T H E
O F F S P R I N G
O F
F A N
C Y,
A N O V E L.
By A L A D Y.
I N T W O V O L U M E S.
V O L. II.
L O N D O N:
Printed for J. BEW, Pater-noster-Row.
MDCCLXXVIII.
T H E
O F F S P R I N G
F A
N C Y.
*******
L E T T E R XLVII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
I NOW present my dear
Charlotte with my farewell epistle from Bath.—To-morrow morning at six o’clock
we set forward—we go in the post-coach on account of Sophia, and leave our
chaise to convey Mr. and Mrs. Baker, who are to spend a month with us, and then
proceed to visit their Devonshire cousins.—Mrs. Baker (the elder) is still
alive; but I believe the young man is under no great apprehension of her
displeasure at present, though he has married the very woman for whom three
years ago she threatened him with her curse.—Such is the transforming power of
money! I often think, that we must appear a very absurd and contemptible set of
beings in the eyes of that species of purity, whom we consider as the medium
between us and perfection; and whom we may suppose to be strangers to the use
of money.—Does a man break his word—ten to one it is money;—a woman her vows to
a deserving lover—rely upon it, it is money;—in short, we not only direct our
own actions, but judge of those of others through this sole medium—it is the
alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end:—take away that consideration;
and the pursuits, the anxieties, and almost all those actions which we dignify
by the title of prudence—would be set in a light so ludicrous, that manhood
must blush for itself.—Yet, on the other hand, many useful and laudable
undertakings would be damped—genius often lie buried—and industry go
unrewarded—and generosity, that most glorious of all human virtues, would lose one
mode of exertion.—Upon the whole then, it is not money, but the fools who set
an improper value on it, that should be held up to ridicule and contempt—for,
without money, Mrs. Baker had not been able to shew distinction to merit in
obscurity; nor Mr. Baker’s virtues, however bright in themselves, been either
so useful or so conspicuous, fixed amongst the tin-mines in Cornwall, as they
will now—set in gold.—I think I never met with a more agreeable man—destitute
of the advantages of having mixed in the world, he comes from amongst peasants with the polish of a courtier; an indisputable
proof, that politeness is as natural as any other grace of mind or person—true,
easy, elegant, unaffected politeness, I mean; for that buckramized stiffness,
which the generality of boarding-schools mistake for politeness, is no more
like it, than the terrifying grimace of methodism is like true religion, whose
ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths peace. Sophia says, she has
given Mr. Powell no hopes; on the contrary, that, sensible as she was of the
generosity of his proposals, she thought herself bound to be ingenuous in
declaring her intentions, which, it seems, at present are, never to marry.—I am
not apt to ask questions, you know: however, you had given me such a shocking
character of the poor man, that I sadly wanted to find a counterpoise in “the
generosity of his proposals,” as Sophia called them. She saw I was curious—so
she gave me his letter, of which she had read a part to me before;—he is very pathetick on the subject of her cruelty, in coming
down to Bath, instead of returning to his impatient wishes—hopes she will
pardon his reminding her of the good fortune he had to stand well with her
worthy father; and that, though he would wish to have been able to recommend
himself, yet he would for the present rest upon that, and leave it to his
future conduct to merit her approbation; that, if there was any mode of
disposing of the two younger ladies, that could be furthered and promoted by
her third of the little provision that was left, he should be happy in
relinquishing his pretensions to it, whenever she blessed him with her
hand;—or, if she preferred having her sisters brought up under her own care,
his house was open for their reception. Now, Charlotte, don’t you think this
man must have a heart? and that Sophia should rejoice at having made a conquest of it?—Not a
bit—she resolves never to marry—sly baggage! I don’t believe a word of it—I told her so—she blushed, and
said, “O ma’am, it is my duty to resolve so.”—I understood her; but sacred are
all the communications of my Charlotte to her
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
XLVIII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
I HAVE such a packet
of news for my dear Charlotte, that I quite long to set about the conveyance of
it.—In the first place, we are all come home safe and well, for which I am sure
you join with me in gratitude to heaven: next, Mr. James Clement is arrived—a
sweet young man; my heart instantly gave him a brother’s place:—and, last of
all—(though perhaps that is no news to you)—Mr. Powell is in town, and has sent
to ask permission to wait upon Miss Mason.—We were at breakfast when the
message was brought; it was upon a card, uncovered, so Francis had all the
enjoyment of a verbal message.—He gave it to Sophia; she blushed, and gave it
to me—and sent her eyes after it, to enquire my sentiments.—However, I always
think it right to make a final appeal to Mr. Clement; so I gave it into his
hand, and asked what answer Sophia should send?—He smiled, and bad her consult
her nearest neighbour—at the same time laying his hand significantly on his
heart.—Francis asked, “is there any answer, ma’am?”—“Yes says she, I think I
will write one.”—So she went out of the room, and returned with a card, on
which she had written the following words: “Miss Mason’s compliments; were she
in her own house, should be happy to see any of her friends from Frogly; but at
present hopes to be excused, as she is on a visit.”—Mr. Clement called her a
little hypocrite—and said to Francis, “My compliments, and beg the gentleman
will do me the favour to dine here at four o’clock.”—She seemed greatly
embarrassed, but not displeased;—and, as a corroboration of my opinion, she is
just come down in a new silver gray lutestring, which she made up at Bath, and
in which, I assure you, she made more conquests than another country simpleton
would have known how to manage; but either she has less passion, or more
prudence, than any girl of two-and-twenty I ever knew.—Mr. Powell is come, and
dinner just ready; in the evening I will give you an account of their
interview; mean time, digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
XLIX.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
MR. Powell staid till
seven o’clock; and, just as he went away, Mrs. Belmour came, and brought a Miss
Dean, who is on a visit at her house; so I could not snatch a moment of
yesterday evening to give you the scene I promised you.—All this morning, I
have had how’d’ye’s, in such abundance, that I was obliged to leave the gentlemen
to their walnuts and port, and steal this hour between dinner and tea.—After
the usual civilities from stranger to stranger, Mr. Clement and I having taken
our places, Miss Mason on my right, and Mr. Powell on my left; we sat down to
dinner—the lovers eat but little, and spoke less.—As soon as the servants were
gone, and the wine and fruit laid down, Mr. Clement began a conversation about
you and my brother—expatiated on the charms of Frogly;—the weather, the
politicks, and the scandal of the day, all took their turns;—still silent on
the subject of their hearts, they faintly mixed in every other.—At last, I
mentioned Mr. Bellas’s intention towards Eliza—then Mr. Powell began;—said, “he
was sure Mr. Bellas meant for the best; but that Eliza was so lively in her
manner, that he should be very apprehensive of disagreeable consequences, if
she were sent amongst strangers; but most of all in London, where youth,
particularly females, were exposed to every temptation; that he should think no
place so proper for the young ladies, as that which should include their
sister’s care; that, having been accustomed to look up to her as a parent, her
influence might be strengthened, by being continued; and that, though he
thought highly of the natural disposition of all the family, he was of opinion,
that the precepts of their excellent parents could no way be inculcated so
happily, as by the example of their sister; that he should be happy in giving
his assistance; and that his house was open to them, as his heart was to Miss
Mason herself;—that he was ill qualified to speak upon a subject on which he
felt so much—but
that, as she knew his happiness was in her gift—he hoped she would be generous
in the use of her power.”—She burst into tears, and left the room. Mr. Clement
is quite his advocate.—I am interrupted.
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R L.
MRS. BELLAS TO MRS. CLEMENT.
MY DEAR SISTER,
SEND Sophia down
instantly—Eliza is lost—I never suffered so much as within the last two hours. Collins is distracted, for she loved her
like a mother. That wicked young man—what can he expect? The Doctor is very
angry; but he should have foreseen and prevented it.—Yesterday evening we were
all invited to the Parsonage-house: Henry Freeman being this morning to set off for Cambridge, we drank
tea, and spent the evening there.—About eleven o’clock our carriage came, for
it had rained all the evening; and, as Eliza stepped in, she turned about to
Henry, who handed her from the drawing-room out, and said, “Well, remember.”—I
took no notice of it, because I thought it only the natural consequence of
their intimacy, and that she was reminding him of some boyish promise to write
to her, or some such thing.—This morning Henrietta came down to breakfast
alone, her frock only slipped on her arms, and not pinned.—She went up to
Collins, who had just stepped into the room before her, and said, “Pray, Mrs.
Collins, be so good as to pin my frock; my sister Eliza got up so soon that I
had nobody to help me.”—“Where is Eliza, my love?” says Collins; and, without waiting for
an answer, ran out of the room;—we all followed, one by one—and having spent an
hour in a fruitless search all over the house, garden, and meadow—Collins ran
to the Parsonage-house, to see if Henry was gone—immediately guessing at the unfortunate
truth.—Doctor Freeman raved—and the other boys laughed.—Miss Freeman shed some
tears of modesty and sweetness, and then said, “If my brother has injured the
confidence of Eliza, half my fortune shall be hers, and I will never see his
face.”—Collins came back, invoking blessings on the sweet girl; and, as she
returned, met a gardener in the lane, who had seen Eliza and Henry go off
together in a single-horse-chaise, about four o’clock in the morning. We sent
to the only house in the village where it could have been obtained; and find,
that Henry bespoke it yesterday evening about eight o’clock.—I recollect we
missed him and Eliza about that time; so that probably it was then they agreed
upon her flight. We have sent Philip in pursuit of them; if they be gone on to
Cambridge, we shall hear something of them, though perhaps not what we shall
like to hear;—but, if they should have taken any other road, heaven knows what
may be the consequence! I do not think him a young man of principle; but,
indeed, in his situation, how few youths could shew their principle!
Unfortunate girl! Charles’s misfortunes had been enough for the family; lost to his relations; and probably all his
hopes of future success in life blasted—a self-exiled wanderer, out of the knowledge of any who could serve him;—yet it is possible that he may recover himself:—but
poor Eliza! excluded by the severe dispensations of an unforgiving world from
the advantages of future prudence! an hour—a moment’s folly to her must
probably be fatal!——We have just had intelligence that the wretched fugitive is
gone towards London.—Gracious heaven! what will become of her!—to search in
such a place for an unknown individual, is almost ridiculous, and must be
fruitless.—What shall we do?—Doctor Freeman has sent his coachman and footman
different roads—sure we shall hear something to-day.——Good heaven! here is a
discovery!—Well, it is better than we expected—if it is true.—She has scarcely
taken a second change of any thing in the world. Collins went up to search her drawers; and in the uppermost found the inclosed
letter to me.
I am
my dear sister’s affectionate
CHARLOTTE.
L E T T E R LI.
TO MRS. BELLAS.
Madam,
I SHOULD never
forgive myself, if I quitted your house without leaving behind me the warmest
and most grateful acknowledgments of your’s and Mr. Bellas’s goodness to me and
my sisters. I hope they will not suffer in your opinion by the step I am now
about to take;—but, as Mr. Freeman was obliged to go to Cambridge, and as my
happiness depended on his not having it in his power to forget me, I have
consented to go to Scotland with him directly, that he may be mine beyond the
power of fate. I hope the doctor will forgive him when we return. Mean time, I
remain
Your
most grateful
ELIZA.
L E T T E R
LII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
WELL, Charlotte, we
are to have a wedding at last.—Sophia has blush’d consent; Mr. Clement has
invited the company; and we are to have a jolly day at Shuter’s-hill, where the
bride and bridegroom spend a few days, and then proceed to Frogly.
I never saw a man so delighted as
poor Powell seems to be—it is wonderful to me how you could dislike him.——Mercy
on me! I have just received your letter:—poor little madcap!—If young Freeman should deceive her, I think he must be
the greatest villain existing;—but I hope in heaven he will not:—if he marries
her, I shall only lament the precipitancy of the step; and trust in the old
man’s benevolence, and the kindness of that good girl the sister, to put them
in some way to make the best of it.—Let me hear every article of intelligence
you obtain. I wish they may return at least by the time Sophia goes home; or I
think it will break her heart. I do not see why I should make her unhappy about
it now; she cannot possibly mend the matter; and at such a time to make her
mind uneasy, would be acting the part of the bird of night, rather than that of
a participating friend. However, if you insist upon it, I will tell her; but I
will wait to hear from you again. I am going out, as soon as the coach comes, to buy a few presents for Sophia: Mr.
Clement desired me to provide him with a wedding-sacque for her. Men think
women are as easily dressed with a gown, as they are with a suit of clothes.—I
shall add a suit of Bath Brussels; which, with a cap which I shall bespeak at
Wilkinson’s, will furnish her for her wedding-visits, without any expence of her own little fund—if you commission me to add a pair of pearl
ear-rings, I will do that on Friday or Saturday. This day sevennight is fixed
for the wedding—heaven grant it be a happy one!—it is the first match I ever
had a hand in; if it should turn out ill, I never should forgive myself.
Bless my dear little Charles in my
name; and believe me ever my dear Charlotte’s affectionate
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LIII.
MRS. BELLAS TO MRS. CLEMENT.
IT would be almost
impious to arraign the goodness of that heart which proves, by its benevolence,
its divine extraction;—but, my dear Marianne, you are still mortal, and liable
to a mortal’s imperfections:—you see but the outside. Powell has a speciousness
of external deportment, which has caught your approbation; whilst, if I am not
much misinformed, he has a heart void of every one of those feelings which overflow in such abundance in yours:—he has suffered a mother,
who was never deficient in her duty to him, to know all the miseries of want;
whilst he was expending, in the superfluous trifles which his vanity suggested,
more than would have procured her an easy passage to the grave—he has seduced
more than one innocent creature in the village from their duty and their peace;
and, when his licentious intimacy has produced the natural effects, he has left
the guiltless infants and their unhappy mothers to feel the punishment of his
crimes. One of them he married to a servant of his, and took into his house;
and, when the inhuman wretch has been upbraiding the victim with her former
shame, the unfeeling master has made it a cause of triumph, and an argument to
forward his success with the young woman who then lived with him as a kind of
housekeeper; from her this intelligence came—she soon quitted his service, and
now lives with a gentleman of some property about three quarters of a mile from
hence.—If they are not married—shew this to Sophia; if they are—burn, and
endeavour to forget it. You have acted a friendly part towards her; her
situation, considered in every point of view, makes her marriage with an honest
man a most desirable circumstance; but I am afraid it is not possible for a
man, who has been an unfeeling and undutiful son, to be a good husband. There
are, in the occurrences of a married life, so many trials of a man’s humanity,
that he, whose want of sensibility might pass unnoticed had he continued
single, must often appear a very monster when considered as a husband.—Should
such a woman as we know Sophia to be, unfortunately fall to the lot of such a
man as I have had Powell described to me, inevitable misery must be the
consequence. I shall be impatient till I hear from you again.—May that Power,
whose charge the weak and unprotected are, take the poor girl to its peculiar
care!—No news of Eliza.
Ever thy
CHARLOTTE.
L E T T E R
LIV.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,
I DO
not know that I ever was so thoroughly shocked as
at reading your character of the man to whom I had but an hour before seen
Sophia give her hand. From the performance of the ceremony we returned to our
house, where Mr. and Mrs. Belmour, and Mr. and Mrs. Baker, waited to join our
party, and proceed to Shuter’s-hill. The miss Dean, whose name I believe I had
mentioned to you, acted as bride-maid, and Mr. James Clement as bride-man—my
Mr. Clement gave her away; and I went because she desired it. Mr. Clement, miss Dean, Sophia, and I, went in the coach; and Mr. J. Clement and the
bridegroom followed in the chariot; but, as we returned, Mr. Clement and I took
their vehicle, and the four young people came home together.—By the time we had
drank a dish of chocolate round, and the horses had been fed, to please Mr. Clement, your letter was brought to me. I opened it with some apprehension, on
account of Eliza. But, when I saw the real contents, I thought I should have fainted—my looks told so much, that I was obliged to shew
Mr. Clement the cause. He was rather angry, than hurt; and, observing that the
whole accusation rested upon the evidence of a servant, he said he wondered
that you, who had so much caution in matters of less consequence, should be so
easily convinced in one of so much importance; and that your Collins, or our
Selby, would say as much of any of us, the moment they were out of our houses.
