one of the most peevish; and she had taken the liberty to tell her, that she must quit her service, if she found her so hard to be pleased.

Do then, was her answer; I won't be threatened by you, Anne. You seem to have found out your consequence with me. Go, Anne, as soon as you will. I won't be threatened, Anne. I have enough to vex me, without being disturbed by you.

The honest maid, who dearly loves her, and has been with her ever since she was seven years old, and was much approved, for her fidelity and good behaviour, by her father, burst out into tears, and would, in a mild and humble manner, have expostulated with her. Let me beseech you, madam, said she, to permit me a word or two by way of dutiful expostulation. But she hurried from her-I won't hear you, Anne. You have begun at the wrong end. You should have expostulated, and not threatened, first. And then going up to her closet, she locked herself in.

I pitied the dear girl. Too well I thought I could account for this change of temper in her: so exceeding good her guardian to her, her gratitude augmented her love: [Don't I know how that might easily be?] Yet, thought I, it would half break her heart, if he were to assume reserve-I would not, for her sake, have him imagine there was a necessity for a change of his behaviour to her. And, indeed, if he were to be more reserved, what would that do? So good a man; so uniform his goodness; the poor Emily must acquit him, and condemn herself; yet have no cure for her malady.

Sally offered Anne to acquaint me with what had passed: but the good young woman begged she would not. Her young lady was so tenacious, she said, (young lady-like,) of her authority, that she would never forgive her, if she were known to make an appeal to me, or to my aunt. And to complain without a probability of redress, the prudent creature observed, except to her, as one lady's woman to another, would expose her beloved young mistress; when, perhaps, the present grievance might be cured by time, assiduity, and patience.

This was necessary to premise.

Sir Charles, my uncle, and Mr Deane, having rode out pretty early this morning to breakfast, at Sir William Turner's; and my aunt and Lucy retiring after breakfast to write; and I to my closet for the same purpose; Emily came and tapped at my door. I instantly opened it.

I intrude, madam.-No, my dear.

I had observed at supper last night, and at breakfast this morning, that she had been in tears; though nobody else did; for the hints, privately given me by Sally, made me more observant of her motions.

I took her hand, and would have placed her by me-No, madam, said she, let me stand: I

I stood up. Your eldest sister, my love, sits not, while her younger stands.

She threw her arms about me, and her tears ran over. This goodness kills me !—I am, I am, a most unhappy creature!-Unhappy from the grant of my own wishes!-O that you would treat me severely! I cannot support myself under the hourly instances which I receive of your goodness.

Whence, my dearest Emily, these acknowledgments? I do love my Emily: and should be either ungrateful, or insensible to the merits of my beloved sister, did I not do all in my power to make her happy. What can I do for her, that is not her due?

She struggled herself out of my embracing arms, withdrawing hers.-Let me, let me go, madam !-She hurried into the adjoining apartment. I followed her; and taking her hand, Leave me not, in this perplexity, my Emily! I cannot part with you: if you love your Harriet, as she loves her Emily, you will put me in the way of alleviating this anguish of the most innocent and most amiable of minds. Open your heart to me, my dear.

O Lady Grandison! the deserving wife of the best of men, you ought to hate me! My dearest Emily! said I. Indeed you ought.

Let us sit down on this sofa, if you will not return to my closet.

I sat down. She sat by me, leaning her glowing face on my shoulder. I put one arm round her neck; with the other hand, I grasped one of hers. Now, my dear, I conjure you, by the friendship that is between us, the more than sisterly friendship, open your whole heart to me ; and renounce me, if it be in my power to heal the wounds of your mind, and I do not pour into them the balm of friendly love.

What can I say?—Yesterday, my dearest Lady Grandison, I received an answer to a case I put to Dr Bartlett, of a young creature, who I can't tell you

She wept; raised her head; dried her eyes; again leaned her face on my shoulder; again I put my arm round her neck-Your case, my love?

Ah, madam! My case-Did you say, my

case?

