^ our fortune, Sir, by marriage, will be much more considerable than it can be by patrimony, if Clementina be yours: why then should you not look forward to your posterity as Italians? And in thai case

He stopt there. It was easy to guess at liis inference.

I would no more renounce my country than my religion: I would leave posterity free; but would not deprive them of an attachment that I value my-self upon: nor yet my country, of a family that never gave it cause to be ashamed of it.

The general took snuff, and looked on me, and off me, with an air too supercilious. I could not but be sensible of it.

I have no small difficulty, my lord, said I, to bear the hardships of my situation, added to the distress which that situation gives me, to be looked upon in this family as a delinquent, without having done any thing to reproach myself with, either in thought, word, or deed My lord, it is extremely hard.

It is, my lord, said Signor Jeronymo. The great misfortune in the case before us, is, that the Che-valier Grandison has merit superior to that of most men; and that our sister, who was not to be at-tached by common merit, could not be insensible to his.

Whatever were my sister’s attachments, Signor Jeronymo, weknow^owr*; and generous ones they are: but we all know how handsome men may at-tach young ladies, without needing to say a smgle word. The poison once taken in at the eye, it will soon diffuse itself through the whole mass.

My honour, yet, my lord, was never called in question, either by man or woman.

Your character is well known, chevalier Had it not been unexceptionable, we should not have entered into treaty with you on this subject, I do assure you; and it piques us not a little to have a daughter of our house refused. You don’t know the conse* ijuence, I can tell you, of such an indignity offered in this country.

Refused! my lord! To endeavour to obviate this charge, would be to put an affront upon your lord-ship’s justice, as well as an indignity offered to your truly noble house.

He arose in anger, and swore that he would not be treated with contempt.

I stood up too; And if I am, my lord, with indignity, it is not what I have been used to bear.

Signor Jeronymo was disturbed. He said, he had opposed our seeing each other. He knew his bro-ther’s warmth; and I, he said, from the scenes that had before passed, ought perhaps to have shewn more pity than resentment.

It was owing to my regard for the delicacy of your sister, Signor Jeronymo, said 1 (for whom I have the tenderest sentiments) as well as to do justice to my own conduct towards her, rfiat I could not help shewing myself affected by the word refused.

Affected by the tvord refused! Sir, said the general Yes, you have soft words for hard meanings. But I, who have not your choice of words, make use of those that are explained by actions.

I was in hopes, my lord, that I might rather have been favoured with your weight in the proposed compromise, than to have met with your displeasure.

Consider, chevalier, coolly consider this matter; How shall we answer it to our country (we are pub-lic people, Sir) to the church, to v/hich we stand re — lated; to our own character; to marry a daughter of our house to a Protestant? You say you are concerned for her honour: what must we, what can we say in her behalf, if she be reflected upon as a love-sick girl, who, though stedfast in her religion, could refuse men of the first consideration, all of her own religion and country, and let a foreigner, an English-man, carry her oif?

Preserving nevertheless by slipulntinn, you will remember, my lord, her religion. If you shall have so much to answer for to the world with such a sti-pulation in the lady’s favour, what shall I be thought of, who, though 1 am not, nor wish to be, a public man, am not of a low or inconsiderable family, if I, against my conscience, renounce my religion and my country, for a consideration, that, though the highest in private life, is a partial and selfish consi-deration?

No more, no more, Sir If you can despise worldly grandeur; if you can set light by riches, honours, love; my sister has this to be said in her praise, that she is the first woman, that ever I heard of, who fell in love with a philosopher: and she must, I think, take the consequence of such a peculiarity. Her example will not have many followers.

Yes, my lord, it will, said Jeronymo, if Mr. Grandison be the philosopher. If women were to be regimented, he would carry an army into the field without beat of drum.

I was vexed to find an affair that had penetrated my heart, go off so lightly; but the levity shewn by the general was followed by Jeronymo, in order to make the past warmth between us forgotten.

I left the brothers together. As I passed through the saloon, I had the pleasure of hearing, by a whis-per from Camilla, that her young lady was somewhat more composed for the operation she had yielded to.

In the afternoon, the general made me a visit at my lodgings. He told me, he had taken amiss some things that had fallen from my mouth.

I owned that I was at one time warm; but excused myself by his example.

I urged him to promote my interest as to the proposed compromise. He gave me no encouragement; but took down my proposals in writing.

He asked me, if my father were as tenacious in the article of religion as I was.

I told him, that I had forborn to write any-thing of the affair to my father.

That^ he said, was surprising. He had always apprehended, that a man who pretended to be strict in religion, be it what religion it would, should be uniform. He who could dispense with one duty, might with another.

I answered, That having no view to address Lady Clementina, I had only given my father general ac-counts of the favour I had met with from a family so considerable: that it was but very lately that I had entertained any hopes at all, as he must know: that those hopes were allayed by my fears that the articles of religion and residence would be an insuperable obstacle: but that it was my resolution, in the same hour that I could have any prospect of succeeding, to lay all before him; and I was sure of his appro-bation and consent to an alliance so answerable to the magnificence of his own spirit.

The general, at parting, with a haughty air, said, I take my leave, chevalier: I suppose you will not be in haste to leave Bologna. I am extremely sensible of the indignity you have cast upon us all. I arw, and swore We shall not disgrace our sister and our-selves, by courting your acceptance of her. I under — stand, that Olivia is in love with you too. These contentions for you may give you consequence with yourself: but Olivia is not a C/em<?nij/:a. You are in a country jealous of family-honour. Ours is a first family in it.. You know not what you have done. Sir.

What you have said, my lord, I have not deserved of you. It can nof be answered, at least by me. I

D D shall not leave Bologna till I apprise you of it, and till I have the misfortune to be assured, that I cannot have any hope of the honour once designed me. I will only add, that my principles were well knowu before I was written to at Vienna,

And do you reproach us with that step? It was a base one: it had not mi/ concurrence. He went from me in a passion.

I had enough at my heart, Dr. Bartlett, had I been spared this insult from a brother of Clementina. It went very hard with me to be threatened. But I thank God, I do not deserve the treatment.

Letter XXVIII.

Miss Byron. In Continuation.

London, Friday morning, March 31. Here, my Lucy, once more I am. We arrived yesterday in the afternoon.

Lady Betty Williams and Miss Clements have been already to welcome me on my return. My cousin says, they are inseparable. I am glad of it, for Lady Betty’s sake.

Dr. Bartlett is extremely obliging. One would think, that he and his kinsman give up all their time in transcribing for us. 1 send you now his seventh, eighth, and ninth letters. In reading the two latter, we were struck (for the two sistens and my lord were with us) with the nobleness of Clementina. Her mo-tive, through her whole delirium, is so apparently owing to her concern for the soul of the man she loved (entirely regardless of any interest.of her own) that we all forgot what had been so long our wishes, and joined in giving preference to her.

DR. BARTLETT S SEVENTH LETTER.

I had another visit paid me, proceeds Mr. Grandison, two hours after the general left me, by the kind-hearted Camilla, disguised as before.

I come now, chevalier, said she, with the mar-chioness’s connivance, and, I may say, by her com mand; and, at the same time, by the command of Signer Jeronymo, who knows of my last attendance upon you, though no one else does, not even the marchioness. He gave me this letter for you.

But how does the noblest young lady in Italy, Camilla? How does Lady Clementina?

More composed than we could have hoped for from the height of her delirium. It tvas high; for he has but a very faint idea of having seen you this morning.

The marchioness had bid her say, that although I had now given her despair instead of hope, yet that she owed it to my merit, and to the sense she had of the benefits they had actually receiveu at my hands, to let me know, that it was but too likely that resent-ments might be carried to an unhappy length; and that therefore she wished I would leave Bologna for the present. If happier prospects presented, she would be the first to congratulate me upon them.

I opened the letter of my kind Jeronymo. These were the contents:

I am infinitely concerned, my dear Grandison, to find a man equally generous and brave as my brother is, hurried away by passion. You mai/ have acted with your usual magnanimity in preferring your re-ligion to your love, and to your glory. I, for my part, think you to be a distressed man. If you are not, you must be very insensible to the merits of an D D 2 excellent woman, and very ungrateful to the distinction she honours you with. I must write in this stile, and think she does honour by it even to my Grandison. But should the consequences of this affair be unhappy for either of you; if, in particular, for my brother; what cause of regret would our fa-mily have, that o. younger brother was saved by the hand which deprived them of a more worthy elder? If for you, how deplorable would be the reflection, that you saved one brother, and perished by the hand of another! Would to God that his passion, and your spirit, were more moderate! But let me request this favour of you; that you retire to Flo-rence, for a few days, at least.

How unhappy am I, that I am disabled from taking part in a more active mediation! Yet the general admires you. But how can we blame in him a zeal for the honour of his family, in which he would be glad at his soul to include a zeal for yours?

For God’s sake quit Bologna for a few days only. Clementina is more sedate. I have carried it that her confessor shall not at present visit her; yet he is an honest and a pious man.

What a fatality! Every one to mean well, yet every one to be miserable! And can religion be the cause of so much unh appiness? 1 cann ot act, I can only reflect. My dear friend, let me know by a line, that you will depart from Bologna tomorrow; and you will then a little lighten the heart of your

JERONYMO.

I senl my grateful compliments to the marchioness by Camilla. I besought her to believe, that my conduct on this occasion should be such as should merit her approbation. I expressed my grief for the ap-prehended resentments. I was sure that a man so noble, so generous, so brave, as was the man from whom the resentments might be supposed to arise, would better consider of” every-thing: but it was impossible for me, I bid Camilla say, to be far distant from Bologna; because I still presumed to hope for a happy turn in my favour.

I wrote to Signer Jeronymo to the same effect. I assured him of my high regard for his gallant bro-ther; I deplored the occasion which bad subjected me to the general’s displeasure; bid him depend upon my moderation. I referred to my known re-solution of long standing, to avoid a meditated rencounter with any man; urging that he might, for that reason, the more securely rely upon my care to shun any acts of offence either to or from a son of the Marquis della Porretta; a brother of my dear friend Jeronymo, and of the most excellent and beloved of sisters!

Neither the marchioness nor Jeronymo were sa-tisfied with the answers I returned; but what could I do? I had promised the general that I would not leave Bologna till I had apprised him of my intention to do so; and I still was willing, as I bid Camilla tell the marchioness, to indulge my hopes of some happy turn.

The marquis, the bishop, and general, went to Urbino; and there, as I learnt from ray Jeronymo, it was determined, in full assembly, that Grandison, as well from difference in religion, as from inferiority in degree and fortune, was unworthy of their alliance: and it was hinted to the general, that he was equally unworthy of his resentment.

While the father and two brothers were at Urbino, Lady Clementina gave hopes of a sedate mind. She desired her mother to allow her to see me: but the marchioness, believing there were no hopes of my complying with their terms, and being afraid of the consequences, and of incurring blame from the rest of her family, now especially that they were absent, and consulting together on what was proper to be done, desired she would not think of it.

This refusal made Clementina the more earnest for an interview. Signor Jeronymo gave his advice in favour of it. The misfortune he had met with, had added to his weight with the family. It is a fa-mily of harmony and love. They were hardly more particularly fond of Clementina than they were of one another, throughout’ the several branches of it; this harmony among them added greatly to the fa-mily-consequence, as well in public as private. Till the attempt that was made upon their Jeronymo, they had not known calamity.

But the confessor strengthening the marchioness’s apprehensions of what the consequence of indulging the young lady might be, all Jeronymo’s weight would have failed to carry this point had it not been for an enterprize of Clementina, which extremely alarmed them, and made them give into their wishes.

Camilla has enabled me to give the following me-lancholy account of it, to the only man on earth to whom I could communicate particulars, the very re-collection of which tears my heart in pieces.

The young lady’s malady, after some favourable symptoms which went off, returning in another shape; her talkativeness continued: butthehurrywithwhich she spoke and acted, gave place to a sedateness that she seemed very fond of. They did not suffer her to go out of her chamber; which she took not well: but Camilla, being absent about an hour, on her re-turn missed her, and alarmed the whole house upon it. Every part of it, and of the garden, was searched. From an apprehension that they dared not so much as whisper to one another, they dreaded to find her whom they so carefully sought after.

At last, Camilla seeing, as she supposed, one oi

Sm CHARLES GRANDISON. 307 the maid-servants coming down stairs with remarka-ble tranquillity, as she thought, in her air and man — ner; Wretch! said she, how composed do you seem to be in a storm that agitates every body else!

Don’t be angry with me, Camilla, returned the supposed servant.

O my lady! my very Lady Clementina, in Laura’s clothes! “Whither are you going, madam? But let the marchioness know (said she, to one of the wo-men-servants who then appeared in sight) that we have found my young lady What, dear madam, is the meaning of this? Go, Martina (to another wo-man-servant) go this instant to my lady! Dear Lady Clementina, what concern have you given us!

And thus she went on, asking questions of her young lady, and giving orders, almost in the same breath, till the marchioness came to them in a joyful hurry, from one of the pavilions in the garden, into which she had thrown herself; tortured by her fears, and dreading the approach of every servant, with fatal tidings.

The young lady stood still, but with great composure. I Moill go, Camilla, said she; indeed I will. You disturb me by your frantic ways, Camilla, I wish you would be as sedate and calm as. I am: What’s the matter with the woman?

Her mother folding her arms about her O my sweet girl! said she, How could you terrify us thus? What’s the meaning of this disguise? Whither were you going?

Why, madam, I was going on God’s errand; not on my own. What is come to Camilla? The poor creature is beside herself!

O my dear! said her mother, taking her hand, and leading her into her own apartment (Camilla fol-lowing, weeping with joy for having found her) Tell me, said she, tell me, has Laura furnished you with this dress?

Why no, madam: I’ll tell you the whole truth. I went and hid myself in Laura’s room, while she changed her clothes; I saw where she put those she took off; and when she had left her room, I put them on.

And for what? For what, my dear? Tell me what you designed?

I am neither afraid nor ashamed to tell. — It wais God’s errand I was going upon.

What tvas the errand?

Don’t weep then, my dear mamma, and I’ll tell you. Do, let me kiss away these tears. And she tenderly embraced her mother.

Why, I have a great mind to talk to the Chevalier Grandison. I had many fine thoughts upon my pil-low; and I believed I could say a great deal to the purpose to him; and you told me I must not see him: so I thought I would not. But then I had other notions come into my head; and I believed, if I could talk freely to him, I should convince him of his er-rors. Now, thought I, I know he will mind what I say to him, more than perhaps he will my brother the bishop, or Father Marescotti. I am a simple girl, and can have no interest in his conversion; for he has refused me, you know: so there is an end of all matters between him and me. I never was refused before: ‘IFas I, my mamma? I never will be twice i-efused. Yet I owe him no ill-will. And if one can save a soul, you know, madam, there is no harm in that. So it is God’s errand I go upon, and not my own. And shall I not go? Yes, I shall. I know you will give me leave. She courtesied. Silence IS permission! Thank you, madam And seemed to be going.

Well might her mother be silent. She could not speak; but rising, went after her to the door, and taking her hand, sobbed over it her denial (as Ca-nulla described it); and brought her back, and mo — tioned to her to sit down.

She whispered Camilla, What ails my mamma? Can you tell? But see how calm, how composed, lam! This world, Camilla! what a vain thing is this world! and she looked up. And so I shall tell the chevalier. I shall tell him not to refuse heaven, though he has refused a simple girl, who was no enemy to him, and might have been a faithful guide to him thither, for what he knew. Now all these things I wanted to say to him, and a vast deal more; and when I have told him my mind, I shall be easy.

Will my precious girl be easy, broke out into speech her weeping mother, when you have told the chevalier yourmind? You shall tell him your mind, my dear; and God restore my child to peace, and to me!

Well now, my mamma, this is a good sign For if I have moved you to oblige me, why may I not move him to oblige himself? That’s all I have in view. He has been my tutor, and I want, methinks, to return the favour, and be his tutress; and so you will let me go Won’t you?

No, my dear, we will send for him.

Well, that may do as well, provided you will let us be alone together: for these proud men may be ashamed, before company, to own themselves convinced by a simple girl.

But, my dearest love, whither would you have gone? Do you know where the chevalier’s lodgings are? iShe paused. She does not, surely, Camilla!