I own, I was very willing to take his side of the argument; and why, my dear
Charlotte, should we not suppose he may be in the right? at least, upon your
own injunction to burn the letter, and
forget the circumstance, I was justified in hoping the best—for caution was
then too late.—About two o’clock we set out, a party of ten, to Shuter’s-hill,
where we dined, drank tea, played at cards, and supped; and about eleven
o’clock, the moon in its full glory, and four servants well-armed to protect
us, we took leave of the new-married pair, without any other ceremony than we
should have observed towards each other. Thus, under the conduct of Mr. Clement, we passed a day which, in general, wears a face of aukwardness and
restraint, with the utmost ease, chearfulness, and good order. We all got safe
to our several destinations; and dine together to-day at Mr. Belmour’s, in
Dover-Street. I cannot however dismiss the apprehensions with which your letter
has filled me. Do you know, that I think you owe it to Mr. Powell to search the
matter to the bottom? He seems much devoted to the sex, I confess; but I cannot
think him capable of harbouring a thought injurious to an individual of it,
much less of the horrid unmanly acts of which he is accused; his whole
behaviour yesterday, not only to Sophia, whom he seems to venerate, but to the
company at large, gave the lie to his accuser. Is she not some artful woman,
who may have formed some designs which his marriage with Sophia must interfere
with? At all events, the die is cast; and consideration, which is invaluable
when antecedent to an act, by being out of season is become useless, and almost
impertinent.
I made Sophia, at parting, promise
to write to me. She begged to be excused; and modestly said, that I should
trade upon very unequal terms if I were to give her my letters for her’s; and
yet that she should perhaps be unreasonable enough to expect it. I did not chuse
to let her off, however, but insisted upon her promise; and, speaking aloud
before her husband, told her, that, as I had made myself accountable to her for
happiness in pleading his cause, I should expect as an act of gratitude to have
that happiness avowed, or as an act of justice to be called upon for any thing
in my power to promote it whenever there was a deficiency—as the bail was
always responsible, when the principal failed.” He very chearfully acquiesced;
and said, “that he should endeavour to exculpate his surety, by performing
covenants to the utmost of his power, though his obligation to Mrs. Clement
would be one of the last things he should forget.” Those words chilled me, when
I thought of your letter; for goodness sake, Charlotte, send for that woman,
and hear what she has to say!—and yet, what service can it do us now!—I need
not beg that you will send me word the moment Eliza returns. I long to know
what reception she will meet with at the Vicarage. My little ones greet their
brother Charles, to whom my blessings and his father’s.—Our love to Mr. Bellas;
and believe me my dear sister’s
Ever affectionate
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R LV.
MRS. BELLAS TO MRS. CLEMENT.
POOR Sophia! the die
indeed is cast—may her virtues make such an impression, as to produce their
likeness! Kind Providence, whose dispensations to thy creatures are full of
mercy, thanks for the alleviating circumstances of poor Eliza’s
safety!—Yesterday evening we were sitting at tea, and seeing a carriage drive
up the yard, I put out my head, and saw Eliza.—I ran to the door, where,
throwing herself at my feet, she cried, “Indeed, indeed, madam, as well as I
love Mr. Freeman, I would not have gone without seeing you, had I known that
you loved me so well—but every night, since I have been gone, I have dreamt of
you, and seen you in such
distress as to make me miserable;—can you, my dear madam, can you forgive me?”—I took her up, and begged her to satisfy my impatient enquiries, and
relieve me from that distress her fancy pictured. Henry (who was at this time
discharging the chaise) came up to the hall-door, where we still stood, with
all the confidence of conscious virtue; and seeing me holding Eliza’s hand with
a countenance of kindness—he said, “I see, madam, your heart is what I thought
it, open to all the feelings that do honour to humanity.” My looks expressed
something; to which he replied, “She is my wife, and now I am resigned to my father’s pleasure in every thing, since
what God has joined together he will not put asunder.”—By this time the news of
their arrival reached the Vicarage; and Miss Freeman, with her brother Thomas,
came running down.—She
threw her arms about Eliza, and cried, “Welcome, welcome, my dear Eliza—may I
add my sister?”—Henry stood forward, and answered; for her confusion and her
tenderness overwhelmed her. He gave a very minute account of their expedition,
and all the attendant circumstances—and then asked, “whether he might venture
to approach his father?”—Miss Freeman behaved like an angel—told them, “that,
as soon as she was of age, half her fortune should be at their service; and
that, if her father should have the same feeling towards Eliza that she had,
and should take her home, as she hoped he would, it would be the greatest
blessing of her life to comfort and console her, whilst Henry went to
Cambridge, to qualify himself for the better support of her and himself.”—Eliza
was all gratitude, and we all rapture; when your confirmation of Sophia’s
wedding came, and wrung the heart of your
CHARLOTTE.
L E T T E R
LVI.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
I Participate most
sincerely my dear sister’s enjoyment of Eliza’s happy return;—there is
something singular in a circumstance which I have just discovered.—I have a
letter from Sophia, who is got to her house, as you know no doubt, and has seen
her sister Freeman: they have been comparing notes, I find; and Eliza was
married at Edinburgh on the very same day and hour that Sophia was married in
London.—She tells me, that Doctor Freeman has behaved to Eliza with a degree of
tenderness, that nothing but his daughter’s affection for her can exceed.—What
an unexpected occurrence!—Few girls left in their situations have ever,
perhaps, been so fortunate—let us hope it will not end here; but that poor
Sophia may have had her full portion of suffering!—She says little
respecting herself.—Mr. Powell, she fears, has injured
his business by the time he threw away in London—but that he is too delicate to
attribute it to that cause; and rather accounts for the people of the village
deserting him in favour of his contemporary, to some scandalous stories that
have been propagated, in order, as he supposes, to injure him with her;
however, hopes that a little time will get the better of it, and restore his
business to its wonted state of credit.—I cannot say I like it much.—Sophia
don’t seem alarmed, or rather don’t seem to know that she is.—Mr. Clement has a
large quantity of rhubarb consigned to him from Turkey; he talks of sending
Powell a parcel of it as a present; but, after this hint of Sophia’s, there’s
no knowing how he may receive it.—Mr. Osborn writes me word, that he has seen
Amelia; and that, by the time his negotiation is finished, she will have
compiled her history—if so, I shall have it in time to carry to Frogly; ’twill
amuse us all, as the evenings grow long.—My hairdresser is come.—My love to all
who love me; and do you be assured of the unalterable affection of thy
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LVII.
MRS. BELLAS TO MRS. CLEMENT.
MY DEAR MARIANNE,
WE all dined
yesterday at the Vicarage—the invitation was, by the Doctor’s desire, from Mr.
and Mrs. Henry Freeman. Eliza was
placed at the head of the table; the Doctor next her on one hand, and I at the
other, Henry occupying the married man’s place at the lower end of the
table.—George and Henrietta dined at a side-table by themselves, and seemed to partake largely of the general joy;—next to the Doctor sat Sophia, and on my left hand Mr. Powell.—I own myself
a convert; if he be a villain, he is the best counterfeit of an amiable
character I ever saw; he behaved extremely well to Sophia; but I thought she
did not seem so happy as I could have wished.—I am afraid her head is not at
peace on a certain subject. I never saw a woman conduct herself better than
Eliza—nor could I have supposed that it was possible for sixteen to assume such
a dignified propriety.—It is not easy to decide whether the Doctor or Henry
love her most; nor could a father, whose son had brought a hundred thousand
pounds into his family, shew more respect to his daughter-in-law—in short, they are all happy in each other, and seem to have but one object of
contention, and that is, who shall oblige most. The Doctor told us, after
dinner, that his little house-keeper, pointing to Eliza, had given him the
trouble of forming a new plan for the disposal of Henry—for that he should be
ashamed to send a married man to school—that he was therefore somewhat at a
loss, and should be glad of our advice.—Mr. Bellas told him, that he should
think it very eligible for Mr. Freeman to speak his own sentiments—that, if he
liked a country gentleman’s life, he had a farm which he should rent on his own
terms, or purchase at a fair appraisement: and that, if he did the latter, all
the live-stock should be his gift to Eliza, by way of dower.—The Doctor smiled
at the word purchase, and said, “Why Mr. Bellas—I have been a good subject, and
Henry seems inclined to follow my example. I married at twenty myself, and have
seen myself the father of seven sons, all of whom, except the eldest, you
see—and nine daughters, eight of whom are with their excellent mother.—Fanny
was all the hopes I had of comfort in my old age; but now I have got another
chance for it in Eliza.”—She blushed, and shed a tear of satisfaction; which he
enjoyed, and then went on—“the consequence of so large a family is obvious—I
had but a small patrimony of my own, and that must descend to Arthur my eldest
son. Mrs. Freeman had not a shilling when I married her; but, in the course of
our living together, she had ten thousand pounds left her, with remainder to
Fanny.—I have never touched a shilling of it; though she is so good a girl,
that I, or any of her
brothers, would, I am sure, be welcome to share it.” Here her answer was
necessary.—“Indeed, Sir, says she, I should be very undeserving of your good
opinion, if I lost so happy an opportunity of approving it—suffer me now to
declare thus publickly, as I have done to my brother and sister alone, that
half my fortune will give me more happiness in settling them advantageously,
than the whole could, laid out for myself—and, if they approve of Mr. Bellas’s
proposal, we will have the estate valued; and, the moment I am of age, if five
thousand pounds will pay the purchase, it is theirs.”—Every tongue was for a
moment mute, in token of applause; and all at once broke out in praises of her
benevolence of heart: only Henry and Eliza added a refusal. Mr. Bellas,
however, reminding the Doctor, that seven hundred towards the purchase was
ready in Eliza’s right—it was agreed, that the appraiser, who sold the
furniture, &c. for the girls, should be sent for immediately; that the
young people should stay with the Doctor till the house was fitted up and
furnished; and that Henrietta should divide her time amongst her sisters, Miss Freeman, and me, till she should be settled in her own house.—The
Doctor observed, that matches made by parents for infants seldom succeeded; but
that George was a pretty boy, and
had five hundred pounds a-year settled upon him by his Godfather the late Lord ——. Henrietta blushed, and looked her acquiescence; and George took the
first opportunity of our attention being withdrawn, to seal his approbation
with a kiss.—We spent the evening very happily—only Sophia’s brow was now and
then overspread with a gloom that chilled my blood.—I believe nobody else
observed it.—Powell was as agreeable as ever I saw a man of so moderate an
understanding; and we all promised to dine with them next Tuesday—the Saturday
following the whole party spend with us.—Thomas Freeman goes to Cambridge,
instead of Henry.—I suppose, when Mrs. Belmour goes to Bath, you will devote a
week to your
CHARLOTTE
L E T T E R
LVIII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
DO you know,
Charlotte, that I am quite miserable at the apprehension you entertain of poor
Sophia’s unhappiness; yet, if
she disliked the man, she
certainly would not have married him.—I wish I had never interposed—I am afraid
I was actuated by motives I did not perceive, to urge the poor girl to marry,
that she might no longer be an argument of anxiety to you.—Yet certainly, as
you yourself say, her
marriage was, on her own account, a most desirable circumstance.—I don’t know
what to make of her letters—she seems to have an inclination to tell me
something, and checks herself, perhaps upon the principle of duty. I am vexed
too at your insinuation about my coming to Frogly when Mrs. Belmour goes to
Bath; it is the only circumstance in which I can accuse you of a narrowness of
mind: my esteeming a friend is no argument that I do not love a sister—banish
such conclusions—rely upon it, my heart has room enough for all its
inhabitants—nature has an inexhaustible supply of affection to bestow, of which
a part is dispensed on every acquisition we make, whether of husband, children,
or friends—else how comes it that feelings, which are all natural, are every
day exerted to those different relatives, and in a breast of generous extent no
clashing ever felt? Did I love you less after I married Mr. Clement? did I love
you less when bounteous nature blessed me with my children?—If not—why should
my indulging the feelings of a sister depend upon the accidental occurrences
which happen to a friend? Excuse me, Charlotte; I am not apt to be serious—upon
trifling subjects I never am;—but you have roused my sensibility more in the
last line of your letter, than Mrs. Belmour, though I confess I love her, could
have done in a volume. However, though she is gone to Bath, I cannot come to
Frogly.—Charlotte is not well; and Mr. Forbes thinks she is breeding the
small-pox; if so, I know not when I shall be able to leave town: I dread the
thoughts of poor Frank’s catching it now he is about his teeth. I think, if
there were no other subjects of anxiety but our children, this world would be
far enough removed from a state of happiness to make a future one necessary; at
least I am sure it would be to thy
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LIX.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
MY dear Charlotte
must believe me, when I declare that my last letter was dictated in a moment of
distress;—my dear little girl was very ill; her fine eyes had lost their
brightness, and her cheeks their bloom; my heart was breaking with apprehension
for my little darling, whose safety is of moment to my existence;—so that, if
my unusual gravity should offend or hurt you, consider the cause, and pity the
effects.—Heaven be praised! my girl is quite recovered; and my little cherub
grown as strong almost as Charles; so that my mind is now tuned to happiness
again. Mr. Clement, who
loves them you know as well as I do when they are well, feels, if possible, more when they are in danger; two nights last week he was
so miserable about Charlotte, that he even neglected his letters; and a very
unlucky mistake has happened in consequence; however, I hope it will easily be
rectified; though it is amazing how much nicety and exactness the business and
correspondence of a merchant requires: it is unfortunate that Mr. Osborne, who
alone can corroborate Mr. Clement in rectifying the error, is still absent; we
expect him in a few days, when I hope to hear how poor Amelia relishes her
recluse situation. Mr. and Mrs. Baker leave us to-morrow, for a month; and
spend the remainder of the winter with us, after their Devonshire visits are
paid; they are really a most amiable couple, and certainly formed for each
other. How capricious it was in Fortune, to send the sweet woman such a
pilgrimage in her way to paradise!—Her unhappy friend, of whose marriage I have
told you, is released from her sorrows. The villain, who had deserted her in
those distresses which he alone brought upon her, is stung with remorse almost
to madness;—she just lived to hear of Mrs. Baker’s intention towards her; and
on her death-bed charged the black slave, who attended her, to convey her
little girl over to England, to be educated under Mrs. Baker. She accepts the
charge with great pleasure, and means to settle upon the child the sum she
would have sunk for the mother’s annuity; and, should she not have any children
herself, will probably make her a great fortune. Mr. Clement has contracted a
greater intimacy with Mr. Baker than any man he knows, except Frank and his
brother James.——Write soon, to convince me you are not angry with
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R LX.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,
I WONDER I have not
heard from you.—I had adjusted all my matters, with intention to have set out
as this day for Frogly—but I suppose I am not to be so happy. Something has
occurred, to discompose Mr. Clement so much, that I cannot think it right to
leave him; he would not desire me to give it up, because he knew how much I
wished to see you; but I know he will be the better pleased with my stay, for
that reason. Charlotte has had a little return of her feverish complaint: I
have sent for Dr. B——; he thinks she has worms, and is now treating her
accordingly.—Charles’s parole is lengthened—you are like to keep him now till
spring, unless he grows troublesome; if so, I will send Selby for him whenever
you please.—I wish Mr. Osborne was come home. I am afraid the stagnation which
the mistake I hinted at has occasioned will embarrass Mr. Clement greatly; and,
in aid of that
misfortune, a house at Boulogne, in which we are deeply concerned, has stopped
payment. You know trifles do not affect him; but he is really so depressed at
present, that I am apprehensive for his health, as well as his credit. May that
Power, who knows his worth, preserve both to him! and him to his children and
me!—I am greatly shocked at looking back to the many superfluous guineas which
in the course of seven years of uninterrupted prosperity we have lavished away.
