Letter I.
Miss Lucy Selby to — Miss Harriet Byron.
Ashby–Canons, January 10.
Your resolution to accompany Mrs. Reeves to London, has greatly alarmed your three lovers: and two of them, at least, will let you know that it has. Such a lovely girl as my Harriet, must expect to be more accountable for her steps than one less excellent and less attractive.
Mr. Greville, in his usual resolute way, threatens to follow you to London; and there, he says, he will watch the motions of every man who approaches you; and, if he find reason for it, will early let such man know his pretensions, and the danger he may run into, if he pretend to be his competitor. But let me not do him injustice; though he talks of a rival thus harshly, he speaks of you more highly than man ever spoke of woman. Angel and goddess are phrases you have been used to from him; and though spoken in his humorous way, yet I am sure he most sincerely admires you.
Mr. Fenwick, in a less determined manner, declares, that he will follow you to town, if you stay there above one fortnight.
The gentle Orme sighs his apprehensions, and w hes you would change your purpose. Though hopeless, he says, it is some pleasure to him that he can think himself in the same county with you; and much more, that he can tread in your footsteps to and from church every Sunday, and behold you there. He wonders how your grandmamma, your aunt, your uncle, can spare you. Your cousin Reeves’s surely, he says, are very happy in their influences over us all.
Each of the gentlemen is afraid, that by increasing the number of your admirers, you will increase his difficulties: but what is that to them, I asked, when they already know, that you are not inclined to favour any of the three?
If you hold your resolution, and my cousin Reeves’s their time of setting out, pray let me know, and 1 will attend you at my uncle Selby’s, to wish you a good journey, much pleasure in town, and a return with a safe and sound heart. My sister, who, poor dear girl, continues extremely weak and low, will spare me for a purpose so indispensable. I will not have you come to us. I know it will grieve you to see her in the way she is in. You too much take to heart the infirmities of your friends which you cannot cure; and as your grandmamma lives upon your smiles, and you rejoice all your friends by your cheerfulness, it would be cruel to make you sad.
Mr. Greville has just left us. He dropt in upon us as we were going to dinner. My grandmother Selby you know is always pleased with his rattling. She prevailed on him to alight, and sit down with us. All his talk was of you. He repeated his for-mer threatenings (as I called them to him) on your going to town. After dinner, he read us a letter from Lady Frampton relating to you. He read us also some passages from the copy of his answer, with design, I believe, that I should ask him to leave it behind him. He is a vain creature, you know, and seemed fond of what he had written. I did ask him. He pretended to make a scruple oi’t your seeing it; but it was a faint one. However, he called for pen and ink; and when it was brought him, scratched over two passages, and that with so many little flou-rishes (as you will see) that he thought they could not be read. But the ink I furnished him with, happening to be paler than his, you will find he was not cunning enough. I promised to return it.
Send me a line by the bearer, to tell me if your resolution holds as to the day.
Adieu, my dearest Harriet. May angels protect and guide you whithersoever you go!
LUCY SELBY.
Letter II.
Mr. Greville to Lady Frampton. [Inclosed in the preceding.]
Northampton, January 6. Your ladyship demands a description of the person of the celebrated Miss Byron in our neighbour-hood; and to know, whether, as report tells you, love has listed me in the number of her particular admirers? — Particular admirers you well distin-guish; since every one who beholds her admires her.
Your ladyship confines your enquiries to her per-son, you tell me: and you own, that women are much more solicitous about the beauties of that, than of the mind. Perhaps it may be so; and that their envy is much sooner excited by the one than the other. But who, madam, can describe the per-son of Miss Harriet Byron, and her person only; animated as every feature is by a mind that bespeaks all human excellence, and dignifies her in every air, in every look, in every motion?
No man living has a greater passion for beauty than I have. Till I knew Miss Byron, I was one of those who regarded nothing else in the sex. Indeed, I considered all intellectual attainments as either useless or impertinent in women. Your ladyship knows what were my free notions on this head, and has rebuked me for them. A wise, a learned lady, I considered as a very unnatural character. I wanted women to be all love, and nothing else. A very little prudence allowed I to enter into their composition; just enough to distinguish the man of sense from the fool; and that for my own sake. You know I have vanit}^ madam: but lovely as Miss Byron’s person is, I defy the greatest sensualist on earth not to admire her mind more than her person. What a triumph would the devil have, as I have often thought, when I have stood contemplating her per-fections, especially at church, were he able to raise up a man that could lower this angel into woman? — Pardon me! — Your ladyship knows my mad way of saying every thing that rises to my thoughts.
Sweetness of temper must make plain features glow: what an effect must it then have upon fine ones? Never was there a sweeter-tempered woman. Indeed from sixteen to twenty, all the sex (kept in humour by their hopes, and by their attractions) are said to be good-tempered; but she is remarka-bly so. She is just turned of twenty, but looks not more than seventeen. Her beauty hardly yet in its full blow, will last longer, I imagine, than in an ear-lier blossom. Yet the prudence visible in her whole aspect, gave her a distinction, even at twelve, that promised what she would be at a riper age.
Yet with all this reigning good-nature visible in her face and manner, there is such a native dignity in all she says, in all she does (though mingled with a frankness that shews her mind’s superiority to the minds of almost all other women) that it damps and suppresses, in the most audacious, all imaginations of bold familiarity.
I know not, by my soul, how she does this nei-ther: yet so it is. She jests; she raillies: but I cannot railly her again. Love, it is said, dignifies the adored object. Perhaps it is that which awes me.
And now will your ladyship doubt of an affirma-tive answer to your second question, Whether love has listed me in the number of her particular ad-mirers?
He has: and the devil take me if I can help my-self: and yet I have no encouragement — nor any — body else; that’s my consolation. Fenwick is deeper in, if possible, than I. We had at our first acquaintance, as you have heard, a tilting-bout on the occasion: but are sworn friends now; each having agreed to try his fortune by patience and perseverance; and being assured that the one has no more of her favour to boast of, than the other*. “ We have indeed blustered away between us half a score more of her admirers. Poor whining Orme, however, perseveres. But of him we make no account: he has a watery head, and though he finds a way, by his sister, who visits at Mr Selby’s, and is much esteemed there, to let Miss Byron know his passion for her, notwithstanding the negative he has received; yet doubt we not that she is safe from a flame that he will quench with his tears, before it can rise to a head to disturb us.
“You ladies love men should whine after you; but never yet did I find, that where a blustering fellow was a competitor, the lady married the milksop.”
* The passages in this letter thus marked (") are those which in the preceding one are said to be scratched out; but yet were legible by holding up the letter to the light.
But let me in this particular do Miss Byron justice: how she manages it I cannot tell; but she is cour-teous to all; nor could ever any man charge her either with pride or cruelty. All I fear, is, that she has such an equality in her temper, that she can hard-ly find room in her heart for a particular love: Nor will, till she meets with one whose mind is nearly as faultless as her own; and the general tenor of whose life and actions calls upon her discretion to give her leave to love. “ This apprehension I owe to a conversation I had with her grandmother Shirley; a lady that is an ornament to old age; and who hint-ed to me, that her grand-daughter had exceptions both to Fenwick and me, on the score of a few indulgencies that perhaps have been too public; but which all men of fashion and spirit give themselves, and all women, but this, allow of, or hate not men the worse for. But then what is her objection to ‘Jrme? lie is a sober dog.”
She was but eight years old when her mother died She also was an excellent woman. Her death •was brought on by grief for that of her husband; which happened but six months before — a rare instance!
The grandmother and aunt, to whom the girl is dutiful to a proverb, will not interfere with her choice. If they are applied to for their interest, the answer is constantly this: the approbation of their Harriet must be first gained, and then their consent is ready.
There is a Mr. Deane, a man of an excellent character for a lawyer; but indeed he left off prac-tice on coming into possession of a handsome estate. He was the girl’s godfather. He is allowed to have great influence over them all. Harriet calls him papa. To him I have applied; but his answer is the very same: his daughter Harriet must choose for herself: all motions of this kind must come first from her.
And ought I to despair of succeedingwith the girl herself? I, her Greville; not contemptible in person; an air — free and easy, at least; having a good estate in possession; fine expectances besides; dressing well, singing well, dancing well, and blest with a mo-derate share of confidence; which makes other women think me a clever fellow: she, a girl of twenty; her fortune between ten and fifteen thousand pounds only; for her father’s considerable estate, on his demise, for want of male heirs, went with the name; her grandmother’s jointure not more than 5001. a year. — And what though her uncle Selby has no children, and loves her, yet has he nephews “and nieces of his own, whom he also loves; for this Harriet is his wife’s niece.
I will not despair. If resolution, if perseverance will do, and if she be a woman, she shall be mine — and so I have told her aunt Selby, and her uncle too; and so I have told Miss Lucy Selby, her cousin, as she calls her, who is highly and deservedly in her favour; and so indeed have I more than once told the girl herself.
But now to the description of her person — Let me die, if I know where to begin. She is all over love-liness. Does not every — body else who has seen her tell you so? Her stature; shall I begin with her stature? She cannot be said to be tall; but yet is some — thing above the middling. Her shape-^-But what care I for her shape? I, who hope to love her still more, though possession may make me admire her less, when she has not that to boast of? We young fellows who have been abroad, are above regarding English shapes, and prefer to them the French neg-ligence. By the way, I think the foreign ladies in the right, that they aim not at what they cannot at-tain. Whether we are so much in the right to come into their taste, is another thing. But be this as it will, there is so much ease and dignity in the per-son, in the dress, and in every air and motion, of Miss Harriet Byron, that fine shapes will ever be in fashion where she is, be either native or fo-reigner the judge.
Her complexion is admirably fair and clear. I have sat admiring her complexion, till I have ima-gined I have seen the life-blood flowing with equal course through her translucent veins.
Her forehead, so nobly free and open, shews dig-nity and modesty, and strikes into one a kind of awe, singly contemplated, that (from the delight which accompanies the awe) I know not how to describe. Every single feature, in short, will bear the nicest examination; and her whole face, and her neck, so admirably set on her finely-proportioned shoulders — let me perish, if, taking her altogether, I do not hold her to be the most unexceptionable beauty I ever beheld. But what still is her particular excel-lence, and distinguishes her from all other English women (for it must be acknowledged to be a charac-teristic of the French women of quality) is the grace which that people call plii/siogjiomi/, and we may call expression: had not her features and her complexion been so fine as they are, that grace alone, that soul shining out in her lovely aspect, joined with the ease and gracefulness of her motion, would have made her as many admirers as beholders.
After this, shall I descend to a more particular description? — I will.
Her cheek — I never saiv a cheek so beautifully turned; illustrated as it is by a charming carmine flush, which denotes sound health. A most bewitching dimple takes place in each when she smiles; and she has so much reason to be pleased with her-self, and with all about her (for she is the idol of her relations) that I believe from infancy she never frowned; nor can a frown, it is my opinion, sit upon her face for a minute. Would to Heaven I were considerable enough with her to prove the contrary!
Her mouth — There never was so lovely a mouth. But no wonder; since such rosy lips, and such ivory and even teeth, must give beauty to a mouth less charming than hers.
Her nose adds dignity to her other features. Her chin is sweetly turned, and almost imperceptibly dimpled.
Her eyes; — Ay, madam, her eyes! — Good hea-ven! what a lustre, yet not a fierce, but a mild lus — tre! How have I despised the romancing poets for their unnatural descriptions of the eyes of their heroines! But I have thought those descriptions, though absurd enough in conscience, less absurd (allowing something for poetical licence) ever since I beheld those of Miss Harriet Byron.
Her hair is a real and unlaboured ornament to her. All natural its curls: art has no share in the lustre it gives to her other beauties.
I mentioned her neck — Here I dare not trust my-self — Inimitable creature! All-attracting loveliness,
Her arm — Your ladyship knows my passion for a delicate arm. By my soul, madam, your own does not exceed it.
Her hands are extremely fine. Such fingers! And they accustomed to the pen, to the needle, to the harpsichord; excelling in all — O madam; women have souls. I am now convinced they have. I dare own to your ladyship, that once I doubted it, on a supposition that they were given us for tem-porary purposes only. And have I not seen her dance! have I not heard her sing! But indeed, mind and person, she is all harmony.
Then for reading, for acquired knowledge, what lady so young — But you know the character of her grandfather Shirley. He was a man of universal learning, and, from his public employments abroad, as polite as learned. This girl, from seven years of age, when he came to settle in England, to four-teen, when she lost him, was his delight; and her education and instruction the amusement of his va-cant hours. This is the period, he used to say, in which the foundations of all female goodness are to be laid, since so soon after fourteen they leap into women. The dead languages he aimed not to teach her; lest he should overload her young mind: but in the Italian and French he made her an adept.
Nor were the advantages common ones which she received from his lady, her grandmother, and from her aunt Selby, her father’s sister, a woman of equal worthiness. Her grandmother particularly is one of the most pious, yet most cheerful, of women. She will not permit her daughter Byron, she says, to live with her, for both their sakes. For the girl’s sake, because there is a greater resort of company at Mr. Selby ‘s, than at Shirley manor; and she is afraid, as her grandchild has a serious turn, that her own contemplative life may make her more grave than she wishes so young a woman to be. Youth, she says, is the season for cheerfulness. For her oivn sake, because she looks upon her Harriet’s company as a cordial too rich to be always at hand; and when she has a mind to regale, she will either send for her. fetch her, or visit her at Mrs. Selby’s. One of her letters to Mrs. Selby I once saw. It ran thus — “ You must spare me my Harriet. I am in pain. My spirits are not high. I would not have the undecayed mind yield, for want of using the means, to the decaying body. One happy day with our child, the true child of the united minds of her late excellent parents, will, I hope, effect the cure: if it do not, you must spare her to me hvo.”
Did I not tell you, madam, that it was very diffi-cult to describe the person only of this admirable young lady? But I stop here. A horrid appre-hension comes across me! How do I know but I am praising another maris future wife, and not my own? Here is a cousin of hers, a Mrs. Reeves, a fine lady from London, come down under the cursed influence of my evil stars, to carry this Har-riet away with her into the gay world. Woman! woman! — I beg your ladyship’s pardon; but what angel of twenty is proof against vanity? The first hour she appears, she will be a toast; stars and titles will crowd about her: and who knows how far a paltry coronet may dazzle her who deserves an imperial crown? But, woe to the man, whoever he be, whose pretensions dare to inter-fere (and have any assurance of success) with those of
Your ladyship’s Most obedient and faithful servant,
JOHN GREVILLE.
Letter III.
Miss Harriet Byron to Miss Lucy Selby.
Selby-house, Jan. 16.
I return you inclosed, my Lucy, Mr. Greville’s strange letter. As you asked him for it, he will have no doubt but you shewed it to me. It is better therefore, if he make enquiry whether you did or not, to own it. In this case he will be curious to know my sentiments upon it. He is sensible that my whole heart is open to you.
Tell him, if you think proper, in so many words, that I am far more displeased with him for his impetuosity, than gratified by his flattery.
Tell him, that I think it very hard, that when my nearest relations leave me so generously to my li-berty, a man to whom I never gave cause to treat me with disrespect, should take upon himself to threaten and controul me.
Ask him, What are his pretences for following me to London, or elsewhere?
If I had not had reasons before to avoid a more than neighbourly civility to him, he has now fur-nished me with very strong ones. The threatening lover must certainly make a tyrant husband. Don’t you think so, Lucy? But make not supposals of lover or husband to him: these bold men will turn shadows into substance in their own favour.
A woman who is so much exalted above what she can deserve, has reason to be terrified, were she to marry the complimenter (even could she suppose him so blinded by his passion as not to be absolutely insincere) to think of the height she must fall from in his opinion, when she has put it into his power to treat her but as what she is.
Indeed I both despise and fear a very high complimenter. — Despise him for his designing flattery, supposing him not to believe himself; or, if he mean what he says, for his injudiciousness. \fear him, lest he should (as in the former case he must hope) be able to raise a vanity in me, that would sink me beneath his meanness, and give him cause to triumph over my folly, at the very time that I am full of my own wisdom.
High-strained compliments, in short, always pull me down; always make me shrink into myself. Have I not some vanity to guard against? I have no doubt but Mr. Greville wished I should see this letter: and this gives me some little indignation against myself; for does it not look as if, from some faults in my conduct, Mr. Greville had formed hopes of succeeding by treating me like a fool?
I hope these gentlemen will not follow me to town, as they threaten. If they do, I will not see them, if I can any way avoid it. Yet, for me to appear to them solicitous on this head, or to desire them not to go, will be in some measure to lay my-self under an obligation to their acquiescence. It is not therefore for me to hope to influence them in this matter, since they expect too much in return for it from me; and since they will be ready to found a merit in their passion even for disobliging me.
I cannot bear, however, to think of their dangling after me wherever I go. These men, my dear, were we to give them importance with us, would be greater infringers of our natural feedom than the most severe parents; and for their owisakes: where-as parents, if ever so despotic (if not unnatural ones indeed) mean solely our good, though headstrong girls do not always think so. Yet such, even such c in be teazed out of their wills, at least out of their duty, by the men who stile themselves lovers, when they are invincible to all the entreaties and commands of their parents.