Camilla repeated the question, that the young lady might herself answer it.

She looked as if considering Then, Why no, truly, said she; I did not think of that: but every-body in Bologna knows where the Chevalier Gran — dison lives Don’t you think so? But when shall he come? That will be better; much better.

You shall go, Camilla, disguised as before. Pro-bably he has not quitted Bologna yet. And let him know, to a tittle, all that has passed, on this attempt of the dear soul If he can bring his mind to comply with our terms, it may not yet be too late: though it ixiiU be so after my lord and my two sons return from Urbino. But small are my hopes from him. If the interview makes my poor child easy, that will be a blessed event: we shall all rejoice in that. Mean time, come with me, my dear But first re-sume your own dress And then we will tell Jero — nymo what we have determined upon. He will be pleased with it, I know.

You tell me, my good Miss Byron, that I cannot be too particular; yet the melancholy tale, I see, affects you too sensibly: as it also does my Lord and Lady L. and Miss Grandison. No wonder, when the transcribing of them has the same effect upon me, as the reading had at my first being favoured with the letters that give the moving particulars.

DR. BARTLETt’s eighth LETTER.

I proceed now to give an account of Mr, Grandi-son’s interview with Lady Clementina.

He had no sooner heard the proceeding particu-lars, than he hastened to her, though with a tor — tured heart.

He was introduced to the marchioness and Sig-ner Jei’onymo, in the apartment of the latter.

I suppose, said the marchioness, after first civili-ties, Camilla has told you the way we are now in. The dear creature has a great desire to talk with you. Who knows, but she may be easier after she has been humoured? She is more composed than ghe was, since she knows she may expect to see you. Poor thing! she has hopes of converting you.

Would to heaven, said Jeronymo, that compas-sion for her disordered mind may have that effect upon my Grandison, which argument has not had! Poor Grandison! I can pity you at my heart. These are hard trials to your humanity! Your distress is written in your countenance!

It is deeper written in my heart, said I.

Indeed, Dr. Bartlett, it was.

The marchioness rang. Camilla came in. See, said she, if Clementina is disposed now to admit of the chevalier’s visit; and ask her, if she will have her mamma introduce him to her.

By all means, was the answer returned.

Clementina at our entrance was sitting at the win-dow, a book in her hand. She stood up. A great, but solemn composure appeared in her air and aspect.

The marchioness went to the window, holding her handkerchief at her eyes. I approached with profound respect her Clementina* but my heart was too full to speak first She could speak. She did, without hesitation

You are nothing to me now, chevalier: you have refused me, you know; and I thank you: you are in the right, I believe. I am a very proud creature. And you saw what trouble I gave to the best of pa-rents and friends. You are certainly in the right. She that can give so much concern to them, must make any man afraid of her. But religion, it seems, is your pretence. TjTow I am sorry that you are an obstinate man. You knoio better, chevalier. I think you should know better. But you have been my tutor. Shall I be yours?

I shall attend to every instruction that you will tionour me with.

But let me, Sir, comfort my marama.

She went to her, and kneeled: Why weeps ray mamma? taking a hand in each of hers, and kissing first one, then the other. Be comforted, my mamma. You see I am quite well. You see I am sedate. Bless your Clementina!

God bless my child!

She arose from her knees; and stepping towards me You are very silent, Sir; and very sad But I don’t want you to be sad. Silent I will allow you to be; because the tutored should be all ear. So I used to be to you.

She then turned her face from me, putting her hand to her forehead I had a great deal to say to you; but I have forgot it all Why do you look so melancholy, chevaHer? You know your own mind; and you did what you thought just and fit Did you not? Tell me, Sir.

Then turning to her weeping mother The poor chevalier cannot speak, madam Yet had nobody to bid him do this, or bid him do that He is sorry, to be sure! Well, but, Sir, turning to me, don’t be sorry. And yet the man who once refused me Ah, chevalier! I thought that was very cruel of you: but I soon got over it. You see how sedate I am now. Cannot you be as sedate as I am?

What could I say? I could not sooth her: she boasted of her sedateness. I could not argue with her. Could I have been hers,, could my compromise have been allowed of, I could have been unreserved in my declarations. Was ever man so unhappily circumstanced.^ Why did not the family forbid me to come near them? Why did not my Jerony-mo renounce friendship with me? Why did this excellent mother bind me to her, by the sweet ties of kindness and esteem; engaging all my reverence and gratitude?

But let rae ask you, chevalier. How could you be so unreasonable as to expect, that I should change my religion, when you were so very tenacious of yours? Were you not very unreasonable to expect this? Upon my word, I believe, you men think, it is no matter for us women to have any consciences, so as we do but study your wills, and do our duty by you. Men look upon themselves as gods of the earth, and on us women but as their ministering ser-vants! But I did not expect that you would be so unreasonable. You used to speak highly of our sex. Good women, you used to say,were angels. And many a time have you made me proud that I was a wo-man. How could you, chevalier, be so unreasonable.

May I, madam, to her mother, acquaint her with the proposals I made? She seems to think, that I insisted upon her change of religion.

It was not designed she should think so: but I remember now, that she would not let me tell all I had to say, when I was making my report to her of what had passed between the bishop and you. It was enough, she said, that she had been refused; she besought me to spare the rest: and since that, she has not been in such a way that we could talk to her on that part of the subject. We took it for granted, that she knew it all, because tve did. Could we have yielded to your proposals, we should have enforced them upon her. If you acquaint her with what you had proposed, it may make her think she has not been despised, as she calls it; the notion of which changed her temper, from over-thoughtful to over-lively.

No need of speaking low to each other, said the young lady. After your slight, Sir, you may let me hear any-thing. Madam! you see how sedate I am. I have quite overcome myself. Don’t be afraid of saying any-thing before me.

Alight, my dearest Lady Clementina! Heaven is my witness, your honoured mamma is my witness, that I have not slighted you! The conditions I had proposed, could they have been complied with, would have made me the happiest of men!

Yes, and me the unhappiest of women. Why you refused me, did you not? And putting both her hands spread before her face; Don’t let it be told abroad, that a daughter of that best of mothers was refused by any man less than a prince! Fie upon that daughter! To be able to stand before the proud refuser! [She walked from me.] I am ashamed’ of myself! O Mrs. Beaumont! but for 7/ou! My se-cret had been buried here, putting one hand on her bosom, holding still the other before her face. But Sir, Sir, coming towards me, don’t speak! Let me have all my talk out And then everlasting silence be my portion!

How her mother wept! How was I affected!

I had a great deal to say to you, I thought: I wanted to convince you of your errors. 1 wanted no favour of you, Sir: mine was a pure, disinterested esteem. A voice from heaven, I thought, bid me convert you. I was setting out to convert you. I should have been enabled to do it, I doubt not: Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings; Do you remember that text. Sir? Could I have gone, when I would have gone I had it all in my head then But now I have lost it O that impertinent Camilla! She must question me The woman addressed me in a quite frantic way. She was vexed to see me so sedate.

I was going to speak Hush, hush, when I bid you! and she put her hand before my mouth. With both my hands I held it there for a moment, and kissed it.

Ah, chevalier I said she, not withdrawing it, I believe you are a flattering man! How can you, to a poor despised girl

Let me now speak, madam Use not a word that I cannot repeat after you. Let me beg of you to hear the proposals I made’

I mentioned them; and added, Heaven only knows the anguish of my soul Hush, said she, interrupting, and turning to her mother I know nothing of these men, madam! Do you think, my mamma, I may believe him? He looks as if one might! Do you think I may believe him?

Her mother was silent, through grief. Ah, Sir! My m.amma, though she is not your enemy, cannot vouch for you! But I will have you bound by your own hand. She stept to her closet in a hurry, and brought out pen, ink, and paper. Come, Sir, you must not play tricks with me. Give me under your hand what you have now said But I will write it, and you shall sign it. She wrote, in an instant, as follows:

The Chevalier Grandison solemnly declares, that he did, in the most earnest manner, of his own accord, propose, that he would allow a certain young creature, if she might be al’ lowed to be his wife, the free use of her re-ligion; and to have a discreet man, at her choice, for her confessor: and that he would never oblige her to go to England with him: and that he would live in Italy with her every’ other year. Will you sign this, Sir? Most willingly. Do then. I did.

And you did propose this? Did he, madam? My dear, he did. And I would have told you so; but that you were affected at his supposed refusal. Why, to be sure, madam, interrupted she, it was a shocking thing to be refused.

Would you have wished us, my dear, to comply with these terms? Would you have chosen to marry a Protestant? A daughter of the house of Porretta, and of the house I sprung from, to marry an English Protestant?

Clementina took her mother aside; but spoke loud enough to be heard:

To be sure, madam, that would have been wrong; but I am glad I was not refused with contempt: that my tutor, and the preserver of my Jeronymo, did not despise me. To say truth, I was afraid he liked Olivia; and so made a pretence.

Don’t you think, my dear, that you would have run too great a hazard of your own faith, had you complied with the chevalier’s proposals?

Why no, surely, madam! Might I not have had as great a chance of converting him, as he could have had of perverting me? I glory in my religion, madam.

So does he, my love, in his.

That is his Jault, madam. Chevalier, stepping towards me, I think you a very obstinate man. I hope you have not heard our discourse.

Yes, my dear, he has: and I desire not but he should.

Would to God, madam, said I to the marchioness, that I had yours and my lord’s interest! From what the dear Lady Clementina has hinted, I might presume

But, Sir, you are wiwifflieM, perhaps, said the young lady. Though I answer for answering’s sake, and to shew that I have no doubt of my stedfastness in an article in which my soul is concerned; yet that is no proof of my attachment to an obstinate I know what! Heretic was, no doubt, in her head.

I took her mother aside: For God’s sake, madam, encourage my presumptuous hopes. Do you not sin CHARLES GRANDISON, 317 observe already, an alteration in the dear lady’s mind? Is she not more unaffectedly sedate than she was before? Is not her mind quieter, now she knows that every thing was yielded up that honour and conscience would permit to be yielded up? See that sweet serenity almost restored to those eyes, tAat within these few moments had a wilder turn!

Ah, chevalier! this depends not on me. And if it did, I cannot allow of my daughter’s marrying a man so bigotted to his errors. Excuse me, Sir! But if you were more indifferent in your religion, I should have more hopes of you, and less objection.

If, madam, I could be indifferent in my religion, the temptation would have been too great to be re-sisted. Lady Clementina, and an alliance with such a family

Ah chevalier! I can give you no hope.

Look at the sweet lady, madam! Behold her, as now, perhaps, balancing in my favour! Think of what she was, the joy of every heart; and what she may be! Which, whatever becomes of me, Heaven avert! And shall not the noble Clementina have her mother for her advocate? God is my witness, that your Clementina’s happiness is, more than my own, the object of my vows. Once more, for your Clementina’s sake (what, alas! is my sake to that) on my knee, let me request your interest: that, joined to my Jeronymo’s, and if the dear lady recede not, if she blast not these budding hopes, will, I doubt not, succeed.

The young lady ran to me, and offering to raise me with both her hands. Rise, chevalier: Shall I raise the chevalier, madam? I don’t love to see him kneel. Poor chevalier! See hjs tears! What is the matter with every body? Why do you weep? My mamma weeps too! What ails every body?

Rise, chevalier, said the marcliioncss. O this E e3 sweet prattler! she will burst my heart asunder! You cannot, Sir, prevail (I cannot ivish that you should) but upon our own terms. And will not this sweet soul move you? Hard-hearted Grandison!

What a fate is mine! rising: with a soul pene-tAted by the disorder of this most excellent of wo — men, and by the distress given by it to a family, every single person of which I both love and reve-rence, to be called hard-hearted! What is it I desire, but that I may not renounce a religion in which my conscience is satisfied, and be obliged to embrace for it, one, to which, though I can love and honour every worthy member of it, I have scruples, more than scru-ples, that my heart can justify, and my reason de fend! You have not, madam, yourself, with a heart all mother and friend, a deeper affliction than mine.

Clementina, all this time, looked with great ear-nestness, now on me, now on her weeping mother And at last, breaking silence [her mother could not speak] and taking her hand, and kissing it, I don’t, said she, comprehend the reason of all this. This house is not the house it was: who, but I, is the same person in it? My father is not the same. My brothers neither: my mamma never has a dry eye, I think: but I don’t weep. I am to be the comforter of you all! And I mil. Don’t weep! Why now you weep the more for my comfortings! O my mamma! What would you say to your girl, if she refused comfort? Then kneeling down and kissing her hand with eagerness, 1 beseech you, my dear mamma, I beseech you, be comforted; or lend me some of your tears What ails me that I cannot weep for you! but turning to me, See, the chevalier weeps too! Then rising, and coming to me, her hand pressing my arm Don’t weep, chevalier, my tutor, my friend, my brother’s preserver! What ails you! Be comforted 1 Then taking her handkerchief out of he r pocket with one hand, still pressing my arm with the other, and putting it to her eyes, and looking upon it No! I thought 1 co7</rfhave wept for you! But why is all this! You see what an example I, a silly girl, can set you Affecting a still sedater countenance.

O chevalier! said the weeping mother, and do you say your heart is penetrated? Sweet creature! wrapping her arms about her; my own Clementina! would to Heaven it were given me to restore my child! O chevalier! if complying with your terms would do it But you are immoveable!

How can that be said, madam, when I have made concessions, that a princely family should not, on a beginning address, have brought me to make? May I repeat, before Lady Clementina

What would he repeat to me? interrupted she. Do, madam, let him say all he has a mind to say. If it will make his poor heart easy, why let him say all he would say Chevalier, speak. Can I be any comfort to you? I would make you all happy, if I could.

This, madam, said I to her mother, is too much! Excellent young lady! Who can bear such tran-scendent goodness of heart, shining through intel — lects so disturbed! And think you, madam, that on earth there can be a man more unhappily circum-stanced than I am?

O my Clementina! said her mother, dear child of my heart! And could you consent to be the wife of a man of a contrary religion to your own? A man of another country? You see, chevalier, I will put your questions to her. A man that is an enemy to the faith of his own ancestors, as well as to your faith?

WTiy, no, madam! I hope he does not expect that I would.

May I presume, madam, to put the question in my own way? But yet I think it may dibtress tiie dear lady, and not. answer the desirable end, if I may not have hope oi your interest in my favour; and of the acquiescence of the marquis and your sons with my proposals.

They will never comply.

Let me then be made to appear insolent, unrea-sonable, and even ungrateful, in the eyes of your Clementina, if her mind can be made the easier by such a representation. If I have no hopes oiyour favour, madam, I must indeed despair.

Had I any hope of carrying your cause, I know not what might be. done: but 1 must not separate myself from my family, in this great article. My dear! to Clementina, you said you should be easier in your mind, if you were to talk to the chevalier alone. This is the only time you can have for it. Your father and brothers will be here tomorrow And then, chevalier, all will be over.

Why, madam, I did think I had a great deal to say to him. And, as I thought I had no interest in what I had to say

Would you wish, my dear, to be left alone with the chevalier? Can you. recollect any-thing that you had intended to say to him, had you made him the visit you designed to make him?

I don’t know.

Then I will withdraw. Shall I, my dear?

Ought I, Sir (You have been my tutor, and many excellent lessons have you taught me though I don’t know what is become of them! Ought 1) to wish my mamma to withdraw? Ought I to have any-thing to say to you, that I could not say before her? I think not.

The marchioness was retiring. I beg of you, madam, said I, to slip unobserved into that closet. You must hear all that passes. The occasion may be critical. Let me have the opportunity of being either approved or censured, as I shall appear to deserve, in the conversation that may pass between the dear lady and me, if you do withdraw. chevalier! You are equally prudent and gene-rous! Why won’t you be one of us? Why won’t you be a Catholic?

She went out at the door, Clementina courtesled to her. I led her eye from the door, and the mar-chioness re-entered, and slipt into the closet.

I conducted the young lady to a chair, which I placed with its back to the closet-door, that her mother might hear all that passed. She sat down, and bid me sit by her.

I was willing she should lead the subject, that the marchioness might observe I intended not to prepossess her.