Yet Mr. Clement is not extravagant in any of his propensities; nor has indulged
himself in any expence
that did not seem greatly within his income; but, when I find of how much
consequence a few thousands would now be, and then carry on a train of
reasoning from thousands to hundreds, from hundreds to twentys, and from
twentys to pounds, and so down to the minutest article of what we call trifling
expences, I am really culpable in my
own opinion. I do not know whether the Boulogne business has got abroad; but
there have been more calls for money since Monday last than in any four days
since we have been married; and, should it continue four days more, it would be
very inconvenient.—About the seventh of last month, we ventured a ship richly
freighted to Ireland, without insurance; and, should any accident happen there, as misfortunes are apt to
accumulate, Mr. Clement must lose two thousand pounds at one stroke; the advice
of her safe arrival is hourly expected: I hope this day’s post will put an end
to suspence upon that subject. One of Mr. Clement’s favourite horses has lost
an eye, and almost killed Francis, who happened to be riding him out, when the
accidental clashing of two carriages turned him against the ballustrade of a
house near Chelsea, and one of the spikes ran into his eye;—the poor creature
was very ill for several days; he is now quite recovered, and Mr. Clement
thinks of sending the set to Tattersal’s, to be sold to the best bidder; for every trifling sum is now of
consequence; and the sale of horses is a double advantage, both on account of
what it brings, and what it saves. Indeed the keeping of horses is the only
subject on which we ever disagreed; but he loved the idea; and he had an
undoubted right to indulge himself.—Selby is another useless expence; and I
intend to take the first opportunity of getting rid of her: but the artful
creature has wound herself about my convenience, by never chusing to take any
wages—my cloaths have always supplied her, except in very trifles; and in them
she has been so great an oeconomist, that I believe we do not owe her less than
fifty pounds; at present it would not be prudent to part with such a sum; and
my pride and my understanding forbid me to discharge her till we can pay her. I
never will owe another servant above a year’s wages at a time; for,
notwithstanding it was her own choice, I think she has grown saucy and idle in
proportion as her money accumulated,—in fact, at present she is a mere boarder
in the family. I asked her the other day to wash some frocks, and make up a few
caps for Charlotte, whilst the nurse was entirely devoted to Frank, who was not
well; and told her, by way of apology,
that the nursery-maid did not please me in her
getting-up linen. She told me, that “she was not miss Clement’s maid; and that, if Sally
could not wash, there were nursery-maids enough to be had that could.” I was stunned at
her impudence; and told her, that she should never refuse me twice.—I confess,
that, had I not heard Mr. Clement complain of a scarcity of cash, I should have
discharged her instantly. How much must people, whose circumstances are always
streightned, be in the power of their servants! no wonder there are so many bad
ones. Adieu! Write soon, and comfort
Your
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LXI.
MRS. BELLAS TO MRS. CLEMENT.
MY DEAREST SISTER,
THE complexion of
your last letter has pierced me to the heart;—for heaven’s sake, discharge that
ungrateful wretch instantly. Enclosed is a draught for seventy pounds, which
Mr. Bellas took in part of a year’s rent, to oblige farmer Colman: he will
consider it as a favour if you will get it accepted; and you will make me happy
if you will pay and get rid of that impertinent woman;—whenever matters take
their accustomed turn with my brother, I will call upon you for the
payment;—mean time, if you would have me think you love me, never mention the
matter. Charles is in charming spirits, has had the small-pox, and is as
handsome as ever;—let this, my dear Marianne, be an omen of returning
happiness!—Mr. Bellas would not suffer me to alarm your sensibility, by
mentioning his illness, till it was over.—I knew he meant you kindly, and could not disobey him: but I could not reconcile it to myself to
omit so material a piece of intelligence, if I wrote at all; therefore I
thought I should do best to let the pen alone till I could use it to give you
pleasure. May heaven avert the ills you dread! and preserve your husband in health,
happiness, and prosperity! At all events, let Charles be mine: if I should have
a son, he shall share with him in every feeling of my heart; if not, Mr. Bellas
will take care to secure to him the possession of Frogly-farm. My state of
health is such as to make the latter most probable.—However, for the present I
have your promise, and shall avail myself of it—till I think him troublesome,
you know I am to keep him. Mr. Bellas desires me to say, that, if Mr. Clement
will accept of any assistance in his power, he will prove himself most his
friend, by calling upon him. He would write himself, but does not know how far
you would chuse my brother should be acquainted with our knowledge of it; we
leave it all to your management. Remember, my dear sister, that these are the
moments when alone true friendship can prove its superiority over its
shadow—worldly civility.—Allow that happiness to your
F. and C. BELLAS.
L E T T E R
LXII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
TEN thousand thanks
to my dear brother and sister, for the opportunity they have given me of loving
them still better, if it be possible, than I did before! Mr. Clement desires me
to say every thing he feels; but that is impossible—hearts like his are not
easily translated into language, even by the owners; let him try, if he chuses;
for my part, I don’t love to set about any thing convinced beforehand that I
must fail in the execution of it. Our affairs, thank Heaven, are happily
re-established on their former basis. The Irish mail brought us returns for the
ship I mentioned, and
Mr. Osborne is come back from Germany, with a full satisfaction for the bills
which he carried over.—He has brought Amelia’s history—which (as soon as I have
read it) I will convey to you; mean time you must finish whatever you are about, and be ready for a whole
week’s employment, which I am sure you will enjoy, though you did not know
Amelia sufficiently to relish it as I do.—It is wonderful that any father
should be so lost to the natural feelings of a parent, as to force a child to
be miserable, without the possibility of reaping any advantage himself.—Nature
points out to us, the moment a child is born, the duty of nurturing and
protecting it; as it grows up, of educating and informing it;—and I should
imagine, that, when those duties were over, that of placing it in the situation
where happiness was most probable would naturally succeed; for love is, or
should be, uniform in all our exertions towards them—whether in the nursery,
the study, or the world at large.—Amelia’s father, however, as you will find,
proceeded upon a different principle: I think her mode of expressing herself
will please you greatly—free from the levity which you dislike, or the
stiffness which must tire.—Poor girl! it is a melancholy circumstance, that she
should be cut off from all the joys of society, and shut up in a cloistered
inutility, because a father was a tyrant, and a husband a brute!—Charlotte is
better. Accept our thanks for your intentions towards Charles. I sincerely
hope, however, that Providence will supersede his claim, by blessing you with a
boy of your own.—If I was not sure of your belief, I would not say so much; but
you know your
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LXIII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
CHARLOTTE, I have
changed my mind—you shall have Amelia’s history, letter by letter;—if you don’t
like the first, you shall have no more—so read the inclosed, and give me your
opinion.—All here are well—and send their love with mine.
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LXIV.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT.
DEAR MADAM,
SINCE I have been
honoured with your last commands, which were final, with respect to the task
you have enjoined me, I have several times set about the execution of them.—I
was in hopes to have made a much smaller compass inclose my insignificant
story; but, I know not how, I have been led on from one little circumstance to another, till I
am afraid I have set you a task more painful than that you assigned to me.—I
will not take up any more of your time in apologies, than just what serves to assure you, that, if I have dwelt upon little circumstances of
extenuation longer than may seem necessary, it proceeded not from an egotism
natural to me, but that ardent desire which I feel, even at this distance, to
stand as well as possible in the opinion of a person whose approbation is of
more value to me than the rest of the world.—Had you treated me with that
conscious superiority which unblemished virtue entitled you to, and which will
always appear where the virtues of generosity and social sympathy are not as
powerful as that of chastity; I should, perhaps, have revered you for the
possession of the latter, but the want of the former would have made reverence
alone all the tribute I should pay.—But in the course of the few, the very few,
hours I was under your roof, I discovered, in your conduct and conversation, an
heart so enlarged, an head so accomplished, so ample a capacity for judging,
and so benevolent a disposition to forgive—even those faults, of which happy
reflection pronounced you clear—that my esteem, my affection, my duty, pointed
you out as the most deserving object of all their attention.—Upon this
principle it is, that I have laid before you not only the actions of my life,
but, so far as I could discover, every secret spring that moved them.—If the
recital affords entertainment to you, or instruction to one young mind which
feels as I did, the task
will be amply rewarded to your most grateful
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXV.
MRS. BELLAS TO MRS. CLEMENT.
I HAVE two letters
from my dear Marianne—the first brings me the happiest tidings I could hear at
present—and the latter has filled me with more than my natural share of
curiosity. I applaud the resolution of Amelia; and sincerely hope, that
self-love, that universal deceiver, will not thwart her in a design so
laudable.—It is very certain that many actions, which, to a superficial
observer, may appear in the extreme of good or bad, were the motives honestly
laid before the same person, might so far alter their nature, as to deserve a
very different degree of approbation or censure—nay, sometimes, take the opposite complexion;—but then the
motives must be laid open by the possessor;—and it seldom happens that a mind
capable of doing justice to those minute particles of human action in
description—or (to use your own phrase, which is better) to translate the
feelings—hath ingenuousness enough to make that sacrifice to society.—In every
thing self predominates—and very often patriotism, piety, and even well-acted
passion (if you could make a window in the human breast) would be
translated—self, self, self.—She seems, however, possessed of so much humility,
and so well reconciled to her situation, excluding that commerce with the world
which often deters writers from saying all, for fear of cold civility and
averted looks—that every degree of impartiality may be expected from her.—But
why send me her letters one by one?—Remember you desired not to see them so
yourself. I need not use any further argument to extort the whole packet from
you at once—do as you would be done by.—Charles is to throw off his petticoats
on Sunday.—You cannot conceive how manly and handsome he looks in his masculine
habit.—We meditate
an excursion into Yorkshire; and we thought his trowsers would be the properest
equipment for travelling. I fancy the acres will be all his own;—and ’tis but
right that he should have his fancy consulted in the allotment of them.—Mr.
Bellas is dividing one large farm into four, to atone, as far as one individual
can, for the inhuman passion, now so prevalent, of putting six into one, to the
discouragement of industry, and the starving of five honest men and their
families.—Dinner waits. Send me the history in your next, and you will oblige
your
CHARLOTTE.
L E T T E R
LXVI.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
HOW I love my dear
Charlotte for her impatience!—It is so like myself, that, upon her own
principle, she will readily believe me.—The true reason that I mean to send you
but one letter at a time is this—I have reflected that your vile cross-post
sometimes plays us tricks; and I should never forgive myself, if I lost the
packet, or even a part of it.—I mean therefore to copy the letters, and send
you a compleat history for your own, as my little Charlotte says.—Selby is
gone:—we had a disagreeable parting; but I know you will be pleased to hear it
is over.—I believe I must resolve not to say a word to you, but enclose the
letters as I copy them, for I never can leave off when once I
begin.—Goodbye!—Till the history is compleat, expect no more news from your
MARIANNE.
L E T T E R
LXVII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT.
DEAR MADAM,
IN order to introduce
some early anecdotes of myself, it is necessary that I go back to the remotest
period of which I have any knowledge, either from my own memory, or the
relation of my mother, whose veracity was ever unquestionable;—as to her
unhappy choice of a husband was owing my misfortune of not being allowed to
chuse at all.—My mother was about twelve years old when my uncle Charles was
born, who, being the first son, though the seventh child, was, from the moment
of his birth, the principal object of his father’s attention. His mother,
however, who was by all accounts a very amiable woman, but not possessed of any
great understanding, was perhaps blameably partial to all her daughters, but
particularly to the eldest, who was my mother.—This difference in sentiment
produced many misunderstandings between the parents, who, from the birth of my
uncle James (a year after his brother), never lived in the same apartment. My
mother and three of her sisters were sent to a boarding-school in Yorkshire, to
save expence—and the
two younger girls with their brothers still remained in the nursery—till the
small-pox made a fatal visit to the family, and carried off both the girls—my
uncle James hardly escaping the same fate. My grandmother was inconsolable;
and, to reconcile her in some degree, her husband, who had not lost the
feelings of humanity, though he had quarrelled with her, sent for my mother
from school.—She was then about sixteen—and had been four years at that seminary of folly, specious idleness, and viciating romance.—She was
taught to read, but not to think—to dance, to sing, to do every thing but what
was useful.—My father, who was, when she was sent there, drawing-master to the
school, had contrived to render himself agreeable to her—and in the course of
her stay, by the death of a distant relation, became possessed of a
considerable estate in the same county, which I suppose did not injure him in her
heart, particularly as, from her father’s partiality, she had little to expect in her favour.—Just at the period
when she was sent for, my father had brought matters to such a crisis, that she
had consented to marry him privately.—However, she had too much filial piety to
refuse to obey the summons—she came, and found her mother very ill, and in a
few days after followed her to the grave.—She was then in a situation truly
pitiable;—having lost her mother, neglected by her father, and her head
brim-full of the recent solicitations of a lover, whose suit her heart had
granted, though her understanding pointed out many objections. Just as she was
about to return to school, her father called her one day into his study—and,
having prepared her for the proposal with more tenderness than she had reason
to expect, told her, that a
gentleman of about fifty (three years older than himself) had made overtures
respecting a marriage with her; and, as a friend, advised her to accept it; for
that he was willing to make her a very good jointure; which, as he was not in
circumstances to give her a shilling, was not likely to be met with every day.
She remonstrated upon the inequality of fifty and sixteen: but he was very
laconic upon the subject; and told her, that she might either marry his friend,
or prepare for her journey as soon as she pleased; and that Rachael, her next
sister, must come home and keep his house. Mortified at this unkind
distinction, and shocked at the horror of his proposed match, she returned to
Yorkshire; resolved to conquer all her former scruples, and marry my father. It
is painful to be obliged to lay open the errors of those one is bound to honour,
but; as mine are in some measure consequent upon
theirs, it is unavoidable.
AMELIA.