O that the next eight or ten years of my life, if I find not in the interim a man on whom my whole undivided heart can fix, were happily over! As hap-pily as the last alike important four years! To be able to look down from the elevation of thirty years, my principles fixed, and to have no capital folly to re-proach myself with, what a happiness would that be !
My cousin Reeves’s time of setting out holds; the indulgence of my dearest friends continues; and my resolution holds. But I will see my Nancy before I set out. What! shall I enter upon a party of pleasure, and leave in my heart room to reflect, in the midst of it, that there is a dear suf-fering friend who had reason to think I was afraid of giving myself pain, when I might, by the balm of true love and friendly soothings, administer comfort to her wounded heart? — No, my Lucy, believe me, if I have not generosity enough, I have sel-fishness enough, to make me avoid a sting so severe as this would be, to your
HARRIET BYRON.
Letter IV.
Miss Byron to Miss Selby.
Grosvenor-street, Tuesday, Jan. 24. We are just arrived. We had a very agreeable journey.
I need not tell you that Mr. Greville and Mr. Fenwick attended us to our first baiting; and had a genteel dinner ready provided for us: the gen-tleman will tell you this, and all particulars.
They both renewed their menaces of following me to London, if I staid above one month. They were so good as to stretch their fortnight to a month.
Mr. Fenwick, in very pathetic terms, as lie found an opportunity to engage me alone for a few mi-nutes, besought me to love him. Mr. Greville was as earnest with me to declare that I hated him. Such a declaration, he said, was all he at present wished for. It was strange, he told me, that he could neither prevail on me to encourage his love, nor to declare my hatred. He is a whimsical creature.
I raillied liim with my usual freedom; and told him, that if there were one person in the world that I was capable of hating, I could make the less scruple to oblige him. lie thanked me for that.
The two gentlemen would fain have proceeded farther: but as they are never out of their way, I dare say, they would have gone to London; and there have dangled on till we should not have got rid of them, for my whole time of being in town,
I was very gravely earnest with them to leave us, when we stept into the coach in order to proceed. Fenwick, you dog, said Mr. Greville, we must re-turn; Miss Byron looks grave. Gravity, and a rising colour in the finest face in the world, indi-cate as much as the frowns of other beauties. And in the most respectful manner they both took leave of mo; insisting, however, on my hand, and that I would wish them well.
I gave each my hand; I wish you very well, gentlemen, said I: and I am obliged to your ci-vility in seeing me so far on my journey: especially as you are so kind as to leave me here.
Why, dear madam, did you not spare your espe-cially, said Mr. Greville? — Come, Fenwick, let us retire, and lay our two loggerheads together, and live over again the past hour, and then hang our-selves.
Poor Mr. Orme! The coach, at our first setting out, passed by his park-gate, you know. There was he — on the very ridge of the highway. I saw him not till it was near him. He bowed to the very ground, with such an air of disconsolateness! — Poor Mr. Orme! — I wished to have said one word to him, when we had passed him: but the coach flew — Why did the coach fly! — But I waved my hand, and leaned out of the coach as far as I could, and bowed to him.
O Miss Byron, said Mrs. Reeves (so said Mr. Reeves) Mr. Orme is the happy man.
Did I think as you do, I should not be so desirous to have spoken to him: but, methinks, I should have been glad to have once said, Adieu, Mr. Orme; for Mr. Orme is a good man.
But, Lucy, my heart was softened at parting with my dear relations and friends; and when the heart is softened, light impressions will go deep.
My cousins’ house is suitable to their fortune: very handsome, and furnished in taste. Mrs. Reeves, knowing well what a scribbler I am, and am expected to be, has provided me with pen, ink, and paper, in abundance. She readily allowed me to take early possession of my apartment, that I might pay punctual obedience to the commands of all my friends on setting out. These, you know, were to write in the first hour of my arrival: and it was allowed to be to you, my dear. But, writing thus early, what can have occurred?
My apartment is extremely elegant. A well-furnished book-case is, however, to me the most attracting ornament in it? — Pardon me, dear pen and ink! I must not prefer any thing to you, by whose means I hope to spend some part of every day at Selby-house; and even at this distance amuse with my prattle those friends that are always so partial to it.
And now, my dear, my revered grandmamma, I ask your blessing — yours, my ever-indulgent aunt Selby — and yours, my honoured and equally beloved uncle Selby. Who knows but you will now in absence take less delight in feazing your ever-du-tiful Harriet? But yet I unbespeak not my monitor.
Continue to love me, my Lucy, as I shall endea-vour to deserve your love: and let me know how our dear Nancy does.
My heart bleeds for her. I should have held myself utterly inexcusable, had I accepted of your kindly intended dispensation, and come to town for three whole months, without repeating to her, by word of mouth, my love and my sympathizing concern for her. What merit does her patience add to her other merits! How has her calamity endeared her to me! If ever I shall be heavily af — flicted, (jod give me her amiable, her almost me — ritorious patience in sufferings!
To my cousin Iiolles’s, and all my other relations, friends, companions, make the affectionate compliments of your
HARRIET BYRON.
Letter V.
Miss Byron to Miss Selby.
Jan. 23. You rejoice me, my dear, in the hopes which, you tell me, Dr. Mitchell from London gives you in relation to our Nancy. May our incessant prayers for the restoration of her health be answered!
Three things my aunt Selby, and you, in the name of every one of my friends, injoined me at parting. The first, To write often, very often, were your words. This injunction was not needful: my heart is with you; and the good news you give me of my grandmamma’s health, and of our Nancy, enlarges that heart. The second, To give you a description of the persons and characters of the peo — ple 1 am likely to be conversant with in this great town. And, thirdly, Besides the general account which you all expected from me of the visits I made and received, you injoined me to acquaint you with the very beginnings of every address (and even of every silent and respectful distinction, were your words) that the girl whom you all so greatly favour, might receive on this excursion to town.
Don’t you remember what my uncle Selby an-swered to this? — I do: and will repeat it, to shew, that his correcting cautions shall not be forgotten.
The vanity of the sex, said he, will not suffer any thing of this sort to escape our Harriet. Wo-men make themselves so cheap at the public places in and about town, that new faces are more enquired after than even fine faces constantly seen. Harriet has an honest artless bloom in her cheeks; she may attract notice as a novice: but wherefore do you fill her head with an expectation of conquests? Wo-men, added he, offer themselves at every public place, in rows, as at a market. Because three or four silly fellows here in the country (like people at an auction, who raise the price upon each other above its value) have bid for her, you think she will not be able to set her foot out of doors, without increasing the number of her followers.
And then my uncle would have it, that my head would be unable to bear the consequence which the partiality of my other friends gave me.
It is true, my Lucy, that we young women are too apt to be pleased with the admiration pretended for us by the other sex. But I have always endea-voured to keep down any foolish pride of this sort, by such considerations as these: that flattery is the vice of men: that they seek to raise us in order to lower us, and in the end to exalt themselves on the ruins of the pride they either hope to find, or inspire: that humility, as it shines brightest in a high condition, best becomes a flattered woman of all women: that she who is puffed up by the praises of men, on the supposed advantages of person, an-swers their end upon her; and seems to own, that she thinks it a principal part of hers, to be admired by them: and what can give more importance to them, and less to herself, than this? For have not women souls as well as men, and souls as capable of the noblest attainments, as theirs? Shall they not therefore be most solicitous to cultivate the beau-ties of the mind, and to make those of person but of inferior consideration? The bloom of beauty holds but a very i’ew years; and shall not a woman aim to make herself mistress of those perfections that will dignify her advanced age? And then may she be as wise, as venerable — as my grandmamma. She is an example for us, my dear: who is so much respected, who is so much beloved, both by old and young, as my grandmamma Shirley?
In pursuance of the second injunction, I will now describe some young ladies and gentlemen who paid my cousins their compliments on their arrival in town.
.Miss Allestree, daughter of Sir John Allestree, was one. She is very pretty, and very genteel, easy, and free. I believe I shall love her.
Miss Bramber was the second. Not so pretty as Miss Allestree; but agreeable in her person and air. A little too talkative, I think.
It was one of my grandfather’s rules to me, not impertinently to start subjects, as if I would make a:i ostentation of knowledge; or as if 1 were fond of indulging a talking humour: but frankness and complaisance required, he used to say, that we women should unlock our bosoms, when we were called upon, and were expected to give our sen-timents upon any subject.
Miss Bramber was eager to talk. She seemed, even when silent, to look as if she was studying for something to say, although she had exhausted two or three subjects. This charge of volubility, I am the rather inclined to fix upon her, as neither Mr. nor Mrs. Reeves took notice to me of it, as a thing extraordinary; which, probably, they would have done, if she had exceeded her usual way. And yet, perhaps, the joy of seeing her newly arrived friends might have opened her lips. If so, your pardon, sweet Miss Bramber!
Miss Sally, her younger sister, is very amiable and very modest: a little kept down, as it seems, by the vivacity of her elder sister; between whose ages there are about six or seven years: so that. Miss Bramber seems to regard her sister as one whom she is willing to remember as the girl she was two or three years ago; for Miss Sally is not above seventeen.
What confirmed me in this, was, that the younger lady was a good deal more free when her sister was withdrawn, than when she was present; and again pursed-up her really pretty mouth when she re-turned: and her sister addressed her always by the word child, with an air of eldership; while the other called her sister, with a look of observance.
These were the ladies.
The two gentlemen who came with them, were, Mr. Barnet, a nephew of Lady Allestree, and Mr. Somner.
Mr. Somner is a young gentleman lately married; very affected, and very opinionated. I told Mrs.
Reeves, after he was gone, that I believed he was a dear lover of his person; and she owned he was. Yet had he no great reason for it. It is far from extraordinary; though he was very gaily dressed. His wife, it seems, was a young widow of great fortune; and till she gave him consequence by falling in love with him, he was thought to be a modest good sort of young man; one that had not discovered anymore perfections in himself, than other people beheld in him; and this gave her an excuse for liking him. But now he is loquacious, forward, bold, thinks meanly of the sex; and, what is worse, not the higher of the lady, for the preference she has given him.
This gentleman took great notice of me; and yet in such a way, as to have me think, that the approbation of so excellent a judge as himself, did me no small honour.
Mr. Barnet is a young man, that I imagine will be always young. At first I thought him only a fop. He affected to say some things, that, though trite, were sententious, and carried with them the air of observation. There is some degree of merit in having such a memory, as will help a person to repeat and apply other men’s wit with some tolerable propriety. But when he attempted to walk alone, he said things that it was impossible a man of common sense could say. I pronounce therefore boldly about him: yet by his outward appearance he may pass for one of your pretty fellows; for he dresses very gaily. Indeed if he has any taste, it is in dress; and this he has found out; for he talked of little else, when he led the talk; and boasted of several parts of his. What finished him with me, was, that as often as the conversation seemed to take a serious turn, he arose from his seat, and hummed an Italian air; of which however he knew nothing: but the sound of his own voice seemed to please him.
This fine gentleman recollected some high-flown compliments, and, applying them to me, looked as if he expected I should value myself upon them.
No wonder that men in general think meanly of us women, if they believe we have ears to hear, and folly to be pleased with, the frothy things that pass under the name of compliments, from such random-shooters as these.
Miss Stevens paid us a visit this afternoon. She is the daughter of Colonel Stevens, a very worthy man. She appears sensible and unaffected; has read, my cousin says, a good deal; and yet takes no pride in shewing it.
Miss Darlington came with her. They are related. This young lady has, I find, a pretty taste in poetry. Mrs. lleeves prevailed on her to shew us three of her performances. And now, as it was with some reluctance that she shewed them, is it fair to say any thing about them? I say it only to you, my friends. — One was on the parting qftivo lovers; very sensible; and so tender, that it shewed the fair writer knew how to describe the pangs that may be inno-cently allowed to arise on such an occasion. — One on the morning-datvn, and sun-rise; a subject that gave credit to herself; for she is, it seems, a very early riser. I petitioned for a copy of this, for the sake of two or three of my dear cousins, as well as to confirm my own practice; but I was modestly re-fused. — The third was on the death of a favourite linnet; a little too pathetic for the occasion; since were Miss Darlington to have lost her best and dearest friend, I imagine she had in this piece, which is pretty long, exhausted the subject; and must borrow from it some of the images which she introduces to heighten her distress for the loss of the little songster. It is a very difficult matter, I believe, for young persons of genius to rein-in their imaginations. A great flow of spirits, and great store of images crowding in upon them, carry them too frequently above their subject; and they are apt rather to say all that may be said on their fa-vourite topics, than what is proper to be said. But it is a pretty piece, however.
Thursday morning.
Lady Betty Williams supped with us the same evening. She is an agreeable woman, the widow of a very worthy man, a near relation of Mr. Reeves. She has a great and just regard for my cousin, and consults him in all affairs of importance. She seems to be turned of forty; has a son and a daughter; but they are both abroad for education.
It hurt me to hear her declare, that she cared not for the trouble of education; and that she had this pleasure, which girls brought up at home seldom give their mothers; that she and Miss Williams always saw each other, and always parted, as lovers.
Surely there must be some fault either in the temper of the mother, or in the behaviour of the daughter; and if so, I doubt it will not be amended by seeing each other but seldom. Do not lovers thus cheat and impose upon one another?
The young gentleman is about seventeen;” his sister about fifteen: and, as I understand she is a very lively, and, ’tis feared, a forward girl, shall we wonder, if in a few years time she should make such a choice for her husband as Lady Betty would least of all choose for a son-inlaw? What influence can a mother expect to have over a daughter from whom she so voluntarily estranges herself? and from whose example the daughter can receive only hearsay benefits?
But after all, methinks I hear my correcting uncle ask, May not lady Betty have better reasons for her conduct in this particular, than she gave you? — She may, my uncle, and I hope she has: but I wish she had condescended to give those better reasons, since she gave any; and then you had not been troubled with the impertinent re-marks of your saucy niece.
Lady Betty was so kind as to take great notice of me. She desired to be one in every party of plea-sure that I am to be engaged in. Persons who were often at public places, she observed, took as much delight in accompanying strangers to them, as if they were their own. The apt comparisons, she said; the new remarks; the pretty wonder; the agreeable passions excited in such, on the occasion; always gave her high entertainment: and she was sure from the observation of such a young lady, civillybowing tome, she should be equally delighted and improved. I bowed in silence. I love not to make disqualifying speeches; by such we seem to intimate that we believe the complimenter to be in earnest, or perhaps that we think the compliment our due, and want to hear it cither repeated or confirmed; and yet, possibly, we have not that pretty confusion, and those transient blushes, ready, which Mr. Greville archly says are always to be at hand when we affect to disclaim the praises given us.
Lady Betty was so good as to stop there; though the muscles of her agreeable face shewed a polite promptitude, had I, by disclaiming her compliments, provoked them to perform their office.
Am I not a sauey creature?
I know I am. But I dislike not Lady Betty, for all that.
I am to be carried by her to a masquerade, to a ridotto; when the season comes, to llanelagh and Vauxhall: in the mean time, to balls, routs, drums, and-so-forth; and to qualify me for these latter, I am to be taught all the fashionable games. Did my dear grandmamma, twenty or thirty years ago. think she should live to be told, that to the dancing-master, the singing or music-master, the high mode would require the gaming-master to be added for the completing of the female education?
Lady Betty will kindly take the lead in all these diversions.
And now, Lucy, will you not repeat your wishes, that I return to you with a sound heart? And are you not afraid that I shall become a modern fine lady? As to the latter fear, I will tell you vchen you shall suspect me — If you find that I prefer the highest of these entertainments, or the opera itself, well as I love music, to a good play of our favourite Shakespeare, then, my Lucy, let your heart ake for your Harriet: then, be apprehensive that she is laid hold on by levity; that she is captivated by the eye and the ear; that her heart is infected by the modern taste; and that she will carry down with her an appetite to pernicious gaming; and, in order to support her extravagance, will think of punishing some honest man in marriage.
James has signified to Sally his wishes to be allowed to return to Selby-house. I have not there — fore brought him the new liveries I designed for him on coming to town. I cannot bear an uncheerful brow in a servant; and he owning to me, on my talking with him, his desire to return, I have promised that he shall, as soon as Mr. Reeves has pro vided me with another servant. — Silly fellow! But I hope my aunt will not dismiss him upon it. The servant I may hire, may not care to go into the country perhaps, or may not so behave, as that I should choose to take him down with me. And James is honest; and his mother would break her heart, if he should be dismissed our service,
Several servants have already offered themselves; but, as I think people are answerable for the cha-racter of such as they choose for their domestics, I find no small difficulty in fixing. I am not of the mind of that great man, whose good-natured reason for sometimes preferring men no way deserving, was, that he loved to be a friend to those whom no other person would befriend. This was carrying his goodness very far (if he made it not an excuse for himself, for having promoted a man who proved bad aftervoards, rather than as supposing him to be so at the time); since else, he seemed not to consider, that every bad man he promoted, ran away with the reward due to a better.
