We are again at Belmont, but oh, how changed all our heroics destroyed! Poor Harry, I can't look at him without laughing. Our journey, Sither, was pensive, our conversation sentimental. We entered the ballroom trembling with apprehension, where the first object which struck our eyes was the tender, lovesick dying maid listening with the most eager attention to Fondville, who was at the very moment kissing her hand, her whole soul in her eyes, her heart fluttering with a pleasure which she could not conceal, and every feature on the full stretch of coquetry. An involuntary frown clouded the lovely countenance of my Harry, which was not lessened by his observing a malicious smile on mine. He advanced, however, towards her, where she, not doubting his design, was to ask her to dance, told him in a faltering voice, with a mixed air of triumph and irresolution, her eyes fixed on her fan, that she was engaged to Lord Fondville. Harry was thunderstruck, a glow of indignation flushed his cheek, and he left her without daining to make her any reply, which I, observing and fearing, she might misinterpret his silence, and that the idea of his supposed disappointment might flatter the creature's vanity, took care to explain to her that he was engaged to Lady Julia before we came, a piece of information which made her feel to the quick, even through the pleasure of dancing with a lord, her pleasure which has inconceivable charms for a citizen's daughter, and which love itself or what she pleases to call love, could not enable her to resist. The attention of all the company was now turned on Harry and Lady Julia, who were dancing a minuet—the beauty of their persons, the easy dignity of their air, the vivid bloom of their cheeks, the spirit which shone in their eyes, the inimitable graces of their movement, which received a thousand additional charms from—what I hope no one observed but myself—their desire of pleasing each other, gave me an idea of perfection in dancing which never before entered my imagination, or was still as night, not a voice, not a motion, through the whole assembly. The spectators seemed afraid even to breathe lest their attention should be one moment suspended. Envy herself seemed dead, or to confine her influence to the bosom of Miss Westbrook. The minuet ended. A murmur of applause ran through the room, which calling up her blushes gave a thousand new charms to Lady Julia, which I observed to the sit, adding also a love that it was impossible anybody should think of dancing minuets after them, in which sentiments everybody concurring we began country dances. Harry never looked so lovely. His beauty and the praises lavished on him, having awakened a spark of that flame which her ambition had stifled for a moment, the girl endeavoured at the beginning of the evening to attract his notice, but in vain. I had the pleasure to see him neglect all her little arts, and treat her with an air of unaffected indifference which I knew must cut her to the soul. She then endeavoured to peak him by the most flaming advances to Fonville, which knowing your capricious sex as I do rather alarmed me. I therefore determined to destroy the effect of her arts by playing off in opposition a more refined species of cockatry, which turned all Fonville's attention on myself, and saved Harry from the snare she was laying for him—a snare of all others the hardest to escape. When I saw I had, by the most delicate flattery, chained Fonville to my car for the night, and by playing off a few quality airs inspired him with the strongest contempt for his city partner, and threw myself into a chair, where, affecting an excess of languor and fatigue and wandering at the amazing constitutions of the country ladies, I declared my intention of dancing no more. Sir Charles Mellifont, who danced with me, sat down on one side, and Fonville on the other, pouring forth a rhapsody of tender nonsense, vowing all other women were only foils to me, envying Sir Charles's happiness, and kissing my hand with an affectation of transport, which pleased me as I saw it mortified the sit who sat swelling with spite in a window near us, in a situation of mind which I could almost have pitted.  Then starting with Sir Charles rejoined the dance with an air of easy impertinence, which she could not stand, but burst into tears and withdrew. You must know this affair was all of my contriving, I was determined to try the reality of the girl's passion, to quiet Harry's conscience as to cruelty of rejecting her suit, and remove those apprehensions for her life which seemed so infinitely to distress him. Full of these ideas I wrote by one of my servants to Fonville, immediately after Harry communicated to us the citadena's tragedy letter, commanding him to be at this ball dressed for conquest, to inquire out Miss Westbrook, whom he had never seen, to pretend a sudden and violent passion for her, and to entreat the honour of being her partner. It was a whim I had taken into my head that I would explain my reasons another time, but insisted on his implicit obedience. He came, he saw, he conquered, as I imagined he would. I knew her rage for title-tintle and people of a certain rank, and that Fonville was exactly calculated for the meridian of her taste understanding and education. The overcharged splendour of his dress and equipage must have infinite advantages with one who had so long breathed city air over the genuine elegance of Harry Mandeville's, nor was it possible in the nature of things for the daughter of an exchangebroker to prefer even personal perfection to the dazzling blaze of a coronet. Harry's charms gave way before the flattering idea of a title, and the gentle god resigned his place to the greater power, ambition. Things to be sure have taken rather a disagreeable turn, but she must thank her own inconstancy, and be content for the future with making love to one man at a time. I have only one more scene of mortification in view for her, and my mullers will be satisfied. I would invite her to a ball at Belmont, let Harry dance with Lady Julia, take Fonville myself, and pair her with the most disagreeable fellow in the room. You have no notion how Harry's vanity is hurt, though he strives all he can to hide it, peak to death just like one of us who are pleased with the love, though we dislike the lover. He begins to think it possible she may survive his cruelty. Lady Julia is all astonishment, had no idea of such levity, the amiable ignorant, how little she knows us, the character of half the sex. Adieu! I am going with Lady Julia to pay some morning visits in the environs. Three o'clock. Till this morning I had no notion how much Lord and Lady Belmont were beloved, or to speak with more propriety adored in their neighborhood. The eager inquiries of the good ladies after their return, their warm expressions of esteem and veneration, are what you can scarce conceive. The swell of affection which their presence restrained now breaks forth with redoubled impetuosity. There are really a great many agreeable people hereabouts. Belmont is the court of this part of the world and employs its influence as every court ought to do in bringing virtue, politeness, and elegant knowledge into fashion. How forcible, how irresistible are such examples in superior life! Who can know Lord and Lady Belmont without endeavoring to imitate them, and who can imitate them without becoming all that is amiable and praiseworthy? Do you know, Belville, I begin extremely to dislike myself. I have good qualities in a benevolent heart, but have exerted the former so irregularly and taken so little pains to rule and direct the virtuous impulses of the latter, that they have hitherto answered very little purpose either to myself or others. I feel I am a comet, shining, but useless, or perhaps destructive, whilst Lady Belmont is a benignant star. But for heaven's sake, how came this spirit of reflection to seize me? There's something in this air, oh, ti olo, una carotta, my dear Lord Belmont, I fly, adio, June the twenty-third. Epistle George To George Mardont, Esquire, June the twenty-third. They are come, the impatient villagers crowd the hall, eager to behold them, transport in every eye, whilst the noble pair scarce retain the tender tear of glowing benevolence. How lovely a picture was the audience they come from giving! How sweet the intercourse of warm beneficence and ardent gratitude! My heart melted at the sight. This evening is devoted to joy, I alone. Oh, Mardont, have I known this paradise only to be driven forever from it? I cannot tonight mention leaving Belmont's. Tomorrow I will propose it. I am in doubt where to go. My father is absent from camp on a visit of a fortnight to the Duke of Blank, his colonel. I have some thoughts of going to Lord T. Blanks. Till his return, perhaps I may come to town. All places but this are equal to me. Yet I must leave it. I am every moment more sensible of my danger. Yes, Mardont, I love her. I can no longer deceive myself. I love her with the fondest passion. Friendship is too cold a name for what I feel, too cold for charms like hers to inspire. Yet heaven is my witness. I am incapable of a wish to her disadvantage. Her happiness is my first, my only object. I know not what I would say. Why does fortune forever oppose the tender union of hearts? Farewell, H. Mandeville. Episode Colonel. To Colonel Belleville. Saturday. My lord has brought us a thousand presents, a thousand books, a thousand trinkets, all in so exquisite a taste. He is the sweetest man in the world, certainly such delight in obliging. Tis happy for you, he is not 30 years younger and disengaged. I should infallibly have a passion. He has brought Harry the divinest horse. We've been seeing him ride spring from the ground like feathered mercury. You can have no conception how handsome he looks on horseback. Poor Lady Julia's little innocent heart. I can't say I was absolutely insensible myself. You know I am infinitely fond of beauty and vastly above disembling it. Indeed, it seems immensely absurd that one is allowed to be charmed with living perfection in every species but our own. And that there one must admire only dead colors. One may talk in raptures of a lifeless Adonis and not of a breathing Harry Mandeville. Is not this a despicable kind of prudery? For my part, I think nature's coloring vastly preferable to the noblest attempts of art and I'm not the less sensible to the graces of a fine form because it is animated. Adieu, we are going to dine at the Hermitage. Lord Belmont is to be my Ciccipio. Epistle George to George Mardant, Esquire. How inconsistent is the human mind? I cannot leave Belmont. I cannot give up the delight of beholding her. I fancy a softness in her manner which raises the most flattering ideas she blushes when her eyes meet mine. Though I see the madness of hope, I indulge in it in spite of myself. No one can deserve her. Yet as Lord Belmont honors me with his esteem, I would persuade myself fortune alone forbids. I will struggle with impossibilities. I have many and powerful friends. We have a prince in the early prime of life, the season of generous virtue, a prince to whom the patriot glow and that disinterested loyalty which is almost my whole inheritance cannot but be the strongest recommendations. To him it may be merit to have suffered when the basest of the people rose on the ruins of their country. Those ample possessions which would have descended to me and might have raised my hopes to the most angelic of womankind were gloriously spent in endeavoring to support the throne when shaken by the rage of faction and narrow-minded bigoted enthusiasm. The younger branch of our family escaped the storm by having a miner at its head. To this accident, the partiality of an ancestor and the military talents of his father, Lord Belmont owes the affluence he so nobly enjoys and which I only of all mankind have caused to regret. These circumstances raise a flattering hope. My views are confused, but I will pursue the track. If I succeed, I may openly avow my passion. If not, the secret of my love shall die with me. Never, my friend, will I attempt her heart by unworthy means. Let me endeavor to deserve and leave to heaven to determine whether I shall possess the noblest gift it has to bestow. Farewell. H. Mandeville. Apostle George to George Mardont, Esquire. August 1st. I have heard from my father