consent, and embark immediately for the army.
I have just received
your letter: you call my design madness, the light in which every animated
purpose will appear to minds inactive, unimpassioned, and sunk in the lethargic
calm of lifeless tranquillity.–Mordaunt, you speak the cold language of a heart
at rest: talk not of impossibilities; nothing is impossible to a soul impelled by
the most lively of all passions, and ardent in a pursuit on which its whole
happiness depends; nothing is impossible to him who aspires to please the most
lovely, the most amiable, the most exalted of her sex.
I feel, I know, I shall
be successful. l I ask not advice, but declare my settled purpose: I am already
determined; and, if your friendship be warm as mine, you will not torture me by
further opposition. My father alone has power to change my resolution, but it
is a power he will not exert: I shall ask his permission, but inform him at the
same time, that, by refusing, he cuts off all the hope of my future days, and
chains me down to a life of tasteless insensibility.
I know him well; he
will advise, he will remonstrate, if he disapproves; but he will leave me that
freedom of choice which is the inherent right of every rational being and which
he never, in one instance, invaded, when I was much less capable of judging for
myself.
Fearful, however, lest
he should disapprove my passion for Lady Julia, I shall not declare it to him
at present; but, as I never will even tacitly deceive him, I shall tell him I
have a motive to this design, which I beg his leave to conceal from him till I
have a prospect of success.
I this morning
mentioned leaving Belmont, but my Lord insists on my staying a few days longer,
which are devoted to domestic happiness. I cannot refuse without making him
suspect some latent cause; nor will it make any difference in my plan, since I
must wait somewhere an answer from my father, which will reach Belmont about
the time I shall now leave it. To-morrow se’n- night expect me in town: I shall
stay but two nights: I need little preparation: my equipage and attendance are
already greatly beyond my fortune, and rather suited to what you call the
madness of my expectations: my father, the most generous of mankind, has always
proportioned my expences more to my birth than his moderate income: as my
companions have ever been of the first rank, he has supported me greatly above
myself, and on a full equality with them, lest I should be dazzled to mean
compliances with their faults, by the false splendor they might receive from a
superiority in these outward distinctions.
Did I tell you Lord
Belmont had presented me with a beautiful Arabian horse, which he bought when
in town? What delight has he in giving pleasure to others! What addition, if
that can admit addition, to the happiness of the man who is blest with Lady
Julia, will it be to be so nearly allied to worth like Lord Belmont’s!
O Mordaunt! were it
possible–it is, it must–I will not give room to the faintest idea of
disappointment.
Adieu! I have this
moment a letter from my father, which I must answer to-night.
IT gives me the warmest
pleasure, my dear son, to find you are pleased with the expensive education I
have given you, though it reduces your fortune considerably below what it might
otherwise have been: I considered that wealth, if necessary to happiness, which
I do not believe, might be acquired; but that the flying hours of youth, the
season of instruction, are never to be recalled.
I have the happiness to
see you reward and justify my cares by a generous freedom of thinking, and
nobleness of sentiment, which the common methods of education might have
crampt, or perhaps totally destroy’d. It has always appear’d to me, that our
understandings are fettered by systems, and our hearts corrupted by example:
and that there needs no more to minds well disposed than to recover their
native freedom, and think and act from themselves. Full of this idea, I have
instructed you how, but never what to think; I have pointed out the road which
leads to truth, but have left you to discover her abode by your own strength of
mind: even on the most important of all subjects, I have said no more, than
that conviction must be on the side of that religion, which teaches the purest
and most benevolent morality, it most conducive to the general happiness of
mankind, and gives the most sublime idea of the Deity.
Convinced that the
seeds of virtue are innate, I have only watched to cherish the rising shoot,
and prune, but with a trembling hand, the too luxuriant branches.
By virtue I would here
be understood to mean, not a partial attention to any one duty of life, but
that rectitude of heart, which leads us to fulfil all, as far as the frailty of
human nature will permit, and which is a constant monitor of our faults.
Confucius has well observed, that virtue does not consist in never erring,
which is impossible, but in recovering as fast as we can from our errors.
With what joy, my
dearest Harry, did I early see in you that warmth of temper, which is alone
productive of every extraordinary exertion of the human mind, the proper foil
of genius and the virtues; that heat from which light is inseparable!
I have only one fear
for you; inured to a habit of profuse expence, I dread your being unable to
practice that frugality, which will now be indispensable. To Lady Mary’s
intended settlement, I will add a third of my estate, but even that is below
your birth, and the manner of life to which you are habituated. But why do I
doubt you? I know your generosity of spirit, and scorn of every species of
slavery; that you will not descend to be indebted to with-hold a moment the
price of laborious industry, or lessen the honest profit of the trader, by a
delay yet more destructive to yourself than to him.
Intended to become a
part of the legislative power, you are doubly bound to keep yourself from all
temptation of corruption or dependence, by living within your income; the
amplest estate is wretched penury, if exceeded by the expences of its
possessor.
Need I say more to
recommend œconomy to a spirit like yours, than that it is the fountain of
liberality, and the parent of independence?
You enquire after the
place where I am: it is, except Belmont, the sweetest spot I ever beheld, but
in a different style: the situation is rather beautiful than magnificent. There
is a mild elegance, a refined simplicity in the air all around, strongly
expressive of the mind of its amiable possessor; a poetic wildness, a luxuriant
glow, like that of primeval nature, adorned by the hand of the Graces.
The same spirit of
liberty breathes here as with you: we are all perfectly at home; our time is
subject to no restraint but that which our desire of obliging each other makes
a voluntary imposition.
I am now alone, sitting
in an arbour, attentive to the lively chant of the birds, who swell in their
little throats with a morning hymn of gratitude to their Creator: whilst I
listen, I think of those sweet lines of Cowley:
"All round the
little winged choir,
Pathetic tender
thoughts inspire:
With ease the
inspiration I obey,
And sing as unconcern’d
and as well pleas’d as they."
’Tis yet early day: the
flocks and herds are spreading over the distant meadows, and joining the
universal song of praise to the beneficent Lord of nature.
Rejoicing in the
general joy, I adore the God who has expanded so wide the circle of happiness;
and endeavour to regulate my own desires by attending to the simplicity of
theirs.
When I see the dumb
creation, my dear Harry, pursuing steadily the purposes of their being, their
own private happiness, and the good of their peculiar species, I am astonished
at the folly and degeneracy of man, who acts in general so directly contrary to
both; for both are invariably united.
The wise and benevolent
Creator has placed the supreme felicity of every individual in those kind
domestic social affections, which tend to the well being of the whole. Whoever
presumes to deviate from this plan, the plan of God and nature, shall find
satiety, regret, or disappointment, his reward.
I this moment receive
your letter: you judge perfectly well in saying, there is an activity and
restlessness in the mind of man, which makes it impossible for him to be happy
in a state of absolute inaction: some point of view, some favourite pursuit, is
necessary to keep the mind awake. ’Tis on this principle alone one can account
for what seems so extraordinary to the eyes of impartial reason, that avarice
and ambition should be the vices of age, that men should most ardently pursue
riches and honours at the time when they have the least prospect of enjoying
them; the lively passions of youth subsiding, some active principle must be
found to replace them; and where that warm benevolence of heart is wanting,
which is a perpetual source of ever-new delight, I do not wonder they engage in
the chace of wealth and power, though sure so soon to melt from their grasp.
The first purpose of my
heart, next to that superior and general one of making myself acceptable to my
Creator, was to render the most angelic of women, your lovely mother, happy: in
that, Heaven was pleased to disappoint my hopes, by taking her to itself. My
second has been to make you the most amiable of men; inn which, I am not afraid
to say to yourself, I have been successful, beyond my most sanguine wishes.
Adieu, my dear son! may
you succeed in every purpose of your soul as fully as I have done in this, and
be as happy as your virtues have made your father!
OH! Heavens! Bellville!
Nay, there is absolutely no resisting a man that carries one off. Since you
have mentioned the thing, I shall not abate you a scruple. There is no saying
how charming it will be: let common beauties inspire whining, submissive,
respectful passions; but let me --mdash; heaven! earth! to be run away with at
four-and-twenty --mdash; a paragraph in the papers. --mdash; "Yesterday
the celebrated Lady Anne Wilmot was forcibly carried off by a gentleman who had
long in vain deprecated her pity: if any thing can excuse so atrocious an
action, the unrivalled beauty of the Lady" --mdash; Dear Bellville! when
do you begin your adventure?
But, in sober sadness,
how come you so flippant on the sudden? Thus it is with you all; use you ill,
and not a spaniel can be more under command: but the least encouragement quite
ruins you. There is no saying a civil thing, but you presume upon one’s favour
so intolerably––
Why, yes, as you say,
the hours past pleasantly enough at Sudley farm. Pretty rural scenes, tender
Platonic chat, perfect confidence, the harmony of souls in unison; infinite
flattery on your side, and implicit belief on mine: the sprightly god of love
gave wings to the rapid hours. The gentle Muses too.–I think Bellville, you are
a pretty enough poet for a man of fashion; flowery, mild, not overburdened with
ideas.
"O, can you forget
the fond hours,
When all by yon
fountain we stray’d?"
I wish I could remember
the rest; but you are a cruel creature, never will leave me a copy of any
thing, dreading the severity of my criticism: nay, you are right; yours are
excellent verses, as Moliere says, to lock up in your bureau.
Nine at Night. Peace to
the gentle spirit of him who invented cards! the very bond of peace, and cement
of society.
After a philosophical
enquiry into the summum bonum, I find it to consist in play: the more sublime
pleasures require relaxation, are only for holidy wear, come but now and then,
and keep the mind too much expanded: all other delights, all other amusements,
pall; but play, dear, divine, seraphic play, is always new, the same to-day, to-morrow,
and for ever.
It reconciles parties,
removes distinctions, and restores what my Lord calls the natural equality of
mankind.
I have only one fault
to find with it; that for the time it extremely weakens, or rather totally
suspends, the impressions of beauty: the finest woman in the world, whilst at
the card-table, is regarded by the most susceptible man only as being which is
to lose its money.
You will imagine
success produced these wise reflexions: yes, we have been playing a most
engaging pool at quadrille in the wood, where I have with the utmost composure
won an immensity. If I go on thus, all objections to our union will be-
removed: I shall be literally a fortune in myself.
Without vanity, I have
some little skill in the game; but, at present, there is no great degree of
merit in winning of the friends who happened to be of my party, with an absurd
conceited squire, who loves quality, and thinks it the greatest honor in the
world that I will condescend to win his money. We had four tables under the
shade of a spreading oak.
I can no more.– Adieu! A. Wilmot. We
have had a penitential letter from the Cittadina, with another from Papa,
offering 30,000&L;. at present, and 50,000&L;. at his death, on
condition Lord Belmont will get Harry an Irish title: knows it is a bad match,
but won’t baulk his girl’s fancy; and besides, considers Harry has good blood
in his veins: re rejected it politely, but with a little of the Mandeville
stateliness.
Oh! Heavens! Fondville’s
valet–A billet- doux.–I shall be cruel,–This murderous form–I must absolutely
hide myself, or wear a mask, in pity to mankind.–My Lord has taken the letter,–He
brings it me–He is on the stairs–How! gone on to Lady Belmont’s apartment!–A
billet, and not to me!–What can it mean?–Can the dear man be false?
The infidel! Yes, he
has left me–forgot his vows.–The bewitching Lady Julia; it is really an heroic
exertion of virtue not to hate her. Could you have thought it possible?–but
read his cruel letter.
My Lord,
YOUR Lordship will be
perhaps surprized –Yet why surprized? Lady Julia is absolutely an immense fine
creature: and though marriage, to those who know life, cannot but seem an
impertinent affair, and what will subject me to infinite ridicule; yet custom,
and what one owes to one’s rank, and keeping up a family!–
In short, my Lord,
people of a certain consequence being above those romantic views which pair the
vulgar, I chose rather to apply to your Lordship than the Lady, and flatter
myself my estate will bear the strictest inspection: not but that, I assure
your Lordship, I set a due value on Lady Julia’s charms; and, though I have
visited every court in Europe, and seen all that is lovely in the Beau sex,
never yet beheld the fair whom I would so soon wish to see fill the rank of
Lady Viscountess Fondville as her Ladyship.
If my pretensions are
so happy as to be favourably received by your Lordship, I will beg leave to
wait on Lady Julia to-morrow, and my lawyer shall attend your Lordship’s wherever
and whenever you please to appoint. Believe me, my Lord, with the most perfect
devotion,
My Lord,
I AM the last man in
the world to whom it was necessary to apologize for an intention of entering
into a state which, I have experienced, is productive of such exquisite
felicity.
My daughter’s choice is
perfectly free; nor shall I ever do more than advise her, in an affair of such
consequence to herself; but, from what I know of her character, think it highly
improbable she should approve the pretensions of a man, who professes being
above those tender affections which alone can make happy sensibility like hers.
Allow me to take the
liberty of observing, in answer to the latter part of your Lordship’s letter,
that there are few ranks which Lady Julia Mandeville has not a right to fill. I
am, my Lord,
Your Lordship’s most Obedient and devoted Servant, Belmont. Don’t come to Belmont, I charge you; I
shall have this invincible Lady Julia seduce you too. Besides, I have some
reasons why I chuse our attachment should not yet come to a crisis; till when,
I will take Lady Belmont’s advice and be prudent: obey in silence; let me have
no more sighs till the milder influence of the Heavens dispose me to be
gracious. I am always in good humour in Autumn; your fate may possibly be
determined in little more than a month: ask no questions; suspend your passion,
or at least the outward expression of it, and write to me in Amico. Adieu!
I Have been riding
alone with Lord Belmont this morning, a pleasure I very often enjoy, and on
which I set infinite value: in those hours of perfect confidence, I am certain
of being instructed and amused, by a train of ideas uncommon, enlarged, noble,
benevolent; and adapted to inspire me with a love of virtue, by shewing her in
her native charms: I shall be all my life the wiser and worthier man, for the
hours I have passed at Belmont.
But, Oh! Mordaunt!
shall I be the happiest? That is in the bosom of futurity: a thousand times
have I been tempted, in these hours of indulgent friendship, to open all my
heart to Lord Belmont.
I know his contempt of
wealth, and how little he thinks it conducive to happiness. "Heaven,"
said he to me this very morning, "has blest me with affluence: I am
thankful, and endeavor to deserve, by applying an ample portion of it to the
purposes of beneficence. But for myself, my pleasures are of so unexpensive and
simple a kind, that a diminution of fortune would take very little from my
private felicity: Health, content, the sweets of social and domestic life, the
only enjoyments suited to the nature of man, are and ought to be within the
reach of all the species: yes, my dear Mr. Mandeville; it gives a double relish
to all my pleasures, to reflect that they are such as every man may enjoy if he
will."
Can this man, my dear
Mordaunt, sacrifice the real happiness of his child, the calm delight of
domestic friendship on which he sets such value himself, to the gaudy trappings
of tasteless grandeur? Did she approve my passion, I should hope every thing
from the most indulgent of fathers.
He has refused Lord
Fondville for Lady Julia, whose fortune is as large as avarice itself could
desire: Good Heaven! that such a man, without one other recommendation, without
a soul to taste even the charms of her person, can aspire to all that can be
imagined of perfection! Adieu!
O Ciel! I faint! what a
world do we live in! How many unavoidable enemies to enjoyment! It is sometimes
too cold, sometimes too hot to be happy! One is never pleased a week together.
I shall absolutely grow a snarling philosopher, and find fault with every
thing.
These unconscionable
lovers have dragged me cross an open meadow, exposed to the sun’s burning rays–no
mercy on my complexion –Lady Julia sure, for her own sake, –yet she is laughing
at my distress. I am too languid to say more.–Oh! for a cooling breeze!
"The whispering
zephyr, and the purling rill."
We are going to have an
addition to our group of friends: Emily Howard, daughter to the late dean of
--mdash; , a distant relation, and rector of the parish, being expected
to-morrow at Belmont: she is Lady Julia’s friend in the most emphatical sense
of the word. Do you know, I feel extremely inclined to be jealous of her; and
am angry with myself for such meanness?
SHE is come, this
redoubtable Emily Howard; and, I find, I have only a second place in Lady Julia’s
friendship: I would hate her if I could, but it is really impossible: she is so
gentle, she steals one’s affection imperceptibly, and one has the vexation to
be forced to love her in spite of ones self.
She has been here three
days, and in that short time she has gained amazingly upon my heart: her person
is little, finely proportioned, and delicate almost to fragility; her voice and
manner soft and timid; her countenance a mixture of innocence and sweetness,
which would disarm the rage of a tiger: her heart is tender, kind,
compassionate; and tremblingly awake to friendship, of which she is universally
the object: Lady Julia doats on her, nor am I surprized at it: she appears so
weak, so helpless, so exquisitely feminine, it seems cruelty not to be her
friend: no one ever saw her without wishing her happiness: the love one has for
her seems of a peculiar species, or most nearly resembles that instinctive
fondness one feels for a beautiful child: it is independent of esteem, for one
loves her before one knows her. It is the pleasantest kind of affection that
can be conceived.
Yet, though she is
extremely handsome, or rather, to suit the expression to her form, extremely
pretty, she is very little the taste of men; her excessive modesty renders both
her beauty and understanding in some degree useless to her; "not obvious,
not "obtrusive," she escapes the observation of common eyes; and, tho’
infinitely lovely, I never heard she was beloved.
For this very reason,
the women do her ample justice; she is no woman’s rival, stands in nobody’s
way, which cannot fail of exciting a general good will towards her, in her own
sex; they even allow her more beauty than she really has, and take a delight in
setting her charms in opposition to every impertinent thing the men are fond
of. "Yes, the girl is very well, but nothing to Emily Howard," is the
common cry on the appearance of a new beauty.
There is another strong
reason for loving her; though exact in her own conduct, she has an indulgence
to that of others, which is a consequence of her excessive gentleness of
temper, and her seeing every action on the favourable side: one could own one’s
greatest weakness to her almost without blushing; and at this very moment I
dare say Lady Julia is confessing to her her passion for Harry Mandeville, who
is riding out with my Lord. I dare say she would find an excuse for my
indiscretion in regard to you, and see only the delicacy of our friendship.
She sings and dances
angelically, but she blushes to death if you tell her so.
Such gentle unassuming
characters as these, make the most agreeable friends in the world; they are the
mild green of the soul, on which it rests itself from more glaring objects: one
may be absurd, one may be vain, one may be imprudent, secure of being heard
with indulgence: I know nothing which would make her more what I mean but her
being a fool: however, the indulgent sweetness of her temper answers almost the
same purpose.
I am disconsolate that
the Caro Enrico is going to desert us; but the cruel man is inflexible to all
my soft perswasions, and determined to leave us on Wednesday.
Adieu! The sweet Emily
is gong on Thursday for ten days to Sir George Martin’s, and then returns to
finish the summer here.
Oh! do you know that I
am credibly informed, her favorite Suivante having told it to one, who told it
to another, who told it to a good old gossiping Lady, who told it to me, that
the Cittadina, who has in vain wrote Harry a penitential letter, is playing off
the same arts, the same dying airs, to Fondville, which had such extreme ill
success with him? The siege is at present suspended, not by his addressing Lady
Julia, which is a profound secret to her and every body without these walls,
but by his mother’s death, which has called him hastily to town; and which, by
the way, adds 2000&L;. a year to his income. Do you know, that I think the
thing may do, if Lady Julia continues cruel? They are absolutely form for each
other; and it would be a thousand pities to part them.
CERTAINLY next to a new
lover the pleasantest thing upon earth is a new friend: let antediluvians take
seven years to fix, but for us insects of an hour, nothing can be more absurd:
by the time one has try’d them on these maxims, one’s taste for them is worn
out. I have made a thousand friendships at first sight, and sometimes broke
them at the second; there is a certain exertion of soul, a lively desire of
pleasing, which gives a kind of volatile spirit to a beginning acquaintance,
which is extremely apt to evaporate. Some people make a great merit of
constancy, and it is to be sure a very laudable virtue; but, for my part, I am
above dissembling: My friendships wear out like my clothes, but often much
faster.
Not that this is the
case in regard to Emily Howard; no, really, I think this Penchant is very
likely to be lasting; may probably hold out the summer.
To-morrow, when Harry
leaves us, my Lord, to divert our chagrin, takes, us, with three strange belles
and vie most engaging beaux, a ramble I cannot tell whither.
Saturday Morning. Oh! Heavens!
one of our male animals has disappointed us. Absolutely I shall insist on Harry’s
attendance; he shall defer his journey, I am resolved: there is no supporting a
scarcity of beaux.
He goes with us; Lady
Julia’s eyes have prevailed; she had seduced him before I went down: his chaise
is ordered back to wait for ours.
I AM still here; when
shall I have strength of mind to go? not having heard from my father in the
time I expected, I was determined to go to Lord T––’s, whose zeal for my
interest, and great knowledge of mankind, makes him the properest person I can
consult. My chaise was this morning at the door, when my Lord told me, Lady
Julia intreated my stay a few days longer: she blushed, and with the loveliest
confusion confirmed my Lord’s assertion: all my resolution vanished in a
moment; there is enchantment in her look, her voice–enchantment which it is not
in man to resist.
Sunday Morning. I am every
hour more unhappy: Lord Fondville’s proposal gives me infinite uneasiness; not
that I fear such a rival; but it has raised the idea of other pretensions,
which may be accepted before it is time for me to avow my designs: I have
passed this night in forming schemes to prevent so fatal a blow to all my
hopes; and am determined to own my passion to the lovely object of it, and
entreat her, if no other man is so happy as to possess her heart, to wait one
year the result of those views which that love which has inspired may perhaps
prosper.
Not certain I shall
have courage to own my tenderness in her presence, I will write, and seize some
favourable opportunity to give her the letter on which all my happiness
depends: I will ask no answer but from her eyes. How shall I meet them after so
daring an attempt?
We are going to the
parish church; the coach is at the door: Adieu! she comes! What graces play
around that form! What divinity in those eyes! Oh! Mordaunt, what task will be
difficult to him who has such a reward in view!
OUR ramble yesterday
was infinitely agreeable; there is something very charming in changing the
scene; my Lord understands the art of making life pleasurable by making it
various.
We have been to the
parish church, to hear Dr. H–– preach; he has that spirit in his manner without
which the most sensible sermon has very little effect on the hearers. The
organ, which my Lord gave, is excellent. You know I think music an essential
part of public worship, used as such by the wisest nations, and commanded by
God himself to the Mews; it has indeed so admirable an effect in disposing the
mind to devotion, that I think it should never be omitted.
Our Sundays here are
extremely pleasant: we have, after evening service, a moving rural picture from
the windows of the saloon, in the villagers, for whose amusement the gardens
are that day thrown open.
Our rustic Mall is full
from five till eight, and there is an inexpressible pleasure in contemplating
so many groups of neat, healthy, happy-looking people, enjoying the diversion
of waling in these lovely shades, by the kindness of their beneficent Lord, who
not only provides for their wants, but their pleasures.
My Lord is of opinion
that Sunday was intended as a day of rejoicing, not of mortification; and meant
not only to render our praises to our benevolent Creator, but to give rest and
chearful relaxation to the industrious part of mankind, from the labors of the
week.
On this principle,
though he will never suffer the least breach of the laws in being, he wishes
the severity of them softened, by allowing some innocent amusements after the
duties of the day are past: he thinks this would prevent those fumes of
enthusiasm which have had here such fatal effects, and could not be offensive
to that gracious Power who delights in the happiness of his creatures, and who,
by the royal poet, has commanded them to praise him in the cymbals and dances.
