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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 Ex Libn's 
 
 SIR MICHAEL SADLER 
 
 ACQUIRED 1948 
 
 WITH THE HELP OF ALUMNI OF THE 
 
 SCHOOL OF EDUCATION 
 
 T * 
 
 / 7>tl 
 
 ^ J - 
 
 ^ i
 
 ', :* 
 
 J\/licbael Ernest Sadler' 
 
 Unwersliu College-^ 
 
 Oxford
 
 p 
 
 i
 
 LETTERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 MRS. PALMERSTONE 
 
 TO 
 
 HER DAUGHTER; 
 
 IVCULCATINQ 
 
 MORALITY 
 
 BY 
 
 ENTERTAINING NARRATIVF.S , 
 
 BY MRS. HUNTER, 
 
 OF NORWICH. 
 
 IN TUnEE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 "MINTED TOR 
 
 LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AVD BROWN, 
 
 j'>ATF. RNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1810.
 
 Printed by Richard Taylor and Co., Shoe-Laur, London.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 PR 
 
 4 s 1 7 
 
 H ^rJL 
 
 1 V 10 
 v- i 
 
 To Elizabelh Hutchinson, the child 
 of her affection, does the Author particularly 
 dedicate thefolloiving pages ; which, for the most 
 part, were originally written^ with, the vieiv of 
 contrihiting to render her rvhut she is, a good 
 wife and a good mother : fervently wishing that 
 the work may he iisefd in forming the minds of 
 her children, and that site may long live to reap 
 the fruit of her maternal cares, 
 
 " And see her virtues, witli reflected gr:ice, 
 ' Bloom to fresh life, and charm anotlicr race." 
 
 RACHEL HUNTER. 
 
 Norwich, 
 June 1, 1603. 

 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 X HE writer of this little work, now presented 
 to an indulgent and generous public, wishes to 
 have it understood that the author of " Letitia, 
 or Tlie Castle without a Spectre/* and of " The 
 History of the Grubthorpe Family," had intended 
 " Mrs. Palmerstone's Letters to her Daughter" 
 for the introduction of her own name amongst 
 tTiose of the candidates for public notice and fa- 
 vour. This intention has been for several years 
 frustrated by unavoidable and, to her, unforeseen 
 obstacles. She consequently hazarded the pub- 
 lication of the two above-mentioned novels, with- 
 out what she conceived to be the support which 
 their simplicity and design required. Their suc- 
 cess has however gratified her; for it has con- 
 firmed her in the persuasion, that a good inten- 
 a 3 tion.
 
 ( vi ) 
 
 tion, like charity, will cover a multitude of faults. 
 Yet it is her wish that the reader of the subjoined 
 work should keep in view that the novels already 
 published, or which may appear from her pen, 
 are purposely written for young women who re- 
 semble her Eliza Palmerstone, and for the ap- 
 proving eye of mothers like Mrs. Palmerstone. 
 To such she pledges her word, not only for their 
 sakes but for her own interest, before a tribunal 
 more solemn than any in this world, to adhere 
 to the poet's honest and laudable deprecation : 
 
 " Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, 
 " That tends to make one worthy man my foe ; 
 " Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear, 
 " Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear ! '' 
 
 RACHEL HUNTER. 
 
 June I, I80.S-
 
 A DIALOGUE 
 
 BETWEEN 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS READER, MR. NOT-A T-ALL, 
 
 By ivay of Preface to the Author s Book. 
 
 Author. x\s I presume to bring this book 
 for your ]>erusa], it is expected, without doubt, 
 that I should make an apology. 
 
 Reader. Not-at-all. If your book be a good 
 one, it needs no apology; and, if it be a bad one, 
 your apology cannot make it better. Not all the 
 prohibitions which may be enforced will prevent 
 my reading it in the first instance ; nor all your 
 supplications induce me to throw away my time 
 upon it in the second. 
 
 Author. T see, sir, unexpected visits are not 
 within the sphere of your indulgence : you look 
 upon this as an intrusion. 
 
 Reader. Not-at-all : my doors are open to 
 every body; I welcome all my visitors, and turn 
 my back on none but pretenders. 
 
 AUTFIOR.
 
 ( viii ) 
 
 Author. Give me leave to call upon you 
 another time . . . .Your honour . .is . .a little . . 
 out of humour at present. 
 
 Reader. Not-at-all. I am in the humour of 
 saying what I think. If you call this ill humour, 
 you will never find me in a good one. 
 
 Author. Well, well, I will drop my apology, 
 and content myself with telling your honour bow 
 I, poor soul ! who know nothing of authorship, 
 and should shrink from the criticism of a school- 
 boy, came to be of the number of your suitors : 
 for, unqualified as I am, you wonder no doubt 
 at my motive, and are impatient to know the 
 particulars. 
 
 Reader. Not-at-all. I know your motive as 
 well as you do yourself^ and to enter into a long 
 detail of the matter would only give you some 
 trouble, and myself no pleasure whatever. 
 
 Author. I intended entertaining your ho- 
 nour with some short instructive narratives of 
 my composition ; but, as I have already taken 
 up too much of your time, you would be angry 
 with me were I to detain you any longer. Would 
 you not ? 
 
 Reader. Not-at-all. I love entertaining sto- 
 ries, especially short ones, as you say yours arc. 
 Begin therefore as soon as you please. But walk 
 
 in.
 
 ( ix ) 
 
 in, and do not keep me any longer at the doort 
 I am very subject to catch cold. 
 
 Author. Before I begin my Narratives, I 
 should tell your honour that they were intended 
 for the service and instruction of youth 5 and as 
 much has been written on this subject, you may 
 perhaps think it is exhausted. 
 
 Beader. Not-at-all. If any one had the good 
 fortune of introducing into a book the whole of 
 what should be and has not been said on this 
 subject, I would pronounce it, without hesita- 
 tion, one of the best books in the world. 
 
 Author. Say you so ? I am glad your honour 
 thinks as I do ; and on the strength of this our 
 agreement I will venture to send this book of 
 mine into the world. Should it fail of success, 
 and be left to the mercy of a certain species of 
 rats, they will soon demolish it, as they have 
 very little to nibble at besides the ill-fated i)ro- 
 ductions of mistaken talents. I am however 
 strongly tempted to give your honour a detail of 
 those circumstances which first led me to my 
 present design, and broke in upon habitual in- 
 dolence and natural timidity. But perhaps I 
 shall weary you r 
 
 Reader. Nol-at-all. I have, in common with 
 
 my
 
 ( X ) 
 
 my neighbours, some curiosity, and no objec- 
 tion to its gratification. Begin therefore. 
 
 Author. Some months since f was gratified 
 by^the unexpected visit of a friend, from whom 
 time and distressing events had separated me for 
 several years. But neither absence, nor those cir- 
 cumstances which I feared had involved his 
 fortune and happiness in the ruin of thousands, 
 could remove entirely from my mind the hope, 
 that in his integrity, his talents, and his in- 
 dustry, he had found a refuge against misery. 
 It had been the employment of his rational life 
 to instruct youth in those lessons of wisdom 
 and prudence which he undeviatingly exempli- 
 fied in his own conduct. And with the most 
 lively satisfaction I found, on our meeting, that 
 those hopes which I had cherished, during my 
 painful uncertainty respecting his actual condi- 
 tion, were realized. From the post of private 
 preceptor, he was become, in this country, a 
 public teacher in the various branches of polite 
 and useful literature ; and, with honour and 
 increasing esteem, enjoyed in competence and 
 ease the recompense of his assiduity and zeal 
 in his professional duties, and important cares 
 of instruction, of precept, and example, to the 
 
 untutored
 
 ( xi ) 
 
 untutored and innocent. In our conversations 
 on his favourite topic. Education, he com- 
 plained of a difficulty I was no ways prepared to 
 expect. He said he wanted books for his female 
 pupils, and particularly for those between twelve 
 and seventeen years of age. I instantly reminded 
 him of the numberless and excellent works pub- 
 lished for the express purposes of instruction to 
 young people^ and with some asperity, I believe^ 
 and perhaps national pride, named several au- 
 thors who had a distinguished claim to his se- 
 lection and preference. He replied, ** He was 
 well acquainted with the books which I had 
 enumerated : he acknowledged their merit, and 
 had availed himself of their usefulness. But," 
 added he, smiling, '^ some are too serious, and 
 others too childish : some say too much, and 
 others not enough. I want a delineation of the 
 human heart, with a moral which will not dis- 
 grace a mature reason. I want a mirror of truth 
 and of nature, in which niv girls may see them- 
 selves without danger to their native simplicity, 
 and without checking too harshly their natural 
 curiosity and fancy."---! smiled in my turn; 
 and drawing from my work-basket a parcel of 
 Mrs. Palmerstone's Letters to her Daughter, 
 which I had provided for the occasion, I placed 
 
 them
 
 ( xii ) 
 
 them in his hands.- " There/' said I, "read 
 those letters. They are the production of an 
 English mother, who, I suspect, found herself 
 under the samedifficulty of which you complain. 
 Read them, and tell me frankly whether the 
 design or the subjects answer your ideas. "--- 
 Betrayed perhaps by his ingenuous simplicity, 
 which gave importance to the feeblest attempt 
 to favour and promote the cause of virtue, he 
 decidedly approved the little work, and engaged 
 my promise to prepare it for the press. We 
 amused ourselves with the importance of the 
 character I was about to assume, and the wreath 
 of fame with which he engaged to decorate my 
 brows himself at our next meeting ....We 
 parted ; and in six short weeks a life at once 
 useful, honourable, and virtuous, was termi- 
 nated in a premature grave. For some time all 
 intercourse with Mrs. Palmerstone was suspend- 
 ed. Insensibly I recalled, with the painful re- 
 grets which obtruded on my mind and depressed 
 my spirits, my friend's opinion of the work 
 before me, and the purposes which he had judged 
 it calculated to answer. A sort of interest, 
 which I will not here define, now stimulated n)y 
 industry 5 and I found a secret satisfaction in my 
 progress, by thinking it contained somewhat of 
 
 bis
 
 ( xiii ) 
 
 his honest and pure intentions. ---But I am afraid 
 I have tired your honour with this long account 
 of motives, in which you have so httle concern. 
 
 Reader. Not-at-all j by no means. lam not 
 naturally ill-natured, although somewhat im- 
 patient. It is true your book, and your private 
 sorrows, have little to do with each other j but I 
 have not that fastidiousness which turns from 
 the tribute of esteem and lost comfort, because 
 it is out of its place. 
 
 Author. Your kindness encourages me. The 
 JLetters of Mrs. Palmerstone are now finished, 
 and I send them into the world friendless and 
 imsupported ; except indeed your honour .... 
 But I will not be too bold. I shall be satisfied 
 if the eye of virtue deigns to regard the writer as 
 the humblest of her train. If one child of unso- 
 phisticated nature approves the lessons she has 
 inculcated, she will be recompensed.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LETTER Page. 
 
 I. THE Spoiled Child; or the History 
 
 of Miss IVehster 1 
 
 II. Maria Mortimer; or the Fatal 
 
 Effects of Curiosity 30 
 
 III. The Influence of Bad Example ; or 
 
 the History of Miss Sable 67 
 
 IV. Beauty and Ugliness ; or the Sick 
 
 Child 102 
 
 V. Family Discord; or the History of 
 
 Edward arid Henry 140 
 
 VI. The Ball ; or the History of Miss 
 
 Crosly 189 
 
 Vol. II. 
 VII. The Card- Party ; with the History 
 
 of the Stanley Family 1 
 
 VIII. The Mother-in-Law 45 
 
 IX. The IVest-Indians 94 
 
 X. The Pearl Necklace ; or the History 
 
 of Miss Hanway 159 
 
 Vol. III. 
 
 XI. Oladiah, an ylllegorical Tale 1 
 
 XII. Hamet, an Allegorical Tale 42 
 
 XIII. The Sisters ; or t he Progress of Envy . Ill 
 
 XIV. The Fashio7iahle Young Lady; or 
 
 the Unfashionallc Scruple. 191
 
 MRS. PALMERSTONE'S LETTERS 
 
 TO 
 
 HER DAUGHTER, 
 
 Letter I. 
 THE SPOILED CHILD, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE HISTORY OF MISS WEBSTER. 
 MY DEAR CHILD, 
 
 On my return home last night I had the 
 satisfaction of learning from your maid, that 
 you had been very much pleased with your 
 nutting party, and that farmer Gregoiy's 
 daughters had had no reason to be dissatis- 
 fied with miss Palmerstone, ' for that you had 
 been all condescension and good nature/ 
 This intelllfjnce compensated for my not 
 having embraced you before you sought 
 that repose which your long walk required, 
 and in which I found and blessed you. 
 
 VOL. I. B It
 
 c 
 
 It would have been a very sensible morti- 
 fication to me, and a disgrace to yourself, 
 had you conducted yourself otherwise than 
 you did ; for unquestionably you v\ ere the 
 best informed and the best educated girl in 
 the company. You will do well, my Eliza, 
 to consider whether to these incidental ad- 
 vantages you are able to add that quality 
 on which their value and usefulness depend : 
 I mean good temper. 
 
 If, In any one instance of those mild and 
 ready compliances, those prompt and obli- 
 ging services, by which you have so success- 
 fully won the good will of your companions, 
 you had nothing better in view than the com- 
 mon observances of civility, which, from 
 your condition in life, you are accustomed 
 to receive and to return, your motive was 
 deficient, inasmuch as it wanted that essen- 
 tial grace in which its real merit consists: and 
 you will find, under this point of view, that 
 the condescension so highly extolled by Betty 
 was^ neither more nor less than respect to 
 yourself hniore. your inferiors j and, only in 
 
 a dif.
 
 a different dress, the ordinary deference 
 which those above you exact. Genuine 
 good nature is easily distinguished from the 
 affectation of it. A feeling and ingenuous 
 heart has only one object before it in all its 
 concerns with its fellow-creatures j namely, 
 to please, and to be loved. Its attentions 
 are not measured by the local circumstances 
 of fortune, rank, or its own interests, but 
 by its capacity of usefulness, and by its 
 power of administering satisfaction, amuse- 
 ment, and convenience, to those who sohcit 
 its kindness, or claim its duties. 
 
 Good nature and good sense are, in fact, 
 what good breeding aims at, and can never 
 attain but as it r;i?cts with the support of 
 these auxiliaries : tor without them it is 
 mere grimace ; at best, an ornament put 
 on with our fine trappings, liable to be 
 ruffled by ev^ry puff of wind, and soiled by 
 the slightest touch : whili-t good nature and 
 a sound understanding firmly rest on their 
 own solid basis^ not disdainful of exterior 
 polish, but knowing and feeling their own 
 B 2 power
 
 power to dignify a clown, and to confer a 
 grace beyond the reach of imitation. 
 
 You are now, my dear girl, arrived at an 
 age which justifies your mother in thinking 
 you capable of entering - into the examina- 
 tion she recommends; but I am certain you 
 will neither reject, nor be ungrateful for, 
 the assistance that she cheerfully offers you. 
 
 Two years since, you were permitted to 
 attend two ladles, my guests, with your 
 grandfather, to examine the noble ruins of 
 B castle. You discovered, in that ex- 
 cursion, that you were deficient in good 
 nature and In good sense : you returned 
 home in sullenness and ill humour, because 
 the ladies, impatient to be with your mO' 
 ther, whom they had left indisposed, refused 
 your entreaties to go three miles fur-her 
 in order to see a cascade, at that season of 
 the year almost dry, but of which you 
 had heard wonders. You may possibly 
 recollect that no notice was taken of your 
 behaviour at the moment. You were left 
 to recover your usual gaiety and good 
 
 manners.
 
 manners, at your own pleasure. A few 
 days after, an excursion was proposed to 
 the sea-side : it met the wishes of all, and 
 was embraced by none with greater avidity 
 tlian by yourself. A week was the time 
 allotted for our tour, and you looked for- 
 ward with delight to the means of increas- 
 ing your stock of shells for the ornament 
 of the little giotto which you were then 
 embellishing ; not an idea entered your 
 mind, that it was possible such a plan could 
 be engaged in without including you. Your 
 grandfather, the morning preceding our 
 departure, asked me very gravely, in your 
 presence, whether he was to have the 
 pleasure of being our escort. I answered 
 in the affirmative, and our guests seconded 
 me by expressing their surprise at so un- 
 expected a question. " I was not quite 
 certain," replied he to them, " in respect 
 to my daughter's intentions ; but now I 
 understand them. She knows that I am 
 not ambitious of joining in the society of 
 an infant, and much less disposed, to sub- 
 mit
 
 mit to the direction of a capriciotis one, 
 whether she be able to reckon ten or twen- 
 ty years in her age." I observed your 
 distress, and assured him that he had no- 
 thing to fear ; adding, " We shall leave 
 the infant in the nursery, and take with us 
 Eliza Palmerstone." 
 
 We had no cause for dissatisfaction, nor 
 had I any reason to repent of my lenity. 
 You left the infant to that spot in which 
 only it is entitled to indulgence, and where 
 even that indulgence is pernicious, if not 
 exactly proportioned to its weakness and 
 helpless ignorance. You are now twelve 
 years of age, and you ought to want no in- 
 ducements, but such as arise from your own 
 heart, to establish you in tlie habits of 
 gentleness and complacency ; nor a better 
 guide to the principles which enforce them, 
 than your own reason, and the instructions 
 which it has received. 
 
 I was once so unfortunate as to meet a 
 girl nearly of your age, at the house of 
 a friend v;ith whom I passed some weeks. 
 
 The
 
 The society which we met was, like the 
 master, pleasant and well informed ; and I 
 recall with pleasure the happy days I en- 
 joyed with your father in this gentleman's 
 beautiful retreat. The house was spacious, 
 and its owner never thought it furnished 
 without a party of his select friends. One 
 evening we were surprised by an unex- 
 pected enlargement of our number, by the 
 arrival of a gentleman, his lady, and their 
 daughter, the abovementioned damsel. 
 
 Mr. H , our hospitable entertainer, 
 
 although his house was numerously furnish- 
 ed, received them with his usual urbanity. 
 The day had been extremely sultry, and 
 tliJ young lady was no sooner seated in the 
 drawing-room, thaii, the first time she open- 
 ed her lips, siie complained oF the heat, 
 and her excessive fatigue, and expressed a 
 desire of retiring. I'he mother, who ap- 
 peared to me to stand much more in need 
 ci i\ po<i than her daughter, took the hint, 
 and th< h. !L's v.'ithdrew. The father no 
 sooner saw the door of tlic apartment close 
 
 upon
 
 upon them, than, turning to Mr. H , 
 he with great familiarity said, " I knew 
 you did not expect us, and 1 also knew 
 that you had your house full of friends j 
 but I could not refuse Lydia. She claimed 
 my promise to bring her hither as scon as 
 she was wdl. Poor thing I*' continued he, 
 ** she has auffered dreadfully with the tooth- 
 ach these last four months. Doctor Simons 
 said nothing could relieve her, but ex- 
 tracting two or three teeth. We thought 
 we never should have prevailed upon her 
 to submit to the operation : but I fortu* 
 nately thought of this expedient in order 
 to induce her to a compliance, and it hap- 
 pily succeeded ; for, had she not complied, 
 the consequences would have been very 
 serious indeed ; the jaw-bone being, as the 
 doctor said, diseased from the delay of 
 
 drawing the teeth." Mr. H assured 
 
 him that the housekeeper would hnd no 
 difficulty in accommodating him and the 
 ladies, that he trusted to Mrs. Webster's 
 good nature, should those accommodations 
 
 prove
 
 prove less convenient than he wished them, 
 and that he hoped miss Lydia would forget 
 her late indisposition. 
 
 Supper was announced, " Where is 
 
 Mrs. Webster? " asked Mr. H . " She 
 
 will be here as soon as she can,'* was the 
 reply: "she is never waited for." Whea 
 we had nearly finished, Mrs. Webster, with 
 a hurried and fatigued air, entered, and 
 took her seat at the table. " Lydia is 
 asleep," said she with a significant air to her 
 husband, who was seated, on the opposite 
 side, and next to me. " Is miss Webster 
 ill?" demanded I. "No," replied the 
 father : " but when we are from home^ my 
 wife never quits the room till she is asleep: 
 Lydia is very fearful." 
 
 After supper our excursion for the fol- 
 lowing" day was finally settled. The plan 
 was to visit the house and gardens of a no- 
 bleman some miles distant; but, by cross- 
 ing the country, not very remote, A fine 
 navigable canal joined, indeed, the two 
 estates. The private road was rather trou- 
 B 5 blesome
 
 10 
 
 blesome than dangerous in summer; but 
 it was judged better suited to the patient 
 drudges of amusement and business^ than 
 to our high-fed. and spirited horses ; and we 
 purposed taking hired horses in the morn- 
 ing, and sailing back in the evening; which 
 was in fact the common mode ; a beauti- 
 ful pleasure-boat having been constructed 
 
 by lord W , and always ready for his 
 
 visitors, or those whom curiosity might 
 lead to his seat. These preliminaries settled, 
 with cheerful accord we all engaged to be 
 in the breakfast-room at six the next morn- 
 ing, and the necessary orders were given tO' 
 the servants. Mr. Webster exulted in the 
 prospect . of the sailing part of the plan, 
 being, as he informed us twenty times, 
 'immeasurably fond of the water.* We 
 were exact to our time j^ the servants in 
 readiness in the stables; the breakfast in 
 the room, and every one in joyous confu- 
 sion crowding round the table for his hasty 
 share : but Mr. Webster and his two ladies 
 had not appeared. 
 
 A summons
 
 II 
 
 A summons from the Stentorian voice 
 
 of Mr. H brought him hurrying into 
 
 the room : ' Lydia was not ready. Would 
 we be so good as to set out without them ? 
 They would follow us.* We obeyed. We 
 drove slowly two or three miles : at length 
 our tardy friends overtook us. Miss Lydia 
 wiis weeping bitterly : ' she had been 
 frightened.' One of the horses had, it 
 seems, on first setting out, refused for an 
 instant the collar. "Well!** cried out 
 your father, " but he goes very quietly 
 now, my dear young lady : and in this, 
 narrow r ;id, with our chaise close at his 
 nose, he cannot be very mischievcps were 
 he so disposed." She redoubled her la- 
 mentations. Mrs. Wcbstc; entreated >ve 
 would take her into our chai.^e. Your 
 father was passive, and I h. d compassion on 
 the weakness of a mother. Miss LvLUd was 
 placed between us, to our no great an.use- 
 ment ; for she ticver oper J her mouth 
 but to complain, and express ner terrors ; 
 and entirely engaged our attention in re- 
 peating
 
 12 
 
 peating our assurances of safety, where 
 there was no danger to apprehend. In 
 this unpleasant manner we reached our 
 destined stage. The people of the neat 
 little inn had been prepared to expect us, 
 and all was in perfect order. We entered 
 the house, and, whilst we took some slight 
 refreshment, determined to walk to the 
 castle through an avenue of noble elms, 
 which reached to within a few yards of the 
 inn. The horses were ordered to the sta- 
 bles, and we prepared for our walk. But 
 now a new grievance arose. The extreme 
 heat in the chaise had given miss Lydia a 
 head-ach : ' she could not walk.' One of 
 the postillions was ordered to bring the 
 chaise again to the door. His horses were 
 feeding at the manger, and himself quietly 
 reposing on some clean straw. He obeyed 
 however without showing any reluctance, 
 but not without reflecting, 1 suspect, on 
 that wanton and capricious abuse of power, 
 which those who have wealth frequently 
 exercise over the more indigent. He had 
 
 not
 
 13 
 
 not however time given him to carry this 
 thought, if it did bccur to his simple un- 
 derstanding, quite so far as it would go, 
 and I scruple not to supply here what was 
 deficient. The want of tenderness and con- 
 sideration towards the poor wlio serve us 
 by their labour, or of regard and com- 
 miseration for the animal who toils for our 
 ease, reflects a disgrace which neither talents, 
 wealth, nor power can cover : for service 
 includes mutual obligation ; and those who 
 forget or abuse this first social compact are, 
 in the highest degree, reprehensible. Those 
 who ought to serve, may stand chargeable 
 with sloth and negligence; but those served, 
 with the twofold imputation of injustice and 
 cruelty. 
 
 But to return to my narration. Miss 
 Lydia was, with her mother, conveyed to 
 the house. We now threw our eager and 
 delighted eyes the whole length of a mag- 
 nificent gallery adorned with many of the 
 chefs-d'oeuvres of the Italian and Flemish 
 schools : we separated, forgot each other, 
 
 and
 
 14 
 
 and thought no more of miss Lydia Web- 
 ster. In my examination of the pictures, 
 chance bi ought to my recollection the mo- 
 ther and daugl ter. Ihey were sitting in a 
 part of the room which I bed several times 
 . passed unconscious of their being near me ; 
 but, on perceiving them, I exclaimed in a 
 tone of surprise, " What! are you tired!" 
 " No," replied the mother sorrowfully : 
 " but Lydia's shoe pinches her foot, and 
 she cannot stand." " L.r her take it oft," 
 said I, with my eyes fix_d on a beautiful 
 landscape ; " she will soon forget her shoe 
 and her foot also, by looking at these unri- 
 valled proofs of art and genius." " 1 know 
 nothing about pictures," sullenly muttered, 
 miss Lydia : " I wish I had not come." 
 "Give your n^amma, nt least, an oppor- 
 turiiy of gratifying i.er curiobity," said I,. 
 seadng myself at her side. " I will remain 
 with you. Let us persuade her to go round 
 the gallfry." " To say the truth," an- 
 swered Mrs. Webster pensively, " I am 
 too unwell, my dear madam, to profit by 
 
 your
 
 15 
 
 your politeness. I wished much to have 
 been excused iom this jaunt, being sensible 
 that I was not in health or spirits to en- 
 joy it ; but Lydia would not be denied. 
 And now," "added she, sighing, " she has 
 no pleasure!" 
 
 The pale and dejected countenance of the 
 poor lady fully evinced the truth of her 
 apology J and with a short one for my 
 quitting her, 1 reassurned my delightful 
 researches. We returned to a late dinner 
 at the inn; a full moon insured us a safe and 
 pleasant navigation. The repast was such 
 as might have been expected from people 
 that wished to content guests who were 
 ready to recompense them liberally for 
 their trouble : it was abundant, plain, and 
 neat. Unfortunately there was no bread- 
 pudding, Mr. Webster having unaccountably. 
 forgotten to order this iinportant article 
 for his daughter. 1 recommended some 
 excellent custard and bread. Miss replied, 
 ' she did not love custard, and could not eat 
 of any thing.' " You do just as I do," 
 
 answered
 
 16 
 
 answered I with careless indifference ; " for, 
 if I find the provision before me does not 
 please, 1 instantly conclude abstinence ne- 
 cessary : and I am rarely mistaken ; the ab- 
 sence of one meal generally provides me with 
 an appetite for the next." She coloured 
 with angry spite; and the fond mother said,. 
 ** Lydia at all times has a very poor appe- 
 tite; " an assertion that by no means agreed 
 with her appearance. 
 
 The elegance of the dessert amply made 
 up for the simplicity of the dinner. Lord 
 
 W 's gardener, knowing the intimacy 
 
 which subsisted between his master and our 
 friend, furnished the fruit ; but there were 
 no oranges, and miss Lydia was again dis- 
 appointed. We now commenced our ram- 
 ble through the grounds, leaving the dis- 
 contented miss Lydia, the tight shoe, and 
 the weak mother, in the house, with a 
 plentiful repast of bread and butter and cof- 
 fee before them. , 
 
 The refreshing breeze that succeeded to 
 the setting sun rendered our walk all that 
 
 we
 
 17 
 
 we "Wished, and we forgot .in its pleasures 
 the passing hoars, till one of the boatmen 
 gave us notice that all was in readiness, and 
 that it was time to depart. 
 
 Some of our gentlemen hastened to the 
 inn, which we all had to pass in our road to 
 the side of the canal, and the rest of the 
 party took the samt direction. 
 
 Mr. Webster, who, without much dis. 
 criminating taste, in the pleasures of the 
 day had enjoyed all with perfect good 
 humour and cheerfulness, now indulged 
 the innocent and expected gratification of 
 his particular share of the amusement. His 
 hilarity increased, and he exclaimed in the 
 honest bursts of his joy, " What delicious 
 weather! What a charming breeze! I will 
 venture to bet that we shall not shift a sail 
 twice the whole course, nor want the rope 
 except at the locks." Then, placing my 
 arm under his own, with simple good will 
 he added, " My dear Mrs. Palmerstone, 
 you will sing, will you not ? I have my flute 
 m my pocket, and with the horns it will 
 
 be
 
 IS 
 
 be delightful." By this time we joined 
 Mrs. and miss Webster at the house, where 
 poor Mr. Webster was doomed to a griev- 
 ous disappointment of his hopes. Miss 
 Lydia declared ' she would not go home 
 by water, she would sooner die than go 
 into a boat.' Entreaties, arguments, all 
 were repeatedly tried to no effect on the 
 stubborn miss Lydia. Mrs. Webster ap- 
 peared to be unacquainted with this part 
 of her husband's plan, and with seriousness 
 reminded him of his daughter's known re- 
 pugnance to the water. I suspected that he 
 had trusted something to our inj9uence on 
 this point. Be this as it may, it is certain 
 that her mild expedient would have easily 
 settled the matter. She proposed going in 
 a chaise with her daup^hter, said that she 
 really preTzrred it; and urged to the blub- 
 bering girl, the safety with which she would 
 travel, attended i:y their servant on horseback. 
 'What! at thai huir, to no vviihout Iier 
 papal ' Ker tv.i*rors inrrcas' , and she seized 
 bold of his arm, i.-.y'm-^ her head was bursting. 
 
 Mu.
 