L E T T E R LXVIII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
AS soon as my mother
returned to school, my father made her a visit of condolence.—Having once
taught there, he had always access as a general visitor; but now, upon hearing
my mother’s account of her reception at home, and her father’s proposal of a
match to her; Mr. Thompson, who either loved her extravagantly, or fancied he
did, avowed himself her lover, and declared his intention to her governess; who
thinking him a very good match for her, and considering her as an orphan from
the recent circumstances that had happened, encouraged his addresses, but
insisted upon my mother’s writing for a formal consent, previous to her
actually being married.—To this they both consented, but from the native sense
of filial duty (which I well know requires more acts of cruelty than one to
destroy it); but—her lover (for, on this occasion, I would fain forget he was
my father), finding her so cheap in a parent’s estimation, began to think her
love might be had upon easier terms than matrimony:—he therefore, with
well-acted reluctance, consented to her postponing the day of marriage till her
father’s answer should arrive; hoping, in the mean time, to find a cause to
make it unnecessary.—My mother wrote to her father by her sister Rachael, in
the most submissive and filial style her understanding and her feelings could
suggest—told him, that, as he had expressed a wish to see her married, and had
been kind enough not to constrain her to marry a man she could not love, she
was now encouraged to ask his permission, to marry a gentleman more suitable to
her years, who had it in his power and inclination to make a provision for her
perhaps fully equal to the other; that she however could not reconcile it to
herself, to accept of him, or any other person, without his approbation; and
that the gentleman was ready, whenever he could obtain leave, to wait upon him,
to make known his own sentiments.—Her father was much affected by her letter,
and, being a man of quick and transitory feelings, became as fond of her as he
had been neglectful:—he sent down immediately an invitation to the lover; and
desired his daughter to prepare for her return to town in the course of a month
at farthest; expressing, at the same time, the kindest wishes for her future
happiness; and confessing that his behaviour towards her, for the last three or
four years, had not merited such dutiful returns on her part.—Her heart
overflowed with those feelings which it must ever be in vain to describe;—those
minds, whose peculiar happiness it is to possess them, will conceive from the
situation what they were;—and those, who possess the negative happiness to be
without them, would not understand the description, though given by a
Shakespeare or a Sterne.—As soon as the letter arrived, she communicated the
contents to her lover, who, disappointed as he was of gaining the consent which
he expected her despair would dictate on her father’s refusal, was not without
a resource in his own idea;—besides his natural propensity to acts of cruelty,
in which he has so signalized himself since that time, he had then another
fancy, or (as he would call it) an attachment, to the daughter of an attorney
of some eminence, whom he had met with at York races;—between his engagements
to my mother, and his latent passion for this lady, he was exceedingly
embarrassed, and proposed to settle both by his expedition to London.—He told
my mother, that he would immediately prepare for his journey; but that in his
way he would spend a day or two at his lawyer’s, in order that he might carry
the writings with him, ready for signing;—and then, as if it was a new thought,
asked my mother to give him leave to conduct her in his carriage, either with
one of her sisters, or any other companion she might chuse.—She had not an
idea, but of guileless innocence herself; nor once suspected him. The
governess, who knew the world, objected;—but he soon got the better of her
scruples; and, on the Sunday morning following, the party, consisting of my
father, mother, and a sister of the governess, who came to visit a son she had
an apprentice to a linen-draper in London, set out from Yorkshire; and, one of
the horses having met with an accident, were obliged to spend the evening and
night at a very indifferent house about thirty miles onward of their
journey.—Accommodations being scarce, the ladies were obliged to accept of one
bed; but my mother, who happened to be very ill, and did not sleep, soon heard
a foot steal softly towards the bed; and, upon stirring her companion, and
speaking very loud, perceived the person, who she conceived to be a man, turn
about and go out of the room.—As soon as the door was shut, she got up and rang
the bell; and the people of the house, alarmed at a noise they were not much accustomed
to, carried the idea to the utmost; and, as they rose ran to different parts of
the house, crying “Fire!” My mother, little imagining her bell to be the cause
of this outcry, redoubled her efforts—and the people theirs; till every
individual in the house were assembled in the tap-room—some dressed, but more
just as they had been asleep. They then began to compare notes; and found that
the ringing of the bell was the only cause of alarm; and, each retiring to
their apartment, my mother’s rushlight was blown out, and instead of her female
companion, her lover followed, and took her place.—The discovery of the mistake
was followed by the most specious arguments on his part, to prove, that, the
ceremony being so near, the ridiculous prudery of making a new arrangement in
the house would be productive of infinitely worse consequences than letting the
matter pass;—that she must be sensible he could not be the contriver of the
mistake, since it was very clear that Mrs. Edwards had likewise got into a bed she
did not intend;—that another week would have made it a disposition he hoped,
not disagreeable to her; and that, if it was her choice, as Providence had
kindly anticipated their intentions, he would ride over to York in the morning,
obtain a license, and marry her before she went to town;—and that, with respect
to her father, as he meant to give her nothing, she need not be so tenacious of
his approbation. She remarked upon the want of sentiment in the last argument;
which he refined away; and, taking the advantage of her situation, convinced
her, that fate was only kinder to them than they to themselves; and that
whether they happened to be married on a Sunday or a Monday could not affect
their future happiness.—In short, she was so circumstanced, that complaint was
fruitless. She had now no chance but by retaining his affection, for she hoped
but little from his honour or his principle; she therefore resolved to appear
as chearful as possible, and avoid to upbraid him with what it was her best
policy, on every account, to attribute, first to chance, and then to the
infirmity of human nature, which the men never spare to enlarge upon in their
own excuse, though they will seldom allow it as an argument for our unhappy
sex, whose very strength is weakness, compared to theirs.—Her principal
distress was, how to meet Mrs. Edwards;—she mentioned her embarrassment to him;
but was presently set easy upon that subject. He said, that Mrs. Edwards was a
woman in years; that she must know how natural it was for a man to seize an
opportunity so happily thrown in his way by fortune; and that, if she chose it,
she might say that they were privately married before she left school. To this
however she gave an absolute negative;—she might be unhappy, she said, but she
would not be base—a lie was in itself so contemptible, that she wondered even
infidels, who thought not of the sin, could be insensible of the meanness of a
deviation from the truth—that she would avoid it ever.
He smiled at her simplicity; and told her, that he would not attempt to
influence her sentiments—that her actions were all he had a right to command;
and that, if she wished to oblige him before marriage, as a proof that she
would obey him after, the best earnest she could give him of future happiness
would be, to desist from visiting her father, to return with him to his own
house, and to take immediate possession of him and it, by acting as mistress of
it.—She was shocked at the proposal;—her father’s recent kindness, her own
situation, and his baseness, all passed in review before her; and filled her
with such horror as the recollection still gives to your
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXIX.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
AS soon as breakfast
was over, the subject was renewed; and Mrs. Edwards, who was less surprized
than my mother expected, joined in all the arguments that were in favour of the
point; said, that their marriage was a subject much talked of for several
months all round the country; that, if she returned as Mrs. Thompson, nobody
was authorized to ask any questions when or where the ceremony took place;—that
she, for her part, would never be the person to throw a doubt upon the matter;
but that, if they would agree between themselves what should be said upon the
subject, she would always, in all companies, make her declarations coincide
with theirs.—My mother, whose honest and ingenuous nature was shocked at the
ready disposition to falsehood in a woman no way interested in the deception,
interrupted her impatiently.—“Mrs. Edwards!” says she, “what need of so many
lies, upon a subject where truth would cost less trouble? I am not married—why
should any body say I am? why should Mr. Thompson allow me the happy
consciousness of telling truth without blushing for it? He said last night, he
would marry me this morning—why do you not, Sir, (applying herself to him) go
to York, as you said you would, and procure the licence? why am I kept in
suspence, in a strange place, without a friend, without a parent, without my
innocence, which would have enabled me to seek and find both?—He told her that,
however his passion for her might have hurried him beyond the bounds of
prudence, he was not to be taught what he owed to her, and to himself;—that he
did not love obligations to people he did not like; and that, as her father had
shewed himself an unnatural kind of man to her, he had rather not owe him the
civility of asking him to his house—and that therefore he would not go to
his;—that, as to marriage, he thought it only made people quarrel, and live
uneasily together, when they knew they could not separate; but that, for his
part, he loved her so well, that he could not refuse her any thing she should
ask for herself; and that therefore, if she made it a point, notwithstanding
her dislike to the state, he would marry her; but the time must be left to him;
and that, mean time, his heart, his house, his purse, were open to her; and
that, as the world would judge and talk upon certain old-fashioned principles,
he should think she had better avail herself of Mrs. Edwards’s kind and
friendly advice, than, by a romantick attachment to what she called probity and
integrity, and such stuff, proclaim her own shame, and make it inconsistent
with his situation in the world ever to call her his wife.”—I am shocked at the
picture I have drawn of a man from whom I derive my being;—but such I am afraid
are the pictures of more than half mankind—fawning, and acquiescent, till they
have nothing more to ask; then, insolent, and reproachful, and
ungrateful!—upbraiding the unhappy victims of their artifice with those crimes
which, in the eye of a just and impartial God, as they have originated with,
must be chargeable upon themselves!—Such was his conduct from that first day,
till the last day of my poor mother’s slavery; and that last day closed her
eyes in peace.—But to return to the immediate point.—Mrs. Edwards again joined
her employer, for such he appeared to be;—and my mother, whose innocent mind
was as long as possible blind to the scheme, now saw that her ruin was
concerted.—She wept, she railed; but she was in their power, and she had no
alternative but to go home a contented partner of her seducer’s infamy, or seek
a refuge either from her father or her governess;—the former, her own mind
forbad—the latter it shewed as almost equally horrid.—To seek protection from a
father whose kindness was but new-born,—under circumstances so disgraceful as
to stagger even the tenderness of a good mother, seemed to give a negative even
to itself; and to return to the school, from whence a confederate in his
villainy came, seemed as improper as to stay with him.—At last, she resolved to
advise with the woman of the house they were in—(Necessity suggests strange
counsel!)—and, with a few guineas in her pocket, to seek some private retreat
from shame, till she should by letters found the reception she was likely to
meet with at either of her former homes.—How this scheme would have succeeded,
it is impossible to ascertain; for, upon going out of the room, to search for
the mistress of the house, she found them all in close conversation; and, upon
seeing her the woman articulated aloud, “Very well, Sir, the horses are ready,
and I dare to say the lady will know her own good, and not refuse your honor
when you offers so handsomely;”—and, then turning to my mother,—“Miss,” says
she, “I hope as how you won’t stand in your own light, the gentleman’s a proper
likely gentleman, as one would wish to see in a summer’s day.”—My mother,
seeing that she was pre-engaged, stopped her harangue; and, despairing of any
rescue there, she gave herself up without making an answer, and suffered my
father to hand her into the coach, resolving in her own mind to make her escape
at the inn where they should put up at night.—With this hope she preserved a degree
of chearfulness through the day; and her companions began to think that she had
made her last efforts, and would now rest contented.—they traveled near an
hundred miles that day, but it was all across the country; and my uncle Charles
being at that very period put under the tuition of a relation who was a
clergyman, and kept an academy about ninety miles from London, arrived with his
tutor at the same inn, and the same hour, as they did.—My mother, the moment
she saw Charles, ran to him, and in the presence of the clergyman, who, though
she had head of, she never saw, called him her guardian angel, and her
deliverer from vice and infamy.—Mr. Randall was astonished, and desired her to
explain herself;—which she did with so much artless sincerity, and undissembled
innocence, that, confiding her and her brother to the care of a gentleman who
accompanied him, he instantly rushed out in search of her betrayer.—As soon as
they met; Mr. Randall declared himself, and his business—told him that, though
a minister of the gospel whose characteristick was peace and forgiveness of
injuries and whose precepts had ever been his rule of life, so far as respected
himself; yet that, in defence of injured innocence, the sword of religion
itself would weild with honour—that either Miss Clement’s infamy must be sunk
in Mrs. Thompson’s recovered honour, or Mr. Thompson’s life must be staked with
his.—The firmness of his manner, and the reverence of his aspect, for he was
between fifty and sixty, struck the guilty heart with momentary remorse.—A
messenger was dispatched for a license; and the whole party stayed at the inn,
till Mr. Randall himself performed the ceremony.—On the Tuesday morning they
set out for my father’s house; Mrs. Edwards, whose past conduct rendered her hateful
to my mother, having proceeded (as she said) on her way to London. As soon as
they arrived, the tenants and neighbours came to welcome my mother, whose
heart, broken as it was by his severe injunctions, never to see nor think of
one of her own relations, was but ill-qualified to give them reception.—The
recollection of her sufferings is too painful. Allow a pause to your
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXVII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
MY grandfather having
waited a fortnight,
with the utmost impatience, for a return to his letter, sent a servant express
with another to the school, supposing the former to have miscarried.—Mrs.
Monson (the governess), who had heard from her sister the whole transaction,
wrote an answer, just to inform him that his daughter was married to a Mr.
