V I C I S S I T U D E S

I N

G E N T E E L L I F E.

V I C I S S I T U D E S

I N

G E N T E E L L I F E

In FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

An Endeavour to please the Many, is not only a vain, but a

foolish Attempt, as the Success would be inglorious;

while the Approbation of the Few—the penetrating

and judicious Few—who can see, and will admire,

the Beauties that are meant, though imperfectly

expressed, rewards the Labors of a Writer,

and will perpetuate the Verdure of

his shaded Laurels.

SPECTATOR

S T A F F O R D:

PRINTED BY ARTHUR MORGAN.

AND SOLD BY

T.N. LONGMAN,

PATER-NOSTER-ROW, LONDON.

M. DCC. XCIV.

VICISSITUDES

IN

GENTEEL LIFE.

LETTER, I.

MISS STANLEY, TO LADY STANLEY.

Woodstock, March 5th.

I Have now, my dear madam, been introduced to the respectable friends at the Lawn, and likewise to Lady Blurton and “the Honourable Miss Barbara Tupps.”

Yesterday, about twelve o'clock, a note arrived from Mrs. Stanhope to Mrs. Lawson, telling her that her niece and herself were just returned from Stanton; that Maria being impatient to see Charlotte's friend, they had determined to take the first opportunity of being introduced to her, and offered themselves to dinner, if Mrs. Lawson's family was not otherwise engaged. Accordingly, about half after one o'clock, setting out as soon as the servant returned, they arrived.

As the appearance of genteel people of this sect, is, I believe, rather new to you, I will endeavour to be a little particular in my description of theirs, the simplicity of it strongly striking my observation.

Their chaise was one of the neatest I ever saw in my life. Its colour was a light brown, elegantly ornamented, though in a plain way, with silver beadings, &c. lined with white sattin, and drawn by a pair of beautiful grey horses. The servants livery, if it can be called one, was of the colour of the chaise; buttons, the same, and, likewise, lined with white.

When the ladies appeared, I was surprised at the graceful ease of their manner, notwithstanding all that had been said to me about it; for I could not divest myself of the idea of some stiffness and formality; so unjustly has that opinion been generally imprinted upon the minds of those who differ in persuasion from these truly agreeable people; as Mrs. Lawson, who has had a pretty large acquaintance amongst them, tells me she has commonly found them to be. Charlotte confesses she had once a strong prejudice against them, from supposing she must never laugh, nor hardly speak, when in their company, which she says was entirely removed in their first visit to the Lawn. Mrs. Eleanor Lawson was always partial to them, but Miss Rachel dislikes them, she declares, “beyond all the people she knows upon earth,” because they will neither bow nor courtesy, and because they impertinently call her Rachel; a name, it seems, which she dislikes above all others; probably, on account of its being her own; and often quarrels with her mother and aunt, for their having imposed it upon her, without giving her any other to relieve it, as she says they might have done, without any affront to her lady-godmother. She is, to be sure, a most disagreeable tempered young woman, and ruins, as far as she is able, the harmony of this otherwise happy family.

When Mrs. Stanhope entered the room, I was struck with the agreeableness of her figure. She appears to be about fifty years of age; and has, I dare say, been very handsome when younger. Her complexion is very clear, and her hair dark. In her person she is rather tall, and inclined to be fat. She addressed me with a manner composed of true dignity and politeness; congratulating my friends at Woodstock on, what she termed, their acquisition.

I then turned to Miss Maria Lewis, than whom, I think, a more interesting figure never caught my eye. Her complexion is lovely fair indeed. Her features small, and her face so regularly pitted by the small pox, that I am sure it must have added to its beauty. Her eyes are dark; her lips a bright red. For the colour of her hair and eye-brows I can hardly find a comparison. It is not light; nor dark: yet rather dark than otherwise, and extremely glossy. It straggles about her neck; down the sides of her face, and upon her forehead, in a natural wave, forming itself, behind, into ringlets; evidently without having been curled. She is not quite so tall as Miss Lawson; rather more slender, and strikingly genteel. Her hands and arms particularly beautiful.