We were silent for a few moments. She seemed perplexed; looked up, looked down; then on one side, then on the other At last, O chevalier! said she, they were happy times when I was your pupil, and you were teaching me English!

They were indeed happy times, madam.

Mrs. Beaumont was too hard for me, chevalier! Do you know Mrs. Beaumont?

I do. She is one of the best of women.

Why so I think. But she turned and winded me about most strangely. I think I was in a great fault.

How so, madam?

How so! Why to let her get out of me a secret that I had kept from my mother. And yet there never was a more indulgent mother. Now you look, chevalier: but I sha’n’t tell you what the secret was.

I do not ask you, madam.

If you did, I would not tell you. Well, but I had a great deal to say to you, 1 thought. I wish that frantic Camilla had not stopt mc when I was going to you. I had a great deal to say to you.

Cannot you recollect, madam, any part of it?

Let me consider Why, in the first place, I thought you despised me. 1 was not sorry for thatr I do assure you: that did me good. At first it vexed me You can’t think how much. I have a great deal of pride. Sir But, well, I got over that; and I grew sedate You see how sedate I am. Yet this poor man, thought I, whether he thinks so or not (I will tell you all my thoughts, Sir) But don’t be grieved. You see how sedate I am. Yet 1 am a silly girl; you are thought to be a wise man: don’t disgrace your wisdom. Fie! a wise man to be weaker than a simple girl! Don’t let it be said What wa& I saying?

Yet this poor man, ivhether he thinks so, or not, yoxi said, madam.

True! has a soul to be saved. He has taken great pains with me, to teach me the language of England: shall I not take some with him, to teaclv him the language of Heaven! No heretic can leara that, Sir! And I had collected abundance of fin thoughts in my mind, and many pertinent things from the fathers; and they were all in my head But that impertinent Camilla And so they are all gone But this one thing 1 have to say I designed to say something like it, at the conclusion of my discourse with you So it is premeditated, you will say: and so it is. But let me whisper it No I won’t neither But turn your face another way I find my blushes come already But (and she put her spread hand before her face, as if to hide her blushes) Don’t look at me, I tell you Look at the window^ [I did] . Why, chevalier, I did intend to say But stay I have wrote it down somewhere [She pulled out her pocket-book] Here it is. Look anothei* way, when I bid you She read * Let me beseech you, Sir (1 was very earnest, you see) to hate, to despise, to detest (Now don’t look this way) the unhappy Clementina, with all my heart; but, for the sake of your immortal soul, let me conjure you to be reconciled to our holy mother church! ‘ Will you, Sir? following my indeed averted face with her sweet face; for I could not look towards her. iSay you will. I heard you once called an angel of a man: and is it not better to be an angel in heaven? Tender-hearted man! 1 always thought you had sensibility Say you will-r-Not for ray sake 1 told you, that I would content myself to be still despised. It shall not be said, that you did this for a wife! No, Sir, your conscience shall have all the merit of it! And I’ll tell you what; I will lay me down in peace She stood up with a dignity that was aug-mented by her piety; And 1 will say, ‘ Now do thou, O beckoning angel (for an angel will be on the other side of the river The river shall be death, Sir! Now do thou) reach out thy divine hand, O minister of peace! I will wade through these sepa-rating waters; and I will bespeak a place for the man, who, many, many years hence, may fill it! And I will sit next you Ibf ever and ever!’ And this. Sir, shall satisfy the poor Clementina; who will then be richer than the richest! So you see. Sir, as I told my mother, I was setting out on God’s er-rand; not on my own!

For hours might the dear lady have talked on, without interruption from me! — iVIy dear Dr. Bart-lett! what did 1 not suffer?

The marchioness was too near for herself: she could not bear this spiu’ch of her pious, generous, noble daughter. She sobbed; she groaned.

Clementina started She looked;it me. She look-ed round her. Whence came these groans? Didyott groan, Sir? You are not a hard-hearted man, though they say you are. But will you be a Catholic, Sir? Say you will. I won’t be denied. And I will tell you what If I don’t resign to ray destiny in a few, a very few weeks, why then I will go into a nunnery; and then I shall be God’s child, you know, even in this life.

What could I say to her? Dear soul! Her mind was raised above an earthly love. Circumstanced as we were, how could I express the tenderness for her which overflowed my heart? Compassion is a motive that a woman of spirit will reject: and how-could love be here ^/earferf, when the parties believed it to be in my own power to exert it? Could I endeavour to replace myself in her affection, when I refused to comply with their terms, and they with mine? To have argued against her religion, and in defence of my own, her mind so disturbed, could not be done: and ought I, in generosity, in justice to her family, to have attempted to unsettle her in a faith in which she, and all her family, were so well satisfied?

I could only, when I could speak, applaud her piety, and pronounce her an angel of a woman, an ornament ot her sex, and an honour to her religion; and endeavour to wave the subject.

Ah, chevalier! said she, after a silence of some minutes! You are an obstinate man! Indeed you are Yet, I think, you do not despise me. But what says your paper?

She took it out of her bosom, and read it. She seemed affected by it, as if she had not before considered it: and you rert% proposed these terms, Sir? And would you have allowed me the full exercise of my religion? And should I have had my confessor? And would you have allowed me to convert you, if I could? And would you have treated my confessor kindly? And would you have been dutiful to my papa and mamma? And would you have loved my two

Other brothers as well as you do Jeronyrao? And would you have let me live at Bologna? You don’t say, Yes. But do you say, No?

To these terras, madam, most willingly would I have subscribed: and if, my dearest lady, they could have had the wished-for elFect, how happy had I been?

Well! She then paused; and resuming. What shall we say to all these things?

I thought her mother would take it well, to have an opportunity given her to quit the closet, now her Clementina had changed her subject to one so concerning to the whole family. I favoured her doing so. She slipt out, her face bathed in tears, and soon after came in at the drawing-room door.

Ah, madam! said Clementina, paying obeisance to her, I have been arguing and pleading with the chevalier.

Then, speaking low, I believe he may, in time, be convinced: he has a tender heart. But hush, putting her finger to her mouth, and then speaking louder. I have been reading this paper again

She was going on too favourably for me, as it was evident the marchioness apprehended (the first time that I had reason to think she was disinclined to the alliance): for she stopt her: My love, said she, you and I will talk of this matter by ourselves.

She rang. Camilla came in. She made a motion for Camilla to attend her daughter; and withdrew, inviting me out with her.

When we were in another room, Ah, chevalier I said she, how was it possible that you Could with-stand such aheavenly pleader? ^ou cannot love her as she deserves to be loved; you cannot but act nobly, generously; but indeed you are an invinci-ble man.

Not love her, madam! Your ladyship adds distresi to my very great distress! Am I, in your opinion, an ungrateful man! But must I lose your favour, your interest? On that, and on my dear Jeronymo’s, did I build my hopes, and all my hopes.

I know your terms can never be accepted, cheva-lier: and I have now no hopes of you. After this last conversation between you and the dear girl, I can have no hopes of you. Poor soul! She began to waver. O how she loves you! I see you are not to be united: it is impossible. And I did not care to permit a daughter of mine further to expose her-self, as it must have been to no manner of purpose. You are concerned — I should pity you, Sir, if you had it not in your potver to make yourself happy, and us, and ours too.

Little did I expect such a turn in my disfavour from the marchioness.

May I, madam, be permitted to take leave of the dear lady, to whose piety and admirable heart I am so much indebted?

I believe it may as well be deferred, chevalier.

Deferred, madam! The marquis and the general come; and my heart tells me, that I may never be allowed to see her again.

At this time it had better be deferred. Sir.

If it must, I submit God for ever bless you, ma-dam, for all your goodness! God restore to you your Clementina! May you all be happy! Time may do much for me! Time, and my own not disapproving conscience, may But a more unhappy man never passed your gates!

I took the liberty to kiss her hand, and withdrew, with great emotion.

Camilla hastened after me. Chevalier, says she, my lady asks if you will not visit Signor Jero-nymo?

Blessings attend my ever — valued friend! I cannot gee him. I shall complain to hm. My heart will burst before him. Commend me to that true friend, lilessings attend every one of this excellent family! Camilla, obliging Camilla, adieu!

O Ur. Bartlett! But the mother was right. She was to account for her conduct in the absence of her lord. She knew the determination of the family; and her Clementina was on the point of shewing more favour to me, than, as things were circumstanced, it was proper she should shew me: yet they had found out that Clementina, in the way she was in, was not easily diverted from any-thing she took strongly into her head; and they never had accustomed her to contradiction.

Well, Lucy, now you have read this letter, do you not own, that this man, and this woman, can only deserve each other? Your Harriet, my dear, is not worthy to be the handmaid of either. This is not an aflfectation of humility. You will be all of the same opinion, I am sure: and this letter will convince you, that more than his compassion, that his love for Clementina, was engaged. And so itought. And what is the inference but this That your Harriet, were this great difficulty to be vincible, could pretend to hope but for half a heart? There cannot be that fervor, my dear, in a second love, that was in a first. Do you think there can i

DR. BARTLETt’s ninth LETTER.

The young lady, proceeds Mr. Grandison, after I had left her, went to her brother Jeronymo. There I should have found her, had I, as her mo-ther motioned by Camilla, visited my friend: but when I found he was likely to stand alone in his fa-vour to me; when the marchioness had so unex — ff2 pectedly declared herself against the compromise; I was afraid of disturbing his worthy heart, by the grief which at the instant overwhelmed mine.

The following particulars Jeronynio sent me, within three hours after I left their palace.

His sister, making Camilla retire, shewed him the paper which she had written, and made me sign, and asked him what he knew of the contents.

He knew not what had passed between his mo-ther and me; uor did Clementina.

He told her, that I had actually made those proposals. He assured her, that 1 loved her above all women. He acquainted her with my distress.

She pitied me. She thought, she said, that I had not — made any overtures, any concessions: that I despised her; and sensibly asked. Why the cheva-lier was sent for from Vienna? We all knew his mind as to religion, said she.

Then, after a pause. He never could have per-verted me: he would have allowed me a confessor, would he not?

He would, answered Jeronymo

And he would have left me among my friends in Italy?

He would, replied he.

Well, brother, and I should have been glad per-haps to have seen England once; and he would per — haps have brought over his sisters and his father to visit us: and he praises them highly, i/ou know. And if I were their sister, I could have gone over with them, ^ou knoiv. Do you think if I had loved them they would not have loved me? I am not an ill-na-tured creature, i/ou knoxu; and they must be courte — ous: Are they not ^?s sisters? And don’t you think his father would love me? I should have brought no dishonour into his family, you know. Well, but I’ll tell you what, Jeronymo; he is really a tender-hearted man. I talked to him of his soul: and upon my honour, I believe I could have prevailed, in time. Father Marescotti is a severe man, you knotu; and he has been always so much consulted, and don’t love the chevalier, 1 believe: so that I fancy, if I were to have a venerable sweet-tempered man for my confessor, between my love and my confessor’s prudence, we should gain a soul. Don’t you think so, Jeronymo? And that would cover a great many sins. And all his family might be converted too, you know!

He encouraged her in this way of thinking. She beheved, she said, that I was not yet gone. He is so tender-hearted, brother! that is my dependence: and you say, he loves me. Are you sure of that? But I have reason to think he does. He shed tears, as I talked to him, more than once; while my eyes were as dry as they are now. I did not shed one tear. Well, I’ll go to him, and talk with him.

She went to the door; but came back on tiptoe; and in a whispering accent My mammals coming; Hush, Jeronymo! let Hush be the word!

The door opened Here, madam, is your girl! But it is not my mamma: the impertinent Camilla. She follows me as my shadow!

My lady desires to see you, Lady Clementina, in her dressing-room.

I obey. But where is the chevalier?

Gone, madam, gone some time.

Ah, brother! said she, and her countenance fell.

What, gone! said Jeronymo, without seeing me! Unkind Grandison! He did not use to be so unkind.

This was the substance of the advices sent me by my friend Jeronymo.

I acquainted him, in return, by pen and ink, with all that had passed between the marchioness and mej that he might not, by his friendship for me, involve himself in difficulties.

In the morning I had a visit from Camilla, by her lady’s command; with excuses for refusing to allow me to take leave of Clementina. She hoped I was not displeased with her on that account. It was the effiect of prudence, and not disrespect. She should ever regard me, even in a tender manner, as if the desired relation could have taken place. Her lord, and her brother the Conte della Porretta (as he is called) with the general and the bishop, arrived the night before, accompanied by the count’s eldest son, Signor Sebastiano. She had been much blamed for permitting the interview; but regretted it the less, as her beloved daughter was more composed than before, and gave sedate answers to all the questions put to her. But, nevertheless, she wished that I would retire from Bologna, for Clementina’s sake, as well as for my own.

Camilla added from Signor Jeronymo, that he wished to hear from me from the Trentine, or Ve-nice: and as from herself, and in confidence, that her young lady was greatly concerned, that I did not wait on her again before I went away: that she fell into a silent fit upon it; and that her mamma, on her not answering to her questions, for the first time, chid her: that this gave her great distress, but produced what they had so much wished for, a flood of tears; and that now she frequently wept, and lamented to her, What should she do? Her mamma did not love her, and her mamma talked against the chevalier. She wished to be allowed to see him. Nobody now would love her but the che-valier and Jeronymo! It would be better for her to be in England, or any-where, than to be in the sweetest country in the world, and hated.

Camilla told me, that the mai-quis, the count his brother, and the general, had indeed blamed the marchioness for permitting the interview; but were pleased that I was refused taking leave of the young lady, when she seemed disposed to dwell on the conr-tents of the note she had made me sign: they seemed now all of a mind, she said: that were I to comply with their terms, the alliance would not, by any means, be a proper one. Their rank, their degree, their alliances, were dwelt upon: I found that their advantages, in all these respects were heightened; my degree, my consequence, lowered, in order to make the difference greater, and the-difficulties insuperable.

Clementina’s uncle, and his eldest son, both men of sense and honour, who used to be high in her esteem, had talked to her: but could get nothing from her but No, and Yes. Her father had talked to her alone; but they melted each other, and no-thing resulted of comfort to either. Her mother joined him; but she threw herself at her mother’s feet, besought her to forgive her, and not to chide her again. They had intended to discourage her from thinking of me upon any terms. The general and the bishop were to talk to her that morning. They had expressed displeasure at Signor Jeron}^- mo, for his continued warmth in my favour. Fa-ther Marescotti was now consulted as an oracle; and 1 found, that, by an indelicacy of thinking, he imagined, that the husband would set all right: and was for encouraging the Count of Belvedere, and getting me at a distance.

Camilla obligingly offered to acquaint me, from time to time, with what occurred; but I thought it was not right to accept of a servant’s intelligence out of the family she belonged to, unless some one of it authorized her to give it me. Yet, you must believe, I wanted not anxious curiosity on a subject

SO interesting. I thanked her; but said, that it might, if discovered, lay her under inconveniences which would grieve me for her sake. She had the good sense to approve of my declining her offer.

In the morning of the same day, I had a visit made me which I little expected: it was from Father Ma-rescotti. It is a common thing to load an enemy, especially if he be in holy orders, and comes to us in the guise of friendship, with the charge of hypo-crisy: but partiality may be at the bottom of the accusation. Father Marescotti is a zealous Roman-catholic: I could not hope either for his interest, or affection: he could not but wish to frustrate my hopes. As a man in earnest in his own principles, and who knew how stedfast I was in mine, it was his duty to oppose this alliance. He is, perhaps, the honesterman for knowing but little of human nature, and of the tender passions. As to that of love, he seemed to have drawn his conclusions from general observations; he knew not how to allow for particu-lar constitutions, nor to account for the delicacy of such a heart as Clementina’s. Love he thought was always a poor blind boy, led in a string, either by folly, or fancy; and that once the impetus got over, and the lady settled into the common offices of life, she would domesticate herself, and be as happy with the Count of Belvedere, especially as he is a very worthy man, as if she had married the man once most favoured. On this presumption, it was a condescension in such a man, to come to me, and to declare himself my friend; and advise me what to do for promoting the peace of a family which I professed to venerate; and you will hear that his con descension was owing to a real greatness of mind.

