Olivia Fairfield to Mrs. Milbanke.

At Sea, on board the ****
1800-01-01 < x < 1809-12-31180—

Launched on a new world, what can
have power to console me for leaving the
scenes of my infancy, and the friend of
my youth? Nothing but the consciousness
of acting in obedience to the commands
of my departed father. Oh, dearest
Mrs. Milbanke! your poor girl is every
minute wishing for your friendly guidance,
your maternal counsel, your sober
judgement!—Every day, as it takes me Vol. I. B [Gap in transcription—2 charactersomitted] B1v 2
farther from Jamaica, as it brings me
nearer to England, heightens my fears
of the future, and makes my presaging
heart sink within itself! You charged
me to confide to you its every throb; and
till it ceases to beat, it will turn with the
warmest affection to my earliest and best
friend; my governess, my instructress!—
and I cannot help asking why am I sent
from her? why was it necessary for Olivia
Fairfield to tempt the untried deep,
and untried friends?—But I check these
useless interrogatories, these vain regrets,
by recollecting that it was the will of
him who always studied the happiness
of his child.

My dear father, doatingly fond as
he was of his Olivia, saw her situation
in a point of view which distressed B2r 3
his feeling heart. The illegitimate
offspring of his slave could never be considered
in the light of equality by the
English planters. Such is their prejudice,
such is the wretched state of degradation
to which my unhappy fellow-
creatures are sunk in the western hemisphere.
We are considered, my dear Mrs.
Milbanke, as an inferior race, but little
removed from the brutes, because the
Almighty Maker of all-created beings
has tinged our skins with jet instead
of ivory!—I say our, for though the jet
has been faded to the olive in my own
complexion, yet I am not ashamed
to acknowledge my affinity with the
swarthiest negro that was ever brought
from Guinea’s coast!—All, all are brethren,
children of one common Parent!

B2v 4

The soul of my mother, though shrouded
in a sable covering, broke through the
gloom of night, and shone celestial in her
sparkling eyes!—Sprung from a race of
native kings and heroes, which folded
hands, and tearful eyes, she saw herself
torn from all endearing ties of affinity,
and relative intercourse! A gloomy, yet a
proud sorrow, filled her indignant breast;
and when exhibited on the shores of my
native island, the symmetry and majesty
of her form, the inflexible haughtiness of
her manner, attracted the attention of
Mr. Fairfield. He purchased the youthful
Marcia; his kindness, his familiarity, his
humanity, soon gained him an interest in
her grateful heart! She loved her master!
She had not learnt the art of concealing
her sentiments, she knew not that she B3r 5
was doing wrong in indulging them, and
she yielded herself to her passion, and fell
the victim of gratitude!—But as her understanding
became enlightened, and her
manners improved, she was eager for
information; my father yielded it to her
from the rich stores of his own capacious
mind; and which he poured into her attentive
and docile ear, those truths for
which the soul of Marcia panted, he
made her start with horror at the crime
of which she had been innocently guilty:
and the new Christian pointed her finger
at him, who, educated under the influence
of the Gospel, lived in direct opposition
to its laws!

My father felt the justice of the reproof;
for though his offence was considered B3v 6
as a venial error by all with
whom he lived, yet his conscience was
not so easily appeased. He knew that the
difference of climate, or of colour, made
no difference in the crime; and that if
the seducer of innocence was always
guilty, the case must be greatly aggravated
where benefits and kindnesses were
the weapons employed against untutored
ignorance and native simplicity. Marcia
was not “‘almost, but altogether a Christian!’”
—with the knowledge of her crime
she abjured a continuance in it; with
tears and sighs she confessed her love for
her betrayer, at the same time that she
deplored her fall from virtue! The scholar
taught her master—The wild and
uncivilized African taught a lesson of
noble self-denial and self-conquest to the
enlightened and educated European.

B4r 7

Mr. Fairfield dared not combat a resolution
which appeared to him to be
almost a command of Heaven. He loved
Marcia with fervour; but the pride of the
man, the quick feeling of the European,
the prejudices which he had imbibed in
common with her countrymen, forbade
his making this affectionate and heroic
girl his wife. Marcia’s was a strong soul,
but it inhabited a weak tenement of clay.
In giving birth to me she paid the debt
of nature, and went down to the grave,
where the captive is made free!

You will ask me why I recapitulate
these events? events which are so well
known to you. It is that I love to dwell
on the character of my mother; it is that
here I see the distributions of Providence
are equally bestowed, and this it is culture, B4v 8
not capacity, which the negro
wants! It was from my father that I
adopted this opinion of my mother—I
caught the enthusiasm of his manner, and
learned to venerate the memory of this
sable heroine (for a heroine I must call
her) from the time that my mind has
been enabled to distinguish between vice
and virtue!

My father saw the sensibility of my
disposition; he saw that it was daily
wounded, at witnessing the wrongs of my
fellow-beings; his wishes, and his principles,
would have led him to reform abuses,
but his health was daily declining, and
he could not give the tone of morals to
an island; he could not adopt a line of
conduct which would draw on him the
odium of all this countrymen: he contented B5r 9
himself, therefore, with seeing that
slaves on his estate were well kept and
fed, and treated with humanity,—but
their minds were suffered to remain in the
dormant state in which he found them!

I see the generous intention of my
father’s will; I see that he meant at once
to secure to his child a proper protector
in a husband, and to place her far from
scenes which were daily hurting her
sensibility and the pride of human nature!
—But, ah! respected Mrs. Milbanke!
in guarding against these evils
may he not have opened the way to
those which are still more dangerous for
your poor Olivia?

I sometimes think, that had my dear
parent left me a decent competence, I B5 B5v 10
could have placed myself in some tranquil
nook of my native island, and have
been happily and usefully employed in
meliorating the sorrows of the poor
slaves who came within my reach, and in
pouring into their bruised souls the sweet
consolations of religious hope!—But my
father willed it otherwise—Lie still, then,
rebellious and repining heart!

Mrs. Milbanke, I yet behold your
tearful eye—I yet hear your fond adieu—
I yet feel your fervent embrace! The
recollection is almost insupportable; for
the present, I lay down my pen!

B6r 11

In Continuation.

Was my mind in any other state, I
could be much amused and entertained
by the novel customs of a ship’s company,
and the novel situation (to me) of
a sea voyage. How wonderful is the
construction of this vessel, which is now
ploughing its way on the ocean! but how
much more wonderful that Almighty
Pilot, which steers it in safety through
the horrors of the deep!

Mrs. Honeywood is all that your skill
in physiognomy predicted. Separated
from my beloved Mrs. Milbanke, I question
if I could have met with a preferable
Compagnon du Voyage. I fear B6v [Gap in transcription—1 pageflawed-reproduction] B7r 13
times wished to remind her son of this;
and yet there is nothing to fear for him.
An unportioned girl of my colour, can
never be a dangerous object; but in the
habits of intimacy which our present
situation naturally produces, confidence
usurps the place of common-place politeness,
and I insensibly talk Honeywood
as I should do to a brother. Had
his familiarity any thing of boldness in it,
was there any thing of boldness in it,
was there anything assuming in his manners,
my sensitive heart would shrink,
and I should then feel as reserved and
constrained as I now do the reverse.

B7v 14

In Continuation.

You bid me tell you every thing that
should occur; and, in the absence of events
and incidents, I must give you conversations
and reflections, even at the hazard
of appearing in the character of an egotist.
I am just returned to my own little
cabin, after a pretty long tête-à-tête,
Mrs. Honeywood; I call it a “tête-à-tête”,
for though my faithful Dido formed the
third of the party, yet her half-broken
language did not bear a principal share
in the conversation; but, as you well
know, she will be heard on all occasions
when she deems it right to speak. Honeywood
had retired to study; he usually B8r 15
passes a great portion of the morning
amongst his books: and that he reads with
advantage and improvement, a more superficial
observer than your Olivia would
soon discover. He possesses a discriminating
judgement, and a fine taste; and,
without attempting at wit or humour,
he never fails to please when he wishes
it.

But to return to my proposed detail:—
I was seated with my drawing implements
before me, finishing a little sketch
which I had taken from the Fairfield Plantation
a few days before I quitted it; Mrs.
Honeywood sat opposite to me, knitting;
while Dido, ever officiously happy and
busy about her “Missee,” was standing
behind the sofa (which she had drawn
towards the table), and very assiduously

B8v [Gap in transcription—1 pageflawed-reproduction] B9r 17

Dido grinned, while Mrs. Honeywood
still looking at me, said,—

“I never view you on that seat, with
Dido standing in her place of attendance,
without figuring you in my imagination
as some great princess going
over to he betrothed lord.”

“Iss, iss, my Missee be de queen of Indee,
going over to marry wid de prince in
England,” said Dido, nodding very significantly.

“Such alliances do not very often
turn out happily,” said I, sighing.

“And how should they?” asked Mrs.
Honeywood; “A total ignorance of persons
can indeed be, in some measure, set B9v 18
aside by the painter, but the manners, the
customs of different, and there ought to be so many
corresponding traits of character, to form
any thing like comfort in the connubial
state, that it is my wonder when any
one of these matches turns out merely
tolerable.”

“You are looking grave, Miss Fairfield.”

“Indeed, my dear madam, I am;
and have I not cause? My manners,
my pursuits, my whole deportment,
may be strange and disagreeable to him
whom I have pledged myself to receive
as a husband! and further,—oh, madam!
—my person may disgust him!”

B10r 19

“No, not so, Miss Fairfield: your sensitive
mind, and delicate imagination,
lead you to see things in too strong a
light.”

“No light can be too strong to convey
to me a knowledge of that wretchedness
which would be my portion, were I to
be beheld with disgust and abhorrence
by the man whom I have sworn to receive
as my husband!”

“Sword, my dear girl?”

“Yes, madam, sworn!”

“You astonish me!—and could Mr.
Fairfield, could your father extort such
an oath, such a blind submission from
you?—you, whose understanding he must B10v 20
have seen superior to the generality of
your sex,—you, whose judgement could
only have elected where it had approved!”

“My father acted from the best of
motives. If he erred, madam; if the sequel
should prove that he has erred,
give him credit, I conjure you, for the
best intentions; his whole soul recoiled
at the idea of leaving me in Jamaica, or
of uniting me to any of the planters
there: for to them he knew that his money
would be the only bait. In England,
in his native country, he deemed,
that a more liberal, a more distinguishing
spirit had gone abroad;”—(dear Mrs.
Milbanke, I thought a sceptical expression
overspread the marked countenance
of Mrs. Honeywood)—“a connexion with B11r 21
his own family, with the son of a dearly
beloved sister, was what his most sanguine
hopes rested on for the security of
his Olivia’s happiness!”

“Your father knew this nephew?”

“No, madam, only by report; and that
that report was very liberal in praise of
his accomplishments and virtues, I need
not say, when my father resolved to
hazard the happiness of his child to his
care. Mr. Merton, the husband of my
deceased aunt, is, as you may have
heard, a wealthy merchant, and has
maintained a character of strict honour
and probity. Mrs. Merton died within
the last two years; she always spoke
highly of her husband, and expressed the
most fervent fondness for her son, Augustus, B11v 22
whom she frequently styled, in her
letters to Jamaica, the ‘image of her
dear brother.’ It was easy to perceive
the Augustus was the mother’s favourite;
and I fancy, that my father surmised
that the elder young man ranked highest
in Mr. Merton’s esteem. Indeed, my
dear madam, I must be tiring you with
my details, and I frequently think, that
I can talk as coolly, and with as little
mauvaise honte of this intended alliance,
as if I was a mere state machine!—
conveyed over the water at the instigation
of political contrivance; yet believe
me, my dear madam, I have a sense of
my sex’s more exclusive feeling delicacy.
My heart revolts, it shrinks within me, as
every day draws me nearer to the scene
of my trial; and the anxiety with which
I, at some moments await the period, is B12r 23
frequently changed into a desolating revulsion
of every feeling, when I recollect
that I must appear in so very humiliating
a situation when I reach England!”

“No, not humiliating,” said Mrs. Honeywood,
“for every generous mind will
feel for the peculiarity of it, and exert
every art to win you to self-confidence.
You have great powers of exertion, Miss
Fairfield; your father knew the strength
of your mind; he knew that it could bear
itself up in circumstances which would
overwhelm half the female world!”

“You are good to embolden me, madam,”
said I, “my trust is in Him who
has promised to strengthen the weak-
hearted. I hope the name of ‘Fairfield’
shall never be disgraced by me.”

B12v 24

“I am sure it will not,” said Mrs. Honeywood;
“but your ingenuousness invites
my curiosity; on your side, I perfectly
understand the terms. You have
promised to accept Mr. Augustus Merton
as your husband. Has a similar promise
been received on the gentleman’s
part? not that I mean to infer, that there
could be so undiscerning an Englishman
found, as to refuse the offered hand of
Miss Fairfield!”

“Do not say offered, dear Mrs. Honeywood;
it sounds so—so very forward!”
She smiled—“Ah, my dear madam,
I know you pity me!”

“From the bottom of my heart!” said
she with fervour.

C1r 25

“Pittee, no pittee,” said Dido; “beauty
lady—great deal monies—going marry
fine gentleman as soon as she be come
to England town;—me don’t pittee dear
Missee one bit—one bit!”

But Dido covered my hand with
tears, and kissed it a hundred times, while
she said, she did not “pittee Missee
one bit—one bit.” He manner affected
me; she saw it, and, letting her hands fall
on each side of her, she stole out of the
cabin. I tried to assume cheerfulness:
“I bear with me a down of nearly sixty
thousand pounds,” said I, “which is to
become the property of my cousin Augustus
Merton on his becoming my
husband, and taking the name of ‘Fairfield,’
within one month after my arrival
in England.”

Vol. I. C C1v 26

Mrs. Honeywood seemed to look at me
with the most painful and quickened attention;
“but if,” said she, “he should,
that is, I mean”—

“I know what you mean,” said I,
smiling; “if Augustus refuses to accept
these terms, the whole fortune devolves to
his brother, and my maintenance exclusively
devolves on him also!”

“Strange and unheard of clause!” said
Mrs. Honeywood, rising hastily from her
seat, and turning to the window, her
back towards me.

“You must see it, as I see it, dear
Mrs. Honeywood!” said I, going to her,
and taking her hand; “even though you
do not see poor Olivia with her father’s C2r 27
eyes, he thought that no one could refuse
his girl!”

“And no one could, who knew her!”
said Mrs. Honeywood, straining me affectionately
to her bosom. “Sweetest
Miss Fairfield, may your happiness be
equal to your virtues! may your cousin
properly appreciate your worth!”

“Thank you,—thank you!” returned
I, with a voice almost too full for utterance.
I then quitted this warm-hearted
woman, and hastened to relieve myself,
in my usual method, writing to you.

C2v 28

In Continuation.

I have frequently thought, my dearest
friend, that few young men would have
resolution to refuse sixty thousand
pounds; for the wife would be a very
trifling embargo to most of our gay West
Indians—I can speak of the world only
as I have seen it.—Mrs. Milbanke, I do
not wish to be uncharitable or harsh in
my judgement; but did we not every day
see matches made in Jamaica, for which
gold was the only inducement? And
why do I encourage my overweening expectations
—why do I expect my cousin
to be different from the rest of his sex?
Conscious of my own inferior powers of
attraction, to what can I impute his acceptance C3r 29
of my hand? Hope will sometimes
whisper, that gratitude will ensure
kindness—but the cold feeling which alone
springs from a grateful principle—could
my warm heart be satisfied with that?—
Vain, weak Olivia! go to thy mirror,
and ask what is to thou canst expect
more?

In Continuation.

Weak and impotent beings that we
are, we know not what we wish, nor what
we hope.—I retired last night to my
cabin in a frame of mind which I should
vainly seek to describe. The conversation
which I had with Mrs. Honeywood,
had made a forcible impression on my
mind. I fancied that I was hastening to
England, to be immolated at the shrine C3v 30
of avarice; all the bright prospects of
my youth seemed blighted; I was friendless
—fatherless—forlorn—journeying towards
a land of strangers, who would despise
and insult me. Bitter tears coursed
each other down my cheeks; I wrung
my hands in agony together—my heart
sank withing me—I had no resolution—no
confidence left—I believed myself the
most forlorn of human creatures, and I
thought that a cessation of being, would
be a cessation of misery. Ah! my dear
friend, I am proving to you what you
have long known, what your Olivia is no
heroine! I was awakened from this agonizing
trance to the tumultuous waves,
which hove the ship with boisterous violence;
the wind rattled in the shrouds,
and increased in violence with each moment,
while at intervals it was drowned C4r 31
by the long and reverberating peals of
deep-toned thunder, and my cabin was
as frequently illuminated by vivid lightning.
There was a noise of bustle and
alarm on the deck, and the voice of the
sailors was distinguished amidst the
horrors of the storm. Dido, shaking
with affright and terror, burst into my
cabin,—

“Oh, Missee, we be going down—we
be going sink in the very, very deep sea!”

Alas! I thought so likewise; and in
this hour of real danger I prayed for a
deliverance from that death which I believed
I could have fearlessly met, nay,
had almost courted, the preceding hour.
This taught me how very short a progress
I had made in self-knowledge; and C4v 32
while Dido rolled herself up, and made
a sort of pillow at my feet, I tried to
collect my thoughts, and to lift up my
soul to him who “walketh on the wings
of the wind,” and to beseech him to give
me a patient and contented spirit. The
tempest still raged with redoubled violence;
a soft tap at my door roused
Dido:—“Me be here” was answered by
the voice of Honeywood.

“I could not be easy,” said he, “without
asking after your lady.”

“Oh it be very bad terrible storm, sir;
me be much fear’d we must go down to
the bottom.”

“Oh no, not so,” said Honeywood, in
the most soothing voice; “assure Miss C5r 33
Fairfield, my good Dido, that there is
nothing to fear. Tell her I am now come
from the deck, where I have been the last
two hours; the captain assures me, the
storm is abating, and I am now returning
to my hammock: pray don’t distress Miss
Fairfield: I beseech you do not heighten
her alarm!”

I heard every word, you find, my dear
madam; and so friendly were they, so
truly benevolent, and the manner, too,
in which they were spoken, that I felt
the utmost gratitude for his attention.
The interest which he had expressed for
me was grateful to my self-love, whilst
my fears were allayed by his assurances
of our safety. The storm did abate, and
your Olivia is snatched from the horrors
of the deep. I trust I shall not be C5 C5v 34
forgetful of the mercy of that Being who
has been graciously pleased to preserve
my life!

In Continuation.

“They that go down to the sea in
ships, and occupy their business in great
waters, these men see the mercies of the
Lord of his wonders in the deep!”

These words have been in my thoughts
the whole of this day. The storm still
rages in my mind’s eye. How fearful,
how tremendous!—Surely, if “by night
an atheist half believes a God,” he must
hear him, he must see him, in the scene
I have so recently witnessed, and a doubt
could never more find entrance in his
soul!

C6r 35

Honeywood eagerly advanced to me
as I made my appearance at breakfast,
and renewed his inquiries. I felt confused:
this confusion seemed infectious;
for, as I tried to express my thanks to
him for the friendly interest he had
evinced for me, he suddenly let go the
hand which he had taken, coloured,
sighed, and let me take my place in
silence. Mrs. Honeywood, at this moment
appeared, and broke a silence
which had succeeded, as if by mutual
inclination, to our first civilities. The
first topic was, of course, the recent
storm, and the sickly countenance and
dimmed eye of the poor invalid, proved
that a wakeful night was much to be
dreaded for her. She congratulated me
on my safety, and said,—

C6v 36

“You were very courageous in not
quitting your cabin. Fear, in general,
renders us all sociable; and I expected
every moment to have seen you come
to me. I could not pacify Charles
till he had gone to you; but I question
whether you were much comforted by
his assurances of your safety, as he is a
fresh-water sailor.”

I answered that I was; and Mrs. Honeywood,
pursuing the subject, said,—

“For myself, I had not much to regret
in leaving a world to which an attenuated
thread alone holds me!”

Her countenance had that patient serenity
on it which gave it an expression C7r 37
which nearly comes up to my idea of
celestial, and, though apparently talking
to me, I imagined that she meant more
particularly to address her son.

“Youth, beauty, talent, virtue, and
riches, to be consigned at once to the
o’erwhelming wave, would, indeed, be a
sad contemplation,” said she, “and even
where death has long been anticipated,
the thoughts of resigning life, by any
other than the common lot of humanity,
is appalling. If it please the Almighty to
let me reach my native shores, I think I
can summon fortitude to meet the stroke
as a Christian!”