For my own part, having
seen the good effect of this liberty in catholic countries, I cannot help
wishing, though a zealous protestant, that we were to imitate them in this
particular.
It is worth observing,
that the book of sports was put forth by the pious, the religious, the sober
Charles the First; and the law for the more strict observation of Sunday passed
in the reign of the libertine Charles the Second.
Love of pleasure is
natural to the human heart; and the best preservative against criminal ones is,
a proper indulgence in such as are innocent.
These are my
sentiments; and I am happy in finding Lord Belmont of the same opinion. Adio!
MORDAUNT, the die is
cast, and the whole happiness of my life hangs on the present moment. After
having kept the letter confessing my passion two days without having resolution
to deliver it, this morning in the garden, being a moment alone with Lady Julia
in a summer-house, the company at some distance, I assumed courage to lay it on
a table whilst she was looking out at a window which had a prospect that
engaged all her attention: when I laid it down, I trembled; a chillness seized
my whole frame; my heart dy’d within me; I withdrew instantly, without even
staying to see if she took it up: I waited at a little distance hid in a close
arbour of woodbines, my heart throbbing with apprehension, and, by the time she
staid in the summer-house, had no doubt of her having seen the letter. When she
appeared, I was still more convinced; she came out with a timid air, and looked
round as if fearful of surprize: the lively crimson flushed her cheek, and was
succeeded by a dying paleness: I attempted to follow, but had not courage to
approach her. I suffered her to pass the arbor where I was, and advance slowly
towards the house: when she was out of sight, I went back to the summer-house,
and found the letter was gone. I have not seen her. I am called to dinner: my
limbs will scarce support me: how shall I bear the first sight of Lady Julia! how
be able to meet her eyes!
I have seen her, but my
fate is yet undetermined; she has avoided my eyes, which I have scarce dared to
raise from the ground: I once looked at her when she did not observe me, and
saw a melancholy on her countenance, which stabbed me to the soul. I have given
sorrow to the heart of her, whom I would wish to be ever most happy; and to
whose good I would sacrifise the dearest hope of my soul. Yes, Mordaunt, let me
be wretched, but let every blessing Heaven can bestow, be the portion of the
loveliest of her sex.
How little did I know
of love, when I gave that name to the shameful passion I felt for the wife of
my friend! The extreme beauty of the Countess Melespini, that unreserved manner
which seldom fails to give hope, the flattering preference she seemed to give
me above all others, lighted up in my soul a more violent degree of youthful
inclination, which the esteem i had for her virtues refined to an appearance of
the noblest of affections, to which it had not the remotest real resemblance.
Without any view in my
pursuit of her but my own selfish gratification, I would have sacrifised her
honor and happiness to a transient fondness, which dishonored my character,
and, if successful, might have corrupted a heart naturally full of probity; her
amiable reproofs, free from that severity which robs virtue of half her charms,
with the generous behaviour of the most injured of mankind, recalled my soul to
honor, and stopped me early in the career of folly; time wore out the impression
of her charms, and left only a cold esteem remaining, a certain proof that she
was never the object of more than a light desire, since the wounds which real
love inflicts are never to be intirely healed.
Such was the infamous
passion which I yet remember with horror: but my tenderness for Lady Julia,
more warm, more animated, more violent, has a delicacy of which those only who
love like me can form any idea: independent of the charms of her person, it can
never cease but with life; nor even then, if in another state we have any sense
of what has passed in this; it is eternal, and incorporated with the soul.
Above every selfish desire, the first object of my thoughts and wishes is her
happiness, which I would die, or live wretched, to secure: every action of my
life is directed to the sole purpose of pleasing her: my noblest ambition is to
be worthy her esteem. My dreams are full of her; and, when I wake, the first
idea which rises in my mind is the hope of seeing her, and of seeing her well
and happy: my most ardent prayer to the supreme Giver of all good is for her
welfare.
In true love, my dear
Mordaunt, there is a pleasure abstracted from all hope of return; and were I
certain she would never be mine, nay, certain I should never behold her more, I
would not, for all the kingdoms of the world, give up the dear delight of
loving her.
Those who never felt
this enlivening power, this divinity of the soul, may find a poor insipid
pleasure in tranquillity, or plunge into vicious excesses to animate their
tedious hours; but those who have, can never give up so sweet, so divine a
transport, but with their existence, or taste any other joy but in
subordination.
Oh! Mordaunt! when I
behold her, read the soft language of those speaking eyes, hear those
harmonious sounds–who that has a soul can be insensible!–yet there are men dead
to all sense of perfection, who can regard that angel form without rapture, can
hear the music of that voice without emotion! I have myself with astonishment
seen them, inanimate as the trees around them, listen coldly to shoe melting
accents –There is a sweetness in her voice, Mordaunt, a melodious softness,
which fancy cannot paint: the enchantment of her conversation is inexpressible.
Four o’Clock. I am the most
wretched of mankind, and wretched without the right of complaining: the
baseness of my attempt deserves even the pangs I suffer. Could I, who made a
parade of refusing to meet the advances of the daughter of almost a stranger,
descend to seduce the heiress of him on earth to whom I am most obliged? Oh!
Mordaunt! have we indeed two souls? Can I see so strongly what is right, yet
want power to act up to my own sentiments? The torrent of passion bears down
all before it. I abhor myself for this weakness. I would give worlds to recall
that fatal letter: her coldness, her reserve, are more than I can support. My
madness has undone me.–My assiduity is importunate. I might have preserved her
friendship. I have thrown away the first happiness of my life. Her eyes averted
shun me as an object of hatred. I shall not long offend her by my presence. I
will leave her for ever. I am eager to be gone, that I ;may carry far from her–Oh!
Mordaunt, who could have thought that cruelty dwelt in such a form? She hates
me, and all my hopes are destroyed for ever.
Monday Evening. Belmont. This
day, the first of my life; what a change has this day produced! These few
flying hours have raised me above mortality. Yes: I am most happy; she loves
me, Mordaunt: her conscious blushes, her downcast eyes, her heaving bosom, her
sweet confusion, have told me what her tongue could not utter: she loves me,
and all else is below my care: she loves me, and I will pursue her. What are
the mean considerations of fortune to the tender union of hearts? Can wealth or
titles deserve her? No, Mordaunt, love alone.–She is mine by the strongest
ties, by the sacred bond of affection. The delicacy of her soul is my certain
pledge of happiness: I can leave her without fear; she cannot now be another’s.
I told you my despair
this morning; my Lord proposed an airing; chance placed me in Lady Julia’s
chaise. I entered it with a beating heart: a tender fear of having offended,
inseparable from real love, kept me some time silent; at length, with some
hesitation, I beg’d her to pardon the effect of passion and despair, vowed I
would rather die than displease her; that I did not now hope for her love, but
could not support her hate.
I then ventured to look
up to the loveliest of women; her cheeks were suffused with the deepest blush;
her eyes, in which was the most dying languor, were cast timidly on the ground,
her whole frame trembled, and with a voice broken and interrupted, she
exclaimed, "Hate you, Mr. Mandeville! Oh! Heaven!" She could say no
more; nor did she need, the dear truth broke like a sudden flash of light on my
soul.
Yet think not I will
take advantage of this dear prepossession in my favour, to seduce her from her
duty to the best of parents; from Lord Belmont only will I receive her: I will
propose no engagements contrary to the rights of an indulgent father, to whom
she is bound by every tie of gratitude and filial tenderness: I will pursue my
purpose, and leave the event to Heaven, to that Heaven which knows the
integrity, the disinterested purity, of my intentions: I will evince the
reality of my passion by endeavouring to be worthy of her. The love of such a
woman, is the love of virtue itself: it raises, it refines, it ennobles every
sentiment of the heart; how different from that fever of selfish desire I felt
for the amiable Countess!
Oh! Mordaunt, had you
beheld those blushes of reluctant sensibility, seen those charming eyes
softened with a tenderness as refined as that of angels–She loves me–let me
repeat the dear sounds–She loves me, and I am happier than a god!
I have this moment a
letter from my father: he approves my design, but begs me for a short time to
delay it: my heart ill bears this delay: I will carry the letter to Lady Julia.
She approves my father’s
reasons, yet begs I will leave Belmont: her will is the law of my heart; yet a
few days I must give to love. I will go on Tuesday to Lord T–’s. His friendship
will assist me in the only view which makes life supportable to me; he will
point out, he will lead me to the path of wealth and greatness.
Expect to hear from me
when I arrive at Lord T --mdash; ’s. I shall not write sooner: my moments here
are too precious.
HAPPY in seeing in my
son that heroic spirit, which has ever distinguished our house, I should with
pleasure consent to his design, were this a proper time to execute it, provided
he went a volunteer, and determined to accept no command but as a reward of
real services, and with a resolution it should never interfere with that
independence to which I would have him sacrifise every other consideration;
but, when there is so strong a probability of peace, his going would appear
like making a parade of that courage which he did not expect would be tried.
Yes, my son, I am well
assured we shall have peace; that the most amiable of princes, the friend of
human-kind, pitying the miseries of his species, and melting with compassion at
the wide-extended scene of desolation, mediates such a peace as equally
provides for the interest and honor of Britain, and the future quiet of
mankind. The terms talked of are such as give us an immense addition of empire,
and strengthen that superiority of naval force on which our very being depends,
whilst they protect our former possessions, and remove the source of future
wars, by securing all, and much more than all, for which this was undertaken;
yet, by their just moderation, convince the world a British monarch is governed
only by the laws of honor and equity, not by that impious thirst of false
glory, which actuates the laurel’d scourges of mankind.
After so long, so
extensive and bloody a war, a war which has depopulated our country, and loaded
us with a burden of debt, from which nothing can extricate us but the noble
spirit of public frugality; which, if steadily and uniformly pursued, will rank
the name of our Prince with those of Elizabeth, and Henry the Great; all
ardently wish for peace, but those who gain by the continuance of war. The
clamors of these are inconceivable; clamors which can be founded only in
private interest, because begun before they could even guess at the terms
intended, and continued when such are mentioned as reason herself would
dictate: but such ever will be the conduct of those in whom love of wealth is
the primary passion.
Heaven and earth! can
men wearing the form, and professing the sentiments of humanity, deaf to the
cries of the widow and the orphan, labor to perpetuate the dreadful carnage,
which has deluged the world with the blood of their fellow creatures, only to
add to the mass of their already unwieldy wealth, and prey longer on the
distresses of their country!
These clamors are as
illegal as they are indecent: peace and war are the prerogative of the crown,
sacred as the liberties of the people, nor will ever be invaded by those who
understand and love our happy constitution: let us strengthen the hands of our
Sovereign by our warm approbation during the course of this arduous work; and
if his ministers abuse their trust, let them answer it, not to the noise of
unthinking faction, or the unfeeling bosom of private interest, but to the
impartial laws of their country.
Heaven forbid I should
ever see a British King independent on his people collectively; but I would
have him raised above private cabals, or the influence of any partial body of
men, however wealthy or respectable.
If the generous views
of our Prince do not meet with the success they merit, if France refuses such a
peace as secures the safety of our colonies, and that superiority, as a naval
power, so necessary to the liberties of Europe, as well as our own
independence; you shall join the army in a manner becoming your birth, and the
style of life in which you have been educated: till then, restrain within just
bounds that noble ardor so becoming a Briton, and study to serve that country
with your counsels in peace, which will not, I hope, have occasion for your
sword in war.
MY Emily, your friend,
your unhappy Julia, is undone. He knows the tenderness which I have so long
endeavoured to conceal. The trial was too great for the softness of a heart
like mine; I had almost conquered my own passion, when I became a victim to
his: I could not see his love, his despair, without emotions which discovered
all my soul. I ;am not formed for deceit: artless as the village maid, every
sentiment of my soul is in my eyes; I have not learnt, I will never learn, to
disguise their expressive language. With what pain did I affect a coldness to
which I was indeed a stranger! But why do I wrong my own heart? I did not
affect it. The native modesty of my sex gave a reserve to my behaviour, on the
first discovery of his passion, which his fears magnified into hate. Oh! Emily!
do I indeed hate him! you, to whose dear bosom your Julia confides her every
thought, tell me if I hate this most amiable of mankind? You know by what
imperceptible steps my inexperienced heart has been seduced to love: you know
how deceived by the sacred name of friendship --mdash; But why do I seek to
excuse my sensibility? is he not worthy all my tenderness? are we not equal in
all but wealth, a consideration below my care? is not his merit above titles
and riches? How shall I paint his delicacy, his respectful fondness? Too
plainly convinced of his power over my heart, he disdains to use that power to
my disadvantage: he declares he will never receive me but from my father; he
consents to leave me till a happier fortune enables him to avow his love to all
the world; he goes without asking the least promise in his favour. Heaven sure
will prosper his designs, will reward a heart like his. Oh! my Emily, did my
father see with my eyes! what is fortune in the balance with such virtue! Had I
worlds in my own power, I should value them only as they enabled me to show
more strongly the disinterestedness of my affection.
Born with a too tender
heart, which never before found an object worthy its attachment, the excess of
my affection is unspeakable. Delicate in my choice even of friends, it was not
easy to find a lover equal to that idea of perfection my imagination had
formed; he alone of all mankind rises up to it; the speaking grace, the easy
dignity of his air, are the natural consequences of the superiority of his soul.
He looks as if born to command the world. I am interrupted. Adieu.
YOU never were more
mistaken: you will not have the honor of seeing me yet in town. My Lord thinks
it infinitely more respectful to his Royal Master to celebrate this happy event
in the country.
"My
congratulations, says he, would be lost in the crowd of a drawing room; but
here I can diffuse a spirit of loyalty and joy through half a country, and
impress all around me with the same veneration and love for the most amiable of
Princes which burns in my own bosom".
Our entertainment
yesterday was magnifique, and in the Gusto Belmonto: there is a beautiful lake
in the park, on the borders of which, on one side, interspersed amongst the
trees, which form a woody theatre round it, at a distance of about three
hundred yards, tents were fixed for the company to dine in, which consisted of
all the gentlemen’s families twenty miles round. Westbrook and his daughter
were there, as my Lord would not shock them by leaving them only out when the
whole neighbourhood were invited; tho’ he observed, smiling, this was a favor,
for these kind of people were only gentlemen by the courtesy of England.
Streamers of the gayest colors waved on the tops of the tents, and glittered in
the dancing sun-beams. The tables were spread with every delicacy in season, at
which we placed ourselves in parties, without ceremony or distinction, just as
choice or accident directed. On a little island in the midst of the lake, an
excellent band of music was placed, which played some of the finest
compositions of Handel during our repast; which ended, we spread ourselves on
the borders of the lake, where we danced on the verdant green, till tea and
coffee again summoned us to the tents; and when evening "had in her sober
livery all things clad," a superb supper, and grand ball in the saloon,
finished our festival.
Nor were the villagers
forgot: Tables were spread for them on the opposite side of the lake, under the
shade of the tallest trees, and so disposed as to form the most agreeable
points of view to us, as our encampment must do to them.
I am ill at describing;
but the least had a thousand unspeakable charms.
Poor Harry! How I pity
him! His whole soul was absorbed in the contemplation of Lady Julia, with whom
he danced. His eyes perpetually followed her; and, if I mistake not, his will
not be the only heart which aches at parting on Tuesday, for so long is Harry’s
going postponed. He may go, but, like the wounded deer, he carries the arrow in
his breast.
HOW, my sweet Emily,
shall I bear his absence; an absence embittered by the remembrance of those
lively impassioned hours which love alone can give? What joy have I found in
owning the sentiments of my soul to one so worthy of all my tenderness! Yes,
Emily, I love him–words can but ill paint what I feel–he, he alone, –yet he
leaves Belmont–leaves it by my command, leaves it this very hour, leaves it
perhaps for ever–Great Heaven! can I support that thought?
If you love, if you
pity your unhappy friend, return immediately to Belmont; let me repose my
sorrows in that faithful breast: Lady Anne is tenderly my friend, but the
sprightliness of her character intimidates me: I do not hope to find in her
that sweet indulgence to all my faults, as in the gentle soul of my Emily.
I have entreated him to
take no leave of me; I shall only see him with the family: The moment draws
near–my fluttering heart–How shall I hide my concern?– Lady Anne is coming to
my apartment: I must go with her to the saloon, where he only waits to bid us
adieu: his chaise is in the court. Oh! Emily! my emotion will betray me.–
He is gone; the whole
house is in tears: never was a man so adored, never man so infinitely deserved
it. He pressed my hand to his lips, his eyes spoke unutterable love. I leaned
almost fainting on Lady Anne, and hid my tears in her bosom: she hurried me to
my apartment, and left me to give vent to my full heart! She sees my weakness,
land kindly strives to hide it from others, whilst her delicacy prevents her
mentioning it to myself: she has a tender and compassionate heart, and my
reserve is an injury to her friendship.
Lady Anne has sent to
ask me to air; I shall be glad to avoid all eyes but hers; perhaps I may have
courage to tell her–she merits all my confidence, nor is it distrust but
timidity which prevents–she is here– I am ashamed to see her. Adieu! my
dearest, my beloved friend!
WE have lost our lovely
Harry; he left us this morning for Lord T --mdash; ’s. Poor Lady Julia! how I
adore her amiable sincerity! she has owned her passion to me as we aired, and
mentioned hopes which are founded in madness: I ventured gently to remonstrate,
but there is no reasoning with a heart in love. Time and absence may effect a
cure: I am the confidente of both: I am perplexed how to proceed: I must either
betray the trust reposed in me, or abuse my Lord Belmont’s friendship and
hospitality.
In what a false light
do we see every thing through the medium of passion! Lady Julia is heiress to
14,000&L;. a year, yet thinks Harry’s merit may raise him to a situation
which will justify his pretending to her, and that this stupendous rise may be
brought about in a twelvemonth: he too thinks it possible; nay the scheme is
his. Heaven and earth! yet they are not fools, and Harry has some knowledge of
mankind.
At present there is no
talking reasonably to either of them. I must soothe them, to bring them off
this ruinous inclination by degrees.
As idleness is the
nurse of love, I will endeavour to keep Lady Julia continually amused: a new
lover might do much, but there is nobody near us that is tolerable: indeed the
woman who has loved Harry Mandeville, will be somewhat hard to please.
Chance favors my
designs; my Lord has proposed a visit of a fortnight to a neighbouring
nobleman, Lord Rochdale, whose house is generally full of gay people; his son
too, Lord Melvin, with whom I was acquainted abroad, and who is only inferior
to Harry Mandeville, is hourly expected from his travels.
Since I wrote the last
paragraph, an idea has struck me; from a very particular expression in a letter
I once received from Lady Belmont, in France, I have a strong suspicion Lord
Melvin is intended for Lady Julia; I wish he might be agreeable to her, for her
present passion is absolutely distraction.
We go to-morrow: when
we come back you shall hear from me: or, perhaps, for I am something variable
in my determinations, as soon as I get thither. Expect nothing however: if I do
you the honor, you must set an immense value on my condescension, for I know we
shall not have a moment to spare from amusements. Adieu!
I Have at length left
Belmont, and left it certain of Lady Julia’s tenderness: I am the happiest of
mankind; she loves me, she confesses it, I have every thing to hope from time,
fortune, perseverance, and the constancy of the most amiable of her sex.
All cold reserve is
banished from that charming bosom; above the meanness of suspicion, she
believes my passion noble and disinterested as her own; she hears my vows with
a pleasure which she cannot, nay which she does not wish to conceal; she
suffers me to swear eternal tenderness– We dined on Wednesday at the hermitage.
The company dispersed, the most delicate of women, not from coquetry, but that
sweet impulsive modesty, not obvious, not obtrusive, which gives to beauty its
loveliest charm, avoided an opportunity, which eager watchful love at last
obtained: alone with her in those sweet shades–Oh! Mordaunt! let not the gross
unloving libertine talk of pleasure: how tasteless are the false endearments,
the treacherous arts of the venal wanton, to the sweet unaffected downcast eye
of virgin innocence, the vivid glow of artless tenderness, the native vermilion
of blushing sensibility, the genuine smile of undissembled love!
I write this on the
road to Lord T --mdash; ’s, where I shall be to-night, I shall expect to hear
from you immediately. Adieu!
I Never so strongly
relish the happiness of my own manner of living, as when I compare it with that
of others. I hear perpetual complaints abroad of the tediousness of life, and
see in every face a certain weariness of themselves, from which I am so happy
as to be perfectly free. I carry about me an innate disposition to be pleased,
which is the source of continual pleasure.
That I have escaped
what is in general the fate of people of my rank, is chiefly owing to my
fortunate choice in marriage: our mutual passion, the only foundation on which
sensible souls can build happiness, has been kept alive by a delicacy of
behaviour, an angel purity, in Lady Belmont, to which words cannot do justice.
The transports of youthful passion yield its sweetness to the delight of that
refined, yet animated sensation which my heart feels for her at this moment. I
never leave her without regret, nor meet her without rapture, the lively
rapture of love,
"By long
experience mellowed into friendship."
We have been married
thirty years. There are people who think she was never handsome; yet to me she
is all loveliness. I think no woman beautiful but as she resembles her; and
even Julia’s greatest charm, in my eye, is the likeness she has to her amiable
mother.
This tender, this
exquisite affection, has diffused a spirit through our whole lives, and given a
charm to the most common occurrences; a charm, to which the dulness of apathy,
and the fever of guilty passion, are equally strangers.
The family where we are
furnish a striking example of the impossibility of being happy without the soft
union of hearts. Though both worthy people, having been joined by their
parents, without that affection which can alone make so near a connexion
supportable, their lives pass on in a tedious and insipid round: without taste
for each other’s conversation, they engage in a perpetual series of diversions,
not to give relish to, but to exclude, those retired domestic hours, which are
the most sprightly and animated of my life; they seek, by crowds and
amusements, to fly from each other and from themselves.
The great secret of
human happiness, my dear Mr. Mandeville, consists in finding such constant
employment for the mind, as, without over-fatiguing, may prevent its
languishing in a painful inactivity. To this end, I would recommend to every
man to have not only some important point in view, but many subordinate ones,
to fill up those vacant hours, when our great purpose, whatever it is, must be
suspended: our very pleasures, even the best, will fatigue, if not relieved by
variety: the mind cannot always be on the stretch, nor attentive to the same
object, however pleasing: Relaxation is as necessary as activity, to keep the
soul in its due equipoise. No innocent amusement, however trifling it may seem
to the rigid or the proud, is below the regard of a rational creature, which
keeps the mind in play, and unbends it from more serious pursuits.
I often regard, at once
with pity and astonishment, persons of my own rank and age, dragged about in
unwieldy state, forging for themselves the galling fetters of eternal ceremony,
or the still heavier chains of ambition; their bodies bending under the weight
of dress, their minds for ever filled with the idea of their own dignity and
importance; to the fear of lessening which, they sacrifise all the genuine
pleasures of life.
Heaven grant, my dear
friend, I may never be too wise, or too proud, to be happy!
To you, my amiable
friend, who are just entering on the stage of life, I would recommend such
active pursuits as may make you an useful member of society, and contribute to
raise your own fortune and consequence in the world, as well as secure the
esteem of your fellow citizens, and the approbation of your Prince.
For my own part, like
the Roman veterans, I may now be excused, if I ask my discharge from those
anxious pursuits, which are only becoming in the vigor of our days, and from
those ceremonial attentions, which are scarce bearable even them. My duty as a
Senator, and my respect to my King, nothing but real inability shall ever
suspend; but for the rest, I think it time at sixty to be free, to live to one’s
self, and in one’s own way; and endeavour to be, rather than to seem, happy.
