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THE HISTORY OF Sir Charles Grandison. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS Published from the Originals, By the Editor of Pamela and Clarissa. In Seven Volumes. VOL. I.
The Editor of the following Letters takes Leave to observe, that he has now, in this Publication, completed the Plan, that was the Object of his Wishes, rather than of his Hopes, to accomplish.
How such remarkable Collections of private Letters fell into his hands, he hopes the Reader will not think it very necessary to enquire.
The first Collection, intitled PAMELA, exhibited the Beauty and Superiority of Virtue in an innocent and unpolished Mind, with the Reward which often, even in this Life, a protecting Providence bestows on Goodness. A young Woman of low Degree, relating to her honest Parents the severe Trials she met with from a Master who ought to have been the Protector, not the Assailer, of her Honour, shews the Character of a Libertine in its truly contemptible Light. This Libertine, however, from the Foundation of good Principles laid in his early Years by an excellent Mother; by his Passion for a virtuous young Woman; and by her amiable Example, and unwearied Patience, when she became his Wife; is, after a Length of Time, perfectly reclaimed.
The second Collection, published under the Title of CLARISSA, displayed a more melancholy Scene. A young Lady of higher Fortune, and born to happier Hopes, is seen involved in such Variety of deep Distresses, as lead her to an untimely Death; affording a Warning to Parents against forcing the Inclinations of their Children in the most important Article of their Lives; and to Children against hoping too far from the fairest Assurances of a Man void of Principle. The Heroine, however, as a truly Christian Heroine, proves superior to her Trials; and her Heart, always excellent, refined and exalted by every one of them, rejoices in the Approach of a happy Eternity. Her cruel Destroyer appears wretched and disappointed, even in the boasted Success of his vile Machinations: But still (buoyed up with Self-conceit and vain Presumption) he goes on, after every short Fit of imperfect, yet terrifying Conviction, hardening himself more and more; till, unreclaimed by the most affecting Warnings, and repeated Admonitions, he perishes miserably in the Bloom of Life, and sinks into the Grave oppressed with Guilt, Remorse, and Horror. His Letters, it is hoped, afford many useful Lessons to the gay Part of Mankind against that Misuse of Wit and Youth, of Rank and Fortune, and of every outward Accomplishment, which turns them into a Curse to the miserable Possessor, as well as to all around him.
Here the Editor apprehended he should be obliged to stop, by reason of his precarious State of Health, and a Variety of Avocations which claimed his first Attention: But it was insisted on by several of his Friends who were well assured he had the Materials in his Power, that he should produce into public View the Character and Actions of a Man of True Honour.
He has been enabled to obey these his Friends, and to complete his first design: And now, therefore, presents to the Public, in Sir Charles Grandison, the Example of a Man acting uniformly well thro' a Variety of trying Scenes, because all his Actions are regulated by one steady Principle: A Man of Religion and Virtue; of Liveliness and Spirit; accomplished and agreeable; happy in himself, and a Blessing to others.
From what has been premised, it may be supposed, that the present Collection is not published ultimately, nor even principally, any more than the other two, for the Sake of Entertainment only. A much nobler End is in View. Yet it is hoped the Variety of Characters and Conversations necessarily introduced into so large a Correspondence, as these Volumes contain, will enliven as well as instruct: The rather, as the principal Correspondents are young Ladies of polite Education, and of lively Spirits.
The Nature of Familiar Letters, written, as it were, to the Moment, while the Heart is agitated by Hopes and Fears, on Events undecided, must plead an Excuse for the Bulk of a Collection of this Kind. Mere Facts and Characters might be comprised in a much smaller Compass: But, would they be equally interesting? It happens fortunately, that an Account of the juvenile Years of the Principal Person is narratively given in some of the Letters. As many, however, as could be spared, have been omitted. There is not one Episode in the Whole; nor, after Sir Charles Grandison is introduced, one Letter inserted but what tends to illustrate the principal Design. Those which precede his Introduction, will not, it is hoped, be judged unnecessary on the whole, as they tend to make the Reader acquainted with Persons, the History of most of whom is closely interwoven with that of Sir Charles.
| MEN. | WOMEN. |
|---|---|
| George Selby, Esq; | Miss Harriet Byron. |
| John Greville, Esq; | Mrs. Shirley, her Grandmother, by the Mother's side. |
| Richard Fenwick, Esq; | Mrs. Selby, Sister to Miss Byron's Father, and Wife of Mr. Selby. |
| Robert Orme, Esq; | Miss Lucy Selby, Niece to Mr. Selby. |
| Archibald Reeves, Esq; | Miss Nancy Selby, Niece to Mr. Selby. |
| Sir Rowland Meredith, Knt. | Miss Orme, Sister of Mr. Orme. |
| James Fowler, Esq; | Mrs. Reeves, Wife of Mr. Reeves, Cousin of Miss Byron. |
| Sir Hargrave Pollexfen, Bart. | Lady Betty Williams. |
| The Earl of L. a Scotish Nobleman. | The Countess of L. Wife of Lord L. elder Sister of Sir Charles Grandison. |
| Thomas Deane, Esq; | Miss Grandison, younger Sister of Sir Charles. |
| Sir Charles Grandison, Bart. | Mrs. Eleanor Grandison, Aunt to Sir Charles. |
| James Bagenhall, Esq; | Miss. Emily Jervois, his Ward. |
| Solomon Merceda, Esq; | Lady Mansfield. |
| John Jordan, Esq; | Lady Beauchamp. |
| Sir Harry Beauchamp, Bart. | The Countess Dowager of D. |
| Edward Beauchamp, Esq; his Son. | Mrs. Hortensia Beaumont. |
| Everard Grandison, Esq; | |
| The Rev. Dr. Bartlett. | |
| Lord W. Uncle to Sir Charles, Grandison. | |
| Lord G. Son of the Earl of G. |
ITALIANS. |
| Marchese della Porretta, the Father. | Marchesa della Porretta. |
| Marchese della Porretta, his eldest Son. | Signora Clementina, her Daughter. |
| The Bishop of Nocera, his second Son. | Signora Juliana Sforza, Sister to the Marchese della Porretta. |
| Signor Jeronymo della Porretta, third Son. | Signora Laurana, her Daughter. |
| Conte della Porretta, their Uncle. | Signora Olivia. |
| Count of Belvedere. | Camilla, Lady Clementina's Governess. |
| Father Marescotti. | Laura, her Maid. |
Miss Lucy Selby, To Miss Harriet Byron.
Ashby-Canons, January 10.
Your resolution to accompany Mrs. Reeves to London, has greatly alarmed your three Lovers. And two of them, at least, will let you know that it has. Such a lovely girl as my Harriet, must expect to be more accountable for her footsteps than one less excellent and less attractive.
Mr. Greville, in his usual resolute way, threatene to follow you to London; and there, he says, he will watch the motions of every man who approaches you; and, if he find reason for it, will early let such man know his pretensions, and the danger he may run into if he pretend to be his competitor. But let me not do him injustice; though he talks of a rival thus harshly, he speaks of you more highly than man ever spoke of woman. Angel and Goddess are phrases you have been used to from him; and tho' spoken in his humourous way, yet I am sure he most sincerely admires you.
Mr. Fenwick, in a less determined manner, declares, that he will follow you to town, if you stay there above one fortnight.
The gentle Orme sighs his apprehensions, and wishes you would change your purpose. Tho' hopeless, he says, it is some pleasure to him that he can think himself in the same county with you; and much more, that he can tread in your footsteps to and from church every Sunday, and behold you there. He wonders how your Grandmamma, your Aunt, your Uncle, can spare you. Your Cousin Reeves's surely, he says, are very happy in their influences over us all.
Each of the gentlemen is afraid, that by increasing the number of your admirers, you will increase his difficulties: But what is that to them, I asked, when they already know, that you are not inclined to favour any of the three?
If you hold your resolution, and my Cousin Reeves's their time of setting out, pray let me know, and I will attend you at my Uncle Selby's, to wish you a good journey, much pleasure in town, and a return with a safe and sound heart. My Sister, who, poor dear girl, continues extremely weak and low, will spare me for a purpose so indispensable. I will not have you come to us. I know it would grieve you to see her in the way she is in. You too much take to heart the infirmities of your friends which you cannot cure; and as your Grandmamma lives upon your smiles, and you rejoice all your friends by your chearfulness, it would be cruel to make you sad.
Mr. Greville has just left us. He dropt in upon us as we were going to dinner. My Grandmother Selby you know is always pleased with his rattling. She prevailed on him to alight, and sit down with us. All his talk was of you. He repeated his former threatenings (as I called them to him) on your going to town. After dinner, he read us a letter from Lady Frampton relating to you. He read us also some passages from the copy of his answer, with design, I believe, that I should ask him to leave it behind him. He is a vain creature, you know, and seemed fond of what he had written. I did ask him. He seemed to make a scruple of your seeing it; but it was a faint one. However, he called for pen and ink; and when it was brought him, scratched over two passages, and that with so many little flourishes (as you will see) that he thought they could not be read. But the ink I furnished him with happening to be paler than his, you will find he was not cunning enough. I promised to return it.
Send me a line by the bearer, to tell me if your resolution holds as to the day.
Adieu, my dearest Harriet. May Angels protect and guide you whithersoever you go!
Lucy Selby.
Mr. Greville, To Lady Frampton. Inclosed in the preceding.
Northampton, January 6.
Your Ladyship demands a description of the Person of the celebrated Miss Byron in our neighbourhood; and to know, whether, as report tells you, Love has listed me in the number of her particular admirers? — Particular admirers you well distinguish; since every one who beholds her admires her.