I asked, my dear, not as for your case, any other than as for the case you put to the Doctor, He has not told you, madam?

Indeed he has not said a word of your consulting him.

I had rather tell you myself. I am afraid he guesses who the young woman is. O the poor cunning!-I am a weak, silly creature!-He certainly guesses

May I, my love, see the case ?-May I see the answer to it?

I have burnt them both! In a fit of anger at myself, that I should expose myself, (for he certainly guesses who the young man is,) I threw them in the fire.

But you can tell me the case. You can give me the substance of the answer.

How can I? You of all women! You, madam, whom I best love of all women; but who ought to hate, to despise me!

Trust me, love, with your secret. It shall never, without your leave, pass this faithful bosom, if it be a secret that already I do not guess at.

She started-Guess at, madam!

Don't start at what I say, my love.

I have.

He will inviolably keep your secret, no fear'; especially as your charming ingenuousness to me will be a means of putting you and me, my love, on finding expedients, that shall equally secure your honour, and your guardian's regard for you. That, madam, is the very thing.

Open then to me your innocent heart, my dear. Regard, me as your friend, your sister, and as if I were not the happy wife of your beloved guardian

And so I will.-I did not, madam, mistrust myself till the solemnity had passed, that made you and my guardian one. Then I began to be uneasy with myself; and the more, as I was for hiding myself from myself, as I may say; for I was afraid of looking into my heart: Why so? thought I. Am I not an innocent girl? What do I wish for? What can I hope for? Do I not love Lady Grandison? I do. Yet now and then -Don't hate me, madam! I will reveal to you all my heart and all my weakness.

Proceed, my Emily. This is indeed a token

He will always love you; so will I.

Banish the criminal from your presence for ever; rising; yet again laying her face on my shoulder, and clasping her arms about me, Hide me, hide me from myself.

No need, my dear. Everybody loves your guardian. You cannot love him but with innocence. Your love is founded in gratitude. So was mine. Don't I know how to allow for my Emily?

You will banish fear from my heart, madam, by this your goodness to me. I find I may own all my weakness, my folly, to you; and the rather, as I shall entitle myself by it to your advice. I wanted to do it; but was afraid you would hate me: in the same circumstances I doubt I should not be so generous as you are. O that I had not put my case to the Doctor!

The Doctor, my dear, is all goodness. He will keep your secret

And not tell my guardian, madam, anything about it? It would be worse than death to me, if my guardian should mistrust me. He would hate the poor Emily, if you did not.

He never shall know it, my dear. You have already engaged the Doctor to secrecy, I doubt

not.

compliment does my dearest younger sister make me?

Yet now and then, something like envy, I thought, arose in my heart: and can your countenance forbear to change, when I tell you of envy?

If it did, it would be from compassionate love to my Emily. You don't know, my dear, how my heart dilates on this your most agreeable confidence in me.

God bless that dear heart!-There never was such a heart as yours. Well, but I will go on, if you please.

me.

Do, my dear.

Here, thought I, once (that I was resolved to call myself to account) did I ask the favour of being allowed to live with my guardian and his lady, when they were married: And what did I mean by it? Nothing but innocence, believe Well, and my request is granted! This was all that I thought was wanting to make me happy: But, said I to myself, Am I happy? No. Do I love my guardian less? No. Do I love Lady Grandison more for granting me this favour? I admire her more, I think; and I have a grateful sense of her goodness to me: but, I don't know how it is-I think, though I dearly love her, yet I would be sometimes glad I did not, quite so well. Ungrateful Emily! and severely I took myself to task. Surely, pity, madam, is near akin to love; for while your suspenses lasted, I thought I loved you better than I loved my own heart: but when you were happy, and there was no room for pity, wicked wretch that I was! I wanted, methought, sometimes to lower you-Don't you hate me now?

No, no, my Emily; my pity, as you say, increases my love of you. Proceed, sweet child: your mind is the unsullied book of nature: Turn

to another leaf. Depend upon my kindest allowances. I knew, before you knew it yourself, that you loved your guardian.