Mr. and Mrs. Reeves are so kind to me, and their servants are so ready to oblige me, that I shall not be very uneasy, if I cannot soon get one to my mind. Only if I could fix on such a one, and if my grandmamma’s Oliver should leave her, as she supposes he will, now he has married Ellen, as soon as a good inn offers, James may supply Oliver’s place, and the new servant may continue mine instead of James.
And now that I have gone so low, don’t you wish me to put an end to this letter? — I believe you do.
Well then, with duty and love ever remembered where so justly due, believe me to be, my dear Lucy, Your truly affectionate
HARRIET BYRON.
I will write separately to what you say of Mr. Greville, Mr. Fenwick, and Miss Ormc; yet hope to be time enough for the post.
Letter VI.
Miss Byron to Miss Selby.
Sat. Jan. 28. As to what you say of Mr. Greville’s concern on my absence (and, I think, with a little too much feeling for him) and of his declaring himself unable to live without seeing me; I have but one fear about it; which is, that he is forming a pretence from his violent love, to come up after me: and if he does, I will not see him, if I can help it.
And do you indeed believe him to be so much in love? By your seriousness on the occasion, you seem to think he is. O my Lucy! What a good heart you have! And did he not weep when he told you so? Did he not turn his head away, and pull out his handkerchief! — O these dissemblers! The hyaena, my dear, was a male devourer. The men in malice, and to extenuate their own guilt, made the creature & female. And yet there may be male and female of this species of monsters. But as women have more to lose with regard to reputation than men, the male hyaena must be infinitely the. more dangerous creature of the two; since he will come to us, even into our very houses, fawning, cringing, weeping, licking our hands; while the den of the female is by the highway-side, and wretched youths must enter into it, to put it in her power to devour them.
Let me tell you, my dear, that if there be an art-ful man in England, with regard to us women (art — ful equally in his free speaking, and in his syco — phancies) Mr. Greville is the man; and he intends to be so too, and values himself upon his art. Does he not as boldly as constantly, insinuate, that flat-tery is dearer to a woman than her food? Yet who so gross a flatterer as himself, when the humour is upon him? And yet at times he wants to build up a merit for sincerity or plain-dealing, by saying free things.
It is not difficult, my dear, to find out these men, were we earnest to detect them. Their chief strength lies in our weakness. But however weak we are, I think we should not add to the triumph of those who make our weakness the general subject of their satire. We should not prove the justice of their ridicule by our own indiscretions. But the traitor is within us. If we guard against ourselves, we may bid defiance to all the arts of man.
You know, that my great objection to Mr. Gre — ville is for his immoralities. A man of free prin — ciples, shewn by practices as free, can hardly make a tender husband, were a woman able to get over considerations that she ought not to get over. Who shall trust for the performance of his second duties, the man who avowedly despises hh first? Mr. Gre-ville had a good education: he must have taken fains to render vain the pious precepts of his wor-thy father; and still more to make a jest of them.
Three of his women we have heard of, besides her whom he brought with him from Wales. You know he has only affected to appear decent since he has cast his eyes upon me. The man, my dear, must be an abandoned man, and must have a very hard heart, who can pass from woman to woman, without any remorse for a former, whom, as may be supposed, he has by the most solemn vows se-duced. And whose leavings is it, my dear, that a virtuous woman takes, who marries a profligate?
Is it not reported that his Welshwoman, to whom, at parting, he gave not sufficient for a twelve-month’s scanty subsistence, is now upon the town? Vile man! He thinks it to his credit, I have heard, to own it a seduction, and that she was not a vicious creature till he made her so.
One only merit has Mr. Greville to plead in this hlack transaction: it is, that he has, by his whole conduct in it, added a warning to our sex. And shall I, despising the warning, marry a man, who, specious as he is in his temper, and lively in his conversation, has shown so bad a nature?
His fortune, as you say, his great. The more inexcusable therefore is he for his niggardliness to his Welshwoman. On his fortune he presumes: it will procure him a too easy forgiveness from others of our sex: but fortune without merit will never do with me, were the man a prince.
You say, that if a woman resolves not to marry till she finds herself addressed to by a man of strict virtue, she must be for ever single. If this be true, what wicked creatures are men? What a dreadful abuse of passions, given them for the noblest pur-poses, are they guilty of!
I have a very high notion of the marriage-state. I remember what my uncle once averred; that a woman out of wedlock is half useless to the end of her being. How indeed do the duties of a good wife, of a good mother, and a worthy matron, well performed, dignify a woman! Let my aunt Selby’s example, in her enlarged sphere, set against that of any single woman of like years moving in her nar-row circle, testify the truth of the observation. My grandfather used to say, that families are little communities; that there are but few solid friendships out of them; and that they help to make up wor-thily, and to secure, the great community, of which they are so many miniatures.
But yet it is my opinion, and I hope that I never by my practice shall discredit it, that a woman who, with her eyes open, marries a profligate man, had, generally, much better remain single all her life; since it is very likely, that by such a step she defeats, as to herself, all the good ends of society. What a dreadful, what a presumptuous risque runs she, who marries a wicked man, even hoping to re-claim him, when she cannot be sure of keeping her own principles! — Be not deceived; evil communication corrupts good ‘manner s; is a caution truly apostolical.
The text you mention of the unbelieving husband being converted by the believing wife, respects, as I take it, the first ages of Christianity; and is an instruction to the converted wife to let her uncon — verted husband see in her behaviour to him, while he beheld her chaste conversation coupled with fear, the efficacy upon her own heart of the excellent doc-trines she had embraced. It could not have in view the woman who, being single, chose a. pagan husband in hopes of converting him. Nor can it give encour-agement for a woman of virtue and religion to marry a profligate in hopes of reclaiming him. Who can touch pitch, and not be defiled?
As to Mr. Fenwick, I am far from having a bet-ter opinion of him than I have of Mr. Greville. You know what is whispered of him. He has more decency however: he avows not free principles, as the other does. But you must have observed how much he seems to enjoy the mad talk and free sen-timents of the other: and that other always bright — ens up and rises in his freedoms and impiety on Mr. Fenwick’s sly applauses and encouraging coun-tenance. In a word, Mr. Fenwick, not having the same lively things to say, nor so lively an air to carry them off, as Mr. Greville has, though he would be thought not to want sense, takes pains to show that he has as corrupt a heart. If I thought anger would not give him consequence, I should hardly forbear to show myself displeased, when he points by a leering eye, and by a broad smile, the free jest of the other, to the person present whom he thinks most apt to blush, as if for fear it should be lost; and still more, when on the modest cheek’s showing the sensibility of the person so insulted, he breaks out into a loud laugh, that she may not be able to recover herself.
Surely these men must think us women egregious hypocrites: they must believe that we only affect modesty, and in our hearts approve of their free-dom: for, can it be supposed, that such as call themselves gentlemen, and who have had the edu-cation and opportunities that these two have had, would give themselves liberties of speech on pur-pose to affront us ?
I hope I shall find the London gentlemen more polite than these our neighbours of the fox-chace: and yet hitherto I have seen no great cause to prefer them to the others. But about the court, and at the fashionable public places, I expect wonders. Pray Heaven, I may not be disappointed!
Thank Miss Orme, in my name, for the kind wishes she sends me. Tell her, that her doubts of my affection for her are not just; and that I do really and indeed love her. Nor should she want the most explicit declarations of my love, were I not more afraid of her in the character of a sister to a truly respectable man, than doubtful of her in that of a friend to rut’: in which latter light, I even joy to consider her. But she is a little naughty, tell her, because she is always hading to one subject. And yet, how can I be angry with her for it, if her good opinion of me induces her to think it in my power to make the brother happy, whom she so dearly and deservedly loves? 1 cannot but esteem her for the part she takes. — And this it is that makes me afraid of the artlessly-artful Miss Orme.
It would look as if I thought my duty, and love? and respects, were questionable, if in every letter I repeated them to my equally honoured and beloved benefactors, friends, and favourers. Sup — pose them therefore always included in my sub — scription to you, my Lucy, when I tell you that I am, and will be,
Your ever-affectionate
HARRIET BYRON.
Letter VII.
Mr. Selby to Miss Byron.
Selby-house, Jan. 30. Well! and now there wants but a London lover or two to enter upon the stage, and Vanity–Fair will be proclaimed, and directly opened. Greville every where magnifying you in order to justify his flame for you: Fenwick exalting you above all women: Orme adoring you, and by his hum-ble silence saying more than any of them: pro posals besides from this man: letters from that! What scenes of flattery and nonsense have I been witness to for these past three years and half, that young Mr. Elford began the dance? Single! Well may you have remained single till this your twen-tieth year, when you have such ehoice of admirers, that you don’t know which to have. So in a mer-cer’s shop, the tradesman has a fine time with you women; when variety of his rich wares distract you; and fifty to one at last, but as well in men as silks, you choose the worst, especially if the best is offered at first, and refused. For women know belter how to be sorry, than to amend.
“It is true, say you, that we young women are apt to be pleased with admiration” — Oil oh! Are you so? And so I have gained one point with you at last; have I?
“But I have always endeavoured” [And I, Har-riet, wish you had succeeded in your endeavours] “ to keep down any foolish pride” — Then you own that pride you have? — Another point gained! Con-science, honest conscience, ivill now-and-then make you women speak out. But now I think of it, here is vanity in the very humility. Well say you endea-voured, when female pride, like love, though hid under a barrel, will flame out at the bung.
Well, said I, to your aunt Selby, to your grand-mamma, and to your cousin Lucy, when we all met to sit in judgment upon your letters, now I hope you’ll never dispute with me more on this flagrant love of admiration which I have so often observed swallows up the hearts and souls of you all; since your Harriet is not exempt from it; and since with all your speciousness, with all her prudence, with all her caution, she (taken with the qualm of conscience) owns it.
But, no, truly! All is right that you say: all is right that you do! — Your very confessions are brought as so many demonstrations of your diffi-dence, of your ingenuousness, and I cannot tell what.
Why, 1 must own, that no father ever loved his daughter as I love my niece: but yet, girl, your faults, your vanities, I do not love. It is my glory, that 1 think myself able to judge of my friends as they deserve; not as being my friends. Why, the best beloved of my heart, your aunt herself — you know, I value her now more, now less, as she deserves. But with all those I have named, and with all your relations, indeed, their Harriet cannot be in fault. And why? Because you are related to them; and because they attribute to themselves some merit from the relation they stand in to you. Super eroga-torians all of them (I will make words whenever I please) with their attributions to you; and because you are of their sex, forsooth; and because I accuse you in a point in which you are all concerned, and so make a common cause of it.
Here one exalts you for your good sense; because you have a knack, by help of a happy memory, of making every thing you read, and every thing that is told you, that you like, your own (your grand-father’s precepts paiticularly); and because, I think, you pass upon us as your own what you have borrowed, if not stolen.
Another praises you for your good-nature — The deuce is in it, if a girl who has crowds of admirers after her, and a new lover wherever she shows her bewitching face; who is blest with health and spi-rits; and has every-body for her friend, let her de serve it or not; can be z//-natured. Who can such a one have to quarrel with, trow?
Another extols you for your cheerful wit, even when displayed, bold girl as you are, upon your uncle; in which indeed you are upheld by the wife of my bosom, whenever I take upon me to tell you what ye all, even the best of ye, are.
Yet sometimes they praise your modesty: and why your modesty? — Because you have a skin in a manner transparent; and because you can blush — I was going to say, whenever you please.
At other times, they will find out, that you have features equally delicate and regular; when I think, and I have examined them jointly and separately, that all your taliivgness is owing to that open and cheerful countenance, which gives them a gloss (or what shall I call it?) that we men are apt to be pleas-ed with at first sight. A gloss that takes one, as it were, by surprize. But give me the beauty that grows upon us every time we see it; that leaves room for something to be found out to its advan-tage, as we are more and more acquainted with it.
“Your correcting uncle,” you call me. And so I will be. But what hope have I of your amendment, when every living soul, man, woman, and child, that knows you, puffs you up? There goes Mr. Selby! I have heard strangers say — And who is Mr. Selby? another stranger has asked — Why, Mr. Selby is uncle to the celebrated Miss Byron. — Yet I, who have lived fifty years in tin’s country, should think I might be known on my oivn account, and not as the uncle of a girl of twenty.
“Am I not a saucy creature?” in another place you ask. And you answer, “ I know I am.” I am glad you do. Now may I call you so by j’our own authority, I hope. But with your aunt, it is only the effect of your agreeable vivacity. What abomi-nable partiality! E’en do what you will, Harriet, you’ll never be in fault. I could almost wish — But I won’t tell you what I wish neither. But some-thing must betide you, that you little think of; de pend upon that. AH your days cannot be halcyon ones. I would give a thousand pounds with all my soul, to see you heartily love: ay, up to the very ears, and unable to help yourself! You are not thirty yet, child: and, indeed, you seem to think the time of danger is not over. I am glad of your consciousness, my dear. Shall I tell Greville of your doubts, and of your difficulties, Harriet? As to the ten coming years, I mean? And shall I tell him of your prayer to pass them safely? — But is not this wish of yours, that ten years of bloom were over-past, and that you were arrived at the thirtieth year nf your age, a very singular one? — A flight! a mere Might! Ask ninety-nine of your sex out of an hundred, if they would adopt it.
In another letter you ask Lucy, “ If Mr. Greville has not said, that flattery is dearer to a woman than her food.” Well niece, and what would you be at? Is it not so? — I do aver, that Mr. Greville is a sen-sible man; and makes good observations.
“Men’s chief strength, you say, lies in the weakness of women.” Why so it does. Where else should it lie? And this from their immeasurable love of admiration and flattery, as here you seem to acknowledge of your own accord, though it has been so often perversely disputed with me. Give you women but rope enough, you’ll do your own business.
However, in many places you have pleased me: but no-where more than when you recollect my averment (without contradicting it; which is a rarity!) “ that a woman out of wedlock is half use-less to the end of her being.” Good girl! That was an assertion of mine, and I will abide by it. Lucy simpered when we came to this place, and looked at me. She expected, I saw, my notice upon it; so did your aunt: but the confession was so frank, that I was generous; and only said, True as the gospel.
I have written a long letter: yet have not said one quarter of what I intended to say when I began. You will allow that you have given your correcting uncle, ample subject. But you fare something the better for saying, “ you unbespeak not your monitor.”
You own that you have some vanity. Be more free in your acknowledgments of this nature (you may; for are you not a woman?) and you’ll fare something the better for your ingenuousness; and the rather, as your acknowledgment will help me up with your aunt and Lucy, and your grandmamma, in an argument I will not give up.
I have had fresh applications made to me — But I will not say from whom: since we have agreed long ago not to prescribe to so discreet a girl, as in the main we all think you, in the articles of love and marriage.
With ah your faults I must love you. I am half ashamed to say how much I miss you already. We are all naturally cheerful folks: yet, I don’t know how it is; your absence has made a strange chasm at our table. Let us hear from you every post: that will be something. Your doting aunt tells the hours on the day she expects a letter. Your grandmother is at present with us, and in heart I am sure regrets your absence: but as your tenderness to her has kept you from going to London for so many years, she thinks she ought to be easy. Her example goes a great way with us all, you know; and particularly with
Your truly affectionate (though correcting) uncle,
GEO. SELBY.
Letter VIII.
Miss Byron to Miss Selby.
Tuesday, January 31. I am already, my dear Lucy, quite contrary to my own expectation, enabled to obey the third gene-ral injunction laid upon me at parting, by you, and all my dear friends; since a gentleman, not incon-siderable in his family or fortune, has already beheld your Harriet with partiality.
Not to heighten your impatience by unnecessary parade, his name is Folder. He is a young gentle-man of an handsome independent fortune, and still larger expectations from a Welch uncle now in town, Sir Rowland Meredith, knighted in his sheriffalty, on occasion of an address which he brought tip to the king from his county.
Sir Rowland, it seems, requires from his nephetr, on pain of forfeiting his favour for ever, that he mar-ries not without his approbation: which, he de clares, he never will give, except the woman be of a good family; has a gentlewoman’s fortune; has had the benefit of a religious education; which he considers as the best security that can be given for her good behaviour as a wife, and as a mother; so for-ward does the good knight look! Her” character unsullied: acquainted with the theory of the do-mestic duties, and not ashamed, occasionally, to en ter into the direction of the practice. Her fortune, however, as his nephew will have a good one, he declares to be the least thing he stands upon; only that he would have her possessed of from six to ten thousand pounds, that it may not appear to be a match of mere love, and as if his nephew were taken in, as he calls it, rather by the eyes than by the understanding. Where a woman can have such a fortune given her by her family, though no greater, it will be an earnest, he says, that the family she is of have worth, as he calls it, and want not to owe obligations to that of the man she marries.
Something particular, something that has the look of forecast and prudence, you’ll say, in the old knight.