The elegance of her figure, prevented my noticing her dress, till a considerable time after her entrance; but I recollect she had on a light brown sattin gown; white sattin petticoat, with three welts. The sleeves of her gown came just below her elbow, and were bound with a strip of muslin: a piece of narrow black ribband was tied round her neck. Her linen was all of the finest buck-muslin; the apron laid in deep welts up to the top. There was not any thing about her which looked like trimming. Her bonnet and cloak were white sattin; the former almost round, and of the prettiest and most becoming shape imaginable: When she took it off, the simplicity of her head-dress pleased me more than all the rest. I cannot do justice to it by description. She has not yet, as I before intimated, turned her hair up from her forehead. I believe she endeavours to divest it of its curl in the fore part, but without success; its natural bend still persisting to give addition to its beauty. She wore a cap exactly calculated for the delicacy of her features. It was small and round. Her age, as I have said, is seventeen; but she appears still younger.

When Charlotte led her up to me, and put her hand into mine, introducing us to each other with a compliment to both, she animatedly said—“I am happy in being presented to the dearest friend of Charlotte Lawson, with whom I presume to hope her kind partiality will give me some distinction.”

I was so struck with the agreeable frankness of her manner, that I doubt I made but an aukward reply: however, I meant a sincere compliment, and she received it as such: thanking me for my prepossession, and asking permission to observe, that what she had already seen of me answered so exactly the idea she had formed, from description, that she was convinced she had likewise imbibed a just opinion of my character. I made my answer by my looks; and then, our matronly friends being seated, we took our places at the fire side; Miss Rachel not being yet ready to make her appearance. A more agreeable conversation than that which succeeded, I scarce ever remember to have borne a part in; the novel simplicity of the language of the friends, surprised and delighted me nearly as much as the delicacy and justness of their sentiments.

We sat chatting till near three o'clock, when a servant came with a letter to Miss Rachel, from Miss Barbara Tupps, apologizing for the short notice, and requesting her to get ready to return with Lady Blurton, who would follow the messenger; and indeed no sooner was the letter read, than, at a little distance, the chariot was in view. I had been told of the extreme gaudiness of this lady's appearance, but my utmost ideas of finery were short of the glare of her superb equipage; the showiness of which was, perhaps, more strikingly observable from the resemblance of the simple one that, about an hour before, entered the court-yard: indeed, no two things of the same kind could form a stronger contrast. In a few minutes the hall door was thrown open, and in rushed the ladies, both of them rather large in their make, and rendered much more so by the extreme bustle of their clothes, dressed—the one in an orange-tawney tabby; the other in deep red-rose sattin, with a profusion of feathers; flowers, and ribbands. Can you wonder at the surprise which filled the gentle Maria at this blazing appearance, or at the strong propensity to laughter which seized your saucy Emma! almost every body was inclined to smile. Mrs. Stanhope was, I believe, the only one who appeared unmoved. Yet even she, I fancied, looked with concern; as if she pitied them, and had said to herself—“Poor things!”—with an inward sigh of compassion for their folly. Even Miss Rachel, who professes to have a violent attachment to “the Honourable Miss Barbara Tupps,” was rather ashamed of their glaring finery. The friendship, as it is called, between Miss Barbara and Miss Rachel, arose from their having been together at school, one quarter of a year. Had they both continued there, it is probable this friendship would soon have given way to as great an animosity; their tempers being, as it seems it is generally known, by their friends on both sides, alike proud and unhappy. Mrs. Lawson and Mrs. Eleanor made considerable objections to Miss Rachel's accompanying these ladies to London: but upon her coming of age, which she did last November, she gave them to understand she should no longer think herself liable to any controul. Her conduct gives great vexation to her real friends. Mrs. Lawson, very tenderly and wisely, after due remonstrances, gives sometimes an apparent consent to what she can neither approve nor prevent, to avoid coming to extremities, and to save Miss Rachel from the open defiance which she seems to hold herself ready to commence: Hence, her permission to attend Lady Blurton.