I was, from the moment of his entrance, very open, very frank; more go than he expected, as he owned. He told me, that he was afraid I had conceived prejudices against him. The kinder then in him, I said, that he condescended to make me so friendly a visit. I assured him, that I regarded him as a good man. I had indeed sometimes thought him severe; but that convinced me that he was very ipuch in earnest in his rehgion. I was sensible, I said, that we ought always to look to the intention; to put ourselves in the situation of the persons of whose actions we presumed to judge; and even to think well of austerities, which had their foundation in virtue, in whatever manner they affected ourselves.

He applauded me; and said, I wanted so little to be a Catholic, that it was a thousand pities I was not one: and he was persuaded, that I should one day be a proselyte.

This father’s business was, to convince me of the unfitness of an alliance between families so very opposite in their religious sentiments. He went into history upon it. You may believe, that the unhappy consequences which followed the marriage between our Charles I. and the Princess Henrietta of France, were not forgotten. He expatiated upon them: but I observed to him, That the monarch was the sufferer, by the zeal of the queen for her reli-gion, and not the queen, any otherwise than as she was involved in the consequences of those sufferings which she had brought upon him. In short, father, said I, we Protestants, some of us, have zeal; but let us alone, and it is not a persecuting one. Your doctrine of merits makes the zeal of your devotees altogether active, and perhaps the more flaming, in proportion as the person is more honest and worthy.

I lamented, that I was sent fbr from Vienna, upon hopes, though my principles were well known, that otherwise I had never presumed to entertain.

He owned that that was a wrong step: and valued himself that he had not been consulted upon it; and that when he knew it had been taken, he inveighed against it.

And I am afraid, father, said I

He interrupted me Why, I believe so! You have made such generous distinctions in favour of the duty of a man acting in my function, that, I must oxKii, 1 have not been an idle observer on this occasion.

He advised me to quit Bologna. He was profuse in his offers of service in any other affair; and, I dare say, was in earnest.

I told him, That I chose not to leave it precipi-tately, and as if I had done something blame-worthy. I had some hopes of being recalled to my father’s arms. I should set out, when I left Bologna, directly for Paris, to be in the way of such a long-wished-for call: and then, said I, adieu to travelling! Adieu to Italy, for ever! I should have been happy, had I never seen it, but in the way for which 1 have been accustomed to censure the generality of my coun-trymen.

His behaviour at parting was such, as will make me for ever revere him: and will enlarge a charity for all good men of his religion; which yet, before, was not a narrow one. For, begging my excuse, he kneeled down at the door of my antechamber, and offered up, in a very fervent manner, a prayer for my conversion. He could not have given me, any other way, so high an opinion of him: no, not, had he offered me his interest with Clementina, and her fa-mily. I embraced him; as he did me: tears were in his eyes. I thanked him for the favour of this visit; and, recommending myself to his frequent pray-ers, told him, That he might be assured of all the respectful services he should put it in my power to render him. I longed, Dr. Bartlett, to make him a present worthy of his acceptance, had I known what would have been acceptable, and had 1 not been afraid of affronting him. I accompanied him to the outward door. 1 never, said he, saw a Protestant that 1 loved, before. Your mind is still more amiable than your person. Lady Clementina, 1 see, might have been happy with you: but it was not fit, on cur side. He snatched my hand, before I was aware, and honoured it with his lips; and hajstened from me, leaving me at a loss, and looking after him, and for him, when he was out of sight; my mind labouring as under a high sense of obli-gation to his goodness.

Religion and love. Dr. Bartlett, which heighten our relish for the things of both worlds, what pity is it, that they should ever run the human heart either into enthusiasm, or superstition; and thereby debase the minds they are both so well fitted to exalt!

I am equally surprised and affected by the contents of the following letter directed to me. It was put within the door; nobody saw by whom. The daughter of the lady at whose house I lodge, found it, and gave it to one of my servants for me.

Don’t be surprised, chevalier; don’t think amiss of me for my forwardness, I heard some words drop (so did Camilla, but she can’t go out to tell you of them) as if Somebody’s life was in danger. This distracts me. I am not treated as I was ac-customed to be treated. They don’t love me now They don’t love their poor Clementina! Very true, chevalier! You, who are always telling me how dearly they all loved me, will hardly believe it, I suppose. Nothing now is said, but You shall, Cle-mentina from those who used to call me sister, and dear sister, at every word.

Tliey t>aid, I was well, and quite well, and ought to be treated with a high hand I know from whom they have that. From myself. I said so to Mrs. Beaumont; but she need not to have told them. I won’t go to her again, for that. They say 1 shall. God help me, I don’t know where to go for a quiet mind. A high hand won’t do, chevalier: I wish I knew what would; I would tell it to them. I once thought it would; else I had not said it to Mrs. Beaumont: but let them go on with their high hands, with all my heart: that heart will not hold always. It had been gone before now, had not Mrs. Beau-mont got out of me Something 1 won’t tell you what And then they sent for Somebody And Somebody came And what then? They need not threaten me so Somebody is not so much to blame as they will have it he is: and that Somebody did make proposals Did you not, chevalier? I had like to have betrayed myself I stopt just in time. But, chevalier, I’ll tell you a secret Don’t speak of it to any-body May I depend upon you? I know I may. Why, Camilla tells me, that the Count of Belvedere is to come again. Are you not sorry for your poor pupil? But I’ll tell you another secret And that is, what I intend to say to him ‘ Look you here, my lord, you are a very good sort of man; and you have great estates: you are very rich: you are, in short, a very good sort of man: but there is, however, a man in the world with whom I had rather live in the poorest hermitage in a wilderness, than with you in the richest palace in the world.’ After this, if he be not the creeping mean man you said he was not, he will be answered Every-thing you said to me in former happy tiriies, I remember. You always said things to me, that were fit to be remembered. Yet I don’t tell you who my hermit is, that I had rather live with. Per-haps there is no such man. But this, you know, will be a sufficient answer to the Count of Belve-dere. Don’t you think so?

Here I have been tormented again! Would you think it? I have been pleading for Somebody, boldly, confidently. I said 1 could depend upon his honour! Ah, chevalier! Don’t you think I might? I am to be locked up, and I can’t tell what! They won’t let me see Somebody They won’t let me see my poor Jeronymo! Yoii, and I, and Jeronymo, are all put together! I don’t care, as I tell Camilla: I don’t care. They will quite harden me.

But just now my mamma O she is the best of mothers! My mamma tells me, she will not per-suade me, if I will be patient, if I will be good. My dear mamma, as I told her, I will be patient, and good: but don’t let them inveigh against the che-valier, then. What harm has he done? Was he not Ah! Sir, now I blush! Was he not sent for? And did he not weep over me? Yet is he none df your bold men, who look as proudly as if they were sure of your approbation! Well, but what do you think my mamma said Ah, Clementina! said she, would to God the chevalier for his own sake (yes, she said for his oum sake; and that made a great impression upon me; it was so good, you know, of my mamma) that the chevalier was in England, or a thousand miles off. So, Sir, this is my advice Pray take it; for I and Camilla heard some words, and Camilla, as well as I, is much trou-bled about them Get away to England as soon as you can Be sure do! And some months hence, bring your two sisters over with you; and by that time all our feuds will be ended, you know: and you shall take a house, and then I can go and visit your sisters, you know, and your sisters will visit us. You will come sometimes with them; Won’t you? Well, and I’ll tell you how we will pass part of our time: they shall perfect me in my English: I will perfect them in Italian. They know as much of that, I suppose, at least, as I do of English: and we will visit every court, and every city. So, God bless you, Sir, and get away, as soon as you can. I put no name; for fear this should miscarry, and I should be found out Ah, Sir! they are very severe with me! Pity me: but I know you will; for you have a tender heart. It is all for You!

These last five words were intended to be scratched out; and are but just legible.

How the contents of this letter afflict me! Words cannot express what I feel! I see, evidently, that they are taking wrong measures with the tenderest heart in the world; a heart that never once has swerved from its duty; and which is filled with re-verence and love for all that boast a relation to it. Harsh treatment, and which is besides new to it, is not the method to be taken with such a heart. Shill I, thought I, when I had perused it, ask for an audience of a mother so indulgent, and give her my disinterested advice upon it? Once I could have done so; and even, in confidence, have shewn her this very letter: but now she is one with the angry part of her family, and 1 dare not do it, for Clemen-tina’s sake. Talk of locking her up! Talk of bring — ing a lover to her! Threatening her with going to Mrs. Beaumont, when they should court her to go thither! Not suffer her to see her beloved Jerony-mo! He in disgrace too! How hard, how wrong, is all this conduct! I could have written to Jeronymo, thought I, and advised gentle measures, were he not out of their consultations As to the threatened resentments, they are as nothing to me. Clementina’s sufferings are every-thing! My soul disdains the thought of fastening myself upon a proud family, that now looks upon me in a mean light. A proud heart undervalued, will swell. It will be put upon orer-valuing itself. You know, Dr. Bartlett, that I have a very proud heart: but when 1 am trampled upon, or despised, then it is most proud. I would call myself a man, to a prince, who should unjustly hold me in contempt; and let him know that 1 look-ed upon him to be no more. My pride is raised: yet against whom! Not Clementina! She has all my pity! She has seen, and I have found, that her unhappy delirium, though not caused by me (I bless God for that!) has made me tender as a chidden infant. And can I think of quitting Bologna, and not see if it be possible for me to gratify myself, and serve them in her restoration? Setting quite out of the question the general’s causeless resentments, and the engagement I have laid myself under not to leave it without apprising him of my intention.

Upon the whole, 1 resolved to wait the issue of the new measures they have fallen upon. The dear lady has declared herself in my favour. Such a frank declaration must soon be followed by import-ant consequences.

The third day after the arrival of her father and brothers from Urbino, I received the following billet from the marquis himself:

CHBTAUER GRANDISON,

We are in the utmost distress. We cannot take upon us to forbid your stay at Bologna; but shall be obliged to you, if you will enable us to acquaint our daughter, that you are gone to England, or some far distant part of Italy. Wishing you happy, I am, Sir,

Your most obedient humble servant.

To this I wrote as follows:

MY LORD,

I am excessively grieved for your distress. I make no hesitation to obey you. But as I am not conscious of having, in word or deed, offended you, or any one of a family to whom I owe infinite obli-gations; let me hope, that I may be allowed a fare — well visit to your lordship, to your lady, and to your three sons; that my departure may not appear like that of a criminal, instead of the parting, which, from the knowledge I have of my own heart, as well as of your experienced goodness, may be claimed by your lordship’s

Ever obliged, and affectionate humble servant,

GRANDISON.

This request, I understood,occasioned warm debates. It was said to be a very bold one: but my dear Jeronymo insisted, that it was worthy of his friend, his deliverer, as he called me; and of an innocent man.

The result was, that I should be invited in form, to visit and take leave of the family: and two days were taken, that some others of the Urbino family might be present, to see a man for the last time (and some of them for the first) who was thought by his request, to have shewn a very extraordinary degree of intrepidity; and who, though a Protest-ant, was honoured with so great an interest in the heart of their Clementina.

The day before I was to make this formal visit (for such it was to be) I received the following let-ter from my friend Jeronymo:

MY DEAREST GRANDISON,

Take the particulars of the situation we are in here, that you may know what to expect, and how to act and comport yourself, tomorrow evening.

Your reception will be, I am afraid, cold; but civil.

You will be looked upon by the Urbino family, who have heard more of you than they have seen, as a curiosity; but with more wonder than affection.

Of them will be present, the count my father’s brother, and his sons Sebastiano and Juliano, my aunt Signora Juliana de Sforza, a widow lady, as you know, and her daughter Signora Laurana, a young woman of my sister’s age, between whom and my sister used to be, as you have heard, the stricter friendship and correspondence; and who insisted on being present on this occasion. They are all good-natured people; but love not either your coun-try or religion.

Father Marescotti will be present. He is become your very great admirer.

My father thinks to make you his compliments; but if he withdraws the moment he has made them, you must not be surprised.

My mother says, that as it is the last time that she may ever see you, and as she really greatly re-spects you, she shall not be able to leave you while you stay.

The general, I hope, will behave with politeness.

The bishop loves you; but will not, however, perhaps, be in high good humour with you.

Your Jeronymo will be wheeled into the same room. If he be more silent than usual on the so-lemn occasion, you will not do him injustice, per — haps, if you attribute it to his prudenpe; but much more to his grief.

GG 3

And now let me tell you, as briefly as I can, the situation of the dear creature who must not appear, but who is more interested in the occasion of the congress than any person who will be present at it.

What passed between you and her at the last interview, has greatly impressed her in your favour. The bishop, the general, and my father, soon after their return from Urbino, made her a visit in her dressing-room. They talked to her of the excel-lency of her own religion, and of the errors of the pretended reformed, which they called, and I sup-pose are, damnable. They found her steady in her abhorrence of the one, and adherence to the other. They were delighted with her rational answers, and composed behaviour: they all three retired in rap-tures, to congratulate each other upon it; and re — turned with pleasure, to enter into farther talk with her: but when they mentioned you to her, she, led by their affectionate behaviour to her on their re-turn, said. It had given her great pleasure, and-ease of mind, to find that she was not despised by a man whom every one of the family regarded for his merit and great qualities. The general had hardly pati-ence; he walked to the farther end of the room: my father was in tears: the bishop soothed her, in order to induce her to speak her whole mind.

He praised you. She seemed pleased. He led her to believe, that the whole family were willing to oblige her, if she would declare herself; and asked her questions, the answers to which must either be an avowal or a denial of her love; and then she owned, That she preferred the Chevalier Grandison to all the men in the world; she would not, against the opinion of her friends, wish to be his; but never would be the wife of any other man.

What, said the general, though he continue a heretic .’’

He inight be converted, she said. And he was a sweet-tempered and compassionate man: and a man of sense as he was, must see his errors. Would she run the risque of her own salvation? She was sure she should never give up her faith. It was tempting God to abandon her to her own perverseness.

Her reliance on his goodness to enable her to be stedfast, was humble, and not presumptuous, and with a pious view to gain a proselyte; and God would not forsake a person so well intending. Was she not to be allowed her confessor? Her confessor should be appointed by themselves. She did not doubt but the chevalier would consent to that.

The bishop, you know, can be cool when he pleases. He bore to talk further with her. My father was still in tears. The general had no longer patience. He with-drew, and came to me, and vented on me his dis pleasure. It is true, Grandison, when it was pro posed to send for you from Vienna, I, sanguine in my hopes, had expressed myself as void of all doubt but you would become a Catholic Your love, your compassion, your honour, as I thought, engaged by such a step taken on our side I had no notion that on such a surprise, with such motives to urge your compliance, a young man like myself, and with a heart so sensible, could have been so firm: but these thoughts are all over This, however, exposes me to the more reproaches.

We were high; and my mother and uncle came in to mediate between us.

I would not, I could not, renounce my friend; the friend of my soul, as in our first acquaintance; and the preserver of my life Miserable as that has been, the preserver of it, at a time when I was engaged in an unlaxvftd pursuit, in which had I pe — rished, what might I have now been, and where?

I ventured to give my opinion in favour of my sister’s marriage with you, as the only method that could be taken to restore her; who, I said, loved you because you were a virtuous man; and that her love was not only founded in virtue, but was virtue itself.

My brother told me, that I was as much beside myself with my notions of gratitude, as my sister was with a passion less excusable.

I bade him forbear wounding a wounded man. Thus high ran words between us. The bishop, mean time, went on with a true church subtlety, to get out of the innocent girl her whole mind.

He boasted afterwards of his art. But what was there in it to boast of? A mind so pure and so sim-ple as Clementina’s ever was, and which only the pride of her sex, and motives of religion, had per-haps hindered her from declaring to all the world.

He asked her. If she were willing to leave her father, mother, brothers, and country, to go to a strange land; to live among a hated people?

No, she said; you would not wish her to go out of Italy. You would live nine months out of twelve in Italy.

He told her, That she must, when married, do as her husband would have her. She could trust to your honour. Would she consent that her children should be trained up heretics?

She was silent to this question. He repeated it.

Well, my lord, if I must not be allowed to choose for myself; only let me not hear the chevalier spoken of disrespectfully: he does not deserve it.

