abilities are not always to be trusted. They don't strike till they are sure.

He has no art, madam. He is above art. He wants it not. He is beloved wherever he goes. He is equally noted for his prudence and freedom of heart. He is above art, repeated she, with warmth.

I own, that he deserves everything from your family. I don't wonder that he is caressed by you all but it is amazing to me, that, in contradiction to all the prudent maxims and cautions of your country, such a young gentleman should have been admitted-I stopped.

Why, now, you don't imagine, that I-that I-She stopped, and hesitated.

A prudent woman would not put it in any man's power to give her a prejudice to persons of unexceptionable honour; and to manage

Nay, madam, now has somebody prejudiced you against your countryman-He is the most disinterested of men.

I have heard young ladies, when he was here, speak of him as a handsome man.

A handsome man! And is not Mr Grandison a handsome man? Where will you see a man so handsome?

And do you think he is so very extraordinary a man, as to sense, as I have heard him reported to be? I was twice in his company-I thought, indeed, he looked upon himself as a man of consequence.

Nay, madam, don't say he is not a modest man. It is true, he knows when to speak, and when to be silent: but he is not a confident man; nor is he, in the least, conceited.

Was there so much bravery in his relieving your brother, as some people attribute to him in that happy event? Two servants and himself well armed; the chance of passengers on the same road: the assassins that appeared but two; their own guilt to encounter with

Dear, dear Mrs Beaumont, with what prejudiced people have you conversed? The Scripture says, A prophet has no honour in his own country; but Mr Grandison has not much from his own countrywoman.

Well, but did Mr Grandison ever speak to you of any one man, as a man worthy of your favour?

Did he?-Yes, of the Count of Belvedere. He was more earnest in his favour thanReally?

Yes, really-than I thought he ought to be. Why so?

Why so!-Why, because-because-Why, what was it to him-you know?

I suppose he was put upon it-
I believe so.

Or he would not

I believe, if the truth were known, you, Mrs Beaumont, hate Mr Grandison. You are the

only person that I ever in my life heard speak of him, even with indifference.

Tell me, my dear Clementina, what are your sincere thoughts of Mr Grandison, person and mind?

You may gather them from what I have said.

That he is a handsome man; a generous, a prudent, a brave, a polite man.

Indeed I think him to be all you have said: and I am not singular.

But he is a Mahometan

A Mahometan! madam-Ah, Mrs Beaumont!

And ah, my dear Clementina !—And do you think I have not found you out?-Had you never known Mr Grandison, you would not have scrupled to have been Countess of Belvedere.

And can you think, madam

Yes, yes, my dear young lady, I can.

My good Mrs Beaumont, you don't know what I was going to say.

Be sincere, my dear young lady. Cannot a lover, talking to a second person, be sincere?

What, madam, a man of another religion! A man obstinate in his errors! A man who has never professed love to me! A man of inferior degree! A man who owns himself absolutely dependent upon his father's bounty!

His father living to the height of his estate! Forbid it pride, dignity of birth, duty, religion

Well, then, I may safely take up the praises of Mr Grandison. You have imputed to me, slight, injustice, prejudice against him: let me now shew you, that the prophet HAS honour with his countrywoman. Let me collect his character from the mouth of every man who has spoken of him in my hearing or knowledge-His country has not in this age sent abroad a private man who has done it more credit. He is a man of honour in every sense of the word. If moral rectitude, if practical religion, (your brother, the Barone, testifies this on his own experience,) were lost in the rest of the world, it would, without glare or ostentation, be found in him. He is courted by the best, the wisest, the most eminent men, wherever he goes; and he does good, without distinction of religion, sects, or nation: his own countrymen boast of him, and apply to him for credentials to the best and most considerable men, in their travels through more countries than one in France, particularly, he is as much respected as in Italy. He is descended from the best families in England, both by father and mother; and can be a senator of it, whenever he pleases. He is heir to a very considerable estate; and is, as I am informed, courted to ally with some of the greatest families in it. Were he not born to a fortune, he

would make one. You own him to be generous, brave, handsome.

