state of mind, and account for the steps she has taken. I will send you the letter itself as soon as I have seen her, and can prevail upon her to put herself into my protection. Till the hope of a happier state of mind shall dawn upon us, the contents of it will afflict you. She has been ten days in England: I wrote to her last night, to beg her to admit me to her presence. She expresses in her letter a generous joy in our happiness, and in the excellent character which she has heard of the beloved of my heart; of every heart. In the midst of her affecting wanderings, she preserves the greatness of mind that ever distinguished her. She wishes to see you; but unknown to us both. It would not be difficult, perhaps, to find out the place of her abode; but she depends on my honour, that I will not attempt it: Clementina loves to be punctiliously observed. In the way she is in, she must be soothed, and as little opposed as possible. She thinks too highly of my character, and apprehends that the step she has taken has lowered her own. She has great sensibility, and only sometimes wanders into minutenesses to which her circumstances, which I find are not happy, oblige her to attend. I have great hopes that I shall be able to sooth, conciliate, and restore her: her mind seems not to be deeply wounded. God enable me to quiet the heart of the noblest of your sisters! Forgive me for my two beloved sisters. They will, if you do. I hope our dear friends will make themselves and you happy, at Grandison-Hall. This cloud passed away, if God preserve us to each other, and our friends to us, all our future days must be serene at least, as far as it is in my power, they shall be so to my Harriet. Professions would disgrace my love, and your merits. All that your own heart can wish me to be, that, if I know it, will I be; for am I not the happy husbard of the best and most generous of women? and, as such, wholly yours, CHARLES GRANDISON. LETTER CCLXXVIII. LADY CLEMENTINA TO SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. [Mentioned in the preceding.] Tuesday, Feb. 13, O. S. By this time, it is very probable, you have heard of the rashest step that the writer of these presents (chequered and unhappy as the last years of her life have been) ever took. She knows it to be rash: she condemns herself for taking it. She doubts not but she shall be con demned by everybody for it: nor is she sure that she shall have the better opinion of your justice, if you are not one of the severest of her censurers; for you are a good man. Your goodness, I hear, fills every mouth in this your own country; and it is not one of your least praises, that you did your duty, in the strictest manner, to a father who was wanting in his to his whole family. It is, it seems, your principle, that where a duty is reciprocal, the failure in it of the one, acquits not the other for a failure in his. How, then, can I appear before you? I am covered with blushes at the thoughts of itI, who am a runaway from the kindest, the most indulgent, of parents-God forgive me !-Yet, can I say, I repent? I think, I can.-But, at best, it is a conditional repentance only that I boast. I am here in your England; I cannot, cannot tell you where; in a low condition; my fortune scanty; my lodgings not very convenient; two servants only my attendants; Laura (you remember her) one; weeping every hour after her friends, and our Italy: my other you know not-My page he was called in the days of my state, as I may, comparatively, call them; but now my everything: Poor youth! But he is honest, he is faithful. God reward him!-I cannot. Yet in all this my depression of circumstances, if I may so express myself, and sometimes (too often indeed) of spirits; I think I am happy in the thought that I am a single woman. Well, sir!-And what can I say farther? A thousand things I have to say: too many, to know which to say first. I had better say no more. I am not, however, sure I shall send you this, or any other letter. I have been ten days in this great, and as it seems to me, ugly city: a vastly populous one: people very busy. I thought your London people were all rich!-But what is this to write to you about? I have been out but once, and that for an airing, in one of your parks. I can't say I like England, nor its people, much: but I have seen nothing of the one, or the other. I live a very melancholy life: but that befits me best. They tell me, that your churches are poor plain things. You bestow more upon yourselves than you do upon your God: but, perhaps, you trust more to the heart, than to the eye, in the plainness of your places of devotion. But, again, what is all this stuff to you?