The rest of my days,
except those I owe to my country and my Prince, shall be devoted to the sweets
of conjugal and paternal affection, to the lively joys of friendship. I have
only one wish as to this world; to see Julia married to a man who deserves her,
who has sensibility to make her happy, and whose rank and fortune are such as
may justify us to the world, above which the most philosophic mind cannot
entirely rise: let me but see this, and have a hope that they will pursue my
plan of life; let me see them blest in each other, and blessing all round them;
and my measure of earthly felicity will be complete.
You know not, my dear
Mr. Mandeville, how much my happiness in this world has been owing also to the
lively hope of another: this idea has given me a constant serenity, which may
not improperly be called the health of the mind, and which has diffused a
brightness over all my hours.
Your account of Lord T
--mdash; made me smile; his fear of being dismissed at seventy from the
toilsome drudgery of business is truly ridiculous: rich, childless, infirm,
ought not ease and retirement to be the first objects of his wishes? But such
is the wretched slavery of all who are under the absolute dominion of any
passion, unguided by the hand of reason.
The passions of every
kind, under proper restraints, are the gentle breezes which keep life from
stagnation; but, let loose, they are the storms and whirlwinds which tear up
all before them, and scatter ruin and destruction around.
Adieu. I ought to
apologize for the length of this; but age is the season of garrulity.
HOW happy would it be
for mankind, if every person of your Lordship’s rank and fortune governed
themselves by the same generous maxims!
It is with infinite
pain I see Lord T --mdash; pursuing a plan, which has drawn on him the curse of
thousands, and made his estate a scene of desolation: his farms are in the
hands of a few men, to whom the sons of the old tenants are either forced to be
servants, or to leave the country to get their bread elsewhere. The village,
large and once populous, is reduced to about eight families; a dreary silence
reigns over their deserted fields; the farm houses, once the seats of chearful
smiling industry, now useless, are falling in ruins around him; his tenants are
merchants and ingrossers, proud, lazy, luxurious, insolent, and spurning the
hand which feeds them.
Yesterday one of them
went off largely in his debt: I took that occasion of pressing him on his most
vulnerable side, and remonstrating the danger of trusting so much of his
property in one hand: but I am afraid all I can say will have no effect, as he
has, by this narrow selfish plan, a little encreased his rents at present,
which is all he has in view, without extending his thoughts to that future
time, when this wretched policy, by depopulating the country, will lower the
price of all the fruits of the earth, and lessen, in consequence, the value of
his estate.
With all my friendship
for Lord T --mdash; , I cannot help observing in him another fault greatly
below his rank and understanding, I mean a despicable kind of pride, which
measures worth by the gifts of fortune, of which the largest portion is too
often in the hands of the least deserving.
His treatment of some
gentlemen, whose fortunes were unequal to their birth and merit yesterday, at
his table, almost determined me to leave his house: I expostulated warmly,
though not impolitely, with him on the subject, and almost got him to confess
his error. My friendship for him makes me feel sensibly what must lessen his
character in the eyes of all whose esteem is desirable. I wish him to pass a
month at Belmont, that he may see dignity without pride, and condescension
without meanness; that he may see virtue in her loveliest form, and acknowledge
her genuine beauty.
I Have past a tedious
fortnight at Lord T --mdash; ’s, without tasting any pleasure but that of
talking of Lady Julia, with some ladies in the neighbourhood who know her. I
estimate the merit of those I converse with, by the distinction of being known
to her: those who are so happy as to be of her acquaintance have, in my eye,
every charm, that polished wit or elegant knowledge can give; those who want
that advantage scarce deserve the name of human beings: all conversation, of
which she is not the subject, is lifeless and insipid; all of which she is,
brilliant and divine.
My Lord rallies me on
my frequent visits to these Ladies, and, as one of them is extremely handsome,
supposes it a beginning passion: the Lady herself, I am afraid, is deceived,
for, as she is particularly warm in her praises of Lady Julia, my eyes sparkle
with pleasure at her approach. I single her out in every company, and dance
with her at all our little parties; I have even an attention to her superior to
that of common lovers, and feel for her a tenderness for which I want a name.
Lady Anne has had the
goodness to write twice to me, from Lord Rochdale’s, whither my Lord went, with
his amiable family, two days after I left Belmont: Lady Julia is well, she
loves me, she hears of me with pleasure. Ought I at present to wish more?
I have hinted to Lord T
--mdash; my purpose, though not the dear motive which inspired it; he is warmly
my friend, if there is truth in man. I will be more explicite the first time I
see him alone: shall I own to you one weakness of my heart? I would be served
by any interest but Lord Belmont’s. How can I pretend to his daughter, if all I
have is, in a manner, his gift? I would be rich independently of his
friendship.
Lord T --mdash; is
walking in the garden alone; I will go to him, and explain all my designs: his
knowledge of mankind will guide me to the best road to wealth and honor; his
friendship will assist me to the ample extent of his power. Adieu!
OH! do you know I have
a little request to make you? But first, by way of preface, I must inform you,
Lady Belmont has been reading me a serious lecture about the Caro Bellville,
who has wrote to her to beg her intercession in his favor.
I find fools have been
impertinent in regard to our friendship: there are so few pleasures in this
world, I think it extremely hard to give up one so lively, yet innocent, as
that of indulging a tender esteem for an amiable man. But to our conversation:
"My dear Lady
Anne, I am convinced you love Colonel Bellville.
Love him, Madam? no, I
rather think not; I am not sure: The man is not shocking, and dies for m: I
pity him, poor creature; and pity, your Ladyship knows, is a-kin to love.
Will you be grave one
moment?
A thousand, if your
Ladyship desires it: nothing so easy to me; the gravest creature in the world
naturally.
You allow Colonel
Bellville merit?
Certainement.
That he loves you?
To distraction.
And you return it?
Why as to that–he
flatters agreeably, and I am fond of his conversation on that account: and let
me tell you, my dear Lady Belmont, it is not every man that can flatter; it
requires more genius than one would suppose.
You intend some time or
other to marry him?
Marry? Oh, Heavens! How
did such a thought enter your Ladyship’s imagination? Have not I been married
already? And is not once enough in conscience, for any reasonable woman?
Will you pardon me if I
then ask, with what view you allow his address?
I allow? Heavens, Lady
Belmont! I allow the addresses of an odious male animal? If fellows will follow
one, how is it to be avoided? it is one’s misfortune to be handsome, and one
must bear the consequences.
But, my dear Lady Anne,
an unconnected life–Is the pleasantest life in the world. Have not I
3000&L;. a year? am not I a widow? mistress of my own actions? with youth,
health, a tolerable understanding, an air of the world, and a person not very
disagreeable?
All this I own.
All this? yes, and
twenty times more, or you do nothing. Have not these unhappy eyes carryed
destruction from one climate to another? Have not the sprightly French, the
haughty Romans, confest themselves my slaves? Have not–But it would take up a
life to tell you all my conquests.
But what is all this to
the purpose, y dear?
Now I protest I think
it is vastly to the purpose. And all this you advise me to give up, to become a
tame, domestic, inanimate –Really, my dear Madam, I did not think it was in
your nature to be so unreasonable.
It is with infinite
pain, my dearest Lady Anne, I bring myself to say any thing which can give you
a moment’s uneasiness. But it is the task of true friendship–
To tell disagreeable
truths: I know that is what your Ladyship would say: and, to spare you what
your delicacy starts at mentioning, you have heard aspersions on my character,
which are the consequences of my friendship for Colonel Bellville.
I know and admire the
innocent chearfulness of your heart; but I grieve to say, the opinion of the
world––
As to the opinion of
the world, by which is meant the malice of few spiteful old cats, I am
perfectly unconcerned about it; but your Ladyship’s esteem is necessary to my
happiness: I will therefore to you vindicate my conduct: which, tho’
indiscreet, has been really irreproachable. Though a widow, and accountable to
nobody, I have ever lived with Colonel Bellville, with the reserve of blushing
apprehensive fifteen; whilst the warmth of my friendship for him, and the
pleasure I found in his conversation, have let loose the baleful tongue of
envy, and subjected me resolution to the malice of an ill-judging world; a
world I despise for his sake; a world, whose applause is too often bestowed on
the cold, the selfish, and the artful, and denied to that generous unsuspected
openness and warmth of heart, which are the strongest characteristicks of true
virtue. My friendship, or, if you please, my love, for Colonel Bellville, is
the first pleasure of my life; the happiest hours of which have been past in
his conversation; nor is there any thing I would not sacrifise to my passion
for him, but his happiness; which, for reasons unknown to your Ladyship, is
incompatible with his marrying me.
But is it not possible
to remove those reasons?
I am afraid not.
Would it not then, my
dear Madam, be most prudent to break off a connexion, which can answer no
purpose but making both unhappy?
I own it would; but
prudence was never a part of my character. Will you forgive and pity me, Lady
Belmont, when I say, that, though I see in the strongest light my own
indiscretion, I am not enough mistress of my heart to break with the man to
whom I have only a very precarious and distant hope of being united? There is
an enchantment in his friendship, which I have not force of mind to break through;
he is my guide, my guardian, protector, friend; the only man I ever loved, the
man to whom the last recesses of my heart are open: must I give up the tender,
exquisite, refined delight of his conversation, to the false opinion of a
world, governed by prejudice, judging by the exterior, which is generally
fallacious, and condemning, without distinction, those soft affections without
which life is scarcely above vegetation?
Do not imagine, my dear
Lady Belmont, I have really the levity I affect: or, had my prejudices against
marriage been ever so strong, the time I have passed here would have removed
them: I see my Lord and you, after an union of thirty years, with as keen a
relish for each other’s conversation as you could have felt at the moment which
first joined you: I see in you all the attention, the tender solicitude of
beginning love, with the calm delight and perfect confidence of habitual
friendship. I am, therefore, convinced marriage is capable of happiness, to
which an unconnected state is lifeless and insipid; and, from observing the
lovely delicacy of your Ladyship’s conduct I am instructed how that happiness
is to be secured; I am instructed how to avoid that tasteless, languid,
unimpassioned hour, so fatal to love and friendship.
With the man to whom I
was a victim, my life was one continued scene of misery; to a sensible mind,
there is no cold medium in marriage: its sorrows, like its pleasures, are
exquisite. Relieved from those galling chains, I have met with a heart suitable
to my own; born with the same sensibility, the same peculiar turn of thinking:
pleased with the same pleasures, and exactly formed to make me happy: I will
believe this similarity was not given to condemn us both to wretchedness: as it
is impossible either of us can be happy but with the other, I will hope the
bar, which at present seems invincible, may be removed; till then indulge me,
my dear Lady Belmont, in the innocent pleasure of loving him, and trust to his
honor for the safety of mine."
The most candid and
amiable of women, after a gentle remonstrance on the importance of reputation
to happiness, left me, so perfectly satisfied, that she intends to invite
Bellville down. I send you this conversation as an introduction to a request I
have to make you, which I must postpone to my next. Heavens! how perverse!
interrupted by one of the veriest cats in nature, who will not leave us till
ages after the post is gone. Adieu! for the present! it is prettily enough
contrived, and one of the great advantages of society, that one’s time, the
most precious of all possessions, is to be sacrifised, from a false politeness,
to every idle creature who knows not what else to do. Every body complains of
this, but nobody attempts to remedy it.
Am not I the most
inhuman of women, to write two sheets without naming Lady Julia? She is well,
and beautiful as an angel: we have a ball to-night on Lord Melvin’s return,
against which she is putting on all her charms. We shall be at Belmont
tomorrow, which is two or three days sooner than my Lord intended.
Lady Julia dances with
Lord Melvin, who is, except two, the most amiable man I know: she came up just
as I sat down to write, and looked as if she had something to say: she is gone,
however, without a word; her childish bashfulness about you is intolerable.
The ball waits for us.
I am interrupted by an extreme pretty fellow, Sir Charles Mellifont, who has
to-night the honor of my hand.
"WE have a ball
to-night on Lord Melvin’s return, against which she is putting on all her
charms."
Oh! Lady Anne! can you
indeed know what it is to love, yet play with the anxiety of a tender heart? I
can scarce bear the thoughts of her looking lovely in my absence, or in any
eyes but mine; how then can I support the idea of her endeavouring to please
another, of her putting on all her charms to grace the return of a man, young,
amiable, rich, noble, and the son of her father’s friend? a thousand fears, a
thousand conjectures torment me: should she love another–the possibility
distracts me.–Go to her, and ask her if the tenderest, most exalted passion, if
the man who adores her–I know not what I would say– you have set me on the rack–If
you have pity, my dearest Lady Anne, lose not a moment to make me easy.
Yours, &c. H.
Mandeville.
O Emily! How
inconsistent is a heart in love! I entreated Mr. Mandeville not to write to me,
and am chagrined at his too exact obedience: I think, if he loved as I do, he could
not so easily obey me. He writes to Lady Anne; and, though by my desire, I am
ashamed of my weakness;–but I wish he wrote less often: there is an air of
gaiety in his letters which offends me–He talks of balls, of parties with
ladies–Perhaps I am unjust, but the delicacy of my love is wounded by his
knowing a moment’s pleasure in my absence; to me all places are equal where he
is not; all amusements without him are dull and tasteless. Have not I an equal
right to expect, Emily! He knows not how I love him.
Convinced that this
mutual passion is the designation of Heaven to restore him to that affluence he
lost by the partiality of an ancestor and the generous loyalty of his family, I
give way to it without reserve; I regard my love as a virtue; I am proud of
having distinguished his merit without those trappings of wealth, which alone
can attract common eyes. His idea is for ever before me; I think with transport
of those enchanting moments –Emily, that week of tender confidence is all my
life, the rest is not worth numbering in my existence.
My father to-night
gives a ball to Lord Melvin, with whom I am again, unwillingly, obliged to
dance. I wish not to dance at all; to make this sacrifice to the most beloved
of men: Why have I not courage to avow my sentiments, to declare he alone
--mdash; This Lord Melvin too, I know not why, but I never see him without
horror.
O Emily! How do all men
sink on the comparison! He seems of a superior rank of beings. Your Julia will
never give her hand to another; she swears this to the dear bosom of
friendship.
This detested Lord
Melvin is at the door; he will not let me proceed; he tells me it is to a lover
I am writing; he says this in a manner, and with a tone of voice –he looks at
me with an earnestness–Lady Anne has alarmed me–Should my father intend–yet why
should I fear the most cruel of all acts of tyranny from the most tender and
indulgent of parents?
I feel a dejection of
spirits on this subject, which does injury to my father’s goodness: perhaps it
is no more than the natural effects of absence on a tender and unexperienced
heart.
Adieu! I am forced to
finish my letter. All good angels guard and preserve my Emily!
WITH all my affection
for Lord T --mdash; , I am hourly shocked by that most unworthy of all faults,
his haughtiness to inferior fortune, however distinguished by virtue, talents,
or even the more shining advantage of birth. Dress, equipage, and the
over-bearing assurance which wealth inspires, strike him so forcibly, that
there is no room in his soul for that esteem which is a debt to modest merit.
We had yesterday to
dine Mr. Herbert, one of the most amiable men I ever saw; his person was
genteel, his countenance at once expressive of genius and worth, which were
rendered more touching to me, by that pensive look and irresolute air, which
are the constant attendants on an adverse fortune. Lord T --mdash; returned his
bow almost without looking at him; and continued talking familiarly to a wretch
with whom no gentleman would converse, were he not master of six thousand a
year: the whole company, instructed in his situation by the supercilious air of
the master of the house, treated him with the same neglect, which I endeavoured
to console him for by every little civility in my power, and by confining my
attention intirely to him; when we parted, he asked me to his house with a look
full of sensibility; an invitation I shall take the first opportunity of
accepting.
When the company were
gone, I asked Lord T --mdash; the character of this stranger. Why, really, says
he, I believe he is in himself the most estimable man in my neighbourhood: of a
good family too; but one must measure one’s reception of people by the
countenance the world shews them; and he is too poor to be greatly caressed
there. Besides, I am not fond of being acquainted with unhappy people; they are
very apt to ask favours.
Is it possible, said I,
my Lord, interrupting him hastily, you can avow sentiments like these? Why are
you raised by Providence above others? Why entrusted with that wealth and
consequence which might make you a guardian angel to the unhappy? Where is my
chaise? I will return to Belmont, where affliction ever finds a ready audience;
where adversity is sure of being heard, though pomp and equipage wait.
Lord T --mdash; smiled
at my earnestness, and praised the generosity of my sentiments, which he
assured me were his at my age: he owned, he had been to blame; but In the
world, said he, Harry, we are carried away by the torrent, and act wrong every
moment mechanically meerly by seeing others do the same. However, I stand
corrected, and you shall have no future reason to complain of me.
He spoke this with an
air of good humour which reconciled us, and has promised to accompany me in my
visit to Mr. Herbert, which I have insisted shall be the first we pay, and that
he shall beg his pardon for the behaviour of yesterday.
Is it not strange, my
Lord, that men whose hearts are not bad can avoid those whose characters do
honor to their species, only because fortune denies them those outward
distinctions which wealth can give to the lowest and most despicable of
mankind?
Surely, of all human
vices, Pride is the most detestable!
CAN I play with the
anxiety of a tender heart? Certainly, or I should not be what I am, a coquette
of the first order. Setting aside the pleasure of the thing, and I know few
pleasanter amusements, policy dictates this conduct; for there is no
possibility of keeping any of you without throwing the charms of dear variety
into one’s treatment of you: nothing cloys like continual sweets; a little acid
is absolutely necessary.
I am just come from
giving Lady Julia some excellent advice on the subject of her passion for you.
Really, my dear, said I, you are extremely absurd to blush and look foolish
about loving so pretty a fellow as Harry Mandeville, handsome, well made,
lively, elegant; and in the true classical stile, and approved by the
connoisseurs, by Madame le Comtesse de –– herself, whom I look upon to be the
greatest judge of male merit on the face of the globe.
It is not for loving
him I am angry with you, but for entertaining so ridiculous a thought as that
of marrying him. You have only one ratinoal step to take; marry Lord Melvin,
who has title and fortune, requisites not to be dispensed with in a husband,
and take Harry Mandeville for your Cecisbeo. The dear creature was immensely
displeased, as you, who know the romantic turn of her imagination, will easily
conceive.
Oh, I had almost
forgot: yes, indeed, you have great right to give yourself jealous airs: we
have not heard of your coquetry with Miss Truman. My correspondent tells me,
there is no doubt of its being a real passion on both sides, and that the
Truman family have been making private enquiries into your fortune. I shewed
Lady Julia the letter, and you cannot conceive how prettily she blushed.
But, to be grave, I am
afraid you have nothing to fear from Lord Melvin. You must forgive my making
use of this expression; for, as I see no possibility of surmounting the
obstacles which oppose your union with Lady Julia, I am too much a friend to
both, not to wish earnestly to break a connexion which has not a shadow of hope
to support it.
But a truce to this
subject, which is not a pleasant one to either of us.
I told you in my last I
had something to say to you. As I am your confidente, you must consent to be
mine, having a little present occasion for your services. You are to know, my
dear Harry, that, with all my coquetry, I am as much in love as yourself, and
with almost as little prospect of success: this odious money is absolutely the
bane of us true lovers, and always contrives to stand in our way.
My dear spouse then,
who in the whole course of our acquaintance did but one obliging thing, being
kindly determined I should neither be happy with him nor without him,
obligingly, though nobody knows this but myself and the Caro Bellville, made my
jointure what it is, on condition I never married again: on observance of which
condition, it was to be in my power to give the estate to whoever I pleased at
my death; but, on a proof of my supposed future marriage, it was to go
immediately to a niece of his, who at his death was in a convent in France, who
is ignorant of this condition, and whose whole present fortune scarce amounts
to fifteen hundred pounds. She is both in person and mind one of the most
lovely of women, and has an affection for me, which inclines me to think she
would come into measures for my sake, which I shall make it her interest to
acquiesce in for her own.
Bellville’s fortune is
extremely moderate; and, if I marry him at present, I shall not add a shilling
to it; his income will remain in statu-quo, with the incumbrance of an indigent
woman of quality, whose affairs are a little derangé, and amongst whose virtues
œconomy was never one of the most observable. He would with transport marry me
to-morrow, even on these hard conditions; but how little should I deserve so
generous a passion, if I suffered it to seduce him to his ruin! I have wrote to
my niece to come to England, when I shall tell her my passion for Bellville,
and propose to her a private agreement to divide the fortune, which will be
forfeited to her on my marriage, and which it is in my power by living single
to deprive her of for ever. Incapable, however, of injustice, I have at all
events made a will, dividing it equally between her and Bellville, if I die
unmarried: I have a right to do this for the man I love, as my father left
thirty thousand pounds to Mr. Wilmot, which in equity ought to be regarded as
mine, and which is all I desire, on the division: she, therefore by my will,
has all she ever can expect, even from the strictest justice: and she can
never, I think, hesitate between waiting till my death and at my mercy, and
receiving at the present the utmost she could then hope for.
I have heard from the
Lady to whom I enclosed my letter, which she has returned, my niece having left
France a year ago, to accompany a relation into Italy. What I, therefore, have
to ask of you is, to endeavour to find her out, by your Italian friends, as I
will by mine at the same time; that I may write to her to return immediately to
England, as I will not run the hazard of mentioning the subject in a letter.
She is the daughter of the late colonel Hastings, once abroad in a public
character, and is well known in Italy.
Bellville is not at all
in the secret of my scheme; nor did I ever tell him I would marry him, though I
sometimes give him reason to hope.
I am too good a
politician in love matters ever to put a man out of doubt till half an hour
before the ceremony. The moment a woman is weak enough to promise, she sets the
heart of her lover at rest; the chace, and of consequence the pleasure, is at
an end; and he has nothing to do but to seek a new object, and begin the pursuit
over again.
I tell you, but I tell
it in confidence, that if I find Bell Hastings, if she comes into my scheme,
and my mind does not change, I may, perhaps, do Bellville the honor. And yet,
when I reflect on the matter; on the condition of the obligation, "so long
as ye both shall live"–Jesu Maria! Only think of promising to be of the
same mind as long as one lives. My dear Harry, people may talk as they will,
but the thing is utterly impossible.
I Have already told you
I came hither with a view of engaging Lord T --mdash; ’s interest in support of
those views, on which all my hopes of happiness depend. The friendship he has
ever professed for me has been warm as that of a father. I was continually with
him at Rome, and he there prest me to accept those services I then never
expected to have occasion for. Till now content with my situation, love first
raised in me the spirit of ambition, and determined me to accept those offers.
In a former letter, I told you I was going to follow Lord T --mdash; into the
garden, to communicate to him my purpose of pushing my fortune in the world; on
which I had before given general hints, which he seemed to approve, as a kind
of spirit becoming a young man, warm with hope, and not destitute of merit.
On revolving my scheme
as I approached him, it appeared so romantic, so void of all rational hope,
that I had not resolution to mention it, and determined at least to suspend it
till better digested, and more fitted to bear the cool eye of impartial reason:
in these sentiments I should still have remained, had not a letter from Lady
Anne Wilmot, by giving me jealousy, determined me not to defer one moment a
design on which all my happiness depended.
I therefore, with some
hesitation, this morning opened all my heart, and the real state of my
circumstances, to Lord T --mdash; , concealing only what related to Lady Julia.