O my dear, dear Mrs Beaumont! All this is too much, too much!-Yet all this I think him to be!-I can no longer resist you. I own, I own, that I have no heart but for Mr Grandison. And now, as I don't doubt but my friends set you to find out the love-sick girl, how shall I, who cannot disown a secret you have so fairly, and without condition, come at, ever look them in the face? Yet let them know (I will enable you to tell them) how all this came about, and how much I have struggled against a passion so evidently improper to be encouraged by a daughter of their house.

He was, in the first place, as well you know, the preserver of a beloved brother's life; and that brother afterwards owned, that, had he followed his friendly advice, he never would have fallen into the danger from which he rescued him.

My father and mother presented him to me, and bid me regard him as a fourth brother; and it was not immediately that I found out, that I could have but three brothers.

My brother's deliverer proved to be the most amiable and humane, and yet bravest, of men. All my friends caressed him. Neither family forms, nor national forms, were stood upon. He had free access to us all, as one of us.

My younger brother was continually hinting to me his wishes that I were his. Mr Grandison was above all other reward; and my brother considered me in a kind light, as able to reward him.

My confessor, by his fears and invectives, rather confirmed than lessened my esteem for a man whom I thought injured by them.

His own respectful and disinterested behaviour to me, contributed to my attachment. He always addressed me as his sister, when he put on the familiar friend, in the guise of a tutor ; I could not therefore arm against a man I had no reason to suspect.

But still I knew not the strength of my passion for him, till the Count of Belvedere was proposed to me with an earnestness that alarmed me: then I considered the Count as the interrupter of my hopes; and yet I could not give my friends the reason why I rejected him. How could I, when I had none to give but my prepossession in favour of another man? A prepossession entirely hidden in my own heart.

But still I thought I would sooner die, than be the wife of a man of a religion contrary to my own. I am a zealous Catholic myself; all my relations are zealous Catholics. How angry have I been at this obstinate heretic, as I have often called him; the first heretic, my dear Mrs Beaumont, (for once I did not love you,) that my soul detested not! For he is as tenacious a Protestant as ever came out of England. What had he to do in Italy? Why did he not stay at

home? Or why, if he must come abroad, did he stay so long among us; yet hold his obstinacy, as if in defiance of the people by whom he was so well received?

These were the reproaches that my heart in silence often cast upon him.

I was at first concerned only for his soul's sake; but afterwards, finding him essential to my earthly happiness, and yet resolving never to think of him if he became not a Catholic, I was earnest for his conversion for my own sake; hoping that my friends' indulgence to me would make my wishes practicable; for, on his part, I doubted not, if that point were got over, he would think an alliance with our family an honour to him.

But when I found him invincible on this article, I was resolved either to conquer my passion, or die. What did I not undergo in my endeavours to gain this victory over myself! My confessor hurt me, by terrors; my woman teazed me; my parents, and two elder brothers, and all my more distant relations, urged me to determine in favour of the Count of Belvedere. The Count was importunate; the chevalier was importunate in the Count's behalf-Good Heaven! What could I do?-I was hurried, as I may say; I had not time given me to weigh, ponder, recollect. How could I make my mother, how could I make any body, my confidant? My judgment was at war with my passion; and I hoped it would overcome. I struggled; yet every day the object appearing more worthy, the struggle was too hard for me. O that I had had a Mrs Beaumont to consult !-Well might melancholy seize me-Silent melancholy!

At last the chevalier was resolved to leave us. What pain, yet what pleasure, did this his resolution give me! Most sincerely I hoped, that his absence would restore my tranquillity.

What a secret triumph did I give myself, on my behaviour to him, before all my friends, on the parting evening! My whole deportment was uniform. I was cheerful, serene, happy in myself, and I made all my friends so. I wished him happy wherever he set his foot, and whatsoever he engaged in. I thanked him, with the rest of my friends, for the benefits we had received from him, and the pleasure he had given us, in the time he had bestowed upon us, and I wished that he might never want a friend so agreeable and entertaining as he had been to us all.