When these honourable visitors entered the room, they were first introduced to Mrs. Stanhope; upon whom they seemed to look with inexpressible contempt; then to me, and then to Miss Lewis; over whom the eyes of Miss Barbara seemed to wander in a moment. They then sat down upon a sopha in silence; till at length Lady Blurton deigning to look at me—“I think, Miss,” said she, “Mrs. Lawson pronounced the name of Stanley, when she presented you.”

I bowed an affirmative.

Lady Blurton. O! aye—of the Stanley's in Derbyshire. Your father, I believe, Miss, has not yet succeeded in his endeavours to get a real title.

Emma. I do not know, madam, what you call a real title.

Lady Blurton. “Madam,” child! I am Lady Blurton. Well, but I believe, madam is the fashion; though, I protest, a very indecent one, as it sweeps away all due distinction: but young people must, to be sure, conform to the fashion, be it what it will.

Mrs. Lawson. Does your ladyship think that is always necessary? May there not be exceptions to the rule?

Lady Blurton. None, madam; none: none in life. If young people would cut any figures in the circles, they must be in the fashion; though, as the Earl of Banbury says, it should demand their walking with their heads downwards—He! he! he! he!

Mrs. E. Lawson. Then neither good sense nor morality are to stand out against this idol, fashion!

Lady Blurton. Good sense and morality, Mrs. Eleanor Lawson! you quite amaze me! How can a woman in your sphere talk in such a style! To be a fashionable person is sufficient. It includes every thing.

Mrs. E. Lawson. But are there not people in the world, Lady Blurton, who would look down with a little conscious superiority upon those who act upon this system? people too, whose opinion is truly worth regarding? And will there not come a time, think you, when these empty sentiments will prove not only very useless, but very painful to their adopter?

Lady Blurton was pursued to her last resource by Mrs. Eleanor Lawson's interrogations, which, she afterwards owned, she could not help bringing forward on account of Miss Rachel, who was so soon to be entrusted to her ladyship's protection.

The subject was now dropped, and Lady Blurton, not forgetting my reply, turned to me in front, and said—“Sure, Miss Stanley, you cannot have been brought up in so much ignorance, as not to know that a real title is such as confers nobility; all below that great boundary being merely nominatives. Your father, I fancy, is still nothing more than a baronet.”

Emma. Nothing more, madam; nor does he aspire to be any thing more.

Lady Blurton. O fye! O fye! Do not convey such an idea of your father's want of spirit. I dare say you four young ladies [looking at the two Miss Lawsons; Miss Lewis, and myself] would all wish to be married to real titles.

Charlotte. And does your Ladyship exclude Miss Barbara from a supposition of joining in the wish?

Lady Blurton. O Miss Lawson! Under the tutorage of such a mama, you must know better than to think it necessary to ask such a question. Miss Barbara Tupps was born honorable. It is not, therefore, essential for her to stand upon such a point; because were she to marry a plebeian, she would still retain her primeval distinction.

Lady Blurton judged politically in thinking it necessary to make this declaration; wisely concluding, no doubt, that it was very unlikely, “the honorable Miss Barbara Tupps” should ever be lifted into a sphere more exalted.

“True,” said Miss Rachel Lawson, to Lady Blurton's last speech, “I think your ladyship observes with great justness.”

No chance, to be sure, could ever have jumbled together a more unconsonant party than these ladies and the friends from the Lawn. I seemed to tremble for the events of the afternoon.

Just as Miss Rachel had replied to Lady Blurton, we were summoned to dinner, the greatest part of which passed pleasantly enough; but towards the latter end, an incident of the comic kind, made some of us put on tragic faces.