 Mr. H- , with ill-concealed indigna- 
 tion, said Mr. Mackenzie should go with 
 the ladies in the chaise. This worthy do- 
 mestic had been twenty years the confiden- 
 tial attendant on Mr. H , had married 
 
 the housekeeper, ard enjoyed the post of 
 house-steward. Miss Lydia clung still 
 closer to her father, who, ashamed of the 
 delay he occasioned, and probably of his 
 daughter, declared his intention of seeing 
 her home himself. We therefore left the 
 family party, and repaired to the boat, 
 where we found honest Mackenzie, in the 
 plenitude of his power and glory, giving 
 to each of our musical band their parts, 
 and exulting in the order which he had 
 established ; his French horn in his hand, 
 and waiting with eager looks to see us, 
 in order to serenade us, We now, fear- 
 less of danger, gave ourselves up to the 
 peril of gliding over the smooth water of 
 a canal in the month of July, guided by 
 a moon which yielded in nothing to the 
 source frotn which it borrowed its mild 
 
 radiance;
 
 20 
 
 radiance ; and, with a few regrets at the 
 absence of poor Mr. Webster and his 
 flute excepted, enjoyed all the pleasures 
 of social ease and gratified taste. -Thus 
 finished our party of pleasure. 
 
 The following morning Mr. Webster 
 with undissembled regret spoke of his dis- 
 appointment, and with concern of his wife, 
 she being too much indisposed to leave her 
 room. Miss Lydia, with her mother and 
 father, quitted us in a few days after. She 
 probably discovered of how little importance 
 she was in the house, and the perfect indif- 
 ference with which her whims were treated* 
 This, with her father's wish of remaining 
 longer in a sobriety, in which, simply by the 
 effect of unoffending good nature and cheer- 
 fulness, he had gained an interest, deter- 
 mined the young lady ; and she returned to 
 a home where h'er authority was better- es- 
 tablished J leaving with Mr. H- a plea- 
 sure entirely new to him joy at the depar- 
 ture of a guest. 
 
 After supper he mentioned with no little 
 
 asperity
 
 21 
 
 asperity the folly of his relations, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Webster. He expatiated largely 
 on the fatal effects of indulgence ; and 
 pronounced without mercy, that these pa- 
 rents stood chargeable with all the errors 
 and miseries that would inevitably arise 
 from their weak and injudicious conduct 
 towards the object of their blind idolatry. 
 " You do not altogether agree with me, 
 Mrs. Palmerstone,'* added he, looking stea- 
 dily in my face. *' Not entirely," answer- 
 ed I, smiling. " I knew it^, I knew it," cried 
 he, eagerly turning to my husband. ** Let 
 us hear her.'* " Miss Webster's age,'* 
 said I, " somewhat lessens with me the 
 faults of her parents. She is not deficient 
 in common sense. She must have seen, 
 and she does see, the governing principle 
 which regulates the actions and conduct of 
 her parents, as these relate to her. No 
 weakness with which it stands chargeable 
 can change its nature; it is afff; 'i a for 
 their child. She sees that to this affection 
 all their own ease, their own pleasure, and 
 
 their
 
 22 
 
 their own comforts, are subordinate. With 
 such a conviction, she wants a heart formed 
 to meet kindness : otherwise, such a con- 
 viction must have produced love and gra- 
 titude. I will allow that her understanding 
 is not, perhaps, competent to that, discri- 
 mination which a more mature judgement 
 would make, as to the views and effects 
 of her parents' excessive fondness. She 
 may not perceive that weakness which 
 shrinks from the task of controlling, con- 
 tradicting, and correcting, an only and 
 darling child. But I am confident that the 
 understanding of a child at twelve years 
 old is fully sufficient to see, and her 
 conscience to feel, all the reciprocal obli- 
 gations which even mistaken kindness en- 
 forces on a grateful heart. At five or six 
 years of age I should expect nothing more 
 from an indulged and spoiled child, as such 
 are justly called, but proofs of its unchecked 
 will, iind capricious fits of good humour. 
 But miss Webster is not an infant. She 
 knows the diflerence between good and 
 
 evil.
 
 23 
 
 ^evil. She has been taught a religion which 
 is plain and positive as to all the laws and 
 precepts offered to us for our rule and 
 guidance ; and ' to do good, and to live 
 peaceably with our fellow-creatures,' is a 
 duty which she would admit as incontro- 
 vertible, where the question stood inde- 
 pendent of her own pettish and selfish gra- 
 tifications. I allow, for who wil! dissent ? 
 that excessive indulgence on the side of the 
 parent is and must be pernicious to the child, 
 inasmuch as it strengthens the selfish pro- 
 pensities of our nature, and engenders pride 
 and stubbornness ; but I think there must be 
 a radical disease in that bosom in which it 
 extinguishes love and deadens gratitude. 
 No : parental love, under any form, cannot, 
 I conceive, do this. 
 
 It rarely, 1 trust, produces that sullen 
 peevishness which refuses to enjoy the very 
 pleasure it has solicited ; which delights in 
 oppoMUg itself to the wishes of every one 
 around ; which seems to feed, as I may say, 
 on its abiliuj to distress the fond heart 
 
 weakly
 
 24 
 
 weakly given up to its power. It would 
 not, it could not, feel a joy in spreading 
 abroad its discontents by continually inter- 
 posing its spirit of contradiction and sour- 
 ness, to the annoyance of every one within 
 its reach. God forbid! Nor can I judge so 
 meanly of human nature, I am persuaded 
 that this very girl would be shocked at the 
 representation of a mind so lost to all the 
 genuine feelings of human nature j and she 
 would with indignation deny her resem- 
 blance to such a picture of depravity as I 
 have just drawn. But I would next ask this 
 girl, what she conceived must be the condi- 
 tion of that mind, in advanced life, which 
 in youth had checked every sympathetic 
 affection of nature by the selfish indulgence 
 of a petulant temper. Is she not old enough 
 to know that neither riches nor rank, nor 
 beauty nor taLnts, will purchase the good 
 will of her fellow-creatures? If she is igno- 
 rant of this truth, she is indeed to be pitied ; 
 but I would convince her in an hour, that, 
 weak and corrupt as the world is, it still 
 
 knows
 
 25 
 
 knows the price of what is valuable, and will 
 never give esteem and pure affection with- 
 out receiving an equivalent for them. To 
 be happy herself, she must make others 
 happy. This is the duty imposed on every 
 rational and responsible being ; and by 
 neglecting it she not only incurs the dis- 
 approbation of God, but also the contempt 
 of the world. Left to herself, she would 
 soon find that neglect and indifference 
 would carelessly meet her cold and froward 
 temper j and it would not surprise me to 
 .see such a girl, at twenty, mortified into the 
 conviction that no one was of consequence 
 in society, who refused to be useful or ami- 
 able. This poor girl has yet to learn the 
 pleasures annexed to benevolence. She is 
 a stranger to the satisfaction which arises 
 from self-denial, when exerted for the com- 
 fort or accommodation of others. She has 
 still to learn, that in a thousand instances 
 the ohliger is the obliged. Let her make 
 the experiment, and she will regret the 
 past ; but, should she refuse to give up her 
 vol.. I. c
 
 26 
 
 wayward humours, and were I consulted by 
 her parents, or any parents in Mr. and Mrs. 
 Webster's difficulties, I should in the first 
 place strenuously advise them to send her 
 from the parental roof. But do not fancy 
 that it would be to place her in a school, 
 where her fortune and rank in life would 
 be considered. Accomplishments are here 
 quite out of the question ; these are always 
 secondary considerations with me ; and the 
 most elegant and finished structure of this 
 kind is of no more value in my eyes than 
 a house built of cards, if erected on no 
 belter foundation than vanity. We are 
 considering the health of miss Webster's 
 mind, not the decoration of her person : and 
 to restore this to its native vigour, I would 
 send her to such a family as your worthy cu- 
 rate's, who, on ai^ income which barely sup- 
 plies food and raiment, contrive by industry 
 and oeconomy to live contented and cheer- 
 fully. Let her have no indulgences beyond 
 such as satisfy those about her, and I will 
 venture to predict that she will soon be 
 
 con-
 
 27 
 
 tented with her dinner without her fa- 
 vourite pudding, and able to put on her 
 clothes without a slave to assist her. She 
 would soon perceive that she was too insig- 
 nificant to interrupt the business or the 
 amusements of such a family ; and that her 
 incapacity for usefulness could only be ex- 
 cused by her being good-natured and unof- 
 fending. But you will object to me the im- 
 practicability of finding amongst the in- 
 dependent and the wise any who would bur- 
 then themselves with an inmate of miss Web- 
 ster*s description. I admit the difficulty : for 
 in proportion as they were qualified for the 
 task would be their repugnance to undertake 
 it. But there are country schools in which, 
 at least, she might be taught something use- 
 ful, and in which she would find a remedy 
 for overweening pride and fastidious dis- 
 content ; in which, without a miracle, she 
 mi<Tht have to encounter children as unac- 
 customed to submission as herself. The 
 hardest stones are smoothed by friction, 
 c 2 and
 
 28 . 
 
 and a few contests with beings like herself 
 would have a wonderful effect on the aspe- 
 rities of miss Webster's temper.** 
 
 " Your remedies are too slow and lenient, 
 my dear Mrs. Palmerstone," cried Mr. 
 
 H with eagel'ness : " I would, were 
 
 I this girl's father, cure her in one month, 
 r do not see why a good flogging should 
 not be as salutary to a wilful girl as to a 
 stubborn boy. I am no advocate for the 
 whip ; but with the wise man I think there 
 are cases when ' to spare the rod is to spoil 
 the child,* and by Jupiter I would make 
 this girl tremble at the sight of one!" 
 *' That you might easily do," replied I 
 laughing ; " for so you do poor Punto when 
 you are angry with him : but I much doubt 
 whether your corrective would produce in 
 miss Webster the same docility it does in 
 your pointer : I rather think it would but 
 stiffen the clay, and instead of the fruit you 
 expect, you would only see cunning and 
 malice spring up. Confess, therefore, that 
 \ you
 
 529 
 
 you are not qualified for a preceptor to miss 
 Lydia ; and use your influence with her 
 parents to send her to a good school." 
 I am sorry to finish my letter by adding, 
 
 that my advice and Mr. H 's friendly 
 
 expostulations with Mr. and Mrs. Webster 
 were useless. No arguments could prevail 
 on them to adopt a measure which their 
 child opposed. Miss Webster happily, 
 however, lived not to meet those mortifica- 
 tions nor those dangers which I had predict- 
 ed : perpetual discontent and habitual indo- 
 lence undermined her health : as this de- 
 clined, she became more irritable and 
 peevish, and at seventeen years of age 
 quitted a world which she was so totally 
 unfit to meet. Her fond mother, whose 
 strength and spirits she had exhausted, sunk 
 into her grave two years after the death of 
 
 her ungrateful but lamented child. 
 
 Yours, my Eliza, with I trust a better 
 disciplined tenderness, but not less affection, 
 signs the name of 
 
 Angelica Palmkrstone.
 
 30 
 
 Letter II. 
 MARIA MORTIMER, 
 
 OK THE 
 
 FATAL EFFECTS OF CURIOSIIT. 
 
 MY DEAR ELIZA, 
 
 A FEW days since, a lady well known to 
 you was quietly occupied with her daughter 
 in their usual lessons, when the door of the 
 dressing-room was suddenly opened by an 
 old, faithful, and cherished housekeeper, 
 who in great agitation, and with eyes in- 
 flamed by weeping, begged her lady's per- 
 mission to speak to her of an affair of much 
 consequence, and which admitted of no 
 delay : " an affair, madam," added she, 
 again bursting into tears, "ruinous to me 
 and my poor son, unless your goodness 
 and counsel save us." The lady instant- 
 ly rose from her seat, took the hand of the 
 poor trembling housekeeper, and, placing 
 her by the fireside, assured her that she had 
 
 nothing
 
 SI 
 
 nothing to apprehend in any affair in which 
 her comfort and services could be useful 
 and effectual : then turning to her daughter 
 she said, " You will retire, my love ; and as 
 you go to the music room tell James that 
 I am particularly engaged, and must not be 
 interrupted by any one.*' The young lady 
 slowly and reluctantly withdrew, eyeing the 
 housekeeper with the most eager curiosity. 
 
 Before the good woman had had time to 
 collect herself sufficiently to begin, or to 
 pieface an affair intimately connected with 
 the welfare of her family, the young lady 
 again appeared. 'She had forgotten to 
 ask her mamma whether she was to prac- 
 tise the new -lessons for the harp, or to 
 play those she knew on the piano- forte.' 
 The mother with mildness, but seriousness, 
 said she might do both ; for that she v/ould 
 ring when it was necessary for her to return. 
 
 In something less than half an hour the 
 door of the apartment was again opened, 
 and on tip-toe advanced the abovemen- 
 tioned restless damsel. * She begged ten 
 
 thousand
 
 32 
 
 thousand pardons she would not stay 
 but she believed Haydn's concertos were 
 in the room she could find them in a 
 minute.' She was permitted in silence to 
 look for them ; and xhe search was a work 
 of time, but successful at last. She then re- 
 placed every thing in the most exact order 
 and, glancing a side look at her old friend's 
 flushed countenance, once more quitted the 
 room. The lady had however by this 
 time learned the cause of her housekeeper's 
 trouble : it was a perplexed and delicate 
 business in itself, and required further dis- 
 cussion which they had hardly begun, when 
 the inquisitive spy again stood before 
 them . . . . ' James had sent off Mrs. Beau- 
 mont's carriage . . . she was in it, and certain- 
 ly came with the purpose of carrying them 
 to see the Exhibition, as she had engaged to 
 do . . . She had told James he was wrong . . . 
 He said, he had delivered his lady's orders 
 . . . and Mrs. Beaumont had left her compli- 
 ments, and would dine with her.' The 
 lady, with some asperity of manner, said, 
 
 'She
 
 S3 
 
 * She was very glad that short memories 
 did not infect all the family .... that James 
 had done his duty . . . and that the next time 
 she gave him similar orders they should 
 xtcnd to intruders ivithin the house as vpell 
 as to those without.* The young lady, 
 abashed, left the room ; and when she again 
 appeared, her eyes exhibited as strong 
 marks of sorrow as those of the poor wo- 
 man who had quitted the apartment. 
 
 I am not quite certain whether my Eliza 
 will enter into my motives of tenderness, 
 for introducing a subject of reprehension 
 \ in the manner which I have adopted ; but 
 1 am convinced that she has been sensibly 
 touched by the disgrace she has incurred 
 with her mother. But has my dear girl 
 paid due attention to the cause of this dis- 
 grace, or the motives which led her into a 
 forgetfulness of her habitual circumspec- 
 tion ? I know she cannot impose on her 
 understanding, if she fairly weighs the 
 question, and I am sure she will employ no 
 subterfuge for truth. You wished to know 
 c 5 Mrs..
 
 ^54 
 
 Mrs. Clark's secret ; and this desire not only 
 entirely diverted your attention from your 
 own concerns, but also rendered you an 
 impertinent intruder on those of others. 
 
 We will, my dear child, now consider 
 the claims this curiosity has to indulgence, 
 and the gratifications it has to give in re- 
 turn. ^ The motive which stimulates us to 
 pry into the concerns of others, is, with 
 some, the importance they annex to the 
 knowledge of these affairs. No sooner are 
 they in possession of a secret, than they be- 
 gin to weigh their wisdom, their conse- 
 quence, their superiority ; they think they 
 have the advantage over the person whose 
 secrets thev have discovered. Some there 
 are, who have still more unjustifiable views : 
 but these I will pass over, and consider a 
 little more particularly the common herd 
 of secret- hunters. Ninety-nine times out 
 of a hundred, the secrets which are so 
 eagerly sought for would neither interest 
 the parties concerned, nor repay the time 
 and trouble lost upon them, were it not for 
 
 the
 
 S6 
 
 the idle satisfaction of repeating them, with 
 those inferences and comments which self- 
 conceit suggests. 1 call this, my Eliza, an 
 idle satisfaction : but I might have used 
 harsher language ; for we must know very 
 little indeed of the duties of life, if we are 
 ignorant that we are answerable for all the 
 consequences arising from divulging a se- 
 cret committed to our keeping : and what 
 is more, whether the intelligence be obtained 
 directly or indirectly, the obligation on our 
 discretion is the same if we wish to avoid 
 exciting distrust, hatred, and contempt. . . . 
 The foliowintf little narrative will evince 
 the truth of this observation ; and will, I 
 trust, convince my child that curiosity de- 
 mands a greater proportion of wisdom, than 
 ordinarily falls to the lot of those who are 
 most disposed to indulge its craving and 
 restless suggestions : 
 
 My godmother lived at Bristol j but she 
 had a beautiful house at Clifton, in which 
 she usually spent the summer months. 
 This lady was also my mother's aunt j and 
 
 this
 
 36 
 
 this double tie, withr her amiable qualities, 
 produced an intercourse of the most affec- 
 tionate kind between my mother and her- 
 self. We frequently passed two or three 
 months with her at Clifton ; and the last 
 time I enjoyed that pleasure I was nearly of 
 your age. In the autumn my mother en- 
 gaged her aunt's promise of spending some 
 of the winter months with her in town ; but 
 this promise was conditional. I was to be 
 the companion of her journey, and an in-r 
 mate with her until she could leave Bristol ; 
 >yhich it was inconvenient to her to do be- 
 fore the middle of January. This point, 
 as most others, she carried easily with a 
 niece who loved her as a child ; and 1 was 
 left, with many injunctions of her not spoil- 
 ing entirely her pet. My godmother, I 
 suspect, did not very scrupulously observe 
 my mother's orders ; for the Christmas 
 holidays were passed in a style of gaiety 
 to which I had hitherto been a stranger. 
 Balls and suppers succeeded each other 
 in rotation ; and my godmother wisely 
 
 thought,
 
 37 
 
 thought, that a girl who saw not her bed 
 before midnight had little inclination for 
 lessons the next morning. I was therefore 
 permitted to amuse myself as I pleased. 
 Within a few doors of us lived miss Maria 
 Mortimer, a girl of my own age. I con- 
 stantly met her in our evening parties, ^nd 
 her vivacity and good humour delighted 
 me. I frequently carried her with me to 
 the place of appointment, and the same 
 carriage conveyed us to our respective 
 homes. She became my morning guest, 
 and the favourite of my godmother, 'be- 
 cause her Angelica liked her, and she was 
 good-natured.' The impressions of kind- 
 ness and mutual good will are not easily 
 effaced from the youthful heart. 
 
 The death of my godmother, in the fol- 
 lowing year, prevented any further oppor- 
 tunity of my seeing miss Mortimer ; but 
 I remembered her with affection, and re- 
 gretted the loss of her acqunintance. Many 
 years after, 1 met with a lady whom I had 
 known whilst at my godmother's ; and I 
 
 availed
 
 availed myself of the occasion, to make in- 
 quiries after my friend Maria. " I shall pass 
 the day with your mother to-morrow," 
 said she, " and I will then give you the 
 history of your lively companion : you will 
 be sorry to hear of her present situation.** 
 I was, as you, my Eliza, will easily conceive, 
 tormented with my conjectures during the 
 intermediate space of time. The morrow 
 at length arrived, and our guest began as 
 follows : 
 
 " I believe," said Mrs. Litchford, " you 
 never saw Mrs. Dormer, the aunt of your 
 young friend. Her close confinement to 
 her room, owing to an accident in her 
 youth, by which her hip was dislocated, 
 rendered her quitting it extremely painful 
 to her ; and I think, at the time you were 
 at Bristol, she had too many visitors in her 
 own way to be troubled with two lively 
 romps. Maria Mortimer was left to this 
 lady's care, whilst yet in her cradle. 
 
 " Mrs. Dormer loved her sister, the last 
 surviving parent of the infant Maria, with 
 
 an
 
 99 
 
 an undivided affection. She was a single 
 woman, her fortune considerable, and her 
 natural disposition excellent : the misfor- 
 tunes which had succeeded her sister's 
 marriage threw the little orphan entirely on 
 her protection ; and this circumstance gave 
 to her claims additional force in the heart 
 of her aunt. I was, at this period, on 
 terms of intimacy with Mrs. Dormer, and 
 the daily witness of the tender regard she 
 had for her niece. At that time her love 
 of society counteracted the inconveniences 
 of changing her place, and she frequently 
 visited in her particular circle ; but a 
 rheumatic fever, adding to her former 
 lameness, rendered this indulgence too 
 painful, and she was contented to enjoy 
 health and ease in her bed-chamber. I 
 had hoped, that, in her vigilant cares for 
 the infant, my good friend v/ould have 
 found a check for a weakness which consi- 
 derably diminished her respectability, and 
 took from her understanding its genuine 
 worth : but in proportion as her bodily 
 
 activity
 
 40 
 
 activity became impeded, that of her mind 
 seemed to increase, and her love of tittle- 
 tattle to acquire more and more power over 
 her good sense. Her temper naturally cheer- 
 ful, and her spirits unbroken, it frequently 
 appeared; to me that she thought of her par- 
 ticular infirmity only as an evil which oppo- 
 sed her researches after news ; nor considered 
 her seclusion from the world as a further 
 misfortune, than as it prevented her from 
 seeing all that was doing in it. My talents 
 in this way by no means equalled my regard 
 for my old friend, and I soon discove'red 
 that I might, without offence, employ those 
 I had, in my little circle of domestic cares ;, 
 for Mrs. Dormer was happily supplied 
 with friends much better qualified than 
 myself for the office of public intelligencers. 
 The favours, and the welcome, these re- 
 ceived, perhaps stimulated their zeal, and 
 quickcied tiieir invention ; for it is certain 
 that Mrs. Dormer knew of events before- 
 they happened, and was minutely informed 
 of many tiiat never iiappened at all. But 
 
 no
 
 41 
 
 no human felicity is permanent. My poor 
 friend discovered tliis truth as painfully as 
 those who meet It in much weightier con- 
 cerns. It fell out, from time to time, that 
 her faithful gossips were allured from her 
 by other news-mongers : sometimes their 
 gleanings were too scanty, and at others too 
 important, to be exhibited in Mrs. Dor- 
 mer's bed-room. In the first instance, 
 petty quarrels and little jealousies some- 
 times produced dissensions, and Mrs. Dor- 
 mer was left to solitude. These accidental 
 privations of her accustomed gratifications 
 were heavily and impatiently sustained by 
 the old lady. Placed in her easy-chair, by 
 the window, she passed the hours in fret- 
 ful conjectures. Her next-door neighbour 
 
 gave a dinner She saw the guests, ... but 
 
 what could the entertainer give them ? The 
 season lor fowls was over their cook could 
 not fry a sole and the mistress of the house 
 was a mere dawdle, who nev^^ nothing, 
 The post-man left a letter at the opposite 
 house... Who could it be for ?....She had fre- 
 quently
 
 42 
 
 quently observed the chamber-maid ofllcr- 
 
 ously receive letters at Mrs. P 's She 
 
 doubted not but the hussey was in some se- 
 cret with the young lady . . . Not a bundle, 
 or a bandbox, could escape the vigilant eyes 
 of Mrs. Margery Dormer. To find out what 
 these contained exceeded her power... Put I 
 do assure you that she has frequently dis- 
 patched a servant to follow the person who 
 carried them, to the house they were de- 
 stined for J and if the bearers could, on any 
 pretence, be brought before her, they 
 were questioned, and dismissed with some 
 little order to their employer. 
 
 " You will not be surprised that the natu^ 
 ral curiosity of a lively and acute child 
 should not remain inactive in the hands of 
 Mrs. Dormer. Maria lisped the nursery- 
 news to her aunt ; and, in proportion as she 
 understood the value of her communications, 
 became a spy in every corner of the house. 
 It so happened that some intelligence she 
 had carried to her aunt affected the interests 
 of the housekeeper, whose influence was 
 
 not
 
 43 
 
 not to be controlled with impuaity. ; and 
 Maria was sent to a good day-school in the 
 neighbourhood, as something more in Mrs. 
 Housekeeper's favour, than her being al- 
 ways in the way but far short of her 
 wishes to see her removed to a distance. 
 The indulgent aunt would not part with her, 
 and, to content her gouvernante, ordered 
 a parlour for the particular play-room of 
 . Maria, and left to the housekeeper the care 
 of confining her to that apartment when 
 not with her : this regulation produced 
 others, and Maria found that she had now 
 the liberty of entertaining her own company. 
 Soon after you knew her she became very 
 fond of miss Baxter, a girl nearly of her 
 own age, and not only her school-fellow 
 but near neighbour. This child was the 
 daughter of a very respectable merchant j 
 her mother, one of the luost estimable wo- 
 men in Bristol j and such was the conduct 
 of the family, that it had imposed restraint 
 even on Mrs. Dormer's coterie ; for 
 domesdc harmony, a judicious oeconomy, 
 
 and
 
 44 
 
 and elegant ease, met every inquiry and 
 checked every animadversion. 
 
 " Fanny was the only daughter in a fa- 
 mily consisting of six children j and the fond 
 mother, pleased with the companion of her 
 child's choice, facilitated an intercourse she 
 conceived useful to both the girls. Maria 
 one afternoon expected her friend, and with 
 much impatience found she had greatly 
 exceeded the usual hour of appointment. 
 On Fanny's entering the little parlour Ma- 
 ria hastily approached to chide her delay : 
 but joy and kindness mingling with this 
 reproof, she eagerly drew nigh her to un- 
 tie her bonnet, which the wearer was lan- 
 guidly and slowly attempting to do. She 
 was struck by the appearance of a face 
 swelled with weeping, and by an air of 
 sadness, which in an instant repressed her 
 own vivacity ; but pity and sympathy soon 
 yielded to curiosity, and soothing kind- 
 ness to questiojis. ' Had she disobliged her 
 mamma ? . . . Had she lost or broken any 
 thing ? . . . Had her brother and she quar- 
 relled r
 
 45 
 
 relied ?...Was not her mother rather harsh ? 
 . . .Had her papa been angry with her? She 
 thought he appeared to be very severe,* 
 Poor Fanny, whose tears had flowed unre- 
 strained and ia silence, was now roused to 
 reply, ' Her mother harsh and unkind ? . . . 
 Her papa passionate and severe ? . . . Her 
 mamma was all goodness ; and as to her 
 father, she had never seen him in a passion 
 but once in her life.' The tears of Fanny 
 had given place to the glow of offended 
 love, and she looked with resentment on 
 Maria ; who, heedless of the sentiments 
 which she had produced, with eagerness 
 pursued her interrogations. ' She was glad 
 Mr. Baxter was so good-humoured . . . but 
 how did it happen that he w ao angry ? and 
 when was this ? and how u ^s this ? ' fol- 
 lowed, with Maria's usual vivacity. ' Some 
 time ago,' answered the unsuspecting Fan- 
 ny :' it was when my mamma was so dread- 
 fully ill.' * Well,' 5aid Maria, * that is 
 very strange ! was he not sorry, then ?' 
 * Dear me ! to be sure he was,' answered 
 
 with
 
 46 
 
 With simplicity the amiable girl : ' it was his 
 grief which put him into a passion ; for he 
 thought my mamma was dying.* ' Well, 
 how was it?' asked Maria. 'Why,' re- 
 plied Fanny, ' my papa was absent ; and 
 my brother persuaded mamma to let him 
 ride the new pony which had been bought 
 for him. We all went to spend the day with 
 
 Mrs. N , a little way beyond Clifton, 
 
 and went in the coach ; but George begged 
 so hard to go on his pony that my mamma 
 consented, and the footman assured her that 
 a child of four years old could govern him. 
 On returning home, all in a moment, we 
 perceived the pony galloping by the coach 
 window without a rider. I shall never for- 
 get my mother: she sunk back in the 
 coach, and I thought her quite dead. 
 George had been thrown from the horse ; 
 and his face was covered with blood when 
 the servants brought him to the coach. 
 My mother just then opened her eyes. She 
 sighed deeply, and fell into another fit. 
 
 Mrs. P fortunately returned to Bristol 
 
 with
 
 47 
 
 with us. I tliink I should have died with 
 terror had she not been with us. She de- 
 sired the coachman to make haste home, 
 and my poor mamma was carried up stairs, 
 and put to bed ; but she was so ill that 
 
 Mrs. P sent off a servant to fetch my 
 
 papa, and the whole family was in sad trou- 
 ble. The next morning Mrs. P had 
 us all into the breakfast-room: she had 
 been up the whole night with mamma. 
 She was very kind to us, and comforted 
 poor George, whose face was sadly cut, 
 and told me I should see my mother, who 
 was out of danger. After we had breakfast- 
 ed Mrs. P led me into my mother's 
 
 room 'f and told her, smiling, ' that she had 
 brought a poor little weeping girl to see 
 her, who would stay with her till she went 
 home to change her linen.' My dear mam- 
 ma did not speak, but kissed me so kindly 
 that I could not bear it ; and I went to the 
 other side of the bed. In this moment my 
 papa came into the room in his boots, and 
 his hair all in disorder with the rain, and 
 
 the
 
 48 
 
 the hurry of riding all the night almost. 
 My mamma spoke so faintly that I could not 
 hear what she said : but I was quite terrified 
 Co hear my papa say with much anger, ' The 
 cursed blockhead 4* and then, ' I will never 
 forgive the rascal!' and then, 'He shall 
 go this very hour 1 * I crept to the curtain, 
 and I heard my mother's sweet voice : she 
 said, * Indeed it was all her fault , . . the 
 poor fellow will break his heart*. . . and she 
 wept. My papa's anger was quite gone, 
 and he now comforted her, and said a thou- 
 sand tender words to her : but he told her 
 that he could not yet pardon John, for he 
 knew, although she did not, that the pony 
 had thrown my brother a month before, 
 and that he had then received positive or- 
 ders, not to permit George to mount him 
 till he had been better broken in. So thank 
 God my mamma got well ; and my good 
 
 papa forgave John, and my brother 
 
 But now,* said she sighing, ' we are all 
 unhappy again.* 
 
 " The artless account Fanny had been 
 
 induced
 
 49 
 
 induced to give, from her wish to justi- 
 fy her father, by no means appeased the 
 cravings of Maria's curiosity ; something 
 yet remained untold . . . and she now tried 
 to subdue the instinctive prudence of Fan- 
 ny, by attacking her heart. ' Friends like 
 themselves ought to have no secrets un- 
 shared .... She, that loved her so dearly, 
 might surely be trusted . . . She might depend 
 on her not speaking of any thing she told 
 her; for that was odious!' 'I have no- 
 thing to tell you,' said the weeping girl : 
 ' I cannot find out what is the reason my 
 mamma is so uneasy, and that it is which 
 makes me unhappy. We met as usual 
 this morning at breakfast, for my dear papa 
 says he is never at home unless his children 
 are around him. We were all as gay as 
 larks, when a letter was delivered to my 
 father: the man who brought it was called 
 an express, and had travelled the whole 
 night. My father, on reading it, turned 
 as pale as ashes, and his hand trembled j 
 he sunk back on the sofa j and my mam na, 
 VOL. I. D ternued.
 