“My dearest mother, rive not my
heart!” said Honeywood.

C7v 38

“Charles, you are not a philosopher,”
said Mrs. Honeywood, attempting to
smile, as she held out her hand to him;
he took it,—never shall I forget with what
an expression of love and reverence he
held it to his lips in silence, then pressed
it to his breast.

“If philosophy is to steel my heart
against such feelings as these,” said he,
wiping off the starting tear with the
back of his hand, “my mother, who
shall teach it me? But Heaven, in its
mercy, will long preserve to me a parent
for whom alone I would wish to live!”

“When I am laid in the peaceful tomb,
my Charles, your heart shall seek another
being, whose life shall be sweetened, C8r 39
as mine long has been, by your cares
and attentions. Your mother will be
changed for the closer—the yet more endearing
tie of wife. With a companion
of your own age, whose pursuits are similar
to your own, whose mind has been
cultivated, and whose principles are
good, you are formed, my son, to partake
with such a woman the very acmé of
human happiness.”

The eyes of Honeywood sought mine,
for a moment, with an expression which
I cannot define; then hastily pressing
his hand on his forehead, as if in pain,
he rose from his seat, and said—

“Never, never! my dearest madam;
you unman me quite!” and left the
cabin.

C8v 40

“’Tis always thus,” said Mrs. Honeywood;
“nothing that I can say will open
the dear boy’s eyes to my danger; and,
with his impetuous, his ardent feelings, I
dread for him the shock of an event for
which he will not be prepared! Talk to
him, for me, my good Miss Fairfield;
you have great influence over him; he
will listen to you: tell him that he must
make up his mind to resign his parent!”

“Alas!” sighed I, “I am ill qualified
for such an office,—I that continue to
mourn the loss of the best of fathers!—
My loss is certain, my dear madam; Mr.
Honeywood’s is only in prospective—I
feel the sad reality—he shudders at the
supposition—how then shall I teach
him that fortitude which I cannot practise
myself? The loss of a parent can C9r 41
never be supplied to a child!—My father
was my guide, my counsellor, my friend;
he was the impulse of my life; he has
the guide of my every action; almost the
director of my thoughts! When I lost
my father, I lost every thing which could
make life desirable; and when poor Honeywood
shall lose you, he will then
know the wretchedness of my situation!”

In Continuation.

Where there is any thing to conciliate
regard or esteem, how soon do we get
attached! I already feel as if I had been
known to Mrs. Honeywood all my life,
and I regret that when I lose sight of
her, and of her amiable son, on our landing,
it must be among the chance events C9v 42
of the future, whether we may ever meet
again.

I sat for two hours of the last evening
on the deck watching the mildly radiant
moon, and the thousand sparkling rays
which were caused by her shadow on the
tranquil ocean; no longer heaving with tumultuous
waves as on the preceding night,
but peaceful as the translucent lake.
Honeywood attached himself to my side,
his mother was apprehensive of the night
air, and remained in the cabin—

“How still is the water!” said Honeywood;
“how bright the lustre of that
celestial orb! what a contrast is this scene
to that which I last night witnessed in
this place!”

“And how doubly are we interested in C10r 43
the beauty of this night from that very
contrast which you have remarked!” said
I.—“So it is in life, we recover from the
dreadful shock of some fearful calamity,
to those placid and calm sensations, which
such a contemplation as this is calculated
to produce: we remember what we have
suffered, and we are doubly grateful to
Him who has enabled us to endure afflictions,
and caused the storm to pass over
our heads!”

“You can extract good from every
evil,” said Honeywood, “morality from
every passing occurrence—you can find
sermons in stones, and God in every
thing!”—He spoke this with enthusiasm.
“Indeed, Miss Fairfield, I know of no
one like you—you will shame our English C10v 44
ladies—or rather, you are going where
your virtues will not be known or appreciated!”

“How am I to understand you?”
asked I, willing to take the compliment
that my moralizing disposition has extorted
as applicable; “how then shall I
account for the latter part of your speech
without accusing you of vanity? Does
Mr. Honeywood imagine that he only
has discernment to discover those great
and extraordinary virtues which I possess?”

“By no means,” said he, answering
gravely to my tone of raillery—“by no
means; but the superficial characters of
our modern females, their frivolous pursuits, C11r 45
their worse than childish conversation
—oh! you will be soon sickened
of them; and, if I do not mistake your
disposition, the sensitive plant will then
recoil, and never expand itself again, till
drawn out by an assimilating look, or
spark of sentiment!”

“Oh, what a fearful prospect!” said I,
still affecting to trifle—“Am I then so
very fastidious a being, Mr. Honeywood?
Believe me, I look not for perfection in
an imperfect state; my own faults are
great and manifold: and, I trust, I can
behold those of my fellow-mortals with
charity, and make allowances in proportion!”

“That you can do all, and more than
this, I am well satisfied,” said Honeywood; C11v 46
“but if your heart is not interested,
I mean if no kindred emotion—
that is—I believe,” said he, “like many
others, who set out in discussing a subject,
I have confused myself, and want
somebody to explain my own meaning.”

He then reverted to his mother’s
health, a topic which never fails to interest.

“When I consider,” said he, “that her
illness may be in some measure traced to
a three years’ residence in your warm
climate (for though the latent seeds of
the disease might have been in her constitution,
yet it was there that they first
burst forth), and that she undertook the
voyage merely on my account, in order
to gather up the wreck of a shattered C12r 47
fortune for my use, I know not how to
estimate the sacrifice; and that affection
which I feel for her, tells me that the independence
which she was secured to
me, has been too dearly earned for me to
enjoy it, if bought with the price of her
health, perhaps her life!”—He paused a
moment as if to recover the power of articulation
—

“On the other hand,” said he, “I
remember the anxiety with which this
dear parent passed the lingering days
previous to her setting out for the West
Indies. I was brought up to the prospect
of inheriting a large fortune, and was
then too old to enter into either of the
professions with advantage to myself.—
She had seen enough of the world to
know that a proud and a sensitive spirit, C12v 48
struggling with adversity, was a most pitiable
situation. My mother has had her
share of sorrows—My father was not able
to appreciate her worth or her uncomplaining
fortitude—’tis a sad story, my
dear Miss Fairfield, one day you may
perhaps hear it—for I cannot, I will not
think,” said he, taking my hand, “that
our acquaintance shall cease with this
voyage!”

“I hope not,” said I.

“Say it shall not!” said he, with earnestness.

“We can speak with certainty of nothing,”
said I; “and you must remember,
that from the moment when I set my
foot on your land liberty, I yield up D1r 49
my independence—my uncle’s family
are then to be the disposers of my future
fate; and, though they can never
teach my heart to forego its nature, or
my mind its principles, yet in all irrelevant
points, and in all local opinions, I
must resolve to yield myself to their
guidance!”

“If such be your determination, if you
thus at once resolve to give up the liberty
of action—farewell for ever when we separate!”
said Honeywood with some
asperity: “we shall never be allowed to
prosecute our acquaintance with our interesting
companion!”

“And why should you think so? why
should you suppose that the family of
Mr. Merton were illiberal or unjust?”

Vol. I. D D1v 50

“I judge by myself—a fair standard
you will allow,” said he: “and I know
that if I was in the place of these Merton’s
(you observe, my dear friend, he
was too delicate to refer to Augustus
only) I should be a monopolizer of the
time, the conversation, even the looks of
Miss Fairfield!” He reddened as he
spoke these words; he probably thought
he had said too much—I felt that he had,
however—and sought Mrs. Honeywood.

In Continuation.

I am not without my sex’s vanity,
dearest Mrs. Milbanke, perhaps indeed I
have a larger portion of it than the generality,
from the knowledge that I owe D2r 51
nothing to the score of my personal
attractions; yet I must be blind if I did
not perceive the Honeywood beholds
me with a more than common degree of
partiality. Were I a romantic beauty,
in the noble compassion of my nature I
should say that it would give me pleasure,
on his account, when our voyage was
ended—but I am not so far gone as this.
I know that the charms of mind divested
of a prepossessing exterior, can only captivate
the judgement, not mislead the
heart; and that a preference originating
in reason, will be referable to reason for
its extinction.

Honeywood is certainly a very estimable
young man; I like his conversation
extremely; and without feeling any
thing more for him than I should for an D2v 52
amiable brother, I confess that I shall
be much mortified if Augustus Merton
is not a little like him in sentiment and
principle. In this case, although you
may laugh at me for such an idea, yet
I really think the miniature of Augustus
has been serviceable to me. When I
have felt a more than common interest
for Honeywood, I have retired to my
cabin, and spent some moments in contemplating
the inanimate resemblance of
him to whom I am affianced. I never
behold the picture without emotion—the
likeness to my dear father is so very
striking, although the countenance is
much handsomer, and there is a speaking
sensibility in the eye which rivets my attention;
for there I fondly imagine I behold
all that I seek for of mind and sentiment
in my destined husband—and yet D3r 53
perhaps, my dear madam, I do but flatter
myself, as the artist has flattered his employer.

In Continuation.

It is the sweet bard of Avon, I believe,
who so well expresses an idea which runs
in my head, but which my treacherous
memory cannot clothe in his happy
words. It is the dreadful pause between
the expectation and the accomplishment
of an apprehended event. Your better
memory will recollect the lines from my
remote reference, and you will know the
inference I draw. A few days more,
and we shall reach England.—Ah! the
hopes and the fears of this beating heart. D3v 54
That period will surely fix the fiat of my
destiny.—I shall have your prayers—I
shall offer my own;—and shall I not be
encompassed by the guardian spirit of my
father?—Oh! if it be permitted from the
realms of bliss, to look down on these terrestrial
abodes, the thought of a father’s
taking cognizance of the actions of his
child, must infuse new courage into her
soul!

In Continuation.

We are already in the Bristol Channel,
and in a few hours shall expect to anchor
in Kingroad. As Honeywood
heard this intelligence from our captain,
a bright beam of pleasure illuminated her D4r 55
faded countenance. Dido rubbed her
hands, and skipped about the cabin in
ecstasy; and, as if she expected to do instantaneous
execution, she had, within
five minutes, put her large gold rings into
her ears, which had been carefully laid in
cotton during the voyage. I felt the
blood forsake my cheeks, my legs trembled,
and, standing at the moment, I was
obliged to catch the arm of Mrs. Honeywood’s
chair, to keep me from falling.
Honeywood saw my emotion, he rose
hastily, and, placing me a chair, quitted
the cabin.

In Continuation.

We are anchored, my beloved friend;
already have the eyes of your Olivia
rested on the shores of England! We
are impatient of delay; and Honeywood
has adjusted matters from us to row to
shore this evening. The boat is already
in view.

In Continuation.

Bush Tavern, Bristol.

I momentarily expect Mr. Merton;
figure to yourself the nature of my present D5r 57
feelings. I write in order to divert
my mind; for, to dwell on my own
thoughts during this period of suspense,
is agony. We came to this place last
evening. Mrs. Honeywood, her son,
and servant, myself, and Dido. What
an evening it was! Surely nothing was
ever so serenely beautiful; surely, nothing
was ever more romantically picturesque,
than the wooded cliffs, and the boldly
gigantic rocks, on either side the river,
as we swiftly glided along its surface!
The moon shone with unclouded brightness;
the air was soft and mellow; the
nightingales warbled from amidst their
leafy coverts; and, at intervals, a French
horn and a clarionet breathed for their
shrill tones, softening as they issued from
the tremendous heights above our heads;
while the soft dashing of the oars, and the D5 D5v 58
sparkling play of the waters in the moonbeam,
made up this scene of enchantment.
Spite of the conflicting emotions
of my mind, I was wrapt in enthusiastic
admiration. Mrs. Honeywood enjoyed
the scene; while her son fixed his eyes
alternately on me and on the water, with
an expression of melancholy resignation
in his countenance.

When we got nearer to the large and
mercantile city of Bristol,—when I could
distinguish the “busy hum of men,” and
could discern the traits of active life
which even at the still hour of evening
are to be seen on the quays of this place,
my heart seemed to be thrown back upon
itself, and I felt that I was entering into
a world of strangers. All resolution,—all
self-confidence was banished with this D6r 59
idea. I leant back in the boat, and
sobbed with apprehensive sorrow. Mrs.
Honeywood did not observe my emotion,
and if her son did, he knew, that at such
moments at these the voice of consolation
cannot be heard.

Honeywood carefully assisted us in
landing; a hackney-coach was in waiting:
for Mrs. Honeywood, long disused
as she has been to any exercise, was incapable
of walking the shortest distance.
In less than ten minutes, we were set down
at this bustling tavern, where the noise,
the closeness, and the gloom of the apartments,
exceed any thing that I could
have imagined. We chilly beings, however,
were soon seated around a cheerful
fire. Dido walked off with Mrs. Honeywood’s
maid, in great admiration and D6v 60
surprise at every thing which met her
eye; and in the tone and voice of affection,
which a fond parent would have
used towards a favourite child, Mrs. Honeywood
took my hand in hers, and congratulated
me on my safe arrival in England.

How grateful is the expression of
kindness to the human ear!—“Alas!”
thought I, “how do I know if this is not
the last time when I shall call forth the
sympathetic regard of another?”

As I made this reflection, I lifted her
hand to my lips, and while I held it
there, I almost bathed it in my tears.

At this moment, the master of the inn
entered the room, and, respectfully addressing D7r 61
himself to Honeywood, inquired
if either lady’s name was Fairfield: on
being directed towards me, he presented
me a letter which he held in his hand.

“This, madam, was left with me by
Mr. Merton himself, and he has made
daily inquiries concerning the arrival of
the *** every day for the last fortnight.”

My hand trembled so, that I let the
letter drop from between my fingers.
Honeywood picked it up, but he was infected
by my tremour as he returned it
to me. The landlord retired, and I read
the following words:

D7v 62 “To Miss Fairfield. My dearest Miss Fairfield! We are waiting your arrival in England
with the greatest anxiety; and that
you may experience the least possible
inconvenience at landing in a strange
country, understanding that the ****, in
which your passage was taken, is bound
for the port of Bristol, Augustus and
myself have taken a house at Clifton;
and Mrs. George Merton, the wife of my
eldest son, has kindly accompanied us
from London, in order, if possible, to do
away every feeling of embarrassment in
your situation. On your landing, be kind
enough to send a messenger to me, No.—
Gloucester-row, Clifton, and half an hour D8r 63
will bring to you, your affectionate relatives.
I have the honour to be,
dearest madam,
Your obliged friend, and uncle, George Merton.”

A faint sickishness seemed to overcome
me as I read this letter: I mechanically
threw it into Mrs. Honeywood’s lap, and
hid my face with both my hands. Mrs.
Honeywood perused it, and returning it
to me, said,—

“It is a very proper and considerate
letter: and much as I must grieve that
our separation is so near, yet I am pleased
to observe the affectionate solicitude
which Mr. Merton evinces towards
you!”

D8v 64

“Our separation is near, certainly,”
said Honeywood; “but surely, madam,
Miss Fairfield need not instantaneously
make her arrival known to the Mertons;
they may be abridged of her company
a few short hours, just while she recovers
from the fatigue of the voyage. Consider,
from henceforth she will be always
with the, while we—”

He stopped.—“Miss Fairfield must
judge for herself,” said Mrs. Honeywood,
with some gravity in her manner: “I
will most readily be her chaperon, while
she stays here, and shall be but too much
gratified in her society. But—”

“But it would be extremely improper,”
said I, hastily interrupting her, “to let
my uncle remain in ignorance of my D9r 65
arrival after to-morrorw morning. This
night, my dear madam,” said I, “shall be
passed here, and under your protection;
and vainly shall I endeavour to express
my sense of your more than maternal care
and attention.”

Ah, dearest Mrs. Milbanke!—an elegant
chariot stops at the door. I am summoned,
—how—how shall I support this
trying interview!

In continuation.

You used to like my description of persons
and characters as they struck my D9v 66
eye; and I the more readily indulge my
pen in being minute. Yes! I will write
what I think, my dear madam, even at
the hazard of being thought severe; for
you will not accuse your Olivia of ill-natured
severity, and to no other will my remarks
be open. You perceive that I have
outlived yesterday, that I can even be a
trifler to day, and from these facts your
warm heart will augur all that is good.
I will try to be methodical. I reached
the dining-room we occupied before my
visitors; Mrs. Honeywood, and her son
offered to withdraw. I could not speak,
but I motioned to Honeywood, and
grasped the arm of his mother to detain
her. Dido officiously threw open the
door, and as my fearful eyes met hers, I
could perceive a triumphant and consequential D10r 67
toss, which always designates
her manner when she is particularly
pleased.

“How fleet is a glance of the mind!”
says our dear Cowper:—immediately there
entered a very fashionable and showy looking
young woman, leaning on the arm of a
tall man, of a good though stiff figure. I
was conscious that a third person followed
them, but I dared not look beyond. Mrs.
Honeywood most kindly acted as mistress
of the ceremonies, and announced the
trembling, agitated Olivia, as Miss Fairfield
while Mr. Merton said, as he advanced
towards me,—

“My dear niece, let me introduce you
to Mrs. George Merton.”

D10v 68

I believe I held out my hand, and that
the lady was very near taking it in hers,
but I fancy its colour disgusted her, for
she recoiled a few paces with a blended
curtesy and shrug, and simpering, threw
herself on a sofa. My uncle seemed to
have not prejudices; he held me to his
breast, and pressed his lips on my cheek;
he then led his son to me, but again my
eyes sought the carpet, though I was
conscious of the trembling hand which
held mine, he stammered out some words
of pleasure and happiness. Honeywood
was then introduced by his mother; the
languid drawl of the fine lady, Mrs.
Merton, paid me the utmost attention,
and, in part, relieved me from my
embarrassment. I looked up, and for the D11r 69
first time saw Augustus Merton:—he
seemed to have been examining me with
scrutinizing attention.—Alas! I fear it
was but a melancholy contemplation in
a double sense; for I thought I distinguished
a suppressed sigh, as he hastily
addressed himself to Honeywood!

No, my dear friend! the painter did
not flatter! Were I to draw a model of
manly beauty and grace, I would desire
Augustus Merton to sit for the likeness.
And yet I do not know, that his face is so
regularly handsome; but there is an expression
in his eye of tender melancholy,
which is irresistibly interesting; and his
smile has more sweetness, if possible,
than had my father’s! The likeness to
him is very strong, and his voice has the
very tones which used to bless my ear! D11v 70
Can I, then, fail to listen, when Augustus
speaks! His manners are elegant, without
being studied or coxcomical. As yet he
has not talked much, but I suspect the
singular situation in which we are
placed has been the cause of this taciturnity;
for I have now and then observed
and arch turn of humour, not quite
free from sarcasm, when he has addressed
himself to Mrs. Merton, but more this
hereafter.

I am not likely to lose my senses and
fall in love, as it is called; but I freely
confess to you, my dear Mrs. Milbanke,
that I think my cousin is a singularly
prepossessing young man,—most probably
his opinion of your Olivia is quite the
reverse. But to proceed.—

D12r 71

After half an hour’s conversation, in
which Mrs. Merton and my uncle were
the chief speakers, the latter proposed
our departure, expressing his sense of
obligation to Mrs. Honeywood in high
terms of politeness. I could only throw
myself into the arms of this kind friend,
whom, in all human probability, I shall
never see again. My heart was too full
for utterance, but she felt and understood
its beatings. I tore myself from
her, and giving my hand to Honeywood,
I indistinctly murmured farewel; he
pressed it to his lips, his “God bless
you!” was fervently audible, and it drew
forth the affected smile of Mrs. Merton,
as she preceded us down the stairs
with a languid careless step, which could
not have been exceeded by the most die- D12v 72
away lady in the whole island of Jamaica.

My uncle was leading me; but, as if
fearful that there should be any failure of
attention, he said, “Augustus assist Mrs.
Merton.” The son was obedient, and
the lady’s—“I do very well, I thank
you,” was said in a tone of restrained
mortification.

Mrs. Merton would be thought pretty
by any person who looks for feature
only. She is very fair, and very fat; her
eyes are lightest blue, her cheeks
exhibit a most beautiful (but I am apt
to believe not a natural) carmine; her
hair is flaxen; her teeth are dazzlingly
white; her hand and arm would rival E1r 73
alabaster. Yet with all these concomitants
to beauty, she fails to interest or
to please your Olivia. And you must allow,
my dear friend, that I am not usually
difficult; and you remember that I have
frequently told you, that I had not a
greater pleasure, then in studying the
countenance of a beautiful woman of
your country. Whence, then, is this
change of sentiment, you will say, in regard
to Mrs. Merton?—Ah! whence is
it, indeed! for I am but too well inclined
to behold my uncle’s family with partiality.