After an elegant table of fish, fowls, &c. &c. we had a genteel little desert of creams; jellies, and preserves. Near Miss Lewis stood some lemon slummery, which I could not help observing was particularly pleasant; Lady Blurton joined me in opinion; and Miss Tupps (her plate at that time being empty) fixing her eyes upon it, the gentle Maria, ever willing to oblige, took the spoon in her hand, and said with a pleasant air—“Barbara, wilt thou give me leave to help thee to a little of this nice jelly?”

This was the first direct address she had had occasion to make to either of these great ladies, and the consternation which appeared in the countenance of both, upon the occasion, is indescribable. They looked at each other with all imaginable surprise, and Lady Blurton, laying down the spoon she was lifting to her mouth, repeated the word BARBARA? in a tone (casting her eyes round the table) that asked the company whether she had heard aright.

“Barbara indeed!”—re-echoed the honorable Miss—while the modest, but unintimidated, Maria collectedly said, looking at both—“Friends, I meant you no disrespect. Were I in company with the daughter of a prince, the opinion in which I have been educated, would lead me to address her with the same seeming familiarity.”

“I do not know, Miss,” said the haughty girl, with a deep flush of resentment in her cheeks, “what your education has been, but the proofs you have, just now, exhibited, are not very strong in favour of its gentility.”

Mrs. Lawson, greatly hurt upon the occasion, and concerned for her innocent young friend, told this “honorable Miss Barbara Tupps,” that she would answer for it, Miss Lewis was very far from intending the least incivility; on the contrary, she evidently wished to oblige her, by helping her to some of the slummery which her friends had been so kind as to recommend.

Dinner was by this time finished; for no slummery would Miss Barbara taste; the table cleared; fruit and wine set on, and the servants going out, when the dowager lady took upon her to criticise Mrs. Lawson's address to her darling.

Lady Blurton. You say, madam, that Miss—I protest I forget her name—meant a civility, when she offered to serve Miss Barbara Tupps with some of that slummery, which, to be sure, was very nice. By the same rule, madam, you would affirm that the mistress of a London gin-shop coming to the door, and, with an offensive breath, asking you to walk in and drink, was a civil personage.

At this I saw Mrs. Stanhope, who had, hitherto, appeared unmoved, was offended; and, I believe, thought it was incumbent upon her to take some notice of this palpable affront to her niece; which she did by saying—“Permit me, neighbour Blurton, to observe that the dialect thou hast chosen to convey thy ideas in, is so new to Maria Lewis, that I apprehend she will not understand the allusion.”

The edge of this reproof was too fine for her ladyship's feelings to be hurt by, because she was insensible to its keenness; but she seemed to suppose it was a tart reply—not by Mrs. Stanhope's manner; for that was perfectly composed; but, probably, because she was conscious her speech merited one: therefore, drawing up her head, she said—“I cannot tell, madam, what you mean, madam; nor do I know that I ever was any neighbour of yours.”

Mrs. Stanhope. And yet I hope I should be a neighbour to thee, were I called upon by occasion, without removing into thy vicinity. I have been accustomed to think of, and to use, the word neighbour in an extensive sense.

Lady Blurton. Are you going to teach me the sense of words, madam? Or do you suppose I do not know what a neighbour is?

Mrs. Stanhope. It appeared as if thou wert a stranger to the sense in which I used the word; as else, thou wouldst not, I think, have been offended.

Mrs. Eleanor Lawson observing the attitude of consequence which Lady Blurton was preparing to speak in, and apprehending the argument might increase in unpleasantness, prevented her reply, by saying—“I do not pretend to understand the true etymology of the word neighbour; but we have the highest authority for using it for any one who would do another an office of kindness; though, as the example alluded to, says, they should be so far from living near each other, that they should even be of different nations: and this, doubtless, is the sense—the benevolent sense—in which it is constantly used by that sect of people, of which Mrs. Stanhope is a member; and, permit me to say, an ornament.”

Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, as she afterwards said, hoped this would finish the subject; but Lady Blurton, who always thinks, what she calls, her opinion, ought universally to be subscribed to, was not to be so answered. Without giving time for any body to introduce any other topic of conversation, as every one was endeavouring to do, she proceeded with—“Upon my word, Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, you are all too wise; too learned, and too good for me. I protest I know not what to say to you. Pray what authority, and what example can you give, to bring that old-fashioned and vulgar word of neighbour into use?”

Mrs. E. Lawson. Your Ladyship certainly remembers the story of the good Samaritan.

Lady Blurton. Yes; I remember reading something about it when I went to school; though I protest I have almost forgot it. But the higher circles, madam, are not ruled by any of these things now; for if they were, all due distinctions would be laid aside, and we should be all friends and neighbours in a lump. He! he! he!

Miss Barbara, [continuing the he, he, he.] What, I wonder, would Colonel Morrington think of such antique doctrines! Cannot your Ladyship imagine you see that charming man, whom your ladyship always allowed to be a poignant wit, listening in the attitude of surprise, to such novel sentiments?

To the question of her daughter, Lady Blurton made the following reply—“Novel sentiments indeed! my dear Miss Barbara. Why we shall, by and by, have all the old stories in the Bible laid before us, as fit examples for us to follow. Pray madam”—turning herself in front to Mrs. Stanhope, in a disputing attitude—“is there in that old book any account of personages of real nobility?”

At that instant the door of the dining-room was thrown open, and Doctor Griffith, the venerable Rector of Woodstock, made his appearance. We all of us arose at his entrance, for which we received a reprimand, as he desires always to be permitted to come and go without any ceremony. After he had seated himself, which he did between Mrs. Stanhope and myself, Mrs. Eleanor Lawson, desirous, as she owned after they were gone, to give, if possible, some check to the haughtiness of this really ridiculous woman, said, “Doctor, you are come in the right time to give an answer to a question of Lady Blurton's; her ladyship wanting to know if there were in the ages in which the Bible was written, any people of real nobility.”

Doctor G. [ addressing Lady Blurton.] Certainly, madam, a great number.

Lady Blurton. Well, I protest, I am heartily glad of that. Now, madam, [to Mrs. Stanhope] you will see your error. Doctor Griffith, you are a very learned gentleman. Well, and who were they? I protest I did not know this before. I declare I shall like that book better than ever I did in my life.

Doctor Griffith. Some of the most renowned in the earliest ages of the world were Abraham; Jacob; Moses, and David.

Lady Blurton. And pray how were they distinguished? And what titles did their ladies bear?

Doctor Griffith. The first, madam, was called THE FATHER OF THE FAITHFUL: Jacob was generally termed THE PATRIARCH: Moses, THE MEEKEST OF ALL MEN; and David—THE MAN AFTER GOD’S OWN HEART. As to their ladies, as you term them, I believe they thought themselves happy in being the wives of such GOOD MEN, without any desire of being considered as great women.

Lady Blurton. Well, but Doctor, I believe you are in jest all this time, and I protest—

Doctor Griffith. Indeed, madam, I am not in jest; this is to me a serious subject; and rather a melancholy one. To bring our ideas down to our own times—were the female part of the creation to think goodness of heart the best recommendation our sex could obtain, no one undeserving of that distinction would dare to offer himself to any woman of character. Were he inclined to make himself happy in marriage, he would first endeavour to retrieve his lost reputation. And were the male part of the world to give that due preference to the meek; the modest; the good-humoured, and domestic, though lively fair ones, which they so justly merit, we should not see our modern belles so studious to display such tinsel ornaments of person, and empty qualities of mind, as they now consider to be a first distinction. But, madam, [addressing Mrs. Stanhope] I did not know you were returned to Woodstock, or I certainly should have treated myself by a call upon you and my little dove here—[by which appellation he always distinguishes Miss Lewis.]