 50 
 
 terrified, bade us leave the room, for that 
 our father was ill. ' Send Mr. Jackson 
 hither,* added she to me; * and do you re- 
 main in the hall, Fanny, and take care that ' 
 no one enters. Your father may sleep.' 
 I obeyed. And shortly after, my papa 
 and our head clerk set off in a post-chaise 
 and four; and Mr. Jackson said, as he 
 passed the hall, * he was going to London.' 
 1 now crept up stairs to my mamma. I 
 heard her shut her chamber-door hastily, 
 but, on approaching it, found it a-jar ; the 
 bolt had not slipped. I believe my mam- 
 ma did not hear me enter, for she was 
 stretched on the bed, and sobbing. She 
 groaned, and said, ' My dear children ! 
 what will become of my children ! ' I ap- 
 proached the bed, and she started with sur- 
 prise. 'Is it you, my Fanny?* said she. 
 ' Leave me, my love ; your father's hasty 
 journey has been too much for me. I will 
 try to compose my spirits : take care that no 
 one comes into my room.' I retired, and 
 watched ^t the door till I heard my mo- 
 ther's
 
 6\ 
 
 ther's steps in the room ; and I tapped. 
 She opened the door, and I was astonished 
 to see her dressed as usual for dinner ; the 
 time for which was nigh. She spoke to 
 me with cheerfulness ; but I saw she was 
 yet very uneasy. She sat at table with us, 
 but did not eat a morsel ; and said, ' nothing 
 but a cup of coffee would relieve her head- 
 ach.* I would have staid with her; but she 
 said, * No, no, I am better by myself ; you 
 must go : on no account would I have you 
 disappoint Maria:' and the tears, which fell 
 from her eyes, almost suffocated her . . . 
 She tried to smile, and said, ' I am quite a 
 child to day . . . this nervous complaint must 
 be humoured. But she did not deceive me 
 I am sure she is fretting about my dear 
 papa, and I am quite miserable.' 
 
 " Poor Fanny's spirits bore testimony to 
 the sincerity of her heart : the visit finished 
 without amusement, and she returned home 
 dejected. No sooner was she departed 
 than Maria carried this inexplicable tale to 
 her aunt's apartment. She was enjoying 
 D 2 a pool
 
 52 
 
 a pool at quadrille with a party of her most 
 confidential friends, and, when Maria en- 
 tered, had actually taken in with her cards 
 the three matadores, and ' I play alone * 
 hung on her lips. From habit, rather than 
 expectation, she suspended her purpose, 
 in order to ask Maria, whether she had 
 heard any rieivs. Thus invited, Maria de- 
 tailed the conversation of the afternoon ; 
 and, curious in her turn, listened to the in- 
 ferences and comments it would draw, for 
 her own better information. Mrs. Dor- 
 mer and her friends listened with an inter- 
 est which banished quadrille from tlieir 
 thoughts. Maria now heard half-conceal- 
 ed doubts of Mr. Baxter's circumstances 
 passing round the table . . . . ' Four female ser- 
 vants, and two men servants, with a -car- 
 riage, were not kept for nothing' . . . . ' Mrs. 
 Baxter was a very easy mistress' . . . . ' It was 
 a pity she had not remembered a little bet- 
 ter the fortune she brought her husband' . . . 
 Two or three thousand pounds was no 
 great matter, and little adequate to the ex- 
 pense
 
 53 
 
 pense of such a family *....* Mr. Baxter, 
 it was said, was rich when he married; 
 but who could tell what the fortune of a 
 commercial man was ?,. . And his marrying a 
 woman for love, was no proof of his being 
 above the want of a fortune, although it 
 was a pretty strong one of his being above 
 prudential considerations' .... * They con- 
 fessed they were not surprised' . . . . ' They 
 had long expected something to transpire 
 from that quarter.* Maria, who entered 
 little into these observations, or reflected on 
 the want of discretion which had occasioned 
 them, now recalled her aunt's attention to 
 her cards ; for Maria was a tolerable adept 
 at the card-table. The old lady, therefore, 
 finished the pool by the triumph of her 
 matadore game , and the party separated. 
 Before the following day had closed, ' Mr. 
 Baxter was a ruined man , . . had escaped 
 from his creditoi's, and gone off to Hol- 
 land.' A person who had a large sum of 
 money in Mr. Baxter*s hands was instantly 
 alarmed by this whispered but widely cir- 
 culating:
 
 54. 
 
 culating rq^ort; and, consuhing more hit 
 own security than the truth of the rumour, 
 took such measures as the laws of this coun- 
 tiy have provided for such cases. These 
 necessary steps brought him before Mr?. 
 Baxter ; and the suspicions which alone ren- 
 dered them necessary, were inhumanly and 
 bluntly avowed to the unhappy woman. 
 Terrified by this, as she conceived, irre- 
 coverable shock on the credit of her hus- 
 band, and knowing the vexatious circum- 
 stance that had hurried him to London, 
 her alarmed spirits seized as inevitable all 
 the dreadful consequences of his ruin to 
 herself and her children. She was instantly 
 attacked by fainting fits, to which for some 
 time she had been subject ; but they now 
 were succeeded by strong convulsions, 
 which in twelve hours terminated in her 
 death. 
 
 *' Mr. Baxter in the mean lime was ex- 
 periencing in London the sweet fruits of a 
 life eminently distinguished by undeviating 
 integrity and industr)'. Not only friends, 
 
 with
 
 55 
 
 wifh whom time and mutual services had 
 connected him, came forward to his aid 
 with an alacrity which was as honourable 
 to themselves as it was useful to him, but 
 those who knew little more of him than his 
 reputation for talents and prudence enter- 
 ed with zeal into measures which the exi- 
 gency of his affairs required. This arose 
 from the capture of a very rich ship, in 
 which Mr. Baxter was very deeply con- 
 cerned. He had trusted to the ratification 
 of peace, which had been signed by the 
 powers in Europe, reaching the distant 
 port at which the ship took in its valuable 
 cargo, before it was ready to sail ; but it un- 
 fortunately happened that the dispatch was 
 beyond his calculations, ana the vessel be- 
 came the prize of the enemy at a moment 
 however which rendered k an equivocal 
 capture. His commercial friends unani- 
 mously determined to support him in trying 
 to establish the illegality of the prize, and, 
 during the detention of the ship, to assist 
 him wjth their credit, Re-ssured by this 
 
 support^
 
 56 
 
 support, and satisfied that the blow was rot 
 so heavy as in the first moment of surprise 
 he had apprehended, he wrote a letter, of 
 comfort to his beloved wife ; conjured her 
 to be cheerful, assured her that every clou4 
 was dissipated, and that in the course of ^ 
 few more days he hoped to be happy in the 
 bosom of his family. With this letter he 
 dispatched Mr. Jackson, his clerk, referring 
 her to him for every othei* detail. ^Poor man! 
 the object of his first and last care stood 
 in need of no earthly consolation ; all that 
 remained of the duties of love and of re- 
 spect was, to consign her mortal frame to 
 its parent earth ; the spirit which had ani- 
 mated it was returned to its Maker, and 
 enjoymg the recompense of a well-spent 
 life. 
 
 " Mr. Jackson, who had known Mrs, 
 Baxter from her childhood, in performing 
 the last duties to her remains, paid that 
 tribute of grief at lier grave which her 
 wretched husband was the victim of in town. 
 Harassed by his late business, and fatigued 
 
 by
 
 by continual hurry, the shocking intelli- 
 gence of Mrs. Baxter's death, thoagh com- 
 municated to him with every caution that 
 friendship could suggest, ' totally subdued 
 him. A violent fever followed, during 
 which his life was for some days despaired 
 of. When this alarm had passed, Mr. Bax- 
 ter found that he had nothing in Bristol to 
 interest his mind but his children. These 
 he knew had been undei- my care and roof 
 from the first saddem'ng hour : and I have 
 reason to hope that he was assured of their 
 comforts. He now, therefore, listened to an 
 offer urgently pressed on him by his London 
 friends j namely, remaining there as part- 
 ner in a branch of commerce at once solid 
 and lucrative. Mindful of every engage- 
 ment of honour and generosity, Mr. Bax- 
 ter connected his faithful friend Mr. Jack- 
 son with himself in the business carried on 
 at Bristol j and this gentleman succeeded to 
 his place in the house,, and to those con-' 
 cems in which he had for so many years 
 
 assisted. 
 
 D 5 " Mr.
 
 58 
 
 " Mr. Litchford had happily convinced 
 the timid and ungenerous creditor, that he 
 had no foundation for his alarms ; and the 
 man, struck by the effects which his hasty 
 proceedings had occasioned, mentioned, 
 with expressions of sorrow, the quarter 
 from whence the communication of Mr. 
 Baxter's insolvency had come to his ears. 
 This was, without a doubt, from the bed- 
 chamber of Mrs. Dormer ; and it called 
 upon us for such inquiries as naturally 
 suggested themselves on such an occasion. 
 Mrs. Baxter, a sister of my poor friend, 
 had, on the first alarm, joined the unhappy 
 family : she was also with me ; and Fanny 
 was present when my husband related to us 
 the particulars which I have oientioned re- 
 lative to the fatal rumour which had prevail* 
 ed. The dear girl turned as pale as death, 
 and, grasping my hand, said,. * Surely . . . 
 but it cannot be ... it is impossible T It is 
 sufficient to say that her artless confession 
 followed, and which the events I have de- 
 tailed have given you. Mrs. F. Baxter, 
 
 exceedingly
 
 59* 
 
 exceedingly shocked by this representation, 
 spoke of it, in all the bitterness of her sor- 
 row, to every sympathizing friend who ap- 
 proached her ; and it became the general 
 opinion, that a girl of twelve or thirteen 
 years of age could not be ignorant of the 
 culpability of that incitement which induced: 
 her to betray a confidence she had so power- 
 fully solicited, and so positively engaged ta 
 preserve. No one was disposed to think 
 her youth any excuse for her fault, nor a 
 plea of exemption from disgrace. The 
 coterie of RTrs. Dormer had no respecta- 
 bility to lose J but my old friend perceived' 
 that from that hour she had survived her 
 own . . . She was neglected, and her name 
 became proverbial ; every idle story was 
 cabled * a Mrs. Margery Dormer ; * and' 
 the few who still paid thtir court to her 
 nice suppers and card-purse went under 
 the appellation of Mrs. Dormer's runners.. 
 As few were ambitious of this title, she in- 
 sensibly became the prey of the needy and" 
 servile ; and she is at this hour surrounded' 
 
 by
 
 60 
 
 by a few interested and ignorant people, 
 who, whilst they pillage her, flatter and. 
 ruin poor Maria. 
 
 *' Mrs. Dormer is upwards of seventy : 
 her good humour, I am told, has given 
 place, as her infirmities have increased, ta 
 the peevishnes of an old age unsupported by 
 better principles than those which Mrs. Dorr 
 mer has encouraged. Maria is closely con- 
 fined to her aunt's room ; and, when seen, 
 it is in company little to her advantage, and 
 I much fear for her future situation.'* 
 
 Mrs. Litchford paused. '^ You have," 
 said I, " powerfully excited my feelings for 
 the family of Mr. Baxter and himself. Will 
 you indulge me by saying what is their 
 precise situation now, and in what manner 
 the loss of such a mother has been sup- 
 plied to them all but particularly to poor 
 Fanny ? " " With pleasure," returned 
 Mrs. Litchford; " for, except in one point, 
 their prospects are smiling. I am now 
 Mr. Baxter's guest, and have been so an- 
 nually ever since he left Bristol. Mr. 
 
 Baxter
 
 6r- 
 
 Baxter is now a very rich man^ in the gene- 
 ral sense of the word ; and, what is of much 
 more importance, rick in the esteem and, 
 I may say, veneration of those who know 
 him. But sorry am I to add, that neither 
 the extensive usefulness of his life, nor the 
 success with which it has pleased Heaven 
 to crown his prudence, has been able 
 to erase from his memory his former 
 happiness : and from possessing the most 
 cheerful and equal temper of mind that 
 ever blessed man, he is now become habi- 
 tually melancholy and reserved. The en- 
 joyments of his family and friends are 
 clouded by his pensive sadness, but never 
 broken in upon by his caprice. He ap- 
 pears to value his existence only as it is 
 useful to his children and his fellow-crea- 
 tures. But whilst he anxiously contributes 
 to the comfort of all who approach him, 
 he infiicts the pang arising from their con- 
 viction that he wants happiness himself. 
 
 " His family have been wisely and pru- 
 dently governed by my friend, Mrs. F. 
 
 Baxter;
 
 62 
 
 Baxter ; and Fanny is a lovely and amia- 
 ble young woman. I had, a few days since, 
 . a painful proof of the state and temper 
 of Mr. Baxter's mind. A slight cold pre- 
 vented my going with the young people, 
 my husband, and Mrs. F. Baxter, to see a 
 royal review in the park. My friend Mr. 
 Baxter was, like myself, slightly indisposed. 
 We remained in the library, where the 
 collected family had breakfasted. I pro- 
 duced my work-bag, and, in jest, told him 
 we should be good company ; for that I had 
 a cough always ready to answer his ; ' and 
 when we are tired of this harmony,' added 
 I, * you shall read to me.' I thought he 
 saw my purpose with kindness ; and 1 ex- 
 erted my powers of amusement. I suc- 
 ceeded : he appeared easy and cheerfuL 
 Something led me to mention his daughter ; 
 and yielding to the tender, and perhaps 
 partial, love 1 bear her, I enlarged upon 
 her good qualities, her improvement, her 
 temper, and her conduct . . . Casting up my 
 eyes from my work, in order to meet an- 
 
 acquiescent
 
 63 
 
 acquiescent smile, to my confu;ion I saw my 
 friend standing opposite a full length pic- 
 ture of his wife, which filled a pannel in 
 the room. I was struck dumb, and regret- 
 ted my folly . . . After a painful silence, to 
 me, he seemed at once to take up the 
 subject which I had so inadvertently start- 
 ed. ' Yes,' said he mournfully : ' yes, 
 blessed be God ! she is worthy of the sain^ 
 who gave her .... You knew, you loved,* 
 continued he, pointing to the beautiful re- 
 presentation of his wife, * this victim of 
 the' heedless communication of infants .... 
 this unoffending and innocent object of 
 malignancy and imbecility .... this sacri- 
 fice to suspicion and base ingratitude . , ; . 
 You knew her .... Then do not wonder 
 that time has no soothing influence for me.* 
 He covered his face, and burst into tears. 
 I answered him with mine ; to which vexa- 
 tion for my fault gave bitterness. At 
 length I hazarded those arguments which 
 religion and reason enforce as the most 
 consolatory ; and, with all the wamith of 
 
 affection.
 
 64 
 
 affeectlon, urged to him resignation to the 
 divine will, and his constant endeavours for 
 a patient submission to the means appointed 
 to produce the trial of his faith and trust in 
 the Supreme Being. 
 
 " He raised his drooping head, and, look- 
 ing at me with anguish, said, ' There again 
 do you rouse my silent sorrow ! I cannot 
 forgive the monster who hurried to a pre- 
 mature grave the solace, the prop of my 
 life ; for, what has been my existence with- 
 out her ? . . . This \\retch was well acquaint* 
 ed with the circumstances of my fortune. 
 He knew I was an honest man. I had 
 served him in a more perilous exigence of his 
 credit than the one I was under ; and had 
 he been a man, he would have been amongst 
 the first of my friends to have vindicated 
 my honour, and defended my wife from the 
 babbling of fools, and the fears of her own 
 too apprehensive and too tender nature.* 
 ' " He wrung his hands in speechless ago- 
 ny, and then proceeded: ' Had this awful 
 dispensation of Providence met me in its 
 
 ordinary
 
 65 
 
 ordinary manner, I think I could with manly 
 fortitude, and christian patience, have sus- 
 tained it . . . But to be thus separated ! . . . My 
 very faith is shaken by my sorrows ! . . , and I 
 have guilt, as well as grief, to subdue me.* 
 ^He sunk into gloomy silence . . . and left 
 me pensively to reflect on having so incau- 
 tiously awakened his acute feelings, I have, 
 my dear miss Woodley," continued the ami- 
 able Mrs. Litchford, "now to apologize 
 for the tears I have called from your eyes, 
 but I need no apology : they are the just 
 tribute of humanity to a man thus sorrow- 
 ing, and whose excellent life has been shaded 
 by the idle curiosity of a child." 
 
 I shall finish this letter by telling my 
 Eliza, that in the following year I again 
 saw Mrs. Litchford at Mr. Baxter's, in 
 whose family I was become an intimate. 
 She informed me of the death of Mrs. Dor- 
 mer, and the marriage of Maria. Her 
 husband was captain of an American ship, 
 and she left this country with him. Miss 
 Baxter soon after married also ; and on 
 
 that
 
 66 
 
 that event the family retired to a noble 
 estate near Durham, and in the vicinity of 
 that on which resided the young couple . . . 
 Mr. Baxter, as a grandfather, appeared 
 happy. And Mrs. l.itchford informed me, 
 some years after these events had taken 
 place, that, surrounded by his affectionate 
 children, and engaged by a rising family, 
 he was once more the joy of his friends, 
 and still the father and the friend of the 
 unfortunate. Heaven grant that my Eliza,, 
 as far as her confined circle can extend, 
 may at his age have added a similar title 
 to the name, she has derived from her 
 mother, 
 
 Angelica Palmers toneI
 
 67 
 
 Letter III. 
 THE INFLUENCE OF BAD EXAMPLE, 
 
 OB THE 
 
 HISTORY OF MISS SABLE. 
 
 MY DEAR ELIZA, 
 
 You will not, I trust, suspect me of wish- 
 ing to censure without solid and sufficient 
 grounds. I am, perhaps, more gratified by 
 your progress in that which is good and 
 laudable than you are yourself, from be- 
 ing more capable of appreciating the ad- 
 vantages which will result to you in a fu- 
 ture day from the improvement of the 
 present hour. Hut youih and inexperience 
 subject you to error ; and from that it is my 
 duty and my ardent wish lo save you. 
 The instant that you regard my admoni- 
 tions in any other point of view than as 
 friendly CL.utions intended to secure your 
 happiness, you defeat the salutary purpose 
 of my aflPeclionate care ; nay, you do more> 
 
 yo
 
 68 
 
 you convert a real and essential good Into the 
 pernicious means of fostering in your heart 
 discontent, and ingratitude to your best and 
 truest friend. You will insensibly become 
 obstinate, and those indiscretions w'hich now 
 only demand your attention in order to cor- 
 rect them will become incorrigible. 
 
 Young people are naturally unsuspecting 
 and credulous, subject to sudden impulses ; 
 and amongst the dangers to which youth 
 and innocence are exposed, I fear we must 
 place some to the account of these com- 
 mon traits of ingenuous and uncorrupted 
 nature. It is a painful lesson for the child 
 of simplicity to learn, that there is in the 
 world such a thing as guile. Truth and 
 artless confidence reject with disdain the 
 idea of deceit and treachery : they look 
 within their own pure abode, and they 
 pronounce all without to be fair and good. 
 You passed three days in the society of 
 miss Charlotte Standford, and you asserted 
 that she was one of the most amiable and 
 -best disposed girls in the zi'hole world. She 
 
 was
 
 69 
 
 was all perfection; and you felicitated your- 
 self on the pleasure and manifold advantages, 
 you should derive from her being your near 
 neighbour ; and you concluded by saying, 
 " Surely, mamma, the friendship of such a 
 young person as miss Standford is inestima- 
 ble." If I mistake not, one little month only 
 has elapsed since the date of your letter, 
 which contained this eulogy on miss Char- 
 lotte Standford. 
 
 The last time she was with us, I became 
 accidentally acquainted with the motives 
 which led you to pronounce, without any 
 qualifications whatever, miss Standford ' a . 
 verij wicked girl.'' I happened to be in the 
 summer-house when you and your deai- 
 friend passed under the window, which was 
 open. She was expecting her aunt every 
 instant, who was, as you know, to call for 
 
 her in her way to Mrs. B 's, where they 
 
 still remain. You stopped exactly under 
 the window to compose a bouquet, for your 
 favourite, and lamented in very lively terms 
 your approaching separation. " Oh ! do 
 
 not
 
 TO 
 
 not let it vex you," cried your sprightly 
 companion : "in the holidays my aunt will 
 have you at the Lodge : she says that she will 
 take no denial from Mrs. Palmerstone : we 
 shall then have a whole month's enjoyment, 
 and nothing to do, or to think of, but plea- 
 sure." You laughed, and said, " A week's 
 such holidays would tire me to death ; for 
 I have been so accustomed to fill up my 
 time, that idleness seems to me the dullest 
 thing in the world." "What!" asked 
 Charlotte with vivacity, "do you never 
 find a holiday pleasant ? " " Oh yes," an- 
 swered you with nan etc, " when I earn 
 one by my diligence ; for then I pass more 
 hours with my mother and grandfather in 
 the evening." "Well," said your giddy 
 friend, " it is amazing to me, how you 
 contrive to keep up your spirits under such 
 continual restraints : I should hate such a mo- 
 ther as yours.** The roses dropped from 
 your hand; and with honest resentment 
 you turned to your indiscreet companion, 
 saying, ** Miss Standford, you have very 
 
 much
 
 71 
 
 much deceived me ; I am very angry ; and 
 I shall never forget or forgive what you 
 have said.** She attempted to divert your 
 displeasure, and said, " Nonsense!... Who 
 but you would take offence where none was 
 meant? If you be satisfied with being in 
 the stocks from morning to night, it is no- 
 thing to me : I only know that I could not 
 and would not submit.'* You instantly took 
 the path to the house, observing, ' you 
 believed that I should be waiting for you.* 
 
 I have, my dear Eliza, been thus circum- 
 stantial in my account of this scene, for two 
 reasons : the first is, to give you the plea- 
 sure of knowing that you had, though un- 
 consciously, given to your mother a test of 
 your affection and principles, which filled 
 her heart with joy and hope : the second 
 arises from your having preferred for the 
 confidante of your change of opinion rela- 
 tive to miss Standford, your maid servant to 
 your mother. 
 
 Betty told me this morning, or a secret, 
 that she fancied you and miss Charlotte 
 
 had
 
 72 
 
 had not parted friends ; for that, after she 
 had quitted the house, you went to your 
 room, and Betty found you weeping ; that, 
 supposing you regretted the loss of your 
 hvely companion, she began to console you, 
 by saying- that you would soon meet again ; 
 when, to her surprise, you answered, "I hope, 
 Betty, I shall not meet miss Standford any 
 more. She is a very wicked, dangerous 
 girl; and I am only astonished that I ever 
 liked her." "I pressed miss Palmerstone," 
 continued the worthy girl, " to tell me what 
 had happened : but she only said, 'Pray do 
 not ask me any questions. I cannot bear to 
 hear her name, nor that my mamma should 
 know how little I understood this girl's true 
 character.' '* 
 
 I will not interrupt the course of this let- 
 ter by animadverting on your reposing 
 your confidence rather in Betty's prudence 
 than mine. I am willing to believe that this 
 preference arose from your delicacy, in spar- 
 ing to me an evidence that 1 was thought, 
 even hy a miss Charlotte Standford^ a too 
 
 austere
 
 73 
 
 austere and rigid governess. But my de 
 sign is to examine, whether there has not en - 
 tered into your prudence for me a Ja/se 
 shame, and a reluciance to the confession 
 that your judgement of miss Standford had 
 been too hastily pronounced ; and that from 
 your sudden partiality in her favour, and as 
 sudden dislike of her, might not arise a 
 well-grounded suspicion that you were ca- 
 pricious and childish. Your self-love has 
 taken the alarm ; and you are not only dis- 
 pleased with Charlotte for not kno^ving 
 Mrs. Palmerstone better, but also for pla- 
 cing Eliza Palmerstone in the humiliating 
 predicament of being obliged to confess 
 that she is liable to error. Yet^, my be- 
 loved child, your moiher tells you, that 
 your first mistake relative to Charlotte's 
 pretensions to your kindness is much more 
 entitled to lenity than the latter, which so 
 severely condemns her. It is not easy at 
 any period of lilet'j judge of our fLilovv- 
 creatures' claims to our esteem and confi- 
 dence. Appearances are always more or 
 VOL. I. E less
 
 less deceitful, when taken by youth and 
 inexperience as unerring guides to conclu- 
 sions which inclination directs. You were 
 pleased with the apparent good nature and 
 harmless gaiety of Charlotte Standford. 
 You were won by her kindness to you, de- 
 lighted by having within your reach a friend 
 of your o\Mi age ; and further stimulated 
 by a good heart, and the incident at tlie 
 cottage which so honourably bore testimony 
 of her humanity to the poor, you pro- 
 nounced her Jhultless, and " the very best 
 girl in the world." Yielding to resentment 
 and vexation on discovering that she was 
 not Jciullless, you have pronounced her 
 '' a very wicked and dangerous girl." But 
 the truth is, my Eliza, she is neither the 
 one nor the other of these characters ; but 
 is of that class of beings to whom you and 
 myself belong, and with whom as social 
 beings we must live. Charlotte's cheerful 
 good humour and heedless vivacity consti- 
 tute at present her merit, and also her crime. 
 When she said tnat she hated your mo- 
 ther,
 
 75 
 
 ther, she only meant to express her aver- 
 sion to restraint, and rooted dislike to those 
 avocations which have improvement for 
 their object. Time is necessary in order to 
 determine our judgement in regard to this 
 young creature's future character; but I 
 will boldly predict, that neither a good 
 understanding nor a good heart will secure 
 her safety, unless she can acquire the habits 
 of industry, and of obedience and docility to 
 those whom God has appointed for the 
 guides of her youth, and who, it may be pre- 
 sumed, are wiser as well as more experienced 
 than herself. 
 
 This little incident has, however, an im- 
 portant lesson annexed to it, and my Eliza 
 will, I trust, profit from ir. Experience 
 will rectify these mistakes of a youthful en- 
 thusiasm : but she is often a very severe 
 monitress ; and it not unfrequently hap- 
 pens, that she arrives too late to save our 
 tranquillity and our innocence. Profit then, 
 my child, from her lessons, under the se- 
 E 2 curity
 
 76 
 
 curity of a parent's love and milder in- 
 structions. 
 
 There are many people in the world 
 who may be said to have no character at all : 
 such will neither interest nor offend you. 
 But there are still more from whom you 
 ought always to hold yourself at a distance, 
 until you have examined their opinions, 
 their sentiments, but above all their con- 
 duct : for, incredible as it may appear to 
 you, some will mislead you from motives of 
 envy ; others from the suggestions of a base 
 Interest ; others again, from having n6 prin- 
 ciples of virtue in themselves, and from 
 having therefore ceased to respect it in their 
 intercourse with the world around them ; 
 and multitudes are to be met with, who, from 
 ignorance, will lead you into the paths of 
 vice, or, from the inconsideration and levity 
 of their own minds_, will conduct yours to a 
 servile and senseless submission to the follies 
 of fashionable life. 
 
 Three simple rules I now offer to you ; 
 
 persuaded
 
 persuaded as I am that they contain in 
 them no contemptible preservatives for that 
 youth and simplicity so much the object 
 oi my solicitude. I entreat you, my dear 
 child, to consider them with attention, and 
 carefully to rerain them ip your mind. 
 
 1st, Consider from whom the advice 
 comes which claims your attention, and, it 
 may be, meets your inclination. Are they 
 entitled, by their age, by their situation and 
 experience of life, by their knowledge, and 
 the interest they ought to have in your 
 happiness, to iaiplicit confidence? 
 
 2dly, Is the advice given, such as, with- 
 out any reluctance or concealment, you 
 would communicate to your mother, or to 
 any other tried and sure friend ? 
 
 3dly, Is the advice given more calcu- 
 lated to flatter your inclinations than to 
 repress them ? aud, Does it contain mo- 
 tives for practising the poor subterfuges of 
 cunning, or incitements to disobedience ? 
 
 Your adherence to the first of these 
 rules, ind.ed I may include a!i, depends on 
 
 vour
 
 7S 
 
 your firmness and discretion. Remember 
 that ignorance cannot guide you. Wiih 
 secrecy is ahvays to be implied something 
 wrong to conceal : and when inclinaiion 
 meets the counsel to deceive^ be at once on 
 your guard. The last caution powerfully 
 calls upon you for all the principles of your 
 mind ; and a forgetfulness of these will con- 
 duct you to a precipice from which, perhaps, 
 no friendly hand may be able to save you, 
 or shelter you from the arrogant triumph 
 of those who directed your inexperienced 
 and deviating steps, and who will exult in 
 your fall. But it is certain, if your life be 
 preserved, (and we will presume to trust to 
 Providence for its continuance,) that you 
 will have, and that very soon, your part 
 and your place in this mixed scene. The 
 question ought to be, and I think will na- 
 turally arise in my Eliza's mind. What is 
 the course that will best secure me from the 
 snares of the wicked, arid the dangers of the 
 heedless ? I anvswer, A decided character, 
 built on the principles of religion, and sup- 
 ported
 
 79 
 
 purteJ by a well exercised reason. With 
 these guards you will be safe. Your con- 
 duct, nor your censures, will put folly to the 
 blush ; and vice will retire iVom your severe, 
 but not uncharitable, rebukes. Be prepared 
 to encounter in your journey through 
 life those dangers common to tiie children 
 of dust: pity weiJiiicss, error and igno- 
 rance : seek in your own breast the apolo- 
 gy these will need ; remembering that you 
 are under no other obligation at present than 
 to correct your own faults : your post is not 
 that of pubhc or private censor. 
 
