LETTER I.

Lady MARY SUTTON, at the German Spaw, to Miss WARLEY, in England.

How distressing, how heart-rending, is my dear Fanny's mournful detail!—It lies before me; I weep over it!—I weep not for the departed saint: no; it is for you, myself, for all who have experienced her god-like virtues!—Was she not an honour to her sex? Did she not merit rewards too great for this world to bestow?—Could the world repay her innocence, her piety, her resignation? Wipe away, my best love, the mark of sorrow from your cheek. Perhaps she may be permitted to look down: if so, will she smile on those that grieve at her entering into the fullness of joy?—Here a sudden death cannot be called dreadful. A life like hers wanted not the admonitions of a sick-bed;—her bosom accounts always clear, always ready for inspection, day by day were they held up to the throne of mercy.—Apply those beautiful lines in the Spectator to her; lines you have so often admir'd.—How silent thy passage; how private thy journey; how glorious thy end! Many have I known more famous, some more knowing, not one so

innocent.—Hope is a noble support to the drooping head of sorrow.—Though a deceiver, court her, I counsel you;—she leads to happiness;—we shall bless her deceptions:—baffling our enjoyments here, she teaches us to look up where every thing is permanent, even bliss most exquisite.

Mr. Whitmore you never knew, otherwise would have wonder'd how his amiable wife loiter'd so long behind.—Often she has wish'd to be reunited to him, but ever avoided the subject in your presence.

Keep not from me her rich bequest:—rich indeed,—her most valuable treasure.—That I could fold you to my arms!—But hear me at a distance;—hear me call you my beloved daughter,—and suppose what my transports will be when I embrace an only child:—yes, you are mine, till I deliver you up to a superior affection.

Lay aside, I conjure you, your fears of crossing the sea.—Mr. and Mrs. Smith intend spending part of this winter at Montpelier: trust yourself with them; I shall be there to receive you at the Hôtel de Spence.

The season for the Spaw is almost at an end. My physicians forbid my return to England till next autumn, else I would fly to comfort,—to console my dearest Fanny,—We shall be happy together in France:—I can love you the same in all places.

My banker has orders to remit you three hundred pounds;—but your power is unlimited; it is impossible to say, my dear, how much I am in your debt.—I have wrote my housekeeper to get every thing ready for your reception:—consider her, and all my other servants, as your own.—I shall be much disappointed if you do not move to the Lodge immediately.—You shall not,—must not,—continue in a house where every thing in and about it reminds you of so great a loss.—Miss West, Miss Gardner, Miss Conway, will, at my request, accompany you thither.—The Menagerie,—plantations, and other places of amusement, will naturally draw them out;—you will follow mechanically, and by that means be kept from indulging melancholy.—Go an-airing every day, unless you intend I shall find my horses unfit for service:—why have you let them live so long idle?

I revere honest Jenkings—he is faithful,—he will assist you with his advice on all occasions.—Can there be a better resource to fly to, than a heart governed by principles of honour and humanity?

Write, my dear, to Mrs. Smith, and let me know if the time is fixed for their coming over.—Say you will comply with the request my heart is so much set on;—say you will be one of the party.

My health and spirits are better:—the latter I support for your sake;—who else do I live for?—Endeavour to do the same, not only for me, but others, that one day will be as dear to you as you are to

Your truly affectionate,

M. SUTTON.

LETTER II.

Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.

Barford Abbey.

BARFORD ABBEY! Yes, my dearest Lady,—I date from Barford Abbey: a house I little thought ever to have seen, when I have listened hours to a description of it from Mr. Jenkings.—What are houses,—what palaces, in competition with that honour, that satisfaction, I received by your Ladyship's last letter!—The honour all must acknowledge;—the satisfaction is not on the surface,—it centers in the heart.—I feel too much to express any thing.—One moment an orphan; next the adopted child of Lady Mary Sutton.—What are titles, except ennobled by virtue! That only makes a coronet fit graceful on the head;—that only is the true ornament of greatness.

Pardon my disobedience.—Can there be a stronger command than your request?—But, my Lady, I must have died,—my life must have been the sacrifice, had I gone to the Lodge.—The windows opposite, the windows of that little mansion where I spent nineteen happy years with my angelic benefactress,—could it be borne?—Your Ladyship's absence too;—what an aggravation;—The young ladies you kindly propose for my companions, though very amiable, could not have shut my eyes, or deaden'd my other senses.