He has acted by me with as much honour, as he did by my brother. He is an uniformly good man, and as generous as good And don’t let me have other proposals made me; and I will be contented. I had never so much distinguished him, if every-body had not as well as 1.

He was pleased to find her answers so rational: he pronounced her quite well; and gave it as his opinion, that you should be desired to quit Bologna: and your absence, and a little time, he was sure, would secure her health of mind.

But when her aunt Sforza and her cousin Laurana talked with her next morning, they found her, on putting questions about you, absolutely determined in your favour. fehe answered the objections they made against you with equal warmth and clearness. She seemed sensible of the unhappy way she had been in, and would have it, that the last interview she had with you, had helped to calm and restore her: and she hoped that she should be better every day. She praised your behaviour to her: she expatiated upon, and pitied, your distress of mind.

They let her run on till they too had obtained from her a confirmation of all that the bishop had reported; and, upon repeating the conversation, would have it, upon experience, that soothing such a passion was not the way to be taken; but that a high hand was to be used, and that she was to be shamed out of a love so improper, so irreligious, so scandalous, to be encouraged in a daughter of their house with a heretic; and who had shewn himself to be a determined one.

They accordingly entered upon their new mea-sures. They forbad her to think of you: they told her. That she should not upon any terms be yours; not now, even if you would change your religion for her. They depreciated your family, your for-tune, and even your understanding; and brought to prove what they said against the latter, your obsti-nate adherence to your mushroom religion, so they called it; a religion that was founded in the wickedness of your Vlllth Henry; in the superstition of a child his successor; and in the arts of a vile woman who had martyred a sister queen, a better woman than herself. They insisted upon her encouraging the Count of Belvedere’s addresses, as a mark of her obedience.

They condemned, in terms wounding to her mo-desty, her passion for a foreigner, and enemy to her faith; and on her earnest request to see her father, he was prevailed upon to refuse her that favour.

Lady Juliana Sforza and her daughter Laurana, the companion of her better hours, never see her, but they inveigh against you as an artful, and inte-rested man.

Her uncle treats her with authority; Signor Se-bastiano with a pity bordering on contempt.

My mother shuns her; and indeed avoids me: but as she has been blamed for permitting the inter-view, which they suppose the wrongest step that could have been taken; she declares herself neutral, and resigns to whatever shall be done by her lord, by his brother, her two sons, and Lady Juliana de Sforza: but 1 am sure, in her heart, that she ap-proves not of the new measures; and which are also, as I have reminded the bishop, so contrary to the advice of the worthy Mrs. Beaumont; to whom they begin to think of once more sending my sister, or of prevailing on her to come hither: but Clementina seems not to be desirous of going again to her; we know not why; since she used to speak of her with the highest respect.

The dear soul rushed in to me yesterday. Ah, ray Jeronymo! said she, they will drive me into despair. They hate me, Jeronymo But I have writ — ten to Somebody! Hush! for your Ufe, hush.

She was immediately followed in by her aunt Sforza, and her cousin Laurana, and the general; who, though he heard not what she said, insisted on her returning to her own apartment.

What! said she, must I not speak to Jeronymo? Ah, Jeronymo I I had a great deal to say to you!

I raved; but they hurried her out, and have for-bid her to visit me: they, however, have had the ci — vility to desire my excuse. They are sure, they say, they are in the right way: and if I will have pati-ence with them for a week, they will change their measures, if they find these new ones ineffectual. But my sister will be lost, irrecoverably lost; I foresee that.

Ah Grandison! And can you still But now they will not accept of your change of religion. Poor Clementina! Unhappy Jeronymo! Unhappy Gran’ dison! I will say. If you are not so, you cannot deserve the affection of a Clementina.

But are you the Somebody to whom she has written? Has she written to you? Perhaps you will find some opportunity tomorrow to let me know whether she has, or not. Camilla is forbidden to stir out of the house, or to write.

The general told me, just now, that my gratitude to you shewed neither more nor less, than the high value I put upon my own life.

I answered; That his observation convinced me, that he put a much less upon mine, than I, in the same case, should have put upon his.

He reconciled himself to me by an endearment. He embraced me. Don’t say convinced, Jeronymo. I love not myself better than I love my Jeronymo.

What can one do with such a man I He does love me.

My mother, as I said, is resolved to be neutral: but, it seems, she is always in tears.

My mother stept in just now To my question after my sister’s health; Ah, Jeronymo! said she. All is wrong! The dear creature has been bad ever since yesterday. They are all wrong! But patience and silence, child! You and 1 have nothing to an-swer for. Yet my Clementina, said she Oh! and left me.

I have no heart to write on. You will see, fi“om the above, the way we are in. O my Grandison! What will you do among us? I wish you would not come. Yet what hope, if you do not, shall I ever have of seeing again my beloved friend, who has behaved so unexceptionably in a case so critical?

You must not think of the dear creature: her head is ruined: for your own sake, you must not. We are all unworthy of you: yet, not all: all, however, but Clementina, and (if true friendship will justify my claim to another exception)

Your afflicted

JEROx\YMO.

Letter XXIX.

Miss Byron to Miss Selby.

O MY Lucy! What think you! But it is easy to guess what you must think. I will, without saying one word more, inclose

DR. BARTLETT’s tenth LETTER.

The next day (proceeds my patron) I went to make my visit to the family. I had nothing to re-proach myself with; and therefore had no other concern upon me but what arose from the unhappiness of the noble Clementina: that indeed was enough. I thought I should have some difficulty to manage my own spirit, if I were to find myself insulted, especially by the general. Soldiers are so apt to value themselves on their knowledge of what, after all, one may call but their trade, that a private gentleman is often thought too slightly of by them. Insolence in a great man, a rich man, or a soldier, is a call upon a man of spirit to exert himself. But I hope, thought I, I shall not have this call from anj one of a family I so greatly respect.

I was received by the bishop; who politely, after I had paid my compliments to the marquis and his lady, presented me to those of the Urbino family to whom I was a stranger. Every one of those named by Signor Jeronymo, in his last letter, was present.

The marquis, after he had returned my compliment, looked another way, to hide his emotion: the marchioness put her handkerchief to her eyes; but withdrawing it again, looked upon me with tenderness; and 1 read in them her concern for her Cle — mentina.

I paid my respects to the general with an air of freedom, yet of regard; to my Jeronymo, with the tenderness due to our friendship; and congratulated him on seeing him out of his chamber. His kind eyes glistened with pleasure; yet it was easy to read a mixture of pain in them; which grew stronger as the first emotions on seeing me enter, gave way to reflection.

The Conte della Porretta seemed to measure me with his eye.

I addressed myself to Father Marescotti, and made my particular acknowledgments to him for the fa-vour of his visit, and what had passed in it. He

H U looked upon me with pleasure; probably with the more, as this was a farewell visit.

The two ladies whispered, and looked upon me, and seemed to bespeak each other’s attention to what passed.

Signer Sebastiano placed himself next to Jerony-mo, and often whispered him, and as often cast his eye upon me. He was partial to me, I believe, because my generous friend seemed pleased with what he said.

His brother, Signor Juliano, sat on the other hand of me. They are agreeable and polite young men.

A profound silence succeeded the general compliments.

I addressed myself to the marquis: Your lordship, and you, madam, turning to the marchioness, I hope will excuse me for having requested the favour of being once more admitted to your presence, and to that of three brothers, for whom 1 shall ever retain the most respectful affection. I could not think of leaving a city, where one of the first families in it has done me the highest honour, without taking such a leave as might shew my gratitude Accept, my lords, bowing; Accept, madam, more profoundly bowing to the marchioness, my respectful thanks for all your goodness to me. I shall, to the end of my life, number most of the days that I have passed at Bologna among its happiest, even were the remain-der to be as happy as man ever knew.

The marquis said, We wish you, chevalier, very happy; happier than He sighed, and was silent.

His lady only bowed. Her face spoke distress. Her voice was lost in sighs, though she struggled to suppress them.

Chevalier, said the bishop, with an air of solemni — ty, you have given us many happy hours: for them we thank you. Jeronymo, for himself, will say more: he is the most grateful of men. We thank you also for what you have done for him.

I cannot, said Jeronymo, express suitably my gratitude: my prayers, my vows, shall follow you whithersoever you go, best of friends, and best of men!

The general, with an air and a smile that might have been dispensed with, oddly said. High pleasure and high pain are very near neighbours: they are often guilty of excesses, and then are apt to mistake each other’s house. 1 am one of those who think ouf whole house obliged to the chevalier for the seasonable assistance he gave to our Jeronymo. But–Dear general, said Lady Juliana, bear with an in terruption: the intent of this meeting is amicable. The chevalier is a man of honour. Things may have fallen out unhappily; yet nobody to blame.

As to blame, or otherwise, said the Conte della Porretta, that is not now to be talked of; else, I know where it lies: in short, among ourselves. The che-valier acted greatly by Signer Jeronymo: we were all obliged to him: but to let such a man as this have free admission to our daughter She ought to have had no eyes.

Pray, my lord, pray, brother, said the marquis, are we^not enough sufferers?

The chevalier, said the general, cannot but be gratified by so high a compliment; and smiled indignantly.

My lord, replied I to the general, you know very little of the man before you, if you don’t believe him to be the most afflicted man present.

Impossible! said the marquis, with a sigh.

The marchioness arose from her seat, motioning to go; and turning round to the two ladies, and the count, I have resigned my will to the will of you all, my dearest friends, and shall be permitted to with-draw. This testimony, however, before I go, I can — not but bear: Wherever the fault lay, it lay not with the chevalier. He has, from the first to the last, acted with the nicest honour. He is entitled to our respect. The unhappiness lies no-where but in the difference of religion.

Well, and that now is absolutely out of the question, said the general: it is indeed, chevalier.

I hope, my lord, from a descendant of a family so illustrious, to find an equal exemption from wounding words, and wounding looks; and that, Sii^ as well from your generosity, as from yowc justice.

My looks give you offence, chevalier! Do they?

I attended to the marchioness. She came towards me. I arose, and respectfully took her hand. Chevalier, said she, I could not withdraw without bearing the testimony I have borne to your merits. I wish you happy. God protect you, whithersoever you go. Adieu.

She wept. I bowed on her hand with profound respect. She retired with precipitation. It was with difSculty that I suppressed the rising tear. I took my seat.

I made nd answer to the general’s last question, though it was spoken in such a way (I saw by their eyes) as took every other person’s notice. *

Lady Sforza, when her sister was retired, hinted, that the last interview between the young lady and me was an unadvised permission, though intended for the best.

I then took upon me to defend that step. Lady Clementina, said I, had declared, That if she were allowed to speak her whole mind to me, she should be easy. I had for some time given myself up to absolute despair. The marchioness intended not favour to me in allowing of the interview: it was the most affecting one to me I had ever known. But let me say, That, far from having bad effects on the young lady’s mind, it had good ones. I hardly know how to talk upon a subject so very interesting to every one present, but not more so to any one than to myself. 1 thought of avoiding it; and have been led into it, but did not lead. And since it is before us, let me recommend, as the most effectual way to re-store every one to peace and happiness, gentle treat’ tnent. The most generous, the meekest, the most du-tiful of human minds, requires not harsh treatment.

How do you know. Sir, said the general, and look-ed at Jeronymo, the methods now taken And are they then harsh, my lord? said I. He was offended.

I had heard, proceeded I, that a change of mea-sures was resolved on. I knew that the treatment before hadbeen all gentle, condescending, indulgent. I received but yesterday letters from my father, sig-nifying his intention of speedily recalling me to my native country. I shall set out very soon for Paris, where I hope to meet with his more direct commands for this long-desired end. What may be my destiny, I know not; but I shall carry with me a heart burdened with the woee of this family, and distressed for the beloved daughter of it. But let me beseech you all, for your own sakes (mine is out of the question: I presume not upon any hope on my own account) that you will treat this angelic-minded lady with tenderness. I pretend to say, that I know that harsh or severe methods will not do.

The general arose from his seat, and, with a countenance of fervor, next to fierceness Let me tell you, Grandison, said he

I arose from mine, and going to Lady Sforza, who sat next him, he stopt, supposing me going to him, and seemed surprised, and attentive to my motions:

H H 3 but, disregarding him, I addressed myself to that lady. You, madam, are the aunt of Lady Clemen-tina: the tender, the indulgent mother is absent, and has declared, that she resigns her will to the will of jjier friends present Allow me to supplicate, that former measures may not be changed with her. Great dawnings of returning reason did I discover in our last interview. Her delicacy (never was there a more delicate mind) wanted but to be satis-fied. It tons satisfied, and she began to be easy. Were her mind but once composed, the sense she has of her duty, and what she owes to her religion, would restore her to your wishes: but if she should be treated harshly (though I am sure, if she should, it would be with the best intention) Clementina will be lost.

The general sat down. They all looked upon one another. The two ladies dried their eyes. The starting tear would accompany my fervor. And then stepping to Jeronymo, who was extremely af-fected; My dear Jeronymo, said I, my friend, ray beloved friend, cherish in your noble heart the me-mory of your Grandison. Would to God 1 could attend you to England! We have baths there of so-vereign efficacy, “fte balm of a friendly and grate — ful heart would promote the cure. 1 have urged it before. Consider of it.

My Grandison, my dear Grandison, my friend, my preserver! You are not going!

I am, my Jeronymo; and embraced him. Love me in absence, as I shall you.

Chevalier, said the bishop, you don’t go? We hope for your company at a small collation. We must not part with you yet.

I cannot, my lord, accept the favour. Although I had given myself up to despair of obtaining the happiness to which 1 once aspired; yet I was not-willing to quit a city that this family had made dear to me, with the precipitation of a man conscious of misbehaviour. I thank you for the permission I had to attend you all in full assembly. May God prosper youy my lord; and may you be invested with the first honours of that church which must be adorned by so worthy a heart! It will be my glory, when I am in my native place, or wherever 1 am, to remember that I was once thought not unworthy of a rank in a family so respectable. Let me, my lord, be intitled to your kind remembrance.

He pulled out his handkerchief. My lord, said he, to his father; My lord, to the general; Grandison must not go! and sat down with emotion.

Lady Sforza wept: Laurana seemed moved: the two young lords, Sebastiano and Juliano, were great-ly affected.

I then addressed myself to the marquis, who sat undetermined, as to speech: My venerable lord, for-give me, that my address was not first paid here. My heart overflows with gratitude for your goodness in permitting me to throw myself at your feet, before I took a last farewell of a city favoured with your re-sidence. Best of fathers, of friends, of men, let me entreat the continuance of your paternal indulgence to the child nearest, and deserving to be nearest, to your heart. She is ail you and her mother. Restore her to yourself, and to her, by your indulgence: that alone, and a blessing on your prayers, caji re-store her. Adieu, my good lord: repeated thanks for all your hospitable goodness to a man that will ever retain a grateful sense of your favour.

You will not yet go, was all he said He seemed in agitation. He could not say more.

I then, turning to the count his brother, who sat next him, said, I have not the honour to be fully known to your lordship: some prejudices from dif-ferences in opinion may have been conceived: but if you ever hear any thing of the man before you unworthy of his name, and of the favour once designed him; then, my lord, blame, as well as wonder at, the condescension of your noble brother and sister in my favour.

Who, I! Who, I! said that lord, in some hurry. I think very well of you. I never saw a man, in my life, that I liked so well!

Your lordship does me honour. I say this the rather, as I may, on this solemn occasion, taking leave of such honourable friends, charge my future life with resolutions to behave worthy of the favour I have met with in this family.

