persuaded of the excellency of her own religion, she wondered that a man of reflection and read ing could be of a contrary one. Her heart, she said, as well as the heart of her young lady, boded an unhappy issue to our loves: Heaven avert it! said the honest woman; but what may we not fear by way of judgment, where a young lady-forgive me, sir-prefers a man she thinks she ought not to prefer, and where a gentleman will not be convinced of errors which the church condemns?

She again begged I would forgive her. I praised her good intention, and sincere dealing; and, leaving her, went into the garden.

I found the young lady in the orange-grove. You have been in that garden, Dr Bartlett.

She turned her face towards me, as I drew near her; and, seeing who it was, stopped.

Clementina, armed with conscious worthiness, as if she had resumed the same spirit which had animated her on the eve of my departure from Bologna, condescended to advance two or three paces towards me.

Lovely woman, thought I, encourage the true dignity that shines in that noble aspect!-Who knows what may be our destiny?

I bowed. Veneration, esteem, and concern, from the thought of what that might be, all joined to make my obeisance profound.

I was going to speak. She prevented me. Her air and manner were great.

You are welcome, sir, said she. My mamma bid me say welcome. I could not then speak; and she was so good to you, as to answer for my heart. My voice is now found: but tell me Do I see the same generous, the same noble Grandison, that I have heretofore seen?-Or, do I see a man inclined to slight the creature whom her indulgent parents are determined to oblige, even to the sacrifice of all their views?

You see, madam, the same Grandison, his heart only oppressed with the honour done him; and with the fear that the happiness designed for him may yet be frustrated. If it should, how shall I be able to support myself?

[What a difficult situation, my dear Dr Bartlett, was mine!-Equally afraid to urge my suit with ardour, or to be imagined capable of being indifferent to her favour.

What do you fear, sir ?-You have grounds in your own heart, perhaps, for your fear. If you have, let me know them. I am not afraid to know them. Let me tell you, that I opposed the step taken. I declared that I would sooner die, than it should be taken. It was to you, they said; and you would know how to receive as you ought, the distinction paid you. I have a soul, sir, not unworthy of the spirit of my ancestors: tell me what you fear ? I only fear one thing; and that is, that I should be thought to be more in your power than my own.

Noble lady! And think you, that while my happiness is not yet absolutely resolved upon, I

have not reason to fear?-You will always, madam, be in your own power: You will be most so when in mine. My gratitude will ever prompt me to acknowledge your goodness to me as a condescension.

But say ; tell me, sir ; did you not, at first receiving the invitation, despise, in absence, the Clementina, that now, perhaps, in presence, you have the goodness to pity?

O that the high-souled Clementina would not think so contemptibly of the man before her, as she must think, when she puts a question that would entitle him to infamy, could he presume to imagine an answer to it necessary!

Well, sir: I shall see how far the advances made on the wrong side will be justified, or rather countenanced, by the advances, or shall I say, (I will, if you please,) condescensions to be made on yours.

[What a petulance, thought I !-But can the generous, the noble Clementina, knowing that terms will be proposed, with which, in honour and conscience, I cannot comply, put my regard for her on such a test as this?—I will not suppose that she is capable of mingling art with her magnanimity.

Is this, madam, said I, a generous anticipation? Forgive me; but when your friends are so good as to think me incapable of returning ingratitude for obligation, I hope I shall not be classed, by their beloved daughter, among the lowest of mankind.

Excuse me, sir; the woman who has been once wrong, has reason to be always afraid of herself. If you do not think meanly of me, I will endeavour to think well of myself; and then, sir, I shall think better of you, if better I can think ; for, after all, did I not more mistrust myself than I do you, I should not perhaps be so capricious as, I am afraid, I sometimes am.

The Marquis has hinted to me, madam, that your brother the Bishop is to discourse with me on the subject now the nearest to my heart of all others; may I presume to address myself to their beloved daughter upon it, without being thought capable of endeavouring to prepossess her in my favour, before my lord and I meet?

I will answer you frankly, sir; there are preliminaries to be settled ; and, till they are, I, that know there are, do not think myself at liberty to hear you upon any subject that may tend to prepossession.

I acquiesce, madam; I would not for the world be thought to wish for the honour of your attention, while it is improper for you to favour me with it.