Now let me account for being at Barford Abbey.—Was Mr. Jenkings my father, I think I could not love him more; yet when he press'd me to return with him to Hampshire, I was doubtful whether to consent, till your Ladyship's approbation of him was confirmed in so particular a manner.—His son an only one;—the fine fortune he must possess;—these were objections not only of mine, but, I believe, of my dear, dear—Oh! my Lady, I cannot yet write her name.—Often has she check'd Mr. Jenkings, when he has solicited to take me home with him:—her very looks spoke she had something to fear from such a visit.—She loved me;—the dear angel loved me with maternal affection, but her partiality never took place of noble, generous sentiments.—Young people, she has frequently said, are, by a strict intimacy, endeared to each other. This, I doubt not, was her motive for keeping me at a distance.—She well knew my poor expectations were ill suited to his large ones.—I know what was her opinion, and will steadily adhere to it.

Edmund, to do him common justice, is a desirable youth:—such a one as I can admire his good qualities, without another with than to imitate them.—Monday, the tenth, I took my leave of Hillford Down, and, after a melancholy journey, arrived Tuesday evening at Mr. Jenkings's.—Nothing did I enjoy on the road;—in spight of my endeavours, tears stream'd from my eyes incessantly;—even the fine prospects that courted attention, pass'd unnotic'd.—My good conductor strove to draw me off from gloomy subjects, but in vain, till we came within a few miles of his house; then of a sudden I felt a serenity, which, for some time, has been a stranger to my breast;—a serenity I cannot account for.

Mrs. Jenkings!—never shall I forget her humanity. She flew to the chaise the instant it stopp'd, receiv'd me with open arms, and conducted me to the parlour, pouring out ten thousand welcomes, intermingled with fond embraces.—She is, I perceive, one of those worthy creatures, who make it a point to consider their husbands friends as their own; in my opinion, the highest mark of conjugal happiness.

Plac'd in a great chair next the fire, every one was busied in something or other for my refreshment.—One soul,—one voice,—one manner, to be seen in the father,—mother,—son:—they look not on each other but with a smile of secret satisfaction. To me their hearts speak the same expressive language;—their house,—their dress,—their words, plainly elegant.—Envy never stops at such a dwelling;—nothing there is fit for her service:—no pomp,—no grandeur,—no ostentation.—I slept sweetly the whole night;—sweetly!—not one disagreeable idea intruded on my slumbers.

Coming down in the morning, I found breakfast on the table, linen white as snow, a large fire,—every thing that speaks cleanliness, content, and plenty.—The first thing in a house which attracts my notice is the fire;—I conclude from that, if the hearts of the inhabitants are warm or cold.—Our conversation was interesting;—it might have lasted, for aught I know, till dinner, had it not been interrupted by the entrance of Sir James and Lady Powis.—I knew Mr. Jenkings was their steward, but never expected they came to his house with such easy freedom.—We arose as they entered:—I was surprised to see Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings appear confused;—in my opinion, their visitors accosted them more like equals than dependants.

Your Ladyship cannot imagine how greatly I was prepossessed in their favour even before they spoke.—In their manner was something that struck me excessively;—few—very few—can express the nameless beauties of grace,—never to be seen but in a carriage sweetly humble.

Lady Powis seated herself opposite to me.—We called, said she, addressing Mr. Jenkings, to inquire what was become of you, fearing your Oxfordshire friends had stolen you from us;—but you have made up for your long absence, if this is the young lady, bowing to me, your wife told us was to return with you.—A politeness so unexpected,—so deliver'd,—visibly affected me:—I sat silent, listening for the reply Mr. Jenkings would make.

Pardon me, my Lady! pardon me, Miss Warley! said the good man,—I am a stranger to punctilio;—I see my error:—I should have acquainted your Ladyship before with the name of this dear young Lady; I should have said she is an honour to her friends.—Need I tell Miss Warley, Sir James and Lady Powis are present:—I hope the deportment of their servant has confirmed it;—I hope it has.

Sir James kindly took his hand, and, turning to me, said, Don't believe him, Madam, he is not our servant;—he has been our friend forty years; we flatter ourselves he deems not that servitude.

Not your servant!—not your dependant!—not your servant, Sir James!—and was running on when her Ladyship interrupted him.