on the subject of Lady Mary's intended settlements who extremely disapproves my intention of entirely declining it, which he thinks cannot be founded on any motives worthy of me, but on a false pride of disdaining to be obliged, which is in this case unjust and greatly below my character. That I might as well object to receiving a part of his estate, which he intends to settle on me at the same time. He says Lord Belmont acts properly and consistently with himself and does not at all mean to break in on that independence, which can never be too highly valued. That Lady Julia would scarce perceive such an addition to her already splendid fortune, whilst this settlement fixes in some degree of affluence the elder branch of the family, which lost its superiority by the injustice of an ancestor and that heroic loyalty which has ever characterized our house. That he will talk further with me on this subject when we meet. But in the meantime, it vises me as a friend zealous for my interest, yet not the less attentive to my honor and the propriety of my conduct, to accept the immediate settlement of 500 pounds a year, which will enable me to be serviceable to my country, but to postpone to some distant time settling the whole. And to insist that Lady Mary be convinced I deserve her friendship before she lavishes it so profusely on me. This advice gives me pleasure as it coincides with my own present sentiments. Eager to pursue my scheme of rising to such consequence as may justify my hopes of the only event desirable to me in this world, I am happy in the thought of appearing in every light in which I can attract the notice of my prince and by steadily serving him and my country whose true interest must ever be the same, deserve that favor on which all my designs are founded. The time not being yet arrived when I can serve the noblest cause in the Senate, I will go to Germany and endeavor first to signalize myself in the manner most suited to my period of life, the season of action, not of counsel. It is shameful at my age to recline in the flowery bower of indolence when the whole world is in arms. I have not yet begun to live. My time has hitherto been less past in acting than in preparing to act my part on the great theater of human life. Oh, Mordant, should I succeed in my views? Should the hour come when I may openly avow my passion for the most lovely of women kind? This is the sweet hope which fires my soul and animates me to the glorious pursuit. Why do closeted moralists, strangers to the human heart, rail indiscriminately at love? When inspired by a worthy object, it leads to everything that is great and noble. Warmed by the desire of being approved by her, there is nothing I would not attempt. I will today write to my father for his consent and embark immediately for the army. I've just received your letter. You call my design madness. The light in which every animated purpose will appear to minds inactive, unimpassioned and sunk in the lethargic calm of lifeless tranquility. Mordant, you speak the cold language of a heart at rest. Talk not of impossibilities. Nothing is impossible to a soul impelled by the most lively of all passions and ardent in a pursuit on which its whole happiness depends. Nothing is impossible to him who aspires to please the most lovely, the most amiable, the most exalted of her sex. I feel I know I shall be successful. I ask not advice, but declare my settled purpose. I'm already determined. And if your friendship be warm as mine, you will not torture me by further opposition. My father alone has power to change my resolution, but it is a power he will not exert. I shall ask his permission, but inform him at the same time that by refusing he cuts off all the hope of my future days and chains me down to a life of tasteless insensibility. I know him well. He will advise. He will remonstrate if he disapproves, but he will leave me that freedom of choice which is the inherent right of every rational being in which he never in one instance invaded when I was much less capable of judging for myself. Fearful, however, lest he should disapprove my passion for Lady Julia, I shall not declare it to him at present, but as I never will even tacitly deceive him, I shall tell him I have a motive to this design which I beg his leave to conceal from him till I have a prospect of success. I this morning mentioned leaving Belmont, but my Lord insists on my staying a few days longer which are devoted to domestic happiness. I cannot refuse without making him suspect some latent cause, nor will it make any difference in my plan since I must wait somewhere and answer for my father which will reach Belmont about the time I shall now leave it. Tomorrow, seven night, expect me in town. I shall stay but two nights. I need little preparation. My aquapage and attendance are already greatly beyond my fortune and rather suited to what you call the madness of my expectations. My father, the most generous of mankind, has always proportioned my expenses more to my birth than his moderate income. As my companions have ever been of the first rank, he has supported me greatly above myself and on a full equality with them, lest I should be dazzled to mean compliances with their faults. By the false splendor they might receive from a superiority in these outward distinctions. Did I tell you Lord Belmont had presented me with a beautiful Arabian horse which he bought when in town? What delight has he in giving pleasure to others? What addition, if that can admit addition, to the happiness of the man who was blessed with Lady Julia, will it be to be so nearly allied to worth like Lord Belmont's? Oh, Mordant, were it possible? It is, it must, I will not give room to the faintest idea of disappointment. Adieu, I have this moment a letter from my father which I must answer tonight. H. Mandeville, end of section 11. Section 12 of the history of Lady Julia Mandeville. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The history of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke. Section 12, Epistle Henry. To Henry Mandeville Esquire, Roseberry House, Tuesday. It gives me the warmest pleasure, my dear son, to find you are pleased with the expensive education I have given you, though it reduces your fortune considerably below what it might otherwise have been. I considered that wealth, if necessary to happiness, which I do not believe, might be acquired, but that flying hours of youth, the season of instruction, are never to be recalled. I have the happiness to see your reward and justify my cares by a generous freedom of thinking and nobleness of sentiment, which the common methods of education might have cramped or perhaps totally destroyed. It has always appeared to me that our understandings are fettered by systems and our hearts corrupted by example and that their needs no more to minds well-disposed than to recover their native freedom and think and act from themselves. Full of this idea, I have instructed you how, but never what to think. I have pointed out the road which leads to truth but have left you to discover her abode by your own strength of mind, even on the most important of all subjects. I have said no more than that conviction must be on the side of that religion which teaches the purest and most benevolent morality. It most conducive to the general happiness of mankind and gives the most sublime idea of the deity. Convinced that the seeds of virtue are innate, I have only watched to cherish the rising chute and prune but with a trembling hand the two luxuriant branches. By virtue I would here be understood to mean not a partial attention to any one duty of life but that rectitude of heart which leads us to fulfill all as far as the frailty of human nature will permit and which is a constant monitor of our faults. Confucius has well observed that virtue does not consist in never airing which is impossible but in recovering as fast as we can from our errors. With that joy, my dearest Harry, did I early see in you that warmth of temper which is alone productive of every extraordinary exertion of the human mind, the proper foil of genius and the virtues, that heat from which light is inseparable. I have only one fear for you. In order to a habit of profuse expense I dread you being unable to practice that frugality which will now be indispensable. To Lady Mary's intended settlement I will add a third of my estate but even that is below your birth and the manner of life to which you are habituated. But why do I doubt you? I know your generosity of spirit and scorn of every species of slavery that you will not descend to be indebted to withhold a moment the price of laborious industry or lessen the honest profit of the trader by a delay yet more destructive to yourself than to him. Intended to become a part of the legislative power you're doubly bound to keep yourself from all temptation of corruption or dependence by living within your income. The amplest estate is wretched penury if exceeded by the expenses of its possessor. Need I say more to recommend economy to a spirit like yours than that it is the fountain of liberality and the parent of independence? You inquire after the place where I am. It is except Belmont the sweetest spot I ever beheld but in a different style. The situation is rather beautiful than magnificent. There's a mild elegance, a refined simplicity in the air all around strongly expressive of the mind of its amiable possessor. A poetic wildness, a luxuriant glow like that of primeval nature adorned by the hand of the graces. The same spirit of liberty breathes here as with you. We are all perfectly at home. Our time is subject to no restraint but that which our desire of obliging each other makes a voluntary imposition. I am now alone sitting in an arbor attentive to the lively chant of the birds who swell in their little throats with a mourning hymn of gratitude to their creator. Whilst I listen, I think of those sweet lines of cowley. All around the little winged choir pathetic tender thoughts inspire with ease the inspiration I obey and sing is unconcerned and as well pleased as they. Just yet early day the flocks and herds are spreading over the distant meadows and joining the universal song of praise to the beneficent Lord of nature. Rejoicing in the general joy I adore the God who has expanded so wide the circle of happiness and endeavored to regulate my own desires by attending to the simplicity of theirs. When I see the dumb creation, my dear Harry, pursuing steadily the purposes of their being, their own private happiness and the good of their peculiar species, I am astonished at the folly and the generosity of man who acts in general so directly contrary to both for both are invariably united. The wise and benevolent creator has placed the supreme felicity of every individual in those kind domestic social affections which tend to the well-being of the whole. Whoever presumes to deviate from this plan, the plan of God and nature, shall find satiety, regret, or disappointment his reward. I, this moment, receive your letter. You judge perfectly well in saying there is an activity and restlessness in the mind of man which makes it impossible for him to be happy in a state of absolute inaction. Some point of view, some favorite pursuit is necessary to keep the mind away. Tis on this principle alone, one can account for what seems so extraordinary to the eyes of impartial reason that avarice and ambition should be the vices of age, that man should most ardently pursue riches and honors at the time when they have the least prospect of enjoying them. The lively passions of youth subsiding some active principle must be found to replace them and where that warm benevolence of heart is wanting which is a perpetual source of ever-new delight, I do not wonder they engage in the chase of wealth and power though sure so soon to melt from their grasp. The first purpose of my heart next to that superior in general one of making myself acceptable to my creator was to render the most angelic of women your lovely mother happy in that heaven was pleased to disappoint my hopes by taking her to itself. My second has been to make you the most amiable of men in which I am not afraid to say to yourself I have been successful beyond my most sanguine wishes. Adieu my dear son, may you succeed in every purpose of your soul as fully as I have done in this and be as happy as your virtues have made your father. I am, et cetera. J. Mandeville. End of Section 12. Section 13 of the History of Lady Julia Mandeville. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke. Section 13. Apostle Colonel. To Colonel Belleville. Oh heavens, Belleville. Nay, there's absolutely no resisting a man that carries one off. But since you have mentioned the thing, I shall not abate you a scruple. There's no saying how charming it will be. Let common beauties inspire whining, submissive, respectful passions, but let me, heaven and earth, to be run away with at four and twenty. A paragraph in the papers. Yesterday the celebrated Lady Anne Willemotte was forcibly carried off by a gentleman who had long in vain deprecated her pity. If anything can excuse so atrocious in action, the unrivaled beauty of the lady. Dear Belleville, when do you begin your adventure? But in sober sadness, how come you so flippant on the sudden? Thus it is with you all. Use you ill and not as spaniel can be more under command. But the least encouragement quite ruins you. There's no saying, a civil thing, but you presume upon one's favor so intolerably. Why, yes, as you say, the hour has passed pleasantly enough at the subtly farm. Pretty royal scenes, tender platonic chat, perfect confidence, the harmony of souls in unison, infinite flattery on your side, and implicit belief on mine. A sprightly god of love gave wings to the rapid hours. The gentle muses, too. I think, Belleville, you are a pretty enough poet for a man of fashion, flowery, mild, not overburdened with ideas. Oh, can you forget the font hours when all by yarn fountain we strayed. I wish I could remember the rest, but you are a cruel creature. Never will leave me a copy of anything, dreading the severity of my criticism. Nay, you are right. Yours are excellent verses, as Molière says, to lock up in your burrow. Nine at night. Peace to the gentle spirit of him who invented cards, the very bond of peace and cement of society. After a philosophical inquiry into the summum bonum, I find it to consist in play. The more sublime pleasures require relaxation, are only for holiday wear, come but now and then, and keep the mind too much expanded. All other delights, all other amusements, pawl. But play, dear divine, syraphic play, is always new, the same today, tomorrow, and forever. It reconciles parties, removes distinctions, and restores what my Lord calls the natural equality of mankind. I have only one fault to find with it, that for the time it extremely weakens, or rather totally suspends, the impressions of beauty. The finest woman in the world, whilst at the card table, is regarded by the most susceptible man only as a being which is to lose its money. You will imagine the success produced these wise reflections. Yes, we have been playing a most engaging pool at Quadrill and Wood, where I have, with the utmost composure, won an immensity. If I go on thus, all objections to our union will be removed. I shall be literally a fortune in myself. Without vanity, I have some little skill in the game. But at present, there is no great degree of merit in winning of the friend who happened to be out of my party with an absurd conceited squire who loves quality and thinks that the greatest honour in the world that I will condescend to win his money. We had four tables under the shade of a spreading oak. I can no more. I do, eh, Wilmot. We have had a penitential letter from the Citadina, with another from Papa, offering 30,000 pounds at present and 50,000 at his death on condition Lord Belmont will get Harry an Irish title. Knows it's a bad match, but won't bark his girl's fancy and, besides, considers Harry has good blood in his veins. We rejected it politely, but with a little of the Mandeville's stateliness. Oh heavens, fondville's ballet. A ballet, too. I shall be cruel. This murderous form. I must absolutely hide myself or wear a mask in pity to mankind. My lord has taken the letter. He brings it me. He is on the stairs. How? Gone to Lady Belmont's apartment. A ballet and not to me. What can it mean? Can the dear man be false? The infidel. Yes, he has left me. Forgot his vows. This bewitching Lady Julia. It is really an heroic exertion of virtue not to hate her. Could you have thought it possible? But read his cruel letter. Epistle the Earl. To the Earl of Belmont. My lord, your lordship will be perhaps surprised, yet why surprised? Lady Julia is an immense, fine creature and though marriage to those who know life cannot but seem an impertinent affair and what will subject me to infinite ridicule, yet custom and what one owes to one's rank and keeping up a family. In short, my lord, people of a certain consequence being above those romantic views which pair the vulgar, I chose rather to apply to your lordship than the lady and flatter myself, my estate will bear the strictest inspection. Not but that, I assure your lordship. I set a due value on Lady Julia's charms and though I have visited every court in Europe and seen all that is lovely in the Bose sex, never yet beheld the fair whom I would so soon wish to see fill the rank of Lady Viscountess Fonville as her ladyship. If my pretensions are so happy as to be favorably received by your lordship, I will beg leave to wait on Lady Julia tomorrow and my lawyer shall attend your lordships wherever and whenever you please to appoint. Believe me, my lord, with the most perfect devotion, your lordship's most obedient and very humble servant, Fonville, epistle lord, to lord Viscount Fonville. My lord, I am the last man in the world to whom it was necessary to apologize for an intention of entering into a state which I have experienced is productive of such exquisite felicity. My daughter's choice is perfectly free nor shall I ever do more than advise her in an affair of such consequence to herself. But from what I know of her character, I think it highly improbable she should approve the pretensions of a man who professes being above those tender affections which alone can make happy sensibility like hers. Allow me to take the liberty of observing in answer to the latter part of your lordship's letter that there are few ranks which Lady Julia Mandeville has not a right to fill. I am, my lord, your lordship's most obedient and devoted servant, Belmont. Don't come to Belmont, I charge you. I shall have this invincible Lady Julia seduce you too. Besides, I have some reasons why I choose our attachment should not yet come to a crisis. Till when, I will take Lady Belmont's advice and be prudent, obey in silence. Let me have no more sighs till the milder influence of the heavens dispose me to be gracious. I'm always in good humor in autumn. Your faiths may possibly be determined in little more than a month. Ask no questions, suspend your passion or at least the outward expression of it. And write to me in Amico. Adieu. Apostle George. To George Mardont, Esquire. I have been riding alone with Lord Belmont this morning. A pleasure I very often enjoy and on which I set infinite value. In those hours of perfect confidence, I am certain of being instructed and amused by a train of ideas uncommon, enlarged, noble, benevolent and adapted to inspire me with a love of virtue by showing her in her native charms. I shall be all my life the wiser and worthier man for the hours I have passed at Belmont. But oh Mardont, shall I be the happier? That is in the bosom of futurity. A thousand times have I been tempted in these hours of indulgent friendship to open all my heart to Lord Belmont's. I know his contempt of wealth and how little he thinks it conducive to happiness. Heaven, said he to me this very morning, has blessed me with affluence. I am thankful and endeavor to deserve by applying an ample portion of it to the purposes of beneficence. But for myself, my pleasures are of so inexpensive and simple a kind that a diminution of a fortune would take very little for my private felicity. Health, content, the sweets of social and domestic life, the only enjoyment suited to the nature of man, are an ought to be within the reach of all the species. Yes, my dear Mr. Mandeville, it gives a double relish to all my pleasures to reflect that they are such as every man may enjoy if he will. Can this man, my dear Mardont, sacrifice the real happiness of his child, the calm delight of domestic friendship on which he set such value himself to the gaudy trappings of tasteless grandeur? Did she approve my passion? I should hope everything from the most indulgent of fathers. He has refused Lord Fondville from Lady Julia, whose fortune is as large as avarice itself could desire. Good heaven, that's such a man, without one other recommendation, without a soul to taste even the charms of her person, can aspire to all that can be imagined of perfection, not you. H. Mandeville, Apostle Colonel, to Colonel Belleville, Thursday afternoon.  How many unavoidable enemies to enjoyment? It is sometimes too cold, sometimes too hot to be happy. One has never pleased a week together. I shall absolutely grow a snarling philosopher and find fault with everything. These unconscionable lovers have dragged me across an open meadow, exposed to the sun's burning rays. No mercy on my complexion. Lady Julia, sure, for her own sake. Yet she is laughing at my distress. Ah, I am too languid to say more. Oh, for a cooling breeze. The whispering zephyr and the purling rill. We are going to have an addition to our group of friends. Emily Howard, daughter to the late Dean of Blank, a distant relation and rector of the parish, being expected tomorrow at Belmont. She is Lady Julia's friend in the most emphatic sense of the word. Do you know, I feel extremely inclined to be jealous of her. And I'm angry with myself for such meanness. A. Wilmot, end of section 13, recording by Derek Pohl, Vancouver, Canada. Section 14 of the History of Lady Julia Mandeville. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville, by Francis Brooke. Section 14, Apostle Colonel. To Colonel Belville, Tuesday, the third. She has come, this redoubtable Emily Howard, and I find I have only a second place in Lady Julia's friendship. I would hate her if I could, but it is really impossible. She is so gentle. She steals one's affection imperceptibly, and one has the vexation to be forced to love her in spite of oneself. She has been here three days, and in that short time, she has gained amazingly upon my heart. Her person is little, finally proportioned, and delicate almost to fragility. Her voice and manner soft and timid. Her countenance, a mixture of innocence and sweetness, which would disarm the rage of a tiger. Her heart is tender, kind, compassionate, and tremblingly awake to friendship, of which she is universally the object. Lady Julia dotes on her, nor am I surprised at it. She appears so weak, so helpless, so exquisitely feminine. It seems cruelty not to be her friend. No one ever saw her without wishing her happiness. The love one has for her seems of a peculiar species, almost nearly resembles that instinctive fun this one feels for a beautiful child. It is independent of esteem, for one loves her before one knows her. It is the pleasantest kind of affection that can be conceived. Yet though she is extremely handsome, or rather to suit the expression to her form, extremely pretty, she is very little the taste of men. Her excessive modesty renders both her beauty and understanding in some degree useless to her. Not obvious, not obstructive. She escapes the observation of common eyes, and though infinitely lovely, I never heard she was beloved. For this very reason, the women do her ample justice. She is no woman's rival, stands in nobody's way which cannot fail of exciting in general good will towards her in her own sex. They even allow her more beauty than she really has, and take a delight in setting her charms in opposition to every impertinent thing the men are fond of. Yes, the girl is very well, but nothing to Emily Howard is the common cry on the appearance of a new beauty. There is another strong reason for loving her. Though exact in her own conduct, she has an indulgence to that of others, which is a consequence of her excessive gentleness of temper, and her seeing every action on the favorable side. One could own one's greatest weakness to her almost without blushing. And at this very moment, I daresay Lady Julia is confessing to her her passion for the Harry Mandeville, who's riding out with my lord. I daresay she would find an excuse for my indiscretion in regard to you, and see only the delicacy of our friendship. She sings and dances angelically, but she blushes to death if you tell her so. Such gentle, unassuming characters as these make the most agreeable friends in the world. They are the mild green of the soul, on which it rests itself for more glaring objects. One may be absurd, one may be vain, one may be imprudent, secure of being heard with indulgence.  