 I believe there is no better guide to the 
 knowledge of our own characters, than that 
 of impartially and strictly examining tho 
 motives which influence us v/hcn we yield 
 to the temptation of exposing the foibles 
 or condemning the moral deviations of our 
 fellow-creatures ; for of one truth we are 
 certain : Pure and genuine virtue is gentle 
 and forbearing : phe neither heedlessly cen- 
 sures, nor harshly reprobate^'. Steady in 
 her own allotted path, she cm from afar 
 
 s;;e
 
 80 
 
 see the hapless wanderer, and with pity will 
 recall her steps if it be possible. She^knows 
 the peril of that chart also, in which too much 
 confidence may lead to destruction, and where 
 too much caution and suspicion must check 
 the courage of the adventurer, and unnerve 
 him in a course by which alone the end and 
 purpose of rational existence can be attained. 
 I send you, my beloved and still innocent 
 girl, a little narrative, which will, I trust, 
 inculcate more strongly than my precepts 
 those lessons of caution ; for it is a painful 
 office, my child, to draw aside the veil which 
 conceals from the pure of heart the defects 
 of human conduct, to chill the unsuspect- 
 ing confidence of ingenuous youth, and to 
 strip virtue of that garland which her youth- 
 ful votaries imagine must distinguish her in 
 this world, and bloom unfaded to eternity. 
 Alas ! my child, these sanguine hopes must 
 be disappointed : but the christian faith un- 
 folds the future scene ; and we have only 
 to press forward and receive the recom- 
 pense of well doing, by following the steps 
 
 of
 
 81 
 
 of him who is our leader and our salvation, 
 and who has prepared us to meet contra- 
 diction and offence from evil doers. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sabie were a very amiable 
 and virtuous couple. They had married 
 young ; and it might be said with truth 
 that they entered into active hfe at the same 
 time : for they had till their union lived 
 very retired, and in a part of the country 
 very remote from London. Their parents, 
 with more rigid prudence than good sense, 
 had debarred them from the amusements 
 within their reach ; and to this injudicious 
 prohibition it was probably owing that they 
 regarded the death of their parents as 
 somewhat like an emancipation from capti- 
 vity, and thought of little with an interest 
 equal to what they felt in the opportunity 
 of gratifying their curiosity and taste by the 
 plcisurcs ol the capital. They found them- 
 selves freed from every restraint but the 
 gentle one of mutual affection, vvhicn im- 
 posed no alloy on their sanguine and e:\j?r 
 hopes of pleasure. They v/ere soon m;\- 
 E 5 biio'ic 1
 
 82 
 
 blished in London, in that style and with 
 those accommodations which an abundant 
 fortune so easily commands every where. 
 With false estimates of life, with imagina- 
 tions warm and unchecked, with all the 
 gequine features of uncorrupted nature, and 
 the confidence of youth, they commenced 
 their fashionable career. Friends multipli- 
 ed daily ; Mrs. Sable's parties became bril- 
 liant and numerous ; the winter flew on 
 downy wings ; Bath in the spring, and 
 Brighton in the summer, succeeded ; until 
 fashion and their friends recalled them to 
 town. Some few years at length dispelled 
 this delusion. Mrs. Sable's delicate health 
 yielded to the effects of late hours and 
 crowded apartments, and declined daily ; 
 Mr. Sable found London expensive^ and 
 his steward a stupid fellow. They discover- 
 ed, what this honest man had perceived for 
 some time, that they had wasted their for- 
 tune to please others more than themselves; 
 that they had distinguished by the title 
 of friendsj their idle associates in amuse- 
 ment ;
 
 83 
 
 ment ; that they had been pillaged by their 
 servants, had been the dupes of fools, and 
 the pity of the wise and respectable. 
 
 They now looked back on the safe re- 
 treat which had been the scene of their hap- 
 py days, and which they had with such im- 
 provident haste quitted for balls and private 
 suppers, crowded with guests whose very 
 faces and names they were strangers to. 
 Happily, with these convictions of their so- 
 ber thoughts, they found their integrity and 
 honour still unimpeached ; and they resolved 
 on quitting London. They mentioned their 
 intention to their general society ; and the 
 motives of it, to such as shared their more 
 particular confidence and domestic enjoy- 
 ments. The malicious pity of the first, and 
 the wretched and base expedients suggest- 
 ed by the latter, stung their sensibihty to 
 the quick, and roused to indignation the 
 natural rectitude of their minds. All the 
 gay and delusive ideas they had adopted of 
 the world vanished, and made room for 
 more sober and just impressions. But with 
 
 these
 
 84 
 
 these entered conclusions not less erroneous 
 than those they had so indignantly discard- 
 ed : they now persuaded themselves that 
 there was neither truth nor friendship in the 
 human heart, because they had not found 
 them in the haunts of fashion, nor in the 
 senseless round of dissipation. The death 
 of a great-uncle at tliis crisis- placed Mr. 
 Sable once mere at his ease in pecuniary 
 matters. This relation he had never seen : 
 his character was singular, and his taste ro- 
 mantic : with very superior talents, he had 
 acquired opinions which opened his heart 
 to ambition. His career in life was ho- 
 nourable till he arrived at his fortieth year : 
 btit it never reached his views or hopes. 
 Disappointed in his expectations of a post 
 which he had long solicited, and which he 
 had regarded as all thai was necessary to his 
 well supported claims for reputation and 
 advancement, he retired with dignity 
 from that he enjoyed, and, disgusted with 
 the world, sought his paternal estate in one 
 of the most beautiful spots in North Wales. 
 
 His
 
 His chagrin insensibly gave place to his fan- 
 cy, and he soon raised a paradise about him. 
 The house had the simple appearance of a 
 thatched farm ; and old Mr. Stable, with 
 scrupulous attention, gave to all that sur- 
 rounded it the same modest traits. But his 
 taste was not confined to simplicity in the 
 decorations within the house : these were 
 elegant ; and a Ubrary that would have 
 graced a palace was the common sitting- 
 room of Mr. Sable. His unsocial temper, 
 and the singular retirement of the spot, pro- 
 cured him the name of the Hermit, and his 
 habitation was known by no other title than 
 the Hermitage. He v^'as attended by four 
 Welch servants, and, on an annual income 
 of five hundred pounds, grew rich without 
 care, forgetting and forgotten. Near as 
 the connexion of blood was, it may be 
 presumed that the features of the two Mr. 
 Sables' minds had also a near affinity and 
 resemblance ; for the young man deter- 
 mined on living as much the recluse as his 
 uncle had done. Mrs. Sable loved her hus- 
 band
 
 86 
 
 band tenderly ; their mutual errors had 
 united more powerfully their hearts and 
 their opinions. 
 
 Her health was become extremely deli- 
 cate ; and repose and tranquillity, whilst 
 they renewed her strength, confirmed daily 
 her taste for retirement, and her husband*s 
 relish for the pursuits of the garden and his 
 little farm. They had also a blessing not 
 overlooked in their new arrangements : to 
 this they turned with fond delight, as the 
 object that would banish from their retreat 
 all that retirement iias to apprehend ; and 
 they exulted in a prospect that offered them 
 a secure shelter from the storms of life and 
 the treachery of man, and in which their 
 innocent child would share their safety and 
 their peace. Caroline Sable was four years 
 old when her parents reached the Hermit- 
 age. They had taken no servants with 
 them : and Caroline on her arrival found 
 that she had a new language to learn ; for, 
 except by an old woman who had for many 
 years been housekeeper, not a word of 
 
 En glish
 
 87 
 
 English v^'as spoken or understood. The 
 little Caroline soon acquired that, which cost 
 her father and mother both time and labour; 
 and she was highly flattered in being for a 
 season the commbn interpreter to the fa- 
 mily. Mrs. Sable now devoted her time to 
 her child. She diligently applied every 
 talent she possessed to the improvement of 
 Caroline. These were by no means incom- 
 petent to the duty ; and they enlarged in 
 proportion as they were exercised. Con* 
 tent shed its balmy influence, renewed 
 health invigorated the feeble frame of Mrs. 
 Sable, and the happy husband blessed the 
 hour that had thus insured his comforts. 
 Seven or eight years passed tranquilly over 
 this happy child. She grew in native sim- 
 plicity and sportive ease : no temptation 
 assailed her, no evil came near her dwellln'r : 
 placid and serene, contented and cheerful, 
 she met the kindness of her parents, in 
 whom she saw the mild virtues which she 
 copied. 
 
 To deceive, or to be deceived, was a lesson 
 
 that
 
 Is 
 
 that never reached her. To siiccour the 
 wretched was the recompense of her docility, 
 and the society of her parents included in it 
 -all the pleasure and joy she coveted. The 
 sudden death of Mrs. Sable broke down this 
 fragile structure of happiness and security. 
 An ulcerated sore-throat hurried this ami- 
 able woman to her grave ; and Mr. Sable, 
 yielding without resistance to the unexpect- 
 ed blow, was delirious and in the utmost 
 danger. The good housekeeper, unequal 
 to such exigences, sought the advice of the 
 rector of a large town son-^e miles distant 
 from the Hemitage, with whom she had 
 lived in her youth, and who had recom- 
 mended her to old Mr. Sable. Doctor 
 Floyde and his lady answered Mrs. Gwyn's 
 letter in person, and by their humane atten- 
 tions probably saved the unhappy father 
 of poor Caroline. 
 
 Engaged by their goodness, and soothed 
 by their sympathy, Mr. Sable once more 
 opened his heart to the consolations and 
 comforts of friendship. He solicited their 
 
 society.
 
 89 
 
 society, and from that time their intercourse 
 became intimate. In the following spring 
 Mr. Sable was prevailed upon, by the im- 
 portunities of his worthy friends, to visit 
 tlie continent, in order to re-establii>h his 
 health, and to divert that melancholy vihich 
 they saw with concern yielded but slowly 
 to the influence of time, or to their salutary 
 eflforts. The expediency of placing Ca- 
 roline in a good school was strenuously 
 urged by Mrs. Floyde, and every advan- 
 tage she might be expected to reap from 
 such a change in her situation was placed 
 against that absence from whi(:h her fond fa- 
 ther shrunk. At length he reluctantly yield- 
 ed ; and placing his daughter in a well recom- 
 mended school near London, and providing 
 with anxious solicitude for her comforts, and 
 even her v/ishes, he set out for Calais. 
 
 The kindness of the Udy to whose care 
 Caroline was con^i-^med soon dissipated her 
 fust emotions of sorrow on losing sight of 
 her father. The novelty of her situation 
 diverted her inindj her companions amused 
 
 her;
 
 90 
 
 her ; and above all, her bcd'fL4Iovv sympa- 
 thized with her in the frequent and secret 
 tears she shed to the memory of her mother. 
 Xxliss Parker was her friend, her consolation ; 
 and the guileless Caroline opened her whole 
 heart to this amiable inmate. But it was to 
 perfidy and meanness that she had consigned 
 her honest love. 
 
 Mr. Sable had been profuse in his atten- 
 tions to his darling Caroline. He had 
 given her, with a purse liberally filled, a 
 number ' of little trinkets of her mother's : 
 and miss Parker, although not older than 
 miss Sable, was much more cunning ; she 
 saw at once all the profits that would arise 
 from her attaching herself to a girl who 
 valued money only as the means of serving 
 and obliging others, and who affixed no 
 consequence to the trinkets, because she 
 had her mother's picture always in her 
 bosom. She therefore sedulously endea- 
 voured to gain the love and gratitude of 
 the artless Caroline ; and, with tliese, easily 
 drew from her several presents not inconsi- 
 derable
 
 91 
 
 (lerable iii their value. This generosity on 
 the one hand, and the apparent design on 
 the other, were not unobserved in the school. 
 Combinations were hatched to destroy the 
 influence of miss Parker, with the view of 
 sharing in the spoils. Poor Caroh'ne, who 
 knew not that envy and malice, selfishness 
 and falsehood, had their votaries of all ages, 
 and in all conditions, repeated to her injured 
 friend the cautions and the charges which 
 the young ladies had communicated to her 
 in order to lessen the regard and kindness 
 that subsisted between them. She was 
 somewhat surprised to find that miss Parker 
 laughed at her seriousness, and braved the 
 malice of the girls ; and was utterly con- 
 founded when, on their being taxed by her 
 friend v;ith having spoken ill of her, she heard 
 them with effrontery deny what they had 
 repeatedly told her. This storm was, how- 
 ever, scon appeased. Miss Parker still tri- 
 uinpiied : but her gentle and insidious in- 
 fluence now gave place to assumed power, 
 and she taught poor Caroline to fear her. 
 
 The
 
 9S 
 
 The purse of miss Sable uas not inexhaus- 
 tible : she had shared her last guinea with 
 her friend : repayment had been the con- 
 dition. Absolute poverty brought this 
 promise to Caroline's memory. She had 
 seen the weekly friiit-and cake- basket shared, 
 "without her participation, by those who 
 purchased its contents with her money. 
 Miss Parker displayed, with much ostenta- 
 tion, a guinea that her aunt, as usual, had 
 given her, on calling to see her ; and Caro- 
 line joyfully saw her difficulties removed. 
 She timidly reminded miss Parkef of her 
 engagement, and requested that she would 
 pay her the half -guinea she had borrowed. 
 Judge of the sensations of this innocent girl 
 when she heard miss Purker firmly disown 
 having ever received sixpence from her ! 
 The poor ^.i\r\ actually became faint and ill. 
 Her indispocirion, and the cause of it, in- 
 'st<^nily reached the gcverries!>'s ear, who, 
 with the most cmxious attention, sought to 
 know the truth of the matter. Unfortunately 
 bhe mistook the brushes of resentment and 
 
 terror
 
 93 
 
 terror for those of guilt, and poor Caroline 
 was more than the sii pJcLcd culprit. The 
 attendant ladies of tiie honso saw not ihe 
 business in the same point of view. One of 
 them, from whom I received this account, 
 was perfectly acquainted with miss Parker's 
 talents and happy address, and possessed 
 sufficient discernment to have investigated 
 the truth in a different way, had she had 
 the authority. But in this instance, as in 
 many others, the offence was better known 
 than the offender. 
 
 It had not unfrequently happened, during 
 this period, that the teachers referred them- 
 selves to the mild and simple Caroline for 
 that truth which they wished to discover. 
 They had applied to her in doubtful and 
 ambiguous circumstances, because they were 
 certain of sincere and unqualified truth. 
 This might be useful to them ; but it was 
 inconvenient to miss Sable. She was up- 
 braided by the sufferer, called a tell-tale by 
 her school-fellows, and fell into neglect and 
 contempt. Insensibly these consequences 
 
 produced
 
 94 
 
 produced their efiects. She grew more 
 ckcumspect, answered evasively, suppressed 
 the truth, and at length gave up her inte- 
 grity, by deviating into falsehoods in order 
 to screen her companions from reproof and 
 shame, and to secure to herself their kind- 
 ness. What was at first their profit and 
 security became in time her own ; and 
 she ceased to make any scruple of availing 
 herself of those pitiful subterfuges which 
 she once regarded as an indelible stain on 
 that mind which for a rtioment could stoop 
 to employ them. The innocence of miss 
 Sable vtas now more than invaded : the 
 first and great barrier was broken down ; 
 and she who could escape punishment by 
 telling an untruth v/as not likely to avoid 
 that misconduct which would otherwise 
 have called for correction. I shall finish the 
 history of her depravity with one more trait. 
 Amongst the assistant masters who at- 
 tended the school was a poor asthmatic and 
 deformed man. He was distinguished by 
 his skill in drawing and writing, and not 
 
 less
 
 95 
 
 less for his mild and patient assiduity in the 
 improvement of his pupils. The young 
 ladies very ingeniously found out that this 
 worthy man, when provoked by their im- 
 pertinence, stammered, and made \eiry di- 
 verting contortions of countenance. To 
 make Mr. Powel stammer became the joke 
 of the hour. Caroline's excellent nature 
 for a long time revolted against this cruel 
 and insi'Mng indecorum : at length it yield- 
 ed ; and she enjoyed , in her turn, the supreme 
 pleasure of wringii;; from industry and ta- 
 lents the sweetest rect::npense they know 
 namely, peace and \\\l merited praise. 
 The amiable lady to whom .1 before alluded 
 told me that she had laboured to prevent 
 this cruel levity ; that with her remon- 
 strances she had used arguments of the most 
 serious weight. She informed the ladies 
 that this unfortunate man's personal infirmi- 
 ties arose from his having had, at an early 
 period of his Hfe, a paralytic stroke ; and 
 that from thence it happened that every 
 sudden emotion or vexation produced the 
 
 effects
 
 96 
 
 effects which they had noticed. She there- 
 fore entreated them to spare him in future, 
 and to remember that his heahh and life 
 depended on the composure of his mind ; 
 that he had four children to support, and 
 had lately lost an excellent wife ; which had 
 greatly contributed to that irritation of 
 nerves w hich so much excited their idle cu- 
 riosity and unfeeling mirth. "I confess, ma- 
 dam," redded the amiable young woman, 
 wlien she had finished this affecting story, " I 
 gave up miss Caroline Sable from the hour 
 I discovered that these addidonal motives 
 for consideration were lost upon her, and 
 that she was totally unmindful of them the 
 liext time Mr. Powel attended." 
 ~ At the expiration of three years Mr. 
 Sable returned with exulting joy to meet 
 his child, and future prop in life. She struck 
 his admiring eyes with all the exterior 
 charms cf youth, and with all the graces of 
 a highly-finished person. Her accomplish 
 ments announcer! the taste and attention of 
 those who had supci intended her education ; 
 
 and, '
 
 y,, I, 
 
 97 
 
 and, elate with hope, he conducted heir to 
 the Hermitage, in order to enjoy undisturbed 
 for some time his restored treasure. But 
 that retreat was no less changed in the eyes 
 of Caroline, than she was become an unfit 
 inmate of it. Her tender father saw her 
 discontent, and eagerly sought for her those 
 amusements within their reach. These were 
 .such as the county town afforded ; and he 
 was neither displeased nor surprised by the 
 avidity with which she engaged in them, 
 A young ensign whom she had occasionally 
 danced with at the assembly became very 
 assiduous in his attentions to the beautiful 
 Caroline, and so troublesome a visitor to the 
 father, that he expressed his disapprobation 
 of him in express terms to his daughter, and 
 not much less ambiguously to the gallant by 
 the coldness and reserve of his behaviour. 
 Caroline, who it is more than probable was 
 at first attracted by the only merit he had, 
 a genteel person and a scarlet coat, found in 
 the disapprobation of her father a stimulus 
 to her growing attachment j and, soon after 
 VOL. I. p she
 
 98 
 
 she had reached her eighteenth year, left 
 clandestinely the natural guardian of her 
 happiness and honour to reflect alone on the 
 deviating child of his hopes and cares. But 
 Mr. Sable's heart was not formed for un- 
 pitying resentment. . He received his peni- 
 tent daughter, a widow at twenty-three years 
 of age, with an infant at her breast, and 
 sinking under distress and fatigue. He re- 
 ceived her like a ministering angel, and 
 soothed her with -3^ parent's love. 
 
 " We have/' said he, " both erred ; and 
 we have both suffered. , In the duties we 
 owe to this helpless being, we will mutually 
 engage to rectify our mistakes. You will 
 teach her what is the bitterness of that re- 
 pentance which follows abandoning a parent 
 to gratify a transient inclination, which, in 
 most instances, derives its strength more 
 from opposition than from any decided 
 preference of the heart. I will, if Heaven 
 permit, impart to her, with the examples of 
 virtue, a knowledge of those dangers that 
 lie in wait to surprise her.'* " Yes," added 
 
 he
 
 99 
 
 he with emotions he couiJ not suppress, 
 " she shall be taught by me to understand 
 that ' the innocence of the dove must in this 
 world's warfare be defended by the wisdom' 
 of the serpent ;* to know that vice lurks in 
 every path, and that virtue has to combat 
 with a host of foes. Alas! my dear Ca- 
 roline, 7/ our guides did only half their duty : 
 restored to peace themselves by their escape 
 from the snares and dangers of the world, 
 they forgot that you had your destined course 
 through its perils. This precious child 
 shall be made acquainted with its specious 
 allurements and fallacious promises. Re- 
 ligion shall be her shield, and we will be her 
 defence, till with steady feet she can stand 
 the onset of passion and the attacks of sin." 
 The unfortunate Caroline Sable had been 
 perverted ; but the early impressions of vir- 
 tue were not erased. She lived some years 
 after her husband's decease : but her health 
 and spirits were broken by a repentance 
 rendered more acute by the proofs she daily 
 , F 2 received
 
 100 
 
 received of her father's undiminished affec- 
 tion. She saw that his cheerfulness was 
 often assumed ; and, in his tenderness, a 
 constant apprehension lest she should think 
 him unhappy. The confidence resulting 
 from undeviating duty was lost, and a se- 
 cret regret poisoned poor Caroline's com- 
 forts. In her last Illness she particularly re- 
 commended T^iiss Lexford, the teacher in the 
 boarding' school where she had been placed, 
 to her father*s notic^, and mentioned with 
 emotion the supe/Ior talents and experience 
 of this young woman. " As a proof of her 
 merit,'* added she, " I loved her till I was 
 unworthy of her regard ; I then feared her 
 penetration ; but never could arraign her 
 justice, or complain of her severity." She 
 was invited to the Hermitage immediately 
 after Caroline's death, and had resided with 
 Mr. Sable some years, when I accidentally 
 met her with her pupil at a friend's house, 
 where we passed a month with reciprocal 
 satisfaction. 
 
 I have
 
 101 
 
 I have only time this morning to recom- 
 mend the little story before you to your 
 serious attention, and remain' 
 
 Your affectionate mother, 
 Angelica Palmerstone. 
 
 Letter.
 
 lt)2 
 
 Letter IV. 
 BEAUTY AND UGLINESS, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE SICK CHILD. 
 
 MY DEAR ELIZA, 
 
 1 HE Other day,\vhen Mrs. Maitland and her 
 daughter left us, you remarked, in a tone 
 of pity and much good will, how sorry you 
 were to see misvS Maitland so much altered 
 for the worse in her person : '* I think,** 
 added you, " she is one of the plainest girls 
 I ever saw. Do you not think her unfortu- 
 nate with respect to her outward appear- 
 ance ? I am afraid she uill be very crook- 
 ed " I replied, ' that I had not perceived 
 :irv ground for that fear,' and, what was 
 n^O! c, dissented from your general opinion 
 n.lative to her person. Although I allowed 
 ' .hat she had neither regularity of I'eatures, 
 nor a good complexivon, yet I maintained 
 tiiut her countenance h.ad in it an animation 
 
 and
 
 103 
 
 and a character extremely prepossessing, and 
 which perfectly agreed with the accounts I 
 had heard of her amiable temper and good 
 sense ; and that it would not surprise me to 
 see her, at eighteen, pleasing in regard to her 
 person, and the accomplished young woman 
 Mrs. Maitland was so amply qualified to 
 render her.' Whilst waiting for your reply, 
 I saw you absorbed in contemplating an 
 image reflected fioui a mirror opposite to 
 you, and which, to say the truth, exhi- 
 bited more of the graces of nature than the 
 face or person of miss Maitland. Your 
 music-master interrupted your reverie, and 
 prevented my comments on the subject of 
 it. And yet, my child, the reflections it 
 awakened in my mind were not less import- 
 ant and serious than yours were flattering 
 and comolacent. 
 
 1 
 
 We will now examine the ground on- 
 which rest our opposite sentiments, and in- 
 quire into the reasons which have lessened my 
 admiration of a beautiful person. Amongst 
 others, I can produce one which will diminish 
 
 the
 
 104 
 
 the value of this prerogative, even in your 
 estimation ; for I will prove to you, that 
 the woman whom above all others you 
 think charming, and call fascinating, is one 
 of the plainest in person and features of any 
 who visit me. What think you of your 
 favourite and "dear Mrs. Beaumont?" 
 Have you ever critically examined the de- 
 fects of her shape, or remarked her sallow 
 complexion, unaided as it is but by her fine 
 intelligent black eyes ? Has the irregularity 
 of her features never drawn from you the 
 pity and compassion miss Maitland excited 
 so powerfully in your mind ? I see your 
 surprise, and the dissent of your judgement 
 from mine. For, you do not think Mrs. 
 Beaumont an ugly woman, though not a 
 beautiful one ; and you cannot admit that 
 this lady answers to my description : but 
 be assured, no one who looks at Mrs. Beau- 
 mont with attention will deny the resem- 
 blance ; and by strangers she is constantly 
 regarded as a very plain woman. You have 
 lived in the habit of seeing her every day. 
 
 She
 
 105 
 
 She has, by her winning sweetness and cheer- 
 fulness, gained your heart. She has im- 
 posed upon you, Eliza, as she does on all 
 who know her : for she exhibits virtue and 
 the graces ; and by these subdues all hearts, 
 and enchants all eyes. You have seen miss 
 Maitland only once during the two last 
 years: when you hav^ seen and conversed 
 with her for two or three months, we will 
 decide on her defects and pretensions. 
 
 We will next turn our eyes on an acknow- 
 ledged beauty. What do you think of Mrs. 
 Watkins ? I cannot now be mistaken in 
 my example ; for you have not forgotten 
 the impression she made on you last year, 
 when she entered my drawing-room as a 
 bride. The circle was large ; and every 
 one rose to receive the " celebrated beauty:" 
 all eyes gazed on her with delight, and 
 yours were of the number. Curiosity and 
 admiration suspended, for a time, me con- 
 siderations of politeness ; and each gentle- 
 man forgot that, in this tribute to her 
 charms, he might wound her dehc^cy, ai.d 
 i-' 5. ' ' . J
 
 106 
 
 offend her good sense. She has since that 
 time been a frequent visitor here, and with 
 the same society. She is^ if it be possible, 
 more beautiful ; and yet we are all quiet 
 when she enters, and at our ease when she 
 departs. To what cause is it owing that 
 Mrs. Watkins has now so few occasions of 
 censuring that admiration, once so distressing 
 and embarrassing to her modesty ? Shall I 
 tell you ? or will you tell me ? We have 
 seen her as often as we wish : you keep your 
 station at Mrs. Beaumont's elbow, and I 
 content myself with arranging her card- 
 table as soon as possible. We have gratified 
 our curiosity ; we are weary of lookiiig, and 
 seek amusement elsewhere. But be not de- 
 ceived : it is not altogether to the cold hi- 
 sifyidity of this lady that you are to attri- 
 bute this effect : there is another cause 
 which acts independently of this, and which 
 never fails to weaken the impressions of 
 beauty, as well as of deformity. All that is 
 familiar to the senses ceases tp be the object 
 of admiration, or disgust; and for this rea- 
 son
 
 107 
 
 son is it that we are so often the dupes of 
 novelty, and the slaves of whim and fashion. 
 Let us then consider Mrs. Watkins as mere- 
 ly a beautiful object. Under this point of 
 view, she resembles a fine painting, which 
 every one approaches with curiosity and 
 pleasure. A few examinations of it gratify 
 the one, and lessen the other ; but it still 
 obtrudes, and we begin to assume the pro- 
 vince of critics, perhaps with the sole view 
 of repaying to our self-love that homage 
 it had been surprised into in favour of 
 another. Be this as it may, the piece is 
 now judged defective ; it wants colouring ; 
 k is overcharged ; and the ccintour is stiff 
 and unnatural. These censures have their 
 day, and in a little time even this interest 
 sinks : we neither look at it nor talk of it, 
 and it is equally forgotten with our family 
 portraits consigned to an apartment which 
 we never enter. 
 
 Mrs. Beaumont has none of the attractions 
 of beauty : her person is as defective as her 
 ice ; she neither excites emotion, nor calls 
 
 forth
 
 108 
 
 forth any curiosity. The eye of the stranger 
 passes in an instant in search of a more plea- 
 sing object. Chance places him near her : 
 he is struck with the s6und of a voice har- 
 monized by nature, and expressing, in cor- 
 respondent tones, the quick and varied ideas 
 of a lively and correct imagination : he 
 listens to her language ; he hears the spright- 
 ly sallies of her wit, chastened by modesty 
 and checked by good nature : he drav^'s 
 nearer, and finds himself mixed with the 
 grave and the gay, with the young and the 
 old, whom she has attracted around her ; 
 and, forgetting his first impressions, he is 
 only soHcitous concerning his future ad- 
 mission to a place which merit embellishes, 
 and in which his taste will be gratified. 
 
 I do not think Mrs. Beaumont would 
 gain a single advantage by having the shape 
 and face of a Mrs, IVatkins. The ascend- 
 ency she now has over our understandings 
 and our hearts would be rather weakened 
 than increased by her being beautiful : we 
 might suspect that we were deceived by our 
 
 senses.
 
 109 
 
 senses, rather than subdued by a merit 
 which reflects honour on those who are ca- 
 pable of appreciating its worth. 
 
 I believe I have never informed you of 
 the circumstances which first connected me 
 with this amiable woman, whose friendship 
 I regard as one of the peculiar blessings of 
 my life, and whose partiality I account as 
 the most flattering distinction of my for- 
 tune. 
 
 I accompanied my mother, two or three 
 years before I married, to Matlock. As 
 you saw this beautiful spot last summer, in 
 your way to Buxton, I shall forbear to say 
 more of it, than that your grandmother, like 
 yourself, preferred the house called the 
 Temple to the one below it called the Hall. 
 We accordingly had our apartments there : 
 the declining state of my mother's health 
 rendered this more quiet abode necessary, 
 but by no means excluded, in her indulgent 
 consideration of me, the amusements of the 
 general rendezvous. We dined in the pub- 
 lic
 
 no 
 
 lie room, frequently took our tea there, and 
 returned to the Temple in the evening. 
 
 It happened, soon after our arrival, that 
 I found placed at my side a little girl whom 
 I had not seen before. She was short and 
 clumsy, ill-dressed, and wore a large straw 
 bonnet which almost concealed her face : 
 this, however, I observed was pale and 
 sickly, and she had an inflammation in her 
 eyes which demanded the precautions adopt- 
 ed. She appeared intimidated, and even 
 distressed, by the novelty of her situation ; 
 and I was naturally led to k)ok for the party 
 under whose protection she was, and by 
 whom she was so apparently neglected. A 
 lady opposite to me soon gave me the in- 
 formation 1 searched, by saying aloud, 
 " Nancy, take care you do not eat too 
 much.** This precaution 1 thought as harsh, 
 as it was useless ; for poor Nancy had not 
 swallowed one morsel, and was only on the 
 point of tasting some bread pudding, which 
 i had recommended and encouraged her to 
 
 take
 
 Ill 
 
 take on her plate. She looked dismayed, 
 hung down her head still lower, and crossed 
 her knife and fork. Unable to divert a con- 
 fusion that touched me, I turned my atten- 
 tion to the cause of it. A very gay and 
 handsome woman, who, as I suspected, was 
 the mother of poor Nancy, was so deeply 
 engaged by a military beau on the one hand, 
 and a young lady on the other, as to have 
 no time to observe the confusion and em- 
 barrassment of her daughter, or to repeat 
 an injunction which appeared to arise from 
 habit rather than tender attention. 
 