Don't make me angry, Jenkings;—don't pain me;—hear the favour I have to ask, and be my advocate:—it is with Miss Warley I want you to be my advocate.—Then addressing herself to me, Will you, Madam, give me the pleasure of your company often at the Abbey?—I mean, will you come there as if it was your home?—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings have comforts, I have not,—at least that I can enjoy.—Here she sigh'd deeply;—so deep, that I declare it pierced through my heart;—I felt as if turn'd into stone;—what I suppose I was a true emblem of.—The silent friends that trickled down my cheeks brought me back from that inanimate state,—and I found myself in the embraces of Lady Powis, tenderly affectionate, as when in the arms of Mrs. Whitmore.—Judge not, Madam, said I, from my present stupidity, that I am so wanting in my head or heart, to be insensible of this undeserv'd goodness.—With Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings's permission, I am devoted to your Ladyship's service.—Our approbation! Miss Warley, return'd the former;—yes, that you have:—her Ladyship

cannot conceive how happy she has made us.—Sir James seconded his Lady with a warmth perfectly condescending:—no excuse would be taken; I must spend the next day at the Abbey; their coach was to attend me.

Our amiable guests did not move till summoned by the dinner-bell, which is plainly to be heard there.—I thought I should have shed tears to see them going.—I long'd to walk part of the way, but was afraid to propose it, lest I should appear presumptuous.—Her Ladyship perceiv'd my inclinations,—look'd delighted,—and requested my company; on which Mr. Jenkings offer'd his service to escort me back.

How was I surpris'd at ascending the hill!—My feet seem'd leading me to the first garden—the sweet abode of innocence!—Ten thousand beauties broke on my sight;—ten thousand pleasures, before unknown, danced through my heart.—Behold me on the summit;—behold me full of surprise,—full of admiration!—How enchanting the park! how clear the river that winds through it!—What taste,—what elegance, in the plantations!—How charmingly are Nature's beauties rang'd by art!—The trees,—the shrubs,—the flowers,—hold up their heads, as if proud of the spot they grow on!—Then the noble old structure,—the magnificent mansion of this ancient family, how does it fire the beholder with veneration and delight! The very walls seem'd to speak; at least there was something that inform'd me, native dignity, and virtues hereditary, dwelt within them.

The sight of a chaise and four, standing at the entrance, hurried me from the charming pair of this paradise, after many good days ecchoed to me, and thanks respectful return'd them by the same messenger.

Mr. Jenkings, in our return, entertain'd me with an account of the family for a century past. A few foibles excepted in the character of Sir James, I find he possesses all the good qualities of his ancestors. Nothing could be more pleasing than the encomiums bestow'd on Lady Powis; but she is not exempt from trouble: the good and the bad the great and the little, at some time or other, feel Misfortune's touch. Happy such a rod hangs over us! Were we to glide on smoothly, our affections would be fixed here, and here only.

I could love Lady Powis with a warmth not to be express'd;—but—forgive me, my dear lady—I pine to know why your intimacy was interrupted.—Of Lady Mary's steadiness and integrity I am convinc'd;—of Lady Powis I have had only a transitory view.—Heaven forbid she should be like such people as from my heart I despise, whose regards are agueish! Appearances promise the reverse;—but what is appearance? For the generality a mere cheat, a gaudy curtain.

Pardon me, dear Lady Powis—I am distress'd,—I am perplex'd; but I do not think ill of you;—indeed I cannot,—unless I find—No, I cannot find it neither;—something tells me Lady Mary, my dear honour'd Lady Mary, will acquit you.

We were receiv'd by Mrs. Jenkings, at our return, with a chearful countenance, and conducted to the dining-parlour, where, during our comfortable, meal, nothing was talk'd of but Sir James and Lady Powis:—the kind notice taken of your Fanny mentioned with transport.

Thus honour'd,—thus belov'd,—dare I repine?—Why look on past enjoyments with such a wistful eye!—Mrs. Whitmore, my dear maternal Mrs. Whitmore, cannot be recall'd!—Strange perversenss!—why let that which would give me pleasure fleet away!—why pursue that which I cannot overtake!—No gratitude to heaven!—Gratitude to you, my dearest Lady, shall conquer this perverseness;—even now my heart overflows like a swoln river.

Good night, good night, dear Madam; I am going to repose on the very bed where, for many years, rested the most deserving of men!—The housekeeper has been relating many of his virtues;—so many, that I long to see him, though only in a dream.