Thompson, a gentleman of considerable fortune in the county of York, and was
gone home to her own house.—That, when she left school, it was her intention to
have waited on him previous to her marriage; but that she understood that some
accident had happened on the road, which prevented her from carrying that
design into execution;—and, giving him her address, referred him to herself for
particulars.—As soon as the servant returned, he wrote to my mother, chiding her,
though gently, for not permitting him to have the satisfaction of disposing of
her hand to the man of her choice; reminded her that she had no opposition to
expect from the style of his letter, which he found she had received—and
concluding with a very kind invitation to her and her husband, to be present at
her sister Rachael’s wedding, whom he was going to give, by her own desire, to
the son of a worthy friend of his, who was just returned from the Indies, where
he had gone when a child, and had brought over an ample fortune.—There is
nothing so painful to a generous mind, as to be loaded with kindness which it
cannot repay:—how heavy then must be the burden, if one dare not even
acknowledge it!—Such was my mother’s unhappy situation.—Her letters came opened
to her hands; nor did
she dare to write one, without the restriction of a similar exhibition.—As soon
as she received this, she begged permission to thank her father, if it was not
agreeable to accept of his invitation;—remonstrated upon the unkindness of such
a prohibition, as excluded the reciprocity of Nature’s duties; that her being
his wife did not cancel the ties of daughter, nor of sister; and pointed out
the large field which such restraint might prove for future uneasiness.—This,
to a man of feeling or of understanding, might have had some weight; but my
poor father was innocent of any such possessions;—his property was his only
boast, and, speak of what you would, he was sure to answer you by a display of
his independence.—This indeed is the prevalent error of all those, who, born to
no hopes, and educated with no prospect, by any unfortunate chance come to the
possession of a fortune disproportionate to their little souls—therefore, in
that single point, exterior circumstances might be culpable;—but the superior
cruelty of his heart could proceed only from itself.—In short, he took upon him
to answer the letter himself, upon a principle of false delicacy, similar to that of a man who married a woman knowing her to
be in love with another; and after they were married, though in circumstances
where common honesty called for every exertion of their talents for the support
of their family, refused to suffer her to obtain, by a laudable use of hers, a
very considerable sum, lest other men should impertinently fall in love with
her.—O sentiment! sentiment! how art thou perverted! Similar to this was my
father’s reason for answering my grandfather’s letter himself—it was
inconsistent, he said, with his feelings, that a wife of his should correspond
with any man but himself; and yet, with all that delicacy, he would in all
companies, and even before his servants, upbraid her with a circumstance, which
to a mind ill-inclined, would have given a sufficient license to take, or to
allow, any liberties that could be devised.—He did write; and not only refused
his father-in-law’s invitation, but threw such a damp upon their future
intercourse, that they seldom met above once a year for the remainder of their
lives.—In the course of ten months from their ill-fated marriage, my mother had
a son; and, about two years after, my wretched existence began.—The first
sounds I could discover, were those of discord, reproach, quarrels, and
upbraidings.—My poor mother’s temper was soured by a succession of cruelties;
and his was of such a kind, that every thing, which to another man would become
a blessing, to him was the bitterest curse.—Avarice was his predominant
passion; and all his other humours, good or bad, were tinctured with that.—When
my brother was born, instead of rejoicing, as many, even bad men, would have
done, on such an occasion, he began to calculate the difference an additional
servant would make in house-keeping.—When he was ill, his anxiety was not
whether his child should die or recover; but was always greater or less in
proportion to the length of the apothecary’s bill:—at last, after two years of
grudging to my poor brother William, I came to add to my father’s expence and his consequent misery.—My mother, whose tenderness still dwells
upon my memory, and carries my gratitude even to her tomb, denied herself every
ornament and superfluous expence, and, supplying herself scantily even with necessaries, laid out the
remains of her small allowance upon the little decorations of our persons;—nor
do I suppose that, whilst she lived, we ever cost my father a shilling, except
our support and that of our nurses.—’Twas lucky that they had no more children;
for, sour as he was at our obtruding ourselves upon his domestic oeconomy, I
don’t know how he would have welcomed a third.—When I was about ten years old, my brother, who was
just twelve, was sent to an academy at Lichfield, and at fourteen, being a lad
of remarkable capacity, was forwarded to Cambridge, where the unfortunate cause
of my introduction to you was just entered. The young men presently commenced
acquaintance; and, as William and I had always loved each other with the utmost
tenderness, I suppose he often talked of me to his friend, who was well, too well
prepared, at
our first meeting, to find my heart in its defenceless state of innocence, and
to make it all his own.—Once in about three years we went to London—and the
last visit I made it, within the circle of my own family, was the year that you
and my uncle Charles were married.—Every where we went, we saw you both, and
saw you always together.—There is something very conciliating to a young mind
in a picture of domestick happiness: it views it with a double pleasure, as an
object of admiration, and as an inspirer of hope.—When we see others happy, we
naturally look to the time when we may partake the same felicity.—In every
attention my uncle paid you, I saw Charles Mason; and fancy assisting the
deception, placed myself in your situation, borrowed your merit, tried-on your
graces and your accomplishments; and, like an inspired actor, who, when he
personates a hero, looks on the external trappings of the character, and
fancies himself the man;—so I, placed by the blind god whose votary I was, in
your situation, saw myself, loving like you, deservedly beloved.—My father,
whose prejudice against my uncle Charles for his accidental rescue of my mother
when yet a child, was not in the least subsided, would never suffer us to know,
or be known to
him.—I remember to hear my mother say, that, when I was about two years old,
she contrived to see my uncle by a stratagem, which was so near costing her
life, that she could never dare to repeat it.—So, in spite of our wishes, we were obliged to leave
town without a single interview.—My brother grew so fine a boy, that his father
could not avoid taking some notice of him;—by way of indulgence, he allowed him
to bring home a friend at every vacation-time:—he did so;—but that friend was
always Charles Mason. In short, we loved each other; and, conscious as we were
of having no intentions but such as were prompted by nature, and warranted by
innocence and virtue, we indulged them without restraint, to the unutterable
misery of
Your
poor
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXI.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
THE last visit but
one, which we had from my brother and Charles during my dear mother’s lifetime,
she saw in my manner something that alarmed her; and, calling me into her
closet, she began in words something like these: “My dear Amelia, says she, you
are tottering on the brink of a precipice, from which no hand but that of a
divine over-ruling Power can snatch you;—yet, as a mother, my duty calls upon
me to warn you; as a child, you owe me a serious hearing, and a candid
declaration of your real sentiments.”—My mother had always taken the happiest
method of securing my confidence; from my earliest infancy, she taught me to
consider her as my friend, my companion, my instructor, and my partial
judge.—There was not a thought of my heart that I would wish to conceal from
her; therefore, requesting her to explain her meaning, I promised her to deal
with every degree of candour and truth towards her that she had through my life
practised towards me, and inculcated upon me for my general conduct.—She then
told me, that she had observed an unusual gaiety and gloominess, by turns, to
take possession of my mind at the times when Charles Mason was in our
family—particularly this last vacation;—that she, for her own part, saw no
objection to the young man; on the contrary, that she thought very highly of
both his head and his heart; but you know, my dear, says she, that it is
neither your opinion, nor mine, that can dispose of you—have a care, therefore,
Amelia; for, should you place your whole hopes of happiness upon one object,
and that object should happen not to please your father—misery must ensue;—you
know how peremptory he is;—you know too how absolutely destitute I am of the
power to serve you; precluded by my husband’s tyranny from the converse of my
father for many years before his death, I was not considered in the
distribution of his fortune; and, scantily as I have been provided with the
annual supply of my own and my children’s expences, it has not been in my power
to make the least provision for a case where his displeasure might affect
you.—Should he see half so much as I have done, I tremble for the
consequences;—check then, in time, my dear girl, the approaches of a passion
which has so many chances against it.—She paused; and I replied,—and, with all the
openness of an honest heart, unveiled the inmost feelings of mine. I told her,
that I certainly had a very tender friendship for Charles; and that I had some
reason to think my father saw, and did not disapprove it;—that he had even
jested with me upon the subject, with more than his accustomed share of
pleasantry; and that I could not suppose, that he, who inveighed so loudly
against other parents, for forcing their children’s inclinations in marriage,
however unhappy his temper, would practise the same cruelty himself. My mother
cast a look of anguish and approbation; and prayed ardently to heaven, that I
might never have cause to change my opinion.—About this time a Mr. Wilson, a
man of mean extraction, who had amassed a great deal of money in a very unamiable
manner, had met us at some neighbouring visit; and made, next day, proposals to
my father; which he, to my great joy, rejected; nor could I ever since conceive
by what motives he was actuated—unless it was that he had been hurt, when we
dined together, at Wilson’s reaching out his hand to intercept a plate of soup,
which the lady of the house had intended for my father.—Whether such claim to
precedence saved me from the disagreeable arms of Wilson, to be sacrificed to
the still more horrid monster whom you saw, or that my miserable moment was not
yet arrived, I never could guess—probably both causes might coincide;—however
that be, I then considered his refusal as an omen of his future indulgence to
my passion for Charles.—Of what folly is not a youthful mind, under the
influence of passion, capable!—I soon after, however, was undeceived. —The next
York races we were present; and a sportsman, who happened to be very
successful, elate, perhaps, with that very circumstance, saw, or fancied he
saw, me with eyes of love.—He enquired my name, sought out my father, and
instantly made proposals for me; which, to my utter confusion and astonishment,
he accepted, on condition that he settled eleven thousand pounds, which he had
won at the races, irrevocably upon me. The monster consented; and a Mr. Perrin,
an attorney at York, was employed to draw up the writings, and desired to keep
the matter entirely secret, lest it should reach me; for it seems they did not
intend that any questions should be asked till the very morning on which I was
to be married.—Mean time, the horse-jockey spent almost every hour at our
house, and gave us the pedigree of every horse upon the turf;—talked learnedly
of spavins and splinters; the methods of cure; the best diet for runners, and
the difference between them and draught or saddle horses; and was sure to
enforce every argument with some similies, in which my person, and that of an hostler’s wife, or our own
dairy-maid, were sure to make capital figures.—A fortnight passed in this manner;
and frequently, in the course of this time, my poor mother, who was in the
secret, and did not dare either to communicate it to me, or to make an effort
to oppose it, has been chid, and sent out of the room, when her heart has
filled at the idea of a child whom she tenderly loved, being sacrificed to such
a being, whose whole train of ideas were confined to a stable.—My father,
perhaps, of all men that ever lived, was most obstinate in his conversation,
and most flexible in his actions.—The person he most esteemed in the world was
my mother; but I believe he was scarcely sensible of it himself;—certain it is,
that she was one of the last persons in it who could influence him in any
thing;—narrow in his own ideas, he always suspected others of being interested
in all they said or did; and, in proportion as they were nearly connected with
him, he suspected them of design in every word they spoke.—Upon this principle
it was, that my mother was totally disregarded in the hints which she ventured
to drop of Mr. Wallace’s fortune being always precarious;—that a man, who could
win eleven thousand in one day, might as probably lose it another;—that its
being settled upon me, in a piece of parchment, was no security for his not
hazarding it on the race-ground;—and that it would be poor compensation, in
such a case, for a wife, or her trustees, to sue and imprison a husband.—All
this he heard without regard; nay, sometimes laughed at her folly, and
sometimes chid her impertinence; till, after ten or twelve days, she began to
give up the point in despair, and even, at his absolute command, set about
buying my cloaths; though she considered it as dressing out a lamb for
sacrifice.—Mr. Perrin, however, who was a very honest man, and father of a
large family, over whom he exercised a very different kind of parental
authority, took the pains to enquire into the character of my elected lord; and
found him, by the universal voice of all that knew him, a noted sharper; and,
what perhaps served my cause more, that he had been detected in a fraud the
night before at York, and was obliged to make free with three of the eleven
thousand, which my father was in love with, to hush the matter into peace.—My
father was disappointed; and he shewed it: but my poor mother, whose heart was
relieved from a load of misery, broke out into exclamations of gratitude to
heaven, and Mr. Perrin, whom she considered as my deliverer. Mr. Perrin said
little in return; but taking the writings out of his pocket, looked at my
father, and saying, “With your permission, Sir!” threw them into the fire; and,
for that time, saved
Your
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS CLEMENT,
in continuation.
SOON after this
escape from one source of misery, another, more fatal to my peace and my mother’s life,
ensued.—My father, though he did not love his children with much tenderness,
had an ambition to leave them in such situations as to make a figure in the
world; especially my brother, who was now a very fine scholar, and had displayed understanding
and abilities to give wings to a parent’s fondest hopes. My father’s principal
ambition was to have him in parliament; with this idea, he thought it better to
sell out of York, which he considered as supplied for many years to come; and
buy into some other county.—This scheme he communicated to Mr. Perrin, who was
very famous for buying and selling estates. About eight months of tolerable
tranquillity succeeded the storm I have just recited; in which time my brother
brought Charles home again, and saw us plight vows of eternal love; when Mr.
Perrin, who had endeared himself to us all, came over one day, just as we had
sat down to dinner, and told my father, that he had a chapman in his eye for
his Yorkshire estate; and that, if he could strike that bargain before he could
conveniently meet with an object in his own idea, there was a pretty little
house, with a few acres, where he and his family might reside, till a purchase
in one of the counties he wished for should offer; but that he must sell directly,
if at all, as the Nabob was impatient to purchase, and would, he believed, be
down in two or three days.—My father, who thought all happiness consisted in
being rich, asked, with great eagerness, whether the Nabob was a single man?
Mr. Perrin answered, “I believe so, Sir; but he is past fifty; so he will not
do for miss Thompson.”—“I don’t know that, says my father; Amelia is not such a
fool, I hope, as to think her age any rule for her husband’s.” My mother was
going to speak; but he stopped her mouth with, “Come, Madam, don’t you fill the
girl’s head with notions like your own;—I think you refused a man of fifty at
her age, did not you? and what have you been the better for it? You refused
him, I remember, to marry me—and now we are both growing old together—so that
where is the difference whether a man first grows old, and then his wife? or
whether one combs a grey head, and the other shaves a grey beard, at the same
time?” There was a mixture of pleasantry in this ill-natured recapitulation, that
did not always appear, to soften his rebukes; yet it was sufficiently well
mixed to convey just what he intended—a jest to Mr. Perrin, but a dagger to my
poor mother’s heart;—and it was felt accordingly. She was effectually silenced;
and I did not venture upon so dangerous a subject: besides, I don’t know
whether all young people feel as I did; but there is still an internal support,
derived from hope, that aided me in every conflict.—My heart would fill, and
often overflow, for my mother’s sufferings, which were, for the last six years,
principally on my account; but for myself, I seldom wept, or even apprehended
any ill, though ever so probable, till it actually came upon me.—Then I had
read of daughters who had been persecuted by fathers to the very eve of
marriage, and had by prayers and tears disarmed the cruelty of such unnatural
parents, and escaped the threatened evil.—Nor was I destitute of that
confidence (at least I thought so) which is derived from religion, and which
generally preserves its votaries.—But whether I was too confident, and ascribed
more merit to myself than I possessed;—or whether it pleased the Almighty to
suffer me to be particularly wretched, as a warning to others who come after
me;—or whether a balance of happiness be yet in store—(Oh flatterer! flatterer!
not gone yet)—requires more sagacity than I am mistress of to find out. Certain
it is, that I always acted to the best of my judgement, and, so far as I could
be acquainted with my own heart, with the best intentions towards others as
well as myself—and yet—have been most miserable—and, what pains my heart most
in recollection, have made my dear Charles more wretched than myself, for I
have made him guilty.—About three days after, Mr. Perrin returned, and brought
Mr. Wolfe with him, for that was the intended purchaser’s name. I was covering
some grapes, that stood north, with a piece of matting; and, turning about for
a nail, which the servant held, I saw them enter the court-yard, and dropped
off the steps.—The recollection of what had passed, the fear of what might
come, and the new cause of grief I was likely to prove to the best of mothers,
mixed in my idea, and produced an absolute whirlwind, for so it seemed to my feeling.—The gentlemen ran up to me,
and raised me; and, as I walked in, supported by both, I heard the Nabob
exclaim to Perrin, “By G—d! She’s the handsomest creature I ever saw! why did
you not tell me this? and you might have asked what you pleased for
the purchase.”—It is amazing of what inconsistent materials the human mind is
formed! I have promised to lay open all the weaknesses of mine—and therefore am
obliged to confess, that notwithstanding my unbounded affection for Charles—the
fear of my father’s authority being used to force me to marry any man who could
bid well—my resolution never, whilst I had life, to consent to such a step;—I
say, notwithstanding all this, I felt an unspeakable joy in being able at one
glance to inspire a passion so ardent as his expression seemed to declare;—I
wished that it might increase—and yet resolved not to return it.—Whence then
could that arise? ’Twas surely vanity.—I have often entered into a conversation
with other young ladies who had the same feelings, as indeed most pretty women
at a certain age have; from them I could never extort a similar confession;
but, when I have taken my own heart to task, I have always brought it to that
declaration.—From fourteen to twenty are the most dangerous years of a woman’s
life;—’tis then a mother’s eye is most absolutely necessary.—What a madness
then, at such a period, to trust a daughter to the care of a person who has no
tie but a pecuniary one! how many thousands feel the fatal effects of it! A
mother, a sensible mother, who pretends not to be
ignorant of Nature’s imperfections, is the only governess for her own
daughter;—yet, must her care be delicately applied—steering
clear of low suspicion, which provokes; and of injudicious severity, which
makes desperate.—Such was the conduct of my dear mother towards me; and, whilst
she lived, my guardian angel never
slept.—But, deprived of her, I lost my pilot, and soon my little bark, blown
about by youthful vanity and youthful passion, shipwrecked on a father’s
cruelty!—Mr. Wolfe was as absolutely enamoured as my vanity would have desired;
but he had a heart too good for his fate.—As soon as he entered the parlour, he
told my father that he did not doubt but that he should like his house and his
estate, which upon that opinion he was ready to purchase; but that his mind was
so entirely engrossed by the beauty of his daughter, that though to talk of
purchasing that would be to blaspheme its maker, he
should be happy to know how he could merit the
possession of it;—that Mr. Perrin knew his fortune; and that, when he had
charged upon it five hundred pounds a-year for his mother’s life, it would
double its value in his esteem by being settled upon Miss Thompson as his
wife.—My father was greatly delighted, and, sending for my mother, repeated Mr.