However, the indulgence sweetness of her temper answers almost the same purpose. I am disconsolate that the caro and rico is going to desert us, but the cruel man is inflexible to all my soft persuasions and determined to leave us on Wednesday. Adieu. The sweet Emily is going on Thursday for 10 days to Sir George Martin's and then returns to finish the summer here. Oh, do you know that I'm credibly informed her favorite Suivant having told it to one, who told it to another, who told it to a good old gossiping lady who told it to me, that the citadina who has in vain written Harry a penitential letter is playing off the same arts, the same dying heirs to Fonville, which had such extreme ill success with him. The siege is at present suspended, not by his addressing Lady Julia, which has a profound secret to her and everybody without these walls, but by his mother's death, which has called him hastily to town, and which, by the way, adds 2,000 pounds a year to his income. Do you know that I think the thing may do if Lady Julia continues cruel? They are absolutely form for each other and it would be a thousand pities to part them. Ever yours, A. Willmot. Apostle Colonel, to Colonel Belleville, August 6th. Certainly, next to a new lover, the pleasantest thing upon earth is a new friend. Let antediluvians take seven years to fix, but for us insects of an hour, nothing can be more absurd. By the time one has tried them on these maxims, one's taste for them is worn out. I've made a thousand friendships at first sight and sometimes broke them at the second. There is a certain exertion of soul, a lively desire of pleasing, which gives a kind of volatile spirit to a beginning acquaintance, which is extremely apt to evaporate. Some people make a great merit of constancy and it is, to be sure, a very laudable virtue, but for my part, I'm above dissembling. My friendships wear out like my clothes, but often much faster. Not that this is the case in regard to Emily Howard. No, really, I think this penchant is very likely to be lasting. It may probably hold out the summer. Tomorrow, when Harry leaves us, my lord, to divert our chagrin, takes us, with three strange bells and five most engaging bows, a ramble I cannot tell wither. Saturday morning. Oh heavens, one of our male animals has disappointed us. Absolutely, I shall insist on Harry's attendance. He shall defer his journey. I am resolved. There is no supporting a scarcity of bows. He goes with us. Lady Julia's eyes have prevailed. She had seduced him before I went down. His chase is ordered back to wait for ours. Adios, Carisimo. Apostle George. To George Bardont, Esquire. Saturday night. I am still here. When shall I have the strength of mine to go? Not having heard from my father in the time I expected, I was determined to go to Lord T. Blanks, whose zeal for my interest and great knowledge of mankind makes him the properst person I can consult. My chase was this morning at the door when my lord told me, Lady Julia entreated my stay a few days longer. She blushed and, with the loveliest confusion, confirmed my lord's assertion. All my resolution vanished in a moment. There is enchantment in her look. Her voice, enchantment, which it is not in man to resist. Sunday night. I am every hour more unhappy. Lord Fondville's proposal gives me infinite uneasiness. Not that I fear such arrival, but it has raised the idea of other pretensions which may be accepted before it is time for me to avow my designs. I have passed this night informing schemes to prevent so fatal a blow to all my hopes and am determined to own my passion to the lovely object of it and entreat her, if no other man is so happy as to possess her heart, to wait one year. The result of those views which that love which has inspired them may perhaps prosper. Not certain I shall have courage to own my tenderness in her presence. I will write and see some favorable opportunity to give her the letter on which all my happiness depends. I will ask no answer but from her eyes. How shall I meet them after so daring an attempt? We are going to the parish church. The coach is at the door. I do, she comes. What grace's play around that form. What divinity in those eyes. Oh, Lord, don't. What task will be difficult to him who has such reward and view? Episode Colonel. To Colonel Belleville, Sunday evening. Our ramble yesterday was infinitely agreeable. There is something very charming in changing the scene. My Lord understands the art of making life pleasurable by making it various. We have been to the parish church to hear Dr. H. Blank preach. He has that spirit in his manner without which the most sensible sermon has very little effect on the hearers. The organ which my Lord gave is excellent. You know, I think music an essential part of public worship used as such by the wisest nations and commanded by God himself to the Jews. It has indeed so admirable an effect in disposing the minded devotion that I think it should never be omitted. Our Sundays here are extremely pleasant. We have, after evening service, a moving rural picture from the windows of the saloon in the villagers for whose amusements the gardens are that day thrown open. Our rustic mall is full from five to eight and there is an inexpressible pleasure in contemplating so many groups of neat, healthy, happy-looking people enjoying the diversion of walking in these lovely shades by the kindness of their beneficent Lord who not only provides for their wants, but their pleasures. My Lord is of opinion that Sunday was intended as a day of rejoicing, not of mortification and meant not only to render our praises to our benevolent Creator, but to give rest and cheerful relaxation to the industrious part of mankind from the labors of the week. On this principle, though he will never suffer the least breach of the laws in being, he wishes the severity of them softened by allowing some innocent amusements after the duties of the day are passed. He thinks this would prevent those fumes of enthusiasm which have had here such fatal effects and could not be offensive to that gracious power who delights in the happiness of his creatures and who, by the royal poet, has commanded them to praise him in the cymbals and dances. For my own part, having seen the good effect of this liberty in Catholic countries, I cannot help wishing, though as zealous protestant, that we were to imitate them in this particular. It is worth observing that the book of sports was put forth by the pious, the religious, the sober Charles I, and the law for the more strict observation of Sunday passed in the reign of the libertine Charles II. Love of pleasure is natural to the human heart, and the best preservative against criminal ones is a proper indulgence in such as our innocence. These are my sentiments, and I am happy in finding Lord Belmont of the same opinion. Adieu, A. Willmont. End of section 14, recording by Derek Paul, Vancouver, B.C., Canada. Section 15 of The History of Lady Julia Mandeville, recording by Kate McKenzie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke. Section 15. Epistle, George. To George Mordent, Esquire, Monday. Mordent, the die is cast, and the whole happiness of my life hangs on the present moment. After having kept the letter confessing my passion two days without having resolution to deliver it, this morning in the garden, being a moment alone with Lady Julia in a summer house, the company at some distance, I assumed courage to lay it on a table whilst she was looking out at a window which had a prospect that engaged all her attention. When I laid it down, I trembled. A chillness seized my whole frame. My heart died within me. I withdrew instantly, without even staying to see if she's took it up. I waited at a little distance, hid in a close arbor of wood-bines, my heart throbbing with apprehension, and by the time she stayed in the summer house, I had no doubt of her having seen the letter. When she appeared, I was still more convinced. She came out with a timid air, and looked round as if fearful of surprise. The lively crimson flushed her cheek, and was succeeded by a dying paleness. I attempted to follow, but had no courage to approach her. I suffered her to pass the arbor where I was, and advanced slowly towards the house. When she was out of sight, I went back to the summer house, and found the letter was gone. I have not seen her. I am called to dinner. My limbs will scare support me. How shall I bear the first sight of Lady Julia? How be able to meet her eyes? I have seen her, but my fate is yet undetermined. She has avoided my eyes, which have scarce dirt to raise from the ground. I once looked at her when she did not observe me, and saw a melancholy on her countenance, which stabbed me to the soul. I have given sorrow to the heart of her, whom I would wish to be ever most happy, and whose good I would sacrifice the dearest hope of my soul. Yes, Mordent, let me be wretched, but let every blessing heaven can bestow be the portion of the loveliest of her sex. How little did I know of love when I gave that name to the shameful passion I felt for the wife of my friend. The extreme beauty of the Countess Melaspini, that unreserved manner which seldom fails to give hope, the flattering preference she seemed to give me above all others, lighted up in my solemn or violent degree of youthful incarnation, which the esteem I had for her virtues refined to an appearance of the noblest of affections, to which it had not the remotest real resemblance. Without any view in my pursuit of her, but my own selfish gratification, I would have sacrificed her honour and happiness to a transient fondness, which dishonoured my character, and if successful, might have corrupted a heart naturally full of property. Her amiable reproofs, free from that severity which robs virtue of half her charms, with the generous behaviour of the most injured of mankind, record my soul to horror, and stopped me early in the career of folly, time wore out the impression of her charms, and left only a cold esteem remaining, a certain proof that she was never the object of more than a light desire, since the wounds which reel of inflicts are never to be entirely healed. Such was the infamous passion which I yet remember with horror, but my tenderness for Lady Julia, more warm, more animated, more violent, has a delicacy of which those only who love like me conform any idea. Independent of the charms of her person, it can never cease but with life. Not even then, if in another state we have any sense of what has passed in this, it is eternal and incorporated within the soul. Above every selfish desire, the first object of my thoughts and wishes is her happiness, which I would die or live wretched to secure. Every action of my life is directed to the sole purpose of pleasing her. My noble ambition is to be worthy her esteem.  