O but I had like to have forgot; his future niece must also be handsome. He values himself, it seems, upon the breed of his horses and dogs, and makes polite comparisons between the more noble, and the less noble animals.
Sir Rowland himself, as you will guess by his par-ticularity, is an old batchelor, and one who wants to have a woman made on purpose for his nephew: and who positively insists upon qualities, before In-knows her, not one of which, perhaps, his future niece will have.
Don’t you remember Mr. Tolson, of Derbyshire? he was determined never to marry a widow. If he did, it should be one who had a vast fortune, and who never had a child. And he had still a more particular exception; and that was to a woman who had red hair. He held his exceptions till he was forty; and then being looked upon as a determined batchelor, no family thought it worth their while to make proposals to him; no woman to throw out a net for him (to express myself in the stile of the gay Mr. Greville); and he at last fell in with, and married, the laughing Mrs Turner: a widow, who had little or no fortune, had one child, a daughter, living, and that child an absolute ideot; and, to complete the perverseness of his fate, her hair not only red, but the most disagreeable of reds. The honest man was grown splenetic: disregarded by every body, he was become disregardful of himself: he hoped for a cure of his gloominess, from her cheerful vein; and seemed to think himself under obligation to one who had taken notice of him, when nobody else would. Batchelors’ wives! Maids’ children! These old saws always mean something.
Mr. Fowler saw me at my cousin Reeves’s the first time. I cannot say he is disagreeable in his person: but he seems to want the mind I would have a man blessed with, to whom J am to vow love and honour. I purpose, whenever I marry, to make a very good and even a dutiful wife [must I not vow obe-dience? and shall I break my marriage-vow?]: I would not, therefore, on any consideration, marry a man, whose want of knowledge might make me stagger in the performance of my duty to him; and who would perhaps command from caprice, or want cf understanding, what I should think unreasonable to be complied with. There is a pleasure and a credit in yielding up even one’s judgment in things indifferent, to a man who is older and wiser than one’s self: but we are apt to doubt in one of a contrary character, what in the other we should have no doubt about: and doubt, you know, of a per-son’s merit, is the first step to disrespect: and what, but disobedience, which lets in every evil, is the next?
I saw instantly that Mr. Fowler beheld me with a distinguished regard. We women, you know [let me for once be aforehand with my uncle] are very quick in making discoveries of this nature. But every — body at table saw it. He came again next day. and besought Mr — Reeves to give him his inte-rest with me. without asking any questions about my fortune: though he was even generously particular as to his own. He might, since he has an unexcep-tionable one. Who is it in these cases that forgets to set foremost the advantages by which he is distinguished? While fortune is the last thing talked of by him who has little or none: and then Love, love, love % is all his crv.
Mr. Reeves, who has a good opinion of Mr. Fowler, in answer to his enquiries, told him, that he believed I was disengaged in my affections: Mr. Fowler rejoiced at that. That I had no questions to ask: but those of duty: which indeed, he said, was a stronger tie with me than interest. He praised my temper, and my frankness of heart: the latter at the expence of mv sex: for which I least thanked him. when he told me what he had said. In short, he acquainted him with every thing that was necessary, and more than was necessary for him to know, of the favour of my family, and of my good Mr. Deane, in referring all proposals of this kind to myself; mingling the detail with commendations, which only could be excused by the goodness of his own heart, and accounted for bv Ids partiality to his cousin.
Mr. Fowler expressed great apprehensions on mv cousin’s talking of these references of mv grand-mother, aunt, and Mr. Deane. to myself, on occa — sions of this nature; which, he said, he presumed had been too frequent for his hopes.
If you have any hope, Mr. Fowler, said Mr. Reeves, it must be in your good character; and that much preferably to your clear estate and great expectations. Although she takes no pride in the number of her admirers, yet it is natural to suppose, that it has made her more difficult: and her diffi-culties are enhanced, in proportion to the generous confidence which all her friends have in her discretion. And when I told him. proceeded Mr Reeves, that your fortune exceeded greatly what Sir Row-land required in a wife for him; and that you had, as well from inclination, as education, a serious turn: Too much, too much, in one person, cried he out. As to fortune, he wished you had not a shilling; and if he could obtain your favour, he should be the happiest man in the world.
O my good Mr. Reeves, said I, how have you over-rated my merits! Surely, you have not eiven Mr. Fowler your interest? If you haie, should you not. for his sake, have known something of my mind before you had eet me out thus, had I even deserved your high opinion? — Mr. Fowler might have reason to repent the double well-meant kindru >s of his friend, if men in these days were used to break their hearts for love.
It is the language I do and must talk of you in, to every body, returned Mr. Reeves: is it not the
_’— “hat those most taik who know you best?
Where the world is inclined to favour, replied I, it i> apt to ■ ■ — rati . as much as it will:.’ .ifr-rate where ■ ‘ disfavours. In this case, you should not have proceeded so far as to engage a gentleman’s hopes. What may be the end of all this, but to make a compassionate nature, as mine has been thought to be, if Mr. Fowler should be greatly in earnest, uneasy to itself, in being obliged to shew pity, where she cannot return love?
What I have said, I have said, replied Mr. Reeves. Pity is but one remove from love. Mrs. Reeves (there she sits) was first brought to pity me; for never was man more madly in love than I; and then I thought myself sure of her. And so it proved. I can tell you I am no enemy to Mr. Fowler.
And so, my dear, Mr. Fowler seems to think he has met with a woman who would make a fit wife for him: but your Harriet, I doubt, has not in Mr. Fowler met with a man whom she can — think a fit husband for her.
The very next morning, Sir Rowland himself —
But now, my Lucy, if I proceed to tell you all the fine things that are said of me, and to me, what will my uncle Selby say? Will he not attribute all I shall repeat of this sort, to that pride, to that va-nity, to that fondness of admiration, which he, as well as Mr. Greville, is continually charging upon all our sex?
Yet he expects that I shall give a minute account of every thing that passes, and of every conversation in which I have any part. Flow shall I do to please him? And yet I know I shall best please him, if I give him room to find fault with me. But then should he for my faults blame the whole sex? Is that just?
You will tell me, I know, that if I give speeches and conversations, I ought to give them justly: that the humours and characters of persons cannot be known unless I repeat xvhat they say, and their manner of saying: that I must leave it to the speakers and complimenters to answer for the likeness of the pictures they draw: that I know best my own heart, and whether I am puffed up by the praises given me: that if I am, I shall discover it by my superciliousness; and be enough punished on the discovery, by incurring, from those I love, deserved blame, if not contempt, instead of preserving their wished-for esteem. — Let me add to all this, that there is an author (I forget who) who says, “ It is lawful to repeat those things, though spoken in our praise, that are necessary to be known, and cannot otherwise be come at.”
And now let me ask, Will this preamble do, once for all?
It will. And so says my aunt Selby. And so says every one but my uncle. Well then I will proceed, and repeat all that shall be said, and that as well to my disadvantage as advantage; only resolving not to be exalted with the one, and to do my endeavour to amend by the other. And here, pray tell my uncle, that I do not desire he will spare me; since the faults he shall find in his Harriet shall always put her upon her guard. — Not, however, to conceal them from his discerning eye; but to amend them.
And now, having, as I said, once for all, prepared you to guard against a surfeit of self-praise, though delivered at second or third hand, I will go on with my narrative — But hold — my paper reminds me that I have written a monstrous letter — I will therefore, with a new sheet, begin a new one. Only adding to this, that I am, and ever will be,
Your affectionate
HARRIET BYRON.
P.S. Well, but what shall I do now? — I have just received my uncle’s letter. And, after his charge upon me of vanity and pride, will my parade, as above, stand me in any stead? — I must trust to it. Only one word to my dear and ever-ho-noured uncle — Don’t you, Sir, impute to me a belief of the truth of those extravagant compli-ments made by men professing love to me; and I will not wish you to think me one bit the wiser, the handsomer, the better, for them, than I was before.
Letter IX.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Thursday, February 2.
The very next morning Sir Rowland himself paid his respects to Mr. Reeves.
The knight, before he would open himself very freely as to the business he came upon, desired that lie might have an opportunity to see me. I knew nothing of him, nor of his business. We were just going to breakfast. Miss Allestree, Miss Bramber, and MissDolyns, ayoung lady of merit, were with us.
Just as we had taken our seats, Mr. Reeves intro-duced Sir Rowland, but let him not know which was Miss Byron. He did nothing at first sitting down, but peer in our faces by turns; and fixing his eye upon Miss Allestree, he jogged Mr. Reeves with his elbow — Hay, Sir? — audibly whispered he,
Mr. Reeves was silent. Sir Rowland, who is short-sighted, then looked under his bent brows, at Miss Bramber; then at Miss Uolyns; and then at me — Hay, Sir? whispered he again.
He sat out the first dish of tea with an impatience equal, as it seemed, to his uncertainty. And at last taking Mr. Reeves by one of his buttons, desired a word with him. They withdrew together; and the knight, not quitting hold of Mr. Reeves’s button, Ad’s-my-life, Sir, said he, I hope I am right. I love my nephew as I love myself. I live but lor him. He ever was dutiful to me his uncle. If that be Miss Byron who sits on the right-hand of your lady, with the countenance of an angel, her eyes sparkling with good humour, and blooming as a May-morning, the business is done. I give my consent. Although I heard not a word pass from her lips, I am sure she is all intelligence. 5ly boy shall have her. The other young ladies are agreeable: but if this be the lady my kinsman is in love with, he shall have her. How will she outshine all our Caermarthen ladies; and yet we have charming girls in Caermarthen! — Am I, or am I not right, Mr. Reeves, as to my ne-phew’s^ame, as they call it?
The lady you describe, Sir Rowland, is Miss Byron.
And then Mr. Reeves, in his usual partial man-ner, let his heart overflow at his lips in my favour.
Thank God, thank God! said the knight. Let us return. Let us go in again. I will say some-thing to her to make her speak: but not a word to dash her. I expect her voice to be music, if it be as harmonious as the rest of her. By the softness or harshness of her voice, let me tell you, Mr. Reeves, I form a judgment of the heart, and soul, and manners, of a lady. ’Tis a criterion, as they call it, of my own; and I am hardly ever mistaken. Let us go in again, I pray ye.
They returned, and took their seats; the knight making an awkward apology for taking my cousin out.
Sir Rowland, his forehead smoothed, and his face shining, sat swelling, as big with meaning, yet not knowing how to begin. Mrs. Reeves and Miss Al-lestree were talking at the re-entrance of the gen — tlemen. Sir Rowland thought he must say some — thing, however distant from his main purpose. Breaking silence therefore; You, ladies, seemed to be deep in discourse when we came in. What-ever were your subject, I beg you will resume it.
They had finished, they assured him, what they had to say.
Sir Rowland seemed still at a loss. He hemmed three times; and looked at me with particular kindness. Mr. Reeves then, in pity to his fulness, asked him how long he proposed to stay in town?
He had thought, he said, to have set out in a week; but something had happened, which he believed could not be completed under a. fortnight. Yet I want to be down, said he; for I had just finished, as I came up, the new-built house I design to present to my nephew when he marries. I pretend, plain man as I am, to be a judge, both of taste and elegance [Sir Rowland was now set a going] . All I wish for is to see him happily settled. Ah, ladies! that I need not go further than this table for a wife for my boy?
We all smiled, and looked upon each other.
You young ladies, proceeded he, have great ad-vantages in certain cases over us men; and this (which I little thought of till it came to be my own case) whether we speak for our kindred or for our-selves. But will you, madam, to Mrs. Reeves, will you, sir, to Mr. Reeves, answer my questions — as to these ladies? — I must have a niece among them. My nephew, though I say it, is one whom any lady may love: and as for fortune, let me alone to make him, in addition to his own, all clear as the sun, worthy of any woman’s acceptance, though she were a duchess.
We were all silent, and smiled upon one another.
What I would ask then, is, Which of the ladies before me — Mercy! I believe by their smiling, and by their pretty looks, they are none of them engaged. I will begin with the young lady on your right hand. She looks so lovely, so good-natured, and so condescending! — Mercy! what an open fore-head! — Hem! — Forgive me, madam; but I believe you would not disdain to answer my question your-self. Are you, madam, are you absolutely and bond Jide, disengaged? or are you not?
As this, Sir Rowland, answered I, is a question I can best resolve, I frankly own, that I am disengaged.
Charming! charming! — Mercy! Why now what a noble frankness in that answer! — No jesting mat-ter! You may smile, ladies. I hope, madam, you say true: I hope I may rely upon it, that your affections are not engaged.
You may, Sir Rowland. I do not love, even in jest, to be guilty of an untruth.
Admirable! — But let me tell you, madam, that I hope you will not many days have this to say. Ad’s-my lite! sweet soul! how I rejoice to see that charm — ing flush in the finest cheek in the world! But hea — ven forbid that I should dash so sweet a creature! — Well, but now there is no going further. Excuse me, ladies; I mean not a slight to any of you: but now, you know, there is no going further:— And will you, madam, permit me to introduce to you, as a lover, as an humble servant, a very proper and agreeable young man? Let me introduce him: he is my nephew. Your looks are all graciousness. Per-haps you have seen him: and if you are really dis engaged, you can have no objection to him; of that I am confident. And I am told, that you have no-body that either can or will controul you.
The more controulable for that verj — reason, Sir Rowland.
Ad’s-my-life, I like your answer. Why, madam, \ on must be full as good as you look to be. I wish I were a young man myself for your .sake! But tell me, madam, will you permit a visit from mv nephew this afternoon? — Come, come, dear young lady, be as gracious as you look to be. Fortune must do. Had you not a shilling, I should rejoice in such a niece; and that is more than I ever said in my life before. My nephew is a sober man, a modest man. lie has a good estate of his own: a clear 2000l. a year. I will add to it in my life-time as much more. Be all this good company witnesses for me. I am no flincher. It is well known that the word of Sir Rowland Meredith is as good as his bond at all times. I love these open doings. I love to be above-board. What signifies shilly-shally? What says the old proverb?
Happy is the wooing
That is not long a doing.
But, Sir Rowland, said I, there are proverbs that may be set against your proverb. You hint that I have seen the gentleman: now I have never yet seen the man whose addresses I could encourage.
O, I like you the better for that. None but the giddy love at first sight. Ad’s-my-life, you would have been snapt up before now, young as you are, could you easily have returned love for love. Why, madam, you cannot be above sixteen?
O, Sir Rowland, you are mistaken. Cheerfulness, and a contented mind, make a difference to advan-tage of half a dozen years at any time. I am much nearer twenty-one than nineteen, I assure you.
Nearer to twenty-one than nineteen, and yet so freely tell your age without asking!
Miss Byron, Sir Rowland, said Mrs. Reeves, is young enough at twenty, surely, to her own age.
True, madam; but at twenty, if not before, time always stands still with women. A lady’s age once known, will be always remembered; and that more for spite than love. At twenty-eight or thirty, I be lieve most ladies are willing to strike off half a dozen years at least. — And yet, and yet, (smiling, and looking arch) I have always said (pardon me, la-dies) that it is a sign, when women are so desirous to conceal their age, that they think they shall be good tor nothing when in years. Ah. ladies! shaking his head, and laughing, Avomen don’t think of that. But how I admire you, madam, for your frankness! Would to the Lord you were twenty-four! — I would have no woman marry under twenty-four: and that, let me tell you, ladies, for the following reasons — standing up, and putting the fore-finger of his right-hand, extended with a flourish, upon the thumb of his left.
O, Sir Rowland! I doubt not but you can give very good reasons. And I assure you, I intend not to marry on the wrong side, as I call it, of twenty-four.
Admirable, by mercy! but that won’t do neither. The man lives not, young lady, who will stay your time, if he can have you at his. I love your noble frankness. Then such sweetness of countenance (sitting down, and audibly whispering, and jogging my cousin with his elbow I such dove-like eyes, daring to tell all that is in the honest heart! — I am a phvsiognomist. madam (raising his voice to me.) Ad’s-my-life, you are a perfect paragon! Say you will encourage my boy. or you will be worse off; for (standing up again) I will come and court you my-self A good estate gives a man confidence; and. when I set about it — Hum! — (one hand stuck in his side; flourishing with the other) no woman yet, I do assure you — ever won my heart as you have done.
O Sir Rowland, I thought vou were too wise to be swayed bv first impressions: none but the giddy, you know, love at first sight, c
Admirable! admirable indeed! I knew you had wit at will; and I am sure you have wisdom. Know you, ladies, that tvit and wisdom are two different things, and are very rarely seen together? Plain man as I appear to be (looking on himself first on one side, then on the other, and unbuttoning his coat two buttons to let a gold braid appear upon his waistcoat) I can tell ye, I have not lived all this time for nothing. I am considered in Wales — Hem! — But I will not praise myself. — Ad’s-my-life! how do this young lady’s perfections run me all into tongue! — But I see you all respect her as well as I; so I need not make apology to the rest of you young ladies, for the distinction paid to her. I wish I had as many nephews as there are ladies of ye disengaged: by mercy, we would be all of kin.