Before I knew it myself! Why, that might be. So I went on reasoning with myself-"What, Emily, canst thou love thy guardian more; and Lady Grandison, with all her goodness to thee, not more-And canst thou mingle envy with admiration of her ?-Ah, silly, and worse than silly, girl, where may this end?-Lord bless me! If I suffer myself to go on thus, shall I not be the most ungrateful of creatures? Shall I not, instead of my guardian's love, incur his hatred? Will not all the world despise me?— And where may this stop?"-Yet I went on excusing myself; for I knew I had no vile meaning; I knew I only wanted my guardian to love me, and to be allowed to love him. But what! thought I, at last, can I allow myself in loving a married man, the husband of my friend? and sometimes I trembled at the thought; for I looked back; and said to myself, "Wouldst thou, Emily, a year ago, have allowed in thyself but the same lengths that thou hast now run ?"No; answered I my own question. "Is not this a fair warning of what may be a year hence?" -So I put a case to Dr Bartlett, as of three persons of my Anne's acquaintance, two young women, one young man, living in one house: the young man contracted to one of the young women; the other knowing it; and though a person incapable of a criminal thought, yet finding an increasing regard for the young man, though she dearly loved her friend, began to be afraid her heart was not quite as it should be: What I asked, as from my Anne s friend, would he advise in the case?

And what, my dear, was the Doctor's advice? I was a silly creature to put it to him. As I said, he certainly must guess. If you, madam, could, without such a case put, he certainly must. We young girls think, if we put our hands before our eyes, nobody can see us. In short, the Doctor pronounced the increasing regard to be a beginning love. The consequence would be, that the young woman would in time endeavour to supplant her friend; though at present she might probably shudder at the thought. He bid me tell Anne to warn her acquaintance against the growing flame. He said, she might entangle her own heart, and, without gaining her end, render unhappy a couple, who, according to my representation from my Anne, deserved to be happy: and he advised, by all means, that she should leave the contracted couple to themselves, and for her own honour's, her own heart's sake, remove to as great distance from them as possible.

Believe me, madam, I was shocked, I was frightened at myself: I threw the papers in the fire; and have been, ever since I read them, more unhappy than usual. My dear Lady Grandison, then thought I, I will, if you give me en

couragement, open my heart to you. You will hear of my folly, my weakness, one day, or other. -And now, dear good madam, forgive me: keep my secret; and advise me what to do.

What, my dearest creature, can I advise you? I love you. I ever will love you. I will be as careful of your honour as of my own. I will endeavour to cultivate your guardian's affection to you.

He never, madam, I hope, guessed at the poor Emily's folly.

He never mentioned you to me, but with love and tenderness.

Thank God!-But say, advise me, madam; my heart shall be in your hand; guide it as you please.

self?

What, my dear, did you think of doing yourI must not think of living with you now, ma

dam.

Why not? You shall find me ever your true friend.

But I am sure Dr Bartlett's advice to Anne's acquaintance is right. I tell you, madam, that I must every day, and every hour of the day, that I see his tender behaviour to you; that I behold him employed in acts of beneficence; that I see every one adoring him; admire him more. I see that I am less my own mistress than I thought it was possible I could be: and if such a girl as I, have so little command of myself, and his merit every hour spreading itself out before me with increasing lustre, my weak eyes will not be able to bear his glory-O madam, I ought to fly; I am resolved, whatever it cost me, to fly.

How I admired, how I pitied, how I loved, the dear creature! I clasped both my arms about her; and, pressing her to my bosomWhat can I say, my Emily? What can I say? Tell me, what would you wish me to say?

You are wise, madam: you have a tender and generous heart: O that I were half as good!Advise me something-I see the folly of my wishing to live with you and my guardian.

And is it necessary, my dear, to a conquest of yourself, that we should not live together? Absolutely so: I am convinced of it.

Suppose, my dear, you go to the London house, and put yourself under Mrs Grandison's protection?