And when I wake, the first idea which rises in my mind is the hope of seeing her, and of seeing her well and happy. My most ardent prayer to the supreme giver of all good is for her welfare. In true love, my dear Mordent, there is a pleasure obstructed from all hope of return, and where I certain she would never be mine, may certain I should never behold her more. I would not for all the kingdoms of the world give up the dear delight of loving her. Those who never felt this enlivening power, this divinity of the soul, may find a poor insipid pleasure in tranquility, or plunge into vicious excesses to animate their tedious hours. But those who have can never give up so sweet, so divine a transport, but with their existence or taste any other joy but in subordination. Oh, Mordent, when I behold her, read the soft language of those speaking eyes, hear those harmonious sounds, who that has a soul can be insensible. Yet there are men dead to all sense of perfection who can regard that angel form without rapture, can hear the music of that voice without emotion. I have myself with astonishment seen them, inanimate as the trees around them, listening coldly to shoe-melting accents. There is a sweetness in her voice, Mordent, a melodious softness which fancy cannot paint. The enchantment of a conversation is inexpressible. Four o'clock. I am the most wretched of mankind, and wretched without the right of complaining. The baseness of my attempt deserves even the pangs I suffer. Could I, who made a parade of refusing to meet the advances of the daughter of almost a stranger, descend to seduce the heiress of him on earth to whom I am most obliged? Oh, Mordent, have we indeed two souls? Can I see so strongly what is right, yet want power to act up to my own sentiments? The torrent of passion bears down all before it. I bore myself for this weakness. I would give worlds to recall that fatal letter. Her coldness, her reserve, are more than I can support. My madness has undone me. My acidity is importunate. I might have preserved her friendship. I have thrown away the first happiness of my life. Her eyes averted shun me as an object of hatred. I shall not long offend her by my presence. I will leave her for ever. I am eager to be gone, that I may carry far from her. Oh, Mordent, who would have thought that cruelty dwelt in such a form? She hates me, and all my hopes are destroyed forever. Monday evening, Belmont. This day, the first of my life, what a change has this day produced. These few flying hours have raised me above mortality. Yes, I am most happy. She loves me. Mordent, her conscious blushes, her downcast eyes, her heaving bosom, her sweet confusion, have told me what her tongue could not utter. She loves me, and all else is below my care. She loves me, and I will pursue her. What are the mean considerations of fortune to the tender union of hearts? Can wealth or titles deserve her? No, Mordent, love alone. She is mined by the strongest ties by the sacred bond of affection. The delicacy of her soul is my certain pledge of happiness. I can leave her without fear. She cannot now be another's. I told you my despair this morning. My lord proposed an airing. Chance placed me in Lady Julia Shea's. I entered it with a beating heart, a tender fear of having offended, inseparable from real love, kept me sometimes silent. At length, with some hesitation, I begged her to pardon the effect of passion and despair, thought I would rather die than displease her, that had I not now hoped for her love, but could not support her hate. I then ventured to look up to the loveliest of women. Her cheeks was effused with the deepest blush. Her eyes, in which was the most dying longer, were cast timidly on the ground, her whole frame trembled, and with a voice broken and interrupted, she exclaimed, Hate you, Mr. Mandeville! Oh, heaven! She could say no more, nor did she need. The dear truth broke like a sudden flash of light on my soul. Yet think not, I will take advantage of this dear prepossession in my favour, to seduce her from her duties as the best of parents. From Lord Belmont only will I receive her. I will propose no engagements contrary to the rights of an indulgent father, to whom she is bound by every tie of gratitude and filial tenderness. I will pursue my purpose and leave the event to heaven, to that heaven which knows the integrity, the disinterested purity of my intentions. I will avenge the reality of my passion by endeavouring to be worthy of her. The love of such a woman is the love of virtue itself. It raises, it refines, it ennobles every sentiment of the heart. How different from that fever of selfish desire I felt for the amiable counters. Oh, Mordent, had you beheld those blushes of her reluctant sensibility, seeing those charming eyes softened with a tenderness as refined as that of angels? She loves me. Let me repeat the dear sounds. She loves me, and I'm happier than a god. I have this moment a letter from my father. He approves my design, but begs me for a short time to delay it. My heart ill bears this delay. I will carry the letter to Lady Julia. She approves my father's reasons, yet begs I will leave Belmont. Her will is the law of my heart, yet a few days I must give to love. I will go on Tuesday to Lord Tease. His friendship will assist me in the only view which makes life supportable to me. He will point out. He will lead me to the path of wealth and greatness. Expect to hear from me when I arrive at Lord Tease. I shall not write sooner. My moments here are too precious. Adieu, your faithful H. Mandeville. End of Section 15, read by Kate McKenzie. Section 16 of the History of Lady Julia Mandeville. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Frances Brooke. Section 16. Epistle Henry. To Henry Mandeville Esquire, August 6th. Happy in seeing in my son that heroic spirit, which has ever distinguished our house, I should with pleasure consent to his design, where there's a proper time to execute it, provided he went to volunteer and determined to accept no command but as a reward of real services. And with a resolution it should never interfere with that independence to which I would have him sacrifice every other consideration. But when there is so strong a probability of peace, his going would appear like making a parade of that courage, which he did not expect would be tried. Yes, my son, I am well assured we shall have peace, that the most amiable of princes, the friend of humankind, pitying the miseries of his visis, and melting with compassion at the wide-extended scene of desolation, mediate such a peace as equally provides for the interest and honour of Britain and the future quiet of mankind. The terms talked are of such as give us an immense addition of empire, and strengthen that superiority of naval force on which our very being depends, whilst they protect our former possessions and remove the source of future wars by securing all, and much more than all, for which this was undertaken. Yet, by their just moderation, to convince the world a British monarch is governed only by the laws of honour and equity, not by that impious thirst of false glory which actuates the laurel scourges of mankind. After so long, so extensive and bloody a war, a war which has depopulated our country and loaded us with a burden of debt from which nothing can extricate us but the noble spirit of public frugality, which, if steadily and uniformly pursued, will rank the name of our Prince with those of Elizabeth and Henry the Great. All ardently wish for peace but those who gain by the continuance of war. The clamours of these are inconceivable, clamours which can be founded only in private interest because begun before they could even guess at the terms intended, and continued when such are mentioned as reason herself would dictate. But such ever will be the conduct of those in whom love of wealth is the primary passion. Heaven and Earth, can men wearing the form and professing the sentiments of humanity deaf to the cries of the widow and the orphan, laboured to perpetuate the dreadful carnage which has deluged the world with the blood of their fellow creatures only to add to the mass of their already unwieldy wealth and pray longer on the distress of their country? These clamours are as illegal as they are indecent. Peace and war are the prerogative of the crown, sacred as the liberties of the people, nor will ever be invaded by those who understand and love our happy constitution. Let us strengthen the hands of our sovereign by our warm approbation during the course of this arduous work, and if his ministers abuse their trust, let them answer it, not to the noise of unthinking faction or the unfeeling bosom of private interest but to the impartial laws of their country. Heaven forbid I should ever see a British king independent on his people collectively, but I would have him raised above private cabals or the influence of any partial body of men, however wealthy or respectable. If the generous views of our prince do not meet with the success they merit, if France refuses such a piece as secures the safety of our colonies and the superiority as a naval power so necessary to the liberties of Europe as well as our own independence, you shall join the army in a manner becoming your birth and the style of life in which you have been educated. Till then restrain within just bounds that noble ardor so becoming a Britain and study to serve that country with your councils in peace, which will not, I hope, have occasion for your sword in war. Epistle, Miss Howard. To Miss Howard, Wednesday, August 11th. My Emily, your friend, your unhappy Julia, is undone. He knows the tenderness which I have so long endeavored to conceal. The trial was too great for the softness of a heart like mine. I had almost conquered my own passion when I became a victim to his. I could not see his love, his despair without emotions which discovered all my soul. I am not formed for deceit. Artless as the village made, every sentiment of my soul is in my eyes. I have not learnt and will never learn to disguise their expressive language. With what pain did I affect a coldness to which I was indeed a stranger? But why do I wrong my own heart? I did not affect it. The native modesty of my sex gave a reserve to my behavior on the first discovery of his passion, which is fears magnified into hate. Oh, Emily, do I indeed hate him?  You know by what imperceptible steps my inexperienced heart has been seduced to love. You know how deceived by the sacred name of friendship. But why do I seek to excuse my sensibility? Is he not worthy all my tenderness? Are we not equal in all but wealth, a consideration below my care? Is not his merit above titles and riches? How shall I paint his delicacy, his respectful fondness? Too plainly convinced of his power over my heart, he disdains to use that power to my disadvantage. He declares he will never receive me, but from my father. He consents to leave me till a happier fortune enables him to avow his love to all the world. He goes without asking the least promise in his favor. Heaven sure will prosper his designs. Will reward a heart like his. Oh, my Emily, did my father see with my eyes. What is fortune in the balance with such virtue? Had I worlds in my own power, I should value them only as they enabled me to show more strongly the disinterestedness of my affection. Born with too tender a heart, which never before found an object worthy its attachment, the excess of my affection is unspeakable. Delicate in my choice even of friends, it was not easy to find a lover equal to that idea of perfection my imagination had formed. He alone of all mankind rises up to it. The speaking grace, the easy dignity of his heir, are the natural consequences of the superiority of his soul. He looks as if born to command the world. I am interrupted at you, August 15th. Epistle, Colonel. To Colonel Belleville. You were never more mistaken. You will not have the honor of seeing me yet in town. My lord thinks it infinitely more respectful to his royal master to celebrate this happy event in the country. My congratulations, says he, would be lost in the crowd of a drawing room, but here I can diffuse a spirit of loyalty and joy through half a country and impress all around me with the same veneration and love for the most amiable of princes which burns in my own bosom. Our entertainment yesterday was magnifique and in the gusto belmonto. There is a beautiful lake in the park on the borders of which on one side interspersed amongst the trees, which form a woody theater round it at a distance of about 300 yards, tents were fixed for the company to dine in which consisted of all the gentleman's families 20 miles round. Westbrook and his daughter were there as my lord would not shock them by leaving them only out when the whole neighborhood were invited. So he observes smiling. This was a favour, for these kind of people were only gentlemen by the courtesy of England. Streamers of the gayest colours waved on the tops of the tents, and glittered in the dancing sunbeams. The tables were spread with every delicacy and season at which we placed ourselves in parties without ceremony or distinction, just as choice or accident directed. On a little island in the midst of the lake an excellent band of music was played, which played some of the finest compositions of Handel during our