Thank you, Sir Rowland, said each of the young ladies, smiling, and diverted at his oddity.
But as to my observation, continued the knight, that none but the giddy love at first sight; there is no general rule without exception, you know: every man must love you at first sight. Do I not love you myself? and yet never did I see you before, nor any-body like you.
You know not what you do, Sir Rowland, to raise thus the vanity of a poor girl. How may you make conceit and pride run away with her, till she become contemptible for both in the eye of every person whose good opinion is worth cultivating ?
Ad’s-my-life, that’s prettily said! But let me tell you, that the she who can give this caution in the midst of her praisings, can be in no danger of being run away with by her vanity. Why, madam! you extort praises from me! I never ran on so glibly in praise of mortal woman before. You must cease to look, to smile, to speak, I can tell you, if you would have me cease to praise you!
‘Trs well you are not a young man, Sir Rowland, said Miss Allestree. You seem to have the art of engaging a woman’s attention. You seem to know how to turn her own artillery against her; and, as your sex generally do, to exalt her in courtship, that you may have it in your power to abase her afterwards.
Why, madam, I must own, that we men live to sixty, before we know how to deal with you ladies, or with the world either; and then we are not fit to engage with the one, and are ready to quit the other. An old head upon a young pair of shoulders would make rare work among ye. But to the main point (looking very kindly on me): I ask no questions about you, madam. Fortune is not to be mentioned. I want you not to have any. Not that the lady is the worse for having a fortune: and a man may stand a chance for as good a wife among those who have fortunes, as among those who have none. I adore you for your frankness of heart. Be all of a piece now, I beseech you. You are disengaged, you say: Will you admit of a visit from my nephew? My boy may be bashful. True love is always mo-dest and diffident. You don’t look as if you would dislike a man for being modest. And I will come along with him myself’.
And then the old knight looked important, as one who, if he lent his head to his nephew’s shoulders, had no doubt of succeeding.
What, Sir Kowland! admit of a visit from your nephew, in order to engage him in a three years courtship? I have told you that I intend not to marry till I am twenty-four.
Twenty-four, I must own, is the age of marriage I should choose for a lady; and for the reasons aforesaid. — But, now I think of it, I did not tell you my reasons — These be they — f2
Down went his cup and saucer; up went his left hand ready spread, and his crooked finger of his right hand, as ready to enumerate.
No doubt, Sir Rowland, you have very good rea-sons.
But, madam, you must hear them — And I shall prove —
I am convinced, Sir Rowland, that twenty-four is an age early enough.
But I shall prove, madam, that you are twenty, or twenty — one —
Enough, enough, Sir Rowland: What need of proof when one is convinced?
But you know not, madam, what I was driving at —
Well but, Sir Rowland, said Miss Bramber, will not the reasons you could give for the proper age at twenty-four, make against yourwishes in this case?
They will make against them, madam, in general cases: but in this particular case they will make for me: for the lady before me is —
Not in my opinion, perhaps, Sir Rowland, will your reasons make for you: and then your exception in my favour will signify nothing. And besides, you must know, that I never can accept of a compliment that is made me at the expence of my sex.
Well then, madam, I hope you forbid me in fa-vour to my plea. You are loth to hear any-thing for twenty-four against twenty-one, I hope?
That is another point, Sir Rowland.
Why, madam, you seem to be afraid of hearing my reasons. No man living knows better than I, how to behave in ladies’ company. I believe 1 should not be so little of a gentleman, as to offend the nicest ear. No need indeed! no need indeed! looking archly; ladies on certain subjects are very quick.
That is to say, Sir Rowland, interrupted Mrs. Reeves, that modesty is easily alarmed.
If any-thing is said, or implied, upon certain sub-jects, that you would not be thought to understand, ladies know how to be ignorant.
And then he laughed.
Undoubtedly, Sir Rowland, said I, such company as this need not be apprehensive, that a gentleman like you, should say any-thing unsuitable to it. But do you really think affected ignorance can be ever graceful, or a proof of true delicacy? Let me ra-ther say, That a woman of virtue would be wanting to her character, if she had not courage enough to express her resentment of any discourse that is meant as an insult upon modesty.
Admirably said again! But men will sometimes forget, that there are ladies in company.
Very favourably put for the men, Sir Rowland. But pardon me, if 1 own, that I should have a mean opinion of a man, who allowed himself to talk even to men what a woman might not hear. A pure heart whether in man or woman, will be always, in every company, on every occasion, pure.
Ad’s-my-life, you have excellent notions, madam! i wanted to hear you speak just now: and now you make me, and every one else, silent — Twenty-one! why what you say would shame sixty-one. You must have kept excellent company all your life! — Mercy! if ever I heard the like from a lady so young! — What a glory do you reflect back upon all who had any hand in your education! Why was I not born within the past thirty years? I might then have had some hopes of you myself! — And this brings me to my former subject, of my nephew — But, Mr. Reeves, one word with you, Mr. Reeves. I beg your par-don, ladies: but the importance of the matter will f3 excuse me: and I must get out of town as soon as I can — One word with you, Mr. Reeves.
The gentlemen withdrew together: for breakfast by this time was over. And then the knight opened all his heart to Mr. Reeves, and besought his inte-rest. He would afterwards have obtained an audi — ence, as he called, of me: but the three young la — dies having taken leave of us, and Mrs. Reeves and I being retired to dress, I excused myself.
He then desired leave to attend me tomorrow evening: but Mr. Reeves pleading engagements till Monday evening, he besought him to indulge him with his interest in that long gap of time, as he called it, and for my being then in the way.
And thus, Lucy, have I given you an ample ac-count of what has passed with regard to this new servant; as gentlemen call themselves, in order to become our masters.
’Tis now Friday morning. We are just setting out to dine with Lady Betty. If the day furnishes me with any amusing materials for my next pacquet, its agreeableness will be doubled to
Your ever-affectionate
HARRIET BYRON.
Letter X.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Friday night. Some amusement, my Lucy, the day has afforded: indeed more than I could have wished. A large pacquet, however, for Selby-house.
Lady Betty received us most politely. She had company with her, to whom she introduced us, and presented me in a very advantageous character.
Shall I tell you how their first appearance struck me, and what I have since heard and observed of them?
The first I shall mention was Miss Cantillon; very pretty; but visibly proud, affected, and conceited.
The second Miss Clements; plain; but of a fine understanding, improved by reading; and who having no personal advantages to be vain of, has, by the cultivation of her mind, obtained a preference in every one’s opinion over the fair Cantillon.
The third was Miss Barnevelt, a lady of mas-culine features, and whose mind belied not those features; for she has the character of being loud, bold, free, even fierce when opposed; and affects at all times such airs of contempt of her own sex, that one almost wonders at her condescending to wear petticoats.
The gentlemen’s names were Walden and Sin-gleton; the first, an Oxford scholar of family and fortune; but quaint and opinionated, despising every one who has not had the benefit of an university education.
Mr. Singleton is a harmless man; who is, it seems, the object of more ridicule, even down to his very name, among all his acquaintance, than I think he by any means ought, considering the apparent inoffensiveness of the man, who did not give himself his intellects; and his constant good-humour, which might intitle him to better quarter; the rather too as he has one point of knowledge, which those who think themselves his superiors in understanding do not always attain, the knowledge of himself; for he is humble, modest, ready to confess an inferiority to every one: and as laughing at a jest is by some taken for high applause, he is ever the first to bestow that commendation on what others say; though it must be owned, he now and then mistakes for a jest what is none: which, however, may be gene-rally more the fault of the speakers than of Mr. Singleton; since he takes his cue from their smiles, especially when those are seconded by the laugh of one of whom he has a good opinion.
Mr. Singleton is in possession of a good estate, which makes amends for many defects; he has a turn, it is said, to the well-managing of it; and no-body understands his own interest better than he; by which knowledge, he has opportunities to lay obligations upon many of those, who behind his back think themselves intitled by their supposed superior sense to deride him: and he is ready enough to oblige in this way: but it is always on such se-curities, that he has never given cause for spend — thrifts to laugh at him on that account.
It is thought that the friends of the fair Cantillon would not be averse to an alliance with this gentle-man: while I, were I his sister, should rather wish, that he had so much wisdom in his weakness, as to devote himself to the worthier Pulcheria Clements (Lady Betty’s wish as well as mine) whose fortune, though not despicable, and whose humbler views, would make her think herself repaid, by his fortune, the obligation she would lay him under by her ac-ceptance of him.
Nobody, it seems, thinks of a husband for Miss Barnevelt. She is sneeringly spoken of rather as a young Jbllotv, than as a woman; and who will one day look out for a wife for herself. One reason indeed, she every-where gives, for being satisfied with being a woman; which is, that she cannot be married to a WOMAN.
An odd creature, my dear. But see what women get by going out of character. Like the bats in the fable, they are looked upon as mortals of a doubtful species, hardly owned by either, and laughed at by both.
This was the company, and all the company, besides us, that Lady Betty expected. But mutual civilities had hardly passed, when Lady Betty, having been called out, returned, introducing, as a gen — tleman who would be acceptable to every one, Sir Hargrave Pollexfen. He is, whispered she to me, as he saluted the rest of the company, in a very gallant manner, a young baronet of a very large estate, the greatest part of which has lately come to him by the death of a grandmother, and two uncles, all very rich.
When he was presented to me, by name, and I to him, I think myself very happy, said he, in being admitted to the presence of a young lady so cele-brated for her graces of person and mind. Then, addressing himself to Lady Betty, Much did I hear, when I was at the last Northampton races, of Miss Byron: but little did I expect to find report fall so short of what I see.
Miss Cantillon bridled, played with her fan, and looked as if she thought herself slighted: a little scorn intermingled with the airs she gave her-self.
Miss Clements smiled, and looked pleased, as if she enjoyed, good-naturedly, a compliment made to one of the sex which she adorns by the goodness of her heart.
Miss Barnevelt said, she had, from the moment I first entered, beheld me with the eye of a lover. And freely taking my hand, squeezed it. — Charming creature! said she, as if addressing a country innocent, and perhaps expecting me to be covered with blushes and confusion.
The baronet, excusing himself to Lady Betty, assured her, that she must place this his bold intru-sion to the account of Miss Byron; he having been told that she was to be there.
Whatever were his motive, Lady Betty said, he did her favour; and she was sure the whole company would think themselves doubly obliged to Miss Byron.
The student looked as if he thought himself eclipsed by Sir Hargrave, and as if, in revenge, he was putting his fine speeches into Latin, and trying them by the rules of grammar; a broken sentence from a classic author bursting from his lips; and, at last, standing up, half on tip-toe (as if he wanted to look down upon the baronet) he stuck one hand in his side, and passed by him, casting a contemptuous eye on his gaudy dress.
Mr. Singleton smiled, and looked as if delighted with all he saw and heard. Once indeed he tried to speak: his mouth actually opened, to give pas-sage to his words; as sometimes seems to be his way before the words are quite ready: but he sat down satisfied with the effort.
It is true, people who do not make themselves contemptible by affectation should not be despised. Poor and rich, wise and unwise, we are all links of the same great chain. And you must tell me, my dear, if I, in endeavouring to give true descriptions of the persons I see, incur the censure I pass on others who despise any one for the defects they cannot help.
Will you forgive me, my dear, if I make this letter as long as my last?
No, say.
Well then, I thank you for a freedom so consistent with our friendship: and conclude with assur — ances, that I am, and ever will be,
Most affectionately yours,
HARRIET BYRON.
Letter XI.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
It was convenient to me, Lucy, to break off just where I did in my last; else I should not have been so very self-denying as to suppose you had no cu-riosity to hear, what undoubtedly I wanted to tell. Two girls talking over a new set of company, would my uncle Selby say, are not apt to break off very abruptly; not she especially of the two, who has found out a fair excuse to repeat every compliment made to herself; and when perhaps there may be a new admirer in the case.
May there so, my uncle? And which of the gen-tlemen do you think the man? The baronet, 1 suppose, you guess. — And so he is.
Well then, let me give you, Lucy, a sketch of him. But consider; I form my accounts from what I have since been told, as well as from what I observed at the time.
Sir Hargrave Pollexfen is handsome and genteel; pretty tall, about twenty-eight or thirty. His complexion is a little of the fairest for a man, and a little of the palest. He has remarkably bold eyes; rather approaching to what we would call goggling: and he gives himself airs with them as if he wished to have them thought rakish: perhaps as a recom-mendation, in his opinion, to the ladies. Lady Betty, on his back being turned, praising his per-son, Miss Cantillon said, Sir Hargrave had the finest eyes she ever saw in a man. They were manly, meaning ones.
He is very voluble in speech; but seems to owe his volubility more to his want of doubt, than to the extraordinary merit of what he says. Yet he is thought to have sense; and if he could prevail upon himself to hear more, and speak less, he would better deserve the good opinion he thinks himself sure of. But as he can say any-thing without hesi-tation, and excites a laugh by laughing himself at all he is going to say, as well as at what he has just said, he is thought infinitely agreeable by the gay, and by those who wish to drown thought in merriment.
Sir Hargrave, it seems, has travelled: but he must have carried abroad with him a great number of follies, and a great deal of affectation, if he has left any of them behind him.
But, with all his foibles, he is said to be a man of enterprize and courage; and young women, it seems, must take care how they laugh with him: for he makes ungenerous constructions to the disadvantage of a woman whom he can bring to seem pleased with his jests.
I will tell you hereafter, how I came to know this, and even worse, of him.
The taste of the present age seems to be dress; no wonder, therefore, that such a man as Sir Har-grave aims to excel in it. What can be misbe — stowed by a man on his person, who values it more than his mind? But he would, in my opinion, bet-ter become his dress, if the pains he undoubtedly takes before he ventures to come into public, were less apparent: this I judge from his solicitude to preserve all in exact order, when in company; for he forgets not to pay his respects to himself at every glass; yet does it with a seeming consciousness, as if he would hide a vanity too apparent to be concealed; breaking from it, if he finds himself ob — served, with a half-careless yet seemingly dissatis — fied air, pretending to have discovered something amiss in himself. This seldom fails to bring him a compliment: of which he shows himself very sen-sible, by affectedly disclaiming the merit of it; per — haps with this speech, bowing with his spread hand on his breast, waving his head to and fro — By my soul, Madam (or Sir) you do me too much honour.
Such a man is Sir Hargrave Pollexfen.
He placed himself next to the country girl; and laid himself out in fine speeches to her, running on in such a manner, that I had not for some time an opportunity to convince him, that I had been in company of gay people before. He would have it that I was a perfect beauty, and he supposed me very young — very silly of course: and gave him-self such airs, as if he were sure of my admiration.
I viewed him steadily several times; and my eye once falling under his, as I was looking at him, I dare say, he at that moment pitied the poor fond heart, which he supposed was in tumults about him; when, at the very time, I was considering whether, if I were obliged to have the one or the other, as a punishment for some great fault I had committed, my choice would fall on Mr. Singleton, or on him. I mean, supposing the former were not a remarkably obstinate man; since obstinacy in a weak man, I think, must be worse than tyranny in a man of sense. — If indeed a man of sense can be a tyrant.
A summons to dinner relieved me from his more particular addresses, and placed him at a distance from me.
Sir Hargrave, the whole time of dinner, received advantage from the supercilious looks and behaviour of Mr. Walden; who seemed, on every-thing the baronet said (and he was seldom silent) half to despise him; for he made at times so many different mouths of contempt, that I thought it was impossi-ble for the same features to express them. I have been making mouths in the glass for several mi-nutes, to try to recover some of Mr. Walden’s, in order to describe them to you, Lucy; but I cannot for my life so distort my face as to enable me to give you a notion of one of them.
He might perhaps have been better justified in some of his contempts, had it not been visible, that the consequence which he took from the baronet, he gave to himself; and yet was as censurable one way, as Sir Hargrave was the other.
Mirth, however insipid, will occasion smiles; though sometimes to the disadvantage of the mirth-ful. But gloom, severity, moroseness, will always disgust, though in a Solomon. Mr. Walden had not been taught that: and indeed it might seem a little ungrateful [don’t you think so, Lucy?] if wo-men failed to reward a man with their smiles, who scrupled not to make himself a — monkey (shall I say?) to please them.
Never before did 1 see the difference between the man of the town, and the man of the college, displayed in a light so striking as in these two gentle — men in the conversation after dinner. The one seemed resolved not to be pleased; while the other laid himself out to please every-body; and that in a manner so much at his own expence, as frequently to bring into question his understanding. By a second silly thing he banished the remembrance of the first; by a third the second; and so on; and by continually laughing at his own absurdities, left us at liberty to suppose that his folly was his choice; and that, had it not been to divert the company, he would have made a better figure.