I passed from him to the general Forgive, my lord, said I, the seeming formality of my behaviour in this parting scene: it is a very solemn one to me. You have expressed yourself of me, and to me, my lord, with more passion (forgive me, I mean not to offend you) than perhaps you will approve in your-self when I am far removed from Italy. For have you not a noble mind? And are you not a son of the Marquis della Porretta? Permit me to observe, that passion will make a man exalt himself, and degrade another; and the just medium will be then forgot. J. am afraid I have been thought more lightly of, than I ought to be, either in justice, or for the honour of a person who is dear to every one present. My country was once mentioned with disdain: think > not my vanity so much concerned in what I am going to say, as my honour: I am proud to be thought an Englishman: yet I think as highly of every worthy man of every nation under the sun, as I do of the worthy men of my own. I am not of a contemptible race in my own country. My father lives in it with the magnificence of a prince. He loves his son; yet I presume to add, that that son deems his good name his riches; his integrity his grandeur. Princes, n though they are intitled by their rank to respect, are princes only to him as they act. A few words more, my lord. I have been of the hearing, not of the speaking side of the question, in the two last conferences I had the honour to hold with your lordship. Once you unkindly mentioned the word triumph. The word at the time went to my heart. When I can subdue the natural warmth of my temper, then, and then only, I have a triumph. I should not have re-membered this, had 1 not now, my lord, on this solemn occasion, been received by you with an indignant eye. I respect your lordship too much, not to take notice of this angry reception. My silence upon it, perhaps, would look like subscribing before this illustrious company to the justice of your contempt: yet I mean no other notice than this: and this, to demonstrate that 1 was not, in my own opinion at least, absolutely unworthy of the favour I met with from the father, the mother, the brothers, you so justly honour, and which I wished to stand in with 1/ou.

And now, my lord, allow me the honour of your hand; and, as 1 have given you no cause for displea-sure, say, that you will remember me with kindness, as 1 shall honour you and your whole family to the last day of my life.

The general heard me out; but it was with great emotion. He accepted not my hand: he returned not my answer: the bishop arose, and, taking him aside, endeavoured to calm him.

I addressed myself to the two young lords, and said. That if ever their curiosity led them to visit England, where I hoped to be in a few months, I should be extremely glad of cultivating their esteem and favour, by the best offices I could do them. They received my civility with politeness.

I addressed myself next to Lady Laurana May you, madam, the friend, the intimate, the chosen companion of Lady Clementina, never know the hundredth part of the woe that fills the breast of the man before you, for the calamity that has befallen your admirable cousin, and because of that, a whole excellent family. Let me recommend to you, that tender and soothing treatment to her, which her tender heart would shew to you, in any calamity that should befall you. I am not a bad man, madam, though of a different communion from yours. Think but half so charitably of me, as I do of every one of your religion who lives up to his professions, and I shall be happy in your favourable thoughts when you hear me spoken of.

It is easy to imagine. Dr. Bartlett, that 1 address-ed myself in this manner to this lady, whom 1 had never before seen, that she might not think the harder of her cousin’s prepossessions in favour of a Protestant.

I recommended myself to the favour of Father Marescotti. He assured me of his esteem, in very warm terms.

And just as I was again applying to my Jeronymo, the general came to me: You cannot think, Sir, said he, nor did you design it, I suppose, that I should be pleased with your address to me. I have only this question to ask. When do you quit Bologna?

Let me ask your lordship, said I, When do you return to Naples?

Why that question. Sir? haughtily.

I will answer you frankly. Your lordship, at the first of my acquaintance with you, invited me to Naples. 1 promised to pay my respects to you there. If you think of being there in a week, I will attend you at your own palace in that city; and there, my lord, I hope, no cause to the contrary having arisen

SIK CHARLES CRANDISON. 85f) from me, to be received by you with the same kindness and favour that you shewed when you gave nfte the invitation. I think to leave Bologna tomorrow. brother, said the bishop, are you not now overcome?

And are you in earnest? said the general.

I am, ray lord. I have many valuable friends, at different courts and cities in Italy, to take leave of. I never intend to see it again. I would look upon your lordship as One of those friends: but you seem still displeased with me. You accepted not my of-fered hand before: once more I tender it. A man of spirit cannot be offended at a man of spirit, without lessening himself. I call upon your dignity, my lord.

He held out his hand, just as I was withdrawing mine. I have pride, you know. Dr. Bartlett; and I was conscious of a superiority in Mi’s witonce; I took his hand, however, at his offer; yet pitied him, that his motion was made at all, as’ it wanted that grace which generally accompanies all he does and says.

The bishop embraced me. Your moderation, thus exerted, said he, must ever make you triumph.

Grandison! you are a prince of the Almighty’s creation.

The noble Jeronymo dried his eyes, and held out his arms to embrace me.

The general said, I shall certainly be at Naples in a week. I am too much affected by the woes of my family, to behave as perhaps I ought on this occa-sion. Indeed, Grandison, it is difficult for sufferers to act with spirit and temper at the same time.

It is, my lord: I have found it so. My hopes raised, as once they were, now sunk, and absolute despair having taken place of them Would to God

I had never returned to Italy! But I reproach not any-body.

Yet, said Jeronymo, you have some reason To be sent for as you were

He was going on Pray, brother, said the gene-rA And turning to me, I may expect you, Sir, at Naples?

You may, my lord. But one favour I have to beg of you mean time. It is, That you will not treat harshly your dear Clementina. Would to Heaven I might have had the honour to say, mi/ Clementina! And permit me to make one other request on my own account: and that is. That you will tell her, that I took my leave of your whole family by their kind permission; and that, at my departure, I wished her, from my soul, all the happiness that the best and tenderest of her friends can wish her! I make this request to you, my lord, rather than to Signor Jeronymo, because the tenderness which he has for me might induce him to mention me to her in a manner which might, at this time, affect her too sensibly for her peace.

Be pleased, my dear Signor Jeronymo, to make my devotion known to the marchioness. Would to Heaven But adieu, and once more adieu, my Jero-nymo. I shall hear from you when I get to Naples, if not before. God restore your sister, and heal you!

I bowed to the marquis, to the ladies, to the ge-neral, to the bishop, particularly; to the rest in ge — neral; and was obliged, in order to conceal my emotion, to hurry out at the door. The servants had planted themselves in a row; not for selfish motives, as in England: they bowed to the ground, and blessed me, as I went through them. I had ready a purse of ducats. One hand and another declined it: 1 dropt it in their sight. God be with you, my honest friends! said I; and departed O, Dr. Bartlett, with a heart how much distressed!

And now, my good Miss Byron, have I not rea-iSon, from the deep concern which you take in the woes of Lady Clementina, to regret the task you have put me upon? And do you, my good Lord and Lady L. and Miss Grandison, now wonder that your brother has not been forward to give you the particulars of this melancholy tale? Yet you all say, I must proceed.

See, Lucy, the greatness of this man’s behaviour! What a presumption was it in your Harriet, ever to aspire to call such a one hers!

Letter XXX.

Miss Byron to Miss Selby.

This Lady Olivia, Lucy, what can she pretend to But I will not puzzle myself about her. Yet she pretend to give disturbance to such a man! You will Hnd her mentioned in Dr. Bartlett’s next letter; or’ she would not have been named by me.

DR. bartlett’s eleventh LETTER.

Mr. Grandison, on his return to his lodgings, found there, in disgUise, Lady Olivia. He wanted not any new disturbance. But I will not mix the stories.

The next morning he received a letter from Sig-ner Jeronymo. The following is a translation of it:

MY DEARB8T GRANDISON,

How do you? Ever-amiable friend! What tri-umphs did your behaviour of last night obtain for you! Not a soul here but admires you!

Even Lauranadecla’ — d, That were you a Catholic, it would be a merit to love you. Yet she reluctantly praised you, and once said — What, but splendid sins, are the virtues of a heretic?

Our two cousins, with the good-nature of youths lamented that you could not be ours in the way you wish. My father wept like a child, when you were gone; and seemed to enjoy the praises given you by every one. The count said, he never saw a no-bler behaviour in man. Your free, your manly, your polite air and address, and your calmness and intrepidity, were applauded by every one.

What joy did this give to your Jeronymo! I thought I wanted neither ciutches, helps, nor wheeled chair; nd several times forgot that I ailed any-thing.

I begin to love Father Marescotti. He was with the foremost in praising you.

The general owned, that he once was resolved to quarrel with you. But will he, do you think, Jero-nymo, said he, make me a visit at Naples?

You may depend upon it, he will, answered I.

I will be there to receive him, replied he.

They admired you particularly for your address to my sister, by the general, rather than by me: and Lady Sforza said. It was a thousand pities that you and Clementina could not be one. They applauded, all of them, what they had not, any of them, the power to imitate that largeness of heart which makes you think so well, and speak so tenderly, of those of communions different from your own. So much steadiness in your own religion, yet so much pru-dence, in a man so young, they said was astonishing! No wonder that your character ran so high, in every court you had visited.

My mother came in soon after you had left us. She was equally surprised and grieved to find you gone. She thought she was sure of your staying supper; and, not satisfied with the slight leave she had taken, she had been strengthening her mind to pass an hour in your company, in order to take a more solemn one.

My father asked her after her daughter.

Poor soul! said she, she has heard that the che-valier was to be here, to take leave of us.

By whom? By whom? said my father.

I cannot tell: but the poor creature is half-raving to be admitted among us. She has dressed herself in one of her best suits; and I found her sitting in a kind of form, expecting to be called down. Indeed, Lady Sforza, the method we are in, does not do.

So the chevalier said, replied that lady. Well, let us change it with all my heart. It is no pleasure to treat the dear girl harshly O sister! this is a most extraordinary man!

That momentinbolted Camilla LadyClementina is just at the door. I could not prevail upon her

We all looked upon one another.

Three soft taps at the door, and a hem, let us know she was there.

Let her come in, dear girl, let her come in, said the count: the chevalier is not here.

Laurana arose, and ran to the door, and led her in.

Dear creature, how wild she looked! Tears ran down my cheeks: I had not seen her for two days before. O how earnestly did she look round her! withdrawing her hand from her cousin, who would have led her to a chair, and standing quite still.

Come and sit by me, my sweet love, said her weeping mother. She stept towards her.

Sit down, my dear girl.

No: you beat me, remember.

Who beat you, my dear? Sure nobody would beat my child! Who beat you, Clementina?

I don’t know Still looking round her, as wanting Somebody.

Again her mother courted her to sit down.

No, madam, you don’t love me.

Indeed, my dear, I do.

II 2

So you say.

Her father held out his open arms to her. Tear* ran down his cheeks. He could not speak. Ah, my father! said she, stepping towards him.

He caught her in his arms Don’t, don’t, Sir, faintly struggling, with averted face You love me not You refused to see your child, when she want-ed to claim your protection! I was used cruelly.

By whom, my dear? by whom?

By every-body. I complained to one, and to another; but all were in a tone: and so I thought I would be contented. My mamma too! But it is no matter. I saw it was to be so; and I did not care.

By my soul, said I, this is not the way with her, Lady Sforza. The chevalier is in the right. You see how sensible she is of harsh treatment.

Well, well, said the general, let us change our measures.

Still the dear girl looked out earnestly, as for Somebody.

She loosed herself from the arms of her sorrowing father.

Let us in silence, said the count, observe her motions.

She went to him on tip-toe, ana looking in his face over his shoulder, as he sat with his back to-wards her, passed him; then to the general; then to Signor Sebastiano; and to every one round, till she came to me; looking at each over his shoulder in the same manner: then folding her fingers, her hands open, and her arms hanging down to their full extent, she held up her face meditating, with such a significant woe, that I thought my heart would have burst. Not a soul in the company had a dry eye.

Lady Sforza arose, took her two hands, the fingers still clasped; and would have spoken to her, but could not; and hastily retired to her seat.

Tears, at last, began to trickle down her cheeks, as she stood fixedly looking up. She started, looked about her, and, hastening to her mother, threw her arms about her neck; and, hiding her face in her bosom, broke out into a flood of tears, mingled with sobs that penetrated every heart.

The first words she said, were. Love me, my mamma! Love your child! your poor child! your Clementina! Then raising her head, and again laying it in her mother’s bosom If ever you loved me, love me now, my mamma! I have need of your love!

My father was forced to withdraw. He was led out by his two sons.

Your poor Jeronymo was unable to help himself. He wanted as much comfort as his father. What were the wounds of his body, at that time, to those of his mind?

My two brothers returned. This dear girl, said the bishop, will break all our hearts.

Her tears had seemed to relieve her. She held up her head. My mother’s bosom seemed wet with her child’s tears and her own. Still she looked round her.

Suppose, said I, somebody were to name the man she seems to look for? It may divert this wildness.

Did she come down, said Laurana to Camilla, with the expectation of seeing him?

She did.

Let 7ne, said the bishop, speak to her. He arose, and, taking her hand, walked with her about the room. You look pretty, my dear Clementina! Your ornaments are charmingly fancied. What made you dress yourself so prettily?

She looked earnestly at hun, in silence. He re-peated his question I speak, said she, all my heart; and then I suffer for it. Every — body is against me. You shall not suffer for it: every — body is for you, T confessed to Mrs. Beaumont; I confessed to you, brother: but what did I get by it? Let go my hand. I don’t love you, 1 believe.

I am sorry for it. I love you, Clementina, as I love ray own soul!

He turned his face from her to us. She must not be treated harshly, said he. He soothed her in a truly brotherly manner.

Tell me, added he to his soothings. Did you expect any-body here, that you find not?

Did I? Yes, I did. Camilla, come hither. Let go my hand, brother.

He did. She took Camilla under the arm Don’t you know, Camilla, said she, what you heard said of Somebody’s threatening Somebody? Don’t let any-body hear us; drawing her to one end of the room. I want to take a walk with you into the garden, Camilla.

It is a dark night, madam.

No matter. If you are afraid, I will go by myself.

Seem to humour her in talk, Camilla, said the count; but don’t go out of the room with her.

Be pleased to tell me, madam, what we are to walk in the garden for?

Why, Camilla, I had a horrid dream last night; and I cannot be easy till I go into the garden.

What, madam, was your dream?

In the orange grove, I thought 1 stumbled over the body of a dead man!

And who was it, madam?

Don’t you know who was threatened? And was not Somebody here to-night? And was not Some-body to sup here? And is he here?

The general then went to her. My dearest Cle-mentina; my beloved sister; set your heart at rest. Somebody is safe: shall be safe.

She took first one of his hands, then the other; and, looking in the palms of them, They are not bloody, said she. What have you done with him, then? Where is he?

Where is who?

You know whom I ask after; but you want some-thing against me.

Then stepping quick up to me: My Jeronymo! Did I see you before? and stroked my cheek. Now tell me, Jeronymo Don’t come near me, Camilla. Pray, Sir, to the general, do you sit down. She leaned her arm upon my shoulder: I don’t hurt you Jeronymo: Do I?

No, my dearest Clementina.

That’s my best brother. Cruel assassins! But the brave man came just in time to save you. But do you know what is become of him?

He is safe, my dear. He could not stay.

Did any-body affront him?

No, my love.

Are you sure nobody did? Very sure? Father Marescotti, said she, turning to him (who wept from the time she entered) you don’t love him: but you are a good man, and will tell me truth. Where is he? Did nobody affront him?

No, madam.

Because, said she, he never did any-thing but good to any one.

Father Marescotti, said I, admires him as much as any-body.

Admire him! Father Marescotti admire him! But he does not love him. And I never heai’d him say one word against Father Marescotti in my life.

Well, but, Jeronymo, What made him go away, then? Was he not to stay to supper?

He was desired to stay; but would not.

Jeronymo, let me whisper you Did he tell you that I wrote him a letter?

I guessed you did, whispered I.

You are a strange guesser: but you can’t q:ues8 how 1 sent it to him But hush, Jeronymo Well, but, Jeronymo, Did he say nothing of me, when he went away?

He left his compliments for you with the general.

With the general! The general won’t tell me!

Yes, he will, Brother, pray tell my sister what the chevalier said to you, at parting.

He repeated, exactly, what you had desired him to say to her.

Why would they not let me see him? said she. Am I never to see him more?

I hope you will, replied the bishop.

If, resumed she, we could have done any-thing that might have looked like a return to his goodness to us (and to you, my Jeronymo, in particular) I believe I should have been easy. — And so you say he is gone? And gone for ever! lifting up her hand from her wrist, as it lay over my shoulder! Poor chevalier! But hush, hush, pray hush, Jero — ymo.

She went from me to her aunt, and cousin Lau-rana. Love me again, madam, said she, to the former. You loved me once.

I never loved you better than now, my dear.

Did you, Laurana, see the Chevalier Grandison .’’

I did.

And did he go away safe, and unhurt?

Indeed he did.