[I did not know, Dr Bartlett, but upon a supposition of a mutual interest between us, as I had hoped she would allow, Clementina might wish that I would lead to some particular discourse. Though modesty becomes ours as well as the other sex, yet it would be an indelicacy

not to prevent a lady, in some certain cases. But thus discouraged,] Perhaps, madam, said I, the attendance I do myself the honour to pay you here, may not be agreeable to the Marquis. Then, sir, you will choose, perhaps, to withdraw. But don't-Yes, do.

I respectfully withdrew; but she taking a winding alley, which led into that in which I slowly walked, we met again. I am afraid, said she, I have been a little petulant: Indeed, sir, I am not satisfied with myself. I wish-And there she stopt.

What, madam, do you wish? Favour me with your wishes. If it be in my power

It is not, interrupted she-I wish I had not been at Florence. The lady I was with is a good woman, but she was too hard for me. Perhaps, (and she sighed,) had I not been with her, I had been at rest, and happy, before now; but if I had not, there is a pleasure, as well as pain, in melancholy. But now I am so fretful!-If I hated the bitterest enemy I have, as much as at times I hate myself, I should be a very bad crea

ture.

This was spoken with an air so melancholy, as greatly disturbed me. God grant, thought I, that the articles of religion and residence may be agreed upon between the Bishop and me!

HERE, my good Miss Byron, I close this letter. Sir Charles has told you, briefly, the event of the conference between the Bishop and him; and I hasten to obey you in your next article.

LETTER CIX.

MISS BYRON TO MISS SELBY.

Thursday Morning, March 30. I SEND you now enclosed the Doctor's fourth letter. I believe I must desire my grandmamma and my aunt Selby to send for me down.

We shall all be in London this evening. Would to Heaven I had never come to it!What of pleasure have I had in it ?—This abominable Sir Hargrave Pollexfen!-But for him, I had been easy and happy; since, but for him, I had never wanted the relief of Sir Charles Grandison; never had known him. Fame might perhaps have brought to my ears, in general conversation, as other persons of distinction are talked of, some of his benevolent actions; and he would have attracted my admiration without costing me one sigh. And yet, had it been so, I should then have known none of those lively sensibilities that have mingled pleasure with my pain, on the pride I have had in being distinguished as a sister to the sisters of so extraordinary a man. O that I had kept my foolish heart free! I should then have had enough to boast of for my whole life; enough to talk

of to every one; and when I had been asked by my companions and intimates, what diversions, what entertainments, I had been at, I should have said, I have been in company and conversed with Sir CHARLES GRANDISON, and been favoured and distinguished by all his family; and I should have passed many a happy winter evening, when my companions came to work and read with me at Selby-House, in answering their questions about all these ; and Sir Charles would have been known among us principally by the name of the fine gentleman; and my young friends would have come about me, and asked me to tell them something more of the excellent man.

But now my ambition has overthrown me; aiming, wishing to be everything, I am nothing. If I am asked about him, or his sisters, I shall seek to evade the subject; and yet, what other subject can I talk of? For what have I seen, what have I known, since I left Northamptonshire, but him and them? And what else, indeed, since I have known this family, have I wished to see, and to know?

On reviewing the above, how have I, as I see, suffered my childish fancies to delude me into a short forgetfulness of his, of everybody's distresses!-But, O my Lucy! my heart is torn in pieces; and, I verily think, more for the unhappy Clementina's sake, than for my own! How severely do I pay for my curiosity! Yet it was necessary that I should know the worst. So Sir Charles seems to have thought, by the permission he has given to Dr Bartlett, to oblige

me.

Your pity will be more raised on reading the letter I enclose, not only for Clementina and Sir Charles, but for the whole family; none of whom, though they are all unhappy, are to be blamed. You will dearly love the noble Jeronymo, and be pleased with the young lady's faithful Camilla; but, my dear, there is so much tenderness in Sir Charles's woe-It must be love-But he ought to love Clementina: she is a glorious, though unhappy, young creature. I must not have one spark of generosity left in my heart, I must be lost wholly in self, if I did not equally admire and love her.

DR BARTLETT'S FOURTH LETTER.

As I remember, madam, Sir Charles mentions to you, in a very pathetic manner, the distress he was in when the terms and conditions on which he was to be allowed to call the noble Clementina his, were proposed to him, as they were by the Bishop. He has briefly told you the terms, and his grief to be obliged to disappoint the expectation of persons so deservedly dear to him. But you will not, I believe, be displeased, if I dwell a little more on these par

ticulars, though they are not commanded from

me.