He heard me with great coolness, carelessly lolling on a settee; his eyes fixed
on a new Chinese summer-house, opposite the window near which he sat, and made
me the following answer; "Your views, Mr. Mandeville, seem rather
romantic, for a man who has no party connexions, and so little parliamentary
interest. However, you are of a good family, and there are things to be had in
time if properly recommended. Have you no friend who would mention you to the
minister?" He then rang the bell hastily for his valet, and retired to
dress leaving me motionless with astonishment and indignation.
We me no more till
dinner, when he treated me with a distant civility, the meaning of which was
easily understood. He apologized, with an air of ceremony, on his being forced
to go for a fortnight to Scarborough, with a party, who, being all strangers,
he was afraid would not be agreeable to me; but, at his return, he should be
glad of the honor of seeing me again. I bowed coldly, and took no other notice
of what he said, than to order my chaise immediately; on which he pressed my
stay to-night, but in vain. The servants leaving the room, he was a little
disconcerted, but observed, He was sorry for me; my case was really hard; he
always thought my fortune much larger; wondered at my father’s indiscretion in
educating me so improperly–People ought to consider their circumstances–It was
pity I had no friend–Lord Belmont, if he pleased, but he was so absurdly fond
of his independence.
During his harangue, I
entirely recovered my presence of mind; and, with an air of great ease and
unconcern, told his Lordship, I was much obliged to him for curing me of a
pursuit so improper for a man of my temper: that the liberal offers of service
he had formerly made me at Rome had betrayed me into a false opinion of the
friendship of great men; but that I was now convinced of what value such
professions are, and that they are only made where it seems certain they will
never be accepted. That it was impossible his Lordship could judge properly of
the conduct of a man of my father’s character; that I was proud of being son to
the most exalted and generous of mankind; and would not give up that honor to
be first minister to the first prince on earth. That I never so strongly felt
the value of independence as at that moment, and did not wonder at the value
Lord Belmont set on so inestimable a blessing.
I came away without
waiting for an answer, and stopped at an inn about ten miles off, where I am
now waiting for one of my servants, whom I left behind to bring me a letter I
expect to-day from Lady Anne Wilmot.
And now, my dear
Mordaunt, what will become of your unhappy friend? The flattering hopes I
fondly entertained are dispersing like a flitting cloud. Lord T --mdash; ’s
behaviour has removed the veil which love had spread over the wildness of my
design, and convinced me that success is impossible. Where or to whom shall I
now apply? Lord T --mdash; was him on whose friendship I most depended; whose
power to serve me was greatest, and whose professions gave me most right to
expect his services.
I here for ever give up
all views–Can I then calmly give up the hopes of Lady Julia? I will go back,
confess my passion to Lord Belmont, and throw myself on that goodness whose
first delight is that of making others happy. Yet can I hope he will give his
daughter, the heiress of such affluence–Disinterested and noble as he is, the
false maxims of the world–Mordaunt, I am born to wretchedness–What have I
gained by inspiring the most angelic of women with pity? I have doomed to
misery her for whose happiness I would sacrifise my life.
The servant I left at
Lord T --mdash; ’s is this moment arrived; he has brought me a letter–I know
not why, but my hand trembles, I have scarce power to break the seal.
SUMMON all your
resolution, my dear Mr. Mandeville–Sure my fears were prophetic–do not be too
much alarmed –Lady Julia is well; she is in tears by me; she disapproves her
father’s views; she begs me to assure you her heart is not less sensible than
ours will be to so cruel a stroke; begs you not to return yet to Belmont, but
to depend on her affection, and leave your fate in her hands.
The inclosed letters
will acquaint you with what I have been for some time in apprehension of. With
such a design for his daughter, why did my Lord bring you to Belmont? So formed
to inspire love as you both are, why did he expose you to danger it was scarce
possible for you to escape?
But it is now too late
to wish you had never met; all my hopes are in your resolution; I dare expect
nothing from Lady Julia’s.
My Lord,
YOUR Lordship’s
absence, and the death of my mother, which renders my estate more worthy Lady
Julia, has hitherto prevented my explanation of an unguarded expression, which
I find has had the misfortune to displease you. I am far from intending–Your
Lordship intirely mistakes me–No man can be more sensible of the honor of your
Lordship’s alliance, or of Lady Julia’s uncommon perfections: but a light way
of talking, which one naturally acquires in the world, has led me undesignedly
into some appearance of disrespect to a state, of the felicity of which I have
not the least doubt.
I flatter myself your
Lordship will, on cooler reflexion, forgive an unguarded word, and allow me to
hope for the honor of convincing you and the Lady, by my future conduct, that
no man has a higher idea of matrimonial happiness, than,
My Lord,
I Readily admit your
Lordship’s apology; as I am under no apprehension any man can intend to slight
the alliance of one who has always endeavoured his character should be worthy
his birth, and the rank he has the honor to hold in his country.
As I love the plainest
dealing in affairs of such consequence, I will not a moment deceive your
Lordship, or suffer you to engage in a pursuit, which, if I have any influence
over my daughter, will be unsuccessful; not from any disesteem of your
Lordship, but because I have another view for her, the disappointment of which
would destroy all my hopes of a happy evening of life, and embitter my last
hours. I have long intended her, with her own approbation, which her filial
piety gives me no room to doubt, for the son of my friend, the heir of an
earldom, and of an affluent fortune; and, what I much more value, of uncommon
merit; and one of the first families in the kingdom.
I am sure your Lordship
will not endeavour to oppose a design, which has been long formed, is far
advanced, and on which I have so much set my heart.
I am, my Lord, with great Regard, Your Lordship’s very obedient and
devoted Servant, Belmont. I have long,
my dear Mr. Mandeville, suspected my Lord’s design in favour of Lord Melvin, of
which there is not now the least doubt. Our coming away from his father’s, on
his arrival, was a circumstance which then struck me extremely. Lady Julia’s
stay there, on this supposition, would have been ill suited to the delicacy of
her sex and rank. Yet I am astonished my Lord has not sooner told her of it;
but there is no accounting for the caprice of age. How shall I tell my dear Mr.
Mandeville my sentiments on this discovery! How shall I, without wounding a
passion which bears no restraint, hint to him my wishes, that he would
sacrifise that love, which can only by its continuance make him wretched, to
Lady Julia’s peace of mind! That he would himself assist her to conquer an
inclination which is incompatible with the views which the most indulgent of
parents entertains for her happiness! Views, the disappointment of which, he
has declared, will embitter his last hours? Make one generous effort, my
amiable friend: it is glorious to conquer where conquest is most difficult:
think of Lord Belmont’s friendship; of his almost parental care of your
fortune; of the pleasure with which he talks of your virtues; and it will be
impossible for you to continue to oppose that design on which his hopes of a
happy evening of life are founded. Would you deny a happy evening to that life
to which thousands owe the felicity of theirs?
It is from you, and not
Lady Julia, I expect this sacrifice: the consideration which will most strongly
influence you to make it, will for ever prevent her; it pains me to wound your
delicacy, by saying I mean the difference of your fortunes. From a romantic
generosity, she will think herself obliged to that perseverance, which the same
generosity now calls loudly on you to decline. If you have the greatness of
mind to give up hopes which can never to accomplished, time and absence my
assist Lady Julia’s filial sweetness, and bring her to a compliance with her
father’s will. Believe, that, whilst I write, my heart melts with compassion
for you both; and that nothing but the tenderest friendship could have urged me
to so painful a talk.
I am, &c. A. Wilmot. O
Mordaunt! till now I was never truly wretched. I have not even a glimpse of
hope remaining. I must give up the only wish for which life is worth my care,
or embitter the last hours of the man, who with unequalled generosity has
pleaded my cause against himself, and declined a noble acquisition of fortune,
that it might give consequence, and, as he thought, happiness to me.
But Lady Julia!––Heaven
is my witness, to make her happy, I would this moment give up all my right in
her heart. I would myself lead her to the altar, though the same hand the next
moment–– Mordaunt, I will promise, if she requests it, to consent to her
marriage; but I will not to survive it. My thoughts are all distraction–I
cannot write to Lady Anne –I will write to the most lovely of women –She knows
not the cruel request of her friend–Her love disdains the low consideration of
wealth––Our hearts were formed for each other–She knows every sentiment of my
soul–She knows, that, were I monarch of the world–O Mordaunt, is it possible–Can
the gentle, the indulgent Lord Belmont–but all conspires to undo me: the best,
the most mild of mankind is turned a tyrant to make me wretched. I will know
from herself if she consents; I will give up my own hopes to her happiness; but
let me first be convinced it is indeed her happiness, not the prejudices of her
father, to which I make so cruel a sacrifice.
I have wrote to Lady
Julia, and am more calm: I have mentioned Lady Anne’s request. I have told her,
that, though without hope, if I am still blest in her affection, I will never
resign her but with life: but if she can be happy with Lord Melvin, if she asks
it, she is this moment free. I have entreated her to consult her own heart,
without a thought of me; that I would die this moment to contribute to her
peace; that the first purpose of my life is her happiness, with which my own
shall never come in competition; that there is nothing I will ever refuse her,
but to cease to think of her with adoration; that if she wishes to marry Lord
Melvin (Great Heaven! is it possible she can wish it?) I will return to Italy,
and carry far from her a passion which can never cease but in the grave.
I will wait here an
answer, and then determine where to go.
Emily Howard came last
night. Lady Julia and she are reading natural history with my Lord, and
examining butterflies wings in a microscope; a pretty innocent amusement to
keep young ladies out of mischief. I wish my Lord had thought of it sooner, it
might have been of great use to Lady Julia: if one is but amused, it is of no
great consequence whether by a butterfly or a lover.
Vastly severe that last
sentence; it must be allowed I have a pretty genius for satire.
My Lord certainly
intends Lady Julia for Lord Melvin. I have wrote Harry a ridiculous wise
letter, persuading him to sacrifise his own passion to my Lord’s caprice; and
giving him advice, which I should hate him, if I thought him capable of
following. How easy it is to be wise for any body but ones self! I suppose
Harry could with great calmness preach on the imprudence of my attachment to
you.
We are going to a
strolling play to-night. My Lord encourages diversions on his estate, on the
same principle that a wise Price protects the fine arts, to keep his people at
home.
We had a family to dine
here yesterday, who are very agreeable people, and to whom my Lord shewed a
particular attention. Mr. Barker, the father, is the most bearable man I have
seen in this country; and the daughters vastly above the stile of the misses
here: Lady Belmont intends to take them this winter with her to town, as she
does, every year, some gentleman’s daughter in her neighbourhood.
Adieu! I am peevish
beyond measure, and scarce know what I would be at. Have you never these kinds
of feels? Never fretful, you cannot tell why? It is well for you, you are not
here: a lover and a favourite lap-dog have a dreadful life on these occasions;
or indeed any animal one can use ill with impunity. Strangely severe to-day; do
not you perceive it?
Six o’Clock. Ten thousand times
more peevish than ever: we have just had a visit from "the best kind of
woman in the world," and her daughter, "an amiable and accomplished
young lady," who writes verses and journals, paints, makes shell-flowers,
cuts paper, and has "every qualification to render the marriage state
happy;" talks of the charms of rural retirement, the pleasures of
reflexion, the beauties of the mind; and sings, "Love’s a gentle generous
passion." It was not in nature to have stood it a quarter of an hour.
Heaven be praised! the play hour is come, and the coaches are at the door.
Eleven o’Clock. We have
seen them enact Juliet and Romeo. Lady Julia seemed to sympathize with the
heroine:
"I’ll not wed
Paris; Romeo is my husband."
WE have been all
extremely busy today, celebrating a harvest home; a long procession of our
village youths, all drest gaily in fine shirts, adorned with ribbands, paired
with the handsomest of the country girls, in white jackets and petticoats,
garlands of flowers and wheat-ears on their heads, their rakes streaming with
various coloured ribbands, which glittered in the sun-beams, preceded the
harvest cart; on which, in a bower of green boughs, stood a beautiful little
girl, drest in the rural stile, with inimitable elegance, by the hands of Lady
Julia herself. The gay procession walked slowly through the village; a tabor
and pipe playing before them, till they came before the house, where they
danced a thousand little rustic dances, the novelty of which charmed me
extremely: they then adjourned to the hall, where a plentiful feast was
provided, and where the whole village were that night my Lord’s guests.
Lord Belmont is
extremely fond of all these old customs, and will suffer none of them to be
left off on his estate. The prospect of this festivity, he says, chears them in
their labor, and is a laudable tribute of gladness to that beneficent Being, to
whose bounty we owe the full reward of our toil, the plenteous harvest, and who
rejoices in the happiness of his creatures.
Besides, says my Lord,
all these amusements encourage a spirit of matrimony, and encrease the number
of my people.
And pray, my dear Lord,
to they encourage no other spirit?
No, Madam; Lady Belmont’s
anger and mine would, in such a case, they know, contrary to that of the world,
fall chiefly where it ought, on the seducer, who would be for ever expelled my
estate, the heaviest punishment I could possibly inflict. Then, as I am a
declared enemy to interested marriages, the young people are allowed to chuse
for themselves, which removes the temptation to vice, which is generally caused
by the shameful avarice of parents.
Our example too is of
great service, and allures them to a regular behaviour; they think that must be
the happiest life, which we, who have the power of chusing, prefer; and
therefore it is the fashion amongst them to be regular, and seek their
happiness, as we do, at home.
I believe my Lord is
right: I am well pleased too, he throws the blame on you he wretches, and
excuses the poor lasses. In the eye of the world it is to be sure "toute
au contraire;" but my Lord and Lady Belmont are so singular as to see with
their own eyes.
Adieu! We are all to go
down one dance with the villagers; and I hear the tabor and pipe.
Oh! Heavens! a coach
and six, in the Mandeville livery! a running footman; it must by Lady Mary; I
will enquire. It is herself; my Lord flies to receive her in the court; Lady
Belmont and Lady Julia are at the door; she alights; I never saw her before;
her figure is striking, full of dignity, and that grace which is almost lost in
this generation; she enters the house, leaning on my Lord. I am grieved Harry
is gone; I wished her to be some time with him; she only just saw him as he
;came through London in his way to Belmont.
But I must go to pay my
respects. Adieu!
AS I was sitting alone
this morning at the inn looking out at a window, I saw ride into the yard Mr.
Herbert, the gentleman to whom I took so strong an inclination at Lord T
--mdash; ’s, and for whose character I have the highest esteem. He saw me, and
springing eagerly from his horse, sent to know if I would admit him. He came,
and, after expressing some surprize at seeing me there, on my telling him I had
left Lord T --mdash; ’s, and waited there a few days for letters, he insisted
on my spending that time at his house, in a manner which it was impossible for
me to refuse. As we rode, he apologized for the entertainment I should meet
with; wished for a larger share of the gifts of fortune, that he might receive
his friends in a manner more suited to his desires; but said, if he knew me,
the heart of the host was all I should care for; and that I should relish the
homely meat of chearful friendship, as well as the splendid profusion of luxury
and pride.
We arrived at a neat
house, with a little romantic garden behind it, where we were received by Mrs.
Herbert with that hospitable air which is inseparable from real benevolence of
heart. Her person was extremely pleasing, and her dress elegantly plain. She
had a little boy sitting by her, lovely and playful as a Cupid.
Neatness and propriety
presided at our frugal meat; and, after a little desert of excellent fruit from
their garden, Mr. Herbert took me the tour of his estate, which consists of
about seventy acres, which he cultivates himself, and has embellished with
every thing that can make it lovely: all has the appearance of content and
peace: I observed this to him, and added, that I infinitely envied his
happiness. He stopped, and looked earnestly at me; I am indeed, said he, happy
in many things; and, though my fortune is greatly below my birth and hopes, I
am not in want: things may be better; till then, I bear them as I can: my wife,
whose worth outweighs all praise, combats our ill fate with a spirit I cannot
always imitate; for her, Mr. Mandeville, for her, I feel with double keenness
the stings of adversity.
I observed him too much
affected to pursue the subject farther; I therefore changed it, and returned to
the house: but I will not leave him till I am instructed how to draw the worm
of discontent from one of the worthiest of human bosoms.
Write to me here. I
shall stay till I know when my father will be in the country. Adieu!
I AM charmed with Lady
Mary; her address is easy, polite, attentive; she is tall, brown, well made,
and perfectly graceful; her air would inspire awe, if not softened by the
utmost sweetness and affability of behaviour. She has great vivacity in her
looks and manner; her hair is quite white: her eyes have lost their lustre, yet
it is easy to see she has been very handsome; her hand and arm are yet lovely,
of which she is not a little vain: take her for all in all, she is the finest
ruin I ever beheld.
She is full of
anecdotes of the Queen’s time, chosen with judgment, and told with spirit,
which makes her conversation infinitely amusing. She has been saying so many
fine things of Harry, who by the way strongly resembles her, that I begin to
think the good old Lady has a matrimonial design upon him: really not amiss
such a scheme; fine remains, an affluent fortune, and as to years, eighty is
absolutely the best age I know for a wife, except eighteen. She thinks him,
what is extremely in his favor, very like her brother, who was killed at the
battle of Almanza.
She has the
talkativeness of age, which where there is sense and knowledge of the world, I
do not dislike; she is learned in genealogy, and can tell you not only the
intermarriages, but the family virtues and vices, of every ancient house in the
kingdom; as to the modern ones, she does not think them worth studying. I am
high in her favor, because my blood has never been contaminated by a city
marriage. She tells me, the women of my family have always been famous for a
certain ease and bon air, which she is glad to see is not lost; and that my
grand-mother was the greatest ornament of Queen Mary’s court. She has a great
contempt for the present race of beauties, says the very idea of grace is
almost lost, and that we see nothing now but meer pretty women; that she can
only account for this, by supposing the trifling turn of their minds gives an
insignificance to their persons; and that she would advise them to learn to
think and act, in order to their being able to look and move, with dignity.
"You, nephew, she says, "who remember each bright Churchill of the
Galaxy, will readily come into my opinion." She does me the honor,
however, to say I am the most graceful woman she has seen since the Queen’s
time.
She is a great
politician, and something inclined to be a tory, though she professes perfect
impartiality; loves the King, and idolizes the Queen, because she thinks she
sees in her the sweet affability so admired in her favorite Queen Mary––Forgives
the cits for their opposition to peace, because they get more money by war, the
criterion by which they judge every thing: but is amazed nobles, born guardians
of the just rights of the throne, the fountain of all their honors, should join
these interested Change-alley politicians, and endeavour, from private pique,
to weaken the hands of their sovereign: But adds, with a sigh, that mankind
were always alike, and that it was just so in the Queen’s time.
"But pray, nephew,
this Canada;–I remember when Hill was sent against it in the Queen’s time, it
was thought of great consequence; and two or three years ago pamphlets were
wrote, I am told by men very well born, to prove it was the only point we ought
to have in view; but a point in which we could scarce hope to succeed. Is it
really so trifling an acquisition? And how comes the nature of it to be so
changed now we are likely to keep it?"
"The terms of
peace talked of, madam, said Lord Belmont, if we consider them in the only just
light, their relation to the end for which war was undertaken, are such as
wisdom and equity equally dictate. Canada, considered merely as the possession
of it gives security to our colonies, is of more national consequence to us
than all our Sugar-islands on the globe: but, if the present inhabitants are
encouraged to stay, by the mildness of our laws, and that full liberty of
conscience to which every rational creature has a right; if they are taught, by
every honest art, a love for that constitution which makes them free, and a
personal attachment to the best of princes; if they are allured to our
religious worship, by seeing it in its genuine beauty, equally remote from
their load of trifling ceremonies and the unornamented forms of the dissenters:
if population is encouraged; the waste lands settled; and a whale fishery set
on foot, we shall find it, considered in every light, an acquisition beyond our
most sanguine hopes."
O Ciel! I am tired.
Adieu!
I AM still with Mr.
Herbert, whose genius, learning, and goodness of heart, make him an honor to
human nature itself: I shall never know peace till I find a way to render his
situation more worthy of his character.
It was with great
difficulty I drew from him the following short account of himself.
"There is nothing
in my past life but what is, I fear, too usual to be worth relating. Warmth of
temper, and the vanity of youth, seduced me into a circle of company not to be
kept up, by one of my fortune, at a less price than ruin; and the same vanity, with
inexperience and a false opinion of mankind, betrayed me into views not less
destructive.
My father unhappily
died when I was about nineteen, leaving me at college, master of my own
actions, of the little estate you see, and of four thousand pounds; a sum I
then thought inexhaustible. The reputation of such a sum in my own power drew
about me all the worthless young men of fashion in the university, whose
persuasions and examples led me into a train of expence to which my fortune was
far from being equal; they flattered those talents of which I thought but too
well myself, and easily persuaded me I only wanted to be known in the great
world to rise to what height I pleased. I accompanied them to town, full of the
idea of raising my fortune, to which they assured me nothing so much
contributed as the appearance of being perfectly at ease. To this end I
launched into every expence they proposed; dress, equipage, play, and every
fashionable extravagance. I was well received every where, and thought my designs
in a prosperous way. I found my fortune however decaying at the end of two
years, but had not courage to enquire into particulars; till, drawing upon my
banker for money to pay some debts I had unwarily contracted, he told me he had
already paid the whole.
It was some time before
he could convince me of this; but, finding his accounts had all the appearance
of exactness, I was obliged to acquiesce, and went home in an agony of despair.
Unable to quit a way of life which was become habitual, and which it was now
impossible to support without dishonesty, there is no describing my feelings.
After revolving a thousand different schemes in my imagination, I determined to
conceal the situation of my affairs, to sell my estate, and, before that money
was gone, press my great friends to serve me.
I applied to my banker,
who undertook to send me a purchaser; but, before I had compleated my design, I
received by the post a bank note of five hundred pounds, the sum I was indebted
in town; with a letter, in a hand unknown to me, representing, in the most
delicate manner, the imprudence of my past conduct, the madness of my views,
and the certain consequences of my parting wish this my last stake: intreating
me, by the memory of my parents, to preserve this sacred deposit, this little
remain of what their tender care had left me.
Melted with this
generosity, struck with the just reproof, yet chained down to that world which
had undone me; convinced, yet irresolute; I struggled with my own heart to
determine on retiring into the country; but, to postpone as long as possible a
retreat, which I could not bear to think of, resolved first to try my great
friends, and be certain of what I had to hope for. I represented to them the
necessity of immediately attempting in earnest to push my fortune; and,
pressing them closely, found their promises were air. They talked in general
terms of their esteem for me, of my merit; and each of them expressed the
warmest desire of seeing me served by any means but his own. In order to animate
their languid friendship, I discovered to them the real state of my affairs;
and from that moment found myself avoided by them all; they dropped me by
degrees: were never at home when I called; and at length ceased even to bow to
me in public. Ashamed of their own baseness in thus cruelly deserting me, after
leading me into ruin, most of them fought to excuse it by blackening my
character; whilst the best of them affected coldly to pity me, as a vain
foolish fellow, who had undone himself by forgetting his own primeval
situation, and arrogantly presuming to live with them.
Burning with
indignation, I determined at once to break the bands which held me captive. I
sold my equipage, discharged my debts, and came down to this place, resolved to
find out to whom I had been so obliged; and, by living on half my income, to
repay this generous benefactor.