I do not think this lady seems endowed
with a more than common portion of
feeling; this may be her misfortune, and
not her fault: or rather, I should say,
that too much feeling is to be considered Vol.I. E E1v 74
as a misfortune to the possessor; therefore,
on this score, I should be invidious,
and unchristian-like, to judge harshly of
Mrs. Merton: but there is such a splenetic
tendency in every word she utters,
such a look of design, accompanied with
so much self-importance, and so large a
portion of conceit and affectation, with
so much self-importance, and so large a
portion of conceit and affectation, with
such frivolous conversation, that I seem
hardly to consider her as a rational being;
though she is a wholly inoffensive one
to me, for I can never be hurt by the manners
of a person whim I do not respect;
and that she considers me as but one remove
from the brute creation, is very
evident.

So here, perhaps, we meet on equal
terms. Mrs. Merton was a city-heiress,
with a large fortune, which she thinks E2r 75
entitles her to a large portion of respect
and attention;—and my good uncle administers
it unceasingly. Perhaps he
thinks it necessary to be doubly assiduous
from seeing the carelessness of
Augustus, who, without being rude
(which I suspect is not in his nature),
seems perfectly indifferent to all the imposing
claims of his fair sister-in-law.

Mr. Merton appears about sixty years
of age; he wears his own thin and grey
hair, nicely dressed and powdered; his
person is tall, but not graceful, for there
is a stiffness in it which he cannot shake
off, though he tries to divest himself of it
by an invariable politeness and attention.
His dress is plain, but remarkably neat;
and his polished shoes, and silk stockings
are always in print. He treats me with E2v 76
the most studied regard,—“My dear
niece,—my dearest Miss Fairfield,—and
my beloved ward,”—are the appellations
which he distinguishes me by,—and could
I suspect myself of so speedily inspiring
regard, I should judge that he already
felt for me a paternal affection; but while
he addresses me in this style, to Mrs.
Merton he is, on the other hand, as kind
and as tender:—“My dear madam, my
good daughter,” and such pleasing expressions,
are dealt in equal, if not larger
portions to her; as, perhaps, he guesses
that this lady would not be very well
pleased to have a rival even in his
favour. My uncle’s conversation is formal
and precise: he tries to be what is
called a lady’s man, but does not quite
know the way to set about it. Subjects
on which he talks to them, are not, I can E3r 77
easily perceive, those on which he is
most conversant. I suspect, that he devoted
too many years to the comptinghouse,
to make him an agreeable trifler.
Yet his principles appear honest and upright,
and I dare say he is a man who
has passed through the world, maintaining
a strict character for probity and integrity
as a merchant. As I have said
before, I have seen too little of Augustus,
to judge of his talents, or his qualities.
Ah! my dear friend, a prepossessing exterior
has oft been known to veil a deformed
mind! Yet, surely, this cannot be the
case here;—and if it were—if I were to
make the fatal discovery, what should I
gain, when a month,—a short month, will
probably unite me to him for life: probably,
I say, for it is optional to Augustus.
You know, my dear Mrs. Milbanke, E3v 78
he has the liberty of refusing me,
and when, at times, I perceive and abstraction
of manner, when I see the melancholy
expression which overspreads
his countenance, I am ready to spring
from my seat, to fall on my knees
before him, and to beseech him, not to
make a sacrifice of his own and of my
happiness; till called to order, by an address
of his father, an application for his
opinion, or a reference to his judgement,
the smile plays round his mouth, and his
whole countenance is illumined by an
expression of sweetness and placidity
which makes me a sceptic to my preconceived
opinion.

E4r 79

In Continuation.

If I may judge by the servants, carriages,
&c. which I see, Mr. Merton
and his son both live in a style of princely
magnificence. There is something, I
think, not very fare removed from ostentation
in the manner of Mr. Merton; he
loves to talk of thousands and tens of
thousands, in the indifferent careless way
with which another would speak of
pence. Persons who have risen to importance
by their own means, often fall
into this failing. I have frequently remarked
it among some of our wealthy
planters. I must proceed with my history
when an opportunity offers, therefore
you will have a packet of mutilated
scraps.

E4v 80

In Continuation.

The first day was passed by my uncle
in inquiries concerning the Fairfield
estate, its situation, its produce, and
other topics on which he thought I was
conversant. I felt the kindness of his
intention, and gave him all the information
which I thought might entertain
him: insensibly I lost the timidity of my
manner, and became unrestrained and at
ease. I am naturally of a communicative,
and, I hope, of a cheerful temper. I
felt that I could gain nothing by silence
and seeming stupidity. I knew that
my first appearance could not have been
very prepossessing, and by gently sliding
into my natural character, I should E5r 81
show my new relatives what they might
expect; and, I confess, to be thought favourably
of by them (ah! why should I
deny it? by Augustus in particular) is a
wish very near my heart. Mr. Merton,
all politesse and attention, seemed much
pleased by my remarks. Mrs. Merton
affected to take no interest or share in the
conversation, but played, by turns, with
her little boy, about three years of age,
and her pug dog: it would be difficult
to say which was the greatest pet, if the
partiality of grand-papa did not obviously
turn the scale on the side of the
child, who would really be a most lovely
creature if mamma did not so entirely
spoil him. All this is to be understood
in a parenthesis. Augustus said little:
he seemed distrait and embarrassed in his
manner, yet he occasionally roused himself;E5 E5v 82
and more than once, when I bore
honest testimony to the virtues of my father,
which a reference to his estates, and
their management, naturally produced
from me, he seemed affected by my manner,
and looked at me with an expression
of solicitude which made my heart flutter,
and my cheeks glow.

In Continuation.

I can see that there is not a being in
creation for whom Mrs. Merton has a
stronger portion of contempt, than for
myself: if her husband is of her disposition,
how dreadful would be a state of
dependence on such a pair! And yet, if
Augustus Merton refuses her offered
hand, such must be the situation of your E6r 83
poor Olivia!—Perhaps this city lady,
whose ideas are all centred in self, and
in money, as the grand minister to all
her capricious indulgences—perhaps this
lady might have no objection to become
the protectress of a poor girl of colour, or
to receive an acquisition of fortune at
the same time; and for this reason she
may be acting politically, by trying to infect
Augustus with a portion of that distaste
and antipathy which she invariably
evinces towards me; thinking that she
may thus induce him to forego his claim
to me and to my fortune—but a generous
mind would not thus be warped.—Mrs.
Merton foils herself. The very means
she employs to humble and mortify me,
excites the attention and the respectful
consideration of Augustus. This inactive
lady cannot leave her bed very E6v 84
soon of a morning. I had some time
waited a summons to breakfast, when at
last I ventured down stairs; Dido having
assured me that Mr. Augustus’s man had
dressed his master more than two hours:
however, there was not sign of breakfast
below, and I returned to my own room,
and wrote the foregoing page before the
bell had sounded; but, in returning to
my apartment, the door of a room being
a—jar, my eyes caught the figure of Augustus
Merton. His arms were folded, his
head almost rested on his breast, and he
looked the very image of melancholy despondence.
—Alas! was I, then, the cause
of these sorrowful reflections? was he
meditating on the sacrifice he was so soon
required to make?—A sacrifice, perhaps,
of the cherished affections of his heart
—a sacrifice of his happiness!—Oh, E7r 85
Mrs. Milbanke, how fraught with misery
is the idea!

In continuation.

In an elegant morning dishabille, Mrs.
Merton reclined on an ottoman: she just
made the morning salutation as I entered,
and then relapsed again into the
intent and important study (as it appeared)
of Bell’s Belle Assembly, or
Gallery of Fashion: a modern periodical
publication, where the ladies have
coloured specimens of the costume and
habits in which they are to array themselves
every month. Mr. Merton was
reading the newspapers, but he laid them
down on seeing me; advanced—took
my hand—made particular inquiries after E7v 86
my health—drew a chair for me—and
placed himself next me. The urn steamed
before her, but the fashionable fair
did not notice it, till gently reminded by
Mr. Merton with,—

“Shall I assist you in putting some
water into the tea—pot, Mrs. Merton?”

“Oh, by all means,” said she, yawning,
“and make the tea also; for it is a
terrible bore!”

“I see you are engaged in an interesting
study,” said Mr. Merton; “you ladies
employ every opportunity in rendering
yourselves, if possible, more irresistible
than you were formed by nature!”

And the old gentleman very accommodatingly
took the tea-chest in his hand.

E8r 87

“You must suffer me to do this, sir,”
said I; “I like the office; it is one which
I have been accustomed to; and you see
I am perfectly disengaged.”

“I yield it with pleasure into abler
hands,” said Mr. Merton, bowing gallantly
as he resigned it to me.

Augustus now came in, and paid his
compliments in a cheerful, unconstrained
manner.

“So soon put in employ, Miss Fairfield?”
said he.

“Oh yes, the lady is of an active turn
I find,” said Mrs. Merton, still meditating
on the coloured print which she held
in her hand.

E8v 88

A servant now entered with a large
plate of boiled rice. Mrs. Merton half
raised her head, saying—

“Set it there,” pointing towards the
part of the table where I sat.

“What is this?” asked Mr. Merton.

“Oh, I thought that Miss Fairfield—
I understood that people of your—I
thought that you almost lived upon rice,”
said Mrs. Merton, “and so I ordered some
to be got,—for my own part, I never
tasted it in my life, I believe!”

Mrs. Milbanke, this was evidently
meant to mortify your Olivia; it was
blending her with the poor negro slaves of
the West Indies! It was meant to show E9r 89
her, that, in Mrs. Merton’s idea, there was
no distinction between us—you will believe
that I could not be wounded at being
classed with my brethren!

Augustus coloured, and looked indignantly
towards Mrs. Merton: her father
tried to palliate, by saying, if I would
give him leave, he would help himself to
a little of it; while I, perfectly unabashed,
and mistress of myself, pretended
to take the mischievous officiousness,
or impertinence (which you will), of Mrs.
Merton in a literal sense; and, turning
towards her, said,—

“I thank you for studying my palate,
but I assure you there is no occasion; I
eat just as you do, I believe: and though,
in Jamaica, our poor slaves (my brothers E9v 90
and sisters, smiling) are kept upon rice
as their chief food, yet they would be
glad to exchange it for a little of your
nice wheaten bread here;” taking a
piece of baked bread in my hand.

The lady looked rather awkward, I
thought, but she was doubly diligent in
the study of the fashions; while Augustus
offered me the butter, and my father’s
smile played round his mouth.

I am confident, that at this moment
his countenance expressed approbation
of your Olivia. Presently, little George
came running into the room, and, without
noticing the opened arms of his
grandfather, he ran to his mother—

“Oh, mamma! mamma! look at poor E10r 91
George’s face—that nasty black woman
has been kissing me, and dirtying my
face all over!”

“Hush, hush!” said Mrs. Merton,
pretending to silence the child on my account,
while the pleased expression of
her countenance could not be misconstrued.

“No, I don’t mean her,” said George
pointing at me, “but one much, much
dirtier—so very dirty, you can’t think,
mamma!—Nasty woman, to dirty my
face!”

“You must go out of the room,
George, if you do not hold your tongue
directly!”

E10v 92

“Pray do not check him, Mrs. Merton,”
said I; “there is something bewitchingly
charming in infantine simplicity.—
How artless is this little fellow! his lips
utter the sentiments of his heart—and
those alone! My love, you will soon
lose that beautiful character of your
mind, ingenuousness; for it is a sad and
melancholy truth, that as we grow older,
we grow acquainted with dissimulation.”

“It is too true, indeed!” said Mr.
Merton.

Augustus sighed deeply.

“Come hither, my little fellow,” said
I, “and I promise I will not kiss you!”

“Why, I should not so much mind if E11r 93
you were to kiss me,” said he; “for your
lips are red, and besides, your face is not
so very, very dirty.”

“Go to Miss Fairfield, George,” said
Augustus.

“With all my heart, uncle!” said he.

I took him on my lap, and holding his
hand in mine, I said,—

“You see the difference in our hands.”

“Yes, I do, indeed,” said he, shaking
his head. “Mine looks clean, and yours
looks not so very dirty.”

“I am glad it does not look so very
dirty,” said I; “but you will be surprised E11v 94
when I tell you that mine is quite as
clean as your own, and that the black
woman’s below, is as clean as either of
them.”

“Oh now, what nonsense you are
telling me!” said he, lifting up both his
hands in astonishment.

“No,” returned I, “it is very good
sense: do you know who made you?”

“My grand-papa said God,” answered
he.

“Oh, if you mean that, he is very
backward in his catechism,” said Mrs.
Merton: “I am sure I could not pretend
to teach it to him.”

E12r 95

“So I should imagine, if you think
‘Miss Fairfield’ put the first question of it
to him,” said Augustus, rather sarcastically.

“The same God that made you made
me,” continued I—“the poor black woman
—the whole world—and every creature
in it! A great part of this world is
peopled by creatures with skins as black
as Dido’s, and as yellow as mine. God
chose it should be so, and we cannot
make our skins white, any more than
you can make your black.”

“Oh! but I can make mine black if
I choose it,” said he, “by rubbing myself
with coals.”

“And so can I make mine white by E12v 96
rubbing myself with chalk,” said I; “but
both the coal and the chalk would be
soon rubbed off again.”

“And won’t yours and hers rub off?”

“Try,” said I, giving him the corner
of my handkerchief; and to work the
little fellow went with all his might.

“George, you are very rude and troublesome
to Miss Fairfield,” said Mr.
Merton.

“Not in the least,” said I; “it is right
that he should prove the truth of what I
have been telling him, he will then believe
me another time.”

F1r 97

“Yes, that I shall,” said he, sighing
and resigning his employment, as if it had
wearied him.

“What do you sigh for, George?”
asked Augustus.

“I could wish,” said he, looking at
me, “that God had made you white,
ma’am, because you are so very goodnature;
but I will kiss you, if you like.”

“Thank you for the wish, my dear
child, and for the favour conferred upon
me,” said I, pressing his cherub lips to
mine. “I am not a little proud of this, as
I consider it a conquest over prejudice!”

“Your arguments are irresistible, you
find, Miss Fairfield,” said my uncle,
smiling.

Vol.I. F F1v 98

“Prejudices imbibed in the nursery
are frequently attached to the being of
ripened years,” said Augustus; “and to
eradicate them as they appear, is a labour
well worthy the endeavour of the
judicious preceptor.”

“Suppose I proceed a little further,”
said I, “for at present I have gained but
half a victory.—So you will dislike my
poor Dido, George?”

“She is very dirty,” said he, again shaking
his head; but colouring, he said, “I
mean very black.”

“She is a poor negro, you know,” said
Mrs. Merton, in a most sneering and
contemptuous tone.

F2r 99

“But she is the most faithful of creatures,
George,” said I, not deigning
to answer his mother, “and I love her
dearly!”

“Do you love her dearly?” said he,
looking up in my face, with a very scrutinizing
expression. “Only think grandpapa,
only think uncle, Fairfield
says she loves the blackamoor dearly!”

“I dare say she has reason to estimate
her,” said Mr. Merton.

“Indeed I have, sir, as your grandson
shall hear:—She was born upon my
papa’s estate,” said I, addressing my attentive
little hearer; “her father and her
mother were slaves, or, as you would call
them, servants to him.”

F2v 100

“But these black slaves are no better
than horse over there,” said George,
interrupting me; “for I heard the coachman
telling one of the grooms so, in the
servants’ hall, last night.”

“You should not go into the servants’
hall, George,” said his grandfather.”

“I only went to ask about your black
mare, sir,” said the little fellow; “you
know you told me yourself that she was
lame!”

There was no resisting this sweet and
simple apology.

“Well,” do not interrupt Miss Fairfield,
when she is so good as to talk to you,”
said Mr. Merton, smiling significantly at F3r 101
Augustus; for Mrs. Merton now appeared
to think the conversation as great a
bore as making tea, and, walking to the
further part of the room, she was patting
her pug dog, and humming a tune at the
same time.

“Those black slaves are, by some
cruel masters, obliged to work like
horses,” said I; “but God Almighty
created them men, equal with their masters,
if they had the same advantages,
and the same blessings of education.”

“But what right have their naughty
masters got to make them slave like
horses?” for I’m sure they can’t like it—
I shouldn’t like to work like mamma’s
coach-horses, and stand shivering for
hours in the wet and cold, as they do.

F3v 102

“There will be no end of this conversation,
if we come to the right and the
wrong,” said I.

“It is beginning to wear an interesting
form, I think,” said Mr. Merton.
“George, we shall have your sentiments
on the abolition presently.”

“Miss Fairfield’s rather!” said Mrs.
Merton.

“Mine will, I hope, be immediately
understood; the feelings of humanity,
the principles of my religion, would lead
me, as a Christian, I trust, to pray for
the extermination of this disgraceful
traffic, while kindred claims (for such I
must term them) would likewise impel me F4r 103
to be anxious for the emancipation of
my more immediate brethren!”

“Born, as you were, in the West Indies,
your father a planter, I should have
imagined that you would have entertained
quite the contrary side of the question,”
said Mrs. Merton, who now
thought she had found a subject on
which to attack me.

I slightly answered, “You did not know
my father, madam!”

But I could not pursue my story with
George; something swelled at my throat,
and I was obliged to leave the room,
though little George took my promised
vindication of Dido upon trust, and running
after me, said—

F4v 104

“Miss Fairfield, if you are going to
Dido, let me go with you.”

I fear I shall tire you, my friend, by
this prolix narration, but I was willing to
give you a complete surfeit of Mrs. Merton,
even though I may frequently be
under the necessity of repeating the
dose.

In Continuation.

How many pages have I written without
having mentioned the dear Honeywoods;
but they have not been forgotten;
their kindness and sympathetic
attention will often force the unbidden
tear to roll over my cheek, when I am
retired to my own apartment, and to rumination. F5r 105
Mrs. Honeywood promised
to write to me, and I impatiently wait
the fulfilment of it;—but, alas! my fearfully
foreboding heart tells me that we
shall never meet again in this world!
And thus may I be said to have lost my
two only friends!—for, ah! what a wide
expanse of ocean now lies between Mrs.
Milbanke and her ever affectionate

F5v 106

In Continuation.

Are my letters to be constantly filled
with sarcastic observations on Mrs. Merton?
I must speak of what I see, and
while she is my exclusive female companion,
I fear I shall have but too many opportunities
of noticing the—what shall I
call it—give her behaviour a name, dearest
Mrs. Milbanke—I would not willingly
be too harsh; I ought not be so, for I
suspect that the respectful attention
which Augustus pays me, is from his
witnessing the uniform negligence or insolence
of this woman.—I mark the deep
flush which crimsons his countenance,
when a new instance of either kind falls
under his notice, and the dexterity with F6r 107
which he contrives to evince his disapprobation
without being personal to his
sister, and the generous consideration
which bids him respect my feelings—
whilst his even-handed father goes on
smoothly, looking to the right and the
left by turns, now complimenting, and
now smiling, temporising and glossing
over, and never swerving from the rule
which he has laid down for his conduct.
And yet I think, that could I dive to the
bottom of his complaisant heart, I should
discover that I ranked pretty high in his
favour. I walk with him arm in arm
over the beautiful downs near this place;
a favour which I shrewdly suspect Mrs.
Merton never conferred upon him; for,
with regard to the use which she has
made of them during the few days I have
been here, a casual observer might have F6v 108
been led to inquire, whether she had any
legs; for she certainly seems to derive no
manner of assistance from them!—You
taught me activity, both mental and
bodily, my beloved friend; and nothing
more frequently excited my surprise, and
I may add, disgust, than the languid
affectation and supine manners of some of
our West Indians; but I never saw any
one of them who could in the least compare
with Mrs. Merton, who seems to
have attained the very height of inaction.
In our walks we are sometimes joined by
Augustus, and to give you my reason
for imputing his general conduct to his
dislike of Mrs. Merton’s behaviour to me,
he is then thoughtfully silent, and leaves
his father to keep up the ball of conversation
without interruption of his part.
—Ah, my dear madam! my heart flutters F7r 109
while I make this observation even to
myself—a thoughtful, an abstracted companion,
to one of my open—my communicative
turn of mind—no confidence,
no reciprocal interchange of opinions
and sentiments!—What a blank!—what
a chasm dose existence appear, taken in
this view!—It is in the mercy of my
heavenly Father that I look for support
through the trials which await me, and
how thankful am I to my dear Father for
implanting, and to you for nourishing, in
my mind a strong sense of a superintending
Providence. If I was at this moment
destitute of religion, I should be
the most pitiable of human beings; for,
indeed, my dearest friend, there are so
many conflicting emotions in this poor
bosom—I am transplanted into a scene
so perfectly new—Mrs. Merton’s manners F7v 110
are so different from any person’s
with whom the petted Olivia ever associated
—and then, the short period which
is allotted me by my father’s will, ere I
am to change my situation—with no
friend into whose ear I can pour the
presaging fears with which, at times, my
heart is fraught—the delicacy of my situation
—the seeming impossibility of my
learning the real sentiments of Augustus
—if, I say, it was not for my firm faith
in God, how could I support myself?
And, amidst every unpleasantry by
which I am surrounded, it is an inexpressible
source of satisfaction, to be in
a country where the rites of religion are
duly and properly performed. Our great
distance from a place of worship, when
at the Fairfield estate, was, you know,
frequently lamented by us all. In England F8r 111
the “sound of the church-going
bell” will always reach the ear on the
morning of the Sabbath, and I trust
that your Olivia shall never be unmindful
of the pious summons.