 Day after day Nancy and myself kept 
 our stations ; we became sociable ; and I 
 was pleased with my new acquaintance. 
 The mother had learned our name ; she 
 made me some little compliment on my 
 attentions to her daughter, and added, she 
 had reason to believe that Nancy's aunt 
 was of the number of Mrs. Woodley's 
 intimate friends. She was not mistaken ; 
 the lady in question, Mrs. Johnson, having 
 been long one whom my mother particu- 
 larly
 
 112 
 
 larly esteemed. She was a single woman, 
 and very rich. Her nephew, the father of 
 Nancy, had offended her by his marriage ; 
 and little intercourse had subsisted between 
 him and his good aunt from that period. 
 The connexion, however, produced some- 
 thing like acquaintance between his lady 
 and ourselves; and she availed herself of 
 it, and my growing kindness for her neg- 
 lected child, to beg I would attend to what 
 she ate at table ; saying, she was just re- 
 covered from the measles, that the disorder 
 had left an inflammation Iti her eyes, which 
 had been extremely alarming, and which 
 still required much caution and care ; and 
 that Nancy was very inattentive. 1 listened 
 with disgust to cautions and cares thus re- 
 commended by a mother who was capable 
 of employing the agency of another in her 
 own duty ; but I was not unmindful of my 
 charge. My gentle and good mother 
 shared these sentmients with me, and, by 
 the numberless proofs of her regard and 
 kindness, won the poor child's gratitude, 
 
 and
 
 and banished her bashful constrained be- 
 haviour. She followed us like our shadow, 
 and appeared to look up to us for her enjoy- 
 ments. I soon thought there was some rea- 
 son for the caution respecting Nancy's eat- 
 ing ; and, as the mother had thought proper 
 to devolve this care on me, I was doubly 
 attentive ; judging it of importance to her 
 general health, and peculiarly necessary for 
 her eyes, which remained still in a bad 
 state. From the avidity with which my 
 young friend asked for tongue, slices of cold 
 ham, tarts, &c. &c., as well as the dispatch 
 with which they disappeared, I began to^sus- 
 pect that she pocketed them, in order to 
 regale herself in secret j knowing that her 
 mother did not allow her to eat any supper. 
 On one of these occasions, I whispered in her 
 ear that chicken was better for her than ham 
 or pastry, pjacing the wing of a fowl on her 
 plate. She received my admonition with 
 perfect good humour, and began to eat what 
 was before her. At that instant a servant, 
 whom she had commissioned, brought her 
 
 the
 
 114 
 
 the ham. In passing it he slightly touched 
 my shoulder. I turned, and saw Nancy 
 with great adroitness convey it to her lap. 
 The self-command she assumed convinced 
 me it was done with design, and I was per- 
 suaded that this child indemnified herself 
 for her remarkable moderation at the table, 
 by being a glutton in private. I conse- 
 quently became vigilant for a day or two, 
 not willing to distress her by my remon- 
 strances without necessity. I found that she 
 constantly preferred cold things, little tarts, 
 cheese-cakes, in a word, whatever was easi- 
 est to conceal in her handkerchief; and that 
 after dinner she disappeared for some time. 
 There was a mystery in all this which I could 
 not unfold. Chance however effected what 
 my ingenuity could not. 
 
 My mother met at the Hall a family we 
 were acquainted with : they were on their 
 road to Buxton, and meant only to pass a 
 day or two at Matlock. They induced us to 
 pass the day at the Hall, and after dinner my 
 mother and her friends made a party at 
 
 whist ;
 
 115 
 
 whist ; and I went to the Temple for my 
 work-bag. The day was extremely sultry, 
 and I slowly sauntered to the house. Before 
 me I saw Nancy running with the utmost 
 speed : she ascended a narrow path in the 
 rock, and I lost sight of her. On entering 
 my room, I went to the window which I 
 knew must command the road she had taken, 
 and again I saw the fugitive panting and 
 pressing forward. She had a small covered 
 basket on her arm, which &he was obliged 
 to place on the ground from time to time 
 in order to secure her feet. I immediately 
 conceived she had reasons for choosing this 
 perilous and fatiguing road, in preference 
 to one, easier and shorter, by the Temple ; 
 and I was certain of meeting her by pursu- 
 ino; it. I forgot, in an instant, the h.-at by 
 which I had been oppressed, and set out. 
 Again I caught a glance of her, and again I 
 lost sight of her, but still followed the chase ; 
 a'l J turning into a beaten path, which com- 
 municated with the high road, I saw her 
 before me. But judge of my astonishment, 
 
 when
 
 116 
 
 when I relate her situation and employ- 
 ment ! She was on her knees before a sick, 
 squalid, and shocking- looking child of her 
 own age, who was sitting in an old wicker 
 chair by the door of a half-fallen cottage. 
 She appeared helpless ; her face bore the 
 recent ravages of the small-pox, and she 
 was blind. I stopped a few paces from 
 them. Nancy's bonnet was hanging at her 
 back, and held there by the ribband which 
 ied it ; her face and eyes were exposed to the 
 vivid rays of the western sun j whilst she, 
 unmindful of all, was catering from the 
 basket the dainties with which she fed the 
 poor girl, who, to say the truth, devoured 
 them with the avidity of one half famished. 
 *' I am glad," said Nancy, rising at length 
 from her uneasy posture, and wiping with 
 her frock the scalding tears that ran from 
 the girl's eyes " I am rejoiced that you 
 have enough to-day ; I hope you will not 
 want any thing now, till your mother re- 
 turns. But give me the jug, I will fetch 
 you some water, and then run home." 
 
 She
 
 117 
 
 She turned and saw me : some apples she 
 held in her hand fell to the ground, and she 
 stood mute and confounded before me. 
 " Wherefore are you here^ my love, alone ?** 
 demanded I with mildness : " and why so 
 forgetful of your o^vn eyes?** plaeing the 
 useless bonri et on her head. " Oh !'* cried 
 she, bursting into tears : "do not tell my 
 mamma, she will never forgive me : you 
 shall know all : only let me speak five words 
 to this poor girl. 'She is not to blame : in- 
 deed, indeed it is all my own fault ! Let 
 me only comfort her once more, and then 
 I will go home with you, and you shall 
 know eveiy thing.'* She turned to the 
 frightened child : " Do not be afraid," sob- 
 bed she, " it is only miss Woodley : she 
 would not harm a worm. But I cannot come 
 any more : you will die with hunger ! and 
 I cannot help it." She^hung on the girl's 
 neck, and wept bitterly. I soothed her, and 
 quieted the clamours of the child, by pro- 
 mising her that she should not be neglected : 
 and we took the road to the Temple. 
 
 I dispatched
 
 118 
 
 I dispatched a servant with a note to my 
 mother, and gave notice to Mrs. Seymour, 
 that Nancy would pass the evening with 
 me J that we had imprudently walked, and 
 had both gotten the head-ach. 
 
 Nancy soon entered upon her story, and 
 her jiLstiJlcation. " You shall hear every 
 thing, my dear Angelica," said she, fondly 
 embracing me : " for you are the only 
 frrend I have, and the only one who would 
 love and pity such a girl as I am." " In 
 the name of wonder,** exclaimed I, not com- 
 prehending her meaning, " what is it that you 
 have been guilty of?" " Why," answered 
 she, " it is now more than three weeks since 
 my mamma went with a party to see Chats- 
 worth ; major O'Brien drove her in his 
 phaeton. My mamma thought the dust 
 and light would hurt my eyes, so she did 
 not take me. As scon as the party had left 
 the Hall, Hollins, our maid, began to scold 
 me : she said I was always in every one's 
 way, and that, but for me, she could have 
 gone on the water with her acquaintance. 
 
 I cried,
 
 119 
 
 I cried, and told her, I was very sorry for 
 her disappointment ; but that I could not 
 help it. * No,' replied she, somewhat 
 kinder ; ' I know that : but some other peo- 
 ple could ; ' and she muttered something I 
 did not understand, about my mamma, and 
 her being ashamed of me : adding, if I was 
 i)ot so handsome as some people, I was bet 
 ter tempered, and she was sure that I would 
 oblige her. ' Most willingly,* repHed I, 
 pleased to see her good-humoured. ' Well, 
 then, my dear miss Nancy,' said she, ' you 
 must stay in this room all the day, and lock 
 yourself in : my friends are waiting for me 
 at Crumford. I will fetch you something 
 very nice for your dinner, and lend you my 
 Fairy Tales to read ; but you must not stir 
 till 1 return, nor ever tell your mamma.* 
 I promised to be faithful, and she left me 
 in haste not however before she had pro- 
 vided me with all that I might want, I read 
 till the last dinner-bell sounded ; but niy 
 eyes watered and smarted, and I amused 
 
 myself
 
 120 
 
 myself with observing the company enter 
 the house. 
 
 *' The thought then came into my head that 
 I should like to eat my dinner in the wood. 
 Hollins had left it in this vfry basket j and I 
 took it in my hand, and stole to the wood : 
 but recollecting that the ladies and gentlemen 
 often came thither to walk after dinner, I 
 was afraid of being seen, and, instantly quit- 
 ting it, took by chance this road, and, to 
 be more concealed, the path which con- 
 ducted you to the cottage. The sick child 
 was sitting at the door, as you found her ; 
 and 1 thought she looked as if she had no 
 one to love her, or to pity her : so I asked 
 her whether she should like some fruit, of- 
 fering her that I had in my basket. But, my 
 dear Angelica, she was, as you saw, blind, 
 and more unfortunate than myself! besides 
 that one of her poor hands is shrunk and 
 useless, from her having fallen into the fire. 
 She vyas hungry and dry ; and told me that 
 her parents lelt her every day, to work at 
 
 some
 
 1!21 
 
 some lead-mines three miles from home, 
 and that she had nothing to eat till they 
 returned. I gave her," continued the ami- 
 able creature, "all my dinner. Oh! my 
 dear miss Woodley, had you seen her eat 
 it, your gentle heart would have melted! 
 She devoured it like a hungry dog . . . You 
 do not blame me, do you?" said she, 
 looking anxiously in my face : " but I 
 promised to come to her as often as I could, 
 and to bring her food. Fortunately I re- 
 gained my room unobserved; Hollins re- 
 turned before my mamma, and my secret is 
 known only to you. 
 
 " I did not dare to mention my poor 
 starving girl. 
 
 *' The next morning, seeing the ladies and 
 gentlemen giving whole buttered muffins to 
 their dogs, with slices of ham, and other 
 dainties, I thought of the sick girl, and re- 
 solved to take in my turn a little from the 
 dinner to feed her. My mamma always 
 plays at cards till the evening is cool, and 
 Hollins stays wliole hours in the servants' 
 
 VOL. I. G hall 5
 
 122 
 
 hall; and during that time I run to the 
 cottage, by a nearer road than ihe one you 
 came; and I have never been found out, for 
 the walks are always empty." " But," 
 said I gravely, " has it never occurred to 
 you, that you were giving what was not 
 yours to give? Evil is not to be committed 
 even for a good purpose." " Oh, yes," 
 answered she ; " I well knew where you 
 would begin to chide, for 1 knew that was 
 vvrong...But what conld I do ^...She was not 
 a dog .... I was not then so much in your 
 favour as I have been since. Besides, I was 
 afraid you would not let me run so far in 
 the heat of the day, and in the sun-shine. 
 What could I do?" repeated she sorrowful- 
 ly. " I always spared her all the nice things 
 I could have eaten myself; and was it not 
 hard for this poor ug/y child to want food? 
 No one notices her ; you saw how frightful 
 her face is; and ugly children, you know"... 
 she paused ..then sobbed..." are not loved." 
 Her tears flowed, and she slopped again. 
 *' How has it happened, ni) dear miss An- 
 gelica,"
 
 123 
 
 gelica," resumed she, fondly caressing me, 
 " that you, who are so beautiful, and so ad- 
 mired here, have never reproached me for 
 being so very very chmisy and disagreea- 
 ble? I would give any thing in the world 
 to be as pretty as my brothers, for then 
 mamma would love me as much as she 
 does them. But what can I do? I can- 
 not help being ugly, you know." She 
 could not proceed. I saw with unequivo- 
 cal indignation the sorrow which the cru- 
 elty and folly of her mother had planted 
 in her innocent bosom ; and with fervour 
 yielding to my compassion, I said, embra- 
 cing her tenderly, " You are more lovely, 
 and more beautiful, in your work of mer- 
 cy, than the most finished form or fair- 
 est face could render you. The wise and 
 the good will love and praise you, and God 
 Almighty will approve and bless you." 
 "Ah!" said she transported, "now I am 
 again convinced that I have been very fool- 
 ish ; for I never looked in your face with- 
 out thinking you would be good to the 
 G 2 poor
 
 124 
 
 poor girl; and twenty and twenty times, 
 when you showed nie so much kindness, I 
 was tempted to lead you to her." We 
 now settled the business. Nancy joyfully 
 committed her protegee to my future cares, 
 and promised to eat her dinner. 
 
 In the cool of the evening we returned to 
 the cottage. The mother of the girl was at 
 home, and I learned from her that extreme 
 poverty forced her to leave her child. She 
 said the neighbours were few and remote ; 
 and that since the small -pox had been in 
 her house no one came near it, nor could 
 she prevail on any to take care of the girl 
 during her absence ; that, on leaving her for 
 the day, she fed her, and, thinking the air 
 was good ; for her, left her at the door ; as 
 she was able, in case of need, to crawl on 
 her hands and knees to shelter. " But, ma- 
 dam," added the woman, " she has, I am 
 told, worms; for she is always craving for 
 food." Good and pkntiful nourishment 
 soon removed the good woman's fears rela- 
 tive to the worms ; clean and warm cloth- 
 ing
 
 125 
 
 in^ renovated her feeble frame ; she reco- 
 vered her sight; and I left her as a boarder 
 with an honest old woman who taught read- 
 ing, spinning, and knitling; and who, not- 
 withstanding the lame hand, which was 
 thought to be past relief, also engaged to 
 teach her to knit. My mother became 
 a sharer in our secret, and the principal 
 agent in all these designs. Nancy was not 
 even suspected; and I escaped all questions. 
 On our return to town my mother failed 
 not to communicate to her friend Mrs. 
 Rebecca Johnson this anecdote of her niece, 
 with such traits of her character as had 
 much pleased and interested her. She by 
 no means spared the mother of this engaging 
 creature; for, in my mother's judgement, 
 few errors merited more reprehension or 
 severity. Mrs. Seymour by her neglect, 
 not to s'riy dislike, of this innocent and un- 
 offending child, had no advocate in a breast 
 in which the hardest and most pressing duties 
 of a mother were constantly regarded as the 
 inlets of dehght. 
 
 Mrs.
 
 126 
 
 Mrs. Johnson entered with the most 
 lively interest into the detail. She said 
 that she had, for many years of her life, 
 considered Mr. Seymour as a sonj and that 
 she had looked forward to him as the prop 
 of her declining days, " His character 
 and conduct," pursued she, " warranted 
 these hopes, until I opposed his union with 
 a woman undeserving of him. He knew 
 that I had neither interest nor prejudice for 
 my government; and he was displeased 
 that. I had not for his choice the same com- 
 plaisance to which his own reason submitted. 
 The convictions it has since forced upon 
 him have insensibly operated still more to 
 remove us from each other. He retired 
 into the country, and there buried his di- 
 stinguished talents, and his chagrin. But I 
 know the excellence of his nature, and I 
 pity him: I am sure that he suffers more from 
 being the witness of the injustice you have 
 observed, than even from the levity which 
 disgraces him in his own, eyes as a husband. 
 It shall be his own fault if he be not relieved 
 
 from
 
 127 
 
 fro:n this sorrow at least. I will be the 
 mother of this unfortunate child : 1 will 
 love her, as I have loved, and still do love, 
 her unhappy father, who must remain an ex- 
 ample of that misery which a blind and self- 
 willed passion can produce. This girl is the 
 eldest of three children: the two boys are, 
 I am told, very beautiful ; of course they will 
 enjoy the favour of their foolish mother till 
 my nephew provides for their safety by re- 
 moving them, out of her hands; and his 
 daughter shall have no claims on that for- 
 tune whicb is so amply adequate to their 
 education and future establishment.** 
 
 Mrs. Johnson immediately made her pro- 
 posals ; and the nephew, with joy, met a 
 reconciliation so consonant to his interest 
 and wishes. He acceded with, gratitude to 
 her generous conditions; and Mrs. Seymour 
 did not even affect a regret, which, as a 
 parent, she ought to have blushed not to 
 have felt. She said the aunt and the niece 
 would keep each ether in countenance, for 
 they were perfect resemblances. Mrs. John- 
 son's
 
 128 
 
 son's London friends entirely agreed in re- 
 spect to the precision of Mrs. Seymour's 
 judgement on this point. It had not occur- 
 red to my mother or myself, till health had 
 animated Nancy's features. Be it as it might, 
 certain it is, no compliment was more ac- 
 ceptable to the good aunt than remarking 
 this likeness. 
 
 When my favourite had nearly reached 
 her sixteenth year, her person was consider- 
 ably improved, her shape having been, till 
 then, defective. I remarked one day to 
 the aunt this visible and advantageous al- 
 teration, and prognosticated that she would, 
 after all, turn out a pleasing person. " No," 
 ansvvered Mrs. Johnson, " she will neither 
 be handsome nor genteel ; for she will want 
 height and complexion ; but, nevertheless, 
 she will please, my dear Mrs. Palmerstone, 
 even to satisfy your partial hopes. The 
 endowments of her heart and mind will 
 make her irresistible, with those who stop 
 not at the surface. I shall not, it is proba- 
 ble, live to see her married ; but remember 
 
 whit
 
 129 
 
 what I now predict to you. If Nancy Sey- 
 mour ever be so fortunate as to artract th 
 notice and esteem of a man of sense and 
 merit, he will be her captive for life. She 
 will be overlooked in a crowd ; she will be 
 disregarded by fools : but let merit and 
 worth beware ; they will with difficulty es- 
 cape her. Her train of admirers will be 
 friends, and friends for life." 
 
 Two or three years before Mrs. John- 
 son's death, Mr. Beaumont became intimate 
 in the family. He is eight or ten years 
 older than my friend. His penetrative eye 
 soon discovered the gem in the unadorned 
 casket : he saw its mild emanations in the 
 artless and playful imagination of ingenuous 
 youth ; he saw it shine in uniform sweet- 
 ness of disposition, and in undisguised frank- 
 ness and candour; he saw it beam in full 
 splendour at the side of Mrs. Johnson's sick 
 couch, which for months the niece attended, 
 and convened to that of repose and triumph. 
 Mrs. Johnson had the happiness to see her 
 beloved pupil the wife of Ml, Beaumont, 
 G 5 six
 
 ISO 
 
 six gr eight months before she died, and 
 from the day she bestowed this blessing upon 
 him appeared to have no wish ungratified. 
 Her donation to her niece was as unlimited 
 as her affection: she gave her all her for- 
 tune. 
 
 Some time since my friend was indisposed. 
 As I perceived no cause for alarm, and every 
 reason to hope she would soon recover, I 
 was qualified for the comforter of her ter- 
 rified husband. In one of my daily visits, I 
 found him in his wife's dressing-room under 
 the greatest depression of spirits. He told 
 me with tears that Mrs. Beaumont was worse 
 than I suspected ; that she had fainted the 
 evening before ; and that he had prevailed 
 upon her not to quit her bed. " You will 
 see her,'* continued he, " and let me know 
 the worst. I must not be deceived." I en- 
 tered the bed-chamber of my friend with 
 some alarm. "Oh!" cried she, " you are 
 
 <!ome! ... I rejoice to see you! Do 
 
 you know that I am under solitary confine- 
 ment; and that, if I had resisted, Beaumont 
 
 would
 
 151 
 
 would have ordered the strait waistcoat ! . . 
 I talked and rattled so much last night, that 
 with the heat of the apartment, which they 
 had contrived to make as close as an oven, 
 I became faint, and retired hither to reco- 
 ver myself: this the change of air effected 
 instantly, and I returned to my post on the 
 sofa, in hopes of having eluded the vigi- 
 lance of my keeper. But, simpleton as I 
 was, I fainted again like a tragedy heroine, 
 and only found myself out when in my bed; 
 in which he implores me to remain, as 
 though my life depended on my compliance. 
 Go, and make him more reasonable, for I 
 really find myself well." 
 
 As she did not impose either on herself 
 or me, I acquiesced in her desire to rise; 
 and, leaving her for that purpose, returned 
 to gladden the desponding husband ; who, 
 trusting to my judgement of a change of 
 room being salutary for the invalid, and sa- 
 tisfied that his fears had been premature,, 
 resumed his usual cheerfulness. 
 
 I now rallied him,, and laughing said, I 
 
 should
 
 rs2 
 
 should begin to fancy he was under the influ- 
 ence of a particular degree of fate; for that I 
 had heard his extreme attachment to his wife 
 predicted, even before he had seen her. I finish- 
 ed by repeating to him Mrs. Johnson's words, 
 and the conversation which had introduced 
 them. Mr. Beaumont eagerly pursued the 
 pleasing subject, until interrupted by the 
 entrance of his wife, who with much plea- 
 santry upbraided him with his despotism. 
 He fondly repeated what I had been saying, 
 adding, " his stars were more in fault than 
 he." She smiled, and, turning to me with 
 her bewitching grate, said with assumed gra- 
 vity, " Was this well done, Angelica? * The 
 ignorant are happy still/ says some author 
 who had nothing better to say. But is it well 
 done to show the captive those chains from 
 which death only can relieve him ? Since, 
 however, he is informed of his wretched 
 doom, I will let him into all the secret he 
 shall see the spells and incantations which 
 have rendered me an agent in the deep and 
 dark designs of fate." She disappeared, 
 
 and
 
 133 
 
 and in a few moments returned with the 
 identical straw bonnet she wore at Matlock, 
 and which was not embellished by time. The 
 air of solemnity she assumed, as I con- 
 ceived for her own whimsical purpose, and 
 the white wrapping-gown she wore, per- 
 fectly suited the metamorphosis, and Mr. 
 Beaumont and myself laughed heartily at 
 her droll appearance. 
 
 " This talisman," said she to her husband, 
 talcing it from her head, " was known by 
 my revered aunt; but it was not her gift. 
 It was furnished by the severe commands of 
 harsh authority, who imposed it on me with 
 other burthens. Virtue saw me sinking un- 
 der their oppressive weight she lightened 
 them she taught me to convert this mark 
 of cold indifference into a memorial of gra- 
 titude, and into an incitement to goodness. 
 She called around her her attendant Graces, 
 and bade me admire real loveliness and beau- 
 ty; then, breathing on that bonnet, com- 
 manded me to read the talisman within, and, 
 placing it on my head, bade me rule all 
 
 hearts.
 
 134 
 
 hearts. Read," said she to her husband, 
 who held it. He obeyed . . . and read aloud, 
 ' You are more lovely and more beautiful in 
 your work of mercy than the most finished 
 form or fairest facecould make you. The wis^ 
 and thegood will praise and love you, and God 
 Almighty will approve and bless you.* *'I 
 have," pursued she, " religiously preserved 
 this favour of my tutelary angel. She has 
 not deceived me; for truth resides with her. 
 The good and the wise," added she with 
 emotion, her eyes swimming in tears, " do 
 praise and cherish me ; and my gracious 
 Creator has blessed me in the first connex- 
 ions of human felicity as a social being* 
 He has given to me the heart of my hus- 
 band, and a sure guide for my journey 
 through life. He has given me a friend, 
 from whose example I have endeavoured to 
 
 merit this most precious of bis gifts." 
 
 She took my hand. *' Why do you blush, 
 Angelica?" said she with renewed gaiety. 
 *^ This poor man is now to be fully unde- 
 ceiyed. You may perceive; he sees nothing 
 
 but
 
 335' 
 
 but magic in all this business. But look at 
 that portrait," presenting to her husband my 
 picture in miniature : " there is the sorce- 
 ress; and these are the places of her incanta- 
 tions,** unrolling some beautiful drawings in 
 water-colours, of the cottage-scene, our in- 
 terview at the Temple, and several other 
 landscapes in which we had had our share. 
 
 I was confused, and threatened to send her 
 to her late confinement again. She laughed 
 at my threats, but bade me take courage, 
 for that she would tell her husband the 
 whole story at her own time, and in her own 
 way : '* and that," added she, " is not now, 
 for you would spoil it." 
 
 I found that her last summer's ramble to 
 Matlock was expressly taken to have views 
 of those particular spots which had been im- 
 pressed on her susceptible heart._.She inform- 
 ed me that our poor girl held the high office 
 of school-dame to a score of chubby-faced 
 boys and girls. " But,'* added she, " I 
 have not been well used tfiere. My rights, 
 if they have not been invaded, have been 
 
 interfered
 
 1S6 
 
 interfered with; for the grateful creature 
 told me she had always divided with her 
 father and mother the occasionSil twenty- 
 pounds which I sent, as she supposed I in- 
 tended; for that the ten pounds per annum 
 regularly remitted to her, was sufficient to 
 supply all her wants. 
 
 *' But the sorceress," looking at me, " must 
 account for those extraordinary donations. 
 However/* continued she, " I am placable ; 
 and as a proof of it, tell Eliza that I will 
 lend her my bonnet whenever she wants it^ 
 and these drawings to copy whenever she 
 pleases." 
 
 I know not, my dear Eliza, precisely, 
 what may be your application of this sub- 
 ject. You are undoubtedly a very pretty 
 girl; nay more, if it please you, I will call 
 you a very bvauliful one. You will soon hear 
 this simple and unimporrant truth conveyed 
 to you, wiih all the exaggerations of folly, 
 deceit, and senseless gallantry. If your am- 
 bition will be satisfied by a distinction so in- 
 cidental, and which is liable to numberless 
 
 morti-
 
 137 
 
 mortifications and sinister accidents, your 
 glass will insure to you, and I will confirm 
 its decision, the triumphs of beauty. You 
 will attract notice, and excite envy, by the 
 lustre of your eyes and the dazzling white- 
 ness of your skin ; but I can hardly prevail 
 on myself, even for a moment, to suspett 
 that the understanding of my child will be 
 contented with a pre-eminence raised on 
 such a slight and weak foundation. I think 
 it would disdain so poor a praise, and nobly 
 assert its claims to a better and a more per- 
 manent one ; nor should I be surprised that 
 you entered into the spirit of a very beautiful 
 young woman whom I formerly knew. 
 
 She had been teased with the silly jargon 
 ef offensive praise, the greater part of the 
 evtoing, by a young man who imagined he 
 was effectually making his court to her. At 
 length, weary of h'i> a. -iduities and fulsome 
 compliments, she said with arch humility, 
 " You have, sir, been very condescending 
 in remarking with such elaborate praise 
 my face and shape ; you have certainly 
 
 given
 
 138 
 
 given to them a value they had not be- 
 fore. I wish you to know all the advantages 
 which I owe to nature, in order that you 
 may also teach me to appreciate them pro- 
 perly.** 
 
 The beau protested, that in such a blaze 
 of beauty it was not possible to discri- 
 minate, but begged to hear what had 
 escaped him. " Why," replied she, " you 
 might have seen that I had an excellent ap- 
 petite at dinner ; and I do assure you that I 
 walk daily without fatigue nve or six miles, 
 and sleep soundly every night." The gen^ 
 tleman was silenced j and six months after 
 I heard him criticize, with merciless severity, 
 this young lady's face and shape. 
 
 Refuse then this silly bait, whether it he 
 the offering of self-love or that of tlie wwld. 
 Aim at something more worthy of you; 
 and, in the mean time, cultivate those 
 graces of the heart and the mind, which will 
 flourish in old age, which will dignify ex- 
 terior deformity, and shelter sickness and 
 disease from disgust and neglect. Be lovely j 
 
 be
 
 J 39 
 
 be beautiful : but be jo, in all the wisdom of 
 holiness, and in that purity of heart which 
 faileth not in this life, nor in that which is 
 to come. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Angelica Palmerstone. 
 
 I'ZTIKA
 
 140 
 
 Letter V. 
 FAMILY DISCORD, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 HISTORY OF EDWARD AND HENRY. 
 
 I SIT down this morning in order to con- 
 gratulate you, my dear Eliza, on your hav- 
 ing taking possession of your own peaceable 
 apartment, after the late noisy and turbulent 
 visit you have been engaged in at admiral 
 
 G s. 
 
 The alacrity with which you quitted your 
 new acquaintances, and the solicitude you 
 discovered lest your grandfather should 
 prolong his stay, sufficiently indicated to 
 me the little enjoyment you had in a 
 scene of petty quarrels and obstinate con- 
 tentions. It may not, hr>\vcv>r, be amiss 
 to consider, my dear child, from whence 
 arises your particular dislike of the conduct 
 of the young people with whom you have so 
 
 lately
 
 141 
 
 lately passed three weeks ; and to examine 
 the motives which governed your mind 
 when you expressed, in such strong terms, 
 your disgust and abhorrence of wrangling, 
 in your account of some scenes that had 
 passed at the Grove. 
 