repast. Which ended, we spread ourselves on the borders of the lake, where we danced on the verdant green till tea and coffee again summoned us to the tents, and when evening had in her sober livery all things clad, a superb supper and a grand ball in the saloon finished our festival. Nor were the villagers forgot. Tables were spread for them on the opposite side of the lake under the shade of the tallest trees, and so disposed us to form the most agreeable points of view to us, as our encampment must do to them. I am ill at describing, but the least had a thousand unspeakable charms. Poor Harry, how I pity him! His whole soul was absorbed in the contemplation of Lady Julia, with whom he danced. His eyes perpetually followed her, and, if I mistake not, his will not be the only heart which aches at parting on Tuesday, for so long is Harry's going postponed. He may go, but like the wounded deer, he carries the arrow in his breast. Audio. Tuesday, August 17th. Epistle, Miss Howard. To Miss Howard! How, my sweet Emily, shall I bear his absence, an absence embittered by the remembrance of those lively impassioned hours which love alone can give? What joy have I found in owning the sentiments of my soul to one so worthy of all my tenderness? Yes, Emily, I love him. Words can but ill paint what I feel. He, he alone, yet he leaves Belmont. Leaves it by my command. Leaves it this very hour. Leaves it perhaps forever. Sweet Heaven, can I support that thought? If you love, if you pity your unhappy friend, return immediately to Belmont. Let me repose my sorrows in that faithful breast. Lady Anne is tenderly my friend, but the sprightliness of her character intimidates me. I do not hope to find in her that sweet indulgence to all my faults as in the gentle soul of my Emily. I haven't treated him to take no leave of me. I shall only see him with the family. The moment draws near. My fluttering heart, how shall I hide my concern? Lady Anne is coming to my apartment. I must go with her to the saloon, where he only waits to bid us adieu. His chaise is in the court. Oh, Emily, my emotion will betray me. He is gone. The whole house is in tears. Never was a man so adored. Never man so infinitely deserved it. He pressed my hand to his lips. His eyes spoke unutterable love. I leaned almost fainting on Lady Anne and hid my tears in her bosom. She hurried me to my apartment and left me to give vent to my full heart.  She has a tender and compassionate heart, and my reserve is an injury to her friendship. Lady Anne has sent to ask me to air. I shall be glad to avoid all eyes but hers. Perhaps I may have courage to tell her. She merits all my confidence, nor is it distrust but timidity which prevents. She is here. I am ashamed to see her. Adieu, my dearest, my beloved friend. End of section 16. Recording by Patty Cunningham. Section 17 of the History of Lady Julia Mandeville. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke. Section 17. Epistle, Colonel. To Colonel Belville, Friday night. We have lost our lovely Harry. He left us this morning for Lord Tease. Poor Lady Julia, how I adore her amiable sincerity. She has owned her passion to me as we aired, and mentioned hopes which are found in in madness. I ventured gently to remonstrate, but there is no reasoning with a heart and love. Time and absence may affect a cure. I am the confidant of both. I am perplexed how to proceed. I must either betray the trust reposed in me, or abuse my Lord Belmont's friendship and hospitality. In what a false light do we see everything through the medium of passion? Lady Julia is heiress to 14,000 pounds a year, yet thinks Harry's merit may raise him to a situation which will justify his pretending to her, and that this stupendous rise may be brought about in a twelve month. He too thinks it possible. Nay, the scheme is his. Heaven and earth, yet they are not fools, and Harry has some knowledge of mankind. At present there is no talking reasonably to either of them. I must sue them to bring them off this ruinous inclination by degrees. As idleness is the nurse of love, I will endeavour to keep Lady Julia continually amused. A new lover might do much, but there is nobody nearest that is tolerable. Indeed, the woman who has loved Harry Mandeville will be somewhat hard to please. Chance favours my designs.  His son, too, Lord Melvin, with whom I was acquainted abroad, and who is only inferior to Harry Mandeville, is hourly expected from his travels. Since I wrote the last paragraph, an idea has struck me. From a very particular expression in a letter I once received from Lady Belmont in France, I have a strong suspicion Lord Melvin is intended for Lady Julia. I wish he might be agreeable to her, for her present passion is absolutely distraction. We go to-morrow. When we come back, you shall hear from me, or perhaps, for I am something variable in my determinations, as soon as I get thither. Expect nothing, however. If I do you the honour, you must set an immense value on my condescension, for I know we shall not have a moment to spare from amusements. Adieu. A. Wilmot. Epistle George. To George Mordent, Esquire. I have at length left Belmont, and left it certain of Lady Julia's tenderness. I am the happiest of mankind. She loves me, she confesses it, and I have everything to hope from time, fortune, perseverance, and the constancy of the most amiable of her sex. All cold reserve is banished from that charming bosom, above the meanness of suspicion she believes my passion noble and disinterested as her own. She hears my vows with a pleasure which she cannot, nay which she does not, wish to conceal. She suffers me to swear eternal tenderness. We dined on Wednesday at the Hermitage. The company dispersed, the most delicate of women, not from coquetry, but that sweet impulsive modesty, not obvious, not obtrusive, which gives to beauty its loveliest charm, avoided an opportunity which eager watchful love at last obtained, alone with her in those sweet shades. O Mordent, let not the gross unloving libertine talk of pleasure. How tasteless are the false endearments, the treacherous arts of the venal wanton, to the sweet unaffected downcast eye of virgin innocence, the vivid glow of artless tenderness, the native vermilion of blushing sensibility, the genuine smile of undisimbled love. I write this on the road to Lord Tease, where I shall be to-night. I shall expect to hear from you immediately. Adieu, H. Mandeville. Epistle, Henry. To Henry Mandeville, Esquire. Mount Melvin. Thursday. I never so strongly relish the happiness of my own manner of living as when I compare it with that of others. I hear perpetual complaints abroad of the tediousness of life, and see in every face a certain wariness of themselves, from which I am so happy as to be perfectly free. I carry about me an innate disposition to be pleased, which is the source of continual pleasure. That I have escaped what is in general the fate of people of my rank is chiefly owing to my fortunate choice in marriage. Our mutual passion, the only foundation on which sensible souls can build happiness, has been kept alive by a delicacy of behaviour, an angel purity in Lady Belmont, to which words cannot do justice. The transports of youthful passion yield its sweetness to the delight of that refined yet animated sensation, which my heart feels for her at this moment. I never leave her without regret, nor meet her without rapture, the lively rapture of love. By long experience, mellowed into friendship, we have been married thirty years. There are people who think she was never handsome, yet to me she is all loveliness. I think no woman beautiful but as she resembles her, and even Julia's greatest charm in my eye is the likeness she has to her amiable mother. This tender, this exquisite affection has diffused a spirit through our whole lives and given a charm to the most common occurrences. A charm to which the dullness of apathy and the fever of guilty passion are equally strangers. The family where we are furnish a striking example of the impossibility of being happy without the soft union of hearts. Though both worthy people, having been joined by their parents without that affection which can alone make so near a connection supportable, pass on in a tedious and insipid round, without taste for each other's conversation, they engage in a perpetual series of diversions, not to give relish to, but to exclude those retired domestic hours which are the most sprightly and animated of my life. They seek by crowds and amusements to fly from each other and from themselves. The great secret of human happiness, my dear Mr. Mandible, consists in finding such constant employment for the mind as, without over-fatiguing, may prevent its languishing in a painful inactivity. To this end I would recommend to every man to have not only some important point in view, but many subordinate ones, to fill up those vacant hours when our great purpose, whatever it is, must be suspended. Our very pleasures, even at the best, will fatigue if not relieved by variety. The mind cannot always be on the stretch, nor attentive to the same object however pleasing. Relaxation is as necessary as activity to keep the soul in its due equipaw. No innocent amusement, however trifling it may seem to the rigid or the proud, is below the regard of a rational creature which keeps the mind in play and unbends it from more serious pursuits. I often regard at once with pity and astonishment persons of my own rank and age dragged about in unwieldy state forging for themselves the galling fetters of eternal ceremony or the still heavier chains of ambition, their bodies bending under the weight of dress, their minds forever filled with the idea of their own dignity and importance, to the fear of lessening which they sacrifice all the genuine pleasures of life. Heaven grant, my dear friend, I may never be too wise or too proud to be happy. To you, my amiable friend, who are just entering on the stage of life, I would recommend such active pursuits as may make you a useful member of society and contribute to raise your own fortune and consequence in the world, as well as secure the esteem of your fellow citizens and the approbation of your prince. For my own part, like the Roman veterans, I may now be excused if I ask my discharge from those anxious pursuits, which are only becoming in the vigor of our days and from those ceremonial attentions which are scarce-bearable even then. My duty as a senator and my respect to my king, nothing but real inability shall ever suspend, but for the rest I think at time at sixty to be free, to live to oneself and in one's own way ever to be rather than to seem happy. The rest of my days, except those I owe to my country and my prince, shall be devoted to the sweets of conjugal and paternal affection, to the lively joys of friendship. I have only one wish as to this world, to see Julia married to a man who deserves her, who has sensibility to make her happy and whose rank and fortune are such as may justify us to the world above which the most philosophic mind cannot entirely rise. Let me but see this and have a hope that they will pursue my plan of life. Let me see them blessed in each other and blessing all round them, and my measure of earthly felicity will be complete. You know not, my dear Mr. Mandibull, how much my happiness in this world has been owing also to the lively hope of another. This idea has given me a constant serenity, which may not improperly be called the health of the mind, and which has diffused a brightness over all my hours. Your account of Lord T. made me smile. His fear of being dismissed at seventy from the toilsome drudgery of business is truly ridiculous. Rich, childless, infirm, ought not ease and retirement be the first objects of his wishes, but such is the wretched slavery of all who are under the absolute domination of any passion unguided by the hand of reason. The passions of every kind under proper restraints are the gentle breezes which keep life from stagnation. But let loose, they are the storms and whirlwinds which tear up all before them and scatter ruin and destruction around. Adieu! I ought to apologize for the length of this, but age is the season of guerrilla tea. Your affectionate. Belmont. Epistle the Earl. To the Earl of Belmont. How happy would it be for mankind if every person of your lordship's rank and fortune governed