I took lodgings in a
farm-house, and soon found that peace of mind to which I had long been a
stranger. I tried every method to find out to whom I was indebted for an act of
such exalted friendship, but in vain; till one day, a relation being present,
of whom I had some suspicion, I related the story, as of another, keeping my
eyes fixed upon him; he remained perfectly unmoved; but, happening to turn my
head, I saw a confusion in the air of a young lady in the room, with whom I had
been bred in the greatest intimacy, which excited all my attention. She saw me
observe her, and a blush overspread her cheek, which convinced me I had found
the object of my search. I changed the subject; and the next morning made her a
visit, when I with great difficulty drew from her a confession, that, ;having
long had a tender esteem for me, she had, by a friend in town, watched all my
actions: that my banker had applied to that very friend to purchase my estate;
on which, seeing me on the brink of absolute ruin, she had taken what appeared
to her the most probably means to prevent it; and was so happy as to see she
had succeeded.
I dare say, I need not
tell you this noble creature was my dear Mrs. Herbert; the smallness of whose
fortune added infinitely to the generosity of the action, what she had sent me
being within a trifle her all.
I loved, I addressed
her, and, at length, was so happy as to call her mine. Blest in the most exalted
passion for each other, a passion which time has rather encreased than abated,
the narrowness of our circumstances is the only ill we have to complain of;
even this we have borne with chearfulness, in the hope of happier days. A late
accident has, however, broke in upon that tranquillity with which Heaven has
hitherto blest us. It is now about six months since a Lady, who tenderly
esteemed us both, sent for me, and acquainted me she had procured for me of a
gentleman, whose family had been obliged to her, a living of above three
hundred pounds a year, in a beautiful situation; and desired I would
immediately take orders. As I was originally educated with a view to the
church, I consented with inexpressible joy, blessing that Heaven, which had
thus rewarded my Sophia’s generous affection, and given us all that was wanting
to compleat our happiness. I set out for London with an exulting heart; where,
after being ordained, I received the presentation, and went down to take
possession. The house was large and elegant, and betrayed me into furnishing it
rather better than suited my present circumstances; but, as I determined on the
utmost frugality for some years, I thought this of little consequence. I set
men to work in the garden; and wrote my wife an account of our new residence,
which made her eager to hasten her removal. The day of my coming for my family
was fixed, when my patron came down to this seat, which was within sight of the
rectory; I waited on him, and found him surrounded by wretches to whom it was
scarce possible to give the name of human; profligate, abandoned, lost even to
the sense of shame; their conversation wounded reason, virtue, politeness, and
all that mankind agreed to hold sacred. My patron, the wealthy heir of a West
Indian, was raised above them, only by fortune and a superior degree of
ignorance and savage insensibility. He received me with an insolence, which I
found great difficulty in submitting to: and, after some brutal general
reflexions on the clergy, dared to utter expressions relating to the beauty of
my wife, which fired my soul with indignation: breathless with rage, I had not
power to reply: when, one of the company speaking low to him, he answered
aloud, Hark you, Herbert, this blockhead thinks a parson a gentleman; and
wonders at my treating, as I please, a fellow who eats my bread.
I will sooner want
bread, Sir, said I, rising, than owe it to the most contemptible of mankind.
Your living is once more at your disposal; I resign all right to it before this
company.
The pleasure of having
acted as I ought swelled my bosom with a conscious delight, and supported me
till I reached home; when my heart sunk at the thought of what my Sophia might
feel from the disappointment. Our affairs too were a little embarrassed, from
which misery I had hoped to be set free, instead of which my debts were
increased. Mr. Mandeville, if you never knew the horrors of being in debt, you
can form no idea of what it is to breathe the air at the mercy of another; to
labor, to struggle to be just, whilst the cruel world are loading you with the
guilt of injustice.
I entered the house,
filled with horrors not to be conceived. My wife met me with eager enquiries
about our future residence; and with repeated thanks to that God who had thus
graciously bestowed on us the means of doing justice to all the world. You will
imagine what I felt at that moment: instead of replying, I related to her the
treatment I had met with, and the character of him to whom we were to be
obliged; and asked her, what she would wish me to do? Resign the living, said
she, and trust to that Heaven whose goodness is over all his creatures. I
embraced her with tears of tender transport, and told her I had already done
it. We wrote to the Lady to whose friendship we had been obliged for the
presentation; and she had the greatness of mind not to disapprove my conduct.
We have since practised a more severe frugality, which we are determined not to
relax till what we owe is fully discharged: time will, we hope, bring about
this end, and remove the load which now oppresses my heart. Determined to trust
to Heaven and our own industry, and to aim at independence alone, I have
avoided all acquaintance which could interfere with this only rational plan:
but Lord T --mdash; , seeing me at the house of a nobleman whose virtues do
honour to his rank, and imagining my fortune easy from my cordial reception
there, invited me earnestly to his seat; where, having, as I suppose, been
since undeceived as to my situation, you were a witness of his unworthy
treatment of me; of one descended from a family noble as his own, liberally
educated, with a spirit equally above meanness and pride, and a heart which
feels too sensibly to be happy in a world like this.
Oh! Mr. Mandeville!
What can you think of him, who, instead of pouring out his soul in thankfulness
to Heaven for those advantages he enjoys by his goodness above his
fellow-creatures, makes use of them to would the bosom of the wretched, and add
double bitterness to the cup of adversity?
The real evils of a
narrow fortune are trifling; its worst pangs spring from the unfeeling cruelty
of others; it is not always that philosophy can raise us above the proud man’s
contumely, or those thousand insults
"Which patient
merit of th’ unworthy takes."
You, Mr. Mandeville,
are young, and full of probity; your own heart will mislead you, by drawing too
flattering a picture of others; the world is gay before you; and, blinded by
prosperity, you have never yet seen it as it is. I have heard you with infinite
concern hint designs too like my own; let me intreat, let me conjure you, to
profit by my example; if peace is worth your care, be content with your
paternal fortune, however small; nor, by rashly launching on the flattering sea
of hope, hazard that shipwreck which I have suffered."
Mordaunt! Is not this
the voice of Heaven? I will return to the bosom of independence, and give up
designs in which it is almost impossible for modest worth to succeed.
My father is in town; I
will go to him when he returns; his advice shall determine my future conduct.
A letter from Lady
Julia: my servant has this moment brought it from Lord T --mdash; ’s, whither I
desired it to be directed/; not chusing to let them know I have put an end to
my visit, lest Lord Belmont should insist on my return.
IN what words shall I
assure the most amiable of men he has nothing to fear from Lord Melvin? If he
knows my heart, he knows it incapable of change; he knows, not his own generous
spirit more disdains the low consideration of fortune; he knows, I can have but
one wish, that this accidental advantage was on his side, that he might taste
the transport of obliging her he loves.
My duty, my gratitude
to the best of parents, forbids my entering into present engagements without
his knowledge; nor will I make future ones, which would have in view an event
on which I cannot think without horror: but his commands, were he capable of
acting so inconsistently with his past indulgent goodness, would be
insufficient to make me give my hand to Lord Melvin, when my heart is fixedly
another’s.
I may, perhaps, assume
courage to own my sensibility, a sensibility justified by such merit in the
object, to the tenderest of mothers and friends: in the mean time, defer your
return to Belmont, and hope every thing from time, my father’s friendship, and
my unalterable esteem–Esteem did I say? Where did I learn this coldness of
expression? Let me own, though I am covered with blushes whilst I write, it is
from my love, my ardent love, from a passion which is the pride and boast of my
life, that the most charming of mankind has every thing to hope: if his
happiness depends on my affection, he is happy.
You shall hear from me
by Lady Anne and my beloved Emily; at present, you will not ask to hear from
me.
Adieu! Oh! Mordaunt!
How shall I restrain the wild transports of my heart! "Her love, her most
ardent love"–How could I suspect her truth?–No, my friend, I ask no more;
I will not return to Belmont; certain of her tenderness, I submit, without
repining, to her commands.
Unable, however, to
resist the desire of being near her, I will go privately to a little farm, four
miles from Belmont, of which it has a view; which is rented by an old servant
of my father’s, whose son is in love with one of Lady Belmont’s maids, and from
whom I shall hear daily accounts of Lady Julia; as it is near the road, I may
even have a chance of seeing her pass by.
I shall leave my
servants at the inn, and order all my letters hither: Mr. Herbert will convey
them to me, and keep the secret of my retreat.
Great Heaven! I shall
to-night be near her, I shall behold the turrets of Belmont? It is even
possible I may see the dear object of all my wishes. A thousand sweet ideas
rise in my mind. My heart dances with pleasure.
Mordaunt! she loves me,
she will never be another’s.
This passion absorbs me
wholly: I had almost forgot my friend; go to my banker’s; take a hundred
pounds, and send it by the post to Mr. Herbert, without letting him know from
whence it comes. Why is this trifle all that is in my power to do for worth
like his? If a happier fate–But let me not encourage the sanguine hopes of
youth.
I will introduce him to
Lord Belmont, the friend of virtue, the support of the unhappy, the delegate of
Heaven itself.
A PRETTY sentimental
letter your last, and would make an admirable figure in a true history of
Celadon and Urania. Absolutely though, Bellville, for people who have
sensibility, and so little prospect of coming together in an honorable way, we
are a most extraordinary pair of lovers. And yet the world–à propos to the
world, a French author I am reading says, A wise writer, to divert the fury of
criticism from his works, should throw it now and then an indiscretion in his
conduct to play with, as seamen do a tub to the whale.
Do not you think this
might be a useful hint to us beauties? If I treat the good old ladies sometimes
with a little imprudence in regard to you, my complexion may escape the better
for it.
We are just returned
from a party on the water, which, like most concerted parties, turned out
exceedingly dull: we had gilded barges, excellent musick, an elegant repast,
and all that could invite Pleasure amongst us; but whether her Ladyship be a
true coquette, flying fastest when pursued, or what is the reason I know not,
but certain it is, one seldom finds her when one goes to seek her; her visits
are generally spontaneous and unexpected; she rejects all invitations, and
comes upon you in her own way, by surprize. I set off in high spirits, my heart
beating with expectation, and never past a more languid day; I fancied every
moment would be pleasanter, but found the last hour as spiritless as the first.
I saw chagrin and disappointment in the eyes of half the company, especially
the younger part of it. Lady Julia seemed to say, "All this would be
charming, if Harry Mandeville was here." My own ideas were something
similar, I could not keep my imagination from wandering a little to
Grosvenor-street; most of the misses were in the same situation, whilst the
good old people seemed perfectly satisfied; which convinces me that, at a
certain time of life, there is no pleasure without the heart; where that is
untouched, and takes no part in your amusements, all is still life and
vegetation: it is in vain to expect enjoyment from outward objects, where the
soul is from home.
I missed my sweet Harry
exceedingly; for, though not a lover, he is a divine fellow; and there is
something vastly amusing in having so agreeable an object before one’s eyes.
Whenever I make a party
of pleasure, it shall consist all of lovers, who have not met for a
twelvemonth.
Who should we meet on
our return, but Fondville, in a superb barge, full of company, dying at the
feet of the Cittadina, who was singing a melting Italian air. Yes, we are to be
Lady Viscountess Fondville, all is agreed, the cloaths bespoke, our very
garters interwoven with coronets. I shall get off before the days of
visitation, for there will be no supporting Madame la Viscomtesse.
I have been talking
half an hour tete à tete with Lady Mary; and have let her into the secret of
little Westbrook’s passion for Harry: She drew up at the very mention; was
astonished, that a creature of yesterday could think of mixing his blood with
that of Mandeville; and declared she knew but twenty houses in Europe into
which she should ever consent to Harry’s marrying.
I took this opportunity
of giving a hint of his inclination for Lady Julia, but am doubtful whether she
understood me. Oh! that he had Lord Melvin’s expectations! But why do I wish
for impossibilities? Let me rather wish, what is next to impossible, that Lord
Belmont would overlook the want of them!
O Ciel! Une avanture!
Making use of the sweet liberty of Belmont, which has no rule but that of the
Thelemites, "Do what thou wilt," I left them after dinner to settle
family affairs, and ordered my chariot to take a solitary airing: an old cat,
however, arriving just as it came to the door, who is a famous proficient in
scandal, a treat I am absolutely deprived of at Belmont; I changed my mind, and
asked her to accompany me, that I might be amused with the secret history of
all the neighbourhood.
She had torn to pieces
half a dozen of the prettiest women about us, when, passing through a little
village about six miles from Belmont, I was struck with the extreme neatness of
a small house and garden near the road; there was an elegant plainness in the
air of it, which pleased me so much that I pulled the string, and ordered the
coachman to stop, that I might examine it more at leisure. I was going to bid
him drive on, when two women came out of an arbor, one of whom instantly
engaged all my attention.
Imagine to yourself in
such a place all that is graceful and lovely in woman; an elegance of form and
habit; a dignity of deportment; an air of delicate languor and sensibility,
which won the heart at a look; a complexion inclining to pale; the finest dark
eyes; with a countenance in which a modest sorrow and dignified dejection gave
the strongest indications of suffering merit.
My companion, seeing
the apparent partiality with which I beheld this amiable object, began to give
me the history of her, embittered by all the virulence of malice; which,
however, amounted to no more, than that she was a stronger, and that, as nobody
knew who she was, they generously concluded she was one whose interest it was
not to be known.
They now drew nearer to
us; and the charming creature, raising her eyes, and then first seeing us,
exclaimed, Good Heaven! Lady Anne Wilmot! Is it possible! I now regarded her
more attentively; and, though greatly changed since I saw her, knew her to be Bell
Hastings, Mr. Wilmot’s niece, whom I had been long endeavouring to find. I
sprung from the chariot to meet her, and need not tell you my transport at so
unexpected a rencounter.
After the common
enquiries on meeting, I expressed my surprize at finding her there, with a
gentle reproach at her unkindness in being in England without letting me know
it. She blushed, and seemed embarrassed at what I said; on which I changed the
subject, and pressed her to accompany me immediately to Belmont, the place on earth
where merit like hers was most sure of finding its best reward, esteem. She
declined this proposal in a manner which convinced me she had some particular
reason for refusing, which I doubted not her taking a proper time to explain,
and therefore gave it up for the present. I insisted, however, on her promising
to go with me to town; and that nothing but a matrimonial engagement should
separate her from. There is no describing the excess of her gratitude; tears of
tender sensibility shone in her eyes; and I could see her bosom swell with
sensations to which she could not give utterance.
An hour passed without
my having thought of my meagre companion at the gate. I was not sorry for
having accidentally mortified the envious wretch for her spite to poor Bell.
However, as I would not designedly be shocking, I sent to her, and apologized
for my neglect, which I excused from my joy at meeting unexpectedly with a
relation for whom I had the tenderest friendship. The creature alighted at my
request; and, to make amends for the picture she had drawn of my amiable niece,
overwhelmed her with civilities and expressions of esteem, which would have
encreased my contempt for her, if any thing in nature could.
After tea we returned,
when I related my adventure, and, though so late, could scarce prevail on Lady
Belmont to defer her visit to Bell till to-morrow. She hopes to be able to
prevail on her to accompany us back to Belmont.
I Write this from my
new abode, a little sequestered farm, at the side of a romantic wood: there is
an arbor in the thickest grove of intermingled jessamines and roses. Here
William mediates future happy hours, when joined to his lovely Anna: he has
adorned it with every charm of nature, to please the mistress of his soul. Here
I pass my sweetest hours: here William brings me news of Lady Julia; he is this
moment returned; he saw her walking to the rustic temple, leaning on Emily
Howard: he tells me she sighed as she past him. Oh! Mordaunt! was that sigh for
me?
Not certain Lady Julia
would forgive my being so near her, or a concealment which has so guilty an
air, I have enjoined William secrecy even to his Anna, and bribed it by a
promise of making him happy. My letters therefore come round by Mr. Herbert’s,
and it is three days before I receive them. I have not yet heard from Belmont,
or my father. I am supposed to be still at Lord T --mdash; ’s.
Ever an enthusiast,
from warmth of heart and imagination, my whole soul is devoted to Lady Julia. I
pass my days in carving that loved name on the rinds of the smoothest trees:
and, when the good old man retires to his rest, William and I steal forth, and
ride to the end of Belmont Park, where, having contemplated the dear abode of
all that earth contains of lovely, and breathed an ardent prayer to Heaven for
her happiness, I return to my rustic retreat, and wait patiently till the next
evening brings back the same pleasing employment.
Since I left Belmont, I
have never known happiness like what I now feel. Certain of her tenderness,
tranquillity is restored to my soul: for ever employed in thinking of her, that
painful restraint which company brought is removed; the scenes around me, and
the dear solitude I enjoy, are proper to flatter a love-sick heart; my passion
is soothed by the artless expression of William’s; I make him sit hours talking
of his Anna: he brings me every day intelligence of my angel; I see every hour
the place which she inhabits. Am I not most happy? Her idea is perpetually
before me; when I walk in these sweet shades, so resembling those of Belmont, I
look round as if expecting to behold her; I start at every sound, and almost
fancy her lovely form in my view.
Oh! Mordaunt! what
transport do I find in this sweet delirium of love! How eagerly do I expect the
return of evening! Could I but once again behold her! once again swear eternal
passion --mdash; I have a thousand things to say.
I Have this moment a
letter from Bell Hastings, which I send you: I wish her here, yet know not how
to press it, after so rational an apology.
BEFORE I absolutely
accept or refuse your Ladyship’s generous invitation, allow me to account to
you for my being in a place where you so little expected to find me; but which
I am convinced you will acquiesce in my continuing in, when you know the
motives which induced me to make choice of it.
When my uncle married
your Ladyship, you remember he left me in a convent at Paris, where I staid
till his death. I should then have returned; but, having contracted a very
great friendship for a young Lady of the first quality in England, she pressed
me to continue there till her return, which was fixed for the year following.
About three months before we intended to leave Paris, her brother arrived, on
which occasion she left the convent, and went to spend her remaining time with
an aunt who then resided in France, and who, being told I had staid the last
year in complaisance to her amiable niece, insisted on my accompanying her. To
spare a long narrative of common events, the brother of my friend became
passionately in love with me, and I was so unhappy as to be too sensible to his
tenderness: he entreated me to conceal our attachment from his sister for the
present; professed the most honourable designs; told me he did not doubt of
bring his father to consent to a marriage, to which there could be no objection
that was not founded in the most sordid avarice, and on which the happiness of
his life depended.
The time of our
intended return to England drawing near, he employed, and successfully, the
power he had over my heart to influence my acceptance of an invitation give me,
by a friend of my mother’s, to accompany her to Florence, where I promised to
stay till his return from Rome.
Too much in love, as he
said, and I weakly believed, to support a longer absence, he came in a few
months to Florence; we were then in the country with a Florentine Nobleman,
whose Lady was related to my friend, to whom he was strongly recommended, and
who gave him an invitation to his villa; which I need not tell you he accepted.
We saw each other continually, but under a restraint, which, whilst it
encreased our mutual passion, was equally painful to both. At length he
contrived to give me a letter, pressing me to see him alone in the garden at an
hour he mentioned. I went, and found the most beloved of men waiting for me in
a grove of oranges. He saw me at a distance: I stopped by an involuntary
impulse; he ran to me; he approached me with a transport which left me no room
to doubt of his affection.
After an hour spent in
vows of everlasting love, he pressed me to marry him privately; which I refused
with an air of firmness but little suited to the state of my heart, and
protested no consideration should ever induce me to give him my hand without
the consent of his father.
He expressed great
resentment of a resolution, which, he affirmed, was inconsistent with a real
passion; pretended jealousy of a young Nobleman in the house, and artfully
hinted at returning immediately to England; then, softening his voice, implored
my compassion, vowed he could not live without me; and so varied his behaviour
from rage to the most seducing softness, that the fear of displeasing him, who
was dearer to me than life, assisted by the tender persuasive eloquence of
well-dissembled love, so far prevailed over the dictates of reason and strict
honor, that, unable to resist his despair, I consented to a clandestine
marriage: I then insisted on returning immediately to the house, to which he
consented, though unwillingly, and, leaving me with all the exulting raptures
of successful love, went to Florence to prepare a priest to unite us, promising
to return with him in the morning: the next day passed, and the next, without
my hearing of him; a whole week elapsed in the same manner: convinced of his
affection, my fears were all for his safety; my imagination presented danger in
every form, and, no longer able to support the terrors of my mind filled with a
thousand dreadful ideas, I sent a servant to enquire for him at the house where
he lodged, who brought me word he had left Florence the very morning on which I
expected his return. Those only who have loved like me can conceive what I felt
at this news; but judge into what an abyss of misery I was plunged, on
receiving a few hours after a letter from his sister, pressing me to return to
her at Paris, where she was still waiting, in compliance with order from home
for her brother, who was to accompany her to England directly, to marry an
heiress for whom he had been long intended by his father; she added that I must
not lose a moment, for that her brother would, before I could receive the
letter, be on the road to Paris.
Rage, love, pride,
resentment, indignation, now tore my bosom alternately. After a conflict of
different passions, I determined on forgetting my unworthy lover, whose neglect
appeared to me the contemptible insolence of superior fortune: I left the place
the next day, as if for Paris; but, taking the nearest way to England, came
hither to a clergyman’s widow, who had been a friend of my mother’s; to whom I
told my story, and with whom I determined to stay concealed, till I heard the
fate of my lover. I made a solemn vow, in the first heat of my resentment,
never to write to him, or let him know my retreat, and, though with infinite
difficulty, I have hitherto kept it. But what have I not suffered for this
conduct, which, though my reason dictates, my heart condemns! A thousand times
have I been on the point of discovering myself to him, and at least giving him
an opportunity of vindicating himself. I accused myself of injustice in
condemning him unheard, and on appearances which might be false. So weak is a heart
in love, that, though, when I chose my place of retreat, I was ignorant of that
circumstance, it was with pleasure, though a pleasure I endeavoured to hide
from myself, that I heard it was only ten miles from his father’s eat. I ought
certainly to have changed it on this knowledge, but find a thousand plausible
reasons to the contrary, and am but too successful in deceiving myself.
Convinced of the
propriety of my conduct in avoiding him, I am not the more happy. My heart
betrays me, and represents him continually to my imagination in the most
amiable light, as a faithful lover, injured by my suspicions, and made wretched
by my loss.
Torn by sentiments
which vary every moment; the struggles of my soul have impaired my health, and
will in time put an end to a life, to the continuance of which, without him, I
am perfectly indifferent.
Determined, however, to
persist in a conduct, which, whatever I suffer from it, is certainly my duty, I
cannot, as I hear he is returned, consent to come to Belmont; where it is
scarce possible I should fail meeting a man of his rank, who must undoubtedly
be of Lord Belmont’s acquaintance.
’Till he is married, or
I am convinced I have injured him, I will not leave this retreat; at least I
will not appear where I am almost certain of meeting him whom I ought for ever
to avoid.
Oh! Lady Anne! How
severe is this trial! How painful the conquest over the sweetest affections of
the human heart! How mortifying to love an object which one has ceased to
esteem! Convinced of his unworthiness, my passion remains the same, nor will
ever cease but with life: I at once despise and adore him: yes, my tenderness
is, if possible, more lively than ever; and, though he has doomed me to misery,
I would die to contribute to his happiness.
You, Madam, will, I
know, pity and forgive the inconsistencies of a heart ashamed of its own
weaknesses, yet to sincere to disguise or palliate them. I am no stranger to
your nobleness of sentiment; in your friendship and compassion all my hopes of
tranquillity are founded. I will endeavour to conquer this ill-placed
prepossession, and render myself more worthy your esteem. If his marriage with
another makes it impossible for him to suppose I throw myself designedly in his
way, I will go with you to town in the winter, and try if the hurry of the
world can erase his image from my bosom. If he continues unconnected, and no
accident clears up to me his conduct, I will continue where I am, and for ever
hide my folly in this retreat.