The Bishop, when he had acquainted Mr Grandison with the terms, said, You are silent, my dear Grandison; you hesitate. What, sir! Is a proposal of a daughter of one of the noblest families in Italy, that daughter a Clementina, to be slighted by a man of a private family, a foreigner, of dependent fortunes, her dowry not unworthy a prince's acceptance? Do you hesitate upon such a proposal as this, sir?

My lord, I am grieved, rather than surprised, at the proposal; I was apprehensive it would be made. My joy at receiving the condescending invitation, and at the honour done me, on my arrival, otherwise would have been immoderate.

A debate then followed upon some articles in which the Church of Rome and the Protestant churches differ. Mr Grandison would fain have avoided it; but the Bishop, supposing he should have some advantages in the argument which he met not with, would not permit him. He was very warm with Mr Grandison more than once, which did not help his cause.

The particulars of this debate I will not at this time give you; they would carry me into great length, and I have much to transcribe, that I believe, from what Sir Charles has let me see of your manner of writing to your friends, you would prefer. To that I will proceed, after a passage or two, which will shew you how that debate, about the difference in religion, went off.

You will call to mind, chevalier, said the Bishop, that your church allows of a possibility of salvation out of its pale-ours does not.

My lord, our church allows not of its members indulging themselves in capital errors, against conviction: but I hope that no more need be said on this subject.

I think, replied the Bishop, we will quit it. I did not expect that you were so firmly rooted in error as I find you; but to the point on which we began. I should think it an extraordinary misfortune, were we to find ourselves reduced to the necessity of reasoning a private man into the acceptance of our sister Clementina. Let me tell you, sir, that were she to know that you but hesitate He spoke with earnestness, and reddened.

Pardon an interruption, my lord; you are disposed to be warm. I will not so much as offer to defend myself from any imputations that may, in displeasure, be cast upon me, as if I were capable of slighting the honour intended me of a lady who is worthy of a prince. I am persuaded that your lordship cannot think such a defence necessary. I am indeed a private man, but not inconsiderable; if the being able to VOL. VIII.

enumerate a long race of ancestors, whom hitherto I have not disgraced, will give me consideration. But what, my lord, is ancestry? I live to my own heart. My principles were known before I had the condescending invitation. Your lordship would not persuade me to change them, when I cannot think them wrong; and since, as you have heard, I have something to offer, when called upon, in support of them.

You will consider this matter, my dear chevalier. It is you, I think, that are disposed to be warm ; but you are a valuable man. We, as well as our sister, wish to have you among us; our church would wish it. Such a proselyte will justify us to every other consideration, and to all our friends. Consider of it, Grandison; but let it not be known to the principals of our family, that you think consideration necessary; the dear Clementina, particularly, must not know it. Your person, chevalier, is not so dear to the excellent creature, as your soul. Hence it is, that we are all willing to encourage in her a flame so pure and so bright.

My distress, my lord, is beyond the power of words to describe. I revere, I honour, and will to my last hour, the Marquis and Marchioness of Porretta, and on better motives than for their grandeur and nobility. Their sons-you know not, my lord, the pride I have always had to be distinguished even by a nominal relation to them; and give me your Clementina, without the hard conditions you prescribe, and I shall be happy beyond my highest wish. I desire not dowry with her. I have a father on whose generosity and affection I can rely. But I must repeat, my lord, that my principles are so well known, that I hoped a compromise would be accepted. I would not for the world compel your sister. The same liberty that I crave, I would allow.

And will you not take time, sir, to consider? Are you absolutely determined?

If your lordship knew the pain it gives me to say that I am, you would pity me.

Well, sir, I am sorry for it. Let us go in to Signor Jeronymo. He has been your advocate ever since he knew you. Jeronymo has gratitude; but you, chevalier, have no affections.

I thank God, said I, that your lordship does not do me justice.

He led me into his brother's apartment.

There, what did I not suffer, from the friendship, from the love of that brother, and from the urgency of the Bishop! But what was the result?

The Bishop asked me, if he were to conduct me to his father, to his mother, to his sister? Or to allow me to depart without seeing them? -This was the alternative. My compliance or non-compliance was to be thus indicated. I respectfully bowed. I recommended myself to the favour of the two brothers, and, through them, to that of the three truly respectable persons

X

they had named, and withdrew to my lodgings with a heart sorely distressed.