A man who had preserved the life of our dear Je- ronymo, said she, to have been hurt by us, would have been dreadful, you know. I wanted to say a few words to him. I was astonished to find him not here: and then my dream came into my head. It was a sad dream, indeed! But, cousin, be good to me: pray do. You did not use to be cruel. You used to say, you loved me. I am in calamity, my dear. I know I am miserable: at times I know 1 am; and then I am grieved at my heart, and think how happy every one is, but me: but then, again, I ail nothing, and am well. But do, love me, Lau-rana: I am in calamity, my dear. I would love you, if you were in calamity: indeed I would. Ah, Lau-rana! What is become of all your fine promises? But then every — body loved me, and I was happy! Yet you tell me, It is all for my good. Naughty Laurana, to wound my heart by your crossness, and then say. It is for my good! Do you think I should have served you so?

Laurana blushed, and wept. Her aunt promised her, that every-body would love her, and comfort her, and not be angry with her, if she would make her heart easy.

I am very particular, my dear Grandison. I know you love I should be so. From this minuteness you will judge of the workings of her mind. They are resolved to take your advice (it was very seasonable) and treat her with indulgence. The count is earnest to have it so.

Camilla has just left me. She says, that her young lady had a tolerable night. She thinks it owing, in a great measure, to her being indulged in asking the servants, who saw you depart, how you looked; and being satisfied that you went away unhurt, and unatfronted.

Adieu, my dearest, my best friend. Let me hear from you, as often as you can.

..................

I just now understand from Camilla, that the dear girl has made an earnest request to my father, mo-ther, and aunt; and been refused. She came back from them deeply afflicted, and, as Camilla fears, is going into one of her gloomy fits again. I hope to write again, if you depart not from Bologna before tomorrow; but I must, for my own sake, write shorter letters. Yet how can I? Since, however melancholy the sjjbject, when I am writing to you, I am conversing with you. My dear Grandison, once more, adieu.

O Lucy, my dear! Whence come all the tears this melancholy story has cost me? 1 cannot dwell upon the scenes! Begone, all those wishes that would interfere with the interest of that sweet distressed saint at Bologna!

How impolitic, Lucy, was it in them, not to gra-tify her impatience to see him! She would, most probably, have been quieted in her mind, if she had been obliged by one other interview.

What a delicacy, my dear, what a generosity, is there in her love’

Sir Charles, in Lord L.‘s study, said to me, that his compassion was engaged, but his honour was free: and so it seems to be: but a generosity, in return for her generosity, must bind such a mind as his.

Letter XXXI.

Miss Byron to Miss Selby.

In the doctor’s next letter, inclosed, you will find mention made of Sir Charles’s literary journal; I fancy, my dear, it must be a charming thing. I wish we could have before us every line he wrote while he was in Italy. Once the presumptuous Harriet had hopes, that she might have been entitled But no more of these hopes It can’t be helped, Lucy.

DR. BARTLETt’s twelfth LETTER.

Mr. Grandison proceeds thus:

The next morning I employed myself in visiting and taking leave of several worthy members of the university, with whom I had passed many very agreeable and improving hours, during my resi-dence in this noble city. In my literary journal you have an account of those worthy persons, and of some of our conversations. I paid my duty to the cardinal legate, and the gonfaloniere, and to three of his counsellors, by whom, you know, I had been likewise greatly honoured. My mind was not free enough to enjoy their conversation: such a weight upon my heart, how could it? But the debt of gra-titude and civility was not to be left unpaid.

On my return to my lodgings, which was not till the evening, I found, the general had been there to enquire after me.

I sent one of my servants to the palace of Porretta, with my compliments to the general, to the bishop, and Jeronymo; and with particular enquiries after the health of the ladies, and the marquis; but had only a general answer, That they were much as I left them.

The two young lords, Sebastiano and Juliano, made me a visit of ceremony. They talked of visiting England in a year or two. I assured them of my best services, and urged them to go thither. I asked them after the healths of the marquis, the marchioness, and their beloved cousin Clementina. Signer Sebastiano shook his head: Very, verif indilferent, were his words. We parted with great civilities.

I will now turn my thoughts to Florence, and to the affairs there that have lain upon me, from the death of my good friend Mr. Jervois, and from my wardship. I told you in their course, the steps I took in those affairs; and how happy I had been in some parts of management. There 1 hope soon to see you, my dear Dr. Bartlett, from the Levant, to whose care I can so safely consign my precious trust, while I go to Paris, and attend the wished-for call of my father to my native country, from which I have been for so many years an exile.

There also I hope to have some opportunities of conversing with my good Mrs. Beaumont; resolving to make another effort to get so valuable a person to restore herself to her beloved England.

Thus, my dear Dr. Bartlett, do I endeavour to console myself, in order to lighten that load of grief which I labour under on the distresses of the dear Clementina. If I can leave her happy, I shall be sooner so, than I could have been in the same cir-cumstances, had I, from the first of my acquaint — ance with the family (to the breach of all the laws of hospitality) indulged a passion for her.

Yet is the unhappy Olivia a damp upon my endeavours after consolation. When she made her unseasonable visit to me at Bologna, she refused to return to Florence without me, till I assured her, that as my affairs would soon call me thither, I would visit her at her own palace, as often as those affairs would permit. Her pretence for coming to Bolog-na was, to induce me to place Emily with her, till I had settled every-thing for my carrying the child to England; but I was obliged to be peremptory in my denial, though she had wrought so with Emily, as to induce her to be an earnest petitioner to me, to permit her to live with Lady Olivia, whose equipages, and the glare in which she hves, had dazzled the eyes of the young lady,

..................

I was impatient to hear again from Jeronymo; and just as I was setting out for Florence, in despair of that favour, it being the second day after my fare-well visit, 1 had the following letter from him:

I have not been well, my dear Grandison. I am afraid the wound in my shoulder must be laid open again. God give me patience! But my life is a burden to me.

We are driving here at a strange rate. They promised to keep measures with the dear creature; but she has heard that you are leaving Bologna, and raves to see you.

Poor soul! She endeavoured to prevail upon her father, mother, aunt, to permit her to see you, but for //v^ minutes: that was the petition which was denied her, as I mentioned in my last.

Camilla was afraid she would go into a gloomy fit upon it, as I told you She did; but it lasted not long: for she made an effort, soon after, to go out of the house by way of the garden. The gardener re-fused his key, and brought Camilla to her, whom

K K the had, bv an innocent piece of art, but just before, sent to bring her something from her toilette.

The general went with Camilla to her. They found her just setting a ladder against the wall. She heard them, and screamed, and, leaving the ladder, ran, to avoid them, till she came in sight of the great cascade; into which, had she not by a cross alley been intercepted by the general, it is feared she would have thrown herself.

This has terrified us all: she begs but for one interview; one parting interview; and she promises to make herself easy: but it is not thought adviseable. Yet Father Marescotti himself thought it best to indulge her. Had my mother been earnest, I believe it had been granted: but she is so much concerned at the blame she met with on permitting the Fast interview, that she will not contend, though she has let them know, that she did not oppose the request.

The unhappy girl ran into my chamber this morning Jeronymo! He will be gone, said she ^ I knotv he will. All I want is, but to see him! To wish him happy! And to know, If he will remember me when he is gone, as I shall him! Have i/ou no interest, Jeronymo? Cannot I once see him .’* Not once?

The bishop, before I could answer, came in quest of her, followed by Laurana, from whom she had forcibly disengaged herself, to come to me.

Let me have but one parting interview, my lord, said she, looking to him, and clinging about my neck. He will be gone: gone for ever. Is there so much in being allowed to say. Farewell, and be happy, Grandison! and excuse all the trouble I have given you? What has my brother’s preserver done, what have I done, that I must not see him, nor he me, for one quarter of an hour only.

Indeed, my lord, said I, she should be complied with. Indeed she should.

My father thinks otherwise, said the bishop: the eount thinks otherwise: I think otherwise. Were the chevalier a common man, she might. But she dwells upon what passed in the last interview, and his behaviour to her. That, it is plain, did her harm.

The next may drive the thoughts of that out of her head, returned I.

Dear Jeronymo, replied he, a little peevishly, you will always think differently from every-body else! Mrs. Beaumont comes tomorrow.

What do I care for Mrs. Beaumont? said she. I don’t love her: she tells every-thing I say.

Come, my dear love, said Laurana, you afflict your brother Jeronymo. Let us go up to your own chamber.

I afflict every-body, and every-body afflicts me; and you are all cruel. Why, he will he f^one, I tell you! That makes me so impatient: and I have something to say to him. My father won’t see me: my mother renounces me. I have been looking for her, and she hides herself from me! And I am a prisoner, and watched, and used ill!

Here comes my mother! said Laurana. You now must go up to your chamber, cousin Clementina.

So she does, said she: now I must go, indeed! Ah, Jeronymo! Now there is no saying nay! But it is hard! Very hard! And she burst into tears. I won’t speak though, said she, to my aunt. Remem-ber, I will be silent, madam! Then whispering me, My aunt, brother, is not the aunt she used to be to me! But hush, I don’t complain, you know!

By this I saw that Lady Sforza was severe with her.

She addressed herself to her aunt: You are not my mamma, are you, madam?

No, child.

No, child, indeed! I know that /oo well. Butmj K K 2 brother Giacomo is as cruel to me as any-body. But hush, Jeronyrao! Don’t you betray me! Now my aunt is come, I must go! I wish 1 could run away from you all!

She was yesterday detected writing a letter to you. My mother was shewn what she had written, and wept over it. My aunt took it out of my sister’s bosom, where she had thrust it, on her coming in. This she resented highly.

When she was led into her own chamber, she re-fused to speak; but in great hurry went to her closet, and, taking down her Bible, turned over one leaf and another very quick. Lady Sforza had a book in her hand, and sat over-against the closet door to observe her motions. She came to a place Pretty! said she.

The bishop had formerly given her a smattering of Latin She took pen and ink, and wrote. You’ll see, chevalier, the very great purity of her thoughts, by what she omitted, and what she chose, from the Canticles, Velut unguentum diffunditur nomen tuum, &c.

[In the English translation, thus: Thy name is as ointment poured forth; therefore do the virgins love thee. Draw me / tve ivill run after thee: the wpright love thee.

Look not upon me because I am blacky because the sun hath looked upon me. My mother’s children toere angry with me: they made me the keeper of the vine-yards, but mine oum vineyard have I not kept.

Tell me, thou whom my soul loveth! where thou Jeedesty where thou makest thyjiock to rest at noon:for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions?’]

She laid down her pen, and was thoughtful; her elbow resting on the escrotoire she wrote upon, her hand supporting her head.

May I look over you, my dear? said her aunt> stepping to her; and, taking up the paper, read it. and took it out of the closet with her, unopposed; her gentle bosom only heaving with sighs.

I will write no more, so minutely, on this affecting subject, my Grandison,

They are all of opinion that she will be easy, when she knows that you have actually left Bolog-na; and they strengthen their opinion by these words of hers, above-recited: ‘ Why he will be gone, I tell you; and this makes me so impatient.’ At least, they are resolved to try the experiment. And so, my dear Grandison, you must be permitted to leave us!

God be your director and comforter, as well as ours! prays

Your ever-affectionate

JERONYMO.

Mr. Grandison, having no hopes of being allowed to see the unhappy lady, set out with an afflicted heart for Florence. He gave orders there, and at Leghorn, that the clerks and agents of his late friend Mr. Jervois should prepare every-thing for his inspection against his return from Naples; and then he set out for that city to attend the general.

He had other friends to whom he had endeared himself at Sienna, Ancona, and particularly at Rome, as he had also some at Naples; of whom he intended to take leave, before he set out for Paris: and there-fore went to attend the general with the greater pleasure.

Within the appointed time he arrived at Naples.

The general received me, said Mr. Grandison, with greater tokens of politeness than affection. You are the happiest man in the world, chevalier, said he, after the first compliments, in escaping dangers by braving them. I do assure you, that I had great difficulties to deny myself the favour of K K 3 paying you a visit in my own way at Bologna. I had indeed resolved to do it, till you proposed this visit to me here.

I should have been very sorry, replied I, to have seen a brother of Lady Clementina in any way that should not have made me consider him as her bro-ther. But, before I say another word, let me ask after, her health. How does the most excellent of women?

You have not heard, then?

I have not, my lord: but it is not for want of solicitude. 1 have sent three several messengers; but can hear nothing to my satisfaction.

Nor can you hear any-thing from me that will give you any.

I am grieved at my soul, that I cannot. How, my lord, do the marquis and marchioness?

Don’t ask. They are extremely unhappy.

I hear that my dear friend, Signer Jeronymo, has undergone

A dreadful operation, interrupted the general. He has. Poor Jeronymo! He could?jo^ write to you. God preserve my brother! But, chevalier, you did not save half a life, though we thank you for that, when you restored him to our arms .

I had no reason to boast, my lord, of the accident. I never made a merit of it. It was a mere accident, and cost me nothing. The service was greatly over-rated.

Would to God, chevalier, it had been rendered by any other man in the world!

As it has proved, I am sure, my lord, I have rea-son to join in the wish.

He shewed me his pictures, statues, and cabinet of curiosities, while dinner was preparing; but rather for the ostentation of his magnificence and taste, than to do me pleasure. I even observed an increas- ing coldness in his behaviour; and his eye was too often cast upon me with a fierceness that shewed resentment; and not with the hospitable frankness that became him to a visiter and guest who had undertaken a journey of above two hundred miles, principally to attend him, and to shew hira the confidence he had in his honour. This, as it was more to his discredit than mine, I pitied him for. But what most of all disturbed me, was, that I could not obtain from him any particular intelligence relating to the health of one person, whose distresses lay heavy upon my heart.

There were several persons of distinction at din-ner; the discourse could therefore be only general. He paid me great respect at his table; but it was a solemn one. I was the more uneasy at it, as I ap-prehended, that the situation of the Bologna family was more unhappy than when I left that city.

He retired with me into his garden. You stay with me at least the week out, chevalier?

No, my lord: I have affairs of a deceased friend at Florence and at Leghorn to settle. To-morrow, as early as I can, I shall set out for Rome, in my way to Tuscany.

I am surprised, chevalier. You take something amiss in my behaviour.

I cannot say that your lordship’s countenance (I am a very free speaker) has that benignity in it, that complacency, which I have had the pleasure to see in it.

By G. chevalier, I could have loved you better than any man in the world, next to the men of my own family; but I own 1 see you not here with so much love as admiration.

The word ndmiration, my lord, may require explanation. You may admire at my confidence; but I thank you for the manly freedom of your acknow-ledgment in general.

By admiration I mean all that may do you honour. Your bravery in coming hither, particularly; and your greatness of mind on your taking leave of us all. But did you not then mean to insult me?

I meant to observe to you then, as I now do in your own palace, that you had not treated me as my heart told me I deserved to be treated: but when 1 thought your warmth was rising to the uneasiness of your assembled friends, instead of answering your question about my stay at Bologna, as you seemed to mean it, I invited myself to an attendance upon you here, at Naples, in such a manner as surely could not be construed an insult,

I own, Grandison, you disconcerted me. I had intended to save you that journey.

Was that your lordship’s meaning, when, in my absence, you called at my lodgings, the day after the farewell-visit?

Not absolutely: I was uneasy with myself. I intended to talk with you. What that talk might have produced, I know not: but had I invited you out, if I had found you at home, would you have answered my demands?

According as you had put them.

Will you answer me now if I attend you as far as Rome, on your return to Florence?

If they are demands fit to be answered.

Do you expect I will make any that are not fit to be answered?

My lord, I will explain myself. You had conceived causeless prejudices against me: you seemed inclined to impute to me a misfortune that was not, could not be, greater to you than it was to me, I knew my own innocence: I knew that I was rathei an injured man, in having iiopes given me, in which I was disappointed, not by my own fault: whom shall an innocent and an injured man fear? Had I feared, my fear might have been my destruction.