I am, &c. A. Hastings Poor
Bell! how I pity her! Heaven certainly means love for our reward in another
world, it so seldom makes it happy in this. But why do we blame Heaven? It is
our own prejudices, our rage for wealth, our cowardly compliance with the
absurd opinions of others, which robs us of all the real happiness of life.
I should be glad to
know who this despicable fellow is: though really it is possible she may injure
him. I must know his name, and find out whether or not she is torturing herself
without reason. If he bears scrutinizing, our plans may coincide, and my
jointure make us all happy; if not, he shall have the mortification of knowing
she has an easy fortune; and of seeing her, what it shall be my business to
make her next winter, one of the most fashionable women, and celebrated toasts,
about town.
After all, are we not a
little in the machine style, not to be able to withdraw our love when our
esteem is at an end? I suppose one might find a philosophical reason for this
in Newton’s Laws of Attraction. The heart of a woman does, I imagine, naturally
gravitate towards a handsome, well dressed, well-bred fellow, without enquiry
into his mental qualities. Nay, as to that, do not let me be partial to you
odious men; you have as little taste for mere internal charms as the lightest
coquette in town. You talk sometimes of the beauties of the mind; but I should
be glad, as somebody has said very well, to see one of you in love with a mind
of threescore.
I am really sorry for
Bell; but hope to bring her out of these heroics by Christmas. The town air,
and being followed five or six weeks as a beauty, will do wonders. I know no
specific for a love-fit like a constant round of pretty fellows.
The world, I dare say,
will soon restore her to her senses; it is impossible she should ever regain
them in a lonely village, with no company but an old woman.
How dearly we love to
nurse up our follies! Bell, I dare say, fancies vast merit in this romantic
constancy to a man who, if he knew her absurdity, would laugh at it.
I have no patience with
my own sex, for their want of spirit.
Friday Night. O Heavens! who could
have thought it? Of all the birds in the air, find me out Lord Melvin for Bell
Hasting’s lover: Nothing was ever so charming: to tell the story, which does
his business here in a moment; serves my lovely Harry, and punishes the wretch’s
infidelity as it deserves. Adieu! I fly to communicate.
Saturday Morning. All this is
very strange to me. Lord Belmont, to whom I last night mentioned Lord Melvin’s
connexion with Bell, as a reason against his marrying Lady Julia, assures me no
such thing was ever intended; that he was amazed how I came to think so; that
Lord Rochdale has other views for his son, to which, however, he is averse. I
am glad to hear this last circumstance; and hope Bell has wronged him by her
suspicions.
But who can this be
that is intended for Lady Julia? I do not love to be impertinent; but my
curiosity is rather excited. I shall not sleep till I am in this secret; I must
follow my Lord about till I get a clue to direct me. How shall I begin the
attack? "Really, my Lord, says I, this surprizes me extremely, I could
have sworn Lord Melvin was the person your Lordship meant; if it is not him,
who can it be?"
Yes, this will do; I
will go to him directly --mdash; Cruel man! how he plays with my anxiety! He is
gone out in a post-chaise with Lady Julia; the chaise drove from the door this
moment.
I can say not a word
more; I am on the rack of expectation; I could not be more anxious about a
lover of my own.
"The hear of an
earldom, and of an affluent fortune." I have tortured my brain this hour,
and not a scruple the nearer.
OH! Mordaunt! I have
seen her; have heard the sound of that enchanting voice; my Lord was in the
chaise with her; they stopped to drink fresh cream; William presented her a
nosegay; she thanked him with an air of sweetness, which would have won the
soul of a savage. My heart beat with unutterable transport; it was with
difficulty I restrained myself.
Mordaunt! I must
return; I can no longer bear this absence: I will write this moment to Lord
Belmont, and own my passion for his daughter: I will paint in the most lively
colors my love and my despair: I will tell him I have nothing to hope from the
world, and throw myself intirely on his friendship. I now the indiscretion of
this proceeding; I know I ought not to hope for success; but I have too long
concealed my sentiments, and pursued a conduct unworthy of my heart.
I have wrote; I have
sent away the letter. I have said all that can engage his heart in my favor;
to-morrow he will receive my letter–To-morrow–O Mordaunt! how soon will my fate
be determined! A chillness seizes me at the thought, my hand trembles, it is
with difficulty I hold the pen. I have entreated an immediate answer; it will
come inclosed to Mr. Herbert, to whom I have wrote to bring the letter himself.
On Wednesday I shall be the most happy or most lost of mankind. What a dreadful
interval will it be! My heart dies within me at the thought.
I AM commissioned by
Lady Anne, my dear Mr. Mandeville, to insist on your immediate return; she
declares she can no longer support the country without you, but shall die with
chagrin and ennui; even play itself has lost half its charms in your absence.
Lady Mary, my wife, and daughter, join in the same request; which I have a
thousand reasons to press your complying with, as soon as is consistent with
what politeness exacts in regard to Lord T --mdash; .
One, and not the
weakest, is the pleasure I find in conversation, a pleasure I never taste more
strongly than with you, and a pleasure which promiscuous visitors have for some
time ceased to give me. I have not lost my relish for society, but it grows, in
spite of all my endeavors, more delicate. I have as great pleasure as ever in
the conversation of select friends; but I cannot so well bear the common run of
company. I look on this delicacy as one of the infirmities of age, and as much
a symptom of decay, as it would be to lose my taste for roast beef, and be able
only to relish ortolans.
Lord Fondville is next
week to marry Miss Westbrook; they have a coach making, which is to cost a
thousand pounds.
I am interrupted by a
worthy man, to whom I am so sorry as to be able to do a service: to you I need
make no other apology.
CAN the most refined of
her sex, at the very moment when she owns herself shocked at Mrs. H --mdash; ’s
malicious insinuation, refuse to silence her by making me happy? Can she submit
to one of the keenest evils a sensible and delicate mind can feel, only to
inflict torment on the man whose whole happiness depends on her, and to whose
tenderness she has owned herself not insensible?
Seeing your averseness
to marriage, I have never pressed you on a subject which seemed displeasing to
you, but left it to time and my unwearied love, to dissipate those unjust and
groundless prejudices, which stood in the way of all my hopes: but does not
this respect, this submission, demand that you should strictly examine those
prejudices, and be convinced, before you make it, that they deserve such a
sacrifice?
Why will you, my
dearest Lady Anne, urge your past unhappiness as a reason against entering into
a state of which you cannot be a judge? You were never married; the soft
consent of hearts, the tender sympathy of yielding minds, was wanting: forced
by the will of a tyrannic father to take on you an insupportable yoke; too
young to assert the rights of humanity; the freedom of your will destroyed; the
name of marriage is profaned by giving it to so detestable an union.
You have often spoke
with pleasure of those sweet hours we past at Sudley-Farm. Can you then refuse
to perpetuate such happiness? Are there no charms in the unreserved converse of
the man who adores you? Or can you prefer the unmeaning flattery of fools you
despise, to the animated language of faithful love?
If you are still
insensible to my happiness, will not my interest prevail on you to relent? My
uncle, who has just lost his only son, offers to settle his whole estate on me,
on condition I immediately marry; a condition it depends on you alone whether I
shall comply with. If you refuse, he gives it on the same terms to a distant
relation, whose mistress has a less cruel heart. Have you so little generosity
as to condemn me at once to be poor and miserable; to lose the gifts both of
love and fortune?
I have wrote to Lady
Belmont to intercede for me, and trust infinitely more to her eloquence than my
own.
The only rational
objection to my happiness, my uncle’s estate removes; you will bring me his
fortune, and your own will make Bell Hastings happy: if you now refuse, you
have the heart of a tigress, and delight in the misery of others.
Interrupted: my uncle:
May all good angels guard the most amiable and lovely of women, and give her to
her passionate
"WILL you marry
me, my dear Ally Croaker?" For ever this question, Bellville? And yet
really you seem to be not at all in the secret. "Respect, submission"–I
thought you had known the sex better: How should a modest woman ever be prevailed
on by a respectful submissive lover? You would not surely have us––
Oh! Heavens! A billet.
Some despairing inamorato: Indeed? Lord Melvin? He is not going to make love to
me sure.
Very well; things are
in a fine train. He writes me here as pretty an heroic epistle as one would
desire, setting forth his passion for Bell Hastings, whom he has just
discovered is my niece, and whom he declares he cannot live without; owning
appearances are against him, and begging me to convey to her a long tidi didum letter,
explaining the reasons and causes– The story is tedious, but the sum total is
this: That he found at Florence the friend on earth he most loved, engaged in
an affair of honor, in which he could not avoid taking part as his second; that
they went to the last town in the Tuscan state, in order to escape into
another, if any accident made it necessary to elude the pursuit of justice;
that, to avoid suspicion, he left orders with his people to say he had left
Florence: that he wrote to her by his valet, who was unfortunately seized and
confined, the affair being suspected: that he was wounded, and obliged to stay
some time before he could return to Florence, when he was informed she had left
Italy; and, though he had omitted no means to find her, had never been so happy
as to succeed: had made his sister, Lady Louisa, his confident, and by her
assistance had almost prevailed on his father to consent.
"Almost prevailed
on." Really these are pretty airs. I shall write him an extremely stately
answer, and let him know, if he expects Miss Hastings to do him the honor, his
address must be in quite another style: Miss Hastings! in blood, in merit, in
education, in every thing truly valuable, and in fortune too, if I please, his
equal! I wish the foolish girl was not so madly in love with him, for I long to
torture his proud heart: I cannot resist teazing him a little; but, as I know
her weakness, and that we must come to at last, I shall be forced to leave a
door of mercy open: I shall, however, insist on his family’s seeking the match,
and on Lord Rochdale’s asking her of me in form; I will not yield a scruple of
our dignity on this occasion.
But I must carry this
Letter to Bell. Adieu!
As to your foolish
question, I may perhaps allow you to visit at Belmont; I will promise no more
at present.
Did I tell you we all
spent yesterday with my niece? She has the honor to please Lady Mary, who, on
seeing her at a little distance with Lady Julia and me (no ill group certainly)
insisted on our sitting next winter for a picture of the Graces dancing.
Or suppose, Madam, said
I, the three Goddesses on mount Ida, with Harry Mandeville for our Paris?
Poor little Emily,
being equally under size for a Grace or a Goddess, must be content to be a Hebe
in a single piece.
THIS event in Russia is
most extraordinary: but these sudden and violent revolutions are the natural
consequences of that instability which must ever attend despotic forms of
government: Happy Britain! where the laws are equally the guard of prince and
people, where liberty and prerogative go hand in hand, and mutually support
each other; where no invasion can ever be made on any part of the constitution,
without endangering the whole: where popular clamor, like the thunderstorm, by
agitating, clears and purifies the air, and, its business done, subsides.
If this letter finds
you at Lord T --mdash; ’s, I would have you return immediately to Belmont,
where I shall be in a few days. Lady Mary is already there, and intends to
execute the design Lord Belmont mentioned to you, which makes your presence
there absolutely necessary.
The tide of fortune, my
dear Harry, seems turning in your favor; but let it not harden your heart to
the misfortunes of your fellow-creatures, make you insolent to merit in the
vale of humbler life, or tempt you to forget that all you possess is the gift
of that Beneficent Power, in whose sight virtue is the only distinction.
The knowledge I have of
your heart makes these cautions perhaps unnecessary; but you will forgive the
excessive anxiety of paternal tenderness, alarmed at the near prospect of your
tasting the poison most fatal to youth, the intoxicating cup of prosperity.
May Heaven, my dearest
Harry, continue you all you are at present! Your father has not another wish!
I Staid late last night
with Bell; there is no telling you her transport: she agrees with me, however,
as to the propriety of keeping up our dignity; and has consented, though with
infinite reluctance, not to admit Lord Melvin’s visits till his father hath
made proposals to me. She is to see him first at Belmont, whither she removes
in four or five days. Emily Howard is gone, at my request, to spend that
interval with her. We have a divine scheme in our heads, which you are not yet
to be honored with the knowledge of.
Oh! do you know I have
this morning discovered why Lady Mary is a Tory? She has been flattered by
Bolingbroke, and sung by Atterbury; had Addison tuned his lyre to her praise,
she had certainly changed parties. I am seldom at a loss to explore the source
of petticoat-politics. Vanity is the moving spring in the female-machine, is
Interest is in the male. Certainly our principle of action is by much more
noble.
Eleven o’Clock. "Lord,
What is come to my mother?" She is gone smiling into Lady Mary’s room; her
air is gay beyond measure; it is she must sit for a dancing Grace.
Past Twelve. There is something
in agitation with which I am unacquainted. Lord and Lady Belmont have been an
hour in close consultation with Lady Mary: la bella Julia is this moment
summoned to attend them. This unknown lover: I tremble for Harry: should
another––
Almost One. I Have your letter:
this Russian event –true–as you say, these violent convulsions –Yes, you are
right; your reflexions are perfectly just, but my thoughts are at present a
little engaged. This consultation I fear bodes Harry no good–Should my Lord’s
authority–I am on the rack of impatience–
The door opens; Lady
Julia comes this way; she has been in tears; I tremble at the sight–Bellville,
they are not tears of sorrow; they are like the dew-drops on the morning rose,
she looks a thousand times more lovely through them; her eyes have a melting
languishment, a softness inexpressible, a sensibility mixed with transport–
There is an animation in her look, a blush of unexpected happiness–She moves
with the lightness of a wood-nymph–Lady Belmont follows with a serene joy in
that amiable countenance. They approach; they are already in my apartment.
Adio! Bellville! In what words–How
shall I explain to you–I am breathless with pleasure and surprise–My Lord–Harry
Mandeville –Lady Julia–They were always intended for each other.
A letter from Harry
this morning, confessing his passion for Lady Julia, determined them to make an
immediate discovery –Read the enclosed letters, and adore the goodness of
Providence, which leads us, by secret ways, to that happiness our own wisdom
could never arrive at.
My dear Col.
BY a clause in the
patent, which has been hitherto kept secret in our part of the family, it is
provided, that, on default of heirs male in the younger branch, the title of
Earl of Belmont should go to the elder: in favor also of this disposition, the
greatest part of the estate then in our possession, which is about half what I
now enjoy, is, by a deed, in which, however, my lawyer tells me there is a flaw
which makes it of no effect, annexed to the title for ever. Julia being the
only child we ever had, it is very probable the estate and title will be yours:
Heaven having blest you with a son, it would be infinitely agreeable to me, and
would keep up the splendor of our name, to agree on an inter-marriage between
our children. I would have you educate your son with this view, and at an
expence becoming the heir of the titles and possessions of our family: but, as
it is possible I may yet have a son; in that case, Lady Mary, our relation,
whose heart is greatly set on this marriage, will settle her estate on yours,
and I will give him my daughter, with twenty thousand pounds.
I insist on being at
the whole expence of his education as my heir; as the estate will probably be
his own, it is only anticipating his rents a few years, and does not lay him
under the shadow of an obligation.
I have mentioned above,
that there is a defect in the deed, which puts it in my power to rob you of
your right in the estate: but, as the design of our ancestor is clear, I take
no merit to myself from not being the most infamous of mankind, which I should
be, were I capable of making use of such a circumstance to your disadvantage.
But, could I reconcile
so base an action to myself in a private light, no consideration could make it
easy to me in a public one: I know nothing so dangerous to our happy
constitution as an indigent nobility, chained down to a necessity of
court-dependence, or tempted, by making faction the tool of ambition, to
disturb the internal peace of their country. Men who are at ease in their
fortunes are generally good subjects; the preservation of what they have is a
powerful tie of obedience: it is the needy, the dissolute, the Cæsars, the
Catilines of the world, who raise the storms which shake the foundation of
government.
You will imagine, my
dear friend, I only intend this alliance to take place, if their sentiments,
when of age to judge for themselves, correspond with our intentions for their
happiness. That this may be the case, let us educate them, with the utmost
care, in every accomplishment of mind and person, which can make them lovely in
the eyes of each other.
Let me, my dear
Colonel, hear immediately if this proposal is as agreeable to you as to
Your faithful and affectionate Belmont. TO the Earl of Belmont. My Lord,
I AM greatly obliged to
your Lordship for a proposal which does my son such honor; and for a conduct
towards us both so noble and worthy your character.
The disposition you
mention is what I have sometimes hoped, but knew your Lordship’s honor and
integrity too well to think it necessary to make any enquiry; convinced, if a
settlement was made in my favor, you would in due time make me acquainted with
it: till some probability appeared of its taking place, it was, perhaps, better
concealed than disclosed.
The alliance your
Lordship proposes, if it ever takes place, will make me the happiest of
mankind: having, however, observed marriages made by parents in the childhood
of the parties, to be generally disagreeable to the latter, whether from the
perverseness of human nature, or the free spirit of love impatient of the least
controll, will intreat our design may be kept secret from all the world, and in
particular from the young people themselves: all we can do is, to give them
such an education as will best improve the gifts of nature, and render them
objects of that lively and delicate affection, which alone can make such a
connexion happy. Perhaps it may be best to separate them till the time when the
heart is most susceptible of tenderness; least an habitual intercourse should
weaken that impression, which we wish their perfections to make on each other.
Both at present promise to be lovely; and, if we guard against other
attachments, the charm of novelty, added to what nature has done for them, and
those acquired graces which it is our part to endeavor to give the, can scarce
fail of inspiring a mutual passion, which ones seeming to desire it would
probably prevent.
If I am so happy as to
have your Lordship’s concurrence in these sentiments, I will remove my son
immediately from your neighbourhood, and educate him in town; at a proper time
he shall go, with a private tutor of birth and merit, to the university, and
from thence make the tour of Europe, whilst Lady Julia is advancing in every
charm, under the eye of the most excellent of mothers.
Men, who act a
conspicuous part on the stage of life, and who require a certain audacity and
self-possession to bring their talents into full light, cannot, in my opinion,
have too public an education: but women, whose loveliest charm is the rosy
blush of native modesty, whose virtues blossom fairest in the vale, should
never leave their household gods, the best protectors of innocence.
It is also my request,
that my son may be educated in a total ignorance of the settlement in our
favor, both because the effect of it may possibly be destroyed by your Lordship’s
having a son, and because he will taste the pleasures of a distinguished station,
if he ever arrives at it, with double relish, if bred with more moderate
expectations. He will by this means too escape the pernicious snares of
flattery, the servile court of interested inferiors, and all the various
mischiefs which poison the minds of young men bred up as heirs to great estates
and titles: he will see the hatefulness of pride and arrogance in others,
before he is tempted to be guilty of them himself; he will learn to esteem
virtue, without those trappings of wealth and greatness which he will never
hope to be possessed of; he will see the world as it is, by not being of
consequence enough to be flattered or deceived.
His education, his
company, his expences, shall, however, be suited to the rank he may one day
possibly fill; my acquaintance with foreign courts enables me to introduce him
every where to those of the first rank and merit; his equipage and attendance
shall be such as may secure him general respect.
Your Lordship’s
generous offer of bearing the expence of his education deserves my sincerest
gratitude; but œconomy will enable me to support it without the least
inconvenience to my affairs; half my income, which I will spare to him, with
his mother’s fortune, which shall all be devoted to this purpose, will be
sufficient to give him an education becoming of the heir of your Lordship’s
fortune and honors.
May Heaven prosper a
design, which has so laudable an end in view, as the future happiness of our
children.
THIS joy is a
prodigious enemy to sleep. Lady Julia rose this morning with the sun; I dare
say she never thought he looked so bright; before he sets, she will see the
most charming of mankind. My Lord yesterday sent an express to Lord T --mdash; ’s,
with orders to follow Harry wherever he was, and bring him this evening to
Belmont: Lady Mary is to have the pleasure of making him acquainted with his
happiness: the discovery was only delayed, till convinced of their passion for
each other.
Colonel Mandeville is
in town, directing the drawing of the writings; and comes down in a few days to
have them executed.
I have had a second
letter from Lord Melvin, as respectful as the pride of woman can desire: a
postscript from Lord Rochdale having satisfied me in point of decorum, I allow
his son to visit here when he pleases. My niece and Emily Howard come this
evening; Lady Julia is now with them; I suppose we shall see Lord Melvin
to-morrow: if he is very pressing, they may, perhaps, be married with Lady
Julia.
Heavens! Bellville!
What a change in all our affairs! The matrimonial star prevails; it would be
strange if I should be betrayed into the party: and yet, Lady Mary has drawn so
bewitching a plan of a wedding-day, as might seduce a more determined coquette.
If one could be married for that day only --mdash; Or if one was sure of
pleasing for ever like Lady Belmont –’Dear madam, said I, if your Ladyship
would lend one your Cestus.’ "You are already possessed of it, my dear
Lady Anne; the delicacy and purity of a bride will always give you the charms
of one."
I believe her Ladyship
may be in the right; it is not the state, but the foolish conduct of people who
enter into it, that makes it unhappy.
If you should come down
with Colonel Mandeville, it is impossible to say what may happen.
Absolutely, Bellville,
if I do condescend, which is yet extremely doubtful, we will live in the style
of lovers; I hate the dull road of common marriages: no impertinent presuming
on the name of husband; no saucy freedoms; I will continue to be courted, and
shall expect as much flattery, and give myself as many scornful airs, as if I
had never honored you with my hand.
I give you warning, I
shall make a most intolerable wife; but that is your business, not mine.
This very day se’nnight,
which is Lady Julia’s birth-day, is intended for her marriage; the house is to
be full of company, invited to celebrate the day, without knowing on what
further account; nobody is even to suspect them to be lovers; they are to go
privately out of Lady Mary’s apartment into the chapel, where my Lord chuses
the ceremony should be performed. We are to have a masquerade in a grand open
pavilion, on Corinthian pillars, built for this happy occasion in the garden,
opposite the house, which is to be in view finely illuminated: the intermediate
space is to be adorned with lamps, intermixed with festoons of flowers in the
trees, round which are to be seats for the villagers, who are never forgot on these
days of annual rejoicings.
Lady Mary, who is
mistress of the ceremonies, and who insists on joining all our hands that day,
has engaged yo for the ball to Lady Julia, Harry to Bell Hastings, and Lord
Melvin to me: our situation is to be kept secret for a week, which is to be
filled up with various scenes of festivity; after which, we are to go to town
to be presented; and from thence on a tour of six months to Italy. This is her
scheme; but it depends on Bell Hastings and me whether it shall be executed in
full: ten thousand to one but our cruelty spoils the prettiest mysterious plan
of a wedding that can be. Absolutely Lady Mary has a kind of an idea of things–I
cannot conceive how she came by it–Not the least symptom of an old main in this
plan–Something so fanciful and like a love affair!–It is a thousand pities her
Ladyship would not be of the party herself. Do you know never a sprightly old
courtier of the Queen’s time?
My Lord is so pleased
with the thought of seeing us all happy, that he has given orders for building
a temple to Love and Friendship, at a little villa which the Colonel has given
him, and which is almost centrical in respect to all our houses; here we are to
meet once a week, and exclude the rest of the world.
Harry and Lady Julia
are to live at Lady Mary’s seat, about ten miles from hence; and I have fixed
on a house, which is to be sold, at about the same distance.
And now, Bellville, to
be very serious, I should be the happiest creature in the world in this
prospect, if I was not afraid of my own conduct. I am volatile, light,
extravagant, and capricious; qualities ill suited to a matrimonial life. I know
my faults, but am not able to mend them: I see the beauty of order in the moral
world, yet doat to excess on irregularity.