Your Ladyship confines your enquiries to her Person, you tell me; and own, that women are much more solicitous about the beauties of that, than of the Mind. Perhaps it may be so; and that their envy is much sooner excited by the one than by the other. But who, Madam, can describe the person of Miss Harriet Byron, and her person only; animated as every feature is by a mind that bespeaks all human excellence, and dignifies her in every Air, in every Look, in every Motion?
No man living has a greater passion for Beauty than I have. Till I knew Miss Byron, I was one of those who regarded nothing else in the Sex. Indeed, I considered all intellectual attainments as either useless or impertinent in women. Your Ladyship knows what were my free notions on this head, and has rebuked me for them. A wise, a learned lady, I considered as a very unnatural character. I wanted women to be all Love, and nothing else. A very little Prudence allow'd I to enter into their composition; just enough to distinguish the Man of Sense from the Fool; and that for my own sake. You know I have vanity, Madam: But lovely as Miss Byron's person is, I defy the greatest Sensualist on earth not to admire her mind more than her person. What a triumph would the devil have, as I have often thought, when I have stood contemplating her perfections, especially at church, were he able to raise up a man that could lower this Angel into Woman? —Pardon me! —Your Ladyship knows my mad way of saying every thing that rises to my thoughts.
Sweetness of temper must make plain features glow: What an effect must it then have upon fine ones? Never was there a sweeter-temper'd woman. Indeed from Sixteen to Twenty, all the Sex (kept in humour by their hopes, and by their attractions) are said to be good-temper'd; but she is remarkably so. She is just turned of Twenty, but looks not more than Seventeen. Her beauty hardly yet in its full blow, it will last longer, I imagine, than in an earlier blossom. Yet the prudence visible in her whole aspect, gave her a distinction, even at Twelve, that promised what she would be at a riper age.
Yet with all this reigning good-nature visible in her face and manner, there is such a native dignity in all she says, in all she does (tho' mingled with a frankness that shews her mind's superiority to the minds of almost all other women) that it damps and suppresses, in the most audacious, all imaginations of bold familiarity.
But, by my soul, I know not how she does this neither: But so it is. She jests; she raillies: But I cannot railly her again. Love, it is said, dignifies the adored object. Perhaps it is that which awes me.
And now will your Ladyship doubt of an affirmative answer to your second question, Whether Love has listed me in the number of her particular admirers.
He has: And the devil take me if I can help myself: And yet I have no encouragement—Nor anybody else; that's my consolation. Fenwick is deeper in, if possible, than I. We had at our first acquaintance, as you have heard, a Tilting-bout on the occasion: But are sworn friends now; each having agreed to try his fortune by patience and perseverance; and being assured that the one has no more of her favour to boast of, than the other(a) . "We have indeed blustered away between us half a score more of her admirers. Poor whining Orme, however, perseveres. But of him we make no account: He has a watry head, and tho' he finds a way, by his Sister, who visits at Mr. Selby's, and is much esteemed there, to let Miss Byron know his passion for her, notwithstanding the negative he has received; yet doubt we not that she is safe from a flame that he will quench with his tears, before it can rise to an head to disturb us.
"You ladies love men should whine after you: But never yet did I find, that where a blustering fellow was a competitor, the lady married the milksop."
But let me in this particular do Miss Byron justice: How she manages it, I can't tell; but she is courteous to all: nor could ever any man charge her either with pride or cruelty. All I fear, is, that she has such an equality in her temper, that she can hardly find room in her heart for a particular Love: Nor will, till she meets with one whose mind is near as faultless as her own; and the general tenor of whose life and actions call upon her discretion to give her leave to love. "This apprehension I owe to a conversation I had with her Grandmother Shirley; a lady that is an ornament to old age; and who hinted to me, that her Grand-daughter had exceptions both to Fenwick and me, on the score of a few indulgences that perhaps have been too public; but which all men of fashion and spirit give themselves, and all women, but this, allow of, or hate not men the worse for. But then what is her objection to Orme? He is a sober dog."
She was but eight years old when her Mother died. She also was an excellent woman. Her death was brought on by grief for that of her husband; which happened but six months before—A rare instance!
The Grandmother and Aunt, to whom the Girl is dutiful to a proverb, will not interfere with her choice. If they are applied to for their interest, the answer is constantly this: The approbation of their Harriet must first be gained, and then their consent is ready.
There is a Mr. Deane, a Man of excellent character for a Lawyer; but indeed he left off practice on coming into possession of an handsome estate. He was the girl's godfather. He is allowed to have great influence over them all. Harriet calls him Papa. To him I have applied: But his answer is the very same: His daughter Harriet must choose for herself: All motions of this kind must come first from her.
And ought I to despair of succeeding with the girl herself? I, her Greville; not contemptible in person; an air—free and easy, at least; having a good estate in possession; fine expectances besides; dressing well, singing well, dancing well, and blest with a moderate share of confidence; which makes other women think me a clever fellow: She, a girl of twenty; her fortune between ten and fifteen thousand pounds only; for her father's considerable estate, on his demise, for want of male heirs, went with the name; her grandmother's jointure not more than 500 l. a year. —And what though her uncle Selby has no children, and loves her, yet has he nephews and nieces of his own, whom he also loves; for this Harriet is his wife's niece.
I will not despair. If resolution, if perseverance, will do, and if she be a woman, she shall be mine—And so I have told her aunt Selby, and her uncle too; and so I have told Miss Lucy Selby, her cousin, as she calls her, who is highly and deservedly in her favour; and so indeed have I more than once told the girl herself.
But now to the description of her Person—Let me die, if I know where to begin. She is all over loveliness. Does not every-body else who has seen her tell you so? Her Stature; shall I begin with her stature? She cannot be said to be tall; but yet is something above the middling. Her Shape—But what care I for her shape? I, who hope to love her still more, tho' possession may make me admire her less, when she has not that to boast of? We young fellows who have been abroad, are above regarding English shapes, and prefer to them the French negligence. By the way, I think the foreign ladies in the right, that they aim not at what they cannot attain. Whether we are so much in the right to come into their taste, is another thing. But be this as it will, there is so much ease and dignity in the person, in the dress, and in every air and motion, of Miss Harriet Byron, that fine shapes will ever be in fashion where she is, be either native or foreigner the judge.
Her Complexion is admirably fair and clear. I have sat admiring her complexion, till I have imagined I have seen the life-blood flowing with equal course thro' her translucent veins.
Her Forehead, so nobly free and open, shews dignity and modesty, and strikes into one a kind of awe, singly contemplated, that (from the delight which accompanies the awe) I know not how to describe. Every single feature, in short, will bear the nicest examination; and her whole Face, and her Neck, so admirably set on her finely-proportioned Shoulders— let me perish, if, taking her all together, I do not hold her to be the most unexceptionable Beauty I ever beheld. But what still is her particular excellence, and distinguishes her from all other English women (for it must be acknowleged to be a characteristic of the French women of quality), is, the grace which that people call Physiognomy, and we may call Expression: Had not her features and her complexion been so fine as they are, that grace alone, that Soul shining out in her lovely aspect, joined with the ease and gracefulness of her Motion, would have made her as many admirers as beholders.
After this, shall I descend to a more particular description? —I will.
Her Cheek—I never saw a cheek so beautifully turned; illustrated as it is by a charming Carmine flush, which denotes sound Health. A most bewitching dimple takes place in each when she smiles; and she has so much reason to be pleased with herself, and with all about her (for she is the idol of her relations) that I believe from infancy she never frowned; nor can a frown, it is my opinion, sit upon her face for a minute. Would to Heaven I were considerable enough with her to prove the contrary!
Her Mouth—There never was so lovely a mouth. But no wonder; since such rosy Lips, and such ivory and even Teeth, must give beauty to a mouth less charming than hers.
Her Nose gives dignity to her other features. Her Chin is sweetly turn'd, and almost imperceptibly dimpled.
Her Eyes! —Ay, Madam, her Eyes! —Good Heaven what a lustre; yet not a fierce, but a mild lustre! How have I despised the romancing Poets for their unnatural descriptions of the Eyes of their heroines! But I have thought those descriptions, tho' absurd enough in conscience, less absurd (allowing something for poetical licence) ever since I beheld those of Miss Harriet Byron.
Her Hair is a real and unlabour'd ornament to her. All natural its curls: Art has no share in the lustre it gives to her other beauties.
I mention'd her Neck—Here I dare not trust myself —Inimitable creature! All-attracting loveliness!
Her Arm—Your Ladyship knows my passion for a delicate Arm—By my Soul, Madam, your own does not exceed it.
Her Hands are extremely fine. Such Fingers! And they accustomed to the Pen, to the Needle, to the Harpsichord; excelling in all—O Madam! women have Souls. I now am convinced they have. Given us for temporary purposes only, I dare own to your Ladyship, that once I doubted it. —And have I not seen her dance! Have I not heard her sing! — But indeed, mind and person, she is all harmony.
Then for Reading, for acquired Knowlege, what lady so young—But you know the character of her Grandfather Shirley. He was a man of universal learning, and, from his public employments abroad, as polite as learned. This Girl, from Seven years of age, when he came to settle in England, to Fourteen, when she lost him, was his delight; and her education and instruction the amusement of his vacant hours. This is the period, he used to say, in which the foundations of all female goodness are to be laid, since so soon after Fourteen they leap into women. The dead languages he aimed not to teach her; lest he should overload her young mind: But in the Italian and French he made her an adept.