Wolfe’s proposal, which he confirmed; and, my mother being greatly pleased with
his appearance and manner, and despairing of any other way to get out of this affair without my father’s eternal displeasure, she undertook to communicate the matter to
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXIII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
AFTER my fall,
I had been put to bed, where notwithstanding my past agitation, or perhaps
harassed by its violence, I soon fell asleep.—My mother came up to my room,
and, taking a book, sat by my bed-side till I awoke;—then, after such enquiries
as her tenderness prompted, she told me that she had a commission from my
father, which she was obliged to execute, and hoped I would not be so averse to
what he now proposed as on former occasions, as she had seen and conversed with
Mr. Wolfe, and approved of him so much in that little time, that she could wish
I would at least deliberate before I absolutely refused.—I burst into tears,
and told her, that my heart was not my own; that, in my brother’s presence, and
with his approbation, I had exchanged vows of fidelity with Charles;—that, if I
were to marry another man, I should not be able to make him a good wife;—that,
notwithstanding all her sufferings with my father, she must have been supported
by remembering that he was the man of her choice; but that, had she received
similar treatment from another man, she could not, with all her native goodness
of heart, have done with such persevering merit her duty.—She shook her head,
and replied, “My dear Amelia—that is the mode of judging natural to nineteen;
at your age, I should probably have reasoned in the same manner; but it is a
delusive medium through which you look; it is the medium of passion. Or call it
reason—I have as many arguments to apply on the other side of the question, and
they shall be reason too.—All human attributes are imperfect, and none more so
than reason;—for instance, in the very case in point—why may I not expect you
to believe me, when I say, that, perhaps, the recollection of your father being
the man of my choice has added a new sting to every mortification I have
suffered from his caprice and his cruelty?—It is certainly true, and yet I
grant your arguments found well too.—Had I married the man my father proposed
to me, I had not had the painful remembrance of disobeying a parent.—He might
have behaved better to me than Mr. Thompson—so far I had been happier;—had he
behaved worse (though that is almost impossible), I should not have had the
occasions for reproach and upbraiding, which, with all the patience I could muster,
I have not always been able to forbear; nor had he an opportunity of putting me
in mind of a weakness, which (though my will did not then consent to it), my
virtue, had I not loved the object, and feared to have lost him, would have
secured me against, though at the expence of my life.”—Here we were interrupted
by a message from my father, who had finished his own bargain, and was so
anxious to settle mine, that he had insisted upon the gentleman’s staying all
night, that, if I was not able to come down that evening, he might be sure to
see me in the morning.—I resolved to take advantage of my illness for that
evening. However, next day came; I got up and dressed myself; happy in my
mother’s assurances, that, though she wished me to acquiesce, she never would
be instrumental in putting a constraint upon me, which she had ever condemned
when practised by other parents towards their children.—I went down, and was
introduced by my mother, who apologized for my not having come down the evening
before, by reciting the accident I had had, and the necessity there was for
endeavouring to get me to sleep off the consequences.—Mr. Wolfe came up to me,
and enquired into the nature of the accident, which I explained; and, tea being
brought, my father called out across the room, with abundance of good-humour
and apparent tenderness—“Come, you little tumbler, entertain us now with the
feats of your hands; they will be pleasanter than that of your heels:”—then,
opening my harpsichord, took me by the hand, and desired me to play one of
Handel’s concerto’s, whilst my mother made tea.—After I had trembled over the
keys some of the most horrid discord that can be imagined, for I had not the
least use of my fingers—and the gentlemen said as many civil things as they
could have done to Handel for his composition; I returned to the tea-table, and
my father began upon his favourite theme of oeconomy—displayed his eloquence
upon farming, gardening, and the cheap methods he had found out of educating
his children, by making my mother teach us to read, himself to write, the
parish-clerk to sing, and the organist to play on the harpsichord:—The fact is,
he was very ingenious in that same science of frugality; and if it be a
virtue—I am afraid it was the only virtue he possessed.—Mr. Perrin kept up the
chat; but Mr. Wolfe seemed to be lost in thought; and, having asked and
obtained my father’s permission to speak to me upon the subject next his heart,
he came up to me, and, with a great deal of manly steadiness, and yet the whole
of a lover’s tender apprehension, he said—“Miss Thompson, a business the most
fortunate, I trust, of my whole life, brought me to your father yesterday,
without knowing that he was happy in the possession of such a daughter.—The
moment I saw you, which was after you had fallen from the vine, my heart
received an impression it never had before.—After you retired to your
apartment, in a conversation with your father and Mr. Perrin, I have discovered
that my name had been mentioned in your presence, with the forbidding
accompanyments of being a nabob, and fifty years of age.—Perhaps those mistakes
may have prejudiced me in your opinion, and in the chance I might otherwise
have had in your heart; it is therefore essential to my happiness, that I say a
few words upon that subject.”—My father laughed out aloud,—“Lord! Sir,” says
he, “how little you must know of women, to suppose that your being a nabob
should hurt you in their esteem! Why they will have the better opportunity of
being extravagant;—and, as to your age, that is a palpable mistake.—Why, he is
young enough, miss! is not he? he is almost as young as your favourite
Charles.” I suppose my looks told tales; for Mr. Wolfe exclaimed, “Good God! I
am too late; her heart is given to another; and, with that defect, her face and
form, beautiful as they are, would want the power to bless me!”—Then, turning
to me, “I beg your pardon, madam,
says he, for so bold a supposition—your own delicacy will be a sufficient
security for their going together.”—My Father was mad with himself; he bit his
lips, and rubbed his hands—and, at last, broke out, “Lord! lord!” he cried,
“how absurd your men of vast sensibility always are! Why Charles is only a
play-fellow of her brother’s—a poor parson’s son, that I used to invite home at
vacation-times, to save his father the expence of an additional mouth.—Eh,
Amelia! is not that the case?”—My blood boiled resentment;—if I had not
struggled hard, I must have said something he would never have
forgiven.—“Speak! girl,” says he. I
answered, “Sir, it is impossible for me to dive into your motives for inviting
my brother’s friend to your house; had it been only to gratify so deserving a
son, I should have thought that reason sufficient;—if your motives were of that
generous nature you have just mentioned, they were hitherto hid within your own
breast; the properest situation, in my opinion, for them to have remained in.”
Mr. Wolfe insensibly took my hand: “Oh, miss Thomson! says he, may I look to that face, dwell upon those accents,
breathing unutterable sense and sweetness, and may I hope that the possessor
may be mine?”—My heart was torn; had I
never seen Charles, nay, had I not bound myself to be his, I should have given
up the struggle.—I saw in my present lover every perfection I loved in Charles;
and, with those perfections, my parents’ wishes—a competent fortune, and the
blessing of bestowing happiness upon a worthy man, but Charles, my brother, and
my recent vows yet warm upon my lip, checked the yielding thought; and,
bursting from the room, I left the men to their conclusion, and my mother to a
new persecution for her
AMELIA.
LETTER LXXIV.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
I had
run up to my room, and thrown myself in a great chair; and was revolving within
my own mind the unfortunate situation into which a few words, spoken in the
warmth of an undivided heart, had plunged, not only myself, but my father, my
mother, and a deserving man (for such I persuade myself Mr. Wolfe must be), and
even, in all probability, Charles himself.—I began to look back, with an eye of
reason, over those rocks and quicksands which passion had borne me over on
fancy’s wings.—Charles had not a shilling—I, without my father’s approbation of
my marriage, must be equally destitute.—Was a marriage, on such terms, the road
to happiness? Certainly, no. Was it likely, that, refusing a man to whom I
could make no objection, my father, or even a better father, would ever consent
to give me and a competence to a man whom he had thrown into such a light of contempt?
Certainly, no.—Was it most my duty to persevere, in spite of conviction, to
marry Charles, to the utter ruin of us both; and, perhaps to the miserable
means of propagating beggars; of seeing those little innocent sufferers want
the comforts of life, and hearing them, in the cries of nature, upbraid me as
the cause;—or, by giving up a preference, make my parents smile, a worthy man
happy, myself independent, my children, if I had any, ornaments to society, and
blessings to mankind; and, at the same time, leave Charles free to make a
happier choice, where his merit might render him equally acceptable, and where
peace, plenty, and happiness, would be the substitutes for, perhaps,
repentance, poverty, and woe?—This, I have often thought, was a flight beyond
nineteen; but it was inspiration—it was the voice of heaven: happy had it been for us all, that I had persevered in the opinion!—but
it was not to be. My mother, whom I had heard in her own room some time before,
gently tapped at my door. I opened
it; and, throwing my arms round her neck (for I saw she
had been crying), I begged of her to forgive me the misery I had caused her;
and told her, that I had run over the matter, and all its consequences, in my
own mind; that I was convinced of my father’s right and her’s to dispose of me;
and that henceforward I would be ruled by them.—She thanked me, and said, “that it might be of
use on some other occasion; but that she believed Mr. Wolfe was gone for ever;
and that my father was so enraged at the supposition, that she did not know
that he would ever see me again;—that, at all events, he insisted upon my
assigning some cause for the unpardonable rudeness I had been guilty of;
otherwise she was commissioned to tell me, that my own apartment should be the
extent of my liberty.”—I was shocked at being supposed capable of doing any
thing from being threatened, that I should not more readily do from a principle
of duty.—I told her so; and she replied, “My dear girl, you are not now to
learn that your father don’t think upon those refined principles; however, if
you comply with his requisition, he will not trouble himself about the motives;
let it be duty towards me—I love that compliance best.” Whilst we were in this
conversation, a
servant came to my door, and, speaking aloud at the outside, informed me, that
there was a letter for me, to which my father expected I would send a proper
answer. My mother opened the door; and, taking from his hand, she put into
mine, a letter from Mr. Wolfe; the seal of which, according to his usual
delicacy, my father had broken, and no doubt perused its contents.—I read it
through several times, my mother eagerly watching my looks; and, when I could
no longer refrain from tears, she asked whether she might enquire the cause? I
gave her the letter, and begged her to give me her sentiments upon it. She was
as much at a loss as I was; nor could we either of us guess what my father
meant by a proper answer. At last we resolved, that the likeliest mode of
conciliating his mind, and the only one for coming at his opinion, was, for my
mother to go down, tell him the circumstance of my girlish promise to Charles;
and so, by discharging the first of his commands, obtain at least a little
time, and perhaps a little indulgence respecting the latter. Happy in my
assurance of perfect obedience, she left me; when I, to prevent improper
thoughts
returning, copied his letter, which I enclose.
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXV.
MR. WOLFE TO MISS THOMPSON.
MADAM,
THE singular
occurrence of yesterday, and the effect it must produce upon your present and
my future happiness, call upon me to explain my sentiments; and to leave it to
your generosity,
whether or not I may deserve a reciprocal attention from you. The moment I saw
you leave the room in disorder, I thought it my duty to quit your house,
because there seems a peremptory mode of proceeding in Mr. Thompson’s manner,
which, however his exertion of it might flatter me on this occasion, I am incapable of taking any
advantage of. I love you, madam; very ardently and honestly love you;—but I
love you as a man should—declining that happiness which must be dearly paid for
at the expence of yours. I should again ask that pardon which you generously
gave me yesterday, when an expression somewhat similar to this escaped me, on
your father’s mentioning some young gentleman’s name, and attaching to it the
happy epithet of your favourite;—but, madam, though I think as highly of your
delicacy as I do of your beauty, I dread the influence of a father’s authority, where it is used in a case so unavoidably productive of long years of
happiness or misery.—Nor can I help censuring that parent, who attempts by
violence, or, what would be more effectual towards a mind like that I conceive
you to possess, soothing persuasion, to bias a child in the only action of
their lives where only two peoples’ consent should be considered as essentially
requisite.—I have said thus much on the subject, however foreign, or rather
opposite, it may seem to my purpose, only to convince you, how dear your
happiness is in my estimation. If, after this, I should be happy enough to
merit your distinction, I shall, with confidence equal to my love, take you to
my arms, and put you in possession of an heart whose first beatings have been
for you.
With respect to myself, my family
and fortune, every particular shall be laid before you;—for the present, I will
only say, that my ancestors have been, for many years back, men of fair
characters and independent circumstances; but, their families enlarging within
the last fifty years, my father, who was the youngest of nine children of a
gentleman in the South of Ireland, was brought up to a reputable business; and,
when I was about thirteen years of age, and the third of seven sons, at the
earnest solicitation of a brother of my mother’s, he suffered me to make a
voyage to India—which has been so fortunate in its consequences, that in
fourteen years I have made, by honest industry, unstained by human blood, a
real fortune of sixty thousand pounds. Had I been less conscientious, I might
have been more wealthy; but three or four thousand pounds a year, with a
guiltless mind, is a richer possession to me, than as many millions, with the
death or the curse of a fellow-creature annexed to it.—I mean to employ fifty thousand in purchasing
estates;—ten thousand I have vested in the public funds, and settled its
produce, for life,
upon my mother; at her death, it is to be divided equally between three sisters
and two brothers, who are all, out of twelve children of our parents, who
survive to enjoy their brother’s good fortune.—I thought this explanation my
duty. If a heart untouched by any previous passion, in such a person as now
offers it, can be found worthy your acceptance, the future business of my life
shall be to approve your election.—But if, unhappily for me! your heart is
already bestowed—I may, I must, be miserable; but never will, by an unmanly
persecution, make you so. For this reason I must beg that an answer to this
candid declaration (if it is worthy of one) be written by yourself.—Be you
candid in return; and, whether it brings happiness or misery, it will be a
treasure to
Your most sincerely devoted
ANTHONY WOLFE.
L E T T E R
LXXVI.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
MY mother staid a
considerable time with my father; and then sent up for the letter.—As soon as
it was gone, my thoughts again were free.—I began to think, that, were it
possible for me to dissemble my feelings to Mr. Wolfe, and trust to time and
his worth to give him that entire possession of my heart which his delicacy so
well deserved; some untoward accident might discover my secret, and shew me to
him in the light of an impostor—a horrid character!—How must such a man despise
a woman capable of such a conduct!—and for me to behave ever so
unexceptionally, after such a discovery, would only seem a well-acted
hypocrisy:—besides, what kind of truce must I make mean time with myself? how
appease those reproaches, which every little occurrence of life might furnish me
with?—These reflections distracted me to a degree of irresolution what to say
or do;—when my mother returned, with Mr. Wolfe’s letter in one hand, and an
answer dictated by my father for me to copy in the other.—Had the contents been
unexceptionable—the mode was in itself a falsehood.—Mr. Wolfe desired, he said,
that it might be written by myself; but he did not say any thing about who
should dictate.—These kind of literal truths, and substantial falsehoods, I was
no stranger to; but my soul started with indignation from the practice of any
thing so base.—My mother thought as I did; but it was not her business to say
so on that occasion.—However, to bring matters as nearly as possible to a
crisis, she proposed a medium, and told me, that, if I would write an answer,
meaning the same as my father’s, she would endeavour to reconcile him to its
being sent by the messenger, whom he had detained almost by force till it
should be ready; and that the credit she had gained with him, from the message
I had sent, and from a supposition that she had influenced my conduct, left her
no apprehension of carrying that point.—As to my poor father’s dictation, it
would have been impossible for any woman, worth a man’s having, to have avowed
its language, or its sentiments; it was not consenting, it was asking—and that
in terms not extremely delicate.—I took pen, ink, and paper; I began, and
blotted; and at last I wrote the following:
“SIR,
THE delicacy of your sentiments, and
the sincerity of that passion, of which, however unworthy I feel myself, I
harbour not a doubt, demand every return of gratitude and esteem.—The subject
is a delicate one, and, after the laudable conduct you have hitherto pursued, I
am convinced you will excuse my enlarging upon it.—Happiness is your due—may
you long enjoy it, as an encouragement to virtue; and a proof, that to be
desirous of bestowing bliss is the surest road to attain it!—My father and
mother present their compliments; and desire me to add, that they shall always
think themselves honoured in your company.—I remain, Sir, with the sincerest
prayers that heaven may send you every blessing you merit,
Your much obliged
AMELIA THOMPSON.”