What, madam, my guardian's house still? I hope a few weeks' absence, by the help of a discretion of which you have, in the present conversation, given shining proofs, will answer all we wish; since you never, my dear, could have thought but of admiring, and that at a distance, the great qualities of your guardian.

I have, 'tis true, but just found myself out: I never could have hope of being looked upon in any other light, than as his daughter; and I hope I have made the discovery in time. But I must not be with him in his own house : I must not be in the way of his constant conversation.

Admirable discretion! Amiable innocence! Well then, suppose you request Lady L——, Lady G

Ah, no, no! That would not do, neither. My guardian would be the continual subject of our conversation; and often, very often, his brotherly goodness would lead him to them; them to him.

Charming fortitude! Heroic Emily! How I admire you! I see you have thought attentive ly of this matter. What are your thoughts? Can't you guess?

I know what I wish, but you must speak

first.

Don't you remember what the blessed Mrs Shirley (I must call her blessed!) said to me on your wedding-day, in the vestry?

I do, my dearest Emily! And are you inclined

Shall I be received, madam, as a second Harriet in your family? It would be my ambition to tread in your steps at Selby-House and Shirley-Manor; to hear from you; to write to you; to form myself by the model, by which you were formed; to be called by Mrs Shirley, by Mrs Selby, their Emily.

How you would rejoice them all, my Emily! and, if we must part, me, to have my Emily be to my dearest friends what their Harriet so happily was!

But, madam, will you undertake to procure my guardian's consent?

I will endeavour it.

Endeavour it! Then it is done. He will deny you nothing. Will good Mrs Shirley consent?

I have no doubt but she will, if your guardian do.

Will Mrs Selby, will Mr Selby, be my uncle and aunt?

We will consult them: They are happily with us, you know.

But, madam, there is one objection; a very great one.

What is that, my love?

Your cousin James Selby! I should respect him as your cousin, and as the brother of the two Misses Selby: but that is all.

I never, my dear, approved of any motion of that kind. Not one of my friends think of it: They wish it not. He has met with discouragement from every one of my family, and his own: he submits to the discouragement.

Then, madam, if you please to break the matter to Mr and Mrs Selby, and to Mrs Shirley, without letting them know the poor girl flies to them as for refuge against herself; and satisfy Lady L——, Lady G- and Mrs Eleanor Grandison, that I mean nothing of slight to them; then will I attend Mr and Mrs Selby in their return home: And I shall be in a while a very happy girl, I doubt not. But still remember, madam, I must

,

love my guardian: but it shall be with a love that shall not exclude Lady Grandison from a large share of it: the largest, if I can. And now, clasping her arms about my neck, let me beg your pardon for all the strange things I have said. My heart will be the easier for having found a confidant; such a confidant, however, as no girl ever found before-But, in this instance of goodness, you more than equal Lady Clementina herself; and a thousand, thousand thanks for your patience with me on such subject!-Yet say, my dear Lady Grandison, you don't hate the poor girl, who has the vanity to emulate you and Lady Clementina ! I wept over her from joy, pity, tenderness. Will you not, my dear grandmamma, love my Emily more than ever? Will you call her your Emily, and think of her, as your Harriet?

a

Lady L, Lady G, will you excuse the preference she has given to quiet Northamptonshire, against noisy London, and its gay scenes, at so young a time of life? Excuse it! I am sure you will think that the reason she has given for the preference, lifts her up above

woman.

Monday, Feb. 5.

I HAVE already obtained my uncle's and aunt's, and Lucy's, high approbation of Emily's proposal. They, at her request, asked Sir Charles's consent, as a favour. He desired to see her upon it. She came in, bashful, her steps unassured, looking down. He took her hand: My good Emily, said he, I am told that you have a desire to restore to Mrs Shirley, Mrs Selby, and Mr Selby, the granddaughter and niece I have robbed them of. They rejoice in your proposal. You will be exceedingly happy in their protection. My Harriet will be loath to part with you; but for their sakes, as well as yours, she will cheerfully acquiesce: And, though we wanted it not, we shall have an additional pleasure in visiting Northamptonshire. Is it your deliberate choice, my dear?