Nor were the advantages common ones which she received from his Lady, her Grandmother, and from her Aunt Selby, her Mother's Sister, a woman of equal worthiness. Her Grandmother particularly is one of the most pious, yet most chearful, of women. She will not permit her Daughter Byron, she says, to live with her, for both their sakes—For the Girl's sake, Because there is a greater resort of company at Mr. Selby's, than at Shirley-Manor; and she is afraid, as her Grandchild has a serious turn, that her own contemplative life may make her more grave than she wishes so young a woman to be. Youth, she says, is the season for chearfulness—For her own sake, Because she looks upon her Harriet's company as a cordial too rich to be always at hand; and when she has a mind to regale, she will either send for her, fetch her, or visit her at Mrs. Selby's. One of her letters to Mrs. Selby I once saw. It ran thus—"You must spare me my Harriet. I am in pain. My spirits are not high. I would not that the undecay'd mind should yield, for want of using the means, to the decaying body. One happy day with our child, the true child of the united minds of her late excellent parents, will, I hope, effect the cure: If it do not, you must spare her to me two."
Did I not tell you, Madam, that it was very difficult to describe the Person only of this admirable young lady. —But I stop here. A cursed apprehension comes cross me! —How do I know but I am praising another man's future wife, and not my own? Here is a Cousin of hers, a Mrs. Reeves, a fine Lady from London, come down under the cursed influence of my evil stars, to carry this Harriet away with her into the gay world. Woman! Woman! —I beg your Ladyship's pardon; but what Angel of Twenty is proof against vanity? The first hour she appears, she will be a Toast; Stars and Titles will croud about her; and who knows how far a paltry coronet may dazle her who deserves an imperial crown? But, woe to the man, whoever he be, whose pretensions dare to interfere (and have any assurance of success) with those of
Your Ladyship's Most obedient and faithful Servant, John Greville.
Miss Harriet Byron, To Miss Lucy Selby.
Selby House, Jan. 16.
I Return you inclosed, my Lucy, Mr. Greville's strange letter. As you asked him for it, he will have no doubt that you shewed it to me. It is better therefore, if he make enquiry whether you did or not, to own it. In this case he will be curious to know my sentiments upon it. He is sensible that my whole heart is open to you.
Tell him, if you think proper, in so many words, that I am far more displeased with him for his impetuosity, than gratified by his flattery.
Tell him, that I think it very hard, that, when my nearest relations leave me so generously to my liberty, a man to whom I never gave cause to treat me with disrespect, should take upon himself to threaten and controul me.
Ask him, What are his pretences for following me to London, or elsewhere?
If I had not had reasons before to avoid a more than neighbourly civility to him, he has now furnished me with very strong ones. The threatening Lover must certainly make a tyrant Husband. Don't you think so, Lucy? —But make not supposals of Lover or Husband to him: These bold men will turn shadows into substance in their own favour.
A woman who is so much exalted above what she can deserve, has reason to be terrified, were she to marry the complimenter (even could she suppose him so blinded by his passion as not to be absolutely insincere) to think of the height she must fall from in his opinion, when she has put it into his power to treat her but as what she is.
Indeed I both despise and fear a very high complimenter. —Despise him for his designing flattery, supposing him not to believe himself; or, if he mean what he says, for his injudiciousness. I fear him, lest he should (as in the former case he must hope) be able to raise a vanity in me, that would sink me beneath his meanness, and give him cause to triumph over my folly, at the very time that I am full of my own wisdom.
High-strain'd compliments, in short, always pull me down; always make me shrink into myself. Have I not some vanity to guard against? I have no doubt but Mr. Greville wished I should see this letter: And this gives me some little indignation against myself; for does it not look as if, from some faults in my conduct, Mr. Greville had formed hopes of succeeding by treating me like a fool?
I hope these gentlemen will not follow me to town, as they threaten. If they do, I will not see them, if I can any way avoid it. Yet, for me to appear to them solicitous on this head, or to desire them not to go, will be in some measure to lay myself under an obligation to their acquiescence. It is not therefore for me to hope to influence them in this matter, since they expect too much in return for it from me; and since they will be ready to found a merit in their passion even for disobliging me.
I cannot bear, however, to think of their dangling after me where-ever I go. These men, my dear, were we to give them importance with us, would be greater infringers of our natural freedom than the most severe Parents; and for their own sakes: Whereas Parents, if ever so despotic (if not unnatural ones indeed) mean solely our good, tho' headstrong girls do not always think so. Yet such, even such, can be teazed out of their wills, at least out of their duty, by the men who stile themselves Lovers, when they are invincible to all the entreaties and commands of their Parents.
O that the next eight or ten years of my life, if I find not in the interim a man on whom my whole undivided heart can fix, were happily over! As happily as the last alike important four years! To be able to look down from the elevation of thirty years, my principles fix'd, and to have no capital folly to reproach myself with, what a happiness would that be!
My Cousin Reeves's time of setting out holds; the indulgence of my dearest friends continues; and my resolution holds. But I will see my Nancy before I set out. What! shall I enter upon a party of pleasure, and leave in my heart room to reflect, in the midst of it, that there is a dear suffering friend who had reason to think I was afraid of giving myself pain, when I might, by the balm of true love and friendly soothings, administer comfort to her wounded heart? — No, my Lucy, believe me, if I have not generosity enough, I have selfishness enough, to make me avoid a sting so severe as this would be, to
Your Harriet Byron.
Miss Byron, To Miss Selby.
Grosvenor-Street, Tuesday, Jan. 24.
We are just arrived. We had a very agreeable journey.
I need not tell you that Mr. Greville and Mr. Fenwick attended us to our first baiting; and had a genteel dinner ready provided for us: The gentlemen will tell you this, and all particulars.
They both renewed their menaces of following me to London, if I stay'd above one month. They were so good as to stretch their fortnight to a month.
Mr. Fenwick, in very pathetic terms, as he found an opportunity to engage me alone for a few minutes, besought me to love him. Mr. Greville was as earnest with me to declare that I hated him. Such a declaration, he said, was all he at present wished for. It was strange he told me, that he neither could prevail on me to encourage his Love, nor to declare my Hatred. He is a whimsical creature.
I raillied him with my usual freedom; and told him, that if there were one person in the world that I was capable of hating, I could make the less scruple to oblige him. He thank'd me for that.
The two gentlemen would fain have proceeded farther: But as they are never out of their way, I dare say, they would have gone to London; and there have dangled on till we should not have got rid of them, for my whole time of being in town.
I was very gravely earnest with them to leave us, when we stept into the coach in order to proceed. Fenwick, you dog, said Mr. Greville, we must return; Miss Byron looks grave. Gravity, and a rising colour in the finest face in the world, indicates as much as the frowns of other Beauties. And in the most respectful manner they both took leave of me; insisting however on my hand, and that I would wish them well.
I gave each my hand; I wish you very well, gentlemen, said I. And I am obliged to your civility in seeing me so far on my journey: Especially as you are so kind as to leave me here.
Why, dear Madam, did you not spare your Especially, said Mr. Greville? —Come, Fenwick, let us retire, and lay our two loggerheads together, and live over again the past hour, and then hang ourselves.
Poor Mr. Orme! The coach, at our first setting out, passed by his Park-gate, you know. There was he—on the very ridge of the highway. I saw him not till it was near him. He bowed to the very ground, with such an air of disconsolateness! —Poor Mr. Orme! —I wish'd to have said one word to him, when we had passed him: But the coach flew— Why did the coach fly! —But I waved my hand, and leaned out of the coach as far as I could, and bowed to him.
O Miss Byron, said Mrs. Reeves (so said Mr. Reeves) Mr. Orme is the happy man. Did I think as you do, said I, I should not be so desirous to have spoken to him: But, methinks, I should have been glad to have once said, Adieu, Mr. Orme; for Mr. Orme is a good man.
But, my dear, my heart was softened at parting with my dear relations and friends; and when the heart is softened, light impressions will go deep.
My Cousin's house is suitable to their fortune: Very handsome, and furnish'd in taste. Mrs. Reeves, knowing well what a scribbler I am, and am expected to be, has provided me with pen, ink, and paper, in abundance. She readily allowed me to take early possession of my apartment, that I might pay literal obedience to the commands of all my friends on setting out. These, you know, were, to write in the first hour of my arrival: And it was allowed to be to you, my dear. But, writing thus early, what can have occurr'd?
My apartment is extremely elegant. A well-furnish'd book-case, is, however, to me the most attracting ornament in it—Pardon me, dear Pen and Ink! I must not prefer any thing to you, by whose means, I hope to spend some part of every day at Selby-House; and even at this distance amuse with my prattle those friends that are always so partial to it.
And now, my dear, my revered Grandmamma, I ask your blessing—Yours, my ever-indulgent Aunt Selby—And yours, my honoured and equally beloved Uncle Selby. Who knows but you will now in absence take less delight in teazing your ever-dutiful Harriet? But yet I unbespeak not my monitor.
Continue to love me, my Lucy, as I shall endeavour to deserve your love: And let me know how our dear Nancy does.
My heart bleeds for her. I should have held myself utterly inexcusable, had I accepted of your kindlyintended dispensation, and come to town for three whole months, without repeating to her, by word of mouth, my love and my sympathising concern for her. What merit does her patience add to her other merits! How has her calamity endeared her to me! If ever I shall be heavily afflicted, God give me her amiable, her almost meritorious patience in sufferings!
To my Cousin Holles's, and all my other Relations, Friends, Companions, make the affectionate compliments of
Your Harriet Byron.
Miss Byron, To Miss Selby.
Jan. 25.
You rejoice me, my dear, in the hopes which you tell me, Dr. Mitchell from London gives you in relation to our Nancy. May our incessant prayers for the restoration of her health be answer'd!