My mother carried this down; and
though my father did not think it sufficiently explanatory, and swore it was
the worst letter he ever knew the fool the write, he sealed it, and suffered it
to go.—I passed three days in a state of the most painful suspence; at the end
of which, I received another letter from him, complaining of the uncertainty in
which I left him, and begging that I would authorize him, either to believe or
contradict a report he had heard, of my being on the point of marriage with a
gentleman of the county of Worcester nine months before; and, if it was true,
how far my own inclinations were concerned in breaking-off the match;—in short,
whether my heart was disengaged, and, if so, whether he might entertain a
hope—on which condition, he should not lose a moment in availing himself of my
father and mother’s kind invitation; but that, if he was forbid to look forward
to the possession of my affection, he hoped they would excuse him if he
declined exposing himself to increase of love, and consequent despair.—This
too, my father opened—and, embarrassed as he was at the recollection of the
affair of Wallace, hinted at in his letter, he thought it a happy opportunity
of convincing him, that my heart was free, and he was welcome to it (for that
was the English of all his conversation on the subject); and desired me to
refer him to his friend Mr. Perrin, who could answer that it was a matter
rather concealed from, than promoted by me.—I wondered he was able to keep a
steady countenance, whilst he talked to me on a point which so cruelly
stigmatized his tyranny and unnatural behaviour.—But I suppose he had settled
with his own conscience upon the account, and was not anxious what I thought of
the matter.—I was, however, more distressed than before—for inevitable decision
must be the purport of my reply.—I had three days to answer it; but the longer
I thought, the more I was perplexed;—sometimes I resolved to give up Charles—my
tongue could pronounce the resolution; but I was not sure of my heart;—besides,
the before-mentioned considerations had convinced me, that even that would not
be effectual; I had loved—perhaps did love still; and nothing but an heart
untouched as his own could content, or be worthy of, Mr. Wolfe.—What then was
to be done?—Why, I had been obliged to be honest, and declare my feelings and
his absolute disappointment;—but death, that final close of human anxiety,
released him from his suspence, and me from my embarrassment.—A nervous
complaint, to which he had for years been subject upon any agitation of mind,
returned with such violence, as to deprive him first of speech, and then three
hours after of life.—As soon as he was seized, he expected it would end
fatally;—and, sending for Mr. Perrin, he made a new disposition of his
effects—dividing the fifty thousand amongst his mother, brothers, and sisters;
and bequeathing the ten thousand pounds in the funds to me.—The day after I had
received his last letter, I was sitting at my window, thinking how I should
express myself so as to give him least pain—and how to dispose of myself, when
my father should put his threat into execution;—for he had repeatedly declared,
that, if I should be such an unfortunate slut as to lose Mr. Wolfe by my
ridiculous prudery, I should find shelter any where else—for his roof was no
longer a covering for me.—In this state of mind, I saw a clerk of Mr. Perrin’s, who had been at our house before, enter the court-yard.—His
first appearance struck me with a horror I cannot express—though I little
supposed why.—In three minutes after, my mother came up
stairs—and throwing herself in a chair, and
bursting into tears, cryed, “Oh, my ill-fated child! what will become of thee
now?” “For heaven’s sake! madam, what is the matter?”—She could not speak for
some minutes; at length, recovering herself, she told me, “That Mr. Wolfe was
just expired, when Mr. Perrin, who had made a new will for him to the purport I
have related, sent away the clerk with the instrument, which was indeed rather
a deed of gift than a will, and which was best and safest in my possession;—and
that my father, my inhuman father, snatching it from his hand, had torn it into
pieces, and, throwing the remnants into the fire, swore (with the bitterest and
most fearful imprecations on himself if he broke his oath) that I not only
should not profit by the weakness of a man whom I had murdered; but that I
should from that moment be an alien to his heart and his house;—and had desired
her, on pain of equal punishment, to prepare me for quitting his house
instantly, and for ever.—Her first
thought was to send me to the miller’s wife who nursed me, and who gave ready
welcome to
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXVII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
FROM the time of my
quitting the house, for near a month, my dear mother came to see me, at some
time or other of every day, according to the opportunities which his
engagements gave her.—One evening, as she crossed three fields, between her
house and ours, full of beans in blossom, the dews being extremely heavy, her
shoes and stockings, and indeed most of her cloaths, were wet.—When she went
home, he was returned from a visit which she expected would have engaged him
longer; and she did not dare to go up to change her cloaths, lest he should ask
any questions that might lead to a discovery of where she had been; besides,
though he treated her so cruelly, he could not bear to be without her.—She
therefore sat out the time of supper, and, having passed a restless night, got
up the next morning with a sore throat.—She was scarce able to walk about the
house; but she dreaded a confinement, which must prevent her from seeing me:
she therefore resolved to make an effort towards one visit more, but was so ill
that she was obliged to return before she had got half-way to the mill.—That
day passed—another, and another, and I neither saw, nor heard from her.—My heart
was breaking.—I ran over all the conversation that had passed between us, and
could not recollect any the least cause of offence; besides, she was not that
kind of parent. On the evening of the third day, I was sitting in the little
garden behind the house, and a pretty little boy about three years old,
belonging to the miller’s son, upon my lap—when another child came running to
us, crying, “The squire! the squire!” Convinced that this exclamation announced
my father, I set down the child, and from my first impulse ran to throw myself
at his feet—when, with a countenance more softened than I could have hoped,
though with an averted face, he raised me, and said, “Your mother wants you,
Amelia.”—“Where! where, Sir, is my dear mother?—I have not seen her these three
days.”—“So then! he replied, she has been here! and her disobedience is like to
cost her dear.”—“Oh, Sir, be not angry with my dear parent, nor call her
maternal tenderness by so harsh a name;—’twas not you she disobeyed, for you
yourself are come to see your unhappy child; ’twas only your passion, your
resentment, that forbad her; but nature, powerful nature, brought her here!—Where! where is she
now?”—He was much affected.—“She is at home in bed—not well—go to her.”—All
this he spoke, or I fancied it; and, without the ceremony of hat or cloak, I
flew to the house, and, hurrying up to the bed-chamber, found her in a violent
fever—a blister on her back, and leeches on her temples;—and, at the instant I
entered, perceived by her incoherent ravings that her brain was turned by the
apprehensions she suffered for me.—She reiterated, “You are her father, why
will you banish her? O my child! my child!” I tore open the curtains, and,
throwing myself upon the bed by her, told her I was come to restore peace; that
my father had relented, and himself had brought me
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXVIII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS.CLEMENT,
in continuation.
AS soon as the news of my brother’s death arrived, my father’s temper took a turn more unfortunate than it had before. Instead of being afflicted, he seemed angry—and raved, as if heaven had given him a bond for his son’s immortality, and broke it.—I, for my part, was thrown into absolute despair; and my mind was so busied in itself, that I was for several weeks in a state of insensibility to every thing that passed in the world. The servants spoke to me, and I neither heard nor understood them, unless my father, whose presence I began to dread more than ever, was at my ear, to rouse me; and, indeed, his voice was the most powerful antidote to my lethargy.—Charles, whom I now considered as my husband, had no opportunity of writing to me; for I had charged him, as he valued my life, not to hazard a letter, which might discover our secret, to fall into my father’s hands, who read all my letters before they came into mine. In this situation I passed four months after the death of my brother; when Mr. Perrin, who frequently passed a melancholy hour with us, called at our house. My father began to ask what purchases he had negotiated lately.—Mr. Perrin said, “he had bought an estate, about eighteen miles distant, belonging to a Mr. Wells, who was gone to reside in London, for the education of his children; and that he thought it an excellent bargain. The purchaser, he said, was a gentleman of the name of Merisford, who had made a very competent fortune in Turkey, where he had resided some years as a merchant, and was now returned to spend it in his native country. The house, he said, would require new painting and papering, before the new tenant took possession; but he believed that mean time he would lodge at the house of a brother of his (Mr. Perrin’s); and that he expected him down in a fortnight.” My father asked no farther questions; and I wondered at it. I was not in a humour to be curious: so the conversation ended; and after tea he went away.—I could not tell why, if I had been asked; but I felt unusual horror at the mention of the name—if it was what the French call presentiment, it has since been amply justified.—About three weeks after that time, a person came to our house, with smuggled muslin, tea, taffaty, &c.; and my father, who would rather never buy any thing if he could help it, would yet be easier prevailed upon to buy a bargain of what he did not want at all, than pay a fair market-price for what he did. He happened then to be in one of his best humours; and, bringing the woman into the parlour, and the servant at the same time announcing some male visitor, he left me to make my purchases; and the woman slipped into my hand a letter from Charles;—it was the first respite to months of misery. My heart was laying up in store many repeated readings of his uninterrupted affection; my fancy rambled over years of happiness to come, and hoped for intermediate relief from stratagems like these:—but my ideal happiness was not of long continuance; for, just as I was going to give it a second reading, my father came in, and introduced my fate in the shape of Merisford.—The moment they came in, I foresaw the consequences, at least to a certain degree.—My father’s countenance was lit up with expectation; he had discovered that Merisford was a single man, and did not doubt the influence of my charms.—He made me dismiss the smuggler; and, with a chearfulness unnatural to him, paid seven or eight pounds for purchases which I never thought of making till after he came into the room. I considered it as postage of my dear Charles’s letter; and, had it been as many thousands, should have thought the purchase well made.—My father presented his guest to me as a gentleman who was speedily to become our neighbour; and, having said as much as even his delicacy would permit to atchieve the point he laboured—the conversation turned of necessity upon other subjects; for either the brute did not understand the hints that were so plentifully thrown in his way, or I did not happen that day to strike his fancy.—What an escape had I had, if he had always remained as insensible!—My father, however, was resolved not to lose him so easily; he gave him a general invitation to his house; and, after two or three visits, desired him to pay off his lodgings at Mr. Perrin’s, and to take a bed with us. This invitation he readily accepted; but I should be guilty of a vanity which misery has long since conquered, if I were to attribute his acquiescence to any feeling he entertained towards me; it saved him a guinea a week; and, notwithstanding his turn for expence in any thing that contributed to make a shew, he would always take any step, however dirty, to save a guinea from the necessaries of life:—he sojourned with us in the family-way for near a fortnight, and never took any more notice of me than he did of the gooseberry-bushes in the garden; but my father and he, from a similarity of sentiment, became the greatest friends imaginable. One morning I came down to breakfast, and found my father alone, when habitually almost I asked, “Where is Mr. Merisford”—My father put on one of his best looks; and replied, “I am glad to find, Amelia, that you are become sensible of your duty and your interest.—Mr. Merisford is so pleased with you, that he is gone to London, to have a lawyer’s advice respecting the mode of settling his new purchase upon you; and to buy you a set of the finest jewels that can be made: so prepare to behave like a dutiful good girl; and when he comes back, you shall be married as soon as you please.” “Merciful God! what do you say, Sir!—I marry Mr. Merrisford!—Why, Sir, he has never spoken to me upon the subject; and, if he had, it would be in vain;—I am not mistress of myself.” All would have come out;—but, rising from his seat, and stamping with his foot, to the almost destruction of the whole building, “Zounds! madam, he cried, let me have no more of your airs; I will have you drawn upon a hurdle to the church, and he shall marry you in spite of your teeth! A perverse undutiful slut! you have killed your poor mother but you shall not make a fool of your father.—He never spoke to you!—no—I would not let him; because I thought how it would be; but I have engaged to make you marry him, at your peril; let me hear no more of your contradiction.”—“But, Sir, hear me.”—“No! madam, I will be d—d if I do! I know you are never at a loss for something to say;—but, I am not to be imposed upon: so, do you hear, make me my breakfast; and say no more about it.”—I never had been truly unhappy till now—nor knew how doubly miserable my brother’s death must make me.—I began to apprehend, that even my declaration of my marriage with Charles, which I considered as binding as a mitre could have made it, would have no effect.—He declared himself resolved not to hear any thing I had to say. I therefore saw no remedy but waiting till Merisford returned, and making the discovery to him: I entertained no great opinion of his delicacy; but I thought an alarm like this must rouze the small sparks of it which every man must possess to distinguish him from his horse. I was mistaken, however. Ten days passed, in which I might have escaped, and certainly should, though to certain beggary; but, relying upon my first thought, which could not have failed to operate upon a human creature, I sat supinely down; and, I dare say, gave my father an idea that I should make no farther opposition. At last my persecutor came; but so filled was my head and heart with the hopes of finding a refuge in his pride, if not in his humanity, that I received him as my deliverer.—He smirked and smiled; and, taking out of his great-coat pocket a shagreen case, presented me with a very handsome set of jewels; which I put back into his hand, with a smile upon my face, requesting that we might first settle the conditions on which I should accept them. My father frowned, and was going to speak; but he, thinking himself very safe, desired him to let himself speak for once in his life;—and, assuring me that I should command any conditions in reason that was in his power to grant, we sat down to dinner; after which my father went out on pretended business, and left him with
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXIX.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXX.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
I REMAINED in a state
of uninterrupted though painful quietness, for five days following; and, not
being able to account for it any other way, or perhaps having the seeds of hope
more thickly sown in my composition than any other virtue, I began to flatter
myself that they had given up the point, and only confined me by way of
punishment for what my father called my obstinacy.—On the Sunday following, my
maid, who was the only person allowed to come near me, at her return from
church, stunned me with the news of having heard Mr. Merisford’s name and mine
published, by way of banns; and that my father himself had gone, to be sure it
was not neglected; and, perhaps, to see whether any person would object; for
they still thought, or affected to think, that I had played the fool (as my
father delicately expressed himself) with some young man on the farm.—At
dinner, I asked my father if it was true? And whether, if Mr. Merisford could
be so base as to marry a woman so circumstanced, he could be so regardless of
his own credit as to call such a man his son?—My father said, it was very true;
and desired me to keep a civil tongue in my head; for that, if Mr. Merisford
had ever so much patience now, I could not suppose but he would remember my
sauciness when he had me in his power.—I told him, “That, were that fatal
moment ever to arrive, I was not insensible of what I might expect; but that,
whilst Charles Mason had life, and I my senses, it was impossible for such an
event to happen.” They both laughed; and my father said, “Why, miss, you have
not told us who was your parson, nor your guests;—you certainly cannot forget
their names:—will you give us an account of your wedding, in the same pretty
language of your invocation?” I could not bear his insult; and, not being able
to give them a parson’s name as
they desired, nor expecting consideration or belief should I tell the real
truth, I only appealed to heaven for the reality of my marriage with Charles;
and said, that, as the subject served only for sport, I begged it might be put
an end to. Nothing material happened till the Sunday following, when the banns
were published again.—I was now not only confined, but watched. I never had
accustomed myself to make confidents of servants; and my father knew it; yet
suspecting from whom the intelligence of the first publication came, my maid
was discharged. Fired with resentment, she went to every neighbour’s house, and
exposed the treatment I received to the servants; from whom it soon reached the
heads of the family. Amongst others, she went to the Parsonage-house; the
parson was a very good man, but, fatally for me, a very pedant in his
profession, and a slave to all its forms and ceremonies.—His wife too was a very
worthy woman, but virtuous by rule, and held a deviation from her ideas as
distant from the possibility of mercy, as the papists do all sects but their
own.—To them, then, it was a desperate undertaking to unravel my secret, and
yet ’twas my only chance.—After the second Sunday’s service was over, she came
up to my father, and asked him “why Miss Thompson was not at church?”—He told
her, “that I was only a little prudish on account of my approaching marriage.