-Yet I am apt to ramble too, too much! me. The truth is, I am not very well; so excuse But do you know how it comes about, that having the best of fathers, the best of mothers, the most affectionate of brothers, I should yet think them persecutors? How it comes about, that I, who love them, who honour them, as much as daughter ever honoured parents, or sister ever loved brothers, should run away from them all, into a strange land, a land of heretics; yet once be thought a pious kind of creature! Do you know how this comes about? Once there was a man-But him I renounced -But I had a good reason for it. And do you think I repent it? By my truth, chevalier, I do not; I never did. Yet I think of nobody half so often, nor with half the pleasure; for, though a heretic, he is a good man. But hush! Dare I, in this country, say he is a heretic? Perhaps we Catholics are looked upon as heretics here. Idolaters, I know, we are said to be-I grant that I had like to have been an idolater once-But let that pass. I believe we Catholics think worse of you Protestants, and you Protestants think worse of us Catholics, than either deserve: it may be so. But, to me, you seem to be a strange people, for all that. Of one thing, my good chevalier, methinks I should be glad.-Here am I told you are married that I knew before I left Italy; else, let. me tell you, I never would have come hither; yet I should have got away rather than be married myself, I believe; but then, perhaps, it would have been to a Catholic country. What was I going to say?-One thing I should be glad of; it is to see your lady; but not if she were to see me. I came with very few clothes, and they were not the best I had at Florence; my best of all are at Bologna. My father and mother loved to see me dressed. I dressed many a time to please them, more than to please my self. For I am not a proud creature: Do you think I am? You knew me once better than I knew myself: but you know little of me now. I am a runaway: and I know you won't forgive me. I can't help it. However, I should be glad to see your lady. She dresses richly, I suppose. Well she may! I am told she is one of the loveliest women in England: and as to her goodness—there is nobody so good. Thank God! You know, chevalier, I always prayed that the best of women might be called by your name. But Olivia, it seems, praises her; and Olivia saw her when she was a rambler to England, as, God help me! I am now. But Olivia's motive and mine were very different. Olivia went to England in hopes of a husband-Poor woman! I pity her. But, chevalier, cannot I see your lady, and she not see me? I need not be in disguise to see her. If you were with her, handing her, suppose, to church, (I would not scruple to crowd myself into some unobserved corner of your church on such an occasion,) you would be too proud of her to mind me: and you would not know me, if you saw me; for I would stoop in my shoulders, and look down; and the clothes I should have on would be only an English linen gown and petticoat, unadorned by ribbons or gew-gaw-Not half so well-dressed as your lady's woman. But yet I should thank God, that you had not disgraced the regard I had once for you: I had a great deal of pride, you know, in that hope. Thank you, sir, that you have married so lovely and so deserving a woman. She is of a good family, I hope. It was a great disappointment to me, when I came first to London, to find that you were not there. I thought, somehow or other, to catch a sight of you and your lady, were it but as you stept into your coach; and I to have been in a chair, near, or even on foot! For when I heard what a character you bore, for every kind of goodness; I, a poor fugitive, was afraid to see you. So many good lessons as you taught me, and all to come to this! Unhappy Clementina! Where will your ladyship (but I have forbidden that style) choose to take up your residence? said Antony, when we first landed; (My servant's name is Antony; but you shall not know his other name.) We landed among a parcel of guns, at the Tower, they called it, in a boat. Laura answered for me; for he spoke in Italian; Somewhere near the Chevalier Grandison's, won't you, madam? I won't tell you what was my answer; for, perhaps, I am near the Thames-I don't want you to find me out. I beseech you, chevalier, don't give yourself pain for me. I am a fugitive. Don't disgrace yourself in acknowledging any acquaintance with a creature who is poor and low; and who deserves to be poor and low; for is she not a runaway from the best of parents? But it is to avoid, not to get, a husband; you'll be pleased to remember that, sir. But, poor Laura-I