In Continuation.

You have frequently remarked, that I
walk in a manner peculiar to myself. You
have termed it majestic and graceful; I
have been fearful that it carried something
of a proud expression: but I believe
it is very difficult to alter the natural
gait, and I am too much above the
common size, with regard to height, to
walk like the generality of my sex.
There must surely, however, be something
very particular in my air; for I F8v 112
find I am an object of general curiosity,
and many a gentleman follows to repass
me, and to be mortified at his folly
when he has caught a view of my mulatto
countenance. I laugh at this, and
tell Mr. Merton to observe them, while
he most gallantly retains all the fine
things that he hears (or fancies he hears)
on my shape and person, and very injudiciously
has retailed them before his
daughter-in-law, whose form being any
thing by elegant or graceful, you may
conceive that the old gentleman soon
found out that he had been “all in the
wrong;” especially, when, after hearing
a remark of the kind, Mrs. Merton turned
round with great nonchalance to me,
saying,—

“Pray, Miss Fairfield, did you ever
learn to tread the stage?”

F9r 113

“I am now learning, madam,” returned
I (but without any pettishness of manner,
if I know myself), “to tread on the
great stage of the world, and, I fear, I
shall find it very difficult to play my part
as I could wish.”

“It is the peculiar province of real
merit, to be diffident of its powers,” said
Augustus.—

“Even while its superiority is acknowledged
by an admiring multitude,” said
his father.

“A tragedy-queen would suit you
vastly, I should think,” said Mrs. Merton,
pursing up her lip.

“I should prefer comedy, both in real
and artificial scenes,” said I.

F9v 114

“But you have nothing comic about
you,” rejoined she.

“Except temper and inclination,”
said I. “I bless God, that till I had the
misfortune of losing my dear parent, I
was always one of the ‘laughter-loving
crew.’”

“How mistaken have I been in your
character!”

“So I think,” said Augustus, drily.

I never know when to lay down my
pen, when addressing my earliest friend,
but I must break off, as it is high time to
attend to the toilette; for to-night I am
going to the ball with Mrs. Merton, and
Dido is almost out of patience with her
“Missee”.

In Continuation.

You will expect an account of the
first English ball which I have ever seen,
and I will not tell you that I thought it
an unpleasant one, from my partner was
Augustus Merton. I never saw him so
ag eeableagreeable, so animated, or so attentive
before; he gave me confidence in myself,
his gaiety inspired mine, and, I believe,
I danced with more than my usual
spirit. I wore a black sarsnet, made in
the mode, of course, and had no ornaments
but a large string of corals round
my neck. I could observe that I was
an object of pretty general curiosity, as
I entered the room. In such a place as
this, the wealth of the Mertons makes
them generally known. My colour, you F10v 116
known, renders me remarkable, and, no
doubt, the Clifton world are well acquainted
with the particulars of my father’s
will, and, seeing me leaning on the
arm of Augustus, gave it general publicity;
for Mrs. Merton, on stepping from
the carriage, seized the arm of the old
gentleman, and I was, consequently,
thrown upon the protection of his son.
But Augustus came forwards with the
utmost promptitude; and this readiness
on his part, gave me resolution to acquit
myself in as unconstrained a manner as I
could have wished. I could ever listen,
with much entertainment, to the remarks
which escaped him from time to time,
and became, in my turn, communicative.

Surely, my dearest Mrs. Milbanke,
it is the fashion to be very affected, F11r 117
or very rude: there seems, in the generality
of the people that I see here, to
be no medium between these extremes.
Some of the ladies, so mincing, so simpering,
so lisping, and others so bold, so
loud, so confident; all the shame-facedness
of the sex, which was once thought
a charm by the wisest of men, seems entirely
exploded: and the men also—believe
me—they walked up in pairs,
hanging one on another’s arm, and,
with a stare of effrontery, eyed your
Olivia, as if they had been admitted
purposely to see the untamed savage at a
shilling a piece! While Augustus was
engaged in conversation at a little distance,
I heard one of these animals say
to another—

“Come, let’s have a stare at Gusty’s
black princess!”

F11v 118

And with the greatest sang froid they
slouched (for it could not be called walking)
up to me; one of them placed his
glass most leisurely to his eye, then
shrugging his shoulders, as he looked, he
said—

“Pauvre diable! how I pity him!—a
hundred thousand wouldn’t be enough
for the cursed sacrifice!—Allons Alex.
let’s keep moving. I’ve had enough—
no more—I thank you—quite satisfied,
’pon honour.”

Then, touching the shoulder of Mrs.
Merton, he said,—

“Ah, ma bella Merton, is this you?
—What! you sport a native to-night, I
find.”

F12r 119

“I do, en vérité,” said she, smiling,
and appearing thoroughly to understand
his knowing wink.

“In native elegance unrivalled!” said
a gentleman, who stood at his elbow, and
had, some minutes before, been attentively
surveying me. “More grace, more
expression, more characteristic dignity,
I never yet beheld in one female figure!”

Mrs. Milbanke, you will not accuse me
of any foolish vanity in retailing these
hyperbolical compliments on myself.

“Monkland is ever in the sublime,”
said my quizzing beau. “Dear Monkland,
now do fall desperately in love with
this sable goddess, and strive to wrest the
palm of victory from the enviable Augustus
Merton!”

F12v 120

“No,” said he, “I love Merton too
well to envy him his happiness; but I
will get introduced to Miss Fairfield immediately,
for I must know if she really
is what her countenance bespeaks.”

“Exactly, believe me!” said Mrs.
Merton.

Mr. Monkland, however, did not, or
would not, hear; he was instantly introduced
to me by Augustus.—Perhaps I
was flattered by having overheard his favourable
opinion of me; we entered into
conversation, and I found him a pleasant
though an eccentric and visionary being;
he made sarcastic observations on every
body he saw, and seemed to wield his
talent for satire with no light hand. I
was introduced to several more of both G1r 121
sexes whose names I have forgotten, for
common characters passing indiscriminately,
leave no impression on the mind
or the memory; but as I was standing
in the dance, I was somewhat surprised
to see Mrs. Merton led to the top of it by
a gentleman, who footing it off with her
at the moment when my eyes caught
them, so forcible was the contrast, that
I could scarcely refrain from laughter—
Indeed I have a great taste for the ridiculous,
and here I am likely to have it
improved,—“improved” is a bad word for
such a taste my dear governess will say,
but she has been used to see the spontaneous
effusions of her pupil’s mind—so
it shall pass. I have described the person
of Mrs. Merton to you before, she is
certainly not formed with the “light fantastic
toe,” but languishes, or rather Vol.I. G G1v 122
glides, down a dance in the most careless
and indifferent manner you can imagine.
Her partner appeared to have nearly
reached his grand climacteric, yet he had
taken wonderful pains in trying to put
himself back at least thirty years, by
powdering and pomatuming his grey
hairs, making his whiskers as large and
as well shaped as possible, half closing
his light green eyes, to give them an insinuating
expression, though that expression
was lost in the inflamed circles which
surrounded their orbits; his nice cravat
was well stuffed round his throat, his
cloaths were of the most fashionable and
jemmy make, and the well turned leg
was still an object of admiration, as it
had been through many a revolving season,
to its owner! His determined activity,
his strict attention to the figure of G2r 123
the dance, to the step, to his partner; the
smile which was always to be seen on his
countenance, so self-satisfied, so conscious
of unimpaired powers of attraction,
the agility which he evidently laboured
to exert, and his thin figure, were
all in such direct opposition to the little
fat form and composed manner of Mrs.
Merton, that I carelessly turned round
to the lady who stood the next couple to
me, and said—“Pray, ma’am, can you tell
me the name of the gentleman now going
down the dance?” “He is my brother,
ma’am, Colonel Singleton”—the flippant
answer of the lady arrested my attention.
—Surely the Colonel and Miss Singleton
must have been twin children! I
never saw such proximity of character
and manner as in this brother and sister:
they must never marry, but grow young G2v 124
(for old they can never be) together.
Miss Singleton’s labours must be as arduous
as her brother’s, though her face
looks at last, more weather-beaten than
does the gallant colonel’s. Her natural
complexion is not far removed from your
Olivia’s, and I thought a white satin was a
bad choice for a robe; and pitied her
poor shrivelled and thin neck, which,
with some of her brother’s wadding,
would have looked to more advantage,
than adorned by her superb necklace of
diamonds. Feathers of the ostrich were
mounted in several directions from her
head, while her bared ears, and elbows,
and back, and bosom, gave to her whole
contour, so freezing and so forlorn an appearance,
while her volatility, and frisky
and girlish airs, made her person so very
conspicuous, that I could not help surveying G3r 125
her with the utmost curiosity, as
a species of animal which had never before
fallen under my notice. She was
dancing with a boy, who aped the man,
as much as his partner threw herself back
into the girl: and the pleased attention
with which she listened to all he said;
the air of maiden consciousness which
she adopted, while he held her minikin
fan and she whispered into the youthful
Adonis’s ear; the tap which the said fan
now gave him on the cheek—oh, Mrs.
Milbanke, you could not have forgotten
a scene so ridiculous! And then the
captivating colonel holding his ungloved
and white hand (so as to exhibit a ring
of sparkling brilliants) at the side of his
face, while Mrs. Merton spoke, as if to
draw the attention of the company to
something with which they must not be G3v 126
acquainted, and then holding his handkerchief
to be perfumed from Mrs. Merton’s
otto of roses!—You cannot wonder
at my thinking of the line in the song,
“Such such a pair were never seen?”
You will say I am very light-hearted to
descant so largely on such frivolous subjects
—and I should call myself so if I
were sure that no splenetic feelings aided
my pen; but I am disappointed in England:
I expected to meet with sensible,
liberal, well informed, and rational people,
and I have not found them; I see a
compound of folly and dissimulation—
But hold! let me not be harsh or hasty
in my judgement, a ball-room is not the
place to meet with the persons I expected,
neither must I look for them
within the circle of Mrs. Merton’s friends.
I can see that Augustus has an utter distaste G4r 127
to the general frivolity which reigns
in these places; I suspect he will prefer
my plan of a country life and retirement:
but nothing has yet been said on the subject,
and time steals on. Ah, my dearest
friend! shall I ever more enjoy that
placid happiness, that calm tranquillity,
which surrounded me at the Fairfield
plantation? Heaven alone can tell!—But
in all situations, in all places, I am still,
and ever shall be,

In Continuation.

I have been able to write; my
mind has been in too great a tumult to G4v 128
put pen to paper, and the time I usually
employed in writing, my ever dear
friend, has been spent in walking to and
frofrom my apartment, with restless step and
a perturbed heart!

The morning after I last wrote, I received
a formal message from my uncle,
and, according to the summons, attended
him in the room, which is appropriated
to his morning avocations; he rose at my
entrance, met me at the door, and, with
his usual formal politeness, handed me to
a seat.—

“Pardon the liberty I have taken,
my dear Miss Fairfield, in requesting the
favour of your company; but I wished
to have your approbation with regard to
settlements, &c. previous to giving my G5r 129
lawyer necessary instructions—Augustus
refers entirely to us, to make arrangements
as we think proper!”

I felt uncomfortably as Mr. Merton
spoke—I could not answer him.

“Your late father’s will,” continued he—

I started from my seat—“Full well
I know its contents!” cried I—“Oh, Mr.
Merton, I cannot, I must not refuse your
son the fatal interdiction of my father!—
a vow—an irrevocable vow, forbids me!
But, sir, your son is not so bound, he has
still the exercise of his reason, he is a
free agent—surely then a fear of hurting
my feeling (for I cannot for a moment
imagine Mr. Augustus Merton to be
actuated by mercenary views) will not G5 G5v 130
lead him to barter his liberty and his
happiness, and to unite himself to a
woman who is not the object of his affection!”

I believe I appeared much agitated,
and that I expressed myself with great
warmth and energy?

Mr. Merton looked in silence for a
moment, but with extreme surprise evidently
depicted on his countenance, and
then said,—

“My dear young lady, if my son is so
unfortunate as to be beheld by you with
disapprobation, I sincerely pity him; but
am sure he will readily forego all claim to
your hand, rather than you should unite
yourself where you cannot love!”

G6r 131

“Ah, Mrs. Milbanke! had Mr. Merton
understood the language of the looks,
my emotion at this moment, my burning
blushes, would have proclaimed another
tale!) I cast down my eyes to the
ground in conscious confusion, they
dared not meet his, but Mr. Merton proceeded
—

“You may have seen another object
prior to your introduction to Augustus,
who may have gained an interest in your
heart, Miss Fairfield—if so, I pity my
poor boy!”

“No, indeed, sir, that is not the case!”
said I, with eager warmth.—

“Then my interesting friend,” said
my uncle, taking my hand, “if it be not
so, I greatly pity you—a state of nominal G6v 132
dependence (for such I trust would be
the case if George Merton were your protector)
would still be a severe trial to
one, who has been educated as you have
been.—Your father’s will was singular,
very singular; I make no doubt that
he acted from consideration: but yet it
has always struck me as not being the
kind of will, which most men in his situation
would have made.—Well, let it
pass, we cannot alter it, we must even
act by its authority; and I repeat my
fear, that a state of wardship would be
rather disagreeable to a lady of your
liberal notions?”

“Servitude, slavery, in its worst form,
would be preferable,” said I, “to finding
myself the wife of a man by whom I
was not beloved!”

G7r 133

“My dear niece”—

“My dear sir, I know what you are
going to say—You would say (though
you might word it in softer terms), how
can you expect to be the selected object
of the affections of Augustus Merton,
when he never knew you till within a few
days?—Ah, sir! I too well know the impossibility
of the thing to expect it—I am
aware of my own person—I know that I
am little less than a disgusting object to
an Englishman—I know that your son
(supposing for a moment that he could
get over his own prejudices as to my
colour) would have to encounter all the
sarcastic inuendoes and jeering remarks
of his companions; it would be said with
confidence, and with truth, that he had
sold himself for money; he would feel G7v 134
that he had done so; he would never
look at me without seeing the witness of
the sacrifice. I should be neglected and
despised!”

“My beloved Miss Fairfield, you are
voluntarily raising up bugbears to disturb
your happiness; the chimeras of
your own imagination affright you, and
hurt your peace of mind!”

“Alas! my dear sir, it is but too true,
that every feeling of my soul is wounded
in my present situation—Oh, my dearest
father, my misjudging father, you could
not foresee the humiliating state in which
you placed your child!—Suing for the
hand of a man, to whom she is an object
of indifference, if not aversion!”

G8r 135

“Again let me entreat you to calm
your emotions, my dear young lady, and
to see things in a different point of
view.”

“I see them as they are, sir,” said I,
shaking my head.

“Not so, believe me,—through a prejudice
medium you now look—I am
confident that my son admires and
esteems you—O am sure that he will devote
his life to the study of your happiness,
and that you will never have reason
to repent the choice which your good
father has made for you.”

Ah, dearest friend, esteemed Mrs. Milbanke!
how could I say to Mr. Merton G8v 136
all with which my full heart was
bursting? But if Augustus had entertained
a common regard, even an esteem,
for your Olivia, would he have deputed
his father to have entered into this conversation,
which he seems to have avoided
with the most scrupulous care? In a
few days, am I to unite my fate with
that of a man, who has never said that it
is his wish, that it should be so! As well
is his wish, that it should be so! As well
might my fortune only have crossed the
ocean, the nominal wife might still have
remained in Jamaica—And, of that she
was still there!—oh that Mrs. Milbanke,
with kind counsel and friendly advice,
was yet near her

In Continuation.

Indeed, my dear madam, I know not
what to do; the reserve of Augustus increases
rather than diminishes, I think,
as time moves on.—Good heavens! my
dearest friend, how can I resolve to give
him my hand, if he still retains this constrained
manner?——A depression seems to
hang on his spirits, melancholy clouds
his brow. I think he strives to conceal
this from his father and from me; but I
cannot be blinded: and yet he is so interesting,
his manners are so gentle, even
his look of melancholy carries with it to
me an air so touching, that I think to
sooth his sorrows, to meliorate his afflictions,
would constitute my happiness!

G9v 138

Do not despise me for my weakness, my
dear friend—to no other would I acknowledge
it—and why not? Is it then a
crime to love the man who is to become
my husband?—Alas! it is lowering to
the pride of my sex to love where I am
not beloved again.

In Continuation.

Augustus referred to his father all
matters of settlement; I referred them to
him also: so the old gentleman is prime
agent in this business. I believe he understands
these affairs better than the
affairs of the heart. But I cannot be
easy, dearest Mrs. Milbanke; I must
come to an explanation with Augustus— G10r 139
and he seems to avoid a tête-à-tête with
me, at least I fancy so.

Diamonds and pearls have been
brought to me for inspection, these are
not the precious gems I covet; the pearl
of my husband’s heart would be preferred
by me to all the jewels of the
east!—Mrs. Merton’s sarcastic remarks
on the gravity and the absence of Augustus,
are made in my hearing, and in,
order to mortify and wound me; but
no remarks of hers can now have the
power to add to the poignancy of my
feelings.—The agitation of my mind
mocks description—I have no power to
retreat—and yet to advance with such a
cheerless perspective in view—how can
I have courage?

In Continuation.

A week has elapsed since I had last
the resolution of addressing my beloved
friend. At length, then, I have ventured
beyond the limits usually prescribed to
my sex. I have sought an interview
with Augustus Merton. Indeed, my
dearest Mrs. Milbanke, reason seemed
to totter on her throne, while I imagined
myself in danger of becoming the wife of
a man, to whom I was an object of aversion.
But why should I weary you with
a tedious recapitulation of fears and
feelings, which, knowing the sanguine
temper of your poor girl, you have long
ere now imagined?

G11r 141

I tried to argue myself into something
like courage, when I formed the desperate
resolution of asking to speak to
Augustus alone; but it all forsook me
when he entered the room, and the trembling
abashed woman stood before him.
He saw, and seemed to sympathize in,
my confusion; he gently took my hand,
and, leading me to a seat, placed his own
near it, and seemed to wait for me to
speak, with a respectful, though by no
means a composed air.

“Mr. Merton,” said I, at length breaking
a silence painful to both, “you
know the respective situations in which
we are placed by the will of my ever-to-
be-regretted parent?”

He bowed his head in token of assent; G11v 142
a word would have emboldened me, but
this forbidding silence struck like a
damp upon my heart. I had lost all
command of myself—I rose, and, clasping
my hands together in a beseeching attitude,
I stood before him, saying,—

“It is not too late for you to recede.
Oh, Mr. Merton, think how much misery
will be spared to us, if you refuse the proferred
terms. You have the power of doing
so. A tame acquiescence to the will of
my father, will secure to you the enjoyment
of his fortune, certainly; but can
it secure your happiness, if it is to unite
you to an object, for whom you feel no
regard. Do not fear to mortify me by
such a rejection; I have the common
failings of my sex, but I am fully acquainted
with the numerous disadvantages G12r 143
under which, as a stranger, and
a mulatto West Indian, I labour here.
The good qualities which I posses (I
hope I have some, or barren indeed
would have been the soil which experienced
the hand of the skilful labourer
for many successive years),—I say the
good qualities, which I may possess, are
not to be discerned in my countenance.
The very short time, which, by the unfortunate
tenour of my father’s will, is to
elapse before this matter is decided, will
preclude your coming to a knowledge of
my temper and disposition. Indeed, indeed,
I shall not be offended, I will bless
you for saying, that you cannot accept
my fortune on the terms with which it is
offered you, if such terms are to be the
shipwreck of your happiness!”

G12v 144

I paused,—Augustus looked earnestly
in my face, he heaved a deep sigh.