I was the more pleased with myself, as I was not under a necessity of putting on stiffness or reserve to hide a heart too much affected. I thought myself secure, and stood out forwarder than he seemed to hope for, and with more than my offered hand, at the moment of his departure. I thought I read in his eyes a concern, for the first time, that called for a pity which I imagined I myself wanted not. Yet I had a pang at parting-When the door shut out the

agreeable man, never again, thought I, to be opened to give him entrance! I sighed at the reflection; but who perceived it ?—I never could be insensible in a parting scene, with less agree able friends. It was the easier for me to attribute to the gentleness of my heart the instant sensibility. My father clasped me to his bosom; my mother embraced me, without mortifying me by saying for what; my brother the Bishop called me twenty fond names; all my friends complimented me, but only on my cheerfulness; and said, I was once more their own Clementina. I went to rest, pleased that I had so happily acquitted myself; and that possibly I contributed to the repose of dear friends, whose repose I had been the cause of disturbing.

But, alas! this conduct was too great for the poor Clementina to maintain; my soul was too high-set. You know the rest; and I am lost to the joys of this life; for I never, never, will be the wife of a man, if I might, who by his religion is an enemy to the faith I never wavered in; nor would ever change, were an earthly crown on the head of the man I love to be the reward; and a painful death, in the prime of my life, the contrary.

A flood of tears prevented farther speech. She hid her face in my bosom. She sighed-dear lady! How she sighed !

This, madam, is the account I have to give of what has passed between your beloved Clementina and me. Never was there a more noble struggle between duty and affection; though her heart was too tender, and, in short, the man's merits too dazzling, to allow it to be effectual. She is unwilling that I should send you the particulars: she shall be ashamed, she says, to look her father, her mother, in the face; and she dreads still more, if possible, her confessor's being made acquainted with the state of her heart, and the cause of her disorder. But I tell her, it is absolutely necessary for her mother to know everything that I know, in order to attempt a cure.

This cure, madam, I am afraid, will never be effected, but by giving her in marriage to the happy man. I must think him so, who will be entitled, by general consent, to so great a blessing.

You, madam, will act in this affair as you judge proper: but if you can at Bologna, at Urbino, and Naples, get over your family objections, you will perhaps find yourself obliged, such are the young lady's own scruples, on the score of religion, to take pains to persuade her to pursue her inclination, and accept Mr Grandison for a husband.

Be this as it may, I would humbly recommend a gentle and soothing treatment of her. She never knew yet what the contrary was; and were she to experience that contrary now, upon an occasion so very delicate, and in which her

judgment and her love are, as she hints, at variance, I verily think she would not be able to bear it.—That God direct you for the best, whom you and yours have always served with signal devotion!

I will only add, that since the secret, which had so long preyed upon her fine spirits, is revealed, she appears to be much more easy than before; but yet she dreads the reception she shall meet with on her return to Bologna. She begs of me, when that return shall be ordered, to accompany her, in order to enable her, as she says, to support her spirits. She is very desirous to enter into a nunnery. She says, she never can be the wife of any other man; and she thinks she ought not to be his, on whom her heart is fixed.

A word of comfort on paper, from your honoured hand, I know, madam, would do a great deal towards healing her wounded heart. I am, madam, with the greatest veneration and respect,

Your Ladyship's

Most faithful humble servant,
HORTENSIA BEAUMONT.

LET me add, my good Miss Byron, that the Marchioness sent an answer to this letter, expressing the highest obligation and gratitude to Mrs Beaumont; and enclosed a letter to her daughter, filled with tender and truly motherly consolation; inviting her back to Bologna out of hand, and her amiable friend with her; promising, in the name of her father and brothers, a most indulgent welcome; and assuring her, that everything should be done that could be done, to make her happy in her own way.

LETTER CVIII.

MISS BYRON TO MISS Selby.

Wednesday Night, March 29. I ENCLOSE, My Lucy, the Doctor's third packet. From its contents you will pity Sir Charles, as well as Clementina; and if you enter impartially into the situation of the family, and allow as much to their zeal for a religion they are satisfied with, as you will do for Sir Charles's steadiness in his, you will also pity them. They are all good; they are all considerate. A great deal is to be said for them; though much more for Sir Charles, who insisted not upon that change of religion in the lady, which they demanded from him.