Call on Colonel
Mandeville, and concert your journey together. Heaven and earth! What have I
not said in that permission? With all my affection for you, there is a
solemnity in the idea–Oh! Bellville! should I ever become less dear to you!
should coldness, should indifference ever take place of that lively endearing
tenderness–I will throw away the pen for a moment––
The most amiable of men
will forgive the too anxious fears of excessive love: I with transport make him
the arbiter of my future days. Lady Julia is come back, and has brought me the
enclosed bond, by which Bell Hastings engages to pay you thirty thousand pounds
on the day of my marriage. Her letter to you will explain this further.
Twelve o’Clock. Ah! cor
mio! son confuso! Yes, I blush at saying in express words what I have already
said by deduction. Your uncle insists on a positive "I will": How can
the dear old man be so cruel? Tell him, if he is not satisfied with this
letter, he shall dictate the form of consent himself.
One condition, however,
I shall not dispense with; that he comes down to Belmont, and opens the ball
with Lady Mary.
I Really cannot help
feeling prodigiously foolish about this marriage; it is a thousand to one but I
retreat yet: prepare yourself for a disappointment, for I am exceedingly on the
capricioso.
Oh! Heavens! I forgot
to tell you, an old match-making Lady in the neighborhood, having taken it into
her head I have a passion for Harry Mandeville, and designing to win my heart
by persuading me to what she supposes I have a mind to, recommended him
strongly to me last night for a husband. I heard her with the utmost attention;
and, when she had finished her harangue, blushed, looked down, hesitated, and
denied the thing with so pretty a confusion, that she is gone away perfectly
convinced I am to be Lady Anne Mandeville, and will tell it as a secret all
round the country. I am not sorry for this; as it will take away all suspicion
of what is really intended, and secure that secrecy we wish on the occasion.
The good old Lady went away infinitely delighted at being possessed of a
quality secret, which in the country gives no little importance; pleased too
with her own penetration in discovering what nobody else has suspected, I
cannot conceive a happier being than she is at present.
I have just received
from town the most divine stomacher and sleeve-knots you ever beheld: "An
interesting event!" Yes, creature, and what I can plead authority for
mentioning. Did not Mademoiselle, Princess of the blood of France, grand-
daughter of Henry the Great, write some half a dozen volumes, to inform
posterity, that, on Saturday the 14th of November 1668, she wore her blue
ribbands? Surely you men think nothing of consequence but sieges and battles:
now, in my sentiments, it would be happy for mankind, if all the heroes, who
make such havock amongst their species merely because they have nothing to do,
would amuse themselves with sorting suits of ribbands for their ladies.
I am in the sweetest
good humour to-day that can be imagined, so mild and gentle you would be
amazed; a little impatient indeed for the evening, which is to bring my
charming Harry.
I have been asking my
Lord how, with Harry’s sensibility, they contrived to keep him so long free
from attachments. In answer to which, he gave me the enclosed sketch of a
letter, from Colonel Mandeville to a Lady of his acquaintance at Rome, which he
said would give me a general notion of the matter.
Madam,
YOU will receive this
form the hands of that son I have before had the honor of recommending to your
esteem.
I have accompanied him
myself hither; where, being perfectly satisfied with his behavior, and
convinced that generous minds are best won to virtue by implicit confidence, I
have dissmissed the tutor I intended to have sent with him to Italy, shall
return to England myself, and depend for his conduct on his own discretion, his
desire of obliging me, and that nobleness of sentiment which will make him feel
the value of my friendship for him in its utmost extent.
I have given him
letters to the most worthy person in every court I intend he should visit; but,
as my chief dependence for the advantages of this tour are on the Count and
yourself, I have advised him to spend most of his time at Rome, where, honored
by your friendship, I doubt not of his receiving that last finishing, that
delicate polish, which, I flatter myself, if not deceived by the fondness of a
parent, is all he wants to make him perfectly amiable.
To you, Madam, and the
Count, I commit him; defend him from the snares of vice and the contagion of
affectation.
You receive him an
unexperienced youth, with lively passions, a warm and affectionate heart, an
enthusiastic imagination, probity, openness, generosity; and all those
advantages of person and mind, which a liberal education can bestow. I expect
him from your hands a gentleman, a man of honor and politeness, with the utmost
dignity of sentiment and character, adorned by that easy elegance, that refined
simplicity of manner, those unaffected graces of deportment, so difficult to
describe, but which it is scarce possible to converse much with you without
acquiring.
Sensible of the
irresistible power of beauty, I think it of the utmost consequence with what
part of the female world he converses. I have from childhood habituated him to
the conversation of the most lovely and polite amongst the best part of the
sex, to give him an abhorrence to the indelicacy of the worst. I have
endeavoured to impress on his mind, the most lively ideas of the native beauty
of virtue; and to cultivate in him that elegance of moral taste, that quick
sensibility, which is a nearer way to rectitude, than the dull road of inanimate
precept.
Continuing the same
anxious cares, I send him to perfect his education, not in schools or
academies, but in the conversation of the most charming amongst women: the
ardent desire of pleasing you, and becoming worthy your esteem, inseparable
from the happiness of knowing you, will be the keenest spur to his attainments;
and I shall see him return all the fond heart of a parent can wish, from his
ambition of being honored with your friendship.
To you, Madam, I shall
make no secret of my wish, that he may come back to England unconnected. I have
a view for him beyond his most sanguine hopes, to which, however, I entreat he
may be a stranger; the charms of the Lady cannot fail of attaching a heart
which has no prepossession, from which, I conjure you, if possible, to guard
him. I should even hear with pleasure you permitted him, to a certain degree,
to love you, that he might be steeled to all other charms. If he is half as
much in love with you as his father, all other beauties will lay snares for him
in vain.
I am, Madam, With the most lively esteem, Your obedient and devoted, J.
Mandeville. Oh! Heavens! whilst I have
been writing, and thinking nothing of it, the pavilion, which it seems has been
some time prepared, is raised opposite the window of the saloon, at the end of
a walk leading to the house. We are to sup in it this evening; it is charmante;
the sight of it, and the idea of its destination, makes my heart palpitate a
little. Mon Dieu! that ever I should be seduced into matrimony!
Farewel for an hour or
two.
You have no notion what
divine dresses we have making for the masquerade. I shall not tell you
particulars, as I would not take off the pleasure of surprize; but they are
charming beyond conception.
Do you not doat on a
masquerade, Bellville? For my own part, I think it is the quintessence of all
sublunary joys; and, without flattering my Lord’s taste, I have a strange fancy
this will be the most agreeable one I ever was at in my life: the scenes, the
drapery, the whole disposition of it is enchanting.
Heavens! How little a
while will it be that I can write myself, A. Wilmot.
AFTER four days past in
anxiety not to be told, this ardently-expected morning is come; I every moment
expect Mr. Herbert; I tremble at every sound: another hour, and the happiness
of my whole life will be for ever determined: Mordaunt, the idea chills my
soul.
It is now a week since
I have heard from Belmont; not a line from Emily Howard, or Lady Anne; the unhappy
have few friends; Lord Melvin is the minion of fortune; he has taken my place
in their esteem.
The time is past, and
my friend is not here; he has therefore no letters from Lord Belmont; I rated
his disinterestedness too high: misled by the mean despicable maxims of the
world, he resents my passion for his daughter; he gives her to another, without
deigning even to send me an answer; he might surely have respected his own
blood. My soul is on fire at this insult: his age, his virtues, protect him; but
Lord Melvin–let him avoid my fury.
Yet am I not too rash?
May not some accident have retarded my friend? I will wait patiently till
evening; I cannot believe Lord Belmont–May he not have seen me, and, suspecting
some clandestine design– Yes, my folly has undone me; what can he think of such
a concealment?–
Mordaunt! I cannot live
in this suspence; I will send William this moment to Belmont.
Five o’Clock. William is come
back, and has thrown me into despair: yes, my friend, it is now beyond a doubt.
Lady Julia is intended
for Lord Melvin; the most splendid preparations are making; all is joy and
festivity at Belmont; a wretch like me is below their thoughts; messengers are
hourly coming and going from Lord Rochdale’s: it is past, and I am doomed to
despair: my letter has only hastened my destruction; has only hastened this
detested marriage: over-awed by paternal authority, she gives me up, she
marries another; she has forgot her vows, those vows which she called on Heaven
to witness: I have lost all for which life was worth my care.
Mordaunt! I am no
longer master of myself. Lord Melvin is this moment gone past to Belmont,
dressed like a youthful, gay, and burning bridegroom; his eyes sparkle with new
fire; his cheek has the glow of happy love. This very hour, perhaps, he calls
her his–this very hour her consenting blushes–the idea is insupportable –First
may the avenging bold of Heaven –But why supplicate Heaven?–My own arm–I will
follow him–I will not tamely resign her–He shall first–Yes, through my blood
alone–What I intend I know not–My thoughts are all distraction!
WE expect the caro
Enrico every moment: my chariot is gone for Emily Howard and my niece; Lord
Melvin too comes this evening by my permission. Lady Julia has just asked me to
walk with her in the park; she wants to hear me talk of Harry, whom she cannot
mention herself, though her thoughts are full of nothing else; he color comes
and goes; her eyes have a double portion of softness; her heart beats with
apprehensive pleasure. What an evening of transport will this be! Why are you
not here, Bellville? I shall absolutely be one of the old people to-night. Can
you form an idea of happiness equal to Harry’s? Raised form the depth of
despair, to the fruition of all his wishes. I long to see how he will receive
the first mention of this happy turn of fortune: but Lady Mary has reserved all
that to herself.
Adieu! Great God! to
what a scene have I been witness! How shall I relate the shocking particulars?
Lady Julia and I were
advanced about a quarter of a mile from the house, blessing Providence, and
talking of the dear hope of future happy days; she was owning her passion with
blushes, and all the tremor of modest sensibility, when we were interrupted by
the clashing of swords behind some trees near us; we turned our heads, and saw
Lord Melvin, distraction in his air, his sword bloody, supporting Harry
Mandeville, pale, bleeding, motionless, and, to all appearance, in the agonies
of death. Lady Julia gave a shriek, and fell senseless in my arms. My cries
brought some of the servants, who happened to be near; part of them, with Lord
Melvin, conveyed Harry to the house; whilst the rest staid with me to take care
of Lady Julia.
Harry was scarce out of
sight when she recovered her senses; she looked wildly towards the place where
she first saw him, then, starting from me, raising her eyes to Heaven, her
hands clasped together–Oh! Bellville! never shall I lose the idea of that image
of horror and despair–she neither spoke nor shed a tear–there was an eager
wildness in her look, which froze my soul with terror: she advanced hastily
towards the house, looking round her every moment, as if expecting again to see
him, till, having exhausted all her strength, she sunk down breathless on one
of the seats, where I supported her till my Lord’s chariot, which I had sent
for, came up, in which I placed myself by her, and we drove slowly towards the
house: she was put to-bed in a burning fever, preceded by a shivering, which
gives me apprehensions for her, which I endeavour to conceal form the wretched
parents, whose sorrows mock all description.
My Lord is just come
from Lord Melvin, who insisted on being his prisoner, till Harry was out of
danger; disdaining to fly from justice, since my Lord refuses his stay at
Belmont, he intreats to be given into the hands of some gentleman near. My Lord
has accepted this offer, and named his father Lord Rochdale for the trust. He
is gone under the best guard, his own honor, in which Lord Belmont has implicit
confidence.
I have been into Lady
Julia’s room; she takes no notice of any thing. Emily Howard kneels weeping by
her bedside. Lady Belmont melts my soul when I behold her; she sits motionless
as the statue of Despair; she holds the hand of her lovely daughter between
hers, she presses it to her bosom, and the tears steal silently down her
cheeks.
Unable to bear the
sight, I am returned to my apartment.
Oh! Bellville! How is
this scene of happiness changed! Where are now the gay transporting hopes which
warmed our hearts this morning?
I have with difficulty
prevailed on Lady Mary, who droops under this weight of affliction, and whose
years are ill-suited to scenes of horror, to set out this evening for her own
seat; my niece, whose sorrow you may easily imagine, is to accompany her
thither: if Mr. Mandeville dies, murdered by the hand of him with whose fate
hers is connected, never must she again enter these hospitable doors.
Bellville! how is the
gay structure of ideal happiness fallen in one moment to the ground!
The messenger who was
sent to Lord T --mdash; ’s is returned, and has brought my Lord’s letter; he
went from thence to Mr. Herbert’s, where Mr. Mandeville was supposed to be, but
found nobody there but a servant, from whom he could get no information. The
family had been gone five days to London, being sent for express to a relation
who was dying.
Oh! Bellville! how many
accidents have conspired --mdash; I myself have innocently contributed to this
dreadful event, misled by my Lord’s equivocal expressions, which seemed to
point so plainly at Lord Melvin –If he dies–But I will not give way to so
shocking an idea. The servant who went for a surgeon is not yet returned; till
his wounds are examined, we must be in all the torture of suspense and
apprehension.
Eleven o’Clock. The
surgeon is come; he is now with Mr. Mandeville: how I dread to hear his
sentence!–The door opens–He comes out with Lord Belmont; horror is in the face
of the latter–Oh! Bellville! my presaging heart–they advance towards me –I am
unable to meet them–my limbs tremble–a cold dew–
Bellville! his wounds
are mortal–the pen drops from my hand– A farmer’s son in the neighbourhood has
just brought the enclosed letter for Mr. Mandeville, which, not knowing the
consequence, my Lord has opened.
SIR, The generous
concern you have been pleased to take in my misfortune, leaves me no room to
doubt I shall give you pleasure by informing you that they are at an end; a
rich relation, who is just expired, having made a will in my favor, which
places me in circumstances beyond my hopes. But you will be still more happy to
know you have contributed to this turn of my fortune. The express was arrived,
with a request from our dying friend, that we would instantly come post to
town, and we were lamenting our hard fate in being unable, from our indigence,
to undertake a journey on which so much depended, when the post brought me a
bill for one hundred pounds, which could come from no hand but yours: I wish
the world was such as to make it easy for us to mistake. We set out with hearts
filled with the sincerest gratitude to Heaven, and the most worthy of men; and,
on our arrival, found deferring our journey, even a few hours, would have been
fatal to all our hopes.
To you, therefore, to
whom we owe the means of taking this journey, we owe the ease of fortune which
has been the consequence of it. Heaven has been pleased to make the man on
earth we most esteem the instrument of its goodness to us.
The hurry of spirits in
which we set out prevented my leaving a direction for you with my servant,
which I hope has been of no ill consequence. I have to-day sent him a
direction, and ordered him to wait on you with this letter. As soon as my
affairs here are settled, will replace the money your generous friendship has
assisted us with, wherever you please to order.
I am, with the most lively esteem, SIR, Your most affectionate, And
obedient Servant, W. Herbert. Bellville!
is it not hard the exercise of the noblest virtue should have been attended
with such fatal effects? He dies for having alleviated the distresses of his
friend, for having sympathized in the affliction of others.
THE most lovely of men
is no more; he expired early this morning, after having in my presence owned to
my Lord, that jealousy was the true cause of his attacking Lord Melvin, who
only fought in his own defence; which he intreated him publicly to attest, and
to beg Lord Melvin’s pardon, in his name, for insults which madness alone could
excuse, and which it was not in man to bear; he owned Lord Melvin’s behavior in
the duel had been noble; and that he had avoided giving him the least wound,
till, urged by fury and despair, and aiming at the life of his generous enemy
rather than at his own defence, he had rushed on the point of his sword.
He expressed great
indifference for life on his own account, but dreaded the effect his death
might have on the most tender of fathers: intreated my Lord to soften so
painful a stroke by preparing him for it by degrees, and, if possible, to
conceal from him the shocking manner of it. "How ill, said he, has my
rashness repaid him for all his anxious cares, his indulgent goodness! I suffer
justly; but for him– Great God! support him in the dreadful trial, and pour all
thy blessings on his head!"
He then proceeded to
expostulate gently with Lord Belmont on his supposed design of forcing the
heart of his daughter, and on that neglect of himself which had planted the
furies of jealousy in his breast, and occasioned this shocking event. These
reproaches brought on an explanation of the situation to which his danger had
reduced Lady Julia, of my Lord’s intention of giving her to him, and of the
whole plan of purposed happiness, which his impatience, irritated by a series
of unforeseen accidents, had so fatally destroyed.
Till now, he had
appeared perfectly composed; but, from the moment my Lord began to speak, a
wildness had appeared in his countenance, which rose, before he ended, to
little less than distraction; he raved, he reproached Heaven itself; then,
melting into tears, prayed with fervor unspeakable for Lady Julia’s recovery:
the agitation of his mind caused his wounds to bleed afresh; successive
faintings were the consequence, in one of which he expired.
Lord Belmont is now
writing to Colonel Mandeville. How many has this dreadful event involved in
misery!
Who shall tell this to
Lady Julia? Yet how conceal it from her? I dread the most fatal effects from
her despair, when returning reason makes her capable of knowing her own
wretchedness; at present, she is in a state of perfect insensibility; her fever
is not the least abated; she has every symptom which can indicate danger. Lady
Belmont and Emily Howard have never left her bedside a moment. I have with
difficulty persuaded them to attempt to rest a few hours, and am going to take
Lady Belmont’s place by her bedside.
Ten o’Clock. The physician is
gone; he thinks Lady Julia in danger, but has not told this to the family: I am
going again to her apartment; she has not yet taken notice of any body.
I had been about half
an hour in Lady Julia’s room, when, having sent the last attendant away for
something I wanted, she looked round, and saw we were alone; she half raised
herself int he bed, and, grasping my hand, fixed her enquiring eyes ardently on
mine. I too well understood their meaning, and, unable to hide my grief, was
rising to leave the bedside, when catching hold of me, with a look and air
which froze my soul; "Lady Anne," said she, "does he live?"
My silence, and the tears which I could not conceal, explained to her the fatal
truth, when, raising her streaming eyes and supplicating hands to Heaven––Oh!
Bellville; no words can describe the excess of her sorrow and despair; –fearful
of the most fatal instant effects, I was obliged to call her attendants, of
whose entrance she took not the least notice. After remaining some time
absorbed in an agony of grief, which took from her all power of utterance, and
made her insensible to all around her, the tears, which she shed in great
abundance, seemed to give her relief: my heart was melted; I wept with her. She
saw my tears; and, pressing my hand tenderly between hers, seemed to thank me
for the part I took in her afflictions: I had not opposed the torrent of her
despair; but, when I saw it subsiding, endeavoured to soothe her with all the
tender attention and endearing sympathy of faithful friendship; which so far
succeeded, that I have left her more composed than I could have imagined it
possible she should so soon have been; she has even an appearance of
tranquillity which amazes me; and, seeming inclined to take rest, I have left
her for that purpose.
May Heaven restore her
to her wretched Parents, whose life is wrapt in hers! May it inspire her with
courage to bear this stroke, the severest a feeling mind can suffer! Her youth,
her sweetness of temper, her unaffected piety, her filial tenderness, sometimes
flatter me with a hope of her recovery; but when I think on that melting
sensibility, on that exquisitely tender heart, which bleeds for the sorrow of
every human being, I give way to all the horrors of despair.
Lady Julia has sent to
speak with me: I will not a moment delay attending her. How blest should I be,
if the sympathizing bosom of Friendship could soften by partaking her sorrows!
Oh! Bellville! what a
request has she made! my blood runs back at the idea.
She received me with a
composed air, begged me to sit down by her bedside, and, sending away her
attendants, spoke as follows; "You are, I doubt not, my dear Lady Anne,
surprized at the seeming tranquil manner in which I bear the greatest of all
misfortunes–Yes, my heart doated on him, my love for him was unutterable–But it
is past; I can no longer be deceived by the fond delusion of hope. I submit to
the will of Heaven. My God! I am resigned, I do not complain of what thy had
has inflicted; a few unavailing tears alone– Lady Anne, you have seen my
calmness, you have seen me patient as the trembling victim beneath the
sacrificer’s knife. Yet think not I have resigned all sensibility: no, were it
possible I could live–But I feel my approaching end; Heaven in this is
merciful. That I bear this dreadful stroke with patience, is owing to the
certainty I shall not long survive him, that our separation is but for a moment.
Lady anne, I have seen him in my dreams: his spotless soul yet waits for mine:
yes, the same grave shall receive us; we shall be joined to part no more. All
the sorrow I feel is for my dear parents; to you and Emily Howard I leave the
sad task of comforting them; by all our friendship, I adjure you, leave them
not to the effects of their despair: when I reflect on all their goodness, and
on the misery I have brought on their grey hairs, my heart is torn in pieces, I
lament that such a wretch was ever created.
"I have been to
blame; not in loving the most perfect of human beings; but in concealing that
love, and distrusting the indulgence of the best of parents. Why did I hade my
passion? Why conceal sentiments only blameable on the venal maxims of a despicable
world? Had I been unreserved, I had been happy: but Heaven had decreed
otherwise, and I submit.
"But whither am I
wandering? I sent for you to make a request; a request in which I will not be
denied. Lady Anne, I would see him; let me be raised and carried to his
apartment before my mother returns; let me once more behold him, behold him for
whom alone life was dear to me: you hesitate, for pity do not oppose me; your
refusal will double the pangs of death."
Overcome by the
earnestness of her air and manner, I had not resolution to refuse her; her
maids are now dressing her, and I have promised to attend her to his apartment.
I am summoned. Great
God! How shall I bear a scene like this? I tremble, my limbs will scarce
support me.
Twelve o’Clock. This
dreadful visit is yet unpaid: three times she approached the door, and returned
as often to her apartment, unable to enter the room; the third time she fainted
away: her little remaining strength being exhausted, she has consented to defer
her purpose till evening: I hope by that time to persuade her to decline it
wholly: faint, and almost sinking under her fatigue, I have prevailed with her
to lie down on a couch: Emily Howard sits by her, kissing her hand, and bathing
it with her tears.
I have been enquiring
at Lady Julia’s door; she is in a sweet sleep, from which we have every thing
to hope: I fly to tell this to Lady Belmont–She will live; Heaven has heard our
prayers.–
I found the wretched
mother pouring out her soul before her God, and imploring his mercy on her
child–She heard me, and tears of tender transport–she raised her grateful hands
to Heaven–
I am interrupted; Dr.
Evelin is at the gate; he is come to my apartment, and desires me to accompany
him to Lady Julia.
We found her still in a
gentle sleep, composed as that of an infant; we approached the bead; Dr. Evelin
took her hand, he stood some time looking on her with the most fixed attention,
when, on my expressing my hopes from her sleep, "Madam," said he,
"it is with horror I tell you, that sleep will probably be her last;
nature is worn out, and seeks a momentary repose before her last dreadful
struggle."
Not able to bear this,
I left the room.– Bellville! is it possible! Can Heaven thus overwhelm with
affliction, the best, the noblest of its creatures? shall the amiable, the
reverend pair, the business of whose lives has been to make others happy, be
doomed in age to bear the severest of all sorrows? to see all their hopes
blasted in one dreadful moment? To believe this, is to blaspheme Providence.
No, it is not possible: Heaven will yet restore her: look down, O God of Mercy––
Dr. Evelin is now with
the wretched parents, breaking to them the danger of their child: I dread
seeing them after this interview: yet he will not sure plunge them at once into
despair.
She is awake; I have
been with her; her looks are greatly changed; her lips have a dying paleness;
there is a dimness in her eyes which alarms me; she has desired to speak a
moment with Dr. Evelin; she would know how long he thinks it probable she may
live.