“You surprise and painfully astonish
me, my dearest Miss Fairfield!” said he;
“is it possible that you can for a moment
suppose, that I feel no regard for you?
Are you so insensible to you own numerous
and unrivalled virtues and perfections?
Heaven is my witness, that I
am warmly, sincerely interested for your
happiness! and that the thought of your
being, for one moment, a dependant on
my mercenary brother, and his weak and
envious wife, would give me the cruellest
uneasiness! But as this is the alternative
to which you reduce yourself, if you are
resolved on refusing my hand,”

“I resolve to refuse your hand?” cried H1r 145
I, scarcely knowing what I said, “Oh,
Mr. Merton, how can you—If, indeed”—

Alas! I found out that I was betraying
myself, by the eager gaze of Augustus;
he held my hand in his, as he
said,—

“Ingenuous, interesting Miss Fairfield!
it is, at this moment, that I feel my
utter unworthiness of this precious treasure.
—Oh! may you never repent your
goodness!”

Well! I have repeated enough of this
tête-à-tête, to show, my dear friend, that
we came to an ecclaircissement. And
yet I am neither satisfied with myself,
nor with Augustus. I fancy that I
must have appeared forward, and, perhaps,Vol. I. H H1v 146
have now obtained from his principles
and his pity, what he must have ever
denied from a stronger feeling. I am
again at my old stumbling-lbockblock, you will
say; and I begin to suspect, that these
womanish fears will be the very bane of
my happiness!

I have, at last, received a letter from
Mrs. Honeywood: it is written, like herself;
—but, alas! it contains sad accounts
of her health, though the spirit of piety
and resignation which pervades it, would
leave me nothing to regret in her being
removed from this painful world, except
the loss of her friendship to myself, and
the overthrow of her son’s happiness, for
his mother is the acting impulse of his
life. Her physicians have ordered her
from London to the sea; a “forlorn hope,” H2r 147
she terms it; and thus I shall lose the
chance of ever meeting her again. I had
agreed to Mr. Merton’s proposition of
going to London on my marriage the
more readily, as I had hoped to behold
this dear friend once more. But it is not
to be. The fleet sails to-morrow; I must,
therefore, make up my large packet.

The hasty lines which I wrote you
on the morning that I quitted Clifton,Open note 1Back to note ¹
and which you received with my packet,
will ere this have informed you, that your
Olivia had become the wife of her cousin!
In that moment of confusion, I had no
time for particulars, and the hurry and
bustle which has ensued, has scarcely
afforded me leisure for an hour of calm H3r 149
reflection. Yet, believe me, my beloved
friend, I am happy; and the attention
and indulgence of my husband exceeds
my highest expectations.—And yet, I
had formed high expectations of the character
of Augustus Merton (Fairfield he
is now become). If I can be instrumental
to his happiness, I shall have reason to
bless my father for my happy lot.

“And why that if, Olivia” methinks
I hear you inquire.

Ah, madam! I doubt myself; I doubt
my own abilities; I sometimes fear,—I
think,—fancy a thousand things, when
I hear the deep sigh of my Augustus,
when I observe the pensive cast of his
features. You will laugh at me,—you
will, perhaps, do more—you will chide H3v 150
me for giving way to these fears, which
now I know to be foolish, if not criminal.
But what will you say of your Olivia,
your pupil, when you hear that she is
become the victim of superstition also,
of nameless terrors, of—alas she knows
not what;—but she has been used to recount
all her weaknesses to her friend,
and she shall have the recital!

It was settled by Mr. Merton, that
our nuptials were to take place at
Clifton, and that from the church
door, we were to set off for London.
The old gentleman stood in the place of
my father; Mrs. Merton did not particularly
wish to be my attendant, and her
presence could give me neither confidence
nor comfort; so at breakfast I took
leave of her, and she promised to follow H4r 151
us to town, with Mr. Merton and the retinue,
in less than a week.

A neat and new post-chaise drove me
to the church door, accompanied by my
uncle; Augustus was there in readiness
to hand me out. The morning had been
fine, but as I entered the church, I felt
the most sultry and overpowering heat
that I ever experienced. The clergyman
was ready,—we approached the altar!
I leant on the arm of Mr. Merton, but I
felt resolute and collected. I was obeying
the will of my father. I was acting
in consonance with the impulse of my
own heart. I believed the man to whom
I was about to be united, was worthy of
my fondest regard, and I secretly besought
the blessing of Heaven!

H4v 152

The ceremony began. I did not cast
my eyes towards Augustus, till the priest
was in the act of joining our hands, and
had put to us the questions, and we had
repeated the answers after him.—At the
moment when I felt the hand of Augustus,
a flash of vivid lightning came from the
window over the altar; it was followed
by a loud andand tremendous peal of thunder.
A cold sweat seemed to moisten
the hand of Augustus,—it trembled in
mine. I looked towards him, an icy paleness
overspread his features—he leaned
against the rails of the altar—his brow
was rumpled—his hair stood erect!—a
deep sigh issued from his bosom!—Yes,
my friend! it is too true,—for it pierced
into the inmost recesses of the heart of
his wife! The irrevocable vow was, indeed,
passed; it seemed, as if the Almighty H5r 153
had condescended to ratify it,—
it seemed—a thousand superstitious fears
stole over my soul! Augustus’s disorder
had infected me, and it was some time
ere I could recover my former tone of
mind. The remembrance will never be
erased from it,—it was something so
awful, so singular.—Oh, Mrs. Milbanke,
how terror-stricken must I then have
stood, if I had borne about with me the
weight of any unacknowledged crime,
at the moment when I had united my
fate with that of my unsuspecting husband!

But, I will turn over a new leaf, and
get to a new subject; for, if this be half
as frightful to you as it has been to me,
you will long since have wished me to
drop it.

In Continuation.

I have been rattled over this vast metropolis,
and have seen sights and spectacles
without number. There is something
very striking in this wondrous
pile of novelty. I have partaken of every
species of amusement with much satisfaction;
for I have been accompanied
by Augustus, and his kindness and indulgence,
in showing “this native” (as
Mrs. Merton would say) all the places
and the curiosities, which he has so often
been fatigued with, has given me a pretty
good idea of his patience, while his readiness
in answering all the questions of
my inquisitive mind, has exhibited manifest H6r 155
proofs of his good-nature. So you
find, I have had a “double debt to pay;”
and whilst visiting the London lions, I
have been finding out the amiable qualities
of my husband!

Mr. Merton’s house, in which we are
at present inmates, is fitted up in a style
which proves the wealth of its owner.
He is fond of showing off his own consequence;
and the credit and high reputation
of the London merchant, in his
never-ending theme,—and a theme which
cannot weary, while I behold, as I do in
this city, their boundless liberality in
providing for the distresses of their necessitous
fellow-citizens!

Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, England is, sure,
the favoured isle, where benevolence has H6v 156
taken up her abode! Here she dwells, here
she smiles, while, towards my native
island, she turns her “far surveying,” her
compassionate eye. She descries the
sufferings of the poor negro, and promises
benign assistance.—Yes! the cause of
Afric’s injured sons is heard in England;
and soon shall the slave be free!

But think not that my visits have
been wholly confined to places of public
amusement and diversion; I have visited
places of public worship also. I have been
delighted and instructed, while hearing
the words of inspiration explained by the
lips of eloquence, combined with great
ability and piety. And I have seen
Westminster Abbey, with that enthusiastic
awe which must ever strike a
feeling mind on beholding this vast mausoleum H7r 157
of valour, genius, and worth!—
While I read the inscriptions of heroes,
and the epitaphs of poets, I could not
help exclaiming, “Oh transitory state of
human things!” I could not help reflecting
on the nothingness of those, who
were once the greatest on the earth.
But, as the benefit of example is undisputed,
it is right that their memories
should be preserved by something more
lasting than the evanescent praise of
others, which is frequently carried on the
fleeting breath of popular applause. Posthumous
honour is coveted by all, and
yet there cannot be a more uncertain
distinction; we see it frequently refused
to those, who, during their lives, were
overwhelmed with praise. The son of
genius and misfortune perishes unnoticed
and unhonoured; his remains moulder H7v 158
at the side of one whom dullness and illiberality
alone distinguished in life, but
whose rich coffers, have, at his death,
purchased for him the name of every virtue,
which, surrounded by trophies of
fame, are engraven on a monumental inscription
of brass! How, then, can we
covet these uncertain and indiscriminating
distinctions?

Mr. George Merton is just what I had
depicted him; fond of his own consequence,
and anxious to increase it, by an
unwearied application to the business of
getting money; yet partial to the indulgencies
of the table, and tenacious of his
opinion. There appears none of that
sympathy of disposition and sentiment
between him and his wife, which we look
for in the connubial state. He seems H8r 159
gratified at beholding her pretty face, set
off by every expensive adornment, at the
head of his sumptuous entertainments,
dispensing the luxuries of the feast to
their various guests; and she seems perfectly
indifferent who is at the bottom of
the table, provided it is filled with a large
party. Her fondness for the admiration
and the attention of the other sex, is very
apparent; and she is weak enough to be
flattered with the silly compliments of the
vainest and most shallow coxcombs. There
is no reciprocity between the two brothers;
they are coolly polite towards each other:
but the confidence, which is usually and
naturally induced from their relative
affinity, is, from a total disparity of character,
entirely done away.

My Augustus is, I can perceive, by no H8v 160
means fond of a London life; it is not at
all consonant to my taste; and the sooner
we can leave it, the better I shall be
pleased. Perhaps the people have tainted
my opinion of the place, for I am fatigued
by the formal stiffness of Mr. Merton;
I am sick of the affectation and
vanity of Mrs. Merton, and disgusted at
her selfish and mercenary husband. I
long to be free from the restraints, and
the dissimulation, which the common
rules of good breeding impose in my behaviour
towards them. My mind seems
hampered, and I think I shall breathe
more freely in the pure air, and amongst
the sylvan scenes of the country. The
plodding track of cent. per cent. and addition
on addition, never suited the taste
of Augustus; and, leaving his brother to
accumulate thousands upon thousands, H9r 161
he is content to live on the fortune which
my father’s will bequeathed to him with
his wife. The wise father, and the plodding
brother, may laugh, but they cannot
persuade him, that a “man’s life
consisteth in the abundance of the things
which he possesseth,” when the Word of
God, and his own heart, both teach him
the contrary.

Yet, though I talk with pleased anticipation
of the country, mistake me not,
dearest Mrs. Milbanke; I by no means
wish for perfect seclusion. I am not so
vain as to imagine, that my society could
form the exclusive happiness of my
husband. No! I would fly as far from
the extreme of solitude on the one
hand, as from unrestrained dissipation on
the other. Dissipation enervates the H9v 162
mind; it unfits it for every rational and
domestic enjoyment; it deadens the
feelings; in the vortex of pleasure, the
heart is often corrupted, and the principles
are sacrificed:—many very amiable
characters have been ruined by the prevalence
of fashionable example, the fear
of being thought singular, and the dread
of ridicule. “Who is sufficient for these
things?” not your doubting Olivia! and,
therefore she would

“Quit the world where strong temptations try, And, since ’tis hard to combat, learn to fly.”

Seclusion sours the temper, selfish and
illiberal notions are insensibly cherished;
the manners lose their polish; the warm
affections of the heart no longer expand
in a full tide of benevolence, but return to
their source, and freeze before the “genial
current” of social intercourse.

H10r 163

I have got a fine Utopian scheme of
domestic happiness in my head, and the
country must be the birth-place of it. The
conversation of my husband, a contemplation
of the beauties of nature, the
society of rational and well-informed
friends; books, music, drawing; the
power of being useful to my fellow-
creatures,—to my poorer neighbours;—
the exercise of religious duties,—and the
grateful heart, pouring out its thanks to
the Almighty bestower of such felicity!
Say, dear madam, is such a plan likely
to be realized by your

H10v 164

In Continuation.

Dido, notwithstanding her admiration
of the sights with which this justly
famed city abounds, is not at all displeased
at hearing that we do not intend
to live here; and that we shall soon have
a house and an establishment of our own;
and that too in the country.

“Ah, my dear Missee,” says she, “we
shall be there again, as if we were at the
dear Fairfield plantation, only that Dido
won’t see the dear little creatures of her
own colour running about:—but no matter,
God Almighty provides from her own,
and it be very, very hard, if poor Dido cannot H11r 165
find some little babies and their mammies
to care after, and to doctor, and to
feed with goodee things, from her goodee
Missee, go where she will!”

“Yes, that would be hard, indeed,
Dido.”

“Besides, Dido be greater there,” said
she, drawing up her head, with that
air of pride which seems in some sort
natural to her character, especially when
she feels a sense of injury—“Besides
Dido be great there, and housekeeper to
her dear dearest lady, to Massa Fairfield’s
daughter: although here she be ‘blacky,’
and ‘wowsky,’ and ‘squabby,’ and
‘guashy,’ and all because she has
a skin not quite so white.—God Almighty H11v 166
help them all—me don’t mind
that though, do we, my dear Missee? But
Mrs. Merton’s maid treats me, as if me
was her slave; and Dido was never slave
but to her dear own Missee, and she was
proud of that!”

But you know the honest heart of my
faithful girl! Augustus treats her with
that good-humoured kindness and freedom
which is the sure way to win it; and
she declares her new beautiful Massa is
fit to bear the name of “Fairfield”, and to be
the husband of the dearest Missee in the
world.

H12v 168

Letter this First.

You will laugh at me, andand well you
might, had I no other motive than the
apparent one, for doing my duty here,
and being so pretty behaved with my
papa-in-law, in order to chaperon this
copper-coloured girl, that is sent over as
the wife of the romantic Augustus—No!
There are wheels within wheels, believe
me, Almenia? I have planned, and shall
in time accomplish, a most noble scheme I1r 169
of revenge—I shall teach this Mr. Augustus,
that
“Hell has no fury like a woman scorn’d;”
and that the thought of revenge, glorious
revenge, can give a new impulse to
her soul—can stimulate her character,
and urge it beyond ordinary bounds!
Happily, my husband’s ruling passion, a
desire of unbounded wealth, will come to
my aid; and he will go hand in hand
with me, without guessing at the secret
motive by which I am actuated. There
must be much time, and patience, ere
the master-stroke can be struck; this once
effected, you shall felicitate me on the
accomplishment of my designs, and acknowledge
that the pains I have taken Vol. I. I I1v 170
deserved a splendid victory!—Pains?
Yes, Almenia! for I have departed from
my character—my wrongs have roused
me to exertion, and you find I can even
write a whole side of my paper. You
ask for a description of this outlandish
creature—She is very tall (I never could
bear a tall woman), and hold herself
erect; no easy lounge in her air; her eyes
are, I believe, good, but black eyes are, in
my opinion, so frightful;—her teeth, they
say, are white, but any teeth would look
white, I believe, when contrasted by such
a skin! As to her manners, they are
abominably disgusting; she is full of sentiment,
and religion, and all that—and
talks and expatiates, and is so firm and so
decided—at the same moment that she
would have it appear that she is all feeling I2r 171
and tenderness—such a compound!
She has read a good deal I fancy; these
bookish ladies are insufferable bores!
But daddy Merton is all upon the complimentary
order with her, and has made
sixty thousand bows for her sixty thousand
pounds!—I do not think I could
hold out the probationary month if I
dissembled; but by showing how much
I am disgusted with Miss Blacky, I draw
out sensitive Augustus, and put him on
his metal; as I slight, he is doubly diligent
—he will compassionate this “interesting
mulatto”—he will marry her
to rescue her from the “tyrannic fangs”
of Mrs. George Merton! And I will—
what will I not do? I have now raised
your curiosity I know, for you were always
one of Eve’s genuine daughters— I2v 172
My dear friend, you may remain a long
time on the tenter-hooks of expectation.

I3r 173

Letter the Second.

Unwilling as I was to accompany
my father to this place, and averse in
bestowing any portion of my thoughts
towards that clause in my uncle’s will
which referred to myself, I yet at this
moment behold things in a very different
light; and though the barbed arrow of misfortune
still rankles at my breast, and can
never more be extracted, yet I am more
interested for Olivia Fairfield, than ever I3v 174
thought again to have been for any
human being.

“’Tis not a set of features or complexion, The tincture of a skin, that I admire.”

No, my friend, it is not; for I will
confess to you, that the moment when
my eyes were first cast on the person
of my cousin, I started back with a
momentary feeling nearly allied to disgust;
for I beheld a skin approaching
to the hue of a negro’s, in the woman
whom my father introduced to me as my
intended wife! I that had been used to
contemplate a countenance, and a transparent
skin of ivory, where Suckling’s
expression of “even her body thought”
might have aptly originated. I that—
ah! why pursue the reflection?—that
such things were, I too well know; else I4r 175
why this weight of sorrow which has so
long oppressed my weary frame? A very
few hours served to convince me, that
whatever might have been the transient
impression made by the colour of Olivia,
her mind and form were cast in no common
mould. She has a noble and a dignified
soul, which speaks in her words
and actions; her person is raised above
the standard of her sex, as much as her
understanding and capacity. In her
energy, her strength of expression, in the
animation of her brilliantly black eye,
there is something peculiarly interesting.
At one moment, I feel for her situation
and pity her,—a stranger in a strange
country, where she is more likely to
receive contumely than consideration; at
the next, I see in her a superior being;
and again I behold the child of humanity, I4v 176
the citizen of the world, with a
heart teeming with benevolence and
mercy towards every living creature!—
She is accomplished and elegant; but
her accomplishments are not the superficial
acquirements of the day,—they
are the result of application and genius
in unison; her elegance is not the studied
attitude of a modern belle, but the spontaneous
emotion of a graceful mind:
while in her conversation there is combined,
with sound judgement and reflection,
a naïf simplicity, and a characteristic
turn of expression, which at once
pleases and entrances the observer. The
decision and promptitude with which
she delivers her opinions, though accompanied
by an air of modest timidity,
prove that she has a spirit which will
never suffer her to yield her principles or I5r 177
her sentiments, where her conscience tells
her she is right: and that, though trampled
upon, she will yet retain her native dignity
of character!

You will think me raving, my friend;
and so I am nearly, when I think that it
is I alone who must rescue her from a
state of miserable dependence. It is on
me that her future happiness depends:
on me, who, like a shipwrecked mariner,
have seen my heart’s only treasure snatched
from my longing arms, and am become
a bankrupt in all I coveted on
earth!—In what a cruel predicament am
I placed by my uncle’s will—yet can I
refuse Olivia, and see her eating the
bitter bread of sorrow and dependence
under my brother and his wife.—Oh,
Monkland! I have seen the “tender I5 I5v 178
mercies” of this woman! I have seen her
cruel, her unfeeling treatment of a meek,
and unoffending angel! I know her equal
to any species of tyranny, to any plot of
low malice and contrivance: she is envious
of all virtue and merit, because she
possesses neither herself!—She has no
heart, no mind! And shall the only child
of my mother’s brother, shall the polished,
the amiable Olivia Fairfield be reduced
to such a situation?—Better had
she perished on the ocean, better had
the tempestuous billows overwhelmed
her, ere she set her foot on this inhospitable
shore! Yet, what have I to offer
her? Will a windowed heart, blighted
hopes, and settled melancholy, will these
be fit offerings for the rich prize of her
affections and her love? Can I with
these hope to secure her happiness? I6r 179
How if I was to disclose to her the
state of my heart—how if I was to divulge
to her that secret which is known
alone to you and to the grave?—I know
the result of such a disclosure,—the generous
Olivia would scorn to receive from
my compassion what I could not grant
from my love; her soul is too noble to
bestow a thought upon selfish considerations,
and she would not hesitate in
preferring a dependence upon my brother,
to laying an embargo on my principles,
in which she would fancy my
heart had no share. Yet, Heaven is my
witness, inasmuch as I trust I am a lover
of goodness and virtue, my heart, my
soul is interested for this charming maid!
My heart does not beat with the rapture
of passion,—my soul is not overcome
by soft emotions at her approach as heretofore. I6v 180
—Again am I giving way to useless
retrospections. In hearing Miss Fairfield,
in witnessing the chaste dignity of
her manners, and the action which characterizes
and enforces her expressions,
I receive undissembled satisfaction; but
sensible of our peculiar situation, whilst
I could hang on every word she utters
in company, and in her absence delight
to recall them to my memory with the
appropriate expression by which they
were accompanied; yet, strange as it may
appear, I fly from a tête-à-tête overcome
by a weak fear almost unaccountable to
myself. How can I assail her with professions
of love, whilst conscious that my
heart can never more feel that passion?
How can I ask her to acknowledge herself
interested for me, when I know that
the silent tomb covers all for which I I7r 181
would have lived? and yet, how can I
meet my wife, my affianced wife, and not
enter into such conversation? My friend,
you will pity me—to you, and to you
alone, are my struggles and my sorrows
known; with you I shall be acquitted of
mercenary views, even though I should
become the husband of Olivia—you will
know that the same spirit, which once
taught me to refuse a wealthy bride and
to oppose my father’s direct command,
would have supported me in this instance
also, if a stronger motive had not
influenced me on the other side.