Three things my Aunt Selby, and you, in the name of every one of my friends, injoined me at parting. The first, To write often, very often, were your words. This injunction was not needful: My heart is with you; and the good news you give me of my Grandmamma's health, and of our Nancy, enlarges that heart. The second, To give you a description of the persons and characters of the people I am likely to be conversant with in the London world. And, thirdly, Besides the general account which you all expected from me of the visits I made and received, you injoined me to acquaint you with the very beginnings of every address (and even of every silent and respectful distinction, were your words) that the girl whom you all so greatly favour, might receive on this excursion to town.
Don't you remember what my Uncle Selby answer'd to this? —I do: And will repeat it, to shew, that his correcting cautions shall not be forgotten.
The vanity of the Sex, said he, will not suffer any thing of this sort to escape our Harriet. Women, continued he, make themselves so cheap at the public places in and about town, that new faces are more enquired after than even fine faces constantly seen. Harriet has an honest artless bloom in her cheeks; she may attract notice as a novice: But wherefore do you fill her head with an expectation of conquests? Women, added he, offer themselves at every public place, in rows, as at a market. Because three or four silly fellows here in the country (like people at an auction, who raise the price upon each other above its value) have bid for her, you think she will not be able to set her foot out of doors, without increasing the number of her followers.
And then my Uncle would have it, that my head would be unable to bear the consequence which the partiality of my other friends gave me.
It is true, my Lucy, that we young women are too apt to be pleased with the admiration pretended for us by the other Sex. But I have always endeavour'd to keep down any foolish pride of this sort, by such considerations as these: That flattery is the vice of men: That they seek to raise us in order to lower us, and in the end to exalt themselves on the ruins of the pride they either hope to find, or inspire: That humility, as it shines brightest in an high condition, best becomes a flatter'd woman of all women: That she who is puffed up by the praises of men, on the supposed advantages of person, answers their end upon her; and seems to own, that she thinks it a principal part of hers, to be admired by them: And what can give more importance to them, and less to herself, than this? For have not women souls as well as men, and souls as capable of the noblest attainments, as theirs? Shall they not therefore be most solicitous to cultivate the beauties of the mind, and to make those of person but of inferior consideration? The bloom of beauty holds but a very few years; and shall not a woman aim to make herself mistress of those perfections that will dignify her advanced age? And then may she be as wife, as venerable—as my Grandmamma. She is an example for us, my dear: Who is so much respected, who is so much beloved, both by old and young, as my Grandmamma Shirley?
In pursance of the second injunction, I will now describe some young ladies and gentlemen who paid my Cousins their compliments on their arrival in town.
Miss Allestree, Daughter of Sir John Allestree, was one. She is very pretty, and very genteel, easy, and free. I believe I shall love her.
Miss Bramber was the second. Not so pretty as Miss Allestree; but agreeable in her person and air. A little too talkative, I think.
It was one of my Grandfather's rules to me, Not impertinently to start subjects, as if I would make an ostentation of knowlege; or as if I were fond of indulging a talking humour: But frankness and complaisance required, he used to say, that we women should unlock our bosoms, when we were called upon, and were expected to give our sentiments upon any subject.
Miss Bramber was eager to talk. She seemed, even when silent, to look as if she was studying for something to say, altho' she had exhausted two or three subjects. This charge of volubility, I am the rather inclined to fix upon her, as neither Mr. nor Mrs. Reeves took notice to me of it, as a thing extraordinary; which, probably, they would have done, if she had exceeded her usual way. And yet, perhaps, the joy of seeing her newly-arrived friends might have open'd her lips. If so, your pardon, sweet Miss Bramber!
Miss Sally, her younger Sister, is very amiable and very modest; a little kept down, as it seems, by the vivacity of her elder Sister; between whose ages there are about six or seven years: So that Miss Bramber seems to regard her Sister as one whom she is willing to remember as the girl she was two or three years ago; for Miss Sally is not above seventeen.
What confirmed me in this, was, that the younger lady was a good deal more free when her Sister was withdrawn, than when she was present; and again pursed-up her really pretty mouth when she returned: And her Sister addressed her always by the word Child, with an air of eldership; while the other called her Sister, with a look of observance.
These were the Ladies.
The two gentlemen who came with them, were, Mr. Barnet, a Nephew of Lady Allestree, and Mr. Somner.
Mr. Somner is a young gentleman lately married; very affected, and very opinionated. I told Mrs. Reeves, after he was gone, that I believed he was a dear Lover of his person; and she owned he was. Yet had he no great reason for it. It is far from extraordinary; tho' he was very gaily dressed. His wife, it seems, was a young widow of great fortune; and till she gave him consequence by falling in love with him, he was thought to be a modest good sort of young man; one that had not discovered any more perfections in himself, than other people beheld in him; and this gave her an excuse for liking him. But now he is loquacious, forward, bold, thinks meanly of the Sex; and, what is worse, not the higher of the lady, for the preference she has given him.
This gentleman took great notice of me; and yet in such a way, as to have me think, that the approbation of so excellent a judge as himself, did me no small honour.
Mr. Barnet is a young man, that I imagine will be always young. At first I thought him only a fop. He affected to say some things, that tho' trite, were sententious, and carried with them the air of observation. There is some degree of merit in having such a memory, as will help a person to repeat and apply other mens wit with some tolerable propriety. But when he attempted to walk alone, he said things that it was impossible a man of common sense could say. I pronounce therefore boldly about him: Yet by his outward appearance he may pass for one of your pretty fellows; for he dresses very gaily. Indeed if he has any taste, it is in dress; and this he has found out; for he talked of little else, when he led the talk; and boasted of several parts of his. What finished him with me, was, that as often as the conversation seemed to take a serious turn, he arose from his seat, and humm'd an Italian air; of which however he knew nothing: But the sound of his own voice seemed to please him.
This fine gentleman recollected some high-flown compliments, and, applying them to me, looked as if he expected I should value myself upon them.
No wonder that men in general think meanly of us women, if they believe we have ears to hear, and folly to be pleased with, the frothy things that pass under the name of Compliments from such randomshooters as these.
Miss Stevens paid us a visit this afternoon. She is daughter of Colonel Stevens, a very worthy man. She appears sensible and unaffected; has read, my cousin says, a good deal; and yet takes no pride in shewing it.
Miss Darlington came with her. They are related. This young lady has, I find, a pretty taste in poetry. Mrs. Reeves prevailed on her to shew us three of her performances. And now, as it was with some reluctance that she shewed them, is it fair to say any thing about them? I say it only to you, my friends. —One was on the parting of two Lovers; very sensible; and so tender, that it shewed the fair writer knew how to describe the pangs that may be innocently allowed to arise on such an occasion. —One on the Morning-dawn, and Sun-rise; a subject that gave credit to herself; for she is, it seems, a very early riser. I petitioned for a copy of this, for the sake of two or three of my dear cousins, as well as to confirm my own practice; but I was modestly refused. —The third was on the death of a favourite Linet; a little too pathetic for the occasion; since were Miss Darlington to have lost her best and dearest friend, I imagine that she had in this piece, which is pretty long, exhausted the subject; and must borrow from it some of the images which she introduces to heighten her distress for the loss of the little songster. It is a very difficult matter, I believe, for young persons of genius to rein-in their imaginations. A great flow of spirits, and great store of images crouding in upon them, carry them too frequently above their subject; and they are apt rather to say all that may be said on their favourite topics, than what is proper to be said. But it is a pretty piece, however.
Thursday Morning.
Lady Betty Williams supp'd with us the same evening. She is an agreeable woman, the widow of a very worthy man, a near relation of Mr. Reeves. She has a great and just regard for my cousin, and consults him in all affairs of importance. She seems to be turned of Forty; has a son and a daughter; but they are both abroad for education.
It hurt me to hear her declare, that she cared not for the trouble of Education; and that she had this pleasure, which girls brought up at home seldom give their mothers; that she and Miss Williams always saw each other, and always parted, as Lovers.
Surely there must be some fault either in the temper of the mother, or in the behaviour of the daughter; and if so, I doubt it will not be amended by seeing each other but seldom. Do not Lovers thus cheat and impose upon one another?
The young gentleman is about Seventeen; his sister about Fifteen: And, as I understand she is a very lively, and, 'tis feared, a forward girl, shall we wonder, if in a few years time she should make such a choice for her husband as Lady Betty would least of all choose for a son-in-law? What influence can a mother expect to have over a daughter from whom she so voluntarily estranges herself? and from whose example the daughter can receive only hearsay benefits?
But after all, may not, methinks I hear my correcting Uncle ask, Lady Betty have better reasons for her conduct in this particular, than she gave you? —She may, my Uncle, and I hope she has: But I wish she had condescended to give those better reasons, since she gave any; and then you had not been troubled with the impertinent remarks of your saucy kinswoman.
Lady Betty was so kind as to take great notice of me. She desired to be one in every party of pleasure that I am to be engaged in. Persons who were often at public places, she observed, took as much delight in accompanying strangers to them, as if they were their own. The apt comparisons, she said; the new remarks; the pretty wonder; the agreeable passions excited in such, on the occasion, always gave her high entertainment. And she was sure from the observation of such a young lady, civilly bowing to me, she should be equally delighted and improved. I bowed in silence. I love not to make disqualifying speeches; by such we seem to intimate that we believe the complimenter to be in earnest, or perhaps that we think the compliment our due, and want to hear it either repeated or confirmed; and yet, possibly, we have not that pretty confusion, and those transient blushes, ready, which Mr. Greville archly says are always to be at hand when we affect to disclaim the attributes given us.