It is, sir: and I hope I may be allowed to accompany Mrs Selby down.

Settle the matter, ladies, among yourselves. I have but one thing to add upon the subject. You have a mother, my dear. We must not absolutely resolve till we have her consent. She is good now: You must make a compliment to my sisters, and their lords also, and to my Aunt Grandison: They love my ward: And she must preserve every worthy person's love.

The dear girl curtseyed; wept-You are all all goodness, sir.

If your mind should change, my dear, don't be afraid to signify the alteration. It will be the business of us all to make each other happy. You will be always dear to my Harriet.

Recollect, meantime, if there be anything farther in my power to oblige you.

O sir! You must not (she ran to me, and in my bosom, weeping, whispered out her sentence) be too good to me!

I pressed the dear girl's forehead with my lips -Heroic Emily! whispered I, to confirm her in her heroism.

AND thus already, my dearest grandmamma, is this material article settled. My aunt answers for your approbation; and Lucy for the pleasure that this acquisition, as I may call it, will give to Nancy, and all our other kindred and acquaintance. But how, when the time comes, shall I part with her?

What, I wonder, will Sir Edward Beauchamp say to this He must get his dear friend's leave to visit with us Shirley-Manor and Selby-House, which, I hope, we shall do, twice a-year, at least.

My uncle and aunt, Lucy and Mr Deane, are exceedingly rejoiced on this occasion: How fond are they of Emily! She of them! This gives them a relation to each other, that I hope will produce a friendship which will last for ever.

My aunt and Lucy have been asking my opinion whether Sir Charles did not discover something of the good girl's growing affection for him; so undisguisedly sincere as she always was, and for some time not suspecting herself; he so penetrating a man? Of this, said Lucy, I am sure, he would have seen it with half an eye, had any other man been as much the object of her regard.

If anything would induce me, said I, to think he did, it would be his ready acquiescence with her proposal, and his being so little inquisitive after her motives for leaving us: The case, continued I, is of so nice a nature, that he never will say, even to me, what his thoughts are upon it, if such thoughts he has. And as to myself, it would be dealing with Emily less delicately than I was dealt with by the two noble sisters, should I presume to sound him on so nice a subject.

And indeed there never could be a man in the world that had a greater regard than he has to thosc real delicacies of our sex, which border not upon what is called prudery.

Mr Lowther is gone to London: He has given in to Sir Charles's wishes to settle in this neighbourhood. He said he liked the country: he had no particular attachment to any place; and made a fine compliment to Sir Charles on the occasion. I need not say, it was a just one.

My uncle, my aunt, write. Lucy has another long letter almost ready. I have only farther to

Grandison-Hall, Tuesday, Feb. 13.

I write to my dearest sisters now. Nor will I ask you to send my letters to my grandmamma for the present.

Lucy shall be left to entertain my Northamptonshire friends.

The enclosed translation of a letter written by Signor Jeronymo, will give you the surprising news-surprising indeed-Poor, poor lady!

I must tell you in my next, how we were all affected on the receiving it: No more at present can I add, but that I am, my dear ladies, Your ever-affectionate sister,

HARRIET GRANDISON.

LETTER CCLXXV.

SIGNOR JERONYMO DELLA PORRETTA TO SIR

CHARLES GRANDISON.

MY GRANDISON,

You will be surprised-astonished-The dear Clementina! How has she tarnished all her glory! A young creature of her nice honour!Good God!-And must I, her brother, your Jeronymo, expose his sister?

We gave into almost every wish of her heart. The dear scripturist had requested a month's time to travel from place to place on the other side of the Apennines, partly in imitation of the daughter of the famous Israelitish general;* and partly on pretence of establishing her health; implying, that she considered themeditated marriage as a sacrifice: And we had hopes at the end of it, that she would be brought to give her hand, not uncheerfully, to the Count of Belvedere, for whom she owned pity and gratitude.

We had consented to several trifling delays of her return to us before: Yet besought her to