For was I not in the midst of your friends? A fo-reigner? If I xvould have avoided you, could I, had you been determined to seek me? I would choose to meet even an enemy as a man of honour, rather than to avoid him as a malefactor. In my country, the law supposes flight a confession of guilt: had you made demands upon me that I had not chosen to answer, I would have expostulated with you. I could perhaps have done so as calmly as I now speak. If you would not have been expostulated with, I would have stood upon my defence: but for the world I would not have hurt a brother of Clemen-tina and Jeronymo, a son of the Marquis and Mar — chioness of Porretta, could I have avoided it. Had your passion given me any advantage over you, and I had obtained your sword (a pistol, had the choice been left to me, I had refused for both our sakes), I would have presented both swords to you, and bared my breast: it was before penetrated by the distresses of the dear Clementina, and of all your family Perhaps I should only have said, ‘ If your lordship thinks I have injured you, take your re-venge.’

And now, that I am at Naples, let me say, that if you are determined, contrary to all my hopes, to accompany me to Rome, or elsewhere, on my re-turn, with an unfriendly purpose; such, and no other, shall be my behaviour to you if the power be given me to shew it. I will rely on my own innocence, and hope by generosity to overcome a generous man. Let the guilty secure themselves by violence and murder.

Superlative pride; angrily said he, and stood still, measuring me with his eye; And could you hope for such an advantage?

While I, my lord, was calm, and determined only upon self-defence; while you were passionate and perhaps rash, as aggressors generally are; I did not doubt it: but could I have avoided drawing, and preserved your good opinion, I would not have drawn. Your lordship cannot but know my prin-ciples.

Grandison, I do know them; and also the general report in your favour for skill and courage. Do you think I would have heard with patience of the once proposed alliance, had not your character And then he was pleased to say many things in my favour, from the report of persons who had weight with him; some of whom he named.

But still, Grandison, said he, this poor girl! She could not have beto so deeply affected, had not some lover-like arts

Let me, my lord, interrupt you .1 cannot bear an imputation of this kind. Had such arts been used, the lady could 7iot have been so much affect-ed. Cannot you think of your noble sister, as a daughter of the two houses from which you sprang? Cannot you see her, as by Mrs. Beaumont’s means we now so lately have been able to see her, strug-gling nobly with her own heart [Why am I put upon this tender subject?] because of her duty and her religion; and resolved to die rather than encourage a wish that was not warranted by both? I cannot, my lord, urge this subject; but there never was a passion so nobly contended with. There never was a man more disinterested, and so circum-stanced. Remember only, my voluntary departure from Bologna, against persuasion; and the great behaviour of your sister on that occasion, great, as it came out to be, when Mrs. Beaumont brought her to acknowledge what would have been my glory to have known, could it have been encouraged; but is now made my heaviest concern.

Indeed, Grandison, she ever was a noble girl!

We are too apt perhaps to govern ourselves by events without looking into causes: but the access you had to her; such a man! and who became known to us from circumstances so much in his favour, both as a man of principle and bravery

This, my lord, interrupted I, is still judging from events. You have seen Mrs. Beaumont’s letter. Surely you cannot have a nobler monument of magnanimity in woman! And to that I refer, for a proof of my own integrity.

. I have that letter: Jeronymo gave it me, at my taking leave of him; and with these words: * Grandison will certainly visit you at Naples. I am afraid of your warmth. His spirit is well known. All my dependence is upon his principles. He will not draw but in his own defence. Cherish the noble visiter. Surely, brother, I may depend upon your hospitable temper. Read over again this letter, before you see him.’ I have not yet read it, proceeded the general; but I will, and that, if you will allow me, now.

He took it out of his pocket, walked from me, and read it; and then came to me, and took my hand I am half-ashamed of myself, my dear Grandison: I own I wanted magnanimity. All the dis tresses of our family, on this unhappy girl’s account, were before my eyes, and I received you, I behaved to you, as the author of them. I was contriving to be dissatisfied with you: forgive me, and command my best services. I will let our Jeronymo know how greatly you subdued me before I had recourse to the letter; but that I have since read that part of it which accounts for my sister’s passion, and wish I had read it with equal attention before. I acquit you: I am proud of my sister. Yet I observe from this very letter, that Jeronymo’s gratitude has contributed to the evil we deplore. But Let us not say one word more of the unhappy girl: it is painful to me to talk of her.

Not ask a question, my lord?

Don’t, Grandison, don’t! Jeronymo and Cle-mentina are my soul’s woe But they are not worse than might be apprehended. You go to court with me tomorrow: I will present you to the king.

I have had that honour formerly. I must depart tomorrow morning early. I have already taken leave of several of my friends here: I have some to make my compliments to at Rome, which I reserved for my return.

You stay with me to-night?

I intend it, my lord.

Well, we will return to company. I must make my excuses to my friends. Your departure to-mor-row must be one. They all admire you. They are acquainted with your character. They will join with me to engage you, if possible, to stay longer.

We returned to the company.

Letter XXXII.

Miss Byron to Miss Selby.

Receive now, my dear, the doctor’s thirteenth letter, and the last he intends to favour us with, till he entertains us with the histories of Mrs. Beau-mont, and Lady Olivia.

DR. BARTLETT’s thirteenth LETTER.

Mr. Grandison set out next morning. The gene-ral’s behaviour to him at his departure, was much more open and free than it was at receiving him.

Mr. Grandison, on his return to Florence, entered into the affairs of his late friend Mr. Jervois, with the spirit, and yet with the temper, for which he is noted, when he engages in any business. He put every — thing in a happy train in fewer days than it would have cost some other persons months; for he was present himself on every occasion, and in every business where his presence would accelerate it: yet he had embarrassments from Olivia.

He found, before he set out for Naples, that Mrs. Beaumont, at the earnest request of the marchioness, was gone to Bologna. At his return, not hearing any-thing from Signor Jeronymo, he wrote to Mrs. Beaumont, requesting her to inform him of the state of things in that family, as far as she thought proper; and, particularly, of the health of that dear friend, on whose silence to three letters he had written, he had the most melancholy aj)prehensions. He let that lady know, that he should set out in a very few days for Paris, if he had no probability of being of service to the family she favoured with her company.

To this letter Mrs. Beaumont returned the fol-lowing answer:

I have the favour of yours. We are very miserable here. The servants are forbidden to aiiswer any enquiries, but generally; and that not truly.

Your friend, Signor Jeronymo, has gone through a severe operation. He has been given over; but hopes are now entertained, not of his absolute re-covery, but that he will be no worse than he was before the necessity for the operation arose. Poor man! He forgot not, however, his sister and you, when he was out of the power of the opiates that were administered to him.

L L

On my coming hither, I found Lady Clementina in a deplorable way: sometimes raving, sometimes gloomy; and in bonds Twice had she given them apprehensions of fatal attempts: they therefore confined her hands.

They have been excessively wrong in their ma-nagement of her: now soothing, now severe; ob — serving no method.

She was extremely earnest to see you before you left Bologna. On her knees repeatedly she besought this favour, and promised to be easy if they would comply; but they imagined that their compliance would aggravate the symptoms.

I very freely blamed them for not complying at the time when she was so desirous of seeing you. I told them, that soothing her would probably then have done good.

When they knew you were actually gone from Bologna, they told her so. Camilla shocked me with the description of her rage and despair, on the communication. This was followed by fits of silence, and the deepest melancholy.

They had hopes on my arrival, that my company would have been of service to her: but for two days together she regarded me not, nor any-thing I could say to her. On the third of my arrival, finding her confinement extremely uneasy to her, I prevailed, but with great difficulty, to have her restored to the use of her hands; and to be allowed to walk with me in the garden. They had hinted to me their apprehensions about a piece of water.

Her woman being near us, if there had been oc-casion for assistance, I insensibly led that way. She sat down on a seat over-against the great cascade; but she made no motion that gave me apprehen-sions. From this time she has been fonder of me than before. The day I obtained this liberty for her, she often clasped her arms about me, and laid her face in my bosom; and I could plainly see, it was in gratitude for restoring to her the use of her arms: but she cared not to speak.

Indeed she generally aiFects deep silence: yet, at times, I see her very soul is fretted. She moves to one place, is tired of that; shifts to another, and another, all round the room.

I am grieved at my heart for her: I never knew a more excellent young creature.

She is very fervent in her devotions, and as constant in them as she used to be: every good habit she preserves; yet, at other times, rambles nmch.

She is often for writing letters to you; but when what she writes is privately taken from her, she makes no enquiry about it, but takes a new sheet, and begins again.

Sometimes she draws: but her subjects are gene-rally, angels and saints. She often meditates in d map of the British dominions, and now-and-then wishes she were in England.

Lady Juliana de Sforza is earnest to have her with her at Urbino, or at Milan, where she has also a noble palace; but I hope it will not be granted. That lady professes to love her; but she cannot be persuaded out of her notion of harsh methods; which -will never do with Clementina.

I shall not be able to stay long with her. The discomposure of so excellent a young creature af-fects me deeply. Could I do her either good or pleasure, I should be willing to deny myself the so-ciety of my dear friends at Florence: but I am per — suaded, and have hinted as much, that one interview with you would do more to settle her mind, than all the methods they have taken.

I hope, Sir, to see you before you leave Italy. It must be at Florence, not at Bologna, I believe. It is generous of you to propose the latter. L L 2

I have now been here a week, without hope. The doctors they have consulted are all for severe me-thods, and low diet. The first, I think, is in com pliment to some of the family: she is so loth to take nourishment, and, when she does, is so very abste-mious, that the regimen is hardly necessary. She never, or but very seldom, used to drink any-thing but water.

She took it into her poor head several times this day, and perhaps it will hold, to sit in particular places, to put on attentive looks, as if she were lis-tening to somebody. She sometimes smiled, and seemed pleased; looked up, as if to somebody, and spoke English. I have no doubt, though I was not present when she assumed these airs, and talked English, but her disordered imagination brought before her her tutor instructing her in that tongue.

You desired me, Sir, to be very particular. I have been so; but at the expence of my eyes: and I shall not wonder if your humane heart should be affected by my sad tale.

God preserve you, and prosper you in what-soever you undertake!

HORTENSIA BEAUMONT.

Mrs. Beaumont staid at Bologna twelve days, and then left the unhappy young lady.

At taking leave, she asked her, What commands she had for her? Love me, said she, and pity me; that IS one. Another is (whispering her) you will see the chevalier, perhaps, though I must not. Tell him, that his poor friend Clementina is sometimes very unhappy! Tell him, that she shall rejoice to sit next him in heaven! Tell him, that 1 say he cannot go thither, good man as he is, while he shuts his eyes to the truth. Tell him, that I shall take it very kindly of him, if he will not think of marrying till he acquaints me with it; and can give me assur-ance, that the lady will love him as well as somebody else would have done. O Mrs. Beaumont! should the Chevalier Grandison marry a woman unworthy of him, what a disgrace would that be to me!

Mr. Grandison by this time had prepared every-thing for his journey to Paris. The friend he ho — noured with his love, was arrived from the Levant, and the Archipelago. Thither, at his patron’s re-quest, he had accompanied Mr. Beauchamp, the amiable friend of both; and at parting, engaged to continue by letter what had been the subject of their daily conversations, and transmit to him as many particulars as he could obtain of Mr. Grandison’s sentiments and behaviour, on every occasion; Mr. Beauchamp proposing him as a pattern to himself, that he might be worthy of the credential letters he had furnished him with to every one whom he had thought deserving of his own acquaintance, when he was in the parts which Mr. Beauchamp intended to visit.

To the care of the person so much honoured by his confidence, Mr. Grandison left his agreeable ward. Miss Jervois; requesting the assistance of Mrs. Beaumont, who kindly promised her inspection; and with the goodness for which she is so emi — nently noted, performed her promise in his absence.

He then made an offer to the bishop to visit Bo-logna once more; but that not being accepted, he set out for Paris.

It was not long before his father’s death called him to England; and when he had been there a few weeks, he sent for his ward and his friend.

But, my good Miss Byron, you will say, That I have not yet fully answered your last enquiry, relating to the present situation of the unhappy Clementina.

I will briefly inform you of it.

When it was known, for certain, that Mr. Gran-JL L 3 dison had actually left Italy, the family at Bologna began to wish that they had permitted the interview so much desired by the poor lady: and when they afterwards understood that he was sent for to Eng-land, to take possession of his paternal estate, that farther distance (the notion likewise of the seas between them appearing formidable) added to their regrets.

The poor lady was kept in travelling motion to quiet her mind: for still an interview with Mr. Graridison having never been granted, it was her first wish.

They carried her to Urbino, to Rome, to Naples; then back to Florence, then to Milan, to Turin.

Whether they made her hope that it was to meet with Mr. Grandison, I know not; but it is certain, she herself expected to see him at the end of every journey; and, while she was moving, was easier, and more composed; perhaps in that hope.

The marchioness was sometimes of the party. The air and exercise were thought proper for her health, as well as for that of her daughter. Her cousin Laurana was always with her in these excur-sions, and sometimes Lady Sforza; and their escorte was, generally, Signors bebastiano and Juliano.

But, within these four months past, these jour-neyings have been discontinued. The young lady accuses them of deluding her with vain hopes. She is impatient, and has made two attempts to escape from them.

She is, for this reason, closely confined, and watched.

They put her once into a nunnery, at the motion of Lady Sforza, as for a trial only. She was not uneasy in it; but this being done unknown to the general, when he was apprised of it, he, for reasons I cannot comprehend, was displeased, and had her taken out, directly.

Her head runs more than ever upon seeing her tutor, her friend, her chevalier, once more. They have certainly been to blame, if they have let her travel with such hopes; because they have thereby kept up her ardor for an interview. Could she but once more see him, she says, and let him know the cruelty she has been treated with, she should be satisfied. He would pity her, she is sure, though nobody else will.

The bishop has written to beg, that Sir Charles would pay them one more visit at Bologna.

I will refer to my patron himself the communi-cating to 3^ou, ladies, his resolution on this subject. I had but a moment’s sight of the letters which so greatly affected him.

It is but within these few days past that this new request has been made to him, in a direct manner. The question was before put, If such a request _should_ be made, would he comply? And once Camilla wrote, as having heard Sir Charles’s presence wished for.

Mean time the poor lady is hastening, they are afraid, into a consumptive malady. The Count of Belvedere, however, still adores her. The disorder in her mind being imputed chiefly to religious me-lancholy, and some of her particular flights not being generally known, he, who is a pious man himselt, pities her; and declares, that he would run all risques of her recovery, would the family give her to him; and yet he knows, that she would choose to be the wife of the Chevalier Grandison, rather than that of any other man, were the article of re-ligion to be got over; and generously applauds her for preferring her faith to her love.

Signor Jeronymo is in a very bad way. Sir Charles often writes to him, and with an affection worthy of the merits of that dear friend. He was to undergo another severe operation on the next day after the letters came from Bologna; the success of which was very doubtful.

How nobly does Sir Charles appear to support himself under such heavy afflictions! For those of his friends were ever his. But his heart bleeds in secret for them. A feeling heart is a blessing that no one, who has it, would be without; and it is a moral security of innocence; since the heart that is able to partake of the distress of another, cannot wilfully give it.

I thmk, my good Miss Byron, that I have now, as f^r as I am at present able, obeyed all your commands that concern the unhappy Clementina, and her family. I will defer, if you please, those which relate to Olivia and Mrs. Beaumont (ladies of very different characters from each other) having several letters to write.

Permit me, my good ladies, and my lord, after contributing so much to afflict your worthy hearts, to refer you, for relief under all the distresses of life, whether they affect ourselves or others, to those motives that can alone give support to a rational mind. This mortal scene, however per-plexing, is a very short one; and the hour is has — tening when all the intricacies of human affairs shall be cleared up; and all the sorrows that have had their foundation in virtue be changed into the highest joy: when all worthy minds shall be united in the same interests, the same happiness.

Allow me to be, my good Miss Byron, and you, my Lord and Lady L. and Miss Grandison,

Your most faithful and obedient servant, AMBROSE BARTLETT.

Excellent Dr. Bartlett! How worthy of himself is this advice! But think you not, my Lucy, that the doctor has in it a particular view to your poor Har-riet? A. generous one, meaning consolation and instruction to her? I will endeavour to profit by it. Let me have your prayers, my dear friends, that I may be enabled to succeed in my humble endea-vours.

It will be no wonder to us now, that Sir Charles was not solicitous to make known a situation so embarrassing to himself, and so much involved in clouds and uncertainty: but whatever may be the event of this affair, you, Lucy, and all my friends, will hardly ever know me by any other name than that of

HARRIET BYRON.