THE HISTORY OF
SIR CHARLES GRANDISON

Volume V - Letter 31

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. IN CONTINUATION.

Bologna, Monday, July 10—21.

I had no call for rest last night. I only reposed myself in a chair for about an hour. I sent early in the morning a note, to enquire, with the tenderest solicitude, after all their healths; and particularly Clementina's and Jeronymo's. A written answer was returned by Jeronymo, that his sister had rested so very ill, that it was thought advisable to keep her quiet all day; unless she should be particularly earnest to see me; and, in that case, they would send me word.

I was myself very much indisposed; yet had a difficulty to deny myself, tho' uninvited, to attend them at dinner. My own disorder, however, determined me not to go, unless sent for. It would, I thought, be too visible to them all; and might raise a suspicion, that I wanted to move compassion: A meanness of which I am not capable. Yet, indisposed as I was, still more, in the afternoon, I hoped to have an invitation for half an hour. But not being sent to, I repeated my enquiries in another billet. No invitation followed. On the contrary, Jeronymo wrote one line, wishing to see me in the morning.

I had as little rest last night, as the night before. My impatience carried me to the palace of Porretta sooner than usual this morning.

Signor Jeronymo rejoiced to see me. He hoped I did not take amiss, that they invited me not the day before. To say the truth, said he, the day's rest was judged entirely necessary for you both: For my sister particularly: And she was so uneasy and displeased at your going away on Saturday, without taking leave of her, that she was the more easily persuaded not to see you yesterday. But already this morning, I understand, she asks after you with impatience. You are angry at her, she supposes, and will never see her more. You had but just left us, on Saturday night, when Camilla came down with her request to see you. For my part, proceeded he, my thoughts are so much carried out of myself, by the extraordinary turn she has taken, that, at times, I forget I ail any-thing.

He then asked, if I could forgive his sister; and reflected on the Sex, on her account, as never knowing their own minds, but when they meet with obstacles to their wills. But she must, she will, be yours, my Grandison, said he; and if it please God to restore her, she will make you rich amends.

The Bishop and Father Marescotti came in, to make their morning compliments to Jeronymo: The Marquis and Count entered soon after, to salute me.

The Marchioness followed them. Clementina was so uneasy on Saturday night, said she to me, on finding you gone without taking leave of her, and so much discomposed all day yesterday, that I chose not to say any-thing to her on the great article. I am glad you are come.

Somebody just then tapping at the door, Come in, Camilla, said the Marchioness.

It is not Camilla; it is I, said Lady Clementina, entering. I am told the Chevalier—O there he is—Favour me, Sir, with a few words—walking to a window at the other end of the room.

I followed her: Tears were in her eyes. She looked earnestly at me: Then turning her face from me—Why, madam, said I, taking her hand, why this emotion? I have not, I hope, offended you.

O Chevalier! I cannot bear to be slighted, and least of all by you; though, I must own, that I deserve it most from you. A slight from you is a charge of ingratitude upon me, that my heart cannot bear.

Slight you, madam!—I revere you, as the most excellent of women. You have, indeed, filled my heart with anguish: But I admire you more for the cause of that anguish, than it is possible for me to express.

Don't, don't say so. You will ruin me by your generosity. I think you must be angry with me. I think you must treat me ill, or how shall I keep my purpose?

Your purpose, dearest madam!—Your purpose!

My purpose! Yes, Sir! Will it afflict you, if I do?

Is it possible, madam, but it must? What would you think—

Hush, hush, my good Chevalier. I am afraid it will: But don't tell me it will. I cannot bear to afflict you.

When I had the honour of every one's consent, madam—

That was in compassion to me, Sir.

My dearest Love, said the Marquis, coming to us, that was at first our motive: But now an alliance with the Chevalier Grandison, in justice to his merits, is become our choice.

I bowed to the generous nobleman. She kneeled. Best and most indulgent of fathers! taking his hand, and kissing it; let me thank you for bearing with me as you have done. What trouble have I given you!—All the business of my future life shall be to show my gratitude, and my obedience to your will. The Marchioness then tenderly raising her, took her to the farther end of the room. They talked low; but we heard all they said. You were so very indifferent all day yesterday, and last night, said the Marchioness, that I would not disturb you, Love, for fear of breaking your rest; else I would have told you, how desirous now we all are, of an alliance with the Chevalier Grandison. No other way can he be rewarded for his goodness to us all.