She did not admit the excuse; and said, “she would come and lecture me.”—The
proposal struck my father:—“Do so, madam, says he, and try if you can teach her
obedience.”—She saw there was something in the way; and curiosity was one of
those little imperfections in which she allowed herself.—So in the evening her
best embroidered sattin was aired; and she sallied forth to hear news, and
reprove me for the disobedience of not chusing to have two husbands at once.—My
father had prepared me for the visit in the most disagreeable words he could
pick out of the dictionary; and about six o’clock she and her pious husband
entered.—Merisford was smoking tobacco, an elegance in which my father always
indulged him after dinner. The parson had weak lungs, and began to cough and
fidget, and at last walked out of the room.—Mrs. Parfect was apprehensive for
the bloom of her yellow sattin, and expatiated largely on the inconveniences of
a smoky-house, and the injuries which the furniture, hangings, and cloaths of
the inhabitants, must sustain in consequence.—Mr. Merisford had heard all this
with the utmost composure, and marked his inattention by some insignificant
shrugs and winks at my father;—but, in some of his violent gesticulations, a
spark from his pipe fell upon his leg, when, thundering out a most horrid
imprecation, he let fall the pipe, and relieved Mrs. Parfect, who could not
help observing how one bad custom produced another.—By this time the parson
returned; and, the sash being thrown up to clear the room, we retired into
another to drink tea.—There was a visible restraint upon my father and
Merisford, in their behaviour towards me.—My father was civil; and Merisford
affected a clumsy sort of gallantry, which threw him into a light the most
contemptible. At last the parson introduced the horrid subject, by asking
“whether it would be agreeable to the parties to be married immediately after
service next Sunday, or whether they would chuse to let the church be cleared
first?—but that the proposition was rather exceeding his opinion of what was
right;—for that all the ceremonies of the church should be duly observed;—and
that it was ordained by the primitive fathers, that all marriages should be
celebrated in the most public manner, the defect of which, now so prevalent
among the great, had brought on many unrighteous consequences;—that, in
proportion as the solemnity of the place was dispensed with, the ceremony
itself became disregarded and contemned, and all its injunctions slighted.” His
wife acquiesced, as indeed she always did, with his opinion; and added, “that
she should not have thought herself lawfully married, had a single person
departed from the congregation whilst the ceremony was reading.”—After this, I
had very little hopes from a communication of my sentimental marriage with
Charles—nor did I well know whereabouts to begin;—however, I had no remedy, nor
a chance of another appeal.—I was meditating what to say, when my father, whose
delicacy never caused conversation to stagnate, with a loud laugh, replied,
“Very true, Mrs. Parfect, considered like a woman of sense: pray desire Miss
Thompson to give her opinion.”—“Do, my dear, says the good woman, consider the
seriousness of the occasion, and then decide whether it ought not to have a
serious solemnization?”—I thought this a good opening.—“Madam, I replied, my
father refers to a circumstance with which you are unacquainted (she held up
her head). It is not to the future, but the past.”—“The past!” interrupted
she—“Yes, ma’am, the past.—After the opinion you have expressed, respecting the
validity of a marriage resting upon the place
of its being performed—I have little to no hope from telling you that I was married under yon chestnut-tree—the whole congregation consisting of my husband, my brother, and myself.”—They all looked at each other—and, almost as methodically as soldiers shoulder their musquets, pointed each to their foreheads, and shook their heads.—“I am not mad, says I, for that your motions signify: but if your presence, Sir, (addressing myself to the parson) can protect me from that insult which I have lately experienced from my own father (I was going to say family), I will explain the matter, however singular it may appear.”—My father began to storm; but the parson claimed his prerogative of keeping peace and good order; and I began.—I recapitulated all the circumstances, as I have already mentioned them to you;—and then, addressing myself to the parson, asked him, “Whether, so circumstanced, I could in conscience think of marrying another man?” The parson paused—and, after some preface, in which ceremony was exalted beyond the very religion it exhibited—he said, “Why really, Miss Thomson, with respect to your conscience, you only can settle matters with that; but your marriage with Mr. Merisford will certainly be lawful, and according to the rules of the church.”—“But, dear Sir, what will become of the terrible injunction, and the punishment, denounced against the party who shall fail to declare any cause or just impediment to a marriage?—Can I remember the occurrences I have just recited, and not declare them?—and what will be the consequences?”—My father was enraged, and turned me into the back-parlour, where he locked me in till supper, and then, in the presence of the minister of the gospel, bad me prepare for the next Sunday, which should join Mr. Merisford to your
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXXI.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in continuation.
FROM that night till
the Friday following I never saw my father or my tyrant elect, who, however,
spent their time very happily; whilst I was locked in my bed-chamber, and never
saw or spoke to a human creature, my father always attending the house-maid to
my door, whilst she brought me regularly breakfast, dinner, tea, and
supper;—and, seeing that reserve, I took care to keep it up for my own pride-sake,
for the interval which was necessarily spent in making my bed, sweeping my
room, &c.—On Friday morning, when she came up, I was still in bed, a thing
very unusual with me.—She asked me how I did? I said, “Not very well”—and
turned on the other side.—At dinner-time she came, and I was still in bed,
which she immediately communicated to my father, who instantly entered, and,
coming to my bed-side, told me, “that he hoped I was not ill in reality, and
that ’twould answer no purpose to pretend it; for that he was so tired of the
trouble of being obliged to keep me shut up from ruin, that, notwithstanding
Mrs. Parfect’s nonsense about folks being married in churches, if I was not
able to go there on Sunday, I should be married at home;—and that Mr. Merisford
and he had joined for the expence of a special licence to be prepared, for all
my arts!”—I looked up in his face, but made him no answer.—I fancy my
countenance shocked him; for, holding out his hand, “Why will you be perverse,
Amelia?” says he—“Oh, Sir, I have no argument left to use—dispose of me as you
please: the guilt of such a step, as you are going to force me to, fall not on
my soul! nor my misery upon yours!”—The servant reminded him that dinner
waited, and he left me; but soon after sent me word, that Mr. and Mrs. Parfect,
Mr. Merisford, and he, would drink tea with me in my bed-chamber, if I was not
able to come down.—I got up, and dressed myself, though my head was so
disordered with five days almost incessant tears, that I was frequently obliged
to rest.—About six o’clock they came up; and having, as I thought, softened him
a little in the morning, I resolved to make one effort more, to escape the
horrors of legal prostitution.—Mrs.
Parfect took notice that I did not look well; and expressed an opinion that I
was too much confined, though she did not suspect it was by force.—I had no
mind to enrage my father, and lose the little hold I seemed to have got of his
feelings; so I did not let her into the secret, but said, “That I had little
enjoyment of any of the innocent amusements of life, since I was so unhappy as
not to have it in my power to obey my father in a command he had laid upon me,
without sacrificing my future peace and self-approbation.”—He desired that I
would say no more upon that subject; and Merisford assuring me that I should
change my mind before Monday morning, I let my long-treasured indignation pour
upon him at once.—“Mr. Merisford, says I, I have long wished for an opportunity
of laying before you, in plain terms, those prospects, which a man, who had
either a head or a heart, must have collected from my behaviour ever since your
return from London.—Were my hand and heart totally disengaged, you are, of all
the creation, perhaps the last man I should chuse to bestow them on.—I dislike
your person (he looked in the glass)—but that’s a trifling objection, and might
be surmounted.—I disapprove of every sentiment I have ever heard you
breathe.—Our souls would be as ill-matched as our bodies; horror, disgust,
detestation, on my part, and consequent resentment and tyranny on your’s, would
make up the whole sum of our matrimonial treasures;—discord would begin, and
discord close the day.—A woman who loved you (if any woman could!) would find
it difficult to make a good wife to a man, whose heart knows no gratification
in bestowing happiness, and yet vainly flatters himself with receiving it from
another.—What sort of a wife then can you expect in me?—If this picture alarms
not your insensible soul—add to the group that injured man, who, in the
confidence of an heart unlike your own, enjoys the present bliss of knowing me
to be his, and the future prospect of a time when I may avow it.”—Here my
father interposed, “That’s when I am dead, I suppose Miss, eh?”—“Long may that
period be far off, Sir!—release me but from this horrid, impious marriage, and
lay upon me what restrictions you please.” Ill as I had been in the morning,
this exertion affected me so much, that I fell into violent hystericks, in
which, with slight amendment and alternate intervals, I continued till Sunday
at four o’clock, when my discarded maid, who was now allowed to see me, made
clear to me a horrid truth, which I faintly guessed at. They had taken
advantage of some of those moments when speech just anticipates sense, and
joined me to Merisford and misery.—I raved and tore my hair, made several
attempts, dictated by desperation, to take away my life;—but I was carefully
watched, and cruelly preserved to misery.—On the Tuesday morning I was put into
a carriage, and, almost senseless, left my father’s house, and arrived the
third day at lodgings, which were provided in New Bond Street for our reception
—There we staid about three weeks, in the course of which time I had, by his
direction, found out and fixed upon a house in Berkeley Square, which he
ordered to be fitted up to my taste, without setting any limits to the expence
of the plan I might adopt.—So many blackening circumstances, as I have been
obliged to mention, in drawing his character, and exculpating myself; I should
be as unjust as he was inhuman, if I did not give every favourable tint a place
in the painting.—He carried me about to see the town, and doffed as much as
possible the brutality of his nature.—We got into our house, hired servants,
and began housekeeping, with as much tranquillity as the situation
permitted;—but soon new matter of anxiety arose.—He considered servants as
slaves, and treated them accordingly—the consequence was eternal
changing.—Expences, and those of the most ungrateful kind, were hourly
accumulating.—Changing of servants superinduced altering of liveries;
discharging of coachmen was attended with neglect of the horses, illness
followed, and then we lost them;—one horse dying, the other was perhaps
necessarily sold, to buy a pair alike to draw in the carriage.—Frequently one
of those would be disordered, or the carriage out of repair, and then a job was to be hired.—In short, his ill-judged mode of being an
œconomist had consequences more disgraceful, and full as expensive, as his being extravagant.—This I
could not help taking notice of. He was obstinate; I did not love him well
enough to give up a point in which my judgement supported me.—We disputed,
quarreled; and not seldom the most brutal manual resentment fell on me.—If we
saw company, he was peevish at the expence; if not, he was miserable from being
alone:—whole hours between tea and supper have past, and we never exchanged a
word.—He had no taste for public amusements; and I had no female acquaintance
whom I chose to accompany me.—At last, feeling the want of something, and
thinking ’twas society, he proposed to me the expedient of taking some young person well
brought up as a kind of companion.—In the house in Bond-street where we had
temporary lodgings, a captain upon half-pay, with a wife, three daughters, and
a little boy, occupied the second floor.—With the eldest of these I commenced
an intimacy, and frequently asked her to my house; and, when he so far relaxed
from one of his fits of brutality as to make the above proposal, I wrote to
her; and, asking her mother’s permission, fixed upon her for the companion of
my most tolerable hours. A whole winter passed in this manner, during which
time I never saw nor heard of Charles; and, to the best of my power, avoided
even bestowing a thought upon a subject so forbidden. Early in the spring I
went with my young friend to Ranelagh, where the first object I beheld was he.—I had three days
before taken possession of a small independence, by the death of my father; and
resolved to avail myself of his assistance to escape from a life of sin and
misery, to this happy retirement, which I long had meditated. The means I made
use of, and the consequent occurrences, introduced to you—
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXXII.
MRS. MERISFORD TO MRS. CLEMENT,
in conclusion.
IF it be possible
that your patience has been equal to the journey I have prepared for it through
the preceding pages, I hope that, as I have not endeavoured to soften or to
conceal an action of my unfortunate life, nor even a secret wish by which they
were excited, due allowance will be made for the weakness of the human heart,
unaided by experience, and deprived of its best support in the loss of my
excellent mother.—If I am acquitted by you and my uncle Charles, the happiness
of my future moments will be compleat. I have now no hopes, no fears, no
prospects, no anxieties;—but, excluded from the converse of the interested and
the artificial, I enjoy with decent comfort the present hour, nor dread the
last; but look with chearful hope to the day that closes my account, and lays
me peaceful in the reconciling grave, where all persecutions cease.—I have not
taken notice of any occurrence later than that of my first escape, and meeting
my uncle at Charles’s chambers: my being at your house, and the treatment I
there received from Mr. Merisford, you probably remember; I will not therefore
repeat it, as, though I think the most minute truths essential to a history
(for small things have their influence as well as great), I have an abhorrence
of repetitions, and can scarcely allow even veracity to be a full compensation
for avoidable length.—You recollect, no doubt, that, whilst you were below with
my uncle, I was forced from your house.—At the corner of the street he put me
into a hackney-coach, and ordered the man to drive home.—When
AMELIA.
L E T T E R
LXXXIII.
MRS. CLEMENT TO MRS. BELLAS.
DEAR CHARLOTTE,
I Enclose you to-day
the conclusion of Amelia’s hapless story. I don’t know that ever I was more
pleased with any thing I either read or
heard;—for I own myself a disciple of the
sober lady Grace in one point at least; and admire Nature, let her dress be
never so homely.—Mr. Clement read some of the letters with as much avidity, as
a love-sick girl of fifteen does a new novel, when she hopes to find a
precedent for the first act of folly she commits, and even expects a pattern
for the rope-ladder by which she meditates an escape.—For the last week he has been
uncommonly busy in the compting-house; and, but for the chearfulness he keeps
up in his countenance and manner, I should be apprehensive that something went
wrong; but, when I spoke to him this morning at breakfast, he chid me for my
folly, and told me, “that if our shipwrights in the dock-yards were as
industrious in preparing the fleet, as I was in manufacturing distress, we
should be in good condition next spring to meet and decide the fate of the
Americans.”—You know he is a great politician; and he had, as I afterwards
found, been reading some letters of private intelligence respecting our present
unhappy war in America, which gave his countenance the gloom which had alarmed
me.—I think politics sit mighty ill upon a woman; so I gave up the point directly, though I
cannot say but I sometimes heave a melancholy sigh, for the dreadful and
unnatural conflict of brother against brother armed, and parent against
children!—However, if we consider the matter in a more enlarged view, all wars
are liable to the same objections; for are we not all brothers—children of the
same common Parent, and subjects of the same Prince—even the Prince of
Peace?—Patriots and wise men may say what they please; but, as an individual of that sex whose
valour is not in the list of their virtues, I often think it wonderful that a
Sovereign like ours, whose virtues even his enemies confess, should have a
single subject who can be base enough to lift his arm against him. I do not
understand the question; nor will attempt to decide whether it was worth the
Americans contending, at the expence of so much blood and treasure, what
particular mode of taxation should be adopted. But this I think, that, had they
reasoned with moderation, and a reference to the character of the Prince they
oppose; they would have acted more consistently with wisdom and true policy, to
have trusted, with the confidence of well-treated sons, in a parent’s dispensations
towards them.—Why should they suppose, that a man whose heart is kept alive to
all the finest feelings of humanity, by the daily, the hourly exertions of it
toward a numerous offspring of his own, (a mark, a singular one, of Heaven’s
protection!) should treat with rigour his adopted children; or pull up by the
roots those growing shrubs which flourished happily and contentedly under his
royal shade? It was not nature’s voice, nor God’s;—it was the voice of faction,
the subtle schemes of a designing few, to ruin millions for their partial
interests, and plunge two nations in blood and horror, that they might smile in
dear-bought security;—that they might gratify ambition, avarice, or revenge,
with the lives, the properties, and the fame of the deluded multitudes, who
daily fall sacrifices to their artifice, and manure with their blood those
fields from which they expect a bounteous harvest.—Pardon this effusion, ye
lords of the creation!—the effusion of an heart loyal to my King, GRATEFUL to
my Queen, and which, had it inhabited a masculine bosom, would freely spend its
dearest drops in their defence, and that of their royal offspring;—but, as it
is, with woman’s weapons, pious wishes and zealous prayers, will aid their
cause; and, having lived to see their misguided children return to the
obedience which they have deserted, and received to that pardon and affection
which, properly sought, they will be sure to find, I shall die content.
Forgive me, Charlotte, this
political excursion; it was inspiration to thy
MARIANNE.
T H E E N D.