Mr. Walden, as was evident by his scornful brow, by the contemptuous motions of his lip, and by his whole face affectedly turned from the baronet, grudged him the smile that sat upon every one’s countenance; and for which, without distinguishing whether it was a smile of approbation or?iot, he looked as if he pitied us all, and as if he thought himself cast into unequal company. Nay twice or thrice he addressed himself, in preference to every one else, to honest simpering Mr. hingleton: who, for his part, as was evident, much better relished the baronet’s flippancies, than the dry significance of the student. For, whenever Sir Hargrave spoke, Mr. Singleton’s mouth was open: but it was quite otherwise with him, when Mr. W alden spoke, even at the time that he paid him the distinction of ad-dressing himself to him, as if he were the principal person in the company.
But one word, by the bye, Lucy — Don’t you think it is very happy for us foolish women, that the generality of the lords of the creation are not much wiser than ourselves? Or, to express myseif in other words, That owr-wisdom is as foolish a thing to the full, as moderate folly! — But, hush! I have done. — I know that at this place my uncle will be ready to rise against me.
After dinner, Mr. Walden, not choosing to be any longer so egregiously eclipsed by the man of the town, put forth the scholar
By the way, let me ask my uncle, if the word scholar means not the learner, rather than the learned? If it originally means no more, I would suppose that formerly the most learned men were the most modest, contenting themselves with being thought but learners; for as my revered first instructor used to say, the more a man knows, the more he will find he has to know.
Pray, Sir Hargrave, said Mr. Walden, may I ask you — You had a thought just now, speaking of love and beauty, which I know you must have from Tibullus [and then he repeated the line in an heroic accent; and, pausing, looked round upon us women]
Which university had the honour of finishing your studies, Sir Hargrave? I presume you were brought up at one of them.
Not I, said the baronet: A man, surely, may read Tibullus, and Virgil too, without being indebted to either university for his learning.
No man, Sir Hargrave, in my humble opinion [with a decisive air he spoke the word humble’] can be well-grounded in any branch of learning, who has not been at one of our famous universities.
I never yet proposed, Mr. Walden, to qualify myself for a degree. My chaplain is a very pretty fellow. He understands Tibullus, I believe [immoderately laughing, and by his eyes cast in turn upon each person at table, bespeaking a general smile] — And of Oxford, as you are.
And again he laughed: but his laugh was then such a one as rather shewed ridicule than mirth: a provoking laugh, such a one as Mr. Greville often affects when he is in a disputing humour, in order to dash an opponent out of countenance, by getting the laugh, instead of the argument, on his side.
My uncle, you know, will have it sometimes, that his girl has a satirical vein. I am afraid she has — But this I will say for her: she means no ill-nature: she loves every-body: but not their faults: as her uncle in his letter tells her. Nor wishes to be spared for her own. Nor, very probably, is she, if those who see her, write of her to their chosen friends as she does to hers, of them.
Shall I tell you what I imagine each person of the company I am writing about (writing in cha-racter) would say of me to their correspondents? — It would be digressing too much, or I would.
Mr. Walden in his heart, I dare say, was re-venged on the baronet. He gave him such a look, as would have grieved me the whole day, had it been given me by one whom I valued.
Sir Hargrave had too much business for his eyes with the ladies, in order to obtain their counte-nance, to trouble himself about the looks of the men. And indeed he seemed to have as great a contempt for Mr. Walden, as Mr. Walden had for him.
But here I shall be too late for the post. Will this stuff go down with you at Selby-house, in want of better subjects?
Every-thing from you, my Harriet —
Thank you! thank you, all, my indulgent friends! So it ever was. Trifles from those we love, are ac-ceptable. May I deserve your love.
Adieu, my Lucy! — But tell my Nancy, that she has delighted me by her letter.
H. B.
Letter XII.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
What is your opinion, my charming Miss Byron? said the baronet: May not a man of fortune, who has not received his education and polish [he pronounced the word polish with an emphasis, and another laugh] at an university, make as good a figure in social life, and as ardent a lover, as if he had?
I would have been silent: but, gazing in my face, he repeated, What say you to this, Miss Byron?
The world, Sir Hargrave, I have heard called an university: but, is it not an obvious truth, that nei-ther a learned, nor what is called a fine education, has any other value than as each tends to improve the morals of men, and to make them wise and good? g3
The world an university! replied Mf. Walden. Why, truly, looking up to Sir Hargrave’s face, and then down to his feet, disdainfully, as if he would measure him with his eyes, I cannot but say, twisting his head on one side, and with a drolling accent, that the world produces very pretty scholars — for the ladies —
The baronet took fire at being so contemptuously measured by the eye of the student; and I thought it was not amiss, for fear of high words between them, to put myself forward.
And are not women, Mr. Walden, resumed I, one half in number, though not perhaps in value, of the human species? — Would it not be pity, Sir, if the knowledge that is to be obtained in the lesser university should make a man despise what is to be acquired in the greater, in which that knowledge was principally intended to make him useful?
This diverted Sir Hargrave’s anger: Well, Mr. Walden, said he, exultingly rubbing his hands, what say you to the young lady’s observation? By my soul it is worth your notice. You may carry it down with you to your university; and the best scholars there will not be the worse for attending to it.
Mr. Walden seemed to collect himself, as if he were inclined to consider me with more attention than he had done before; and waving his hand, as if he would put by the baronet, as an adversary he had done with, I am to thank you, madam, said he, it seems, for your observation. And so the lesser university —
I have great veneration, Mr. Walden, interrupted I, for learning, and great honour for learned men — But this is a subject —
That you must not get off from, young lady.
I am sorry to hear you say so, Sir — But indeed I must.
The company seemed pleased to see me so likely to be drawn in; and this encouraged Mr. Walden to push his weak adversary.
Know you, madam, said he, any-thing of the learned languages?
No, indeed, Sir — Nor do I know which, particu-larly, you call so.
The Greek, the Latin, madam.
Who, I, a woman, know any-thing of Latin and Greek! I know but one lady who is mistress of both; and she finds herself so much an owl among the birds, that she wants of all things to be thought to have unlearned them.
Whj’, ladies, I cannot but say, that I should ra-ther choose to marry a woman whom I could teach something, than one who would think herself quali-fied to teach me.
Is it a necessary consequence, Sir, said Miss Cle-ments, that knowledge, which makes a man shine, should make a woman vain and pragmatical? May not two persons, having the same taste, improve each other? Was not this the case of Monsieur and Madame Dacier?
Flint and steel to each other, added Lady Betty.
Turkish policy, I doubt, in you men, proceeded Miss Clements — No second brother near the throne. That empire some think the safest which is founded in ignorance.
We know, Miss Clements, replied Mr. Walden, that you are a well-read lady. But I have nothing to say to observations that are in every-body’s mouth — Pardon me, madam.
Indeed, Sir, said Mr. Reeves, I think Miss Cle-ments should not pardon you. There is, in my opi — nion, great force in what she said.
But I have a mind to talk with this fair lady, your cousin, Mr. Reeves. She is the very woman that 1 wish to hold an argument with, on the hints she threw out.
Pardon me, Sir. But I cannot return the compliment. I cannot argue.
And yet, madam, I will not let you go offso easily. You seem to be very happy in your elocution, and to have some pretty notions, for so young a lady.
I cannot argue, Sir.
Dear Miss Byron, said Sir Hargrave, hear what Mr. Walden has to say to you.
Every one made the same request. I was silent, looked down, and played with my fan.
When Mr. Walden had liberty to say what he pleased, he seemed at a loss himself, for words.
At last, I asked you, madam, I asked you (hesi-tatingly began he) whether you knew any-thing of the learned languages? It has been whispered to me, that you have had great advantages from a grand-father, of whose learning and politeness we have heard much. He was a scholar. He was of Christ-church, in our university, if I am not mistaken — To my question you answered, That you knew not particularly which were the languages that I called the learned ones: and you have been pleased to throw out hints in relation to the lesser and the greater university; by all which you certainly mean something —
Pray, Mr. Walden, said I—
And pray, Miss Byron — I am afraid of all smattercrs in learning. Those who know a little — and ladies cannot know to the bottom — The\ have not the happiness of an university edu-cation —
Nor is every man at the university, I presume, Sir, a Mr. Walden. my Lucy! I have since been told, that this pragmatical man has very few admirers in the uni-versity to which, out of it, he is so fond of boast — ing a relation.
He took what I said for a compliment — Why, as to that, madam — bowing — But this is a misfortune to ladies, not a fault in them — But, as I was going to say, Those who know little, are very seldom sound, are very seldom orthodox, as we call it, whether respecting religion or (earning; and as it seems you lost your grandfather too early to be well-grounded in the latter (in the former Lady Betty, who is my informant, says, you are a very good young lady) I should be glad to put you right if you happen to be a little out of the way.
I thank you, Sir, bowing, and (simpleton!) still playing with my fan. But, though Mr. Reeves said nothing, he did not think me very politely treated. Yet he wanted, he told me afterwards, to have me drawn out.
He should not have served me so, I told him; especially among strangers, and n:en.
Now, madam, will you be pleased to inform me, said Mr. Walden, whether you had any particular meaning, when you answered, that you knew not which I called the learned languages? You must know, that the Latin and Greek are of those so called.
I beg, Mr. Walden, that 1 may not be thus singled out — Mr. Reeves — Sir — yon have had an university education. Pray relieve your cousin.
Mr. Reeves smiled; bowed his head; but said nothing.
You were pleased, madam, proceeded Mr. Wal-den, to mention one learned lady; and said that she looked upon herself as an owl among the birds. — 5
And you, Sir, said, that you had rather (and I believe most men are of your mind) have a woman you could teach —
Than one who would suppose she could teach me — I did so.
Well, Sir, and would you have me be guilty of an ostentation that would bring me no credit, if I had had some pains taken with me in my education? But indeed, Sir, I know not any-thing of those you call the learned languages. Nor do I take all learning to consist in the knowledge of languages*.
* This argument is resumed, Vol. XIV. by a more compe-tent judge both of learning and languages than Mr. Walden.
All learning! — Nor I, madam — But if you place not learning in language, be so good as to tell us what you do place it in?
He nodded his head with an air, as if he had said, This pretty Miss has got out of her depth: I believe I shall have her now.
I would rather, Sir, said I, be a hearer than a speaker; and the one would better become me than the other. I answered Sir Hargrave, because he thought proper to apply to me.
And I, madam, apply to you likewise.
Then, Sir, I have been taught to think, that a learned man and a linguist may very well be two persons +.
+ In other words, that science or knowledge, and not language merely, is learning.
Be pleased to proceed, madam.
Languages, undoubtedly, Sir, are of use, to let us into the knowledge for which so many of the antients were famous — But —
Here I stopt Every one’s eyes were upon me. I was a little out of countenance.
In what a situation, Lucy, are we women? — If we have some little genius, and have taken pains to cultivate it, we must be thought guilty of affectation, whether we appear desirous to conceal it, or submit to have it called forth.
But, what, madam? Pray proceed, eagerly said Mr. Walden — But, what, madam?
But have not the moderns, Sir, if I must speak, the same advantages which the antients had, and some which they had not? The first great genius’s of all had not human example, had not human precepts —
Nor were the first genius’s of all (with an empha-sis, replied Mr. Walden) so perfect, as the observa — tions of the genius’s of after-times, which were built upon their foundations, made them; and they others. Learning, or knowledge, as you choose to call it, was a progressive thing: and it became necessary to understand the different languages in which the sages <jf antiquity wrote, in order to avail ourselves of their learning.
Very right, Sir, I believe. You consider skill in languages than as a vehicle to knowledge — Not, I presume, as science itself.
I was sorry the baronet laughed; because his laughing made it more difficult for me to get off, as I wanted to do.
Pray, Sir Hargrave, said Mr. Walden, let not every thing that is said be laughed at. I am fond of talking to this young lady; and a conversation upon this topic may tend as much to edification, perhaps, as most of the subjects with which wc have been hitherto entertained.
Sir Hargrave took an empty glass, and with it hu-morously rapped his own knuckles, bowed smiled, and was silent; by that act of yielding, which had gracefulness in it, gaining more honour to himself, than Mr. Walden obtained by his rebuke of him, however just.
-Novo, madam, if you please, said Mr. Walden (and he put himself into a disputing attitude) a word or two with you, on your vehicle, and-so-forth.
Pray spare me, Sir: I am willing to sit down quietly. I am unequal to this subject. I have done.
But, said the baronet, you must not sit down quietly, madam: Mr. Walden has promised us edi~ Jication; and we all attend the effect of his promise.
No, no, madam, said Mr. Walden, you must not come off so easily. You have thrown out some extraordinary things for a lady, and especially for so young a lady, From you we expect the opinions of your worthy grandfather, as well as your own notions. He no doubt told you, or you have read, that the competition set on foot between the learning of the antients and moderns, has been the sub — ject of much debate among the learned in the latter end of the last century.
Indeed, Sir, I know nothing of the matter. I am not learned. — My grandfather was chiefly intent to make me an English, and, I may say, a Bible scho-lar. I was very young when I had the misfortune to lose him. My whole endeavour has been since, that the pains he took with me, should not be cast away.
I have discovered you, madam, to be a Parthian lady. You can fight flying, I see. You must not, J tell you, come off” so easily for what you have thrown out. Let me ask you, Did you ever read The Tale of a Tub’?
Sir Hargrave laughed out, though evidently in the wrong place.
How apt are laughing spirits, said Mr. Walden, looking solemnly, to laugh, when perhaps they ought — There he stopt — [to be laughed at, I suppose he had in his head.] But I will not, however, be laughed out of my question. — Have you, madam, read Swift’s Tale of a Tub? — There is such a book, Sir Hargrave; looking with an air of contempt at the baronet.
I know there is, Mr. Walden, replied the baronet, and again laughed — Have ymi, madam? to me. Pray let us know what Mr. Walden drives at. I have, Sir.
Why then, madam, resumed Mr. Walden, you no doubt read, bound up with it, The Battle of the Books; a very fine piece, written in favour of the antients, and against the moderns; and thence must be acquainted with the famous dispute I men-tioned. And this will shew you, that the moderns are but pygmies in science compared to the an-tients. And, pray, shall not the knowledge which enables us to understand and to digest the wisdom of these immortal antients be accounted learning? — Pray, madam, nodding his head, answer me that. how these pedants, whispered Sir Hargrave to Mr. Reeves, strut in the livery and brass buttons of the antients, and call their servility learning!
You are going beyond my capacity, Sir. I believe what you say is very just: yet the antients may be read, I suppose, and not understood. — But pray, Sir, let the Parthian fly the field. I promise you that she will not return to the charge. Escape, not victory, is all she contends for.
All in good time, madam — But who, pray, learns the language but with a view to understand the author?
No-body, I believe, Sir. But yet some who read the antients, may fail of improving by them.
I was going to say something further; but the baronet, by his loud and laughing applause, disconcerted me; and I was silent.
And here I must break off till I return from the play: and then, or in the morning early, I will begin on another sheet.
Letter XIII.
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Now, Lucy, will I resume the thread of an argument, that you, perhaps, will not think worth re — membering; yet, as I was called upon by every one to proceed, I would not omit it, were it but to have my uncle’s opinion whether I was not too pert, and too talkative; for my conscience a little reproaches me. You know I have told him, that I will not unbespeak my monitor.
Mr. Walden told me, I seemed to think, that the knowledge we gather from the great antients is hardly worth the pains we take in acquiring the languages in which they wrote.
Not so, Sir. I have great respect even for lin-guists: Do we not owe to them the translation of the sacred books? — But methinks I could wish that such a distinction should be made between language and science, as should convince me, that that confu-sion of tongues, which was intended for a punish — ment of presumption in the early ages of the world, should not be thought to give us our greatest glory in these more enlightened times.
Well, madam, ladies must be treated as ladies. But I shall have great pleasure, on my return to Oxford, in being able to acquaint my learned friends, that they must all turn fine gentlemen, and laughers [jVIr. Reeves had smiled as well as the baronet]] and despise the great antients as men of straw, or very shortly they will stand no chance in the ladies’ favour.
Good Mr. Walden! Good Mr. Walden! laughed the baronet, shaking his embroidered sides, let me, let me, beg your patience, while I tell you, that the young gentlemen at both universities are already in more danger of becoming fine gentlemen than fine scholars.
And then again he laughed; and looking round him, bespoke, in his usual way, a laugh from the rest of the company.
Mr, Reeves, a little touched at the scholar’s re-ference to him, in the word laughers, said, It were to be wished, that, in all nurseries of learning, the manners of youth were proposed as the principal end. It is too known a truth, that the attention paid to languages has too generally swallowed up all other and more important considerations; insomuch that sound morals and good breeding themselves are obliged to give way to that which is of little moment, but as it promotes and inculcates those. And learned men, I am persuaded, if they dared to speak out, would not lay so much stress upon mere lan-guages as you seem to do, Mr. Walden.
Learning here, replied Mr. Walden, a little pee-vishly, has not a fair tribunal to be tried at. As it is said of the advantages of birth or degree, so it may be said of learning; No one despises it that has pretensions to it. But, proceed, Miss Byron, if you please.