Lady Betty was so good as to stop there; tho' the muscles of her agreeable face shewed a polite promptitude, had I, by disclaiming her compliments, provok'd them to perform their office.
Am I not a saucy creature?
I know I am. But I dislike not Lady Betty, for all that.
I am to be carried by her to a Masquerade, to a Ridotto; when the season comes, to Ranelagh and Vauxhall: In the mean time, to Balls, Routs, Drums, and so-forth; and to qualify me for these latter, I am to be taught all the fashionable Games. Did my dear Grandmamma, twenty or thirty years ago, think she should live to be told, That to the Dancing-master, the Singing or Music-master, the high mode would require the Gaming-master to be added for the completing of the female education?
Lady Betty will kindly take the lead in all these diversions.
And now, Lucy, will you not repeat your wishes, that I return to you with a sound heart? And are you not afraid that I shall become a modern fine Lady? As to the latter fear, I will tell you when you shall suspect me—If you find that I prefer the highest of these entertainments, or the Opera itself, well as I love music, to a good Play of our favourite Shakespeare, then, my Lucy, let your heart ake for your Harriet: Then, be apprehensive that she is laid hold on by levity; that she is captivated by the Eye and the Ear; that her heart is infected by the modern taste; and that she will carry down with her an appetite to pernicious gaming; and, in order to support her extravagance, will think of punishing some honest man in marriage.
James has signified to Sally his wishes to be allowed to return to Selby-house. I have not therefore bought him the new liveries I designed for him on coming to town. I cannot bear an unchearful brow in a servant; and he owning to me, on my talking with him, his desire to return, I have promised that he shall, as soon as Mr. Reeves has provided me with another servant. —Silly fellow! But I hope my Aunt will not dismiss him upon it. The servant I may hire, may not care to go into the country perhaps, or may not so behave, as that I should choose to take him down with me. And James is honest; and his mother would break her heart, if he should be dismissed our service.
Several servants have already offered themselves; but, as I think people are answerable for the character of such as they choose for their domestics, I find no small difficulty in fixing. I am not of the mind of that great man, whose good-natur'd reason for sometimes preferring men no way deserving, was, that he loved to be a friend to those whom no other person would befriend. This was carrying his goodness very far (if he made it not an excuse for himself, for having promoted a man who proved bad afterwards, rather than as supposing him to be so at the time); since else, he seemed not to consider, that every bad man he promoted, ran away with the reward due to a better.
Mr. and Mrs. Reeves are so kind to me, and their servants are so ready to oblige me, that I shall not be very uneasy, if I cannot soon get one to my mind. Only if I could fix on such a one, and if my Grandmamma's Oliver should leave her, as she supposes he will, now he has married Ellen, as soon as a good Inn offers, James may supply Oliver's place, and the new servant may continue mine instead of James.
And now that I have gone so low, don't you wish me to put an end to this letter! —I believe you do.
Well then, with Duty and Love ever remember'd where so justly due, believe me to be, my dear Lucy,
Your truly affectionate Harriet Byron.
Miss Byron, To Miss Selby.
Sat. Jan. 28.
As to what you say of Mr. Greville's concern on my absence (and, I think, with a little too much feeling for him) and of his declaring himself unable to live without seeing me; I have but one fear about it; which is, that he is forming a pretence from his violent Love, to come up after me: And if he does, I will not see him, if I can help it.
And do you indeed believe him to be so much in Love? By your seriousness on the occasion, you seem to think he is. O my Lucy! What a good heart you have! And did he not weep when he told you so? Did he not turn his head away, and pull out his handkerchief? —O these dissemblers! The hyæna, my dear, was a male devourer. The men in malice, and to extenuate their own guilt, made the creature a female. And yet there may be male and female of this species of monsters. But as women have more to lose with regard to reputation than men, the male hyæna must be infinitely the more dangerous creature of the two; since he will come to us, even into our very houses, fawning, cringing, weeping, licking our hands; while the den of the female is by the high-way-side, and wretched youths must enter into it, to put it in her power to devour them.
Let me tell you, my dear, that if there be an artful man in England, with regard to us women (artful equally in his free speaking, and in his sycophancies) Mr. Greville is the man. And he intends to be so too, and values himself upon his art. Does he not as boldly as constantly insinuate, That flattery is dearer to a woman than her food? Yet who so gross a flatterer as himself, when the humour is upon him? And yet at times he wants to build up a merit for sincerity or plain-dealing, by saying free things.
It is not difficult, my dear, to find out these men, were we earnest to detect them. Their chief strength lies in our weakness. But however weak we are, I think we should not add to the triumph of those who make our weakness the general subject of their satire. We should not prove the justice of their ridicule by our own indiscretions. But the traitor is within us. If we guard against ourselves, we may bid defiance to all the arts of man.
You know, that my great objection to Mr. Greville is for his immoralities. A man of free principles, shewn by practices as free, can hardly make a tender husband, were a woman able to get over considerations that she ought not to get over. Who shall trust for the performance of his second duties, the man who avowedly despises his first? Mr. Greville had a good education: He must have taken pains to render vain the pious precepts of his worthy father; and still more to make a jest of them.
Three of his women we have heard of, besides her whom he brought with him from Wales. You know he has only affected to appear decent since he has cast his eyes upon me. The man, my dear, must be an abandon'd man, and must have a very hard heart, who can pass from woman to woman, without any remorse for a former, whom, as may be suppos'd, he has by the most solemn vows seduced. And whose leavings is it, my dear, that a virtuous woman takes, who marries a profligate?
Is it not reported that his Welshwoman, to whom, at parting, he gave not sufficient for a twelvemonth's scanty subsistence, is now upon the town? Vile man! He thinks it to his credit, I have heard, to own it a seduction, and that she was not a vicious creature till he made her so.
One only merit has Mr. Greville to plead in this black transaction: It is, That he has, by his whole conduct in it, added a warning to our sex. And shall I, despising the warning, marry a man, who, specious as he is in his temper, and lively in his conversation, has shewn so bad a nature?
His fortune, as you say, is great. The more inexcusable therefore is he for his niggardliness to his Welshwoman. On his fortune he presumes: It will procure him a too easy forgiveness from others of our sex: But fortune without merit will never do with me, were the man a prince.
You say, that if a woman resolves not to marry till she finds herself addressed to by a man of strict virtue, she must be for ever single. If this be true, what wicked creatures are men! What a dreadful abuse of passions, given them for the noblest purposes, are they guilty of!
I have a very high notion of the marriage-state. I remember what my Uncle once averr'd; That a woman out of wedlock is half useless to the end of her being. How indeed do the duties of a good Wife, of a good Mother, and a worthy Matron, well performed, dignify a woman! Let my Aunt Selby's example, in her enlarged sphere, set against that of any single woman of like years moving in her narrow circle, testify the truth of the observation. My Grandfather used to say, that families are little communities; that there are but few solid friendships out of them; and that they help to make up worthily, and to secure, the great community, of which they are so many miniatures.
But yet it is my opinion, and I hope, that I never by my practice shall discredit it, that a woman who, with her eyes open, marries a profligate man, had, generally, much better remain single all her life; since it is very likely, that by such a step she defeats, as to herself, all the good ends of society. What a dreadful, what a presumptuous risque runs she, who marries a wicked man, even hoping to reclaim him, when she cannot be sure of keeping her own principles! —Be not deceived; evil communication corrupts good manners; is a caution truly apostolical.
The text you mention of the unbelieving husband being converted by the believing wife, respects, as I take it, the first ages of Christianity; and is an instruction to the converted wife to let her unconverted husband see in her behaviour to him, while he beheld her chaste conversation coupled with fear, the efficacy upon her own heart of the excellent doctrines she had embraced. It could not have in view the woman who, being single, chose a pagan husband in hopes of converting him. Nor can it give encouragement for a woman of virtue and religion to marry a profligate in hopes of reclaiming him. Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled?
As to Mr. Fenwick, I am far from having a better opinion of him than I have of Mr. Greville. You know what is whispered of him. He has more decency however: He avows not free principles, as the other does. But you must have observ'd how much he seems to enjoy the mad talk and free sentiments of the other: And that other always brightens up and rises in his freedoms and impiety on Mr. Fenwick's sly applauses and encouraging countenance. In a word, Mr. Fenwick, not having the same lively things to say, nor so lively an air to carry them off, as Mr. Greville has, tho' he would be thought not to want sense, takes pains to shew that he has as corrupt an heart. If I thought anger would not give him consequence, I should hardly forbear to shew myself displeased, when he points by a leering eye, and by a broad smile, the free jest of the other, to the person present whom he thinks most apt to blush, as if for fear it should be lost; and still more when on the mantling cheek's shewing the sensibility of the person so insulted, he breaks out into a loud laugh, that she may not be able to recover herself.
Surely these men must think us women egregious hypocrites: They must believe that we only affect modesty, and in our hearts approve of their freedom. For, can it be supposed, that such as call themselves Gentlemen, and who have had the education and opportunities that these two have had, would give themselves liberties of speech on purpose to affront us?
I hope I shall find the London gentlemen more polite than these our neighbours of the Fox-chace. And yet hitherto I have seen no great cause to prefer them to the others. But about the court, and at the fashionable public places, I expect wonders. Pray Heaven, I may not be disappointed!
Thank Miss Orme, in my name, for the kind wishes she sends me. Tell her, that her doubts of my affection for her are not just; and that I do really and indeed love her. Nor should she want the most explicit declarations of my love, were I not more afraid of her in the character of a Sister to a truly respectable man, than doubtful of her in that of a friend to me: In which latter light, I even joy to consider her. But she is a little naughty, tell her, because she is always leading to one subject. And yet, how can I be angry with her for it, if her good opinion of me induces her to think it in my power to make the Brother happy, whom she so dearly and deservedly loves? I cannot but esteem her for the part she takes. —And this it is that makes me afraid of the artlesly-artful Miss Orme.