 You will do well to reflect on your pe- 
 culiar situation in life. Without a competitor 
 for the favour of your parents; without a 
 rival in your nursery ; cherished by a wi- 
 dowed mother, whose pleasures and hopes 
 centre in you ; trained in the habits of 
 docility ; treated with complacence by all 
 around you ; and finally sheltered from 
 every example of pernicious tendency; is 
 it wonderful, that at fourteen years of age 
 you should not only shrink from a view of 
 the irritable passions, but exhibit all the 
 graces of mildness and a good temper ? 
 But, my dear child, if you cannot find more 
 stable grounds for the opposition which now 
 subsists between your charaaer and that of 
 the young people you have lately quitted, 
 you have little whereon to rest your security, 
 
 or
 
 142 
 
 or to justify your censures: for it is only in 
 a firm conviction of that duty which we owe 
 to God, and of the obligations we are under 
 to live in peace with our fellow-creatures, 
 that we can find a solid basis on which to 
 found our pretensions to the virtues of pa- 
 tience and forbearance ; or the security that 
 they will not fail us in the conflicts of hu- 
 man passion and human interest. It is not 
 the absence of evil which constitutes good- 
 ness, although the mind in this state is, like 
 the well prepared field of the husbandman, 
 ready for the precious deposit destined for 
 it, and from which, when sown, he may 
 with confidence expert to reap tenfold. It 
 will be, like the field of the sluggard, barren, 
 if, when the soil is prepared, the labourer 
 desist from his toil, saying, " The ground is 
 now clean ; it is levelled for the wholesome 
 dews of heaven ; it is fenced from being 
 trodden down : let us wait and see the na- 
 tural produce : it may be, it will repay us 
 for our labour by its spontaneous fruits." I 
 Ought he to be surprised that he saw not i 
 
 the
 
 143 
 
 the rich and golden harvest wavinpf to his 
 expecting eyts r (3ught he to murmur if, 
 with the luxuriant productions of nature, 
 he saw noxious weeds and useless flowers ? 
 And would he not, when the season was past, 
 regret that he had not finished his labour 
 by those means which alone could insure to 
 him the recompense of it? Endeavour then^ 
 my child, to reap a more solid advantage 
 than that which negative goodness is able 
 to yield. Look into the character of your 
 mind, and with attention fix in it those 
 principles of action which will establish it 
 in worth, hi usefulness, and in increasing ex- 
 cellence. Bless that Providence which by it3 
 merciful interposition has prepared you for 
 the duties it demands. The field is ready, 
 my Eliza : it bears at present no baleful 
 weed f it is fenced from the blights of po- 
 verty, and ihe incursions of all enemies. But 
 it now asks for that seed which will spring 
 up tenfold, and with glory. Thus prepared, 
 1 think you will be disposed to read with 
 advantage the history of the young people 
 
 you
 
 144 
 
 you have lately visited; and the disgust, I 
 may say aversion, which you have so open- 
 ly manifested, will be changed to com- 
 passion. 
 
 My father and admiral G have been 
 
 intimate friends for many years, and I have 
 frequently had the satisfaction of sharing 
 their occasional meetings in town; in which 
 I constantly remarked somewhat more cor- 
 dial and reciprocal than is commonly found 
 in the cold and hackneyed intercourse of the 
 world. The admiral's employments and 
 activity rarely however permitted him to 
 stay long with us, and his visits were rather 
 hasty calls than social meetings. I knew 
 that his lady was many years younger than 
 himself, that she had an increasing family, 
 and resided altogether in the country. The 
 death of this lady, and the absence of her 
 husband, carried us down to the Grove; 
 your grandfather being appointed by the 
 admiral to regulate his affairs during his 
 expected long absence and perilous cruize. 
 It is probable the admiral, in these prudent 
 
 arrangements
 
 145 
 
 arrangetnents for the benefit of his children, 
 considered the declining state of his lady's 
 health as a serious argument for the necessity 
 of them, and he wisely prepared for the event 
 which has since taken place. 
 
 When Mrs. Chandler, the admiral's sister, 
 
 informed your grandfather of Mrs. G 's. 
 
 death, she solicited me to accompany him 
 to the Grove, by such arguments as wercv 
 unanswerable ; and thus we became her 
 guests, and the witnesses of those faults she , 
 is called upon to correct. ^, 
 
 Two or three days after our aiTival, I w;is , 
 reading alone in the dressing-room appro- 
 priated to my use, when Mrs. Chandler tap- 
 ped at the door and begged admittance. 
 " Are you particularly engaged?** said she 
 on entering and observing the book open 
 on the table, "* By no means," replied I, 
 conducing her to a scat: "I vas only 
 amusing a leisure hour." " I am glad of 
 it," said she; '' for I long, my dear Mrs. 
 Palmerstone, to open my heart to you. 
 Mr. Palmerstone ha?, in the accounts wnich 
 
 VOL. I. 11 I have
 
 146 
 
 I have placed before him, full employment 
 fbr the morning ; and I wish to consult with 
 you on business much more important to 
 my dear brother than the most pressing 
 of his pecuniary affairs. Shall I not be too 
 importunate ?" I assured her of my atten- 
 tion, and the interest 1 took in whatever 
 related to the admiral ; and she began as 
 follows: 
 
 'You will be surprised, madam, to hear, 
 that till within a few weeks I was as much 
 a stranger in this house as yourself. I wish 
 in the first place to account for this estrange- 
 ment from a brother who is the pride of 
 my life. I'he admiral, in selecting his lady 
 as his future wife, wished for my concur- 
 rence in a choice which, perhaps, rendered 
 his good sense doubtful in some points. She 
 was some years younger than himself, and 
 had been one of my companions. From a 
 school-girl I loved her ; but I understood 
 her character, and I knew that neither 
 education nor nature qualified her for the 
 wife of a man in my brother's situation.- 
 
 She
 
 147 
 
 She was deiFicient in that stead hiess bf mind 
 so indispensable in an union of dispropdf- 
 tionate ages : and she was, moreover, ex*. 
 tremely captious, and somewhat fretful ia 
 her temper. I loved my brother, and, al- 
 though aware of the consequences, sacrificed 
 my interest with him by openly stating my 
 objections to the lady. As I expected, the 
 marriage soon followed ; and I became a 
 stranger in the family, and a solitary being 
 in a world in which I had few connexions 
 independent of my brother. 
 
 " I married in the following year, with 
 the consent of that brother, who had not 
 forgotten in his desertion of a sister that he 
 stood in the relation of a father to her. I 
 followed my husband to Oporto. During 
 my residence there I saw my brother seve- 
 ral times, and with pleasure perceived that 
 every shadow of offence was worn out of 
 his mind. He was happy under our roof, 
 and we only regretted the parting hour. 
 A formal compliment on the part of his 
 wife, and general intelligence respecting his 
 K 2 children.
 
 148 
 
 children, bounded his confidence, and check- 
 ed our inquiries. A visit to England was 
 never proposed by him, nor thought of by 
 myself. Happy in my own domestic bless- 
 ings, and content with my brother's kind- 
 ness, I experienced little inclination for a 
 reunion with a woman, who had convinced 
 me that she had totally misinterpreted the 
 motives of my conduct. 
 
 " On the death of my worthy husband I 
 returned to my native country, and about 
 three years ago settled at Gloucester, the place 
 of my birth, apd in the kindness of my early 
 friends endeavoured to forget that I had once 
 been happier. On my arrival, my broiher,who 
 was then at the Grove, paid me a visit. He 
 entered with the most affectionate concern in- 
 to my change of circumstances, spoke of my 
 husband with the warmest regard, and seemed 
 happy in the affluence he had bequeathed to 
 his widow. On leaving me, after a week's visit, 
 an air of sadness and constraint visibly ap- 
 peared on his manly and open countenance. 
 He spoke of his wife's bad health, but 
 
 stopped
 
 149 
 
 stopped irresolute . . . His hesitation included 
 an apology which I perfectly understood ; 
 and whilst 1 pitied him for a reserve so op- 
 posite to his nature, I loved him for a heart 
 which disdained to concur with it. 
 
 " Before he last sailed from England he 
 wrote me an affectionate letter, pleading 
 the hurry of his affairs for not coming ta 
 see me. Some time after his departure I 
 was summoned to the Hot Wells at Bristol 
 by my sister's woman . . . . ' Her mistress was 
 there, and in a dying condition.* I set out 
 instantly, and found the servant had not 
 magnified the danger. The physicians had 
 lost all hopes of her recovery, and her dis- 
 solution was rapidly approaching. She lived, 
 however, three weeks after I joined her. 
 
 " You will not be surprised, my dear ma- 
 dam, that in these moments of solemn ap- 
 peal to the human heart my sister forgot h r 
 late prejudices against me, or remembered 
 them only to regret them. She implored 
 my kindness and attention to her children ; 
 and directed me to apply to your father, 
 
 nraJam,
 
 150 
 
 madam, for instructions and advice, as soon 
 as they became necessary. I have availed 
 myself of these, and I will religiously per- 
 form, my promise in regard to the chil- 
 dren. After the funeral I proceeded hi- 
 ther. 
 
 " I had been prepared by my poor sister 
 to expect much irregularity in her domestic 
 concerns. Her health had long been unequal 
 to the cares of a family. The children, she 
 gave me to understand, had also suffered 
 from the same cause j and my first business 
 here was observation. 
 
 "The eldest boy, Edward, is now near 
 fourteen. Henry is a year younger than his 
 brother. The tvi^o beautiful girls are twins, 
 near twelve years old. The other three are 
 yet infants. My first care was to know 
 these children ; and to this effect I deter- 
 mined to have them about me. I saw from 
 the first hour I- entered the house that I had 
 much to reform, and something to correct, 
 and referxed the means to the developmeni 
 of their different characters. 
 
 " Tk&
 
 151 
 
 *' The following day I ordered a generaf 
 dining-table ; a custom I found new to them, 
 they having always dined at a diiferent hour 
 and in a different apartment from their mo- 
 ther. In distributing the apple-pie, I un- 
 fortunately, though purely accidentally, gave 
 your favourite, the sturdy Henry, more tliau 
 the rest. I had not observed their eager 
 eyes discriminating each piece as it was 
 carved round, nor that it still remained un- 
 touched on their respective plates. In an 
 instant the storm rose; and I was clamo- 
 rously and rudely called upon to determine 
 a point in which my own impartiality was 
 
 impeached and condemned. 
 
 *' Henry, unmoved as a rock, silently ate 
 his pie, rose from the table, and disappeared. 
 I hoped for some relief, from the dispatch 
 with whiqh the object of their contention 
 had been removed from their sight and 
 reach ; but they now adverted to their own 
 slices, and the dispute grew warmer and 
 louder ; for it happened that these shares 
 w;ere pretty equal. My ti^oubles commenced 
 
 from
 
 from this moment ; the restraint of a few 
 hours was foi^otten ; and they appeared to 
 consider me as expressly commissioned t6 
 listen to their griev=ances. My time is lost 
 in. composing differences which are never 
 healed ; tales fabricated by resentment, hour- 
 ly contests, and hourly acts of injustice and 
 violence, are brought to my arbitration, 
 without the smallest disposition to submit to 
 its decisions. 
 
 " I found Edward and Henry went to a day 
 school in the village. The gentleman who 
 presides in it is the curate of the parish, and 
 much esteemed. by my brother, who wished, 
 it appears> to have left his boys solely to 
 his care,, he having already four pupils who 
 -reside with him ; but my sister over-ruled 
 this design. 1 was much puzzled to ac- 
 count for the constant forbearance of Henry 
 in these contentions, that so much disturbed 
 mCi There seemed a sullen taciturnity about 
 .him,, which, to me, sti-ongly indicated, a bad 
 temper.. Yet I remarked that I had neither 
 complaints of him, nor appeals from him. 
 
 He
 
 153 
 
 He never associated with his brother, nor 
 joined in the sports of his sisters. I could 
 not imagine how he passed his leisure time ; 
 for 1 discovered that he was^ no favourite 
 with the servants, and never with them. One 
 favourite, however, Henry had, and this 
 was an old hound of his father's ; and the 
 only boon he deigned to ask me was the 
 permission to give Nero his dinner in the 
 dining-parlour. Whether he perceived any 
 hesitation in my manner, I know not; but 
 he added, bluntly, ' You need not fear : he 
 is too old to gnaw bones, and he always had 
 his meat cut and placed by my father's side/ 
 Henry triumphed Nero was introduced ; 
 and you are acquainted with his merits, and 
 admit his claims. 
 
 " During Nero's first repast in the par- 
 lour, I was struck by seeing a malicious 
 smile go round the circle, and an air of in- 
 trepidity and defiance on the part of Henry. 
 He waited on Nero with the most obsequi- 
 ous attention, minced his meat, and received 
 with evident gratitude and delight some 
 H .5 dainties
 
 154 
 
 dainties for him, offered by my Hand ; then 
 carefully giving him water, he led him out 
 of the house ; and to my surprise, I saw him 
 lock the door which confined his favourite to 
 a spot not larger than this room, and which 
 was separated from the larger court for the 
 purpose of rearing partridges : he put the 
 key carefully into his pocket, returned for 
 his hat, and, without thanking me for my 
 indulgence, left the room as usual. 
 
 " Some questions respecting the children, 
 which I casually asked one of the maid-ser- 
 vants, threw some light on a subject which 
 interested whilst it perplexed me. Mrs. 
 Nurse, so was the superintendant of the 
 young people called, had asked my permis- 
 sion to carry them to a neighbouring farmer's 
 to drink milk and make hay. I found that 
 this had been one of their amusements du- 
 ring the life of my sister. There were several 
 children in the family, and I cheerfully com- 
 plied. Edward was of the party ; and not 
 seeing Henry at dinner, Iconcluded that his 
 reserve had yielded to a pleasure so inviting j 
 
 but
 
 155 
 
 but early in the afternoon I saw him walking 
 with his friend Nero on the lawn. * How 
 happens it,' said I to the girl who was with 
 me in my bed-room, ' that Henry is re- 
 turned before the rest of the party ? ' * Dear 
 madam,* answered the loquacious damsel, 
 ' master Henry has not been with his bro- 
 ther and sisters!' 'And why not?' de- 
 manded I hastily.' Oh ! dear madam, you 
 do not know what a wicked boy he is ! 
 Nurse can tell you such stories of him . . . ! 
 His poor mamma, she says, could not bear 
 him in her sight,, he was so wilful and stub- 
 bom ! and madam G always said he was 
 
 the very temper of a relation of my master, 
 who had made her very unhappy ; and that 
 master Henry would be her death, for he 
 was the very image of this cruel lady . . . 
 But Nurse, madam, can tell you all about 
 him ; for I have only been here three months : 
 but I see nobody in the house loves him.' 
 
 " She was mistaken, my dear Mrs. Palmer- 
 stone, for / loved him \ and perhaps for a rea- 
 son not better founded in justice than that 
 
 which
 
 j:?6 
 
 which had' so unfortunately turned the heart 
 ef hts mother against him. From the first 
 moment I saw him, I thought him the picture 
 of his father : and it may be, yielding to this 
 ^tepossession, I am in danger of becoming 
 .partial in^ my turn ; for it is certain that my 
 iter8st-ir' this child becomes hourly more 
 lively. My erideavours, in the mean time, 
 to^gain his love and confidence, answered 
 so slowly to my- wfehes, that I' began to de^ 
 spair. Hs neither offended me nor courted 
 my. favour; spoke seldom, and answered all 
 my questions with an abruptness and reserve 
 which sometimes grieved' me, and which 
 certainly never satisfied me. 
 
 "A fe\v evenings before your arrival I 
 look^ as usual, a ramble in the park, and 
 was accidentally invited into a by-road 
 which skirts it, by the shade which it offered 
 me from a brilliant setting, sun. I had not 
 proceeded far in my. new path when 1 saw 
 Henry situng with another boy on- the grass 
 by the side of a little rivulet: a very pretty 
 boat, full rigged, was in the water before 
 
 them.
 
 157 
 
 them, and fastened to the stump of a tree : 
 their backs were towards me, and I slowly 
 approached them. Henry was busily en- 
 gaged in cutting a cork boat, and his com- 
 panion was reading aloud. As I used no 
 precaution, they heard the rustling of ray- 
 gown, and, turning their heads, suddenly 
 perceived me. * It is only my aunt,' 
 said Henry with his usual sang-froid, and 
 continuing his work unmoved. The other 
 boy respectfully rose and bowed to me. 
 * Here is a seat for you, aunt,' said Henry 
 to me with frankness, pointing to the root 
 of a tree by his side. 'Spread my coat 
 upon it,' added he, addressing his companion ; 
 who with alacrity obeyed his orders. I 
 seated myself, not displeased to be thus 
 invited, and still more contented to find 
 that I was not an object for reserve or 
 secrecy. I now admired the boat floating 
 before me, which, although not half a yard 
 long, was a perfect model. Henry, no 
 longer the sileiit Henry, told me that his 
 father had made it for him, and that he had 
 
 promised
 
 158 
 
 promised him a model of his own ship at 
 his return. He then explained to me the 
 various manceuvres, the rigging, and the 
 difference between that he was making and 
 the one in qiJestion i then stopping abruptly, 
 he said with a significant nod ' That is 
 Frank Curtis.' Desirous of hearing the 
 sound of Frank Curtis's voice, I asked him 
 what he was reading, holding out my hand 
 for the book which he held. ' It is,** 
 answered he, * the Lives of the British 
 Admirals, madam ; but my father has a 
 much better edition than this,' (giving me 
 an abridgement of the work, designed for 
 youth.) ' I believe, Henry,* said 1 smiling, 
 * you would not dislike to be an admiral, 
 nor this young gentleman to be your first 
 captain.' * Not half so well,' replied he 
 eagerly, * as to be his mess-mate in my 
 father's ship : when that day arrives,^ I shall 
 not envy the greatest monarch on earth ; 
 for a man has every thing who has a 
 friend.* 
 
 *' He spoke with an enthusiasm that warm> 
 
 ed
 
 159 
 
 ed my heart, and called up a blush on the 
 modest countenance of the youth to whom, 
 by a direction of Henry's eyes, it was 
 addressed ; who now rising, said that ' it was 
 late, and that his mother would expect 
 him.' 
 
 " I remarked that he charged himself with 
 the boat, book, and all Henry's implements 
 of his boat-making art. We now parted ; 
 and my nephew and I took the road to the 
 park. In our walk the gaiety and loqua- 
 ciousness of my companion astonished and 
 amused me. He spoke of his friend * He 
 had the most brave and honest heart in the 
 world.'. . . . He talked of the curate, who was 
 his school-master, and the father of the lad. 
 ... 'If there was a good man on earth, Mr, 
 Curtis was one.' 
 
 "During this time my pace seemed nei- 
 ther to shackle his mind nor his legs: he was 
 climbing every tree in his way ; breaking 
 off old shoots ; plucking up hedge-stakes, 
 trimming first the one and then the other, 
 with the dexterity and strength of a work- 
 
 . man,
 
 1 " O V 
 
 man, whilst our chit-chat went on unin- 
 terruptedly. Sometimes the question was 
 asked when he was at my elbow, and the 
 response made twenty or thirty yards di- 
 stant from me. 
 
 " When he had collected nearly a wood- 
 man's bundle, I asked him what he purpo- 
 sed to do with them. ' Oh !' replied he, ' I 
 shall leave them by and by'. ...and soon after 
 running to the park-side he shouted out 
 ' Dame Waters !' so loud that I started. He 
 repeated this name so often that at length' 
 an old woman from the orher side of the 
 fence answered and showed herself. ' There 
 are some stakes for you,' said he, throwing 
 his load, with a sinewy ann, clear over the 
 hedge: 'take care of them. ...we shall come 
 to-morrow: it is a holiday.' I now per- 
 ceived the chimney of the little cottage 
 which was the habitation of Mrs. Waters. 
 * Frank and I,' said he, on joining me, ' are 
 repairing her pig-sty against she has a pig. 
 The last lodger, without a tooth in his 
 head, brought the sty about his ears.' 
 
 'You
 
 I 
 
 161 
 
 * You are pro\'ident at least,* said I laughing: 
 
 * and pray, who was this uncivil lodger r and 
 who is dame Waters, who is> so much in 
 your good graces?' 'Why,' said he hesi- 
 tating, * I put Nero to board with her a few 
 days, just before you came to the Grove.... 
 
 and as for my favour She has lost her 
 
 only friend, since my father left the Grove. 
 She wanted for nothing then but now she 
 is poor enough to content them.* He 
 paused and, quickening his pace, whistled 
 with the clearness of a lark the chorus of 
 'Hearts of oak!' 'You v^histle better,* 
 said 1 affectionately, ' than you answer, my 
 dear Henry. Tell me why I have never seen 
 your friend Frank Curtis nor dame Waters, 
 at the Grove, since my arrival :....they both 
 seem your favourites.' 
 
 *' His countenance, my dear Mrs. Pal- 
 merstone, assumed a steraness of which you 
 can form no idea ; his eyes struck fire, and 
 hx'm^ them steadfastly on my face, ' Why,' 
 said he uith emphasis, * if you must and 
 v\ill know, it is because Frank Curtis scorns 
 
 a liar
 
 362 
 
 \ 
 
 a liar and a coward : and dame Waters, 
 like a fool ^ took the part of the innocent and 
 the injured.' His features softened, and he 
 turned from me and wept, A momentary 
 silence succeeded. * I will leave you now^ 
 aunt,* said he, looking at the house to 
 which we approached ; .. ' Nero will want 
 water and a turn or two :' and he darted 
 from me. 
 
 " The impressions of this evening were 
 painful to me, and I lost no time in procur- 
 ing an interview with the good curate. I 
 frankly laid before him my perplexities, 
 and begged he would as freely give me 
 his opinion of the two boys. He spoke 
 with reserve of their mother's weak par- 
 tiality ; but his discretion could not disguise 
 truth. 
 
 " * The eldest of your nephews,' said he, 
 ' is a lad of the most brilliant parts, and 
 naturally not ill disposed,; but he has been 
 spoiled by indulgence and unjust preference. 
 Your brother, madam, was sensible of this, 
 and wished to ob^Ute the evilg his good 
 
 senile
 
 sense foresaw must result from such a con- 
 duct. But Mrs. G would not listen 
 to the proposal of their living under my 
 roof, choosing rather to lose sight of her 
 favourite, by sending him to a very remote 
 school, and keeping Henry at home. You 
 know your brother, madam, and his usual 
 warmth of heart in favour of those who have 
 happily gained his esteem. He preferred 
 my instructions. And I have reasons for 
 
 believing that Mrs. G was not pleased 
 
 by a resolution which in some degree took 
 a power out of her hands : for the admiral 
 informed me that they would be my pupils 
 until his return, unless removed by a gen- 
 tleman whom he named to me, and whose 
 address I have. 
 
 * ' They have been my scholars three 
 years, I had been informed of some part 
 of that unreasonable harshness which had 
 been exercised, even in the nursery, over 
 Henry', and 1 was prepared by compassion 
 to view him with an indulgent eye. It was 
 necessary. Slow in learning, ot a cold and 
 
 uncon-
 
 164 
 
 unconcillating temper ; stubborn and re- 
 fractory ; daring, and insensible to disgrace ; 
 he met even my kindness with sullen indiffe- 
 rence, and my reproofs with sturdy defiance. 
 With his companions he was melancholy 
 and reserved ; a sloven in his habits, and 
 careless of all around him. Some transient 
 gleams of light, from time to time, broke 
 through -this intellectual gloom, and I per- 
 severed. His growing regard for my son 
 Frank encouraged me, and I availed myself 
 of this circumstance, to make him more di- 
 ligent, without losing with him the interest I 
 had gained over him by my patience. My 
 son is his elder by two years, and has been 
 very assiduous. I soon found the utility of 
 our mutual plans, and my pupil got forward. 
 '* ' I suspect my wife very innocently in- 
 terrupted this period of improvement and 
 tranquillity. She became as fond of Henry 
 as her. son, and, conceiving she could never 
 do enough for a child for whom so little 
 kindness was shown at home, thought her 
 fire-side, or peaceful board, incomplete with- 
 out.
 
 16.5 
 
 out Henry. This preference highly offended 
 
 Mrs. G , and gave no less umbrage to 
 
 the young squire. 
 
 " ' No sooner had the admiral left the 
 Grove than Henry u-as forbid Jen to stay 
 after school hours, to pdss his holiJays, or 
 even to take a Sunday dinner wiih us ; and 
 his brother was commissioned to see these 
 orders obeyed : which I am sorry to say that 
 he did with rigour and incivility. 
 
 " ' We had however learned to make a 
 proper estimate of this noble boy, which re- 
 sisted this poor malice. I promise you, ma- 
 dam, I have never met with a character 
 more deciJcd in generosity, magnanimity, 
 and integrity. It has all the strong and 
 vigorous qualities of greatness and distin- 
 guished usefulness. Frank was however a 
 permitted guest at the Grove with my other 
 pupils, when it pleased Mr. Edward to in-' 
 vite them : but an incident which happened 
 immediately after the admiral left us last 
 summer, shut h's doors not only against 
 my son but also against his parents. The 
 
 boyg
 
 boys all went together to fish in a iielghbour- 
 ing stream one holiday. A dispute arose be- 
 tween the brothers ; it grew warm ; and the 
 other boys interfered, and with one voice 
 condemned Edward as the disturber and of- 
 fender. ' We shall see,' said he, indignantly 
 turning to Henry, 'who is the aggressor, at 
 home, where I will give you a good horse- 
 whipping.' 'You shall fight me here first/ 
 said my Frank, beginning to strip off his 
 coat. The sleeve and his angry haste embar- 
 rassed him ; and sorry I am to be obliged to 
 add, that your nephew thought this a fit 
 moment to strike him on the head a blow 
 which laid him senseless on the ground. 
 
 ^' ' Henry sprung upon his brother like an 
 enraged tiger j and God knows what mis- 
 chief was spared by the interposition of the 
 other boys ; who declared to me^ that such 
 was his ungovernable fury, that they be*- 
 lieved he would have struck him till he had 
 been dead. As it ended, the young gentle- 
 man had only his deserts. He was led home 
 by some of his companions, covered with 
 
 blood.
 
 167 
 
 blood, which poured from his nose and 
 mouth ; the other boys, with Henry, bring- 
 ing to me my son, still unable to stand. 
 
 " * The contusion appeared serious ; but 
 immediate relief being at hand happily re- 
 moved our fears. Judging of the consequences 
 of this busine?si I ordered Henr)' to watch 
 the bedside of his friend j and with the boys 
 I went instantly to the Grove. Your sister, 
 madam, admitted me. Suffice it to say, that 
 the concurring evidence of six witnesses, to 
 which, unfortunately, was superfluously 
 joined the testimony of a poor old woman, 
 who was near the field of battle, and saw 
 and heard every thing, availed nothing. The 
 culprit vi^as ordered instantly home, and 
 dame Waters warned never more to ap- 
 proach the house. 
 
 ** * I had no authority or interest to oppose 
 to these commands, and I withdrew. I can- 
 not however, madam, forbear to mention 
 the severity which froni this hour was exer- 
 cised over this unhappy child : it extended 
 to the privation of domestic comforts. Ba- 
 nished
 
 168 
 
 nished from his mother's presence, neglected 
 by the servants, and taunted by his brother 
 and sisters, he took refuge with dame Wa- 
 ters ; and most of his winter evenings were 
 passed under a thatch that scarcely keeps out 
 the rain. My wife was quite unhappy : 
 she urged me to write to the gentleman in 
 town, and, on my refusal, insisted on Henry's 
 coming to us. This I also opposed ; and she 
 was obliged to console herself by sending, 
 through Frank, who constantly m.et him, 
 something to cheer the scanty board. 
 
 " ' The increasing illness and apparent 
 
 danger in which I saw Mrs. G were 
 
 invincible arguments in favour of the con- 
 duct which I pursued. I foresaw the event 
 which, without any interposition on my part, 
 would relieve this unfortunate child ; and 
 whichj under any other circumstances, I 
 should have regarded as the heaviest mis- 
 fortune which Cv)uld assail his youth 
 
 * But I find,' said 1 interrupting him, ' he still 
 goes to his old friends : and that with the 
 help of his friend Frank he is embel- 
 lishing
 
 169 
 
 Hishing her pig-sty. Do me the favour,* 
 continued I, giving him my purse, * to join 
 your good offices, and to see that it does 
 not want inhabitants .... I must not en- 
 ter into any past events .... justice might 
 be misconstrued into censure .... These 
 difficulties are now done away in a manner 
 that precludes all retrospection ; but this 
 woman is from this very hour my Henry* s 
 care.' He smiled. 'Beware! madam,* cried 
 he: ' the very best movements of the human 
 heart require regulation. Your Hcnry^ if 
 you do not take care, will be an invader of 
 the rights of others, after experiencing the 
 depressive yoke of the usurper of his own.* 
 ' I thank you,* answered I: * ! will do all 
 I can to steel ray heart against him ; but, to 
 say the truth, he is at present its first con- 
 cern. Consider, my good Mr. Curtis, the 
 arrears which kindness owes him.' ' I be- 
 lieve,' replied he, * that he has sagaciously 
 discovered that you are disposed to pay these 
 debts ; for he tells Frank you are the coun- 
 terpart of his father, and no more disposed 
 VOL. I. I to
 
 170 . 
 
 to listen to his enemies than he U'as. * I 
 know not,' says he, ' whether my brother 
 and the rest of them have tried to ruin mc 
 with her ; but I know they will if they can, 
 I have only to hope that they will fear an 
 impartiality which will not take evidence 
 upon trust : at present she is all goodness, 
 and studies to make all of us happy.* 
 
 " * I foresee, my dear madam,* continued 
 Mr. Curtis, * that nothing can end these 
 dissensions but a separation. Edward con- 
 siders his brother with an insolent superio- 
 rity, with concealed malice, and a fearful 
 suspicion. He knows his prowess^ and he 
 drcads it. Henry entertains for him a root- 
 ed contempt, more difficult to eradicate from 
 hi3 mind than the injuries he has suffered. 
 He unfortunately has for the basis of this 
 cold and avowed scorn, proofs of a duplicity 
 at which his own nature revolts ; for I verily 
 believe that he would suffer death rather than 
 tell a licj or betray another to shame and 
 punishment. These boys must be parted, 
 lime and maturer reason may do much to 
 
 correct
 
 ccrrect their opposite tempers, and soften 
 down these feuds of their early days.' I rni 
 persuaded," continued Mrs. Chandler, " ycu 
 will with me adopt the good curate's ad- 
 vice." 
 
 " Most undoubtedly," answered T, " and I 
 am happy he has such an advocate .... My 
 father will, I am certain, concur in any plaa 
 Mr. Curtis thinks proper to recommend. 
 The young squire, as the good curate calls 
 him, must be placed in a large public school. 
 I am much mistaken if he do not, in any of 
 these epitomes of the world, meet with inso- 
 leace to check his own ungoverned vanity, 
 cunning to match his poor and little mz- 
 lice, and true courage and magnanimity, un- 
 controlled by a mother's prohibition, to re- 
 press, and, if he be wise enough, to correct 
 his arrogance. 
 