Very true, I believe, Sir, said I: But, on the other hand, may not those who have either, or both, value themselves too much on that account?
I knew once, said Miss Clements, an excellent scholar, who thought, that too great a portion of life was bestowed in the learning of languages; and that the works of many of the antients were more to be admired for the stamp which antiquity h 2 has fixed upon them, and for the sake of their purity in languages that cannot alter (and whose works are therefore become the standard of those lan-guages) than for the lights obtained from them by men of genius, in ages that we have reason to think more enlightened, as well by new discoveries as by revelation.
I am even tempted to ask, continued she, Whe-ther the reputation of learning is not oftener ac~ quired by skill in those branches of science which principally serve for amusement to inquisitive and curious minds, than by that in the more useful sort. Here Mr. Walden interrupted her; and turning to me, as to the weaker adversary; yet with an air that had severity in it; I could almost wish, said he (and but almost, as you are a lady) that you* madam, knew the works of the great antients in their original languages.
Something, said Miss Clements, should be left for men to excel in. I cannot but approve of Mr. Wal den’s word almost.
She then whispered me; Pray, Miss Byron, proceed (for she saw me a little out of countenance at Mr. Walden’s severe air) — Strange, added she, still whispering, that people who know least how to argue, should be most eager to dispute. Thank Heaven, all scholars are not like this.
A little encouraged; Pray, Sir, said I, let me ask one question — Whether you do not think that our Milton, in his Paradise Lost, shews himself to be a very learned man? And yet that work is written wholly in the language of his own country, as the works of Homer and Virgil were in that of theirs:— and they, I presume, will be allowed to be learned men. Milton, madam, let me tell you, is infinitely obliged to the great antients; and his very fre-quent allusions to them, and his knowledge of their mythology, shew that he is.
His knowledge of their mythology, Sir! — His own subject so greatly, so nobly, so divinely, above that mythology! — I have been taught to think, by a very learned man, that it was a condescension in Milton to the taste of persons of more reading than genius in the age in which he wrote, to introduce so often as he does, his allusions to the pagan my-thology: and that he neither raised his sublime subject, nor did credit to his vast genius, by it.
Mr. Addison, said Mr. Walden, is a writer ad-mired by the ladies. Mr. Addison, madam, as you will find in your Spectators [sneeringly he spoke this^ gives but the second place to Milton, on comparing some passages of his with some of Homer.
If Mr. Addison, Sir, has not the honour of being admired by the gentlemen, as well as by the ladies, I dare say Mr. Walden will not allow, that his au-thority should decide the point in question: and yet, as I remember, he greatly extols Milton. But I am going out of my depth — Only permit me to say one thing more — If Homer is to be preferred to Milton, he must be the sublimest of writers; and Mr. Pope, admirable as his translation of the Iliad is said to be, cannot have done him justice.
You seem, madam, to be a very deep English scholar. But say you this from your own observation, or from that of any other?
I readily own, that my lights are borrowed, re-plied I. I owe the observation to my godfather Mr. Deane. He is a scholar; but as great an ad-mirer of Milton as of any of the antients. A gen — tleman, his particular friend, who was as great an ad — mirer of Homer, undertook from Mr. Pope’s trans lation of the Iliad, to produce passages that in sub — limity exceeded any in the Paradise Lost. The gentlemen met at Mr. Deane’s house, where I then was. They allowed me to be present; and this was the issue: the gentlemen went away convinced, that the English poet as much excelled the Grecian in the grandeur of his sentiments, as his subject, founded on the Christian system, surpasses the pagan.
The debate, I have the vanity to think, said Mr. Walden, had I been a party in it, would have taken another turn; for I do insist upon it, that without the knowledge of the learned languages* a man cannot understand his own.
I opposed Shakespeare to this assertion: but wished on this occasion, that I had not been a party in this debate; for the baronet was even noisy in his applauses of what I said; and the applause of empty minds always gives one suspicion of having incurred it by one’s over-forwardness.
He drowned the voice of Mr. Walden, who two or three times was earnest to speak; but not finding himself heard, drew up his mouth, as if to a contemptuous whistle, shrugged his shoulders, and sat collected in his own conscious worthiness: his eyes, however, were often cast upon the pictures that hung round the room, as much better objects than the living ones before him.
But what extremely disconcerted me, was a free-dom of Miss Barnevelt’s; taken upon what I last said, and upon Mr. Walden’s hesitation, and Sir Hargrave’s applauses: she professed that I was able to bring her oxvn sex into reputation with her. Wis-dom, as I call it, said she, notwithstanding what you have modestly alleged to depreciate your own, when it proceeds through teeth of ivory, and lips of coral, receives a double grace. And then clasping one of her mannish arms round me, she kissed my cheek.
I was surprised, and offended; and with the more reason, as Sir Hargrave, rising from his seat, declared, that since merit was to be approved in that manner, he thought himself obliged to follow so good an example.
I stood up, and said, Surely, Sir, my compliance with the request of the company, too much I fear at my own expence, calls rather for civility than freedom, from a gentleman. I beg, Sir Hargrave — There I stopt; and I am sure looked greatly in earnest.
He stood suspended till I had done speaking; and then, bowing, sat down again; but, as Mr. Reeves told me afterwards, he whispered a great oath in his ear, and declared, that he beheld with transport his future wife; and cursed himself if he would ever have another; vowing, in the same whisper, that were a thousand men to stand in his way, he would not scruple any means to remove them.
Miss Barnevelt only laughed at the freedom she had taken with me. She is a loud and fearless laugher. She hardly knows how to smile: for as soon as any thing catches her fancy, her voice immediately bursts her lips, and widens her mouth to its full extent. Forgive me, Lucy. I believe I am spiteful.
Lady Betty and Miss Clements, in low voices, praised me for my presence of mind, as they called it, in checking Sir Hargrave’s forwardness.
Just here, Lucy, I laid down my pen, and stept to the glass, to see whether I could not please my-self with a wise frown or two; at least with a solem — nity of countenance, that, occasionally, I might dash with it my childishness of look; which cer-tainly encouraged this freedom of Miss Barnevelt. But I could not please myself. My muscles have never been used to any-thing but smiling: so fa-voured, so beloved, by every one of my friends; a heart so grateful for all their favours — How can I learn now to frown; or even long to look grave?
All this time the scholar sat uneasily-careless.
In the mean time Mr. Reeves, having sent for from his study (his house being near) Bishop Burnet’s History of his own Times, said he would, by way of moderatorship in the present debate, read them a passage, to which he believed all parties would subscribe: and then read what I will tran-scribe for you from the conclusion to that perform — ance:
‘ I have often thought it a great error to waste young gentlemen’s years so long in learning Latin, by so tedious a grammar. I know those who are bred to the profession in literature, must have the Latin correctly; and for that the rules of gram-mar are necessary: but these rules are not at all requisite to those, who need only so much Latin, as thoroughly to understand and delight in the Roman authors and poets.
‘ But suppose a youth had, either for want of me-mory, or of application, an incurable aversion to Latin, his education is not for that to be despaired of: there is much noble knowledge to be had in the English and French languages: geography, history, chiefly that of our own country, the know-ledge of nature, and the more practical parts of the mathematics (if he has not a genius for the demonstrative) may make a gentleman very knowing, though he has not a word of Latin’ [And why, I would fain know, said Mr. Reeves, not a gentlewo-man?]. ‘ There is a fineness of thought, and a no — bleness of expression, indeed, in the Latin authors’ [This makes for your argument, Mr. Walden] ‘ that will make them the entertainment of a man’s whole life, if he once understands and reads them with delight’ [Very well, said Mr. Walden!] But if this can — not be attained to, I would not have it reckoned that the education of an ill Latin scholar is to be given over.’
Thus far the bishop.
We all know, proceeded Mr. Reeves, how well Mr. Locke has treated this subject. And he is so far from discouraging the fair sex from learning languages, that he gives us a method in his Trea-tise of Education, by which a mother may not only learn Latin herself, but be able to teach it to her son. Be not, therefore, ladies, ashamed either of your talents or acquirements. Only take care, you give not up any knowledge that is more laudable in your sex, and more useful, for learning; and then I am sure you will, you must, be the more agreeable, the more suitable companions for it, to men of sense. Nor let any man have so narrow a mind as to be apprehensive for his own prerogative, from a learned woman. A woman who does not behave the better the more she knows, will make her husband uneasy, and will think as well of herself, were she utterly illiterate; nor would any argument convince her of her duty. Do not men marry with their eyes open? And cannot they court whom they please? A conceited, a vain mind in a wo-man cannot be hidden. Upon the whole, I think it may be fairly concluded, that the more a woman knows, as well as a man, the wiser she will generally be; and the more regard she will have for a man of sense and learning.
Here ended Mr. Reeves.
Mr. Walden was silent; yet shrugged up his shoulders, and seemed unsatisfied.
The conversation then took a more general turn, in which every one bore a part. Plays:, fashion, dress, and the public entertainments, were the sub-jects.
Miss Cantillon, who had till now sat a little uneasy, seemed resolved to make up for her silence: but did not shine at all where she thought herself most intitled to make a figure.
But Miss Clements really shone. Yet in the eye of some people, what advantages has folly in a pretty woman, over even wisdom in a plain one? Sir Har-grave was much more struck with the pert things spoken without fear or wit, by Miss Cantillon, than with the just observations that fell from the lips of Miss Clements.
Mr. Walden made no great figure on these fashionable subjects; no, not on that of the plays: for he would needs force into conversation, with a preference to our Shakespeare, his Sophocles, his Euripides, his Terence; of the merits of whose per-formances, how great soever, no one present but Mr. Reeves and himself could judge, except by translations.
Sir Hargrave spoke well on the subject of the reigning fashions, and on modern dress, so much the foible of the present age.
Lady Betty and Mrs. Reeves spoke very properly of the decency of dress, and propriety of fashions, as well as of public entertainments.
Miss Clements put in here also with advantage to herself.
Nor would Mr. Walden be excluded this topic. But, as the observations he made on it, went no deeper than what it was presumed he might have had at second-hand, he made a worse figure here, than he did on his more favourite subject. He was, however, heard, till he was for bringing in his Spar-tan jacket (I forget what he called it) descending only to the knees of the women, in place of hoops; and the Roman toga for the men.
Miss Barnevelt broke in upon the scholar; but by way of approbation of what he said; and went on with subjects of heroism, without permitting him to rally and proceed, as he seemed inclined to do.
After praising what he said of the Spartan and Roman dresses, she fell to enumerating her heroes, both antient and modern. Achilles, the savage Achilles, charmed her. Hector, however, was a good clever man: yet she could not bear to think of his being so mean as to intreat a favour, though of her heroic Achilles. He deserved for it, she said, to have his corpse dragged round the Trojan walls at the wheels of the victor’s chariot. Alexander the Great was her dear creature; and Julius Caesar was a very pretty felloxo.
These were Miss Barnevelt’s antient heroes.
Among the moderns, the great Scanderbeg, our Henry V. Henry IV. of France, Charles XII. of Sweden, and the great Czar Peter, who my grand-father used to say was worth them all, were her fa — vourites.
All this while honest Mr. Singleton had a smile at the service of every speaker, and a loud laugh always ready at the baronet’s.
Sir Hargrave seemed not a little pleased with the honest man’s complaisance; and always directed himself to him, when he was disposed to be merry.
Laughing, you know, my dear, is almost as catching as gaping, be the subject ever so silly; and more than once he shewed by his eyes, that he could have devoured Miss Cantillon for generally adding her affected Te-he (twisting and bridling behind her fan) to his louder Hah, hah, hah, hah.
What a length have I run! How does this narra-tive letter-writing, if one is to enter into minute and characteristic descriptions and conversations, draw one on! — I will leave off for the present: yet have not quite dismissed the company (though I have done with the argument) that I thought to have parted with before I concluded this letter.
But 1 know I shall please my uncle in the livelier parts of it, by the handle they will give him against his poor niece. My grandmother, and aunt Selby, will be pleased, and so will you, my Lucy, with all I write, for the writer’s sake: such is their and your partial love to
Their and your ever-grateful
HARRIET.
Letter XIV.
*Miss Byron. In Continuation.
By the time tea was ready, Lady Betty whisper-ingly congratulated me on having made so consider — able a conquest, as she was sure I had, by Sir Har — grave’s looks.
She took notice also of a gallant expression of his, uttered, as she would have it, with an earnestness that gave it a meaning beyond a common com pliment. My cousin Reeves had asked Miss Cle — ments if she could commend to me an honest, mo — dest man-servant? J, said Sir Hargrave, can. I my — self shall be proud to wear Miss Byron’s livery; and that for life.
Miss Cantillon, who was within hearing of this, and had seemed to be highly taken with the baro-net, could hardly let her eyes be civil to me; and yet her really pretty mouth, occasionally, worked it-self into forced smiles, and an affectation of com plaisance.
Sir Hargrave was extremely obsequious to me all the tea-time; and seemed in earnest a little uneasy in himself: and after tea he took my cousin Reeves into the next room; and there made your Harriet the subject of a serious conversation; and desired his interest with me.
He prefaced his declaration to Mr. Reeves, with assuring him, that he had sought for an opportunity more than once, to be admitted into my company, when he was last at Northampton; and that he had not intruded himself then into this company, had he not heard I was to be there.
He made protestations of his honourable views; which looked as if he thought they might be doubt-ed, if he had not given such assurances. A tacit implication of an imagined superiority, as well in consequence as fortune.
Mr. Reeves told him, It was a rule which all my relations had set themselves, not to interfere with my choice, let it be placed on whom it would.
Sir Hargrave called himself a happy man upon this intelligence.
He afterwards, on his return to company, found an opportunity, as Mrs. Reeves and I were talking at the further part of the room, in very vehement terms, to declare himself to me an admirer of per-fections of his own creation; for he volubly enumer — ated many; and begged my permission to pay his respects to me at Mr. Reeves’s.
Mr. Reeves, Sir Hargrave, said I, will receive what visits he pleases in his own house. I have no permission to give.
He bowed, and made me a very high compliment, taking what I said for a permission, i
What, Lucy, can a woman do with these self-flatterers?
Mr. Walden took his leave: Sir Hargrave his: he wanted, I saw, to speak to me, at his departure; but I gave him no opportunity.
Mr. Singleton seemed also inclined to go, but knew not how; and having lost the benefit of their example by his irresolution, sat down.
Lady Betty then repeated her congratulations. How many ladies, said she, and fine ladies too, have sighed in secret for Sir Hargrave. You will have the glory, Miss Byron, of fixing the wavering heart of a man who has done, and is capable of doing, a great deal of mischief.
The ladies, madam, said I, who can sigh in secret for such a man as Sir Hargrave, must either deserve a great deal of pity, or none at all.
Sir Hargrave, said Miss Cantillon, is a very fine gentleman; and so looked upon, I assure you: and he has a noble estate.
It is very happy, replied I, that we do not all of us like the same person. I mean not to disparage Sir Hargrave; but I have compassion for the ladies who sigh for him in secret. One woman only can be his wife; and perhaps she will not be one of those who sigh for him; especially were he to know that she does.
Perhaps not, replied Miss Cantillon: but I do assure you, that I am not one of those who sigh for Sir Hargrave.
The ladies smiled.
I am glad of it, madam, said I. Every woman should have her heart in her own keeping, till she can find a worthy man to bestow it upon.
Miss Barnevelt took a tilt in heroics.
Well, ladies, said she, you may talk of love and love as much as you please: but it is my glory, that
I never knew what love was. I, for my part, like a brave man, a gallant man: one in whose loud praise fame has cracked half a dozen trumpets. But as to your milksops, your dough-baked lovers, who stay at home and strut among the women, when glory is to be gained in the martial field; I despise them with all my heart. I have often wished that the foolish heads of such fellows as these were cut off in time of war, and sent over to the heroes to fill their cannon with, when they batter in breach, by way of saving ball.
I am afraid, said Lady Betty, humouring this ro-mantic speech, that if the heads of such persons were as soft as we are apt sometimes to think them, they would be of as little service abroad as they are at home.
O, madam, replied Miss Barnevelt, there is a good deal of lead in the heads of these fellows. But were their brains, said the shocking creature, if any they have, made to fly about the ears of an enemy, they would serve both to blind and terrify him.
Even Mr. Singleton was affected with this horrid speech: for he clapt both his hands to his head, as if he were afraid for his brains.
Lady Betty was very urgent with us to pass the evening with her; but we excused ourselves; and when we were in the coach, Mr. Reeves told me, that I should find the baronet a very troublesome and resolute lover, if I did not give him counte-nance.
And so, Sir, said I, you would have me do, as I have heard many a good woman has done, marry a man, in order to get rid of his importunity.
And a certain cure too, let me tell you, cousin, said he, smiling.
We found at home, waiting for Mr. Reeves’s return, Sir John Allestree: a worthy sensible man, of plain and unaffected manners, upwards of fifty.