am sorry for Laura; more sorry than for myself-My brother Giacomo would kill the poor creature, I believe, if ever she were to come in his way. But she is in no fault. It was with great reluctance she obeyed her mistress. She was several times as impertinent as Camilla. Poor Camilla! I used her hardly. She is a good creature. I used her hardly against my own nature, to make her the easier to part with me. I love her. I hope she is well. It is not worth her while to pine after me; I was an ungrateful creature to her. My Antony is a good young man, as I told you. I think to save half his wages, and give the other half to raise Laura's, to keep her a little in heart. The poor young man hoped preferment in my service; and I can do nothing for him. It will behove me to be a good manager. But I will sell the few jewels I have left, rather than part with him, till he can get a better service. What little things do I trouble you with! Little things to you; but not quite so little to me now, as I have managed it. But so as I can do justice to this poor youth, and poor Laura, I matter not myself. What I have done is my choice: they had no option. I over-persuaded Laura, as my friends would have done me. I feel that sting: it was not doing as I would be done by. Very, very wicked in me! I dare say, you would tell me so, were you to find me out. But, chevalier, shall I send you, yes, or no, this scrawl, written to divert me in a pensive mood? I would not, if I thought it would trouble you. God forbid that your pupil Clementina should give you discomposure, now especially in the early part of your nuptials! Yet if I could so manage, as that you would permit your secretary (I would not ask the favour of your own pen) to send a few lines to some particular place, where my servant could fetch them unknown to you or anybody, only to let me know if you have heard from Bologna, or Naples, or Florence, (I was very ungrateful to good Mrs Beaumont and the ladies her friends,) and how they all do; my father, mother, (my heart at times bleeds for them,) my dear Jeronymo, my two other brothers, and good Father Marescotti, and my sister-in-law, whom I have so much reason to love; it will be a great ease to my heart; provided the account be not a very melancholy one if it should, poor Clementina's days would be numbered upon twice five fingers. I am put in a way-This shall be sent to your palace in town. You will order your secretary to direct his letter, "To George Trumbull, Esq. to be left, till called for, at White's Chocolatehouse, in St James's Street." I depend upon your honour, chevalier, that you will acquiesce with my desire to remain incognita, till I shall consent to reveal to you the place of my abode, or to see you elsewhere. I sign only CLEMENTINA. LETTER CCLXXIX. SIR CHARLES GRANDISON TO LADY GRANDISON. Saturday, Feb. 17. ALI. day yesterday I was in pain that I heard not from Clementina. But I made myself as easy as I could in visiting my sisters, and their lords, and my aunt Grandison. What blessings do they all pour forth on my Harriet! What compassion do they express for the dear fugitive! How do they long to see her! Yesterday I received a letter from her. The copy of that to which hers is an answer; of hers; and of my reply; and her return to that; I enclose. You will read them to our friends in English. You will find, by the last of the four, that I am to be admitted to her presence. I would not miss a post, or I should have delayed, till the interview be over, the sending this to my Harriet. Hope the best, my dearest love. The purity of your heart, and of Clementina's, and the integrity of my own, if I know my heart, bids us humbly hope for a happy dissipation of the present cloud, which, hanging over the heads of a family I revere, engages our compassion, and mingles a sigh with our joys. Adieu, my best, my dearest love. Answer for me to all my friends. CHARLES GRANDISON. LETTER CCLXXX. SIR CHARLES GRANDISON TO LADY CLEMENTINA. [Under cover, "To GEORGE TRUMBULL, Esq." &c.] St James's Square, Wedn. Night, Feb. 14. TEN days the noble Clementina in England, the native place of her fourth brother, her equally admiring and faithful friend; yet not honour him with the knowledge of her arrival!-Forgive me, if I call you cruel.