Six o’Clock. She is gone,
Bellville, she is gone: those lovely eyes are closed in everlasting night. I
saw her die, I saw the last breath quiver on her lips; she expired, almost
without a pang, in the arms of her distracted mother.
She felt her
approaching dissolution, of which she had been warned, at her own earnest
request, by Dr. Evelin; she summoned us all to her apartment; she embraced us
with the most affecting tenderness; she called me to her, and, giving me her
picture for Colonel Mandeville, begged me to tell him, she, who murdered his
son, died for him: entreated me to stay some time at Belmont, to comfort her
disconsolate parents; conjured Emily to be a child to them, and never to let
them miss their Julia.
She begged forgiveness
of her wretched parents, for the only instance in which she had ever forgot her
duty, and for which she now so severely suffered: entreated them to submit to
the hand of Heaven, and not give way to immoderate affliction; to consider that,
if they were about to lose a child, thousands were at that moment suffering
under the same distress; that death was the common portion of humanity, from
which youth was not more exempt than age; that their separation was only
temporary, whilst their re-union would be eternal: then, raising her blameless
hands, prayed fervently to Heaven for them, implored their last blessing; and,
turning to her agonizing mother, speechless with excess of sorrow, conjured her
to reflect on the past goodness of Heaven, and the many years of happiness she
had already past with the best of men; that this was the first misfortune she
had ever known; then, embracing her fondly, weeping on her neck, and thanking
her for all her goodness, pressed her to her bosom, and expired.
Let me draw a veil over
the ensuing scene, to which words cannot do justice. With difficulty have we
forced Lady Belmont from the body. I have left Emily Howard with the venerable
pair, whose sorrow would melt the most obdurate heart; she kneels by Lady Belmont,
she attempts to speak, but tears stop her utterance: the wretched mother sees
her not; inattentive to all but her grief, her eyes fixed on the ground,
stupefaction and horror in her look, she seems insensible of all that passes
around her. Sinking under his own distress, and unable to support the sight of
hers, my Lord is retired to his apartment. May Heaven look with pity on them
both, and enable them to bear this blow to all their hopes!
Bellville! where are
now all our gay schemes? Where the circle of happy friends?
How vain are the
designs of man! unmindful of his transitory state, he lays plans of permanent
felicity; he sees the purpose of his heart ready to prosper; the air-drawn
building rises; he watches it with a beating heart; it touches the very point
at which he aimed, the very summit of imagined perfection, when an unforeseen
storm arises, and the smiling deceitful structure of hope is dashed in one
moment to the ground.
Friday Morning. Not an eye
has been closed this night; the whole house is a scene of horror: the servants
glide up and down the apartments, wildness in their look, as if the last day
was come.
Scarce have we been
able to keep life in Lady Belmont; she asks eagerly for her child, her Julia;
she conjures us to lead her to her; she will not believe her dead; she starts
up, and fancies she hears her voice: then, recollecting the late dreadful
scene, lifts her expostulating hands to Heaven, and sinks motionless into the
arms of her attendants.
Six o’Clock. Worn out by her
long watchings and the violence of her emotions, Lady Belmont is fallen into a
slumber: it is now two days and nights since she has attempted rest. May that
gracious God, who alone has the power, calm and tranquillize her mind!
Eight o’Clock. I have
been standing an hour looking on the breathless body of my angel friend: lovely
even in death, a serene smile sits on that once charming face: her paleness
excepted, she looks as if in a tranquil sleep: Bellville, she is happy, she is
now a saint in Heaven.
How persuasive is such
a preacher! I gaze on the once matchless form, and all vanity dies within me:
who was ever lovely like her? yet she lies before me a clod of senseless clay.
Those eyes, which once gave love to every beholder, are now robbed of their
living lustre; that beauteous bosom is cold as the marble on the silent tomb;
the roses of those cheeks are faded; those vermilion lips, from whence truth
and virtue ever proceeded–Bellville, the starting tears–I cannot go on–
Look here, ye proud,
and be humble! which you all can vie with her? Youth, health, beauty, birth,
riches, all that men call good, were hers: all are now of no avail; virtue
alone bids defiance to the grave.
Great Heaven! Colonel
Mandeville is at the gate; he knows not the cup of sorrow which awaits him; he
cannot yet have received my Lord’s letter. He alights with a smile of
transport: the exultation of hope is in his air. Alas! how soon to be
destroyed! He comes to attend the bridal- day of his son; he finds him a
lifeless corse.
The servants bring him
this way; they leave to me the dreadful talk–Bellville, I cannot go through it.
I have seen the most
unhappy of fathers; I have followed him whither my heart shuddered to approach.
Too soon informed of his wretched fate, he shot like lightning to the apartment
of his son; he kissed his pale lifeless lips; he pressed his cold hand to his
bosom; he bathed it with a torrent of tears: then, looking round with the
dignity of affliction, waved his hand for us all to retire. We have left him to
weep at liberty over the son on whom his heart doated, to enjoy alone and
undisturbed the dreadful banquet of despair.
He has been now two
hours alone with the body; not an attendant has dared to intrude on the sacred
rites of paternal sorrow. My Lord is this moment gone to him, to give him a
melancholy welcome to Belmont.
Great God! What a
meeting! How different from that which their sanguine hopes had projected! The
bridal couch is the bed of death!
Oh! Bellville!–But
shall presumptuous man dare to arraign the ways of Heaven!
YOUR letter, my dear
Bellville, gave me all the consolation it is possible to receive amidst such a
scene of wretchedness and despair; the tender sympathy of pitying friendship is
the best balm for every woe.
The delicacy with which
you decline mentioning a subject so improper for the time, would encrease my
esteem for you, if that was possible. I know the goodness, the tender
sensibility of your heart, too well, to doubt your approving my resolution to
give six months to the memory of my angelic friend, and the sad task of
endeavoring to soften the sorrows of her parents. Her dying voice adjured me
not to leave them to their despair: I will not forget the sad task her
friendship imposed.
The agony of Lady
Belmont’s grief begins to give place to a sorrow more reasonable, though,
perhaps, not less exquisite. The violence of her emotions abates; she still
weeps, but her air is more calm; she raises her eyes to Heaven, but it is with
a look of patient resignation, which, whilst it melts my soul to behold, gives
me hopes she will not sink under her afflictions. Lord Belmont struggles with
his own grief, lest it should encrease hers; he attempts to comfort her; he
begs her, with an irresolute air, to consider the hand from whence the stroke
proceeded: unable to go on, his voice trembles; his bosom swells with
unutterable anguish; he rises; he leaves the room; the tears trickle down his
reverend cheeks.
These, Bellville, these
are the scenes I have perpetually before my eyes.
Colonel Mandeville
indulges his sorrow alone; shut up continually in his apartment, a prey to
silent distress, he seems to fly from all human converse: if entreated, he
joins our sad party a moment; he enters with a dejected air, his eyes are bent
earnestly to the ground; he sits motionless, inattentive, absorbed in reflexion
on his own misery: then, starting up, exclaims, "All else I could have
borne," and retires to give himself up to his despair.
I am now convinced
Emily Howard deserved that preference Lady Julia gave her over me in her heart,
of which I once so unjustly complained; I lament, I regret, but am enough
myself to reason, to reflect; Emily Howard can only weep.
Far from being consoled
for the loss of her lovely friend, by the prospect of inheriting Lord Belmont’s
fortune, to which after Colonel Mandeville she is intitled, she seems incapable
of tasting any good in life without her. Every idea of happiness her gentle
mind could form included Lady Julia’s friendship; with her she wished to spend
all her days; she was all to her tender Emily; without her she finds the world
a desart.
She is changed beyond
conception by her grief, a grief which has not a moment’s intermission: the
almost dying paleness of her cheeks is a witness of the excess of her
affliction; yet this very paleness has a thousand charms; her distress has
something in it unspeakably lovely; adorned by sorrow, she puts me in mind of
what Young describes woman in general; ––"So properly the object of
affliction, That Heaven is pleased to make distress become her, And dresses her
most amiably in tears."
Tuesday Evening. Bellville, I
have been walking in a little wilderness of flowering shrubs once peculiarly
happy in Lady Julia’s favor: there is a rose which I saw planted by her hand;
it still flourishes in youthful bloom, whilst she, the fairest flower Heaven
ever formed, lies cropped by the cruel hand of Death.
What force has the
imagination over the senses! How different is the whole face of nature in my
eyes! The once smiling scene has a melancholy gloom, which strikes a damp
through my inmost soul: I look in vain for those vivid beauties which once
charmed me; all beauty died with Lady Julia.
In this spot, where we
have so often walked together, I give way to all the voluptuousness of sorrow;
I recall those happy days which are never to return; a thousand tender ideas
rush on my memory; I recollect those dear moments of confidence and friendship
engraved for ever on my heart; I still hear the sweet accents of that voice,
still behold that matchless form; I see her every moment before me, in all the
playfulness of youth and innocence; I see her parents gazing on her as she
passes, with that lively transport a parent only can know.
It was here her rising
blushes first discovered to me the secret of her heart: it was here the
loveliest of mankind first implored me to favor his passion for my sweet
friend.
Pleased with the tender
sorrow which possessed all my soul, I determined to indulge it to the utmost;
and, revolving in my imagination the happy hours of chearful friendship to
which that smiling scene had been witness, prolonged my walk till evening had,
almost unperceived, spread its gloomy horrors round; till the varied tints of
the flowers were lost in the deepening shades of night.
Awaking at once from
the reverie in which I had been plunged, I found myself at a distance from the
house, just entering the little wood so loved by my charming friend; the every
moment encreasing darkness gave an awful gloom to the trees; I stopped, I
looked round, not a human form was in sight; I listened, and heard not a sound
but the trembling of some poplars in the wood; I called, but the echo of my own
voice was the only answer I received; a dreary silence reigned around; a terror
I never felt before seized me; my heart panted with timid apprehension, I
breathed short, I started at every leaf that moved; my limbs were covered with
a cold dew; I fancied I saw a thousand airy forms flit around me; I seemed to
hear the shrieks of the dead and dying: there is no describing my horrors.
At the moment when my
fears had almost deprived me of sense, I saw Colonel Mandeville approach; I
concealed from him the terrors of my soul, lest they should add to the sorrow which
consumed him: he addressed me in a faltering voice, conducted me to the house
almost without speaking, and leading me into the saloon ––Oh! Bellville! How
shall I describe what I felt on entering the room?
Is not Death of itself
sufficiently dreadful, that we thus clothe it in additional terrors, by the
horrid apparatus with which we suffer it to be attended? The room was hung with
black, lighted up to show the affecting objects it contained, and in the midst,
in their coffins, the breathless bodies of the hapless lovers: on a couch near
them, supported by Emily Howard, the wretched mother wringing her hands in all
the agony of despair. Lord Belmont standing by the bodies, looking at them
alternately, weeping over his child, and raising his desponding eyes to Heaven,
beseeching the God of Mercy to relieve him from this load of misery, and to put
a speedy period to that life which was now robbed of all it happiness.
I approach Lady Julia’s
coffin; I gazed eagerly on her angel countenance, serene as that of a sleeping
infant; I kissed her lifeless lips, which still wore the smile of innocence and
peace. Bellville, may my last end be like hers! May I meet her in the regions
of immortality! Never shall I forget her gentle virtues, or the delight I found
in her friendship.
She was wrapped in a
loose robe of white satten: her head covered with a veil of gause: the village
maids, who laid her in the coffin, had adorned her with the freshest flowers;
the stood at an awful distance, weeping her hard fate and their own: they have
entreated to watch around her this night, and to bear her to-morrow to the
grave.
I had stood some time
looking on the dear remains of Lady Julia, when Colonel Mandeville took my
hand, and leading me to the coffin in which his son’s were deposited;
"Lady Anne, said he, you have forgot your once favored friend, your once
gay, once lovely Harry Mandeville. Behold all that death has left of the
darling of a fond parent’s heart! The graces of that form are lost, those lips
have ceased to utter the generous sentiments of the noblest heart which ever
beat; but never will his varied perfections be blotted from the mind of his
father."
I approached the most
lovely of men; the traces of sorrow were visible on his countenance; he died in
the moment when he heard the happiness which had been vainly intended for him.
My tears streamed afresh when I beheld him, when I remembered the sweet hours
we passed together, the gay scenes which hope had painted to our hearts; I wept
over the friend I had so loved, I pressed his cold hand to my lips.
Bellville! I am now
accustomed to horrors.
We have prevailed on
the wretched parents to retire: Emily Howard and I have entreated to watch our
angel friends till midnight, and then leave them to the village maids, to whom
Lady Julia’s weeping attendants insist on being joined.
I dread the rising of
to-morrow’s sun; he was meant to light us to happiness.
Thursday Morning. Bellville!
this morning is come: this morning once so ardently expected: who shall ever
dare to say, To-morrow I will be happy?
At dawn of day we
returned to the saloon; we bid a last adieu to the loved remains; my Lord and
Colonel Mandeville had been before us: they were going to close the coffins,
when Lady Belmont burst wildly into the room; she called eagerly for her Julia,
for the idol of her agonizing soul: "Let me once more behold my child, let
me once more kiss those icy lips: Oh! Julia! this day first gave thee birth;
this day fond hope set down for thy bridals; this day we resign thee to the
grave!"
Overcome by the excess
of her sorrow, she fainted into the arms of her woman; we took that opportunity
to convey her from this scene of terrors: her sense are not yet returned.
Thursday Evening. What a day
have I passed! may the idea of it be ever blotted from y mind!
Nine o’Clock. The sad
procession begins; the whole village attend in tears; they press to perform the
last melancholy duties; her servants crowd eagerly round; they weep, they beat
their bosoms, they call on their angelic mistress, they kiss the pall that
covers her breathless form. Borne by the youngest of the village maids–Oh!
Bellville! never more shall I behold her! the loveliest of her sex, the friend
on whom my heart doated–One grave receives the hapless lovers–
They move on–far other
processions– but who shall resist the hand of Heaven!
Emily Howard comes this
way; she has left the wretched parents: there is a wildness in her air which
chills my blood; she will behold her friend once more; she proposes to meet and
join the procession: I embraced the offer with transport–the transport of
enthusiastic sorrow–
We have beheld the
closing scene–Bellville, my heart is breaking–the pride of the world, the
loveliest pair that ever breathed the vital air, are now cold and inanimate in
the grave.
I AM just come from
chapel with Lady Belmont, who has been pouring out the sorrows of her soul to
her Creator, with a fervor of devotion which a mind like hers alone can feel:
when she approached the seat once filled by Lady Julia, the tears streamed
involuntarily down her cheeks; she wiped them away, she raised her eyes to Heaven,
and falling on her knees, with a look of pious resignation, seemed to sacrifise
her grief to her God, or at least to suspend the expression of it in his
presence.
Next Sunday she goes to
the parish church, where the angelic pair are interred; I dread her seeing the
vault, yet think she cannot too soon visit every place which must renew the
excess of her affliction; she will then, and not till then, find, by degrees,
the violence of her sorrow subside, and give way to that pleasing melancholy,
that tender regret, which, however strange it may appear, is one of the most
charming sensations of the human heart.
Whether it be that the
mind abhors nothing like a state of inaction, or from whatever cause I know
not, but grief itself is more agreeable to us than indifference; nay, if not
too exquisite, is in the highest degree delightful; of which the pleasure we
take in tragedy, or in talking of our dead friends, is a striking proof; we
wish not to be cured of what we feel on these occasions; the tears we shed are
charming, we even indulge in them. Bellville, does not the very word indulge
shew the sensation to be pleasurable?
I have just now a
letter from my niece; she is in despair at this dreadful event; she sees the
amiable, the venerable parents, whose happiness was the ardent wish of her
soul, and from whom she had received every proof of esteem and friendship,
reduced to the extremest misery, by the hand of him she loves: for ever
excluded from Belmont, for ever to them an object of horror, she seems to
herself guilty of their wretchedness, she seems to have struck the fatal blow.
Since Mr. Mandeville’s
death, she has left Lady Mary; whose tears, she fancied, were redoubled at her
sight.
Nor is she less
wretched on Lord Melvin’s account: she is distracted with her terrors for his
life; which is however safe by Mr. Mandeville’s generous care, who, when
expiring, gave testimony to his innocence.
You will oblige me by
begging of Lady Betty to take her at present under her protection: it ill suits
the delicacy of her sex and birth to remain in London alone and unconnected:
with your amiable mother, she cannot fail of being happy.
I had perswaded Lady
Belmont to walk in the garden; she went with me, leaning on my arm, when, the
door being opened, the first object that struck her sight was the pavilion
raised for the marriage of her daughter, which none of us had thought of having
removed.
She started, she
returned hastily to her apartment, and, throwing herself on a couch, gave a
loose to all the anguish of her soul.
Bellville, every object
she meets will remind her of the darling of her heart.
My Lord and Colonel
Mandeville are together; they are projecting a tomb for their lovely children:
a tomb worthy the ardour of their own parental affection; worthy to perpetuate
the memory of their virtues, their love, and their wretched fate. How often
shall I visit this tomb, how often strew it with the sweetest flowers!
Sunday Afternoon. As I passed
this moment through the saloon, I went mechanically to the window from whence
we used to contemplate the happy group of villagers. Bellville, how was I
struck with the change! not one of the late joyous train appeared; all was a
dismal scene of silent unsocial solitude: lost to the idea of pleasure, all
revere, all partake, the sorrows of the godlike benefactors: with Lady Julia,
all joy has left the once charming shades of Belmont.
Lord Fondville is gone
past with his bride, in all the splendor of exulting transport. Scarce can I
forbear accusing Heaven! the worthless live and prosper; the virtuous sink
untimely to the grave.
My Lord has ordered the
pavilion to be removed; he will build an obelisk on the spot where it stood, on
the spot once dedicated to the happiness of his child.
A stranger has been
to-day at the parish church, enquiring for the grave of Mr. Mandeville; his
behaviour witnessed the most lively sorrow: it can be no other than Mr.
Herbert. I have told this to my Lord, who will write and ask him to Belmont,
that he may mix his tears with ours; whoever loved Mr. Mandeville will be here
a most welcome guest.
Monday Morning. I have
perswaded Lady Belmont to go out for an hour with me in my chariot this
morning: we are to go a private road, where we are sure of not seeing a human
being. Adieu!
My Lord,
IF my regret for the
late dreadful event, an event embittered by the circumstances your last letter
communicated to me, could receive any encrease, it certainly must from the
generous behaviour of Mr. Mandeville, whose care for my unhappy son, when
expiring, is a proof his blood was drawn from the same source as our Lordship’s.
Yes, he was indeed worthy the happiness you intended him, worthy the honored
name of Mandeville.
Relived, by the noble
conduct of your lamented kinsman, from the fears I entertained for my son’s
life, my sorrow for the miseries he has occasioned is only the more severe: I
feel with unutterable anguish that my ancient friend, the friend of my earliest
youth, is childless by the crime of him who owes his being to me: the blow his
hand unwillingly struck, has reached the heart of the incomparable Lady Julia:
I think of her angelic perfections, of the untimely fate which has robbed the
world of its loveliest ornament, and almost wish never to have been a father.
Lady Rochdale and
Louisa are in tears by me; for ever excluded from Belmont, they look on
themselves as exiles, though at home. The horrors of mind under which my son
labors are unutterable; he entreats to see Colonel Mandeville; to obtain his
pardon for that involuntary crime, which has destroyed all the happiness of his
life.
Will you, my friend,
once more admit us? Allow us one interview with yourself and Colonel
Mandeville? I ask no more, nor will ever repeat the visit: I could not support
the sight of Lady Belmont.
My Lord,
CONVINCED Lord Melvin
is more unfortunate than culpable, it would be cruel to treat him as a
criminal: I feel a horror I cannot conquer at the idea of ever receiving the
visit your Lordship has proposed; but, conscious of the injustice of indulging
it, I sacrifise it to our antient friendship, and only postpone, not refuse,
the visit: I will struggle with the reluctance of my heart, to see the
guiltless author of my misery, as soon as he is publicly exculpated from the
crime he at present stands charged with: Colonel Mandeville must appear as his
accuser: wretched as his hand has made me, justice obliges me to bear witness
to his innocence: Lady Anne Wilmot, who was present at Mr. Mandeville’s dying
declaration, is ready to confirm my evidence: Lord Melvin therefore has nothing
to fear. The trial once past, I will endeavour to prevail on Colonel Mandeville
and Lady Belmont, to make the same painful sacrifice to friendship, to which
time and reason will, I hope, perfectly reconcile us; but your Lordship will,
on a moment’s reflexion, be convinced that, till this is past, it would be
indecent in me to see Lord Melvin.
We are greatly obliged
to Lady Rochdale and Lady Louisa; the time of whose visit their own politeness
and sensibility will regulate; it is a severe addition to my wretchedness, that
the family of my friend is so fatally involved in it.
Oh! Lord Rochdale! you
are a father, and can pity us: you can judge the anguish to which we must ever
be a prey; never more shall we know a chearful hour; our lost child will be
ever at our hearts: when I remember her filial sweetness, her angel virtues,
her matchless perfections– the only view we had in life was to see her happy:
that is past, and all is now a dreary wild before us. Time may blunt the keen
edge of sorrow, and enable us to bear the load of life with patience; but never
must we hope the return of peace.
The shortness of life,
and the consideration of how much of our own is past, are the only consolations
we can receive: it cannot be long before we rejoin our beloved child: we have
only to pray for that ardently expected hour, which will re-unite us to all we
love.
Why will man lay
schemes of lasting felicity? By an over-solicitude to continue my family and
name, and secure the happiness of my child, I have defeated my own purpose, and
fatally destroyed both.
Humbled in the dust, I
confess the hand of heaven: the pride of birth, the grandeur of my house, had
too great a share in my resolves!
Oh! my friend!–but I
consider the hand which directed the blow, and submit to the will of my God.
I AM desired by my Lord
to ask you hither, and to beg you will bring my niece with you. Lady Belmont
joins in the request; her nobleness of sentiment has conquered the reluctance she
had to see her; she has even promised to endeavor to bear the sight of Lord
Melvin, but I fear this is more than is in her power; she fainted when the
request was first made. Lady Mary is expected here this evening.
Bellville, you are
coming to Belmont, once the smiling paradise of friendship. Alas! how changed
from that once happy abode! Where are those blameless pleasures, that convivial
joy, those sweet follies, which once gave such charms to this place? For ever
gone, for ever changed to a gloomy sadness, for ever buried with Lady Julia.
Lady Belmont struggles
nobly with her grief; she has consented to see her friends, to see all who will
hear her talk of her child: a tender melancholy has taken place of those
horrors, which it was impossible long to support and live.
Colonel Mandeville is
to stay at Belmont; they are to indulge in all the voluptuousness of sorrow;
they are to sit all day and talk of their matchless children, and count the
hours till they follow them to the grave. They have invited all who will join
in tears with them; the coach is gone to-day for Mr. and Mrs. Herbert.
Emily Howard and I bend
our whole thoughts to find out means to soften their sorrows; I hope much from
your conversation, and the endearing sensibility of your soul; it is not by
resisting, but by soothing grief, that we must heal the wounded heart.
There is one pleasure
to which they can never be insensible, the pleasure of relieving the miseries
of others: to divert their attention from the sad objects which now engross
them, we must find out the retreats of wretchedness; we must point out distress
which it is in their power to alleviate.
Oh! Bellville! But in
vain does the pride of human wisdom seek to explore the counsels of the Most
High! Certain of the paternal care of our Creator, our part is submission to
his will.
FINIS.