themselves by the same generous maximus. It is with infinite pain I see Lord T. pursuing a plan which has drawn on him the curse of thousands and made his estate a scene of desolation. His farms are in the hands of a few men to whom the sons of the old tenants are either forced to be servants or to leave the country to get their bread elsewhere. The village, large and once populous, is reduced to about eight families. A dreary silence reigns over their deserted fields. The farmhouses, once the seats of cheerful smiling industry, now useless, are falling in ruins around him. His tenants are merchants and ingrosers, proud, lazy, luxurious, insolent, and spurning the hand which feeds them. Yesterday one of them went off largely in his debt. I took that occasion of pressing him on his most vulnerable side and remonstrating the danger of trusting so much of his property in one hand. But I am afraid all I can say will have no effect as he has by this narrow selfish plan a little increased his rents at present which is all he has in view without extending his thoughts to that future time when this wretched policy by depopulating the country will lower the price of all the fruits of the earth and lessen in consequence the value of his estate. With all my friendship for Lord T. I cannot help observing in him another fault greatly below his rank and understanding. I mean a despicable kind of pride which measures worth by the gifts of fortune of which the largest portion is too often in the hands of the least deserving. His treatment of some gentleman whose fortunes were unequal to their birth and merit yesterday at his table almost determined me to leave his house. I expostulated warmly, though not in politely, with him on the subject and most got him to confess his error. My friendship for him makes me feel sensibly what must lessen his character in the eyes of all whose esteem is desirable. I wish him to pass a month at Belmont that he may see dignity without pride and condescension without meanness, that he may see virtue in her loveliest form and acknowledge her genuine beauty. I am my Lord, et cetera, H. Mandeville. Epistle George to George Mordentersquire, Friday. I have passed a tedious fortnight at Lord Tease without tasting any pleasure but that of talking of Lady Julia with some ladies in the neighbourhood who know her. I estimate the merit of those I converse with by the distinction of being known to her. Those who are so happy as to be of her acquaintance have in my eye every charm that polished wit or elegant knowledge can give. Those who want that advantage scarce deserve the name of human beings or conversation of which she is not the subject is lifeless and insipid, all of which she is, brilliant and divine. My Lord rallies me on my frequent visits to these ladies and as one of them is extremely handsome supposes it a beginning passion. The lady herself I am afraid is deceived for as she is particularly warm in her praises of Lady Julia my eyes sparkle with pleasure at her approach. I single her out in every company and dance with her at all our little parties. I have even an attention to her superior to that of common lovers and feel for her attendiners for which I want a name. Lady Anne has had the goodness to write twice to me from Lord Rochdale's wither my Lord went with his amiable family two days after I left Belmont. Lady Julia is well, she loves me, she hears of me with pleasure, ought I at present to wish more. I have hinted to Lord T. my purpose though not the dear motive which inspired it. He is warmly my friend if there is truth in man. I will be more explicit the first time I see him alone. Shall I own to you one weakness of my heart? I would be served by any interest but Lord Belmont's. How can I pretend to his daughter if all I have is in a manner his gift? I would be rich independently of his friendship. Lord T. is walking in the garden alone. I will go to him and explain all my designs. His knowledge of mankind will guide me to the best road to wealth and honour. His friendship will assist me to the ample extent of his power. Adieu! A Pistol Henry To Henry Mandeville Square Oh! do you know I have a little request to make you? But first by way of preface I must inform you Lady Belmont has been reading me a serious lecture at the car of Belville who has wrote to her to beg her intercession in his favour. I find fools have been impertinent in regard to our friendship. There are so few pleasures in this world I think it extremely hard to give up one so lively yet innocent as that of indulging a tender esteem for an amiable man. But to our conversation. My dear lady Anne, I am convinced you love Colonel Belville. Love him, madam. No, I rather think not. I am not sure. The man is not shocking and dies for me. I pity him, poor creature, and pity your ladyship knows is akin to love. Will you be grave one moment? A thousand if your ladyship desires it. Nothing is so easy to me. The gravest creature in the world, naturally. You allow Colonel Belville merit? Sir Thémore. That he loves you? To distraction. And you return it? Why, as to that, he flatters agreeably, and I am fond of his conversation on that account. And let me tell you, my dear lady Belmont, it is not every man that can flatter. It requires more genius than one would suppose. You intend some time or other to marry him? Marry? Heavens! How did such a thought enter your ladyship's imagination? Have not I been married already, and is not once enough in conscience for any reasonable woman? Will you pardon me if I then ask with what view you allow his address? I allow. Heavens, lady Belmont! I allow the addresses of an odious male animal. If fellows will follow one, how is it to be avoided? It is one's misfortune to be handsome, and must bear the consequences. But, my dear lady Anne, an unconnected life, is the pleasantest life in the world. Have I not three thousand pounds a year? Am I not a widow, mistress of my own actions, with youth, health, a tolerable understanding, an heir of the world, and a person not very disagreeable? All this I own. All this? Yes, and twenty times more. Or you do nothing? Do these unhappy eyes carry destruction from one climate to another? Have not the sprightly French the haughty Romans confess themselves my slaves? Have not, but it would take up a life to tell you all my conquests. But what is all this to the purpose, my dear? Now, I protest I think it is vastly to the purpose, and all this you advise me to give up to become a tame domestic inanimate? Really, my dear madam, I did not think it was in your nature to be so unreasonable. It is with infinite pain, my dearest lady Anne, I bring myself to say anything which can give you a moment's uneasiness, but it is the task of true friendship. To tell disagreeable truths I know that is what your ladyship would say, and to spare you what your delicacy starts at mentioning you have heard aspersions on my character, which are the consequences of my friendship for Colonel Belville. I know and admire the innocent cheerfulness of your heart, but I grieve to say the opinion of the world, as to the opinion of the world by which is meant the malice of a few spiteful old cats, I am perfectly unconcerned about it. But your ladyship's esteem is necessary to my happiness. I will therefore to you vindicate my conduct, which though indiscreet has been really irreproachable. Though a widow and accountable to nobody, I have ever lived with Colonel Belville with the reserve of blushing apprehensive fifteen, whilst the warmth of my friendship for him and the pleasure I found in his conversation have let loose the baleful tongue of envy and subjected my resolution to the malice of an ill-judging world, a world I despise for his sake, a world whose applause is too often bestowed on the cold, the selfish and the artful, and a night to that generous unsuspected openness and warmth of heart which are the strongest characteristics of true virtue. My friendship, or if you please, my love for Colonel Belville is the first pleasure of my life, the happiest hours of which have been passed in his conversation, nor is there anything I would not sacrifice to my passion for him but his happiness, which for reasons unknown to your ladyship is incompatible with his marrying me. But is it not possible to remove these reasons? I'm afraid not. Would it not, then, my dear madam, be most prudent to break off a connection which can answer no purpose but making both unhappy? I own it would, but prudence was never a part of my character. Will you forgive and pity me, Lady Belmont, when I say that though I see in the strongest light and in discretion I am not enough mistress of my heart to break with the man to whom I have only a very precarious and distant hope of being united? There is an enchantment in his friendship which I have not force of mind enough to break. He is my guide, my guardian, protector, friend, the only man I ever loved, the man to whom the last recesses of my heart are open. Must I give up the tender, exquisite, refined delight of his conversation to the false opinion of a world governed by prejudice, judging by the exterior, which is generally fallacious and condemning without distinction, those soft defections without which life is scarcely above vegetation? Do not imagine, my dear Lady Belmont, I have rarely the levity I affect, or had my prejudices against marriage been ever so strong, the time I have passed here would have removed them. I see my lord anew after a union of thirty years with as keen and relish for each other's conversation as you could have felt at the moment which first joined you. I see in you all the attention, the tender solicitude of beginning love with the calmed alight and perfect confidence of habitual friendship. I am therefore convinced marriage is capable of happiness to which an unconnected state is lifeless and insipid, and from observing the lovely delicacy of your ladyship's conduct I am instructed how that happiness is to be secured. I am instructed how to avoid that tasteless languid and unimpassioned hour so fatal to love and friendship. With the man to whom I was a victim my life was one continued scene of misery. To a sensible mind there is no cold medium in marriage. Its sorrows, like its pleasures, are exquisite. Relieved from those galling chains I have met with a heart suitable to my own, born with the same sensibility, the same peculiar turn of thinking, pleased with the same pleasures, and exactly formed to make me happy. I will believe this similarity was not given to condemn us both to wretchedness. It is impossible either of us can be happy but with the other. I will hope the bar, which at present seems invincible, may be removed, till then indulge me, my dear Lady Belmont, in the innocent pleasure of loving him and trust to his honour for the safety of mine. The most candid and amiable of women after a gentle remonstrance on the importance of reputation to happiness left me so perfectly satisfied that she intends to invite Belleville down. I send you this conversation as an introduction to a request I have to make you, which I must postpone to my next. Heavens how perverse! Interrupted by one of the various cats in nature who will not leave us until ages after the post is gone. Adieu for the present. It is prettily enough contrived in one of the great advantages of society that one's time, the most precious of all possessions, is to be sacrificed from a false politeness to every idle creature who knows not what else to do. Everybody complains of this, but nobody attempts to remedy it. Am I not the most inhuman of women to write two sheets without naming Lady Julia? She is well and beautiful as an angel. We have a ball tonight on Lord Melvin's return against which she is putting on all her charms. We shall be at Belmont to-morrow, which is two or three days sooner than my Lord intended. Lady Julia dances with Lord Melvin, who is, except two, the most amiable man I know. She came up just as I sat down to write and looked as if she had something to say. She is gone, however, without a word. Her childish bashfulness about you is intolerable. The ball waits for us. I'm interrupted by an extreme pretty fellow, Sir Charles Mellifont, who has, tonight, the honour of my hand. Eh, Wilmot! Epistle, Lady! To Lady Anne, Wilmot! We have a ball tonight on Lord Melvin's return against which she is putting on all her charms. Oh, Lady Anne! Can you indeed know what it is to love, yet play with the anxiety of a tender heart? I can scarce bear the thoughts of her looking lovely in my absence or in any eyes but mine. How then can I support the idea of her endeavouring to please another, of her putting on all her charms to grace the return of a man, young, amiable, rich, noble, and the son of her father's friend? A thousand fears, a thousand conjectures torment me. Should she love another? The possibility distracts me. Go to her and ask her if the tenderest, most exalted passion of the man who adores her—oh, I know not what I would say. You have set me on the rack. If you have pity, my dearest Lady Anne, lose not a moment to make me easy. Yours, et cetera, H. Mandeville. End of Section 18 Section 19 of the history of Lady Julia Mandeville. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Frances Brooke. Section 19 Epistle Miss To Miss Howard, Belmont Tuesday Oh, Emily, how inconsistent is a heart in love! I entreated Mr. Mandeville not to write to me, and I'm chagrined at his too exact obedience. I think if he loved as I do, he could not so easily obey me. He writes to Lady Anne, and though by my desire I am ashamed of my weakness, but I wish he wrote less often. There is an air of gayety in his letters which offends me. He talks of balls of parties with ladies. Perhaps I am unjust, but the delicacy of my love is wounded by his knowing a moment's pleasure in my absence. To me all places are equal where he is not. All amusements without him are dull and tasteless. Have not I an equal right to expect, Emily? He knows not how I love him. Convinced that this mutual passion is the designation of heaven to restore him to that affluence he lost by the partiality of an ancestor and the generous loyalty of his family, I give way to it without reserve. I regard my love as a virtue. I am proud of having distinguished his merit without those trappings of wealth which alone can attract common eyes. His idea is for ever before me. I think with transport of those enchanting moments. Emily, that week of tender confidence is all my life. The rest is not worth numbering in my existence. My father to-night gives a ball to Lord Melvin with whom I am again unwillingly obliged to dance. I wish not to dance at all to make this sacrifice to the most beloved of men. Why have I not courage to avow my sentiments to declare he alone? This Lord Melvin too I know not why, but I never see him without horror. Oh, Emily, how do all men sink in the comparison? He seems of a superior rank of beings. Your Julia will never give her hand to another. She swears this to the dear bosom of friendship. This detested Lord Melvin is at the door. He will not let me proceed. He tells me it is to a lover I am writing. He says this in a manner and with a tone of voice he looks at me with an earnestness. Lady Anne has alarmed me. Should my father intend? Yet why should I fear the most cruel of all acts of tyranny from the most tender and indulgent of parents? I feel a dejection of spirits on this subject which does injury to my father's goodness. Perhaps it is no more than the natural effects of absence on a tender and inexperienced heart. Adieu! I am forced to finish my letter. All good angels guard and preserve my Emily. Yours, Julia Mandeville. Epistle the earl. To the earl of Belmont. With all my affection for Lord T. I am hourly shocked by that most unworthy of all faults his haughtiness to inferior fortune however distinguished by virtue talents or even the more shining advantage of birth. Dress, equipage, and the overbearing assurance which wealth inspires strike him so forcibly that there is no room in his soul for that esteem which is a debt to modest merit. We had yesterday to dine Mr. Herbert one of the most amiable men I ever saw. His person was Gentile, his countenance at once expressive of genius and worth which were rendered more touching to me by that pensive look and irresolute air which are the constant attendance on an adverse fortune. Lord T. returned his bow almost without looking at him and continued talking familiarly to a wretch with whom no gentleman would converse were he not master of six thousand a year. The whole company instructed in his situation by the supercilious air of the master of the house treated him with the same neglect which I endeavoured to console him for by every little civility in my power and by confining my attention entirely to him. When we parted he asked me to his house with a look full of sensibility an invitation I shall take the first opportunity of accepting. When the company were gone I asked Lord T. the character of this stranger. Why, really, says he, I believe he is in himself the most esteemable man in my neighbourhood of a good family too but one must measure one's reception of people by the countenance the world shows them and he's too poor to be greatly caressed there. Besides I'm not fond of being acquainted with unhappy people they're very apt to ask favours. Is it possible, said I, my Lord, interrupting him hastily you can avow sentiments like these why are you raised by providence above others why entrusted with that wealth and consequence which might make you a guardian angel to the unhappy whereas my shays I will return to Belmont where affliction ever finds a ready audience where adversity is sure of being heard though pomp and equipage wait Lord T. smiled at my earnestness and praised the generosity of my sentiments which she assured me were his at my age he owned he'd been to blame but in the world said he Harry were carried away by the torrent and act wrong every moment mechanically merely by seeing others do the same however I stand corrected and you shall have no future reason to complain of me he spoke this with an air of good humour which reconciled us and has promised to accompany me in my visit to Mr Herbert which I have insisted shall be the first we pay and that he shall beg his pardon for the behaviour of yesterday is it not strange, my Lord, that men whose hearts are not bad can avoid those whose characters do honour to their species only because fortune denies them those outward distinctions which wealth can give to the lowest and most despicable of mankind surely of all human vices pride is the most detestable I am etc. H. Mandeville epistle Henry to Henry Mandeville, a squire can I play with the anxiety of a tender heart certainly or I should not be what I am a coquette of the first order setting aside the pleasure of the thing and I know few pleasant remusements policy dictates this conduct for there is no possibility of keeping any of you without throwing the charms of dear variety into one's treatment of you nothing glories like continual sweets a little acid is absolutely necessary I have just come from giving Lady Julia some excellent advice on the subject of her passion for you really, my dear, said I you are extremely absurd to blush and look foolish about loving so prettier fellow as Harry Mandeville handsome, well-made, lively, elegant and in the true classical style and approved by the connoisseurs by Madame Le Contesse de Blanc herself whom I look upon to be the greatest judge of male merit on the face of the globe it is not for loving him I am angry with you but for entertaining so ridiculous a thought as that of marrying him you have only one rational step to take marry Lord Melvin who has title and fortune requisites not to be dispensed with in a husband and take Harry Mandeville for your chichespio the dear creature was immensely displeased as you who know the romantic turn of her imagination will easily conceive oh, I had almost forgot yes indeed you have great right to give yourself jealous heirs we have not heard of your cockatry with Miss Truman my correspondent tells me there is no doubt of its being a real passion on both sides and that the Truman family have been making private inquiries into your fortune I showed Lady Julia the letter and you cannot conceive how prettily she blushed but to be grave I'm afraid you have nothing to fear from Lord Melvin you must forgive my making use of this expression for as I see no possibility of surmounting the obstacles which oppose your union with Lady Julia I am too much a friend to both not to wish earnestly to break a connection which has not a shadow of hope to support it but a truce to this subject which is not a pleasant one for either of us I told you in my last I had something to say to you as I am your confidante you must consent to be mine having a little present occasion of your services you are to know my dear Harry that with all my cockatry I am as much in love as yourself and with almost as little prospect of success this odious money is absolutely the bane of us two lovers and always can drives to stand in our way my dear spouse then who in the whole course of our acquaintance did but one obliging thing being kindly determined I should neither be happy with him nor without him obligingly though nobody knows this but myself and the Cairo Belleville made my joint show what it is on condition I never married again on observance of which condition it was to be in my power to give the estate to whoever I pleased at my death but on a proof of my supposed future marriage I must go immediately to a niece of his but his death was in a convent in France who is ignorant of this condition and whose whole present fortune scarce amounts to fifteen hundred pounds she is both in person and mind one of the most lovely of women and has an affection for me which inclines me to think she would come into measures for my sake which I shall make it her interest to acquiesce in for her own Belleville's fortune is extremely moderate and if I marry him at present I shall not add a shelling to it his income will remain in statu quo with the encumbrance of an indigent woman of quality whose affairs are a little derange and amongst whose virtues economy was never one of the most observable he would with transport marry me tomorrow even on these hard conditions but how little should I deserve so generous a passion if I suffered it to seduce him to his ruin I have wrote to my niece to come to England when I shall tell her my passion for Belleville and propose to her a private agreement to divide the fortune which will be forfeited to her on my marriage and which it is in my power by living single to deprive her of forever incapable however of injustice I have at all events made a will dividing it equally between her and Belleville if I die unmarried I have a right to do this for the man I love as my father left thirty thousand pounds to Mr. Wilmot which inequity ought to be regarded as mine and which is all I desire on the division she therefore by my will has all she ever can expect even from the strictest justice and she can never I think hesitate between waiting until my death and at my mercy and receiving at the present the utmost she could then hope for I have heard from the lady to whom I enclosed my letter which she has returned my niece having left France a year ago to accompany a relation into Italy what I therefore have to ask of you is to endeavour to find her out by your Italian friends as I will by mine at the same time that I may write to her to return immediately to England as I will not run the hazard of mentioning the subject in a letter she is the daughter of the late Colonel Hastings once abroad in a public character and is well known in Italy Belville is not at all in the secret of my scheme nor did I ever tell him I would marry him though I sometimes give him reason to hope I am too good a politician in love matters ever to put a man out of doubt until half an hour before the ceremony the moment a woman is weak enough to promise she sets the heart of her lover at rest the chase and of consequence the pleasure is at an end and he has nothing to do but seek a new object and begin the pursuit over again I tell you but I tell it in confidence that if I find Belle Hastings if she comes into my scheme and my mind does not change I may perhaps do Belville the honour and yet when I reflect on the matter on the condition of the obligation so long as you both shall live yes you Maria only think of promising to be of the same mind as long as one lives my dear Harry people may talk as they will but the thing is utterly impossible Adieu ma cherie me, eh Wilmot End of section 19