This, as the good doctor intended it should, gave a turn to the conversation. The rest of the afternoon was passed in lively chit-chat; and Lady Blurton seemed to regard Mrs. Stanhope as increased in consequence from the respect with which she was treated by Doctor Griffith, who being the son of a gentleman possessed of what she acknowledges to be a real title, had much of her observance. As the doctor has always been distinguished for his fine understanding; great goodness, and likewise true politeness, we were all somewhat surprised at his so unceremoniously replying to Lady Blurton; and, after they were gone, we remarked it to him; upon which he told us he so thoroughly knew the character of the woman, that he was convinced she needed some reproof, the moment he heard what subject we were upon, and was determined to endeavour to silence her.

About seven o’clock the ladies left us, taking with them, to her great delight, Miss Rachel Lawson, whom, I must confess, I was not sorry to see depart; except on account of the concern her going with such introducers into gay life, gave her mother, aunt, and sister: but she would not be prevented.

The remainder of the evening was convivial and agreeable, beyond my powers of description.

Mrs. Stanhope and Doctor Griffith are upon a very intimate footing, and greatly respect each other; a proof of the goodness of both their hearts.

Other subjects press for admittance, but I will not at this time enter upon any new ones.

By to-morrow's post I mean to write to Maria; who, let me repeat, is often in my remembrance. Her letter particularly obliged me.

I cannot suppress a wish to know if Sir Charles Conway keeps his intention of not making any long stay in London.

With an affectionate heart, I am,

My dear madam,

Your's, by every tie of

duty and gratitude,

EMMA STANLEY.

LETTER, II.

SIR CHARLES CONWAY, TO GEORGE

STANLEY, ESQ.

Portland Place, March 5th.

I Have received yours, dated Monday, and thank you for the smile with which some lines in it inspired my features. The sensation seemed new to me; and when it ceased, I wondered how it could have been effected.

To the first part of your letter, I say nothing; except that I hope you are not to be caught by a pink gown and white petticoat.

I arrived in town this morning at ten. As I told you, I intended to have been here last night, but was induced to stop at Barnet by our fellow-student, Herbert Evelyn. There never was a better hearted fellow in existence than Herbert. He has taken orders, and has, for some time, been enquiring for a curacy; for, would you believe it! his father has married that young baggage, who was his housekeeper at Reading, and since that time, poor Herbert has scarce known what to do with himself. I think he is grown extremely handsome, and his understanding seems even brighter than it used to be; yet it was always considered as of first rate: but he has too much real merit, and is too diffident to advance himself. I have, therefore, taken him entirely under my care. He is to accompany me in my present ramble, and, at my return, to live at Hawthorn Grove till our good old rector shall be translated to a richer inheritance, and then he shall be instituted to that living: but to prevent his having any temptation to wish for the arrival of the poor old man's last hour, I will settle an annuity upon him till that period, not greatly short of the good rector's income.

Herbert received my proposal with a peculiar grace. His eyes glistened: he pressed my hand; bowed, and left me. When we again met, he revived the subject, and ended it with expressing a hope that Mr. Eachard would, at our return, accept his constant assistance in the church.

I know you will be pleased at my having picked up such a companion; whom, by what is called mere accident, I met with half a mile on the other side of Barnet. We were driving pretty smartly along a smooth piece of road, when the rein of one of the fore horses got loose from its buckle, and James dismounted to fasten it; at which instant I observed a very genteel young man, exceedingly well mounted, who met and passed the chaise. I was struck, when I saw him, with an idea that I had some knowledge of him, but the difference, much to his advantage, which his canonical dress made in his appearance, prevented my recollecting who he was. Just as James had replaced the buckle, and was going to remount, Mr. Evelyn returned, and advancing to the chaise window—“Sir Charles Conway's carriage, by the arms,” said he; “and sure I see my old friend!” At that instant I recognized his features; gave him my hand, and, upon finding his business could as well be pursued in the morning, insisted upon his giving his horse to Joseph, and taking a seat in the chaise. Till we reached Barnet, we had only common chat; but alighting there, and ordering some coffee, the conversation became very interesting. Old Evelyn, as I told you, has married his housekeeper; Peggy Southern her name; who proves such a virago, and so entirely governs her old cully, that his father's house is no longer a residence for poor Herbert.