Was it not before Mr. Powis went abroad, that your ladyship visited at the Abbey?—Yet, if so, I think I should have heard you mention him.—Merit like his could never pass unnotic'd in a breast so similar—Here I drop my pen, lest I grow impertinent.—Once again, good night,—my more than parent:—to-morrow, at an early hour, I will begin the recital to your Ladyship of this day's transactions—I go to implore every blessing on your head, the only return that can be offer'd by

F. WARLEY.

LETTER III.

Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON, in continuation.

Barford Abbey.

I think I have told your Ladyship, I was to be honour'd with the coach to convey me to the Abbey.—About half an hour after one it arriv'd, when a card was deliver'd me from Lady Powis, to desire my friends would not be uneasy, if I did not return early in the evening, as she hop'd for an agreeable party at whist, Lord Darcey being at the Abbey.

Mrs. Jenkings informed me, his Lordship was a ward of Sir James's just of age;—his estate genteel, not large;—his education liberal,—his person fine,—his temper remarkably good.—Sir James, said she, is for ever preaching lessons to him, that he must marry prudently;—which is, that he must never marry without an immense fortune.—Ah! Miss Warley, this same love of money has serv'd to make poor Lady Powis very unhappy. Sir James's greatest fault is covetousness;—but who is without fault?—Lord Darcey was a lovely youth, continued she, when he went abroad; I long to see if he is alter'd by travelling.—Edmund and his Lordship were school-fellows:—how my son will be overjoy'd to hear he is at the Abbey!—I detain you, Miss Warley, or could talk for ever of Lord Darcey! Do go, my dear, the family will expect you.—Promise, said I, taking her hand,—promise you will not sit up late on my account.—She answer'd nothing, but pressing me to her bosom, seem'd to tell me her heart was full of affection.

The old coachman, as we drove up the lawn, eyed me attentively, saying to the footman, It will be so, John, you may depend upon it.—John answer'd only by a shrug.—What either meant, I shall not pretend to divine.—As I came near the house, I met Mr. Jenkings almost out of breath, and, pulling the string, he came to the coach-side. I was hurrying home, my dear young Lady, said he, to—to—to—Now faith I'm afraid you'll be angry.

Angry with you, Sir!—angry with you, Mr. Jenkings!—is it possible!

Then, to be plain, Madam, I was hurrying home, to request you would wear no cap.—Never shall I forget how pretty you look'd, when I saw you without one!—Of all things, I would this day wish you might look your best.

To satisfy him I had taken some little pains in honour to the family, I let back the hood of my cloke.—He examin'd the manner in which my hair was dress'd, and smiled his approbation;—which smile, though only seen in the eyes, was more expressive than a contraction of all the other features.—Wishing me a happy day, he bid the coachman drive on.

Coming within sight of the Abbey, my heart beat as if breaking from confinement.—I was oblig'd to call it to a severe trial,—to ask, Why this insurrection,—whence these tumults?—My monitor reply'd, Beware of self-sufficiency,—beware of its mortifying consequences.—

How seasonable this warning against the worst of foes!—a foe which I too much fear was stealing on me imperceptibly,—else why did I not before feel those sensations?—Could I receive greater honour than has been conferr'd on me by the noblest mind on earth!—by Lady Mary?—Could I behold greater splendor than Lady Mary is possess'd of!—What affection in another can I ever hope for like Lady Mary's!—Thus was I arguing with myself, when the coach-door open'd, and a servant conducted me to the drawing-room,—where, I was receiv'd by Sir James and Lady Powis with an air of polite tenderness;—a kind of unreserve, that not only supports the timid mind, but dignifies every word,—every action,—and gives to education and address their highest polish.

Lord Darcey was sitting in the window, a book in his hand;—he came forward as Sir James introduc'd me, who said, Now, my Lord, the company of this young Lady will make your Lordship's time pass more agreeably, than it could have done in the conversation of two old people.—My spirits were flutter'd; I really don't recollect his reply; only that it shew'd him master of the great art, to make every one pleas'd with themselves.

Shall I tell you, my dear Lady, what are my thoughts of this Lord Darcey?—To confess then, though his person is amazingly elegant, his manners are still more engaging.—This I look upon to be the natural consequence of a mind illumin'd with uncommon understanding, sweetness, and refinement.