Mr. Reeves mentioning to him our past enter-tainment and company, Sir John gave us such an account of Sir Hargrave, as helped me not only in the character I have given of him, but let me know that he is a very dangerous and enterprising man. He says, that laughing and light as he is in company, he is malicious, ill-natured, and designing; and sticks at nothing to carry a point on which he has once set his heart. He has ruined, Sir John says, three young creatures already under vows of marriage.
Sir John spoke of him as a managing man, as to his fortune: he said, That though he would, at times, be lavish in the pursuit of his pleasures; yet that he had some narrownesses which made him despised, and that most by those for whose regard a good man would principally wish; his neighbours and tenants.
Couldyouhave thought, my Lucy, that this laughing, fine-dressing man, could have been a man of malice; of resentment; of enterprize; a cruel man? Yet Sir John told two very bad stories of him, besides what I have mentioned, which prove him to be all I have said.
But I had no need of these stories to determine me against receiving his addresses. What I saw of him was sufficient; though Sir John made no man-ner of doubt (on being told by Mr. Reeves, in confidence, of his application to him for leave to visit me) that he was quite in earnest; and making me a compliment, added, that he knew Sir Har-grave was inclined to marry; and the more, as one half of his estate, on failure of issue male, would go at his death to a distant relation whom he hated; but for no other reason than for admonishing him, when a school-boy, on his low and mischievous pranks.
His estate, Sir John told my cousin, is full as considerable as reported. And Mr. Reeves, after Sir John went away, said, What a glory will it be to you, cousin Byron, to reform such a man, and make his great fortune a blessing to multitudes; as I am sure would be your endeavour to do, were you Lady Pollexfen!
But, my Lucy, were Sir Hargrave king of one half of the globe, I would not go to the altar with him.
But if he be a very troublesome man, what shall I say to him? I can deal pretty well with those, who will be kept at arms length; but I own, I should be very much perplexed with resolute wretches. The civility I think myself obliged to pay every one who professes a regard for me, might subject me to inconveniencies with violent spirits, which, protected as I have been by my uncle Selby, and my good Mr. Deane, I never yet have known. O my Lucy, to what evils, but for that protection, might not I, a sole, an independent young woman, have been exposed? Since men, many men, are to be looked upon as savages, as wild beasts of the desert; and a single and independent woman they hunt after as their proper prey.
To have done with Sir Hargrave for the present, and I wish I may be able to say for ever; Early in the morning, a billet was brought from him to Mr. Reeves, excusing himself from paying him a visit that morning (as he had intended) by reason of the sudden and desperate illness of a relation, whose seat was near Reading, with whom he had large concerns, and who was desirous to see him before he died. As it was impossible that he could return under three days, which, he said, would t 3 appear as three years to him, and he was obliged to set out that moment; he could not dispense with himself for putting in his claim, as he called it, to Miss Byron’s favour, and confirming his declaration of yesterday. In very high strains, he professed himself her admirer; and begged Mr. and Mrs. Reeves’s interest with her. One felicity, he said, he hoped for from his absence, which was, that as Miss Byron, and Mr. and Mrs. Reeves, would have time to consider of his offers; he presumed to hope he should not be subjected to a repulse.
And now, my Lucy, you have before you as good an account as 1 can give you of my two new lovers.
How I shall manage with them, I know not: but I begin to think that those young women are hap-piest, whose friends take all the trouble of this sort upon them; only consulting their daughters’ inclinations as preliminaries are adjusting.
My friends indeed pay a high compliment to my discretion, when they so generously allow me to judge for myself: and we young women are fond of being our own mistresses: but I must say, that to me this compliment has been, and is, a painful one; for two reasons; That I cannot but consider their goodness as a task upon me, which requires my ut-most circumspection, as well as gratitude; and that they have shewn more generosity in dispensing with their authority, than I have done whenever 1 have acted so as to appear, though hit to appear, to accept of the dispensation: let me add besides, that now, when I find myself likely to be addressed to by mere strangers, by men who grew not into my knowledge insensibly, as our neighbours Greville, Fenwick, and Orme, did, I cannot but think it has the appearance of confidence, to stand out to receive, as a creature uncontroulable, the first motions to an address of this awful nature. Awful indeed might it be called, were one’s heart to incline towards a particular person.
Allow me then for the future, my revered grand-mamma, and you, my beloved and equally honoured uncle and aunt Selby, allow me to refer myself to you, if any person offers to whom I may happen to have no strong objections. As to Mr. Fowler, and the baronet, I must noio do as well as I can with them. It is much easier for a young woman to say no, than yes. But for the time to come I will not have the assurance to act for myself. I know your partiality for your Harriet too well, to doubt the merit of your recommendation.
As Mr. and Mrs. Reeves require me to shew them what I write, they are fond of indulging me in the employment: you will therefore be the less surprised that 1 write so much in so little a time, Miss Byron is in her closet; Miss Byron is “writing; is an excuse sufficient, they seem to think, to every-body, because they allow it to be one to them: but besides, I know they believe they oblige you all by the opportunity they so kindly give me of shewing my duty and love where so justly due.
I am, however, surprised at casting my eye back. Two sheets! and such a quantity before! — Uncon-scionable, say; and let me, echo-like, repeat, Unconscionable
HARRIET BYRON.
Sunday night. Letters from Northamptonshire, by Farmer Jen-kins! I kiss the seals. What agreeable things, now, has my Lucy to say to her Harriet? Dis-agreeable ones she cannot write, if all my beloved friends are well.
Letter XV,
Miss Byron. In Continuation.
Monday, February 6.
And so my uncle Selby, you tell me, is making observations in writing, on my letters; and waits For nothing more to begin with me, than my conclusion of the conversations that offered at Lady Betty’s.
And is it expected that I should go on furnishing weapons against myself? It is.
Well; with all my heart. As long as I can contribute to his amusement; as long as my grand — mamma is pleased and diverted with what I write, as well as with his pleasantries on her girl; I will proceed.
Well, but will you not, my Harriet, methinks you ask, write with less openness, with more reserve, in apprehension of the rod which you know hangs over your head?
Indeed I will not. It is my glory, that I have not a thought in my heart which I would conceal from any one whom it imported to know it, and who would be gratified by the revealing of it. And yet I am a little chagrined at the wager which you tell me my uncle has actually laid with my grand-mamma, that I shall not return from London with a sound heart.
And does he teaze you, my Lucy, on this subject, with reminding you of your young partiality for Captain Duncan, in order to make good his assertion of the susceptibility of us all?
Why so let him. And why should you deny, that you were susceptible of a natural passion?
You must not be prudish, Lucy. If you are not, all his raillery will lose its force.
What better assurance can I give to my uncle, and to all my friends, that if I were caught, I would own it, than by advising you not to be ashamed to confess a sensibility which is no disgrace, when duty and prudence are our guides, and the object worthy?
Your man indeed was not worthy, as it proved; but he was a very specious creature; and you knew not his bad character, when you suffered liking to grow into love.
But when the love-fever was at the height, did you make any-body uneasy with your passion? Did you run to the woods and groves to record it on the barks of trees? — No! — You sighed in silence indeed: but it was but for a little while. I got your secret from you; not, however, till it betrayed itself in your pined countenance; and then the man’s discovered unworthiness, and your own discretion, enabled you to conquer a passion to which you had given way, supposing it unconquerable, because you thought it would cost you pains to contend with it.
As to myself, you know I have hitherto been on my guard. I have been careful ever to shut the door of my heart against the blind deity, the moment I could imagine him setting his incroaching foot on the threshold, which I think liking may be called. Had he once gained entrance, perhaps I might have come off but simply.
But I hope I am in the less danger of falling in love with any man, as I can be civil and courteous to all. When a stream is sluiced off into several channels, there is the less fear that it will overflow its banks. I really think I never shall be in love with any-body, till duty directs inclination.
Excuse me, Lucy. I do now-and-then, you know, get into a boasting humour. But then my punishment, as in most other cases, follows my fault: my uncle pulls me down, and shews me, that I am not half so good as the rest of my friends think me.
You tell me, that Mr. Greville will be in London in a very few days. I can’t help it. He pretends business, you say; and (since that calls him up) intends to give himself a month’s pleasure in town, and to take his share of the public entertainments. Well, so let him. But I hope that I am not to be either his business or entertainment. After a civil neighbourly visit, or so, I hope, I shall noi. be tormented with him.
What happened once betwixt Mr. Fenwick and him gave me pain enough; exposed me enough, surely! A young woman, though without her own fault, made the occasion of a rencounter between two men of fortune, must be talked of too much for her own liking, or she must be a strange creature. What numbers of people has the unhappy rashness of those two men brought to stare at me? And with what difficulty did my uncle and Mr. Deane bring them into so odd a compromise, as they at last came into, to torment me, as I may call it, by joint consent, notwithstanding all I could say to them; which was the only probable way, shocking creatures! to prevent murder?
But, Lucy, what an odd thing is it in my uncle, to take hold of what I said in one of my letters, that I had a good mind to give you a sketch of what I might suppose the company at Lady Betty’s would say of your Harriet, were each to write her character to their confidents or correspondents, as she has done theirs to you!
I think there is a little concealed malice in my uncle’s command: but I obey.
To begin then — Lady Betty, who owns she thinks favourably of me, I will suppose would write to her Lucy, in such terms as these: But shall I suppose every one to be so happy, as to have her Lucy?
‘ Miss Byron, of whom you have heard Mr. Reeves talk so much, discredits not, in the main, the character he has given her. We must allow a little, you know, for the fondness of relationship.
‘ The girl has had a good education, and owes all her advantages to it. But it is a country and bookish one: and that won’t do every-thing for one of our sex, if any-thing. Poor thing! she never was in town before! — But she seems docile, and, for a country girl, is tolerably genteel: I think, there-fore, I shall receive no discredit by introducing her into the beau monde.’
Miss Clements, perhaps, agreeable to the goodness of her kind heart, would have written thus:
‘ Miss Byron is an agreeable girl: she has invited me to visit her; and I hope I shall like her better and better. She has, one may see, kept worthy persons’ company; and I dare say, will preserve the improvement she has gained by it. She is lively and obliging: she is young; not more than twenty; yet looks rather younger, by reason of a country bloom, which, however, misbecomes her not; and gives a modesty to her first appearance, that prepossesses one in her favour. What a cast-away would Miss Byron be, if knowing so well, as she seems to know, what the duty of others is, she would forget her own!’
Miss Cantillon would perhaps thus write:
‘ There was Miss Harriet Byron of Northamp-tonshire; a young woman in whose favour report has been very lavish. I can’t say that I think her so very extraordinary: yet she is well enough for a country girl. But though I do not impute to her a very pert look, yet if she had not been set up for something beyond what she is, by all her friends, who, it seems, are excessively fond of her, she might have had a more humble opinion of herself than she seems to have when she is set a talking. She may, indeed, make a figure in a country assembly; but in the London world she must be not a little awk-ward, having never been here before.
* I take her to have a great deal of art. But to do her justice, she has no bad complexion: that, you know, is a striking advantage: but to me she has a babyish look, especially when she smiles; yet I suppose she has been told that her smiles become her; for she is always smiling — so like a simpleton, I was going to say!
‘ Upon the whole, I see nothing so engaging in her as to have made her the idol she is with every-body — And what little beauty she has, it cannot last. For my part, were I a man, the clear bru-nette — But you will think I am praising my — self.’
Miss Barnevelt would perhaps thus write to her Lucy — To her Lucy! — Upon my word I will not let her have a Lucy — She shall have a brother man to write to, not a woman, and he shall have a fierce name.
We will suppose, that she also had been describing the rest of the company:
< Well but, my dear Bombardino, I am now to give you a description of Miss Byron. ’Tis the softest, gentlest, smiling rogue of a girl — 1 protest, I could five or six times have kissed her, for what she said, and for the manner she spoke in — for she has been used to prate; a favourite child in her own family, one may easily see that. Yet so pret-tily loth to speak till spoken to! — Such a blushing little rogue! — ’Tis a dear girl, and I wished twenty times as I sat by her, that I had been a man for her sake. Upon my honour, Bombardino, I believe if I had, I should have caught her up, popt her under one of my arms, and run away with her.’
Something like this, my Lucy, did Miss Barnevelt once say.
Having now dismissed the women, I come to Mr. Singleton, Mr. Walden, and Sir Hargrave.
Mr. Walden (himself a Pasquin) would thus per-haps have written to his Marforio:
‘ The first lady, whom, as the greatest stranger, I shall take upon me to describe, is Miss Harriet Byron of Northamptonshire. In her person she is not disagreeable; and most people think her pretty. But, what is prettiness? Why, nevertheless, in a woman, prettiness is — pretty: What other word can I so fitly use of a person, who, though a little sightly, cannot be called a beauty?
‘ I will allow, that we men are not wrong in ad-miring modest women for the graces of their per — sons; but let them be modest; let them return the compliment, and revere us for our capaciousness of mind: and so they will, if they are brought up to know their own weakness, and that they are
K but domestic animals of a superior order. Even ignorance, let me tell you, my Marforio, is pretty in a woman. Humility is one of their principal graces. Women hardly ever set themselves to acquire the knowledge that is proper to men, but they neglect for it, what more indispensably belongs to women. To have them come to their husbands, to their brothers, and even to their lo-vers when they have a mind to know any-thing out of their way, and beg to be instructed and inform-ed, inspireth them with the becoming humility which I have touched upon, and giveth us import-ance with them.
‘ Indeed, my Marforio, there are very few topics that arise in conversation among men, upon which women ought to open their lips. Silence becomes them. Let them therefore hear, wonder, and improve, in silence. They are naturally contentious, and lovers of contradiction’ [something like this Mr. Walden once threw out: and you know who, my Lucy — but I am afraid — has said as much] ‘ and shall we qualify them to be disputants against ourselves?
‘ These reflections, Marforio, are not foreign to my subject. This girl, this Harriet Byron, is ap-plauded for a young woman of reading and obser — vation. But there was another lady present, Miss Clements, who (if there be any merit to a woman in it) appeareth to me to excel her in the compass of her reading; and that upon the strength of her own diligence and abilities; which is not the case with this Miss Harriet; for she, truly, hath had some pains taken with her by her late grandfather, a man of erudition, who had his education among us. This old gentleman, I am told, took it into his head, having no grandson, to give this girl a bookish, turn; but he wisely stopt at her mother-tongue; only giving her a smattering in French and Italian.
‘ As I saw that the eyes of every one were upon her, I was willing to hear what she had to say for herself. Poor girl! she will suffer, I doubt, for her speciousness. Yet I cannot say, all things considered, that she was very malapert: that quality is yet to come. She is young.
‘ I therefore trifled a little with her: and went further than I generally choose to go with the reading species of women, in order to divert an inunda — tion of nonsense and foppery, breaking in from one of the company; Sir Hargrave Pollexfen: of whom more anon.
‘ You know, Marforio, that a man, when he is provoked to fight with an overgrown boy, hath every-body against him: so hath a scholar who engageth on learned topics with a woman. The sex must be flattered at the expence of truth. Many things are thought to be pretty from the mouth of a woman, which would be egregiously weak and silly proceeding from that of a man. His very eminence in learning, on such a contention, would tend only to exalt her, and depreciate himself. As the girl was every-body ‘s favourite, and as the baronet seemed to eye her with particular regard, I spared her. A man would not, you know, spoil a girl’s fortune.’
But how, Lucy, shall I be able to tell what I imagine Sir Hargrave would have written? Can I do it, if I place him in the light of a lover, and not either underdo his character as such, or incur the censure of vanity and conceit?
Well, but are you sure, Harriet, methinks my uncle asks, that the baronet is really and truly so egre — giously smitten with you, as he pretended he was? ‘k2
Why, ay! That’s the thing, Sir!
You girls are so apt to take in earnest the compliments made you by men! —
And so we are. But our credulity, my dear Sir, is a greater proof of our innocence, than men’s professions are of their sincerity. So, let losers speak, and winners laugh.
But let him be in jest, if he will. In jest or in earnest, Sir Hargrave must be extravagant, I ween, in love-speeches. And that I may not be thought wholly to decline this part of my task, I will sup-pose him professing with Hudibras, after he has praised me beyond measure, for graces of his own creation;
The sun shall now no more dispense His own, but Harriet’s influence. Where-e’er she treads, her feet shall set The primrose and the violet: Ali spices, perfumes, and sweet powders, Shall borrow from her breath their odours: Worlds shall depend upon her eye, And when she frowns upon them, die.
And what if I make him address me, by way of apostrophe, shall 1 say? (writing to his friend) in the following strain ?
My faith [my friend’] is adamantine As chains of destiny, I’ll maintain; True, as Apollo ever spoke, Or oracle from heart of oak: Then shine upon me but benignly, With that one, and that other pigsnye; The sun and day shall sooner part, Than love or you shake off my heart.
Well, but what, my Harriet, would honest Mr. Singleton have written, had he written about you?
Why thus, perhaps, my Lucy: and to his grand-mother; for she is living.
* We had rare fun at dinner, and after dinner, my grandmother.
* There was one Miss Barnevelt, a fine tall portly young lady.