It would look as if I thought my Duty, and Love, and Respects, were questionable, if in every letter I repeated them to my equally honoured and beloved benefactors, friends, and favourers. Suppose them therefore always included in my subscription to you, my Lucy, when I tell you that I am, and will be,
Your ever-affectionate Harriet Byron.
Mr. Selby, To Miss Byron.
Selby-House, Jan. 30.
Well! and now there wants but a London Lover or two to enter upon the stage, and Vanity-Fair will be proclaimed, and directly open'd. Greville every-where magnifying you in order to justify his flame for you: Fenwick exalting you above all women: Orme adoring you, and by his humble silence saying more than any of them: Proposals besides from this man: Letters from that! What scenes of flattery and nonsense have I been witness to for these past three years and half, that young Mr. Elford began the dance? Single! Well may you have remained single till this your twentieth year, when you have such choice of admirers, that you don't know which to have. So in a mercer's shop, the tradesman has a fine time with you women; when variety of his rich wares distract you; and fifty to one at last, but as well in men as silks, you choose the worst, especially if the best is offer'd at first, and refused. For women know better how to be sorry, than to amend.
"It is true, say you, that we young women are apt to be pleased with admiration—" O ho! Are you so? And so I have gain'd one point with you at last; have I?
"But I have always endeavoured" (And I, Harriet, wish you had succeeded in your endeavours) "to keep down any foolish pride"—Then you own that pride you have? —Another point gained! Conscience, honest conscience, will now-and-then make you women speak out. But now I think of it, here is vanity in the very humility. Well say you endeavour'd, when female pride, like Love, tho' hid under a barrel, will flame out at the bung.
Well, said I, to your Aunt Selby, to your Grandmamma, and to your Cousin Lucy, when we all met to sit in judgment upon your letters, now I hope you'll never dispute with me more on this flagrant love of admiration which I have so often observ'd swallows up the hearts and souls of you all; since your Harriet is not exempt from it; and since with all her speciousness, with all her prudence, with all her caution, she (taken with a qualm of conscience) owns it.
But, no, truly! All is right that you say: All is right that you do! —Your very confessions are brought as so many demonstrations of your diffidence, of your ingenuousness, and I cannot tell what.
Why, I must own, that no Father ever loved his Daughter as I love my Niece. But yet, girl, your faults, your vanities, I do not love. It is my glory, that I think myself able to judge of my friends as they deserve; not as being my friends. Why, the best beloved of my heart, your Aunt herself—you know, I value her now more, now less, as she deserves. But with all those I have named, and with all your relations, indeed, their Harriet cannot be in fault. And why? Because you are related to them; and because they attribute to themselves some merit from the relation they stand in to you. Supererogatorians all of them (I will make words whenever I please) with their attributions to you; and because you are of their sex, forsooth; and because I accuse you in a point in which you are all concern'd, and so make a common cause of it.
Here one exalts you for your good sense; because you have a knack, by help of an happy memory, of making every thing you read, and every thing that is told you, that you like, your own (your Grandfather's precepts particularly); and because, I think, you pass upon us as your own what you have borrowed, if not stolen.
Another praises you for your good-nature—The duce is in it, if a girl who has crouds of admirers after her, and a new Lover where-ever she shews her bewitching face; who is blest with health and spirits, and has every-body for her friend, let her deserve it or not; can be ill-natured. Who can such a one have to quarrel with, trow?
Another extols you for your chearful wit, even when display'd, bold girl as you are, upon your Uncle; in which indeed you are upheld by the wife of my bosom, whenever I take upon me to tell you what ye all, even the best of ye, are.
Yet sometimes they praise your modesty: And why your modesty? —Because you have a skin in a manner transparent; and because you can blush—I was going to say, whenever you please.
At other times, they will find out, that you have features equally delicate and regular; when I think, and I have examin'd them jointly and separately, that all your takingness is owing to that open and chearful countenance, which gives them a gloss (or what shall I call it?) that we men are apt to be pleased with at first sight. A gloss that takes one, as it were, by surprize. But give me the beauty that grows upon us every time we see it; that leaves room for something to be found out to its advantage, as we are more and more acquainted with it.
"Your correcting Uncle," you call me. And so I will be. But what hope have I of your amendment, when every living soul, man, woman, and child, that knows you, puffs you up? There goes Mr. Selby, I have heard strangers say—And who is Mr. Selby, another stranger has ask'd? —Why, Mr. Selby is Uncle to the celebrated Miss Byron. —Yet I, who have lived fifty years in this county, should think I might be known on my own account; and not as the Uncle of a girl of twenty.
"Am I not a saucy creature?" in another place you ask. And you answer, "I know I am." I am glad you do. Now may I call you so by your own authority, I hope. But with your Aunt, it is only the effect of your agree-able vivacity. What abominable partiality! E'en do what you will, Harriet, you'll never be in fault. I could almost wish—But I won't tell you what I wish neither. But something must betide you, that you little think of; depend upon that. All your days cannot be halcyon ones. I would give a thousand pounds with all my soul, to see you heartily in love: Ay, up to the very ears, and unable to help yourself! You are not thirty yet, child. And, indeed, you seem to think the time of danger is not over. I am glad of your consciousness, my dear. Shall I tell Greville of your doubts, and of your difficulties, Harriet? As to the ten coming years, I mean? And shall I tell him of your prayer to pass them safely? —But is not this wish of yours, that ten years of bloom were over-past, and that you were arrived at the thirtieth year of your age, a very singular one? —A flight! A mere flight! Ask ninety-nine of your Sex out of an hundred, if they would adopt it.
In another Letter you ask Lucy, "If Mr. Greyille has not said, that flattery is dearer to a woman than her food." Well, Niece, and what would you be at? Is it not so? I do averr, that Mr. Greville is a sensible man; and makes good observations.
"Mens chief strength, you say, lies in the weakness of women." Why so it does, Where else should it lie? And this from their immeasurable love of admiration and flattery, as here you seem to acknowlege of your own accord, tho' it has been so often perversly disputed with me. Give you women but rope enough, you'll do your own business.
However, in many places you have pleased me. But no-where more than when you recollect my averrment (without contradicting it; which is a rarity!) "that a woman out of wedlock is half useless to the end of her being." Good girl! That was an assertion of mine, and I will abide by it. Lucy simper'd when we came to this place, and look'd at me. She expected, I saw, my notice upon it; so did your Aunt: But the confession was so frank, that I was generous, and only said, True as the gospel.
I have written a long letter: Yet have not said one quarter of what I intended to say when I began. You will allow that you have given your correcting Uncle, ample subject. But you fare something the better for saying, "you unbespeak not your monitor."
You own, that you have some vanity. Be more free in your acknowlegements of this nature (you may; for are you not a woman?) and you'll fare something the better for your ingenuousness; and the rather, as your acknowlegement will help me up with your Aunt and Lucy, and your Grandmamma, in an argument I will not give up.
I have had fresh applications made to me—But I will not say from whom: Since we have agreed long ago, not to prescribe to so discreet a girl, as, in the main, we all think you, in the articles of Love and Marriage.
With all your faults I must love you. I am half ashamed to say how much I miss you already. We are all naturally chearful folks: Yet, I don't know how it is; your absence has made a strange chasm at our table. Let us hear from you every post: That will be something. Your doting Aunt tells the hours on the day she expects a letter. Your Grandmother is at present with us, and in heart I am sure regrets your absence: But as your tenderness to her has kept you from going to London for so many years, she thinks she ought to be easy. Her example goes a great way with us all, you know, and particularly with
Your truly affectionate (tho' correcting) Uncle, Geo. Selby.
Miss Byron, To Miss Selby.
Tuesday, Jan. 31.
I Am already, my dear Lucy, quite contrary to my own expectation, enabled to obey the third general injunction laid upon me at parting by you, and all my dear friends; since a gentleman, neither inconsiderable in his family or fortune, has already beheld your Harriet with partiality.
Not to heighten your impatience by unnecessary parade, his name is Fowler. He is a young gentleman of an handsome independent fortune, and still larger expectations from a Welsh Uncle now in town, Sir Rowland Meredith, knighted in his Sheriffalty, on occasion of an address which he brought up to the King from his County.
Sir Rowland, it seems, requires from his Nephew, on pain of forfeiting his favour for ever, that he marries not without his approbation: Which, he declares, he never will give, except the woman be of a good family; has a gentlewoman's fortune; has had the benefit of a religious education; which he considers as the best security that can be given for her good behaviour as a wife, and as a mother; so forward does the good Knight look! Her character unsullied: Acquainted with the theory of the domestic duties, and not ashamed, occasionally, to enter into the direction of the practic. Her fortune, however, as his Nephew will have a good one, he declares to be the least thing he stands upon; only that he would have her possessed of from six to ten thousand pounds, that it may not appear to be a match of mere Love, and as if his Nephew were taken in, as he calls it, rather by the eyes, than by the understanding. Where a woman can have such a fortune given her by her family, tho' no greater, it will be an earnest, he says, that the family she is of have worth, as he calls it, and want not to owe obligations to that of the man she marries.
Something particular, something that has the look of forecast and prudence, you'll say, in the old Knight.
O but I had like to have forgot; his future Niece must also be handsome. He values himself, it seems, upon the breed of his horses and dogs; and makes polite comparisons between the more noble, and the less noble animals.