I was unable to stir out for the remainder of the day. The same chair into which I threw myself, upon my first coming in, held me for hours.

In the evening, Camilla, in disguise, made me a visit. On my servant's withdrawing, revealing herself, O sir! said she, what a distracted family have I left! They know not of my coming hither; but I could not forbear this officiousness. I cannot stay. But let me just tell you how unhappy we are, and your own generosity will suggest to you what is best to be done.

As soon as you were gone, my Lord Bishop acquainted my Lady Marchioness with what had passed between you. O sir! you have an affectionate friend in Signor Jeronymo. He endeavoured to soften everything. My Lady Marchioness acquainted my Lord with the Bishop's report. I never saw that good nobleman in such a passion. It is not necessary to tell you what he said

In a passion with me, Camilla!

Yes. He thought the whole family dishonoured, sir.

The Marquis della Porretta is the worthiest of men, Camilla, said I. I honour him. But proceed.

The Marchioness, in the tenderest manner, broke the matter to my young lady; I was present. She apprehended that there might be occasion for my attendance, and commanded me to stay.

Before she could speak all she had to say, my young lady threw herself on her knees to her mamma, and blessing her for her goodness to her, begged her to spare the rest. I see, said she, that I, a daughter of the Porretta family, your daughter, madam, am refused. Palliate not, I beseech you, the indignity. You need not; it is enough that I am refused. Surely, madam, your Clementina is not so base in spirit as to need your maternal consolation on such a contempt as this. I feel for my papa; for you, madam; and for my brothers. I feel the indignity. Blessings follow the man wherever he goes! It would be mean to be angry with him. He is his own master; and now he has made me my own mistress. Never fear, madam, but this affair now will sit as light upon me as it ought. His humility will allow him to be satisfied with a meaner wife. You, madam, my papa, my brothers, shall not find me mean.

The Marchioness embraced, with tears of joy, her beloved daughter. She brought my lord to her, and reported what her daughter had said; he also tenderly embraced the dear young lady, and rejoiced in her assurances that now the cure was effected.

But, unseasonably, as the event shewed, Father Marescotti, being talked with, was earnest

to be allowed to visit her. Then, he said, was the proper time, the very crisis, to urge her to accept of the Count of Belvedere.

I was bid to tell her, that his reverence desired to attend her.

O, let me go, said she, to Florence, to my dear Mrs Beaumont!-To-morrow morning let me go, and not see Father Marescotti till I can see him as I wish to see him!

But the good father prevailed: he meant the best.

He was with her half an hour. He left her in a melancholy way. When her mamma went to her, she found her spiritless, her eyes fixed, and as gloomy as ever. She was silent to two or three of her mother's questions; and when she did speak, it was with wildness; but declaring, without being solicited in the Count of Belvedere's favour, against marrying him, or any man in the world.

Her mother told her she should go to Florence, as soon as she pleased, but then the humour was off. Would to Heaven she had gone before she saw his reverence! So they all now wish.

Camilla, said she to me, when we were alone, was it necessary to load the Chevalier Grandison? Was it necessary to inveigh against him? It was ungenerous to do so. Was the man obliged to have the creature whose forwardness had rendered her contemptible in his eyes? I could not bear to hear him inveighed against. But never, never let me hear his name mentioned. Yet, Camilla, I cannot bear being despised, neither.

She arose from her seat, and from that moment her humour took a different turn. She now talks-she raves-she starts. She neither sits nor stands with quietness. She walks up and down her room, at other times, with passion and hurry, yet weeps not, though she makes everybody else weep. She speaks to herself, and answers herself, and, as I guess, repeats part of the talk that passed between Father Marescotti and her; but still, to be despised! are the words she often repeats.-Jesu! once, said she-to be despised!-And by an English Protestant!Who can bear that?

In this way, sir, is Lady Clementina. The sweetest creature! I see, I see you have compassion, sir! You never wanted humanity !— Generosity is a part of your nature!-I am sure you love her!-I see you love her!-I pain your noble heart!-Indeed, indeed, sir, Lady Clementina's love extended beyond the limits of this world. She hoped to be yours to all eternity.

Well might Camilla, the sensible, the faithful, the affectionate Camilla, the attendant from infant years of her beloved Clementina, thus run on, without interruption. I could not speak. And had I been able, to what purpose should I have pleaded to Camilla the superior attach

ment which occasioned an anguish that words cannot describe?