How great does he appear in my eyes! A confessor, though not a martyr, one may call him, for his religion and country.-How deep was his distress! A mind so delicate as his, and wishing, for the sake of the sex, and the lady and

family, as he did, rather to be repulsed by them, than to be obliged himself to decline their intended favour.

You will admire the lady in her sweetly modest behaviour, on his first visit before her mother; but more, for the noble spirit she endeavoured to resume in her conversation with him in the garden.

but her natural modesty, heightened by a glow ing consciousness, that seemed to arise from the occasion, gave her advantages that her richest jewels could not have given her.

DR BARTLETT'S THIRD LETTER.

THE next thing you enjoin me in, madam, is, To give you the particulars of Mr Grandison's reception from the Marchioness and her Clementina, on his return to Bologna from Vienna, at the invitation of Signor Jeronymo.

MR GRANDISON was received at his arrival with great tokens of esteem and friendship, by the Marquis himself, and by the Bishop.

Signor Jeronymo, who still kept his chamber, the introducer being withdrawn, embraced him; and now, said he, is the affair, that I have had so long in view, determined upon. O chevalier! you will be a happy man. Clementina will be yours; you will be Clementina's; and now, indeed, do I embrace my brother-But I detain you not; go to the happy girl; she is with her mother, and both are ready to receive and welcome you. Allow for the gentle spirit; she will not be able to say half she thinks.

Camilla then appeared, to conduct me, says Mr Grandison, to her ladies, in the Marchioness's drawing-room. She whispered me in the passage, Welcome, thrice welcome, best of men! Now will you be rewarded for all your good

ness!

I found the Marchioness sitting at her toilette, richly dressed, as in ceremony ; but without attendants; even Camilla retired, as soon as she had opened the door for me.

The lovely Clementina stood at the back of her mother's chair. She was elegantly dressed;

The young lady had shrunk back, her complexion varying; now glowing, now pale-Excuse her voice, said the condescending mother; her heart bids you welcome.

66

Judge for me, my dear Dr Bartlett, how I must be affected at this gracious reception: I who knew not the terms that were to be prescribed to me. Spare me, dear lady, thought I, spare me my conscience, and take all the world's wealth and glory to yourself: I shall be rich enough with Clementina."

The Marchioness seated her in her own chair. I approached her; but how could I with that grateful ardour, that, but for my doubts, would have sprung to my lips? Modest love, however, was attributed to me; and I had the praise wholly for that which was but partly due to it.

I drew a chair for the Marchioness, and, at her command, another for myself: The mother took one hand of her bashful daughter; I presumed to take the other: the amiable lady held down her blushing face, and reproved me not, as she did once before, on the like freedom, for being too free. Her mother asked me questions of an indifferent nature; as of my journey; of the courts I had visited since I left them; when I heard from England; after my father; my sisters: the latter questions in a kind way, as if she were asking after relations that were to be her own.

What a mixture of pain had I with the favour shewn me, and for the favour shewn me! for I questioned not but a change of religion would be proposed, and insisted on; and I had no doubt in my mind about my own.

After a short conversation, the amiable daughter arose ; curtseyed low to her mother, with dignity to me, and withdrew.

Ah, chevalier ! said the Marchioness, as soon as she was gone, little did I think, when you left us, that we should so soon see you again; and on the account we see you: but you know how to receive your good fortune with gratitude. Your modesty keeps in countenance our forwardness.

I bowed-What could I say?

I shall leave, so will my lord, particular subjects to be talked of between the Bishop and you. You will, if it be not your own fault, have a treasure in Clementina; and a treasure with her. We shall do the same things for her, as if she had married the man we wished her to have when we thought her affections disengaged. You may believe we love our daughter-Else

I applauded their indulgent goodness. I can have no doubt, Mr Grandison, that you love Clementina above all women.

[I had never seen the woman, Dr Bartlett, that I could have loved so well, had I not restrained myself, at first, from the high notion I knew they had of their quality and rank; from considerations of the difference in religion; of the trust and confidence the family placed in me; and by the resolution I had made, as a guard to myself from the time of my entering upon my travels, of never aiming to marry a foreigner.