I7v 182

Packet the Third.

As I heard of no ship sailing for Jamaica,
I have let my pen lie idle on my
standish, my dearest madam, for the last
three weeks, whilst I have been arranging
my household, and making myself
quite at home. In this, as in every thing,
Mr. Fairfield has acted with the greatest
indulgence. Your Olivia has only to
breathe a wish, and it is accomplished;
so that, in fact, I have nothing left to
wish for.

This house is situated in a romantic
part of Devonshire, near a bold and I8r 183
noble shore; the hills and dales are
beautifully picturesque, and the diversity
of wood, and lawn, and down, is very
striking. It is a highly cultivated country,
and a populous neighbourhood; and
while the little town of ****, about three
miles distant, supplies our table with excellent
fish, it promises also to supply us
with society from its summer visitants;
as I understand it is a place of genteel
resort in the season. The house is not
too large to be comfortable; it is calculated
for sociability, more than for show,
and gives you an idea of a contented habitation,
which some of the lofty villas
of Nabobs, in the neighbourhood, cannot
impress on the mid with all their
grandeur.

Dido is delighted; it is like the “dear I8v 184
Fairfield estate,” and she has entered into
all the mysteries of housekeeping, and
bears about the insignia of her office, in the
bunch of keys at her side, and the important
expression of her face. Already she
has made acquaintances with some of the
peasants in the vicinity, and she bids fair
to rival her mistress in the favour of the
little rustics. Never did a warmer heart
glow in a human bosom, than in that of
this faithful creature. She considers
herself as the sister of the whole human
race, and loves them with a relative affection.

As yet, I have seen none of my visiting
neighbours, except the clergyman
of the parish; I both saw and heard him
at church: and if I may form an opinion
of the man, from his discourse and delivery I9r 185
in the pulpit, I promise myself profit
and pleasure from his acquaintance;
his subject was well chosen, and well
handled,—his manner was devout and
impressive!

In Continuation.

Mr. Fairfield seems to enjoy himself
nin the country, as much as your Olivia;
never did I witness a more sensible alteration,
than that which took place in him,
when we had fairly turned our backs
upon London. The insipid routine of a
town life, where a man has no regular
avocation, and is too far plunged into the
ceremonials of the world to spend his
time as he chooses, must surely be very I9v 186
irksome. Fairfield is of a contemplative
and studious disposition; he has too much
refinement and Christian benevolence in
his composition, to make, what is termed,
a country ’squire; but he has sentiment,
and a taste for the beauties of nature,
to render him a rural though not
a modern philosopher.

I was reading a paper this morning in
one of your excellent periodical works,
viz. the Tatler, when the following paragraph
struck me as being so applicable
to my Augustus, that I will not apologize
to you for transcribing it:—

“With great respect to country sports,
I may say, this gentleman could pass his
time agreeably, if there were not a hare,
or a fox, in his country. That calm and I10r 187
elegant satisfaction, which the vulgar call
melancholy, is the true and proper delight
of men of knowledge and virtue.
What we take for diversion, which is a
kind of forgetting ourselves, is but a mean
way of entertainment, in comparison of
that, which is considering, knowing, and
enjoying ourselves. The pleasures of
ordinary people are in their passions;
but the seat of this delight is in the reason
and understanding. Such a frame of
mind raises that sweet enthusiasm, which
warms the imagination at the sight of
every work of nature, and turns all round
you into picture and landscape.”— Tattler,
No. 89.

Mr. Fairfield has patience with me in
all my wild strolls, and sees a beautiful
view of the sea, a disjointed rock, or a lofty I10v 188
tree, with an enthusiasm which equals
mine. He is also interested and entertained
with the simple and untutored
urchins of the cottages; and I daily perceive,
with renewed delight, that our
sentiments, our opinions, and our principles
coalesce. I am thankful to Heaven,
for my happy, thrice happy lot; and
humbly pray, that my Augustus’s happiness
may be as perfect as my own. I
sometimes fancy that there has been a
time, when his spirits and his gaiety must
have been greater than they are at present;
for I observe, the bright flashes of
pleasantry, the sudden corruscations of
his wit, the “scintillations of a playful
mind,” while they sometimes gild his
conversation, with a ray, bright andand
dazzling as meridian day, as instantaneously
obscured, as if by a sudden recollection; I11r 189
and an uncontrollable feeling of
sorrow imperiously absorbs every trait of
hilarity. But these transitions are unfrequent,
though, in general, the even
tenour of his demeanor exhibits more the
temper of patient resignation, than of
undissembled happiness.

You will smile at my nice definitions;
but be assured, that whilst he is as worthy
of the best affections of my heart, as he
is at present, I will not quarrel with my
husband, because his cup of felicity does
not overflow. Nay, such is the interest
that he now excites in my bosom from
imagining him to have felt the shaft of
undeserved misfortune, that I am sure I
love him the better for it. And if I have
a wish ungratified, it is the possession of
his entire confidence, not for the gratification I11v 190
of a low and unworthy feminine
curiosity; but that I might offer him all
the consolation and comfort in my
power.

Adieu, for the present, my dearest madam!
—to you, without reserve, I unfold
all the feelings of my heart; I cannot
blush to acknowledge its soft emotions,
when awakened by so deserving an object.
I can never forget, that when addressing
you, I am writing to my most
valued and tried friend!

I12r 191

In Continuation.

New Park.

Last week was devoted almost exclusively
to the receiving and paying of visits;
I am not sorry that I now find
myself a little more my own mistress; perhaps
I shall discover many of my neighbours
to be very estimable characters on a
further acquaintance; but a succession of
visitors, where all are equally strangers,
and the mistress of the house is expected
to find conversation, and to make herself
agreeable, where too (as in my case)
she knows that she is viewed with no
common curiosity, is not only fatiguing,
but awkward. Augustus endeavoured to
ease me of the burden, however, and succeeded I12v 192
in no small degree. He has wonderful
facility in general conversation,
and can adapt himself to the capacities
and tastes of any, whom he condescends
to entertain, except they should be of that
class, which we used to call, the genteel
vulgar, meaning those important shallow-
pated beings, who have but one recommendation,
viz. money!—We saw enough
of these in the West Indies, where riches
are speedily amassed,—and that disgraceful
traffic, which hardens the heart, and
deadens the feelings, while it fills the
purse, was eagerly prosecuted by such
characters!

But I digress from my subject, and
should not find an excuse for such a desultory
way of writing as I have fallen
into of late, with any other than my own K1r 193
Mrs. Milbanke! I must not indulge in
caricaturing; and yet you will, perhaps,
think I am doing so, if I merely describe
things as they appear to me. It is, that
I see through a magnifying glass to discover
defects?—Heaven preserve me from
such an unchristian-like vision!

Within two miles of us, situated on a
fine eminence, which overhangs the sea,
and overlooks the beautiful little bay
of ****, stands the Pagoda, the newly-
raised edifice of Sir Marmaduke Ingot.
Every order of architecture has been
blended in this structure; and Augustus
not unaptly remarked the other morning,
as we viewed it at a little distance, that
it wanted but the bells which usually decorate
the Chinese buildings, from whence
its name is derived, to obtain another Vol. I. K K1v 194
which would be appropriate, viz. the
temple of folly! The eastern nabob
seemed to have harnessed his fleetest
Arabian coursers to his chariot, when he
came to pay his compliments to us; he
really cut an appearance quite magnifique,
as his gay equipage and dashy
attendants drove through the park;—we
knew there could be only one family so
dazzling in this neighbourhood, and were
therefore prepared for the guests, who
made their entrée.

My land is a masculine woman; very
hard-favoured, and of a forbidding
countenance; her voice is nervous (I
do not mean nervously weak, but nervously
strong), her utterance clear, and
her conversation vastly above the common
level of her sex; so much so, that I K2r 195
understand she is the general terror of
the females in the vicinity, as she usually
engrosses a great portion of the conversation,
and will make herself heard, if not
understood. But Sir Marmaduke, having
acquired a very considerable fortune at
Bengal, and liking to keep a hospitable
and showy table, and to have his house
filled with company; of course Lady
Ingot gets a few attentive hearers of both
sexes; and the good dinners, the turtle,
and the curries at the Pagoda, obtain for
her ladyship general sufferance, if not general
favour. It was a very sultry morning,
but Lady Ingot was wrapped in a most
superb oriental shawl, while a fine lace
veil descended almost to the ground, in
some measure softening the asperity of
her features by its partial shade. Sir
Marmaduke’s countenance is neither interesting K2v 196
nor disgusting; her cheeks are
distended by a perpetual smile, and the
powder on his head, seems to be laid on
with no sparing hand, to cover the depredations
of time. Mr. Ingot, a youth of
about fifteen years of age, entered with
his parents; he also was wrapped in a
shawl, and his delicate fingers were warmed
in a muff of the finest ermine, almost
as large as himself (for he is very effeminate
and diminutive in his person). His
head was adorned by a hat, turned up
before, with a gold button and loop, and
ornamented by a plume of feathers; he
is really a pretty looking stripling, if he
was not made so mere a monkey of, and
dressed in such a non-descript manner.

After the first compliments, her ladyship
began, and, with facility of expression, K3r 197
and great choice of words, felicitated
herself on the pleasure she anticipated
in my acquaintance; assured me, that
she very rarely met with any thing like
polished or cultivated society in the uncivilized
part of the world, in which Sir
Marmaduke had fixed the Pagoda. The
situation had some advantages,—that of
air, for instance, which she allowed might
be salubrious to those whose corporeal
frames were formed to come in contact
with it.—“But, my dear exotic,” continued
she, “my tender sensitive sapling
Frederic, is nearly annihilated by its
keenness. I assure you, Mrs. Fairfield,
it requires all my maternal vigilance and
precaution to guard him from the eastern
blast, which beats against us!”

K3v 198

“And yet, ma’am, the young gentleman
looks well.”

“Hectic, mere hectic! pull off your
shawl, and lay down your muff, my
love,—recline a little of the sofa; Mrs.
Fairfield will have the goodness to excuse
you.”

I bowed acquiescence, and her ladyship
proceeded:—

“Again I must repeat the pleasing anticipations
in which I fondly indulge myself,
Mrs. Fairfield, on forming a confidential
intercourse with you.—Alas! I
have wofully felt myself thrown out of
my level in this abstracted country.”

K4r 199

“The country is a hilly one, assuredly,
Lady Ingot,” said Sir Marmaduke, who
heard only what she had last said,
and answered literally; and then resumed
a conversation into which he
had drawn Augustus, respecting a project
which he had in contemplation of
turning the turnpike road, to put it to a
greater distance from the Pagoda, as the
mail-coach can now be seen as it passes,
from the salle à manger windows; and some
days, the guard’s horn can be distinctly
heard, when the wind is in the south.

“We have but few southern breezes,
have we, mamma?” said Mr. Ingot, lisping,
as he lay recumbent.

“I mean to get an act of Parliament,”
said Sir Marmaduke, “if I cannot do K4v 200
it in any other way. In India we manage
matters more concisely; for there, we
men in power have the law vested in our
hands.”

“A summary mode of proceeding, if
justice be faithfully and impartially administered,
has its advantages not doubt,”
answered Augustus;“but in the case
you are mentioning, I should imagine
you will easily gain the consent of Parliament,
Sir Marmaduke, as I conclude that
it can be easily proved, that the alteration
in question will be a convenience to
you, without inconveniencing the public.”

“Oh, not a jot, sir,” replied the
knight; “the objections that are started,
are merely childish, and I can easily discern K5r 201
from whence they originate:—the
opposing and unsuccessful candidate for
the borough of *****, as he could not
oust me out of my seat in Parliament,
thinks proper against me. But let him
try his utmost, I shall not mind a few
more thousands in this contest!”

“What may be his plea?” said Augustus.

“Oh, that by turning the road, I shall
make it two miles further for the mailcoach,
and more on the ascent; and that
the post master at ***, will be obliged
to sit up half an hour later, and burn
half an inch more of his farthing rushlight!”

K5 K5v 202

“Upon my honour, papa, you make
me quite laugh,” drawled out, Mr. Ingot,
—“talking of the half-inch of candle!”

“This is an inconvenience to the public,
surely,” said Augustus.

“By no means, sir,—by no means,
my good sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, with
warmth.—“All the innkeepers, from ***
to ****, are to a man on my side; and
you will acknowledge them to be part of
the public,—for are they not publicans?”

“Sir Marmaduke, how often have I
told you that I cannot bear a pun,” said
Lady Ingot.

K6r 203

“You told him so the last time he
said it, ma’am,” cried young Hopeful.

“I will allow them to be a part of the
public, certainly,” said Augustus, “but
I fear a very interested part; and that it
is their interest to be paid for two more
miles in a stage is obvious.”

The knight’s answer escaped me,—not
so his reddened countenance. Lady Ingot
seemed to think her husband did not
shine; and therefore she called off my attention
to herself.

“Believe me, Mrs. Fairfield there is
scarcely a female besides yourself in this
neighbourhood, who has ever set her foot
out of England. Conceive what narrow
minded, prejudiced beings they must be? K6v 204
Not an idea but what was planted in
them at their births, and has been handed
down by mothers and grandmothers, and
great-grandmothers, through countless
generations!”

“It proves,” said I, “that those ideas
are worthy retaining; and I confess, I
think our mothers and grandmothers were
sensible beings. I rather lean towards
old customs, and old notions, and can
trace one of my ideas as far back as the
Old Testament, where a lady of some
note, being asked, whether she would be
spoken of to the king or the captain of the
host, answered, with true feminine modesty,
—‘I dwell amongst my own people!’
It has always struck me as a most
beautiful reply. Retirement seems the
peculiar and appropriate station of our K7r 205
sex; and the enlargement of the mind,
and the conquest of prejudice, is not always
achieved, perhaps, by visiting foreign
climes!”

“You speak like a perfect English woman,”
said Lady Ingot; “I see you have
already imbibed our air.”

“I thank your ladyship for the compliment,”
said I: “I do consider myself
as more than half an English woman,
and it has always been my ardent wish
to prove myself worthy of the title!”

“Oh, you interesting enthusiast!” said
Lady Ingot; “with that action, that
expression of countenance, so perfectly
extraneous, and talking of belonging to
this yea nay clime, where the plants indigenous K7v 206
to the soil, almost to a woman,
sit with this hands before them, bolt upright,
and neither verging to the right
nor to the left,—look as if they had
creaked necks, and cramped joints.”

“I have remarked a very different deportment,”
said I, “and seem to have
hitherto seen only those who diverge to
the contrary extreme,—neither stiffened
joints, nor limbs have prevented them from
reclining and lounging with an air of
ease, which I thought quite ‘the rage.’”

“Oh! there are some who have imitated
us East Indians,” said Lady Ingot,
wrapping her shawl round her coarse
limbs, in the style of drapery, and gradually
inclining more towards the back
of the chair on which she sat,—“we have K8r 207
had an opportunity of seeing the graceful
languishment of Circassian loveliness, unrivalled
for voluptuous and attractive elegance;
and these degenerate imitators of
that luxurious ease, which they have never
felt, are the greatest treat to us, who see
the distorted barbarism of the likeness!”

My dear Mrs. Milbanke, you have
had a long specimen of the Ingots during
their first visit. You have gained by
it (if no entertainment) a perfect insight
into their characters; therefore, I will
not tell you what I think of them.

Augustus calls me to the evening walk.
Adieu.

In Continuation.

New Park.

Mrs. Honeywood is no more!—I
have just read the account of her death
in the papers. I was preparing to write
you a long letter,—but, alas! I cannot.
I have been recalling to my grateful
memory the numberless proofs of kindness,
and of maternal consideration,
which I received from this regretted
friend during our long voyage. She
was an excellent woman, and prepared
for death. But was her son prepared to
lose her?—Poor Honeywood! my heart
bleeds for him. I know the acuteness
of his present feelings, for I witnessed
the strength of his affection; and I could K9r 209
only compare it to that which I felt for
my father: but I received the benign
consolations of my beloved Mrs. Milbanke!

Augustus saw my emotion, at reading
the death of this worthy woman,—he
kissed off the tear from my cheek, and
lamented, that he did not know the address
of Honeywood:—“For did I,” said
he, “I would avail myself of the title of
your husband, and invite him to a dwelling,
where he would find comfort personified
in my Olivia?”

I pressed his hand with grateful emotion.

In Continuation.

New Park.

The long list of our daily-increasing
acquaintance must be omitted; the characters
will develope themselves, as
many of them came forwards at a grand
dinner of the nabob knight’s, which we
partook of yesterday; we wish to be on
good terms with all our neighbours: and
Augustus or myself have no partiality
for what is called a feast, yet, being
long-invited guests (or rather, I believe,
this said feast being prepared on our account),
we went. I need not describe
my dress, you know I have one plain
unornamented style. Augustus approves
it, and of course I do not depart
from it; but Dido bids me “be sure K10r 211
tell Mrs. Milbanke that I wore my
new diamonds in my hair, which looked very
pretty and charming.” Oriental magnificence
was in full blaze at the Pagoda.
Expect not a description of its
splendour from the poor pen of your
Olivia; she must refer you to fabled
palaces of the genii, and to the gay
castles of fairy princes, and other eastern
knights. The party was a large one.
Colonel and Miss Singleton were the only
persons, except the inhabitants of the
mansion, whose faces I recognized in
the group; and with the most gallant
air on the part of the colonel, and the
most girlish vivacity on that of his sister,
they both ran, rather than walked, up to
pay their compliments. At the same
moment that the hand of Augustus was
seized by a lady, who, fixing her bold K10v 212
dark eyes full in his face, congratulated
him on his marriage, and expressed her
delight at this unexpected meeting.
The colour faded in the countenance of
my Augustus—I thought his lips quivered
—he certainly looked confused and
embarrassed—he let his hand remain in
hers, without appearing to know that he
did so—and the would—be interesting colonel
putting his hand to the side of his
face, and grinning till he showed rather
more than he intended (viz. besides all
his white teeth, two vacancies on either
side), white teeth, two vacancies on either
side), whispered,—

“The mutual pleasure evinced by a
certain party, is evident enough, to call
forth a disagreeable emotion on your
part, if aught disagreeable could lurk
under a form so tender!”

K11r 213

I had not time to answer this complimentary
whisper, had I been prepared;
for my tender form was at this minute
presented by Augustus to Miss Danby,
and I bent my flexible joints to her in a
courtesy. Assuredly, there was much
constraint and embarrassment in Mr.
Fairfield’s manner, even whilst he made
this introduction; but with the assured
ease of a girl used to the world, the
lady started at me with an expression of
unbridled curiosity, which made my
cheeks glow.—What was the cause of
Augustus’s confusion? My dear Mrs.
Milbanke, I asked myself this question.
The humbled and mortified Olivia could
answer it only thus (for neither the manners
nor person of Miss Danby could ever
have been interesting to Augustus; of
this I was well aware): My husband is, K11v 214
then, ashamed of me—he is ashamed of
my person—he dreads my being seen by
any of his former acquaintances as his
wife;—I must then be still disgusting in
his eyes—he yet has not courage to face
the “world’s dread laugh!” These bitter
reflections passed in my mind, as I
observed that Augustus escaped from the
rude survey which Miss Danby seemed
to be taking on my person, as though he
could not stand the scrutiny.—I hope it
was only for a moment that I suffered
these thoughts to ruffle my tranquillity!
—Augustus, too, soon recovered himself;
and Miss Danby offering him her hand
with great nonchalance (on seeing the
nabob take mine, to lead me into the
dining-room), he gallantly lifted it to his
lips as he took it.

K12r 215

“We used to be famous flirts, you
know,” said Miss Danby. “Even so,
believe me, Mrs. Fairfield,” said she,
nodding familiarly at me across the
table.

“And we mean to resume our old
habits, of course,” said Augustus, laughing.

“And will not you retaliate?” said Colonel
Singleton, who, seated at my right
hand, threw his most agreeable smile into
his face as he asked the question.

“I don’t know how far it would be
proper,” said I.