His mother's dying request that he might be educated for a clergyman, seems to have been a prophetic one. At the time she made it, it was hardly thought consistent with rectitude; as nobody considered him in any other light than as the undoubted heir to fourteen hundred a year; two only of which were settled upon the late Mrs. Evelyn; therefore the father has unlimited power over the other twelve; which, it is ten to one but he disposes of to the children of this young hussey, if she has any; though, perhaps, they will not be indebted to him for their existence.

Herbert has lately occupied lodgings in London; and, when we met, was going to a village near North-Mims, where he has a friend who promised to recommend him to a vacant curacy in that neighbourhood. He enquired very cordially after you, and sends his compliments.

Upon my word I have several times been surprised, since the short time of our meeting, at the extraordinary qualities which appear to be in the mind of this young man. You, George, will, I know, be particularly pleased with him, as he at once united the scholar; the good man, and the gentleman. The difference between what he is now, and what he was when we called upon him at Reading, two years back, is incredible.

The enclosed allegory respecting fate and free-will, which I scribbled last night before I went to bed, will give you my opinion upon what will, probably, be called the chance of my meeting with Mr. Evelyn. It is so entirely in your own way, that I will not apologize for presenting you with such a serious performance.

I have not yet fixed the day for leaving London, but mean not to stay in it long. My mode of travelling will now be altered, and, as you advised, shall go down with my chaise and four; but shall take only one saddle horse, as Mr. Evelyn’s must go likewise.

And now to another part of your letter—your Quixottic scheme.—The advice you give is, I think, exactly calculated for you to follow. It would be acting up to the very essence of your character. Leave Maria Birtles to your footman—though I must own, by what you say of her, and her conduct, she is rather too superior: but I do not credit one half of your account—and pursue the noble Lady Caroline. I will furnish you with a letter of introduction to her; and Stanley will supply the place of Pemberton, as well as Conway. Pursue and bring her back. This will be an atchievement worthy of you; and though, for various reasons, I decline the Knightship, as Sancho, I am at your command. Seriously though, I am under much concern for the fate of that justly celebrated young lady. Had I not known her, I should have pitied her from report; but whoever has once seen her, must be doubly interested for her. Who knows what she may not, at this time endure! In a foreign country, and, probably, if she misses the Maynards, without one friend near her! How severely must she feel her present destiny! Her misfortunes have frequently had a place in my contemplation since I have known the particulars of her history: the more frequently, because of my thorough acquaintance with that old hypocrite, Lord Crumpford; than whom I do not think there is a viler fellow breathing.

Such a wife as Lady Caroline Pemberton, George, I should joy to see you in possession of. She is the very woman to suit you. Want of fortune in her, ought not once to be named. If you hear any more of her, transmit to me the account.

* * * * *

Just as I was going to close my letter, Colonel Greville was announced. He met Joseph in Piccadilly; stopped him, and enquired for me. I could almost wish he had not known I was in town, for I do not want company. His enquiries about friends at Alverston were so very particular, that he unavoidably caught some knowledge of the present situation of circumstances; at which, as indeed he well might, he seemed astonished. We had not much conversation; he being engaged to a masquerade-party. I think he talked of going soon to Alverston.

Hang him! he seems to have oppressed my spirits. His questions, though obliging in intention, were, at this time, particularly irksome.

Farewell.

CHARLES CONWAY.

LETTER, III.