-It is in your power, madam, to make one of the happiest men in the world a very unhappy one; and you will effectually do it, if you keep from him the opportunity of throwing himself at your feet, and welcoming you to a country always dear to him, but which will be made still dearer by your arrival in it. I have a letter from your and my Jeronymo. I have a great deal to say to you of its contents; of your father, mother, brothers-But it must be said, not written. For God's sake, madam, permit me to attend you in company of one of my sisters, or otherwise, as you shall think best. You have in me a faithful, an indulgent friend. I am no severe man: Need I tell you that I am not? If you do not choose that anybody else shall know the place of your abode, I will faithfully keep your secret. You shall be as much the mistress of your own will, of your own actions, as if I knew not where to address myself to you. If ever you had a kind thought of your fourth brother, if you ever wished him happy, grant him the favour of attending you; for his happiness, I repeat, depends upon it. I received our Jeronymo's letter but on Monday. Tender and affectionate are the contents. I have ridden post, to get hither this night, in hopes of being favoured with intelligence of you. In the morning I should have made inquiries at the proper places: but little did I think my sister could have been so many days ! in town. Let not an hour pass, after this comes to your hand, before you relieve the anxious heart of, Dearest Lady Clementina, Your most affectionate brother, LETTER CCLXXXI. LADY CLEMENTINA TO SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. Friday Morning, Feb. 16. O. S. I RECEIVED yours but this moment. What can I say to the contents? I wish to see you; but dare not. Your happiness, you say, depends upon an interview with me. Why do you tell me it does? I wish you happy. Yet, if you wished me so, you would have told me how my dear friends in Italy do. This omission was designed. It was not generous in the Chevalier Grandison. It was made to extort from me a favour, which you thought I should otherwise be unwilling to grant. But can you forgive the rash Clementina? God is merciful as well as just. You imitate him. But how can Clementina, humbled as she is, be sunk so low, as to appear a delinquent before the man she respects for a character, which, great as she thought it before, has risen upon her since her arrival in England? But, sir, can you, will you, engage, that my friends will allow me to continue single? Can you answer, in particular, for the discontinuance of the Count of Belvedere's addresses? Can you procure forgiveness, not only for me, but my poor Laura? Will you take into your service, or recommend him effectually to that of some one of your friends, in some manner that is not altogether servile, the honest youth who has behaved unexceptionably in mine? For he wishes not to return to Italy. Answer me these few easy and plain questions; and you will hear farther from CLEMENTINA. out using either compulsion or over-earnest persuasion. Who, madam, can forbid the Count of Belvedere to hope? Leave him hope. If he has not the over-earnest entreaties of your own relations to give weight to his addresses, it will be in your power to give him either encouragement or despair. I will engage for the joyful reconciliation to her of all the dear Clementina's friends. I am sure I can. Laura shall be forgiven, and provided for by an annuity equal to her wages, if the continuance of her service be not accepted. I will myself entertain your young man ; and place and reward him according to his merits. And now, madam, admit to the honour of your presence, Your brother, your friend, Your ever-grateful and LETTER CCLXXXIII. LADY CLEMENTINA TO SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. Saturday Morning, Feb. 17. I DEPEND upon your honour, sir, for the performance of the prescribed conditions: yet, on meditating my appearance before you, I am more and more ashamed to see you. It was a great disappointment to me at my first arrival, that you were at your country-seat. At that time my heart was full. I had much to say, and I could have seen you then with more fortitude than now falls to my share. However, I will see you. To-morrow, sir, about five in the evening, you will find, at one of the doors on the higher ground, on the left hand going up St James's Street, from the Palace, as it is called, the expecting Laura, who will conduct you to CLEMENTINA. vants, as they crossed the way; and stood out on the pavement, that I might see her. When she found she had caught my eye, she ran into the house, wringing her clasped hands-God be praised! God be praised! were her words, as I followed her in, in her own language. Laura can speak no other. Shew me, shew me to your lady, good Laura! said I, with emotion. She ran up one pair of stairs before me. She entered the dining-room, as it is called. I stopt at the stairs' head till I had Clementina's commands. Laura soon came out. She held open the door for me, curtseying in silence. The drawn window-curtains darkened the room but the dignity of Clementina's air and motion left me not in doubt. She stood up, supporting herself on the back of an elbow chair. Taking the trembling hand: Welcome, thrice welcome to England, dearest Lady Clementina! I pressed her hand with my lips; and seated her; for she trembled; she sobbed; she endeavoured to speak, but could not for some mo ments. I called to Laura, fearing she was fainting. O that well-known voice! said she. And do you, can you, bid me welcome?