Sir Rowland himself, as you will guess by his particularity, is an old bachelor, and one who wants to have a woman made on purpose for his Nephew; and who positively insists upon qualities, before he knows her, not one of which, perhaps, his future Niece will have.
Don't you remember Mr. Tolson of Derbyshire? He was determined never to marry a widow. If he did, it should be one, who had a vast fortune, and who never had a child. And he had still a more particular exception; and that was to a woman who had red hair. He held his exceptions till he was forty. Look'd upon then as a determin'd bachelor, no family thought it worth their while to make proposals to him: No woman to throw out a net for him (to express myself in the stile of the gay Mr. Greville); and he at last fell in with, and married the laughing Mrs. Turner: A widow, who had little or no fortune, had one child, a daughter, living, and that child an absolute idiot; and, to complete the perverseness of his fate, her hair not only red, but the most disagreeable of reds. The honest man was grown splenetic: disregarded by everybody, he was become disregardful of himself: He hoped for a cure of his gloominess, from her chearful vein; and seemed to think himself under obligation to one who had taken notice of him, when nobody else would. Bachelors wives! Maids children! These old saws always mean something.
Mr. Fowler saw me at my Cousin Reeves's the first time. I cannot say he is disagreeable in his person. But he seems to want the mind I would have a man bless'd with to whom I am to vow love and honour. I purpose, whenever I marry, to make a very good and even a dutiful wife (Must I not vow obedience? And shall I break my marriage-vow?): I would not, therefore, on any consideration, marry a man, whose want of knowlege might make me stagger in the performance of my duty to him; and who would perhaps command from caprice or want of understanding, what I should think unreasonable to be complied with. There is a pleasure and a credit in yielding up even one's judgment in things indifferent, to a man who is older and wiser than one's self. But we are apt to doubt in one of a contrary character, what in the other we should have no doubt about: And doubt, you know, of a person's merit, is the first step to disrespect: And what, but disobedience, which lets in every evil, is the next?
I saw instantly that Mr. Fowler beheld me with a distinguished regard. We women, you know (Let me for once be aforehand with my Uncle) are very quick in making discoveries of this nature. But everybody at table saw it. He came again next day, and besought Mr. Reeves to give him his interest with me, without asking any questions about my fortune; tho' he was even generously particular as to his own. He might, since he has an unexceptionable one. Who is it in these cases that forgets to set foremost the advantages by which he is distinguished? While fortune is the last thing talk'd of by him who has little or none: And then Love, Love, Love, is all his cry.
Mr. Reeves, who has a good opinion of Mr. Fowler, in answer to his enquiries, told him, that he believed I was disengaged in my affection: Mr. Fowler rejoiced at that. That I had no questions to ask; but those of duty; which indeed, he said, was a stronger tie with me than interest. He prarsed my temper, and my frankness of heart; the latter at the expence of my sex; for which I least thank'd him, when he told me what he had said. In short, he acquainted him with every-thing that was necessary, and more than was necessary, for him to know, of the favour of my family, and of my good Mr. Deane, in referring all proposals of this kind to myself; mingling the detail with commendations, which only could be excused by the goodness of his own heart, and accounted for by his partiality to his Cousin.
Mr. Fowler expressed great apprehensions on my Cousin's talking of these references of my Grandmother, Aunt, and Mr. Deane, to myself, on occasions of this nature; which, he said, he presumed had been too frequent for his hopes.
If you have any hope, Mr. Fowler, said Mr. Reeves, it must be in your good character; and that much preferably to your clear estate and great expectations. Altho' she takes no pride in the number of her admirers, yet is it natural to suppose, that it has made her more difficult; and her difficulties are enhanced, in proportion to the generous confidence which all her friends have in her discretion. And when I told him, proceeded Mr. Reeves, that your fortune exceeded greatly what Sir Rowland required in a wife for him; and that you had, as well from inclination, as education, a serious turn; Too much, too much, in one person, cried he out. As to fortune, he wish'd you had not a shilling; and if he could obtain your favour, he should be the happiest man in the world.
O my good Mr. Reeves, said I, how have you over-rated my merits! Surely, you have not given Mr. Fowler your interest? If you have, should you not, for his sake, have known something of my mind before you had set me out thus, had I even deserved your high opinion? —Only that you men break not your hearts now a-days for Love, or Mr. Fowler might have reason to repent the double well-meant kindness of his friend.
It is the language I do and must talk of you in, to every-body, return'd Mr. Reeves: Is it not the language that those most talk who know you best?
Where the world is inclined to favour, replied I, it is apt to over-rate, as much as it will under-rate where it disfavours. In this case, you should not have proceeded so far as to engage a gentleman's hopes. What may be the end of all this, but to make a compassionate nature, as mine has been thought to be, if Mr. Fowler should be greatly in earnest, uneasy to itself, in being obliged to shew Pity, where she cannot return Love?
What I have said, I have said, replied Mr. Reeves. Pity is but one remove from Love. Mrs. Reeves (There she sits) was first brought to pity me; for never was man more madly in love than I; and then I thought myself sure of her. And so it proved. I can tell you I am no enemy to Mr. Fowler.
And so, my dear, Mr. Fowler seems to think he has met with a woman who would make a fit wife for him: But your Harriet, I doubt, has not in Mr. Fowler met with a man whom she can think a fit husband for her.
The very next morning, Sir Rowland himself—
But now, my Lucy, if I proceed to tell you all the fine things that are said of me and to me, what will my Uncle Selby say? Will he not attribute all I shall repeat of this sort, to that pride, to that vanity, to that fondness of admiration, which he, as well as Mr. Greville, is continually charging upon all our Sex?
Yet he expects that I shall give a minute account of every thing that passes, and of every conversation in which I have any part. How shall I do to please him? And yet I know I shall best please him, if I give him room to find fault with me. But then should he for my faults blame the whole Sex? Is that just?
You will tell me, I know, that if I give speeches and conversations, I ought to give them justly: That the humours and characters of persons cannot be known unless I repeat what they say, and their manner of saying: That I must leave it to the speakers and complimenters to answer for the likeness of the pictures they draw: That I know best my own heart, and whether I am puffed up by the praises given me: That if I am, I shall discover it by my superciliousness, and be enough punished on the discovery, by incurring, from those I love, deserved blame, if not contempt, instead of preserving their wish'd-for esteem. —Let me add to all this, that there is an author (I forget who) who says, "It is lawful to repeat those things, tho' spoken in our praise, that are necessary to be known and cannot otherwise be come at."
And now let me ask, Will this preamble do, once for all?
It will. And so says my Aunt Selby. And so says every one but my Uncle. Well then I will proeeed, and repeat all that shall be said, and that as well to my disadvantage as advantage; only resolving not to be exalted with the one, and to do my endeavour to amend by the other. And here, pray tell my Uncle, that I do not desire he will spare me; since the faults he shall find in his Harriet shall always put her upon her guard—Not, however, to conceal them from his discerning eye; but to amend them.
And now, having, as I said, once for all, prepared you to guard against a surfeit of self-praise, tho' delivered at second or third hand, I will go on with my narrative—But hold —my paper reminds me that I have written a monstrous letter—I will therefore, with a new sheet, begin a new one. Only adding to this, that I am, and ever will be,
Your affectionate Harriet Byron.
Miss Boyron. In Continuation.
Thursday, Feb. 2.
The very next morning Sir Rowland himself paid his respects to Mr. Reeves.
The Knight, before he would open himself very freely as to the business he came upon, desired that he might have an opportunity to see me. I knew nothing of him, nor of his business. We were just going to breakfast. Miss Allestree, Miss Bramber, and Miss Dolyns, a young lady of merit, were with us.
Just as we had taken our seats, Mr. Reeves introduced Sir Rowland, but let him not know which was Miss Byron. He did nothing at first sitting down, but peer in our faces by turns; and fixing his eye upon Miss Allestree, he jogged Mr. Reeves with his elbow—Hay, Sir?—audibly whispered he.
Mr. Reeves was silent. Sir Rowland, who is short-sighted, then look'd under his bent brows, at Miss Bramber; then at Miss Dolyns; and then at me— Hay, Sir? whispered he again.
He sat out the first dish of tea with an impatience equal, as it seemed, to his uncertainty. And at last taking Mr. Reeves by one of his buttons, desired a word with him. They withdrew together; and the Knight not quitting hold of Mr. Reeves's button, Ads-my-life, Sir, said he, I hope I am right. I love my Nephew as I love myself. I live but for him. He ever was dutiful to me his Uncle. If that be Miss Byron who sits on the right-hand of your Lady, with the countenance of an angel, her eyes sparkling with good humour, and blooming as a May-morning, the business is done. I give my consent. Altho' I heard not a word pass from her lips, I am sure she is all intelligence. My boy shall have her. The other young ladies are agreeable: But if this be the lady my kinsman is in love with, he shall have her. How will she outshine all our Caermarthen Ladies; and yet we have charming girls in Caermarthen! —Am I, or am I not right, Mr. Reeves, as to my Nephew's flame, as they call it?
The lady you describe, Sir Rowland, is Miss Byron.
And then Mr. Reeves, in his usual partial manner, let his heart overflow at his lips in my favour.
Thank God, thank God! said the Knight. Let us return. Let us go in again. I will say something to her to make her speak. But not a word to dash her. I expect her voice to be music, if it be as harmonious as the rest of her. By the softness or harshness of the voice, let me tell you, Mr. Reeves, I form a judgment of the heart, and soul, and manners of a Lady. 'Tis a criterion, as they call it, of my own; and I am hardly ever mistaken. Let us go in again, I pray ye.
They returned, and took their seats; the Knight making an aukward apology for taking my Cousin out.