 " Bat let us not say more of him, for I 
 am too angry to be just. We will now con- 
 sider what it is proper to do with the girls, 
 who appear equally to require our carer and 
 exertions.. 
 
 T 2 I think
 
 172 
 
 " I think a remedy for these much more 
 difficult toobtain than for the boys." ** Why 
 so ?" demanded Mrs. Chandler. "They are 
 younger, and no such declared violence sub- 
 sists between them." " It may be so," re- 
 turned I ; " and yet my experience has con- 
 vinced me that the bickerings and childish 
 disputes of girls contain in them infinitely more 
 mischief than theavowed resentmentand hasty 
 rage of boys. The first engender all the mean 
 subterfuges of malice and envy ; much more 
 deadly to the human breast than the de- 
 clared violation of moderation and self-com- 
 mand. Whether it arise from the certain de- 
 corums towhichour sexissubject; or whether 
 from our weakness to repel, or to give, the in- 
 sults of blows, or any other decided proof of 
 anger but so it is, we appear to indemnify 
 ourselves for this forbearance, by an irrecon- 
 cileable and concealed enmity, which seeks 
 its pleasure in detraction and malignity. I 
 am sorry to discourage you, but I think you 
 will have much more trouble with your girls 
 than with your boys. Nor must you, my 
 
 dear
 
 175 
 
 dear Mrs. Chandler, confine your attention to 
 the two eldest. The two youngest, although 
 they cannot reckon between them more 
 than twelve years, exhibit already the force 
 of example, and the pernicious consequences 
 of neglect. I have listened to your narra- 
 tive J now do you listen to mine. It will yet 
 explain to you some of the mysteries of our 
 hero's conduct. 
 
 " You left me yesterday morning with, 
 my father to meet the admiral's attorney. 
 On your stepping into the coach I returned 
 to the breakfast-parlour ; and our girls> 
 with my woman, followed the carriage, as 
 had been agreed, in order to have a walk, 
 and then a ride home with you. 1 took up. 
 a book, and it engaged me tiii a piercing 
 scream startled me. I rose with haste, and 
 saw on the lawn your two little damsels 
 eagerly contending for a kitten, which one 
 grasped at arm's length, whilst the other, 
 unable to reach it, was tugging at her sis- 
 ter s hair. The complaints of the kitten, 
 who appeared to sufiVr, were lost in their 
 
 clamours.
 
 17.4 
 
 clamours. I was on the point of stepping 
 to its relief, when Henry with the speed of 
 an eagle pounced upon them from the 
 Grove. He took the kitten from his sister, 
 placed it in his bosom, and said with the ut- 
 most composure, ' Now, young ladies, fight 
 it out ;' and walked away. 
 
 " They followed him some paces, filling 
 the air with their cries ; and then went, as 
 I judge, to lodge their complaints with Mrs. 
 Nurse ; for I saw them no more. Your 
 maid attended me at the toilet, and I men- 
 tioned the young ladies' quarrel ; saying I 
 hoped they had not hurt each other. 'Poor 
 things ! ' answered she, ' they have been 
 . crying all this morning for their kitten : 
 master Henry will never bring it again, for 
 he delights in teasing them.' 'It seems,' 
 replied I, ' they delight in teasing each 
 other; and I think their brother will do 
 well to remove from them the subject of 
 their contention/ ' Oh ! mad^m,' returned 
 she, ' you do not know this wicked hoy. 
 Nurse has been telling me this mornhig 
 
 such
 
 175 
 
 such things of him ! When iiis dear mo- 
 ther was dying at Bristol, he quarrelled with 
 his brother, and beat him cruelly only for 
 tying a piece of paper to old Nero's tail. 
 He said it was a squib; although master 
 Edward declared it was not : and Nurse says 
 she will swear it was only paper. Indeed., 
 madam, he is a very bad boy ! But my lady 
 will soon fmd him out.' 
 
 * Yes," exclaimed Mrs. Chandler,, the 
 tears gushing from her eyes, " yes : blessed 
 be God ! I have found him out under 
 all the oppressive indignities of unmerited 
 prejudice, nobly sustaining himself, and 
 nourishing those virtues which will render 
 him the honest pride of his father and friends. 
 How often have I heard mine exukingly 
 say, when my brother's rising merit was 
 spoken of, that he had predicted it ! and 
 that the defender of his country had begun 
 hib career of glory by being the defender of 
 pigs and jack asses ! "' 
 
 " He could hardly have found a better 
 
 evidence/*'
 
 176 
 
 evidence," replied I ; " for the truly brave 
 are always humane.". 
 
 A piercing scream now reached us from 
 the adjoining apartment : it was your voice, 
 my Eliza, and I sprang with breathless 
 terror to your assistance. You ran into my 
 arms, and hid your face in my bosom. 
 Assured of your safety, I surveyed the 
 scene before me. On one side stood the 
 
 intrepid miss Anna G with inflamed 
 
 cheeks and swollen eyes, heedless of the 
 blood which was flowing plentifully from 
 her hand, and streaming down her white 
 frock. On the other stood Mr. Edward 
 with unpitying regard, holding the weapon 
 of offence and contention in his hand. This 
 was a small knife, to which it appeared 
 both of them had claimed a right, and 
 which both of them had maintained, till 
 the accident gave it into the possession of 
 Mr. Edward. But this by no means settled 
 the question ; miss Anna clamorously and 
 obstinately persisting that the knite was hers, 
 
 and
 
 and Edward, without the smallest compunc- 
 tion, as vehemently declaring, that it was 
 his. ' He had bought it and paid for it, 
 and his sister might find another where she 
 pleased ; for she should^ not have that to 
 cut pencils with.* Poor Mrs. Chandler's 
 meek and quiet spirit sunk under this alter- 
 cation. She looked at me, shook her head, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 To relieve her, I coldly desired miss 
 Helen to call Mrs^ Nurse to bind up the 
 wound : this probably reminded miss Anna 
 that she had one, and she now bewailed it 
 with sobs and lamentations. 
 
 During this time my attention was fre- 
 quently diverted by the young person who 
 still clung to my breast ; and who asked 
 me twenty times, in a low trembling voice, 
 " Is the wound deep ? is she very much 
 hurt? does she still bleed?" For sorry 
 am. I to observe, that you approach rather 
 too nearly to those * who if they do look 
 on blood will faint.' Thus, however, 
 1 5 concluded
 
 178 
 
 cor eluded the business, and I shall never 
 forget it. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Chandler's patience was once 
 more put to the trial, on the morning pre- 
 ceding that of our departure. During 
 your walk before breakfast, with your 
 grandfather, she was called upon to settle a 
 diipute between the two eldest girls : I was 
 ju^.t descending into the garden, when they 
 passed me, bathed in tears. I followed 
 them ro the alcove, and found them sitting 
 and still weeping. I asked them with gcn- 
 tkiitss, what had disturbed them ; and 
 K^kn told me that their aunt had informed 
 them that m.orning of Mr. Palmerstone's 
 and her intention of placing them at a 
 boarding-school : " And only think, ma- 
 dam," added she, sobbiA^g, " we are to be 
 in difft-rent schools ! Pray intercede for us." 
 " 1 am very sorry," replied I, " that it is 
 not in my power to oblige you in all things, 
 but I entirely concur in your aunts wise 
 resolution. Sisters who do not live in 
 
 mutual
 
 179 
 
 mutual love and kindness together, live in 
 matual disgrace : some years hence, you 
 will, I hope, discover this truth, and reflect 
 that nature has even added to the comjnon 
 ties of blood a peculiar and endearing bond 
 of union between you two." 
 
 They hung down their heads : I saw their 
 hearts were softened by the fear of being 
 separated* *' The bad health of your mam- 
 ma," continued I, " forced her to consign 
 you to the care of those in whom she had 
 confidence, for your personal safety and 
 wants. These cares, I doubt not, have 
 been faithfully discharged. But permit me 
 to observe that they have omitted others 
 more important ^-not with design, but 
 through weakness and inability. In re- 
 dressing the inconveniences that have arisen 
 from your childish disputes and petty con- 
 tentions, they have only considered their 
 own temporary relief and tranquillity.. They 
 have not endeavoured to correct in your 
 mhids those propensities which kd you so 
 often, and so disgracefully, to violate the law 
 
 of
 
 ISO 
 
 of God, and the dictates of nature. Thus the 
 habits of contradiction, thus the selfish and ex- 
 clusive demand, thus the resentment prompt 
 to meet offence, and thespiritof unforgiveness, 
 has * grown with your growth, and strength- 
 ened with your strength.* But^my dear young 
 friends, neither your almighty Creator, nor 
 the world in which you now live, will tole- 
 rate this temper. Your own hearts will re- 
 volt at it ; for I cannot bring myself to the 
 belief that there is a child on earth who 
 could refuse herself the satisfaction of con- 
 templating the picture of a family united 
 by kindness and mutual good will a 
 family in which all found indulgence for 
 common errors, and help for common wants. 
 I should be disappointed and grieved, if I 
 did not see, as at this moment, the tears of 
 sympathy flow at such a representation." 
 
 The girls wept in silence. ..." Sincerely 
 do I wish," continued I, " that 1 could, in 
 respect to you, perfect my sketch still more. 
 Would that I could present yovr mother 
 joyfully presiding over her family of love ! 
 
 But
 
 181 
 
 But you have a father : and what is to be 
 the recompense of his fatigues and toils ? 
 what his reward for the anxieties of his 
 parental heart ? Is it to be a discord more 
 distressing to him than the attacks of the 
 public enemy ? Or shall he, at his return, 
 find peace in his own house ? Shall he have 
 the prospect of security for his children, in 
 those bonds of amity and love, that alone can 
 shelter them in a world to which even at 
 this moment they may be exposed, and to 
 which, under the most prosperous events, at 
 a future period they certainly v\ill ?,... Mur- 
 mur not then at your aunt's prudent re- 
 gulations. You will, each of you, in your 
 respective destinations, learn to value as 
 you ought a sister's love and a sister's in- 
 dulgence. The experiment will be unplea- 
 sant ; but it will be your own fault if it be 
 not profitable. I wish to prepare you for 
 it. Be assured that in a school your com- 
 fort will depend onijour temper. Every in- 
 dication of a petulant and quarrelsome one 
 will meet with powerful opposition and num- 
 b(.rless provocations. A girl who cannot 
 
 yield
 
 182 
 
 . yield to the requests and the wishes of thirty 
 or forty her own headstrong will, resembles 
 a wasp who shall dare to attack the numerous 
 guards of a bee- hive. She may perchance 
 Sling some one in the unequal combat, 
 but she will infallibly meet with punishment 
 "which will effectually disarm her.'* I rose to 
 depart. Subdued by my discourse, the poor 
 girls implored my pity, and promised they 
 would never have any more disputes. They 
 begged so hard not to be separated, that I 
 relented, and engaged to speak in their fa- 
 vour, on condition that they had no quar- 
 rels from that hour to their leaving the 
 Grove. 
 
 Your grandfather, the evening before our 
 departure, examined Mr. Edward's preten- 
 sions to learning. He had with ourselves 
 seen several times his instructor and his 
 family, and was prepared to find Edward ad- 
 vanced. He teils me that his acquirements 
 exceeded his expectations, particularly in 
 Latli ; and that he should have been liberal 
 in his commendations, had he not perceived 
 they were too securely expected. He in- 
 formed
 
 183 
 
 fojrmed him of his intention of placing him 
 at Winchester school, and added such ad 
 vice as he judged necessary. The boy felt 
 the mild superiority of wisdom, and with 
 conscious shame acknowledged that he me- 
 rited reproof. " That is sufficient," said 
 my father : " a son worthy of my friend ad- 
 miral G will blush to commit a second 
 
 time those faults which he has once con- 
 fessed to be reprehensible ; and to wear with 
 honour his name, you must tind other ene- 
 mies than a brother, and a djrl'erent antagonist 
 from a sister. Your enemies, sir, must be 
 those of your gallant father, and they are 
 the enemies of his country and of humanity: 
 and suffer me whilst I say that even to these 
 admiral G teaches the lessons of gene- 
 rosity and benevolence." Edward was af- 
 fected. He begged of my father his kind 
 mediation between him and his brother, 
 and his endeavours to effect a reconciliation 
 which he earnestly wished. 
 
 After supper, you will recollect, your 
 grandfather and the lads went to the library, 
 
 1 am.
 
 184 
 
 I am sorry to finish my narrative with a trair 
 in Henry's character which ought to lessen 
 him in our esteem. My father, in the most 
 affecting terms, represented to them the un- 
 happy effects that would infallibly arise 
 from the declared enmity which then sub- 
 sisted between them. He spoke of Ed- 
 ward's contrition, and wishes of reconcilia* 
 tion, and pressed Henry to meet with cor- 
 diality his brother's proffered friendship. 
 " Mr. Palmerstone,'* said he with a firm- 
 ness bordering on sternness, " 1 hate to 
 (quarrel ... As a brother, I would wish to live, 
 /jAe a brother, I never envied Edward in 
 my life a single favour or ad vantage.... God 
 bless him !...and may these never be less!... 
 but as a friend I disclaim him ; for my na- 
 ture must change ere I can feel for him the 
 sentiments of one. . . . My father, sir, will 
 provide for me and that friend who has, 
 perhaps, saved me from destruction^ We 
 shall wai:t but little. Whilst ! have half-a^ 
 crown in my pocket, and bread for the day, 
 I will not remind Edward that he has a bro- 
 ther ;
 
 185 
 
 ther; but should he want it, I will share that 
 pittance with him.'* Edward, with stream- 
 ing eyes, endeavoured to catch his hand, 
 imploring his pardon. " You have it,'* said 
 he unmoved, *' from my soul. As a brother, 
 there is my hand ; but I cannot deceive : 
 we are not made to be friends.".. ..On say- 
 ing this he rushed out of the room. My fa- 
 ther assured me that this boy's intrepidity 
 imposed upon him for a moment, and he 
 forgot the obduracy and inflexibility of his 
 temper, in the admiration of his calm and 
 steady spirit. 
 
 " At length you see," said he, turning to 
 the afilicted Edward, *' the brother whose 
 heart you have hardened by the indulgence 
 of your selfish and petulant passions. Re- 
 member what I now tell you : Every year 
 you live, you will have additional reason for 
 your present bitter regrets, unless, by a for- 
 bearance and submission you have hitherto 
 neitner known nor wished to know, you 
 can conciliate the heart of this noble-minded 
 youth. Place his present disposition to the 
 
 account
 
 186 
 
 account of that injustice of which he has 
 been the innocent victim j and only find in 
 his resentment, if it be possible, the invalu- 
 able price of his love and friendship. Learn 
 from it to know that it is only the worthless 
 who v/ill bear insult and contempt : these 
 feel that they deserve their own . . . But be 
 assured that the mind which rests its claims 
 on its own internal conviction of their being 
 just, will not easily bend to that weakness 
 which has forgotten or refused them. Your 
 father's influence, time, and, above all, your 
 desire of his friendship, will, I am certain, 
 subdue him. And there is no event of un- 
 prosperous fortune that will not, in my 
 opinion, be amply overbalanced by the re- 
 turn of that affection of which you have now 
 to regret the absence : it is above all calcula- 
 tion." 
 
 I have now little more tc add, than the 
 
 regulations which are to take place in the 
 
 cou'se of a month. Mrs. ^handler takes 
 
 , home with her the three youngest children, 
 
 with the infant's nurse, who pleases her. 
 
 AW
 
 187 
 
 All the other domestics will be discharged, 
 except the gardener and his son, who are to 
 occupy the lodge. Dame Waters and Nero 
 are to take care of the house. Henry will be 
 as happy as you wish him to be with his friends 
 the good Curtises j and where, I doubt 
 not, the harsh features of his mind will be 
 meliomied by the example and precepts of 
 Mr. Curtis. Edward and his sisters are to 
 pass some weeks with us, before they enter 
 into their destined schools your grand- 
 father kindly hoping that they may, if they 
 choose it, make the visit useful to them- 
 selves, and not unpleasant to us. 
 
 We will meet the benevolent purposes 
 of his heart, my Eliza. We will endeavour 
 to convince these misguided young people, 
 that love and harmony are the chief sup- 
 ports of that edifice in which human hap- 
 piness is to repose. We will do more : we 
 will teach them that they arc not only a 
 security for peace and enjoyment lierc, but 
 the quaiiiications which will be necessary in 
 
 that
 
 18g 
 
 that future state where ail is love ; and in 
 which no turbulent passion, no unsubdued 
 resentment, no selfish gratification, can find 
 a place. In that blissful abode may you re- 
 cognise your affectionate mother, 
 
 Angelica Palmerstone I
 
 189 
 
 Lbttbb VI, 
 THE BALL, 
 
 OK THE 
 
 HISTORY OF MISS CROSBY. 
 
 It must always be matter of serious re. 
 gret to me, my Eliza, to find any occasion 
 of mixing, with that advice and instruction 
 in which I have both pleasure and comfort, 
 admonitions painful to you : but you are of 
 an age fully to understand, that in no one 
 instance of my maternal cares can I give 
 you more undeniable proofs of my affection 
 and solicitude for your happiness, than by 
 those reprehensions which place before you 
 the errors and faults of your youth and in- 
 considerateness. 
 
 You asked me, a few days since, with an 
 air in which I perceived much more of 
 petulant anger and vexation than of friend- 
 ly concern, * if I could guess at the cause 
 
 of
 
 190 
 
 of miss Fearnhead*s strange behaviour ; for 
 that, for some days, she had refused to walk 
 with or visit you as usual ; that, v^hen you 
 had accidentally met her, she vt'as reserved 
 and cold in her manner, and, as you thought, 
 stately.* 
 
 I answered your question by observing 
 ' that I had never seen the smallest indica- 
 tions of a capricious temper in miss Fearn- 
 head ; that I had observed, on the contrary, 
 uniform kindness, and striking proofs of her 
 attachment to you ; and that I therefore re- 
 commended to your consideration to seek 
 in vour own conduct, rather than in hers, 
 for the reasons of her apparent coldness and 
 estrangement.' You were silent, and I flat- 
 tered myself that I had said all that vi'as ne- 
 cessary : but I was mistaken. 
 
 Yesterday morning I renewed the subject, 
 by asking you, what had been the result of 
 the inquiry which I had recommended 
 relative to miss Fearnhead. You blushed, 
 but it was with resentment : and you replied, 
 with a disdainful toss of your head, ' that 
 
 YOU
 
 191 
 
 you knew of nothing which you had done 
 to offend miss Fearnhead ; that she did per- 
 fectly right to please herself on a point 
 which you were in no wise inclined to dis- 
 pute ; for that a studied neglect was un- 
 answerable.' Were you aware, my child, at 
 that moment, that your mother's assistance 
 was necessary, in order to enable you to ana- 
 lyse those thoughts which too rapidly esca- 
 ped your own judgement ? Were you aware 
 that you were yielding up to your angry 
 passions your reason, and even the convic- 
 tions of your conscience? Is it not true 
 that you discovered, by one glance into 
 your mind, that self-examination would in- 
 fallibly bring self-accusation ? You shrunk 
 from this trial ; preferring, on the weakest 
 ground, to be angry with your friend, ra- 
 ther than, on the most solid, to be dissatis- 
 fied with yourself. But, my Eliza, this 
 poor evasion will not do : something still 
 admonishes you, that all is not as it ought 
 to be : and I warn you, that you will be rest- 
 less and uneasy until that friendly monitor is 
 
 content.
 
 192 
 
 content. I will add my voice to its faithful 
 suggestions, and I will tell you a plain truth 
 By your present conduct, you are unjust to 
 yourself zs well as to miss Fearnhead. You 
 are colouring a mistake of youthful inex* 
 perience and heedlessness with the tints of 
 ingratitude and sullen ill-humour. I am 
 confident, from my knowledge of the natural 
 integrity of your mind, and the ingenuous 
 simplicity of your nature, that this charge 
 will very sensibly wound you, and possibly 
 you may be strongly tempted to doubt of 
 my penetration, and to accuse my justice. 
 But this subterfuge will not last : like all 
 impositions which cheat us under the sem- 
 blance of truth, the honest and simple will 
 soon detect the borrowed garb, and the fal- 
 lacy concealed under it. You will soon 
 return to that docility of spirit, and to that 
 influence in which you know you are se- 
 cure. You will trust a mother with those 
 interests, and that happiness, which are dearer 
 to her than her own life. 
 
 Let us then dispassionately call before us 
 
 all
 
 193 
 
 all the circumstances which immediately 
 preceded miss Feamhcad's change of be-- 
 haviour. Let us endeavour to discover the 
 real motives which have produced a con- 
 duet so unexpected, and so much resented 
 by you. ,. 
 
 You were permitted on your birth-day 
 to invite your own guests ; the charge of re- 
 ceiving them and entertaining them de- 
 volved on you. I was one of those guests ; 
 and I conditioned for no duty beyond that of 
 enforcing your orders, if necessary, with ser- 
 vants whose pleasure it is to oblige you. 
 
 I was not dissatisfied with your little em- 
 barrassments on receiving your visitors as 
 they respectively entered the drawing-room. 
 I know that the native modesty of youth re- 
 quires time and habitual practice to fashion 
 the manners to that ease and elegance of 
 deportment which distinguish a polite and 
 well-bred woman. Your timidity, although 
 in some degree awkward, was accompa- 
 nied by civility and good will ; your atten- 
 tion was general and courteous j and your 
 
 VOL. 1. K bashfulness
 
 194 
 
 bashfulness disappeared with the first cere, 
 monies. 
 
 I saw with pleasure every face drest in 
 smiles, and every eye sparkling with delight. 
 The formal circle was broken, and in hud- 
 dled and joyful groups you consulted to- 
 gether about what should be the amuse- 
 ment of the evening. Cards were unani- 
 mously rejected ; and all with complacence 
 listened to your proposal of showing them 
 a game with maps and geographical cards. 
 
 The door opened, and the servant an- 
 nounced the two miss Hashes. In an in- 
 stant you disappeared, in order to meet them 
 in the anti-chamber ; and you returned 
 to your other deserted guests with more 
 animated pleasure, and hanging fondly on 
 the arms of the strangers. Instead of intro- 
 ducing them to those young people who did 
 not know them, (and of this number was 
 your long selected friend miss Fearnhead,) 
 you sought a vacant corner of the apart- 
 ment, and placed yourself between your 
 new favourites, apparently forgetful that 
 
 any
 
 195 
 
 ^ny besides yourselves occupied any other 
 part of it. Engaged by your whispering 
 and tittering companions, it entirely escaped 
 your observation, that you had imposed si- 
 lence on the rest of the company, that they 
 had reassumed their seats, and in awkward 
 constraint waited for your recollection of 
 them. Some, from good sense and disap* 
 probation of your behaviour, shrunk into re- 
 serve : others, repressed by the supercilious 
 looks of the newly arrived visitors, and by 
 your neglect, felt uneasy and looked abash- 
 ed. In this unpleasant suspension of all en- 
 tertainment and social pleasure, yo\ir friend 
 Isabella was fruitlessly essaying by her looks 
 to recall you to yourself and to your duty, 
 and with admirable address endeavouring 
 at the same time to divert the attention of 
 the young ladies from too close an obser- 
 vation of the impropriety of your conduct. 
 The piano -forte was opened, the music 
 turned over : no one chose to play or to 
 sing. Miss Fearnhead lost her time and 
 her patience : she now approached you. " I 
 K 2 believe.
 
 196 
 
 believe, my dear Eliza," said she, " that 
 your friends are waiting for you : can I 
 fetch the cards which you mentioned, or 
 will you?** With careless indifference you 
 replied, " They are in the dressing-room : 
 the servant will find them on the table." 
 
 One of your miss Nashes prevented more 
 by whispering in your ear, with her eyes 
 fixed on the sweet though disturbed counte- 
 nance of Isabella. Your answer implied the 
 question, and distinctly reached my ear. " A 
 good sort of a girl.. ..very good-natured.... 
 a neighbour.".. ..Miss Fearnhead, close at 
 my sidcj looked down, retired instantly, and 
 mixed with the other young people. To 
 this good sort of a girl, to this -neighbour of 
 no account, was miss Palmerstone indebted 
 for all the exertions of good breeding, and 
 good sense, in which she herself was so 
 deficient. . . . Her gaiety enlivened the re- 
 mainder of the evening. A spirit of reta- 
 liation arose in the breast of some, and in 
 others the desire of amusement ; and with 
 the happy expedient of drawing the pro- 
 files
 
 197 
 
 files of half the company from the shadow, 
 miss Fearnhead succeeded in making them- 
 perfectly indiil^rcnt to the donor of the feastj 
 and unmmdful of her partial adoption. 
 
 When left to ourselves, you asked your 
 friend * how she liked the miss Nashes?* 
 " I do not know them," answered she 
 gravely. Without observing the air of the 
 tone with which ttiis reply was made, you 
 expatiated warmly on the wonderful merits 
 of these young ladies; their beauty, their 
 air of fashion, and above all their wit : they 
 were lively beyond expression. No com- 
 ments were made. We retired, with your 
 kissing your friend, and saying ' that sha 
 looked tired.' 
 
 The next morning I did that which you 
 ought to have done. I thanked miss Fearn- 
 head for her delicate and kind considera- 
 tion ; marked your omissions, and did not 
 forget your rudeness to her, and your in- 
 attention to her good offices j engaging that 
 the time was not distant when you would 
 most sensibly feel and acknowledge your 
 
 fault.
 
 198 
 
 foult. " I am, madam,** said this sweet and 
 amiable girl, " perfectly convinced that it 
 will be as you say. Eliza had no intention 
 to ofFend me, and I should blush to be of- 
 fended by a behaviour which I confess vexed 
 me. I wished to have prevented this, not 
 presuming on my better knowledge, but as 
 being her friend. I am two years older than 
 Eliza : it is not surprising that I am some- 
 what more sedate.... My friend," added she 
 smiling, '* was absent : it was my duty to 
 supply her place." 
 
 I believe you will expect to hear, after 
 this, that it was I who prescribed the con- 
 duct which miss Fearnhead has since ob- 
 served ; for miss Palmerstone is not yet re- 
 turned. 
 
 We will now, in order to prepare for this 
 return, inquire into the pretensions of the 
 ladies who have thus allured you from your- 
 self and your former friend. In this inquiry, 
 w^e will silently pass over the indecorum of 
 any marked preference of guests in your 
 own house. and at your own table, where 
 
 neither
 
 }99 
 
 neither rank nor influence can claim an exB 
 elusive right to any beyond the established 
 rules of precedency. We will confine our- 
 selves simply to the question of * What is 
 their title to your particular favour and no- 
 tice any ivhere ? * I think you met these 
 young ladies twice or thrice at sir George 
 Fairneld*s in Cornwall, whilst we were with 
 
 lady W , and you have seen them as 
 
 often since their being in town. You wish- 
 ed to show them some civilities : and you 
 were right as they form a part of your ge- 
 neral acquaintance, and as they are known 
 to some of our friends. 
 
 Have you a precise idea of what your 
 grandfather means, when with an ironical 
 air he talks of * pretty misses ?" I think you 
 would, in an hour, have discovered in these 
 girls two of them, if you had fully compre- 
 hended his sarcastic appellation. Do you 
 find in them any of those qualities which 
 attract his approving smiles ? Do you find 
 any of liiat aniinbleness at whicli we have 
 zcen him melt inio tears, as it brought to his 
 
 rccol"
 
 200 
 
 recollection that of his deceased son, your 
 father ? You have, indeed, my child, been 
 strangely misled ! ' We will now endeavour 
 to assimilate your new favourites with Isa- 
 bella ; but the opposition in their characters 
 renders this no easy task ; for where shall we 
 look for any resemblance between the unas- 
 suming and mild virtues of miss Fearnhead, 
 and the pertness and conceit of rhe miss 
 Nashes ? In fact, they have not one feature 
 in common. 1'hey would shrink from a 
 competition with her, even for external ad- 
 vantages ; and, silly as they are, they would 
 feel too sensibly her superiority, to enter the 
 lists on the score of mental endowments. 
 
 We have, however, only one more step 
 to make before we shall detect the latent 
 cause which has, for a time, seduced you 
 into a forgetfulness of those principles which 
 you have been taught to consider as the 
 only sure guides in your adoption of friends 
 ard companions. We shall find this cause 
 in the poor and changeling offspring of the 
 human mind. Vanity; this childish and 
 
 craving
 
 201 
 
 craving inmate of the heart, which Reason 
 laughs at, and could, by a steady look, awe 
 to annihilation ; and to which, nevertheless, 
 she so frequently and so abjectly yields up 
 her power, and submits her authority. Yes, 
 my Eliza, your vanity has disgraced your 
 understanding. You accompanied lady W 
 to sir George Fairfield's in an elegant car- 
 riage adorned with a coronet^ and attended 
 by two servants. Your dress and appear- 
 ance, and, if you will, include mine, did not- 
 disgrace this equipage. The miss Nashes- 
 were in ecstasies with miss Palmerstone, her, 
 London fashions, and her new dancing- 
 steps : but they did not forget themselves 
 in their admiration of you. They talked of 
 their papa's park, their mamma's jewels, . 
 and an Irish peer who was their first cousin, . 
 Thus was laid the first foundation of your.. 
 mutual partiality. 
 
 In London you perceived these girls af- 
 fecting all the airs of importance which 
 folly annexes to the title of heiresses, over- 
 looking to-day those whom they had ac- 
 K 5 knowledged .
 
 202 
 
 knowledged the day before ; confidently and 
 haughtily pretending to and assuming place 
 and distinction with their equals ; insolently 
 intimidating the meek and the modest, by 
 their rude and contemptuous looks and 
 marked indifference to all but the selected 
 favourite of the hour. 
 