What can I say but thank you, my good Camilla, for your intention? I hope you have eased your own heart, but you have loaded mine.Nevertheless, I thank you. Would to Heaven that your lady's own wishes had been complied with; that she had been encouraged to go to the excellent Mrs Beaumont ! The first natural impulses of the distressed heart often point out the best alleviation. Would to Heaven they had been pursued! I have great dependence on the generous friendship of Signor Jeronymo. All that is in my power to do, I will do. I honour, I venerate, every one of the truly noble family: I never can deserve their favour. On all occasions, Camilla, let them know my devotion to them.

I beg of God, said she, to put it into your heart to restore the tranquillity of a family, which was, till lately, the happiest in Bologna. It may not be yet too late. I beg of you to excuse my officiousness. Pray take no notice that I have waited on you. I shall be wanted.

She was hastening away. Good Camilla, said I, taking a ring of some value from my finger, and forcing it upon hers, (she is above accepting of pecuniary presents, and struggled against this,) accept this as a remembrance, not acknowledgment. I may be forbid the palace of the Marquis della Porretta, and so have no opportunity again to see the equally faithful and obliging Camilla.

What other conditions could have been prescribed, Dr Bartlett, that I should have refused to comply with? How was I anew distressed, at the account Camilla gave me! But my great consolation in the whole transaction is, that my own heart, on the maturest deliberation, acquits me, and the rather, as it is impossible for me to practise a greater piece of self-denial; for can there be on earth a nobler woman than Clementina ?

The next morning, early, Mr Grandison received the following letter from his friend, Signor Jeronymo. I translated it, my good Miss Byron, at the time I received it. I will send you the translation only.

MY DEAR CHEVALIER!

SHALL I blame you?—I cannot. Shall I blame my father, my mother?-They blame themselves for the free access you were allowed to have to their Clementina; yet they own that you acted nobly. But they had forgot that Clemcntina had eyes. Yet who knew not her discernment? Who knew not her regard for merit, wherever she found it? Can I therefore blame my sister?-Indeed, no. Has she a brother whom I can blame?-No. But ought I not to blame myself? The dear creature owned, it seems, to Mrs Beaumont, that my declaration in your favour, which was made long before

you knew it, was one of her influences. Must I therefore accuse myself?—If I regard my intention, gratitude for a life preserved by you, and for a sense of my social duties, (soul as well as body indebted to you, though a Protestant yourself,) will not suffer it. Is there then nobody whom we can blare for the calamity befallen us?-How strangely is that calamity circumstanced!

But is there so irreconcileable a difference between the two religions ?-There is: the Bishop says there is: Clementina thinks there is: my father, my mother, think there is.

But does your father think so? Will you put the whole matter on that issue, chevalier? O no, you will not. You are as determined as we are; yet, surely, with less reason. But I debate not the matter with you. I know you are a master of the question.

But what is to be done? Shall Clementina perish? Will not the gallant youth, who ventured his life so successfully to save a brother, exert himself to preserve a sister?

Come, and see the way she is in-Yet they will not admit you into her presence while she is in that way.

The sense she has of her dignity debased, and the perpetual expostulations and apprehensions of her zealous confessor-Can the good man think it his duty to wound and tear in pieces a mind tenacious of its honour, and of that of her sex? At last, you see, I have found somebody to accuse. But I come to my motive for giving you this trouble.

It is to request you to make me a visit.Breakfast with me, my dear chevalier, this morning. You will, perhaps, see nobody else.

Camilla has told me, and only me, that she attended you last night: She tells me how greatly you are grieved. I should renounce your friendship, were you not. At my soul, I pity you, because I knew, long since, your firm attachment to your religion, and because you love Clementina.

I wish I were able to attend you, I would save you the pain of this visit; for I know it must pain you; but come, nevertheless.

You hinted to my brother, that you thought, as your principles were so well known, a compromise would be accepted-Explain yourself to me upon this compromise-If I can smooth the way between you-Yet I despair that anything will do but your conversion. They love your soul; they think they love it better than you do yourself. Is there not a merit in them, which you cannot boast in return?

The General, I hear, came to town last night; we have not seen him yet. He had business with the Gonfaloniere. I think you must not meet. He is warm. He adores Clementina. He knew not, till last night, that the Bishop broke to him, at that magistrate's, our unhappy situation. What a disappointment! One of the