Sir Rowland, his forehead smoothed, and his face shining, sat swelling, as big with meaning, yet not knowing how to begin. Mrs. Reeves and Miss Allestree were talking at the re-entrance of the gentlemen. Sir Rowland thought he must say something, however distant from his main purpose. Breaking silence therefore; You, ladies, seemed to be deep in discourse when we came in. Whatever were your subject, I beg you will resume it.
They had finished, they assured him, what they had to say.
Sir Rowland seemed still at a loss. He hemm'd three times; and look'd at me with particular kindness. Mr. Reeves then, in pity to his fulness, asked him how long he proposed to stay in town?
He had thought, he said, to have set out in a week; but something had happened, which he believed could not be completed under a fortnight. Yet I want to be down, said he; for I had just finished, as I came up, the new-built house I design to present to my Nephew when he marries. I pretend, plain man as I am, to be a judge, both of taste and elegance. Sir Rowland was now set a going. All I wish for is to see him happily settled. Ah, ladies! that I need not go further than this table for a wife for my boy?
We all smiled, and look'd upon each other.
You young ladies, proceeded he, have great advantages in certain cases over us men; and this (which I little thought of till it came to be my own case) whether we speak for our kindred or for ourselves. But will you, Madam, to Mrs. Reeves, will you, Sir, to Mr. Reeves, answer my questions—as to these ladies? —I must have a Niece among them. My Nephew, tho' I say it, is one whom any lady may love. And as for fortune, let me alone to make him, in addition to his own, all clear as the sun, worthy of any woman's acceptance, tho' she were a Duchess.
We were all silent, and smiled upon one another.
What I would ask then, is, Which of the ladies before me—Mercy! I believe by their smiling, and by their pretty looks, they are none of them engaged. I will begin with the young lady on your right-hand. She locks so lovely, so good-natur'd, and so condescending! —Mercy! what an open forehead! —Hem! —Forgive me, Madam; but I believe you would not disdain to answer my question yourself. —Are you, Madam, are you absolutely and bona fide, disengaged? or are you not?
As this, Sir Rowland, answer'd I, is a question I can best resolve, I frankly own, that I am disengaged.
Charming! charming! Mercy! Why now what a noble frankness in that answer! —No jesting matter! You may smile, ladies. —I hope, Madam, you say true. I hope I may rely upon it, that your affections are not engaged.
You may, Sir Rowland. I do not love, even in jest, to tell fibs.
Admirable! But let me tell you Madam, that I hope you will not many days have this to say. Ad's-my-life! sweet soul! how I rejoice to see that charming flush in the finest cheek in the world! But heaven forbid that I should dash so sweet a creature! — Well, but now there is no going further. Excuse me, ladies; I mean not a slight to any of you: But now, you know, there is no going further:—And will you, Madam, permit me to introduce to you, as a Lover, as an humble Servant, a very proper and agreeable young man? Let me introduce him: He is my Nephew. Your looks are all graciousness. Perhaps you have seen him: And if you are really disengaged, you can have no objection to him; of that I am confident. And I am told, that you have nobody that either can or will controul you.
The more controulable for that very reason, Sir Rowland.
Ad's-my-life, I like your answer. Why, Madam, you must be full as good as you look to be. I wish I were a young man myself for your sake! But tell me, Madam, will you permit a visit from my Nephew this afternoon? —Come, come, dear young lady, be as gracious as you look to be. Fortune must do. Had you not a shilling, I should rejoice in such a Niece: And that is more than I ever said in my life before. My Nephew is a sober man, a modest man. He has a good estate of his own: A clear 2000l. a year. I will add to it in my life-time as much more. Be all this good company witnesses for me. I am no flincher. It is well known that the word of Sir Rowland Meredith is as good as his bond at all times. I love these open doings. I love to be above-board. What signifies shilly-shally? What says the old proverb?
Happy's the wooing That is not long a doing.But, Sir Rowland, said I, there are proverbs that may be set against your proverb. You hint that I have seen the gentleman: Now I have never yet seen the man whose addresses I could encourage.
O, I like you the better for that. None but the giddy love at first sight. Ad's-my-life, you would have been snapt up before now, young as you are, could you easily have returned love for love. Why, Madam, you cannot be above sixteen?
O, Sir Rowland, you are mistaken. Chearfulness, and a contented mind, make a difference to advantage of half a dozen years at any time. I am much nearer twenty-one than nineteen, I assure you.
Nearer to twenty-one than nineteen, and yet so freely tell your age without asking!
Miss Byron, Sir Rowland, said Mrs. Reeves, is young enough at twenty, surely, to own her age.
True, Madam; but at twenty, if not before, time always stands still with women. A lady's age once known, will be always remembred; and that more for spite than love. At twenty-eight or thirty, I believe most ladies are willing to strike off half a dozen years at least—And yet, and yet (smiling, and looking arch) I have always said (pardon me, ladies) that it is a sign, when women are so desirous to conceal their age, that they think they shall be good for-nothing when in years. Ah, ladies! shaking his head, and laughing, women don't think of that. But how I admire you, Madam, for your frankness! Would to the Lord you were twenty-four! —I would have no woman marry under twenty-four: And that, let me tell you, ladies, for the following reasons—standing up, and putting the fore-finger of his right-hand, extended with a flourish, upon the thumb of his left.
O, Sir Rowland! I doubt not but you can give very good reasons. And I assure you, I intend not to marry on the wrong side, as I call it, of twenty-four.
Admirable, by Mercy! but that won't do neither. The man lives not, young lady, who will stay your time, if he can have you at his. I love your noble frankness. Then such sweetness of countenance (sitting down, and audibly whispering, and jogging my Cousin with his elbow) such dove-like eyes, daring to tell all that is in the honest heart! —I am a physiognomist, Madam (raising his voice to me). Ad's-my-life, you are a perfect paragon! Say you will encourage my boy, or you'll be worse off; for (standing up again) I will come and court you myself. A good estate gives a man confidence; and when I set about it—Hum!— (one hand stuck in his side; flourishing with the other) no woman yet, I do assure you,—ever won my heart as you have done.
O Sir Rowland, I thought you were too wise to be swayed by first impressions: None but the giddy, you know, love at first sight.
Admirable! admirable indeed! I knew you had wit at will; and I am sure you have wisdom. Know you, Ladies, that wit and wisdom are too different things, and are very rarely seen together? Plain man as I appear to be (looking on himself first on one side, then on the other, and unbuttoning his coat two buttons to let a gold braid appear upon his waistcoat) I can tell ye, I have not lived all this time for nothing. I am considered in Wales—Hem! —But I will not praise myself. —Ad's-my-life! how do this young lady's perfections run me all into tongue! —But I see you all respect her as well as I; so I need not make apology to the rest of you young ladies, for the distinction paid to her. I wish I had as many nephews as there are ladies of ye disengaged: By Mercy, we would be all of kin.
Thank you, Sir Rowland, said each of the young ladies, smiling and diverted at his oddity.
But as to my observation, continued the Knight, that none but the giddy love at first sight, there is no general rule, without exception, you know: Every man must love you at first sight. Do I not love you myself? and yet never did I see you before, nor any body like you.
You know not what you do, Sir Rowland, to raise thus the vanity of a poor girl. How may you make conceit and pride run away with her, till she become contemptible for both in the eye of every person whose good opinion is worth cultivating?
Ad's-my-life, that's prettily said! But let me tell you, that the she who can give this caution in the midst of her praisings, can be in no danger of being run away with by her vanity. Why, Madam! you extort praises from me! I never ran on so glibly in praise of mortal woman before. You must cease to look, to smile, to speak, I can tell you, if you would have me cease to praise you!
'Tis well you are not a young man, Sir Rowland, said Miss Allestree. You seem to have the art of engaging a woman's attention. You seem to know how to turn her own artillery against her; and as your sex generally do, to raise her up, in order to pull her down.
Why, Madam, I must own, that we men live to sixty, before we know how to deal with you ladies, or with the world either; and then we are not fit to engage with the one, and are ready to quit the other. An old head upon a young pair of shoulders would make rare work among ye. But to the main point (looking very kindly on me) I ask no questions about you, Madam. Fortune is not to be mentioned. I want you not to have any. Not that the lady is the worse for having a fortune: And a man may stand a chance for as good a wife among those who have fortunes, as among those who have none. I adore you for your frankness of heart. Be all of a piece now, I beseech you. You are disengaged, you say: Will you admit of a visit from my Nephew? My boy may be bashful. True Love is always modest and diffident. You don't look as if you would dislike a man for being modest. And I will come along with him myself.
And then the old Knight look'd important, as one who if he lent his head to his Nephew's shoulders, had no doubt of succeeding.
What, Sir Rowland! admit of a visit from your Nephew, in order to engage him in a three years courtship? I have told you that I intend not to marry till I am twenty-four.
Twenty-four, I must own, is the age of marriage I should choose for a lady; and for the reasons aforesaid. —But, now I think of it, I did not tell you my reasons—These be they—Down went his cup and sawcer; up went his left-hand ready spread, and his crooked finger of his right-hand, as ready to enumerate.
No doubt, Sir Rowland, you have very good reasons.
But, Madam, you must hear them—And I shall prove—
I am convinced, Sir Rowland, that twenty-four is an age early enough.
But I shall prove, Madam, that you at twenty, or at twenty-one—
Enough! enough! Sir Rowland: What need of proof when one is convinc'd?
But you know not, Madam, what I was driving at—
Well but, Sir Rowland, said Miss Bramber, will not the reasons you could give for the proper age at twenty-four, make against your wishes in this case?
They will make against them, Madam, in general cases. But in this particular case they will make for me. For the lady before me is—