-Me, a fugitive, an ingrate, undutiful!-O chevalier, lower not your unsullied character, by approving so unnatural a step as that which I have taken! I do bid you welcome, madam! Your brother, your friend, from his soul, welcomes you to England. Let me know, chevalier, before another word passes, whether I have a father, whether I have a mother? Blessed be God; madam, you have both. She lifted up her clasped hands: Thank God! God, I thank thee! Distraction would have been my portion, if I had not! I was afraid to ask after them. I should have thought myself the most detestable of parricides, if either of them had been no more. They are in the utmost distress for your safety. They will think themselves happy, when they know you are well, and in the protection of your brother Grandison. Will they, sir? O what a paradox! They so indulgent, yet so cruel-I so dutiful, yet a fugitive! But tell me, sir; determined as I was against entering into a state I too much honour to enter into it with a reluctant heart, could I take any other step than that I have taken, to free myself from the cruelty of persuasion? O that I might have been permitted to take the veil!-But answer my question, chevalier. Surely, madam, they would not have compelled you. They always declared to me they would not. Not compelled me, sir! Did not my father kneel to me? My mother's eyes spoke more than her lips could have uttered. The Bishop had influenced good Father Marescotti (against the interests of religion, I had almost said) to op pose the wish of my heart. Jeronymo, your Jeronymo, gave into their measures: What refuge had I-Our Giacomo was inexorable. I was to be met, on my return from Florence to Bologna, by the Count of Belvedere, and all those of his house; the General was to be in his company: I had secret intelligence of all this: and I was to be received as an actual bride at Bologna, or made to promise I would be so within a few days after my arrival. My sister-inlaw, my only advocate among my Italian friends, pitied me, it is true: but, for that reason, she was not to be allowed to come to Bologna. I was at other times denied to go to Urbino, to Rome, to Naples-Could I do otherwise than I have done, if I would avoid profaning a sacrament? My dearest sister Clementina sometimes accuses herself of rashness, for taking a step so ex'traordinary. At this moment, does she not receive her brother in darkness? Whence this sweet consciousness? But what is done, is done. Your conscience is a law to you. If that accuse you, you will repent: if it acquit you, who shall condemn? Let us look forward, madam. I approve not of the vehemence of your friends' persuasions. Yet what parents ever meant a child more indulgence; what brothers, a sister more disinterested affection? me. I own, sir, that my heart at times misgives But answer me this: Are you of opinion I ought, at the instance of my parents and brothers, however affectionate, however indulgent in all other instances, to marry against inclination, against justice, against conscience? Against any one of these you ought not. Well, sir, then I will endeavour to make myself easy as to this article. But will you undertake, sir, (a woman wants a protector,) to maintain this argument for me? I will, madam: and shall hope for the more success, if you will promise to lay aside all thoughts of the veil. Ah, chevalier! Will my dearest sister answer me one question: Is it not your hope, that, by resisting their wishes, you may tire out opposition, and at last bring your friends to consent to a measure to which they have always been extremely averse? Ah, chevalier!-But if I could get them to consent Dear madam ! is not their reasoning the same -If they could get you to consent? Ah, chevalier! May not this be a contention for months, for years? And I know, sir, your inference: You think that in a contention between parents and child, the child should yield. Is not that your inference? Not against reason, against justice, against conscience. But there may be cases, in which neither ought to be their own judge. Well, sir, you that have yielded to a plea of |