“Would ladies of the present century
always stop to consider of propriety before
they venture on this retaliation, I K12v 216
think we should soon find a material improvement
in manners as well as morals,”
said a grave-looking elderly gentleman,
who sat towards the bottom of the table.
“But you ladies do not give yourselves
time for reflection.” And as he said this,
he turned his head towards Miss Singleton,
who, arrayed in pink muslin, and
adorned with pearls, looked as gay and
airy, as her very gay and very airy dress
could make her.

“As to giving ourselves time, you
ought to know that it is not at our own
command” said she. “I protest to you,
that, for my own part, from year’s end to
year’s end, I have not a day which I can
call my own.”

“Oh happy you!” said Miss Danby; L1r 217
“What an enviable being!” and she,
apparently spoke from her heart.

“Nay, do you really think so?” said
Miss Singleton, simpering with conscious
pleasure. “To be sure, society has imperious
claims upon persons in a certain
sphere; and I have a very large circle
of acquaintance, which is continually
expanding.”

“The expansion of a circle that is
not badly expressed,” said Lady Ingot,
in a half-whisper, to Augustus.

“And a magic circle too!” said a
young ensign, who sat on one side of
the speaker.

Vol. I. L L1v 218

“I colonel has also a great many
friends,” continued Miss Singleton.

“A charming, elegant man! I am sure,
ma’am, he must have friends wherever he
is seen!” said an elderly and highly-
rouged widow, who seemed to be particularly
attentive to Colonel Singleton.

“A vast acquaintance my brother has,
ma’am—and people who live in the
world have such various claims upon
them; what with dinner parties, routs,
concerts, plays, balls, and suppers, at
Bath in the winter, London in the spring,
and at the fashionable watering-places in
rotation during the summer, I have not a
moment, that I can call my own, of the
twenty-four hours. My brother and myself
seldom retire till three or four in the L2r 219
morning, as we can find no other period
than an hour before we court repose, to
talk over the adventures of the preceding
day, and settle a plan of engagements for
the next.”

“Does this mode of life never weary?”
asked the grave looking gentleman.

“We must never allow that pleasure
can weary,” said Miss Danby, with
gaiety. “It would be a contradiction
in terms.—But pray, Mr. Fairfield, do
tell me, how is my friend Mrs. George
Merton? Speaking of pleasure reminds
me of her—she used to be a dear dissipated
creature, you know.”

“She is just a you remember her,” said
Fairfield; but again his features underwent L2v 220
an alteration. Miss Danby fixed
her keenly-scrutinizing eyes on his face,
and said,—

“Pray, Mr. Fairfield, what is become
of Miss Forrester?”

Here seemed the very climax of Augustus’s
embarrassment. Indeed, my
dearest friend, I saw him start; his face
was convulsed; the most deadly expression
of anguish overspread his features.
I was just going to put a glass wine
to my lips; I have bowed to Colonel
Singleton, in return to his drinking my
health; but the tremulous movement of
my hand obliged me to set the glass
again on the table; and, without knowing
what I was doing, I sought for my
smelling-bottle, and, had I not checked L3r 221
the first impulsive movement of my
soul, I should have handed it across the
table to my husband,—should, most
probably, have drawn on myself, if not
on him also, the ridicule of the whole
company. Miss Danby does not appear
to want penetration, however destitute
she may be of feeling; I am sure that
she saw my emotion, and that the disorder
of Augustus did not pass unobserved,
for she followed up the question
with—

“Poor Angelina! I should really like
to know where she is. There was something
vastly good about her; and though
I used to laugh at her, yet I loved her.
—Pray, do you not know where she is,
Mr. Fairfield?”

L3v 222

“She is in heaven!” sighed out Augustus,
and, at the same moment, letting his
fork fall on the plate, he hastily averted
his head from Miss Danby, and filling a
bumper of wine, he eagerly swallowed it.
Even Miss Danby seemed intimidated
from asking him any more questions.

Lady Ingot, turning towards me—said,

“A very mal-à-propos question that of
Miss Danby’s—perfectly English! ‘How
is she,’ and ‘where is she;’ expecting
verse after verse, like Chevy Chace. Mr.
Fairfield has very concisely given her
the dénouement in four words: for my
own part, I always hold it as a matter of
conscience not to make inquiries after absent
friends, lest I should wound the L4r 223
feelings of those to whom I am addressing
myself. People are so very soon
married, or dead, or buried, and gone
Heaven knows where, that I think it is
quite a solecism on good-breeding; but
in India we discriminate with great nicety
on every point of sentiment and manners,
and, instead of making our conversation
assume the features of a Moore’s
almanac, or a monthly obituary, we
raise the lively idea, and point the brilliant
repartee!”

That I heard this ridiculous speech
is certain, because I am able to retail it;
but, my beloved friend, you would have
pitied your poor Olivia, had you beheld
her at this moment, as much as she did
her agitated Augustus; evidently Miss
Danby had struck the chord which jarred L4v 224
through his frame!—This Miss Forrester,
then—this Angelina—she was the object
of my husband’s warmest affections—I
am sure she was—his sighs—his melancholy
abstractions—they are all—all for
Angelina—and—I was going to say, that
I almost envied the shade of Angelina!
—But I will try to be more rational.

When the gentlemen joined us in the
drawing-room, Augustus was in high
spirits, or appeared to be so; they were
either affected, or produced by his having
taken more than his usual quantity
of wine. He seated himself next Miss
Danby; she laughed, and chatted, and
unceasingly rattled; talked of her poor
Mrs. George Merton, in a pitying contemptuous
tone, which intimated, that
though she was her dear friend, she L5r 225
had a most hearty contempt for her.
She asked, how long Mr. George Merton
meant to plod on at the cent. per cent.;
wondered why Augustus had thought
fit to quarrel with the world, and leave it
in dudgeon, when he was so formed for
its enjoyment!

“I have not quarrelled with it, believe
me,” said Augustus; “I am, just now,
better pleased with it, than I have been
all my life before: I live according to
my notions of happiness!” (and he looked
with an expression of grateful satisfaction
towards your Olivia): “and can I call
myself out of the world, when I have, at
this moment, the pleasure of sitting next
to one of its gayest belles?”

“Oh nonsense, agreeable flatterer! L5 L5v 226
nonsense!” said Miss Danby; “I am
merely a bird of passage. Lady Ingot
was obliging enough to give me an invitation
to the Pagoda, and, entre nous, I
thought I wanted a little bracing for the
winter’s campaign, and my father having
been overwhelmed by the host of
faro, it was a scheme of economics for
me to come here, rather than to be in
hired lodgings at Weymouth, or dear delightful
Brighton—But don’t blab for
your life.—I do assure you that I felt
quite charmed to find that you were in
the vicinity, and mean to be vastly intimate
with Mrs. Fairfield. I feel a very
great predilection for her already.—Upon
my honour she is not near so dark as I
expected to find her, and for one of that
sort of people, she is really very well
looking!”

L6r 227

“She is one of that sort of people
whose mind is revealed in the countenance,”
said Augustus, warmly, “—and
hers is the seat of every virtue!”

I wonder I did not get up to clasp his
hand in mind; and you will wonder, Mrs.
Milbanke, how I could overhear this
conversation, without standing confessed
a curious listener: but, in fact, I appeared,
at this time, to be attending to a
most florid description which Miss Singleton
was giving of the plumage of a fine
bird of Paradise, which had been entirely
spoilt by her feather-man, to whom she
had sent it to be dressed.

During the whole of the day, I had
observed that the elderly gentleman,
whom I have previously mentioned, had L6v 228
been very little regarded by the major
part of the company, and that by the
master mistress of the mansion he
had been wholly overlooked; while Mr.
Ingot had amused himself with making
faces in derision at his back, and pointing
out the unfashionable cut his coat, and
his silver buckles, to any one who would
attend to him. A very interesting looking
young clergyman tried in vain, by
looks and mild persuasions, to deter him,
but finding that he was wholly unsuccessful,
he seemed to despair to give up
the point, and to redouble his own respectful
attentions to the old gentleman.
Curiosity impelled me to inquire of her
ladyship the names of these two gentlemen.

“Do you mean that antiquity?” asked L7r 229
she; “a relative of Sir Marmaduke’s, I believe.
His benevolence leads him to make
the Pagoda almost a public receptacle.
But as to collateral and genealogical
descent, my dear Mrs. Fairfield, you will
credit me that I never trouble myself
about it; he may or may not be related:
but I think his head is truly Grecian,
and if it had the genuine rust, it would
be invaluable. As it is, I like very well
to see it at the table; it is of a good cast,
a classical subject certainly.”

“I bespeaks goodness as much as any
countenance I ever saw,” said I.

“I suspect you are a physiognomist,”
said her ladyship; “I confess that I am
no Lavaterian: my notions on the point
of face-reading are deduced from the L7v 230
genuine Roman and Grecian antiques (of
which I have some curious specimens in
my cabinet of medals). As to the sublime
and beautiful, and as to the grotesque
and singular, I look at those for
subjects of entertainment and laughter in
this study!”

“But there is a countenance,” said I,
“which, having neither a Roman nor Grecian,
grotesque nor singular cast, is yet so
interesting a one; that I cannot help
asking your ladyship his name also?”

“His name!” repeated she, turning
up her lips rather contemptuously, “he
is a poor student of Salamanca, or, to
speak in a more common-place manner,
he is an Oxford scholar, of the name of
Waller, who is here in the capacity of
tutor to Mr. Ingot; though, Heaven L8r 231
knows what he teaches him, for I cannot
find out that Frederic is improved by his
instructions. His manners I fashion myself
Mrs. Fairfield—that essential part of
education, I told Sir Marmaduke, I must
have the sole management of. I have
read in some obsolete author ‘Train up a
child in the way he should go;’—now I
could never bear to see the heir of Sir
Marmaduke Ingot, stiffened and braced,
to look as if he had been pulled out at a
wire-drawer’s. Ease and elegance are, in
my opinion, terms nearly synonymous;
hence I have made a point of letting
him lounge, and loll, and curvet, in every
interesting and careless attitude, from his
cradle to the present period. Observe
my Frederic as he now lies serpentining
on the carpet, Mrs. Fairfield—his form is
symmetry itself—no ungraceful curve, no L8v 232
angular asperities of attitude—there reclines
the true harmony of proportion!”

At that moment the young gentleman
threw out one polished limb (commonly
called a leg), as the old gentleman was
coming near the part of the room where
he lay; I saw the movement, and by an
involuntary impulse sprang forwards, and,
catching him by the arm, prevented him
from falling.

“You are very good, madam,” said he,
“thus to prop an old man, from the mischievous
tricks of an urchin.”

Mr. Waller (the tutor) took the hand
of Mr. Ingot, “Pray rise, sir,” said he; “I
am ashamed to see that you tried to
throw your uncle on the carpet, and that L9r 233
you suffered a lady to assist him, while
you continued in this lazy and disgraceful
posture!”

“Uncle, indeed!” repeated he; “how
often must you be told that her ladyship
cannot bear that word, Waller? I assure
you, sir, she will tell you it is the quintessence
of vulgarity to use any of those
appellations in good company!”

“I am not to be intimidated from
speaking my sentiments, sir,” said Mr.
Waller; “and if the age and character
of that venerable gentleman is no check
on your impertinent behaviour towards
him, I was in hopes that his relative
claim might compel you to adopt a more
decent mode of conduct!”

L9v 234

Mr. Ingot made a polite bow, smiled
in Mr. Waller’s face and then reeled off
to her ladyship, practising the last new
step; with great action he continued to
whisper into her ear: she reddened and
looked angrily towards poor Waller, who
did not notice her I fancy; and the hopeful
heir of the Ingots then fell back on
the sofa, and amused himself with playing
with the brilliant pendant which
hung at her ladyship’s ear. Mr. Bellfield
(for so is the old gentleman called),
turning towards me, said—

“You have here, madam, a pretty fair
sample of an only child!—Poor fellow! I
pity him—but I doubly pity his misguided
parents—what a store of unhappiness
are they not laying up for themselves?”

L10r 235

“I had nothing to urge in extenuation
of so much folly, ostentation, and self-
conceit, as the Ingots had displayed, but
I contrived to change the subject, and
found Mr. Bellfield a very sensible and
entertaining old man, somewhat cynical
in his opinions, and quaint in his expressions;
his manners are not modelled
from the present times, but they take
their tone from his principles, which are
fixed and firm, and can stand against
any modern innovations and refinements.”

You will think I never mean to throw
my pen aside. I must for the present wave
the introduction of any new characters,
to talk of myself, and of my dearer self,
my husband Augustus returned home
dispirited and abstracted; I avoided inquiries;
for, alas! I knew that Miss Danby L10v 236
had recalled those thoughts which oppressed
him. Unsuspicious of my being
acquainted with this, he yet felt it necessary
to account for his alteration of manner,
and complained of a head-ache. In
my turn I dissembled, and feigned sleep,
when the heart-piercing sighs of my husband
kept me waking at his side, during
the greater part of the night; my tears
flowed in silence: and thus was I an unknown
participator in his sorrows. Oh,
Mrs. Milbanke, how happy, how blest
would be the lot of your Olivia, if her
Augustus would be repose his cares in
her faithful bosom! I would console him,
I would listen to him while he talks of
her whom he has lost for ever! I would
throw off the weakness of my sex, I
would patiently listen to his animated
description of her beauties and her virtues, L11r 237
and I would daily strive to be more
like the other object of his sorrowing heart!
but while he retains to himself this secret
suffering, while he denies me the blessed
privilege of sharing and soothing his
sorrows, I feel that I am not half his
wife—I am the partner of his bed—but
not of his heart! There is so much to
admire in the character of my Augustus,
every day discovers so much amiability,
such benevolence, such commiseration
for the sufferings of others, that my regard
increases with every added hour; and
his dead, his lamented Angelina, could
not, I am sure, have loved him with a
more fervent affection.
Adieu, dearest
madam, I am always your own affectionate
child—your own

L11v 238

In Continuation.

When we returned from church this
morning, I found Miss Danby seated with
her netting, and seeming to be very busily
engaged at it, as if she had quite forgotten
that six days of the week were
sufficient to employ so frivolously, without
trespassing on a sacred commandment.
—Lady Ingot was playing at Colonella
with Mr. Ingot, who languidly
caught the shuttlecock as he reclined on
a sofa, letting his mother stoop for it
when he missed, which happened more
than nine times out of ten. I started at
seeing the party assembled in the breakfast
room, and more, at seeing how they
were severally engaged—for Augustus L12r 239
and myself had walked to church, which
is not above a quarter of a mile distant,
and had entered the house by a private
door.—

“And where, in God’s name, have you
been these two hours?” asked Lady
Ingot. “We found the mansion depopulated,
we walked in at the hall door,
made our way here, and have been unmolested
by any human being!” “‘Not a male in the house, Not as much as a mouse?’”
said Miss Danby.

“That is pretty true, I believe,” said
Augustus. “My Olivia is not contented
with being good herself, she makes
others so likewise, and all our male
servants go to church on a Sunday: L12v 240
we leave one female at home, to see
that the house is not run away with,—if
some of our good neighbours (smiling) do
not perform that kind office for us!”

“To church! and have you, in reality,
been at church?” asked Lady Ingot: “I
had forgotten that it was Sunday!”

“If Mr. Bellfield and Waller had not
reminded you of it, mamma, by coming
in their very best suits to breakfast—don’t
you recollect”—said Mr. Ingot,—“I am
sure the old gentleman’s square-toe’d
shoes were polished as highly as his silver
buckles; and I believe the well powdered
locks of Waller did not escape the ken
of Miss Danby, for I watched her eyeing
him most intently during the déjeûné”

“What spirits you are in mon cher M1r 241
Frederic!” said Lady Ingot; “you will
exhaust yourself.”

“His spirits run away with him,” said
Miss Danby; “the idea of my eyeing
Waller is ridiculous enough to be sure!”

“Nay, if you come to that, I have been
eyeing him in church,” said I, “and am
not ashamed to confess it; there is something
vastly prepossessing in the countenance
of that young man; and his attention
to the respectable Mr. Bellfield,
and their mutual devotion, is a very pleasing
sight. Piety, true fervid piety, is a
delightful contemplation!”

Lady Ingot writhed herself into a new
Circassian attitude, and, putting as much Vol. I. M M1v 242
softness as she could into her voice,
said,—

“Pray, were you not very cold? I never
set my foot in that church but once, and
then I was absolutely starved to death.
I told Sir Marmaduke it was hazarding
the very existence of our tender one there”
(looking at her son), “if he ever let him
enter it, unless he could portion use, and
have it well stuffed and carpeted, and a
chimney built, and a good register stove
put in; but it seems there are great difficulties
in the way to all improvements
in country parishes:—what with their
rectors, parsons, their graziers and yeomanry,
who talk of ‘my pew,’ and ‘mine,’
with as much tenacity, as if one wanted M2r 243
to deprive them of any thing worth retaining.
Sir Marmaduke has had so
many things of consequence to attend to
since we came to the Pagoda, that he
has not had leisure to settle a plan for a
little sequestration (as I term it), for his
family’s accommodation at church; and
for my own part, I do not much trouble
about it. My own religion, is the religion
of nature! I can put up my aspirations,
while walking in the fields or driving
on the road, just as devoutly as if I
was kneeling on the moist and humid
pavement of some time-worn, superstitious
structure, and catching a sudden death at
the very moment I was praying to be delivered
from it,—for nothing short of a
miracle could preserve me!”

M2v 244

“The breaths of the greasy farmers is
what I chiefly dread in these mixed meetings,”
said Miss Danby.

“But you used not to dread the infinitely
more contagious atmosphere of a
crowded assembly and rout,” said Augustus.

Miss Danby coloured through her
rouge at this well-timed rebuke, and in
some haste began to unscrew her netting
machine from the table.

“And what may you call this?” asked
Augustus playfully.

“Now you know very well, Mr. Fairfield,
that it is a vice.”

M3r 245

“Oh, I don’t approve the name at
all,—never bring it here again on a Sunday,
I entreat you, Miss Danby. These
vicious pursuits must not be introduced
into a quiet and pastoral country.”

“I do verily believe that you are become
a methodist,” said Miss Danby;
“you are so sarcastic too in your manner,
that I shall begin to be afraid of you,—
and shall begin to hate you almost as
bad as my friend, poor Mrs. George,
does!”

“Oh, do not say so,” said Fairfield;
“let me not live to be the object of your
hatred, fair Almenia!”

In Continuation.

I do not know why I have dwelt on
the Ingots, except that, as they are to
me a new species of animal, I feel my
own curiosity, as well as pity, excited in
analyzing them, and imagine that you
will feel similar emotions. But to-day
we will turn to a nobler and a more delightful
inspection. The rectory would
be frequently haunted by Mrs. Milbanke
were she with her Olivia; (oh,
that were!) Mr. Lumley is just the
clergyman which my heart depicted
him. I fancy he has known great trials
and struggles in bustling through life, and M4r 247
endeavouring to bring up a large family
in respectability;—and a conscientious
clergyman is, of all characters, the one
which is least calculated to do this; for
as much as may be, he wishes to disengage
his mind from all secular pursuits
(“we cannot serve God and mammon”),
yet this wholly impossible, where few
friends, and a scanty income, are the
only reward for a life spent in the most
noble of all causes. Mr. Lumley’s long
residence, and zealous administration of
the duties of his office, as curate of this
large and scattered parish, at length
moved the heart of a man of some consequence
in this neighbourhood, into whose
patronage the living fell on the death of
a rector, to whom Mr. Lumley had been,
(during a long period of twenty years) M4v 248
curate;—and who had never entered his
parish, except to give his flock an annual
shearing and sermon!

The living was presented to Mr. Lumley,
who was truly worthy to be so preferred,
which is deducible from the general
satisfaction exhibited by his parishoners.
Easy in his circumstances, with
the means of forwarding his family in the
world, the good man seems to be completely
happy. You would admire this
whole family, Mrs. Milbanke; the father,
sensible, cheerful in conversation, eloquent
in the cause nearest his heart, and
making it the rule of his life;—the mother,
unaffected and warm-hearted, ready
to apply the balm of consolation, and the
drop of sympathy, to every mourner within M5r 249
her reach;—the girls, frank, openhearted,
and innocent;—the boys, hanging
on their father’s words for instruction,
and catching his sentiments to give the
tone to their own!