I assured the Marchioness, that I was absolutely disengaged in my affections; that, not having presumed to encourage hopes of the good fortune that seemed to await me, I could hardly yet flatter myself that so great a happiness was reserved for me.

She answered, that I deserved it all; that I knew the value they had for me; that Clementina's regard was founded in virtue; that my character was my happiness; that, however, what the world would say, had been no small point with them; but that was as good as got over; and she doubted not but all that depended upon me, would, as well from generosity as gratitude, be complied with.

[Here, thought I, is couched the expectation; and, if so, would to Heaven I had never seen Italy!

The Marquis joined his lady and me soon after. His features had a melancholy cast. This dear girl, said he, has fastened upon me part of her malady. Parents, chevalier, who are blessed with even hopeful children, are not always happy. This girl-But no more; she is a good child. In the general economy of Providence, none of the sons of men are unhappy, but some others are the happier for it. Our son the Bishop will talk to you upon terms.

I have hinted to the chevalier, my lord, said the Marchioness, the happiness that awaits him. How does the poor girl?-Bashful enough, I

suppose.

Indeed, my lord, she cannot look up, answered the lady.

Poor thing! I supposed it would be so. Why, why, thought I, was I suffered to see this mother, this daughter, before their conditions were proposed to me!

But what indulgent parents are these, Dr Bartlett? What an excellent daughter? Yet not to be happy!-But how much more unhappily circumstanced did I think myself!-I, who had rather have been rejected with disdain by twenty women in turn, than to be obliged to decline the honour intended me by a family I reverenced!

THUS far Mr Grandison. This, madam, will answer your question, as to the sixth article ; but I believe a few more particulars will be acceptable.

The Marquis led me, proceeds Mr Grandison, into the chamber of Signor Jeronymo. Your good fortune, chevalier, said he, as we entered it, is owing to Jeronymo, who owes his life to you. I bless God, we are a family that know not what ingratitude means.

I made my acknowledgments both to father and son.

The Marquis then went into public affairs; and soon after left us together.

I was considering whether I had best tell that sincere friend my apprehensions in relation to the articles of religion and residence; for he had, with an air of humour, congratulated me on the philosophical manner in which I bore my good fortune; when Camilla entered, and whispered me, of her own head, as she said, that her young lady was just gone into the garden.

I dare say, it was of her own head; for Camilla has a great deal of good-nature, and is constantly desirous of obliging, where she thinks she shall not offend anybody.

Follow her then, said Jeronymo, who heard what Camilla said; Clementina perhaps expects you.

Camilla waited for me at the entrance into the garden. One word, sir, if you please. I am afraid of the return of my young lady's thoughtfulness. She says, she is ashamed of the poor figure she made before her mother; she is sure she must look mean in your eyes. "A man to be sent for, Camilla," said she, " in compliment to my weakness! Why did not my too indulgent father bid me conquer my folly, or die? O that I had not owned my attachment! Naughty Mrs Beaumont!" said she, "had it not been for you, my own bosom had contained the secret; till shame, and indignation against myself, had burst my heart." She is resolved, she says, to resume a spirit becoming her birth and quality; and I am afraid of her elevations. Her great apprehensions are, that, with all this condescension of her parents, obstacles will arise on your part. If so, she says, she shall not be able to bear her own reflections, nor look her friends in the face.

My dear Dr Bartlett, how have I, who have hitherto so happily escaped the snares by which the feet of unreflecting youth are often entangled by women of light fame, been embarrassed by perverse accidents that have arisen from my friendships with the worthy of the sex? Was there ever a more excellent family than this?— Every individual of it is excellent. And is not their worthiness, and even their piety, the cause to which our mutual difficulties are owing?

But, O my religion and my country! I cannot, cannot renounce you! What can this short life give, what can it promise, to warrant such a sacrifice!

I said nothing to Camilla, you may believe, of what I could or could not do; yet she saw my distress; she took notice of it. Being firmly