 Have I charged these traits- too strongly ? 
 I refer you to the ball at Mr. Fortescue's, 
 and I cheerfully rest my candour on the 
 judgement you will pass. You were, how- 
 ever, their idol that evening, and very much 
 elated by the distinction. I was sorVy for it j 
 because I was certain that you were prepar- 
 ing for yourself a mortification to which you 
 had hitherto been a stranger. You were 
 persuaded that the decided preference of the 
 showy and lively miss Nashes gave you con- 
 sequence in the eyes of your iriends ; and I 
 was diverted by observiiig the air of pro- 
 tection you assumed with one or two of 
 those whom you wished to partake of your 
 good fortune. You <. )pied the tone and the 
 manner of your favourites j became fatigued 
 
 when
 
 203 
 
 when they chose to be tired ; were negligent 
 in the dance ; and could never find a seat 
 but at their side. You succeeded, though 
 awk wardly, in your part ; and entirely for- 
 got that miss Palmerstone in a hackaey- 
 coach, or in a front box, with ' odd-look- 
 in? people,* that is to say, with her best 
 and dearest friends, would be an absolute 
 stranger in the eyes of the fashionable miss 
 Nashes. But 1 will not rest my predictions 
 on improbable events. Your friends may 
 possibly escape the appellation of ' odd- 
 looking/ and you mav nor appr >ach them 
 in so humble a vehicle as a hackney-coach j 
 but the event is not the less certain. The 
 first time they meet a better- dressed girl, or 
 one introduced with more eclai of rank and 
 fashion, the charmiiig miss Falm^stone will 
 be nobody ; and should it nappen that she 
 presses noon their recollection by civility 
 and accustomed familiarity, they will, wlth- 
 oat the S(nallest d fficui: , teach her to un- 
 derstand that rudeness is not very remote 
 from insulin 
 
 For
 
 204 
 
 For this experiment have you hazarded 
 th^ loss of a faithful friend ; one who has 
 known and loved you for more than three 
 years; one who has shared your ipnocent 
 pleasures and casual pains ; one just to your 
 merits, and indulgent to your faults : in a 
 word, one who does you honour (unpor- 
 tioned and unallied as she is) by her attach- 
 ment to you ; for she acknowledges worth 
 only, and coldly rejects the claims of pride 
 and caprice. She knows, young as she is, 
 that friendship and mutual confidence must 
 have for their basis a virtuous raind, a stea- 
 diness of character, and an affectio'.ate tem- 
 per. She respects herself, and will not stoop 
 to the affectation of follies that she despises, 
 or court the favour of those whom she can 
 neither esteem nor trust. But she has a 
 heart that will forgive inconsiderate error. 
 It is still open to you. To be the cherished 
 inmate of it, you have only to forget your 
 miss Nashes, and be again yourself. 
 
 The following incident, in the life of your 
 favourite Mrs. Fermor, will exhilit, I trust, 
 
 most
 
 205 
 
 most powerfully the advantages .resulting- 
 from a sincere and virtuous choice in early 
 friendships. It may not be inapplicable ta 
 the present occasion : at all events, it will 
 serve to convince you that it is in your own 
 power to render yourself worthy of the. 
 friend whom you have offended. 
 
 You haye so frequently seen the amiable^ 
 Mrs. Fermor, that it is needless to expatiate 
 on her character;, you will admit without 
 hesitation the general^ I may say the uni- 
 versal opinion, which pronounces her to be 
 one of the politest women in London ; and 
 to this her friends v/ill add, that she is equally 
 estimable for the virtues of her mind. But 
 I believe it is reserved for me to inform you 
 that ia early life, with all the endowments of 
 her mind and the graces of her person, she 
 was in the utmost danger of sinking into 
 one of your grandfather's ' pretty misses.* 
 I must,- however, prelude my little narra- 
 tive with the leading incidents in the life of 
 miss Crosby, the friend of miss Clarendon, 
 now Mrs. Fermor. 
 
 Miss
 
 206 
 
 Miss Crosbv lost her mother when she 
 was an infant : her family connexions took 
 no share in an event that deprived her of the 
 first of human blessings, 
 
 Mrs. Crosby had highly offended her fa- 
 mily, by a marriage which they regarded as 
 disgraceful to her friends and ruinous to 
 herself. 
 
 This lady, when young, was an orphan^ 
 and heiress to a considerable estate ; her 
 father, who was the last surviving parent, 
 having left her, and her large fortune, to the 
 care of an old gentleman, whose habitual 
 parsimony and exact honesty were his best 
 recommendations to so important a trust. 
 His love of money, and aversion to expense, 
 entered into his plans relative to his ward ; 
 and he was perfectly satisfied with a conduct 
 which had for its principle the most scru- 
 pulous attention to the savings of a long 
 minority. He lived in a very retired way 
 
 at N ; and his young charge, with a 
 
 housekeeper and three servants, composed 
 his household. The young lady's family 
 
 paid
 
 207 
 
 paid little attention to arrangements which 
 had in a great measure removed her from 
 their sphere of action. They censured her 
 father's will, and forgot the means by which 
 they could have rectified what was princi- 
 pally defective in it. 
 
 At a very early age this young and inex- 
 perienced girl became acquainted with Mr. 
 Crosby, the son of the keeper of the county 
 jail. He was nephew to her guardian's 
 housekeeper, and frequently visited an aunt 
 who loved and was proud of him : this was 
 not without reason; for to a remarkably 
 fine person he joined a conduct which had 
 gained him the good opinion of all who 
 knew him. His father, whose only child he 
 was, had exerted his utmost abilities in his 
 education ; and he was at this period clerk 
 to an eminent attorney at N . 
 
 It does not appear what sh^re the aimt 
 had in the intrigue : but it is certain that 
 in two months after the lady became of age 
 it finished by a clandestine marri .ge j and 
 the consequence was, a formal renunciation 
 
 of
 
 208 
 
 of her by her family connexions. The youngs 
 couple retired to a distant part of the coun- 
 try, and resided in a handsome house on 
 Mrs. Crosby's estate. It will not be seeking 
 too remotely for causes, if we attribute the 
 rapid decline of Mrs. Crosby's health, after 
 her marriage, to the uneasiness of her mind. 
 She happily discovered qualities in the hus- 
 band, which, it may be presumed, had been 
 very little heeded in the choice of the lover. 
 Mr,. Crosby was a sensible, worthy man ; 
 and with unremitting affection and tender- 
 ness he cherished the woman whom his 
 heart had selected with more eagerness 
 than his interest had sought her fortune. 
 She discovered every day that he was 
 worthy of the notice and favour of her rela- 
 tions ; and with an anxiety which augment- 
 ed with this conviction she solicited a recon- 
 ciliation. 
 
 Mr. Crosby entered into these senti- 
 ments, not only as they corresponded with 
 his own honest purposes in respect to his 
 wife's settlement^ but as they appeared so 
 
 intimately
 
 209 
 
 intimately connected with her tranquillity. 
 But the undisguised and unrestrained resent* 
 ment that appeared in the haughty answers 
 to their repeated solicitations convinced them 
 that it was in vain to hdpe for any reconci- 
 liation. Mr. Crosby was told that he was a 
 villain; his wife the victim of his ariihces, 
 the dupe of her own folly, and an ahen from 
 their blood. Mrs. Crosby felt with bitter- 
 ness and indignation this outrage on the 
 honour of her husband, and forgot that, by 
 her infringement of those obligations due to 
 the established laws of society, she had 
 furnished to the intemperate anger of her 
 family an apology which would meet with 
 general acceptance, if not a complete justi- 
 fication. Her death left miss Crosby an 
 infant three years old, and a husband inc on 
 solable. He considered his wife as having 
 been, in reality, the victim of her attach- 
 ment to him, and with unfeigned sorrow 
 lamented an affection so fatal to their com- 
 mon happiness. Mr. Crosby wanted not 
 spirit to encounter the contempt of his 
 
 wife's
 
 210 
 
 wife's family ; and after her decease he de- 
 clined all occasions of recalling them to his 
 remembrance. 
 
 Occupied with his Emma, and cares for 
 her welfare, he became more and more re* 
 cluse ; but his retirement excluded not the 
 respect of his neighbours, nor attention to 
 the wants of the poor. "When his darling 
 child had reached her sixth year, he wisely 
 considered her danger under his fond indul- 
 gence, and he determined to place her in the 
 hands of a lady twenty miles from him, who 
 had for many years sustained a very high re- 
 putation at the head of a school not less nu- 
 merous than respectable. 
 
 This lady, whose name was Sandford, 
 was deserving of the confidence of the anxi- 
 ous parent : she entered with the tenderest 
 interest into the good Mr. Crosby's views, 
 and the peculiar situation of his child. 
 Emma Crosby was about fourteen when I 
 became a boarder with Mrs. Sandford. 
 She had been always considered as the 
 child, as well as the pupil, of this excellent 
 
 lady :
 
 211 
 
 lady : and I found that I had been much 
 favoured by being the first young lady wiih 
 whom she had slept ; for she had, till my 
 arrival, shared her governess's room. This 
 preference arose, perhaps, from my mo- 
 ther's having met Mrs. Sandford, during 
 her summer vacation, at the house of a 
 friend. Struck by the manners and attain- 
 ments of her pupil, she then resolved on 
 leaving me with Mrs. Sandford during her 
 expected absence from England. She 
 mentioned her intentions, and added some 
 unfeigned commendations of Emma. Mrs. 
 Sandford related the history of her mother, 
 ^ke with concern of the dejected father, 
 and finished with affectionate praise of " dear 
 Emma." 
 
 Miss Crosby and myself, during this 
 time, had, with all the faciHty of youthful 
 and artless nature, become very fond of each 
 other ; and our intimate union at school 
 confirmed this good will, and produced a 
 friendship which time and experience have 
 ^ianctioned. 
 
 In a few months after my arrival and 
 
 settlement
 
 212 
 
 settlement miss Clarendon came, and was^ 
 lodged in our chamber : she was of my age,, 
 and somewhat younger than Emma ; of a 
 noble and ancient family ;. and had lived, 
 with her great-uncle, from her infancy, at a 
 beautiful seat in the neighbourhood of S , 
 the place of Mrs. Sandford's residence.. 
 With a very considerable fortune, which 
 she inherited from her mother, she was also- 
 the acknowledged heiress of Winford castle 
 and its rich domains : she was a fine showy 
 girl, high-spirited^ impatient of contradic- 
 tion, disdainful in her deportment, and' 
 prompt in her resentments. To balance 
 these defects, she possessed unequalled gaiety 
 and generosity, with a careless good humour 
 which was never averse to mirth or sports 
 My friend Emma shrunk from her advances 
 to familiarity and confidence: her quiet 
 and gentle spirit met with timidity the 
 proffered friendship of the heiress of Win- 
 ford castle. I was as lively as miss Claren- 
 don, and delighted in the society of a girl, 
 who animated every thing within her reach,. 
 Emma insensibly became easy and uncon- 
 strained
 
 213 
 
 strained with her, and we shared in common 
 our little pleasures and our little mortifica- 
 tions. 
 
 The yearly ball now drew near. Miss 
 Clarendon, the most expensively dressed 
 girl in the house, and who appeared to con- 
 sider this distinction as an undeniable pre- 
 rogative, expected Mrs. Sutton, her uncle's 
 housekeeper, in order to settle that import- 
 ant article, her attire for the occasion : Mrs. 
 Sandford not being judged competent to 
 such a care by the zealous Mrs. Sutton, 
 whose long services and attachment to miss 
 Clarendon had been productive of consider- 
 able influence in the family, and had, in 
 fact, changed her original station to that of 
 an inmate of the drawing-room when it was 
 without other guests. 
 
 Mrs. Sutton arrived a few days before 
 the ball, in a coach filled with band-bpxes. 
 A new and costly silk, robe was displayed 
 to our admiring eyes ; silver fringe and 
 tassels decorated it most splendidly. To this 
 superb dress were added white and silver 
 
 shoes,
 
 214. 
 
 shoes, and a London cap of silver gauze 
 ornamented with silver flowers. Mrs. Sand- 
 ford had most undoubtedly shown a very 
 different taste in Emma's equipments; for 
 a muslin frock, and a bunch of roses for her 
 head, completed the preparations made for 
 her. 
 
 It was customary for those friends of our 
 governess, or of the young ladies, who did 
 not wish to participate in the pleasure or 
 fatigue of the ball, to assemble in her 
 drawing-room in order to see the ladies 
 when prepared for it ; and as we finished 
 our toilet, we repaired thither to receive 
 their good-natured smiles of approbation, 
 and some marks of kindness, which we 
 pocketed. No one in the house had been 
 judged capable of dressing the heiress of 
 Winford castle, by Mrs. Sutton, but herself. 
 She had been indulged with a particular 
 room for this purpose, and miss Clarendon 
 had passed in review before Emma and my- 
 self were ready; and had been conducted 
 by the triumphant and exulting Mrs. Sutton 
 
 to
 
 215 
 
 to her uncle, who was seated in great state 
 at the head of the ball-room, ready to re- 
 ceive her. 
 
 When we entered the drawing-room Mr, 
 Crosby met his daughter : he surveyed with 
 melancholy attention her light and elegant 
 person, took her tenderly by the hand, 
 gazed on her face, and sighed profoundly j 
 then rising with ill-concealed agitation he 
 placed round her neck a gold chain, to 
 which was suspended her mother's picture 
 set round with brilliants ; and once more 
 looking at her with undefinable emotions, 
 he burst into tears and suddenly quitted the 
 room. 
 
 This affecting scene retarded us for some 
 time. Poor Emma wept bitterly, and was 
 long in composing her fluttered spirits, till 
 soothed by Mrs. Sandford, and encouraged 
 by all around her. We at length entered 
 the ball-room. The girls crowded about us 
 on our appearing, curious to learn the cause 
 of our delay : but this curiosity instantly 
 yielded to the admiration that Emma's new 
 ornament excited. 
 
 Miss
 
 216 
 
 Miss Clarendon, who had till then en- 
 joyed without a competitor all the honours 
 resulting from her finery, approached us, 
 to make the same inquiries, which had been 
 forgotten by the girls, who were now en- 
 gaged in remarking the striking likeness 
 of Emma to the picture. Miss Clarendon 
 was called upon in a moment to confirm 
 this opinion, and to admire miss Crosby's 
 elegant decoration. Her face flushed with 
 rage : all the violence and pride of her un- 
 governed mind burst forth ; and with the 
 most insolent disdain in her manner, and 
 the most bitter irony of tone, she remarked 
 that Mr. Crosby had omitted the most es- 
 sential part of his gift. " Had the keys of 
 the prison," added she, sarcastically smiling, 
 ** been hung to the chains, we should at 
 once have recognised the grand- daughter of 
 the jailor at N ." 
 
 The insulted Emma, still agitated by her 
 interview with her father, turned as pale as 
 death, and was sinking to the floor quite in- 
 sensible. Speedy assistance was given, and 
 she was conveyed ficm the room. You
 
 217 
 
 win easily imagine the confasian ihis occa- 
 sioned. Emma's sudden indisposition pre* 
 vented the principjtl figure dance: every 
 girl who had witnessed the scene, and knew 
 the cause of miss Crosby's illness, cautious- 
 ly shunned miss Clarendon, lest they should 
 be mistaken for her abettors or defenders. 
 
 The task of the evening closed, and I 
 was dismissed with the rest to my repose. 
 Weary, dejected, and very angry, I pre- 
 pared to step into bed, without speaking 
 or looking at miss Clarendon; but not be- 
 fore I had silently observed that Emma's 
 place was vacant. My heart palpitated 
 with resentment. I did not dare to give 
 utterance to my voice, or the upbraiding^ 
 that I wished miss Clarendon to hear. At 
 length I perceived she made no advances to 
 join me ; and pushing back the side curtain 
 to cast one indignant look at her, I found 
 she was sitting by the bed-side, exactly in 
 the same state in which she had entered the 
 room. My heart, Eliza, was hardened 
 against her, and 1 thought she was sullen. 
 " You did well," said I with a toss, " to 
 
 VOL. I. L disencumber
 
 218 
 
 disencumber yourself of ycur fmery in th 
 dressing-room, as you intend to ; pass the 
 night in that chair: I conclude/* added I 
 with unpitying accent, " that such is your 
 design." "No matter, where I pass it!** 
 exclaimed she, casting herself on her knees, 
 and hiding her face in the bed-clothes. " No 
 matter what becomes of me !" pursued she : 
 " I hale myself! every one hates me ! they 
 must hate me : for God hirwself hates the 
 proud of heart.'* 
 
 - My 'resentment softened in a moment: 
 soothings instead of reproaches now en- 
 gaged^ my thoughts. We passed the night 
 in plans to reinstate her in the favour of 
 Mrs. Sandford, and to gain forgiveness 
 from the gentle Emma. " 1 know not," 
 said miss Clarendon, " what apology I can 
 make ; but there is none that I shtill think 
 too humiliating. Shall I confess the truth, 
 and plead that for an excuse, which will 
 disgrace my understanding, as much as I 
 have exposed my bad and headstrong tem- 
 per ? BiW indeed, my dear Angelica, so it 
 was, 1 was certainly influenced by Sutton's 
 
 conversation.
 
 219 
 
 conversation. I think that I should not 
 otherwise have been so cruel. Bat she ex- 
 pressed her sarprise that Mi*s. Saudford had 
 found no other apartment for me lh:m miss 
 Crosby's : ' she thought,' she said, ' that 
 every one should have their proper place ; 
 and that, whatever Mrs, Sandfcrd might 
 think of her />e/, the grand-daughter of the 
 
 N jailor could not find hers with the 
 
 heiress of Winford castle But your uncle 
 
 shall know it,' continued she, reddening with 
 anger : ' if any thing can prevail upon him 
 to send you beyond his daily reach, this 
 will ; and London is the proper place in 
 which to find you education, and proper 
 associates. However,' said she, settling my 
 robe, ' they will see the difference to-night 
 at k-asi; ! * I have, my dear Angelica, heard 
 too many of these conversations. I am neither 
 so childish nor so silly as not to see this wo- 
 man's motives, for she consults only her own 
 int/rest : but i liave not been wise enough to 
 despise them, and to-night but why do I 
 talk of it ? I can never be forgiven! " 
 
 I'hree whole days passed, and we sav 
 L 2 not
 
 220 
 
 not Emma : she was ill. Oti the fourth she 
 took her place in the school-room with 
 placid cheerfulness, met the greetings of 
 her companions with kindness and grati- 
 tude ; and in passing me pressed my hand, 
 and whispered, " Thank you, do not for- 
 sake her." She neither shunned nor sought 
 miss Clarendon, spoke occasionally to her 
 "with polite reserve, and appeared the same 
 meek and unoffending Emma. 
 
 She still coBtinoed to sleep in Mrs. Sand- 
 ford's apartment, and I diligently sought an 
 opportunity of expressing to her, how much 
 this separation grieved me. " All will be 
 welV' answered she, the tears running down 
 her pale cheek : " all will be as it ought to 
 be, my dear friend, in a few days. I am 
 not permitted to tell miss Clarendon that I 
 pity her; my governess did not choose I 
 should answer her letter ; but I think you 
 may assure her, that you know I still love 
 her. She has injured herself, not me, and 
 there is no cause for my ceasing to love her ; 
 for I am proud of my alliance with integrity 
 and humanity. I am proud of being the 
 
 grandchild
 
 221 
 
 grandchild of that man of whom even the 
 meek, and benevolent Howard would have 
 said : ' Behold the friend of the miserable : 
 respect the man who communicates com- 
 forts to his fellow-man in a prison, and be- 
 guiles the sad houi*s of captivity and chains 
 of their burthen.* Miss Clarendon knew 
 him not ; she thought only of the obscurity 
 and meanness of his condition in life ; and, 
 in a moment of heedless folly, forgot the 
 lessons of Mrs. Sandford, who constantly 
 inculcates that it is not the post allotted to 
 us, but the diligent discharge of the du- 
 ties annexed to it,^ which stamps us with 
 honour. Comfort her, my dear Angeli- 
 ca, and instruct her j for she has a noble 
 mind.'^ 
 
 This injunction I faithfully observed. To 
 say the truth, miss" Clarendon stood in need 
 of consolation. I do not believe that the 
 severest corporeal punishment, or the most 
 humiliating mortification, wopld have pro- 
 duced, on miss Clarendon's mind half the 
 pain that it endured from the suspense in 
 which she was kept. Not a word escaped 
 L 3 any
 
 922 
 
 any of the teachers that had any reference 
 to the ball. Every indication of curiosity 
 on the subject, on the part of the young la- 
 dies, was repressed ; and various v^rere our 
 comments on this inexplicable silence. Some 
 of the girls attributed it to the influence of 
 the heiress with Mrs. Sandford ; others, with 
 more probability and candour, to that of 
 the gentle ascendency of Emma ; whilst the 
 greater part had ceased to interest themselves 
 in an affair from which they had only expe- 
 rienced a slight privation of amusement. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford had not spoken on the 
 subject to miss Clarendon, any further thaw 
 telling her that miss Crosby would shortly 
 answer the letter which she had sent her. 
 The irritable temper of this poor girk, and 
 the continual vexation in which she was, 
 manifested themselves in her countenance : 
 she looked pale, and lost her appetite. On 
 the Sunday evening we assembled as usual 
 for the purpose of its peculiar duties. Four- 
 teen days had nearly elapsed since the un* 
 fortunate ball. At the conclusion of the 
 prayers, Mrs. Sandford said with dignity and 
 
 calranessj
 
 22 
 
 calmness, *' Young ladies, there now remains 
 for me a duty which has not been forgotten, 
 although suspended in order to render it 
 in its performance more impressive and sa- 
 lutary." She paused. Never shall I forget, 
 my Eliza, what passed in my mind at that 
 instant ! Although perfectly free from blame, 
 I felt like a criminal before his judge, and 
 with downcast eyes and beating heart sup 
 ported the trembling miss Clarendon. 
 
 '* The offence," continued Mrs. Sand- 
 ford, " on which I have the painful office of 
 animadverting, was a public one, and my 
 reprehension of it must be public also. But, 
 my dear children, look, not at this moment 
 for the offender amongst you : the most 
 sincere repentance, and the most generous 
 avowal of the affront, have cancelled miss 
 Clarendon's fault in the memory of her who 
 suffered from it. Miss Clarendon is once 
 more entitled to that place in our hearts> 
 which she so heedlessly and intemperately 
 hazarded by yielding to the suggestions of a 
 juling passion. She will, I doubt not, per- 
 mit me to use her name as the vehicle of 
 
 those
 
 224 
 
 those truths which I now wish to Impress oti 
 your minds. She 'will tell you that she has 
 experienced, in all the bitterness of such a 
 conviction^ that in insulting the feelings of 
 a feHow-creature you plunge a poniard into 
 your own breast. She will tell you that 
 pride and arrogance defeat, and always will 
 defeat, their own purpose ; and that neither 
 rank nor fortune, nor beauty nor talents, 
 can cover the deformity of the heart in 
 which pride and envy and malice have 
 their dire abode. But she will say yet more. 
 She will tell you that her repentant tears 
 have been sweet ; that a healing bairn has 
 diffused itself in the woundvS inflicted by self- 
 reproach, since she has banished these ene- 
 mies of human peace and of human honour. 
 She will tell you, that from the hour in which 
 she acknowledged herself the slave of passion, 
 and nobly cast off the debasing power, she 
 has recovered her self-esteem, and that she 
 looks forward to a completer triumph. Nor 
 will she be disappointed. The proselyte of 
 truth is doubly dear to us all.'* She ex- 
 tended her arms to the weeping girl, with 
 
 emotions
 
 2-5 
 
 emotions that she did not affect to conceal. 
 "This is," said she, "an hour of victory 
 indeed ! O may it for ever expel from the 
 hearts of my children these cruel invaders I 
 But,** added she, sweetly smiling, " I for- 
 get my Emma: she has a right which I 
 withhold. Let me restore to her her be- 
 loved miss Clarendon." The girls were in 
 an insfant locked in each other's arms ; 
 whilst I with wild joy was clinging to Mrs, 
 Sandford, incapable of speaking my love 
 and gratitude. 
 
 Mrs, Sandford now, with collected se- 
 riousness, addressed her pupils : " Ydu 
 ought," said she, " to know the real value 
 of those distinctions which so tenaciously in- 
 fluence human opinions and direct humaa 
 pursuits. 1 am not called upon to inquire 
 either into the origin, the utility, or the 
 reasonableness of pre-eminence in rank, and 
 power, and wealth. It is sufficient for my 
 purpose, that such distinctions have always 
 existed in social life; and, under some form 
 or other, will exist so long as man associates 
 with man. We ought as common mem- 
 bers
 
 226 
 
 bers of It to respect the common and esta- 
 blished laws of the society in which we 
 live ; and those who support, by a conduct 
 conformable to their elevation, their claims 
 to respect, ought to receive it. But they 
 who trust to external honours for considera- 
 tion will do well to look into their feeble 
 tenure : this will afford nothing on which 
 pride can erect its absurd pretensions. 
 They will find the trophies of their great- 
 ness mixed with base alloy j that they have 
 been borne by those who have tarnished 
 and soiled them j and that they have been 
 disgraced by vice and obscured by po- 
 verty. Miss Crosby's grandfather was the 
 keeper of a common prison ; and content 
 ."with his humble condition, he honourably 
 and conscientiously performed the dudes of 
 it. Miss Clarendon's paternal grandfather 
 had to support the dignities of a long irain 
 of noble ancestors : his profusion and li- 
 centious indulgences disgraced them, and 
 brought ruin and want on himself. He was 
 arrested for debts which his vices hat.'; led 
 him to incur, and confined for a consider- 
 able
 
 227 
 
 able time in N gaol : and to the ha- 
 
 manity of its keeper was he indebted for 
 the comfcrts of his prison, and the decent 
 supply of his daily necessities. 
 
 "Let this example teach you all, the 
 folly and presumption of looking back to 
 your ancestors for that honour which must 
 result from your own conduct, or for any 
 apology for supercilious contempt of those 
 whom you imagine to be your inferiors ; 
 for be assured that this conte^ipt will infal- 
 libly revert on yours^^lves. Remember, it 
 is your own virtue and your own wisdom 
 that must ennoble you. The mockery of 
 ceremonial usages, the forms of respect 
 which power and overgrown wealth exact, 
 you will find of easy price ; f.^w are dis- 
 posed to dispute for straius : but expect no 
 homage from the heart, nor any deference 
 from the understanding : these are not im- 
 posed upon with gewgaws ; they will have 
 mcrity or they will laugh at your preten- 
 sions. 
 
 "To these observations," continaed the 
 good Mrs. Sandford, '' 1 have only one dc- 
 
 civsion
 
 228 
 
 dsion to add, which by its solemn import* 
 ance supersedes all the deductions of hu* 
 man reason and experience, whilst it con- 
 firms, their inferences. You know that the 
 great and powerful Being has declared 
 ' that pride was not made for man.'** 
 
 We were dismissed, and the remainder of 
 the evem'ng was given to extraordinary in- 
 dulgenee and joy ; and to crpwn all, our 
 Emma retired to the same bed-room with 
 ourselves. The effects of this incident were 
 not transient : from this hour miss Claren- 
 don looked up to Emma as her model : no 
 persuasions could induce her to leave Mrs. 
 Sandford's house. 
 
 The ascendency which this sweet girl 
 acquired was indeed surprising. The ap- 
 probation of Emma Crosby was the recom- 
 pense of every effort of self-command. She 
 read in her modest and retiring eye the 
 signal for wisdom and forbearance. The 
 .sound of Emma's voice modulated her rising 
 notes of petulance, and her smile of appro- 
 bation appeared necessary to her well-be- 
 ing. I was one day remarking these things 
 
 to
 
 229 
 
 to her : " I da not," replied she> " wish to 
 disown what you say. Emma Crosby i^ 
 t-he object of my emulation. I love you^ 
 my dear Angelica ^ but with that sentiment 
 I find mixed a reverence for Emma, which I 
 cannot well explain. Do you know, she 
 was perfectly acquainted with the circumr 
 stance mentioned by Mrs. Sandford relative 
 to my grandfather ? Do you not see with 
 what encouraging gentleness she manages 
 uiy headstrong temper ? Has she not con- 
 vinced me that the humble of heart are 
 blessed?" 
 
 When these young ladies quitted Mrs. 
 Sandford,. their friendship had taken that 
 form which it will retain as long as they 
 exist. Winford castle and Mr. Crosby's 
 house had alternately their guests, until the 
 marriage of miss Crosby took place. She 
 has been many years the wife of a gentle- 
 man recommended to her favour by her 
 mother's relations, who are proud of a wo- 
 man that reflects honour on them. Mr. 
 Crosby met with dignifjcd good nature 
 die overtures of reconciliation mady by his 
 VOL I. M wife's
 
 wife's connexions ; and, with a camlidness 
 which marks his character, observed, in re- 
 ply to the concessions made him, "that 
 he was an example of those evils so com- 
 monly attendant on youthful and indiscre3t 
 attachments, and which almost always lie 
 concealed in unequal unions. I wanted not,** 
 added he, *' either probity or affection, but 
 I wanted that firnmess of mind which ought 
 to have left me no alternative in a decision, 
 in which the honourableness of my own 
 principles, and the delicacy and the repu- 
 tation of the woman whom I loved, were so 
 deeply implicated. I married her, and in- 
 curred the opprobrium which it cast on my 
 name. But, inexperienced and guiltless as 
 she was, she saw not the justice of this harsh 
 opinion. She felt my injuries ; and slowly, 
 but, Heaven be praised ! not repentantly, ac- 
 knowledged that the woman, who, unmind- 
 ful of her station in life, quits the rank al- 
 lotted her for one very much beneath her, 
 has no right to complain, if, on wishing to 
 return to the post she has deserted, she finds 
 no admittance. In becoming the husband 
 
 of
 
 231 
 
 of the rich Emnia Wentworth my character 
 was open at least to suspicion. As the fa- 
 ther and guardian of her child, it has, I 
 trust, exhibited its native rectitude. The 
 sorrows which have been left me with this 
 precious deposit have silenced resentment* 
 I meet with cordiality the hearts of those 
 who are disposed to love and protect my 
 child: to her I leave the enforcement of 
 claims now so happily admitted ; she will 
 not disgrace her family." 
 
 The amiable miss Crosby on her mar- 
 riage went to Ireland. Her father has con- 
 stantly resided with her. Mrs. Fermor, hav- 
 ing no family to engage her time, visits her 
 friend annually. She says that nothing can 
 draw Emma from her father and nursery j 
 and that, if I wish to see her, I must sack her 
 in the midst of five rosy-faced boys and 
 girls, in the apartment of her father, who is 
 very infirm with the gout, but whose cheer- 
 fulness appears to increase in proportion 
 with his rising comforts. His son-in-law 
 is worthy of that title, and deserving of the 
 wife which Heaven has bestowed on him. 
 
 Mrs.
 
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