Caroline Lumley is a sweet girl of seventeen,
her beauty does not consist so
much in feature, as expression: there is
a native simplicity in her manner, which
I have never seen equalled—and I am
much mistaken in the eyes of Waller have
not told a tale, which hers have understood.
I have asked her assistance in
forwarding a little plan for establishing a
School of Industry in the village; this
brings her more frequently to me, than I
should otherwise,—her fear of intrusion
withholding her from coming unbidden. M5 M5v 250
She has frequently been my companion
in my morning’s ramble; and she is so
sweetly grateful for my notice, that your
Olivia could almost fancy herself a superior,
instead of an inferior being, notwithstanding
her colour! But, thank
God, I am loved—not feared by this
child of nature,—my behaviour surprises
and charms her, as being contrasted with
the foolish hauteur of other strangers who
have settled here, particularly the Ingots.
Mrs. Lumley called on Lady Ingot,
on her first coming to the Pagoda,—
Sir Marmaduke returned it; and in an
affectedly affable manner, which proved
his mushroom pride and self-sufficiency,
he invited Mr. Lumley to dine with him,
excusing himself from including the females
of the family, by saying,—

M6r 251

“Lady Ingot had a great many claims
upon her in society. She was a highly-bred
woman; it was necessary to draw the
line of separation somewhere. She was
sorry to refuse the pleasure of receiving
Mrs. Lumley at the Pagoda; but if she
did, Mrs. Notary and Mrs. Bolus might
expect the same honour to be extended
to them likewise:—thus the very canaille
would be included in her ladyship’s
lists of visitants, and her life would
be subject to an eternal impost, from the
levies of an inferior scale of beings!”

Mrs. Lumley has nothing of sarcasm
in her manner, but she laughingly repeated
this speech, saying,—“Verbatim,
as it came from the courtly Sir Marmaduke;
believe me, Mrs. Fairfield, though M6v 252
we all suspect that it was the florid composition
of her ladyship, for it came off
in rather too studied a manner to be extempore.
I courtesied, and was not much
mortified at coming below the prescribed
standard: and the good man there, in
his own placid tone, thanked the knight
for the honour of his invitation,—but
said, he was well aware that the hours
and the society at the Pagoda would
ill coalesce with his humdrum mode
of life and obsolete ideas, and therefore
desired to be excused likewise!—This
refusal on his part seemed to be vastly
well taken, and Sir Marmaduke is
on the best of all possible terms with
us. He always bows and smiles, inquires
cordially after my health, asks
after my little family, then how many M7r 253
children I have, and the age of the
youngest, when he meets me;—passes the
children one day, and makes an apology
for forgetting them on the next; and when
he, mounted on his dashy phaeton, meets
me trudging along the lanes, he invariably
stops to express his fear of my
getting an illness by encountering so
much dirt.”

In Continuation.

The amiable simplicity and good-humoured
frankness of the Lumleys, are
well contrasted by the assuming pride
and false consequence of the Ingots, in
the little trait which I gave you yesterday.
—Ah, my dear Mrs. Milbanke! if
the little great would but behold themselves
as they are viewed by those from
whom they have departed under covert
of Sir Marmaduke’s “separating line,”
they would surely learn to despise themselves;
but those beings who court popularity
are beset with a train of parasites,
of Danbys and of Singletons, who
flatter, who compliment, and who laugh
at them in a breath!

M8r 255

Even Augustus, even your Olivia,
who prides herself on her ingenuousness
of character, even we are silent; and if
we would keep on a neighbourly footing
at the Pagoda, we must not always express
our real sentiments. And yet we
purposely left the crowded haunts of the
city, to escape from all the ceremonials
of fashion, and the tax which the arbitrary
customs of the world has imposed
so heavily upon reason and common
sense. Yet they have followed us into
retirement, and, unless we would really
turn hermits, and entirely seclude ourselves
from society, we must be content
to pay the common levy;—for, to form a
truly unvitiated and primeval neighbourhood
of undisturbed truth, simplicity, and
innocence, we must revert to the golden
age, and to the rapt reveries of enthusiastic M8v 256
poets. Happy is it, when, with no
overstrained fastidiousness, we can consent
to take the world as we find it, when
we endeavour to mend where it lies in our
power, and firmly resolve not to make it
worse by our own example. If I was to
brace myself upon me to correct the follies
which I observe at the Pagoda, I
should most assuredly draw down a
great deal of odium on myself, and, to the
other failings of her ladyship, add those
of rancour and malice to her nearest
neighbours.

We have heard nothing of Honeywood,
or to what spot he has bent his
course, in pursuit of consolation. I fear
he thinks himself forgotten by your Olivia.
Yet, surely, he could not have appreciated M9r 257
her character so unjustly; rather
should I suspect that he fears to obtrude
on my happiness, with his grief!
Yet that Power who has bestowed on me
a happiness, for which I cannot be sufficiently
grateful, has also taught me to
“feel another’s woe.”

Adieu, my dearest friend! My heart
always turns to you with a sentiment of
reverential affection, which I feel but
cannot express.

M9v 258

In Continuation.

In the plenitude of happiness, we sometimes
grow childishly fastidious, and are
easily put out of humour. I feel ashamed
to own, that this has just been my own
case: but all my weaknesses shall be confessed
to my beloved Mrs. Milbanke.

I have received a letter from Mrs.
Merton; she is coming to pay me a
visit. You know, my dear friend, that I
do not love her. I confess, that I felt a
pain at my heart, wholly unaccountable
even to myself, as I read the intelligence.
It seemed as if she were coming to disturb
my halcyon felicity; it seemed,—I
know not what. But you may suppose M10r 259
that I do not exaggerate my feelings
when I tell you, that Augustus observing
me, said, in a voice of affectionate inquiry,
—

“No ill news, my love, I trust!”

This brought me to some sense of my
weakness, to call it by no harsher name.
I had nothing to allege in my excuse.
Indeed, I had not words to answer him,
so I put the letter into his hands.—In his
turn, Augustus seemed to receive a damp
from the promised visit.

“Do as you like, my Olivia,” said he,
returning me the letter.

“We shall see Mrs. Merton, of course,” M10v 260
said I: “you know we have no engagements.”

“It is, of course,” said he, “for you
to forget that she invariably made you
the object of her affront and insult. But
your unparalleled sweetness and forbearance
is what I must ever remember!”

“Oh, I am so vulnerable to praise
from you,” said I, “that I must receive
Mrs. Merton’s visit; for even were I sure
of experiencing similar treatment from
her, I should now be doubly supported
from the proud consciousness of your
esteem!”

“No, my generous girl,” said he, “her
rudeness must never be repeated! I have M11r 261
not a husband’s claim, and I will see that
none injures my wife with impunity!—
Yet hear me, whilst I conjure you, that
from no false pride and punctilious delicacy
towards me, you receive the visit
of my bother’s wife! God knows, that
I have no relative—no affection for her of
any kind. She has been my—Do not put
a tax of your own feelings, to avoid
wounding mine, my Olivia,” said he, recollecting
myself after pausing abruptly,
and heaving a bitter sigh;—“for I protest,
that was she not the wife of my brother,
I would never behold her more!”

“But as your brother’s wife,” said I,
smiling.

“My Olivia will always have it
her own way, and that way is always M11v 262
right,” said he. “You must extend the
invitation to my nephew, your little favourite?”

“Most assuredly I will!”

And so ended this conversation; though
I freely confess, that a gloom comes over
my mind, which I cannot get rid of,
when I think of entertaining Mrs. Merton
as my guest. I do not fear her, Mrs.
Milbanke; she cannot have power to
harm me, blest as I am with my husband’s
protecting love. I do not hate her; for
I trust I have attained the rule of Christian
forbearance, which teaches us to
“pray for those who despitefully use
us.” But I shall feel awkward and constrained,
while performing the rites of
hospitality, and apparently extending M12r 263
the hand of friendship, where I cannot
respect or esteem.

Dido is as much out of sorts as her
mistress; she does not like the idea of the
tonish (or rather townish) Abigail, and
the monkey footman, who treated her
with so much sang froid, at Clifton
and in London. “But here,” she says,
“thanks to my good lady,—Dido be
Missee below stairs, and treated by all as
if me was as good as another, for all me
by poor negro wench!”

Ah, my good Dido, perhaps both your
“good lady,” and yourself, may find the
difference of entertaining, and being entertained!
Yet Dido is determined that
nothing shall be wanting on her part, towards
receiving our guest stylishly; and M12v 264
she has been in a prodigious bustle ever
since I made her acquainted with the
contents of my letter.

Augustus bids me make up my packet
for Jamaica, as he can get it conveyed
to Bristol by a gentleman now setting
out.

May every earthly blessing attend
you, my ever dear friend!—so will always
pray your affectionate

Scarcely do I send off one packet ere
I begin another, so great is my satisfaction
in addressing myself to dear Mrs.
Milbanke, and so well am I acquainted
with the fond reception which she will
always give to them. I believe I have
never told you, that at the entrance of
the park there is a neat little cottage,
which is nearly concealed by the venerable
elms which are planted in order to Vol. II. B 2B1v 2
mark the direct approach to the house,
and are continued in a fine avenue, quite
in the old style (although the place be
rather unjustly termed New Park).
There is something formal in this straight
lined road, to be sure, be venerable in
their formality. I am inclined to behold
them with as partial an eye as Mr. Seagrove
(the gentleman of whom we rent
the place), and I would not willingly lop
a branch, or disturb a rock’s nest. I like
to walk under the shade of those trees
which were planted by the hands of
those who have long lain in the dust.
My mind is tinged by melancholy, but
it is not of an unpleasing cast. I am
carried back to a remote age—I unconsciously
look up to those majestic trees,
which form a canopy to screen me from
the fervid sun, to inquire into the manners 2B2r 3
and the history of “times long ago.”
The wind, whistling through their
branches, seems to waft me the answer
in a long-drawn sigh. I echo it responsively,
and my reflections end with
supposing, that the human mind, always
the same in its feelings and emotions,
its pleasures, its pains, its virtues and its
vices, life, in every æra of existence, had
nearly the same proportion of weal or
woe!—So you find, that my solitary meditations,
like those of other illuminators,
end just where they began.—But I have
widely strayed from the subject with
which I began; namely, the little cottage.
It has been shut up till last week:
its present tenant is an entire stranger.
We like to know something of a person
before we form an acquaintance; and
yet I think it would appear very fastidious 2B2v 4
and narrow-minded in me, if I was
not to visit so near a neighbour—a female
too!

“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

The inhabitant of that modest tenement
may have a million times more innate
worth that the titled she of a certain
collonaded Pagoda. Fairfield chimes
with me in thinking it would be illiberal
not to notice this stranger; yet says,

“Stay a little, my Olivia; let not
the generous fervour of your feelings
carry you too swiftly along; hear Mrs.
Lumley’s account: she, as the clergyman’s
wife, will most assuredly”―

“Now,” said I, interrupting him, and 2B3r 5
laughing, “you must forgive me, for
reminding you of the fable of the cat
and the bell.”

“I acknowledge the propriety of the
application,” said he, bowing.

In Continuation.

I was this morning walking in the
park with Caroline Lumley, when we
perceived four persons approaching towards
us—two either sex—each lady
supported by a beau. We soon discovered
them, as they came nearer, for
Miss Singleton, leaning on the arm of
young Ingot; Miss Danby on that of 2B3v 6
Waller. The quick retreating colour of
my companion announced the latter pair
to me, previous to my own observation.

“Oh, what a morning of Ossian!”
said Miss Singleton, throwing out her
hands with an air truly theatrical, and
making a truly Arcadian appearance, in
a gipsy hat, tied with a pink handkerchief,
and ornamented by a wreath of
half-blown roses, a mantle of the same
coloured sarsnet, hung over her left
shoulder, while her short and thin drapery
discovered her laced stockings and
delicate pink kid slipper. Miss Danby,
in rather a rougher and more assured
manner than the languishing shepherdess,
declared the day was charmingly fine,
but that there was a softness and stillness 2B4r 7
in the air, which would wholly have incapacitated
her from walking with Miss
Singleton without assistance.—

“So I have absolutely puled this
book-worm from his desk,” said she, “to
make him my walking-stick! Hav’n’t I,
Waller?”

“Make me any thing you please,”
said he, with a bow, not ungallant.

“’Pon my honour that’s not so bad,”
said Miss Danby; “I shall make something
of you yet, I believe—He’ll do yet,
Mrs. Fairfield, when I can cure him of
‘Ma’am,’ and blushing at every word,”
for the eyes of Waller had met those of
Caroline, and the colour rose in his 2B4v 8
cheeks at the moment when it forsook
hers.

“A stick!—Waller, a stick! that’s a
monstrous good one, Miss Danby—I am
sure I shall make mamma laugh at that
—I am sure her ladyship will enjoy the
new use to which you have put my
tutor, Miss Danby.”

“Talking of her ladyship,” said I, for
I had scarcely patience to listen to the
impertinence of this young puppy, “I
am reminded to express my surprise at
seeing that she has given you leave to
walk out, Mr. Ingot, this melting day.”

“He is, indeed, composed of the most
melting materials!” said Miss Singleton, 2B5r 9
looking at him with eyes of admiration.

“Perhaps you fear that he may dissolve,”
said Miss Danby. “Pray, Miss
Singleton, don’t let your blooming Adonis
slip through your fingers!”

“Lady Ingot is not afraid of the heat,
’tis the cold she dreads for me,” said Ingot,
lisping out every word; “and most
of all, a thaw—her ladyship calls a thaw
the check to every genial emotion, and
to all animal circulation!”

“Oh, ’tis a most terrible feel—pray
don’t talk of it!” said Miss Singleton,
affectedly shivering.

“Pray, Mrs. Fairfield, have you yet B5 2B5v 10
seen your new neighbour, the fair incognita,
at the cottage?” asked Miss Danby.

“No, I have not,” said I. “Is she,
then, fair?”

“That remains to be proved,” answered
Miss Singleton; “but the colonel, who
has a truly quixotic spirit, where a female
(and, moreover, a young, and, as
it appears in this case, a concealed female)
is engaged, swears by his gallantry,
that he will get a peep at her, and then
we shall have his opinion; for I assure
you, the colonel is allowed to be some
judge of beauty!”

“A gallant, gay Lothario!” said Ingot;
“is he not, Miss Singleton?”

2B6r 11

“Why, to be sure he is gay,” said
Miss Singleton. “But what can be said,
when a man is in the zenith of life, spirits,
gaiety, and fortune, and every female
heart falling before him? I talk to him a
little seriously now and then, when I can
find time, but he is so charmingly insinuating,
and such an agreeable devil, that
I’m sure if he had not been my brother,
I must have been one of his victims!”

“Not his victim,” returned Miss Danby;
“you must, you would have been
the selected she; for I think I never saw
two persons more alike than yourself and
the colonel, both in manner, sentiment,
person, and conversation.”

“Now, don’t flatter me,” said Miss 2B6v 12
Singleton, “though I must own we have
frequently been found out for brother
and sister. By this time, you are tired of
antiquated folly, dearest Mrs. Milbanke;
believe me, I was heartily so before we
got to the end of our walk, and I could
see that Caroline Lumley felt awkwardly
constrained before these high-flown
belles, who noticed her not quite as
much as they would have done a dog
which they had met with me. When
the quartetto were fairly gone, and we
were seated quietly at our work, Caroline
said,—”

“I think, ma’am, Miss Danby has
something very bold in her look and manner
—do you not agree with me? She
may be a very well-bred lady, for I am 2B7r 13
not acquainted with many of those—
but she is not at all like you in her manners.”

“She has seen a great deal more of the
world that I have, Caroline,” said I;
“and is much admired in its circles, I
make no doubt.”

“But do you admire her, ma’am?”

“that is not the question,” said I.
“Does Mr. Waller admire her?”

I said this with meaning—the crimson
tide covered the neck of Caroline—
her face was bent over her work; but she
answered with a vehemence, which rendered
her almost breathless,—

2B7v 14

“No; I am sure he does not!”

“And I am sure of it too,” said I.
“Waller has a better taste—the meretricious
allurements of folly cannot draw
him aside from the contemplation of virtuous
simplicity!—Waller loves you, Caroline.”

“Oh, madam!” and she covered her
face with both her hands.

“Be not ashamed, my love, at having
raised a virtuous passion in the bosom of
virtue—I speak not from motives of idle
or unfeeling curiosity, but from a real
wish of assisting you—deal ingenuously,
then, with me, sweet girl, and tell me if
my conjectures are not right?”

2B8r 15

“They are, madam. Why should I
conceal any thing from you? Why, indeed,
when my parents are both acquainted
with, and approve, the mutual
passion which subsists between Waller
and myself? Mr. Waller came down
here a stranger, as tutor to Mr. Ingot;
there was little chance of our getting
acquainted with him, as the nabob’s family
were placed at a height so far above
us, that we neither wished an intercourse
with it, nor would have been allowed if it
we had; but Mr. Waller’s constant and
zealous attendance at church—his respectful
attention to Mr. Bellfield, the
uncle of Sir Marmaduke (a worthy old
gentleman, whose story reached my
father’s ear)—these circumstances first
conciliated in us an interest for Mr. Waller;
—and then, when my father had a 2B8v 16
long and severe fit of sickness, he stepped
forwards, volunteered his services, and
officiated as minister of this parish nearly
three months—no persuasions of my
father could induce him to accept any
pecuniary reward!”

“But he had his rich reward in your
love, Caroline?”

“Ah, madam,” said she, “I felt that
I could not withhold it from him—My
good parents soon perceived our mutual
partiality—they sought not to restrain it
—but they saw the imprudence of our
thinking of any thing further, till better
prospects should open to Waller.”

“Has he expectations, then?” asked
I.

2B9r 17

“Alas! madam, I hardly know what
to call them. A dependence on the word
of Sir Marmaduke Ingot is, I sometimes
fear, the slightest of all probabilities.
He is, you must see, a man who ever
pays court to the ‘rising sun;’ who would
help to lift those who are already exalted,
if, in any way, they could conduce to
his own exaltation, but who would be
more likely to crush than to succour the
fallen.”

“I fear that you have drawn too just a
picture of a selfish man, Caroline.”

“Waller submits to the drudgery that
is imposed on him at the Pagoda (and
papa often compares him to Jacob serving
for Rachel), because he does not like
to leave this neighbourhood; but there is 2B9v 18
no chance of his pupil’s improvement,
and this is of itself sufficient to depress
the spirits and the exertions of a young
man of talent and genius. He feels that
the instructor can never derive any credit
from the instructed; and though he does
all in his power to give Mr. Ingot’s mind
a right turn, and to form it to laudable
pursuits, and to plant into it just notions,
yet his labours are daily subverted by the
false and ridiculous theories and systems
of his refined mother, and the overweening
and worldly maxims of Sir Marmaduke.
Mr. Ingot is any thing but a
classical scholar; and, as to study, I
have frequently heard Waller say, that
it is impossible to fix his attention to
any one subject for half an hour together;
and when he has complained, at
his first coming to the Pagoda, of the 2B10r 19
inattention of his pupil, her ladyship
said,— ‘That learning was never to be thrummed
into the head of any one; that true
genius caught it at intervals, when the
glow of enthusiasm stimulated the breast;
that she was a decided enemy to all innovations
on the liberty of the human
mind; that measuring out the classics by
the hour and the rule, might do in a
large school, where there was just ten
minutes for the teacher to appropriate to
each boy; but that, where the exclusive
attention was to be directed to one, it
was the duty of the tutor to watch for
the auspicious moment—to follow the
youthful mind in all its variations—to
watch it with never-ceasing vigilance,
and eagerly snatch the golden opportunity, 2B10v 20
when it panted for information and
instruction!’”

“The golden opportunity has never arrived,
and Waller, in following his pupil
in all his whimsical and childish vagaries,
frequently compares himself to the
butterfly-hunter.”

“But Sir Marmaduke, surely, he
must be a very weak man, to suffer his
son to go on in such a manner!”

“But Sir Marmaduke has not had the advantages
of a liberal education himself,”
said Caroline, “but he does not find that
he is received the worse on this account;
since he has made his fortune, and assured
that his son will inherit these advantages,
he is very easy on the subject of 2B11r 21
his mental improvement, although he
would fain have it believed, that he is of
a very studious turn himself, and is fond
of talking of his ‘literary avocations,’
though his studies never extend further
than the newspapers, the army lists, the
court calendar, and the acts of parliament
concerning highways and turnpikes;
—but I must put a check on my
tongue,” said she, “Waller would not
be well pleased to hear my revealing ‘the
secrets of (his) prison house!’”

“I don’t think he could be displeased,”
said I, “with the artless picture which
you have drawn of his disagreeable situation.
But such, I fear, are frequently
the trials which genius, talent, and virtue
have to undergo, in a world where the 2B11v 22
trials are always proportioned to the
strength!”

I cannot say how much I admire this
ingenuous girl, or how deeply I am interested
in the loves of this youthful pair.
For the present, adieu!