Permit me, madam, answered Clementina, to give you the motives of my present conduct; of my self-denial; such is my value for the Chevalier, I will call it so: If I thought I could make the generous man happy; if I thought I should not rather punish than reward him; if I thought I could be happy, in myself, and my soul would not be endangered; if I thought I could make you and my papa happy, by giving my hand to him; God knows that my heart would not make the least scruple. But, madam, the Almighty has laid his hand upon me. My head is not yet as it should be; and, before I took my resolution, I considered every-thing, as much as my poor shattered reason would permit me to consider it. This was the way I took—I prayed that God would direct me. I put myself in the situation of another person, who circumstanced as I was, I supposed, came to me for advice. I saw plainly, that I could not deserve the Chevalier, because I could not think as he thought, in the most important of all articles; and there was no likelihood of his thinking as I thought. I prayed for fortitude. I doubted myself. I altered and altered what I had written: But still all my alterations ran one way. It was against my own wishes. So this I took for an answer to my prayers. I transcribed it fair; but still I doubted myself. I would not consult you, madam: You had declared for the Chevalier. That would not have been to do justice to the question before me, and to the divine impulse by which I was determined to be governed, if my prayers for it should be answered. I let not Camilla know my struggles. I besought the assistance of the Blessed Virgin to favour an unhappy maid, whose heart was in her duty, but whose head was disturbed. It was suggested to me what to do: Yet I would not send to the Chevalier what I had written. I still doubted my heart: And thought I never should be able to give him the paper. At last I resolved. But when he came, my heart recoiled. He could not but see the distress I was in. I am sure I met with his pity. Could I but give him the paper, thought I, my difficulty would be over; for then I am sure, almost sure that, seeing my scruples, and the rectitude of my purpose, he will himself generously support me in my resolution. At last I gave the paper to him. And now let me say, that I verily think I shall be easier in my mind, if I can be allowed to adhere to the contents, yet not be thought ungrateful. Dear blessed Grandison, turning to me, read once more that paper: And then if you will not, if you cannot, set me free; I will obey my friends, and make you as happy as I can.

She turned from every one, and fell upon her knees, Great God, I thank thee, said she for this serene moment!

Serene as the noble enthusiast thought her mind, I saw it was too high set. From the turn of her eyes I feared a relapse. It was owing to her greatness of mind, her reason and her love combating with each other, that she ever was disordered. I approached her—Admirable Lady, said I, be you free! Whatever be my destiny, be you, for me, what you wish to be. If you are well and happy, I will, if possible, make myself so.

Dear Grandison, said the Bishop, coming up to me, and taking my hand, how do I admire you! But can you be thus great?

Shall I not emulate, my Lord, such an example set by a woman? I came over without any interested views. I considered myself, indeed, as bound by the conditions to which I had formerly yielded; but Lady Clementina and your family as free. When I was encouraged to hope, I did hope. I will now, though with deep regret, go back to my former situation. If Lady Clementina persists in her present resolution, I will endeavour to acquiesce with it. If she should change her mind, I will hold myself in readiness to receive her hand, as the greatest blessing that can be conferred upon me. Only let me add, that in the first case, the difficulty upon me will be greatly increased, by the exalted contents of the paper she put into my hands on Saturday.

The Marchioness taking her daughter's hand and mine—Why, why, said she, should minds thus pair'd be sunder'd?—And will you, Chevalier, wait with patience the result of my sweet child's—Caprice—shall I call it?

Detain not my hand, my dear mamma; withdrawing it a little wildly—Let me go up, and pray, that my fortitude of mind, after the pain it has cost me to obtain it, may not forsake me. Adieu! Adieu, Chevalier! I will pray for you as well as for myself. Never, never, in my devotions, will we be separated.

Away flew the angel.

She met Camilla in the passage—Dear Camilla! I have had an escape, as far as I know. My hand and the Chevalier's hand, each in one of my mamma's!—My resolution was in danger. My mamma might have joined them, you know; and then I must have been his.

Jeronymo in silence, but tears in his eyes, attended to the scene between his sister and she. He embraced me—Dearest of men, let me repeat my mother's question: Can you with patience wait the result of this dear girl's caprice?

I can; I will.

But I will talk to her myself, said he.

So, said the Marquis, will we all.

It will be right to do so, added the Count, least she should repent when it is too late.

But I believe, said Father Marescotti, the Chevalier himself would not wish, that Lady Clementina should be too vehemently urged. She pleads her Soul: A strong plea: A plea that should not be over-ruled. I myself doubt very much, whether she will be able to adhere to her resolution: If she be she will merit Beatification. But let her not be over-persuaded. Once more I should be glad to read the paper, the contents of which have so much surprised us all.

I had it in my pocket; and he asked permission to read it aloud. Jeronymo opposed his motion: But the Bishop approving it, he read it. He laid great emphasis upon particular words, and repeated several of the passages in it: You will easily guess which, my dear friend; and all were as much affected, they owned, as when they heard it first read: Yet they joined in one doubt, notwithstanding what she had so lately said of the deliberation she had given her purpose, that she would not be able to adhere to her resolution; and made me many compliments on the occasion.

But, my dear friend, if she can continue to interest her glory in the adherence, and they are not very urgent with her in my favour, I am inclined to believe, that she has greatness of mind sufficient to enable her to carry her resolution into effect. Where piety, my dear friend, engages the heart to give up its first fervors to its superior duties, is it not probable that all temporal impulses should receive abatement, and become but secondary ones? And now will not Father Marescotti once more try to revive his influences over her mind?—Is it not his duty to do so, zealous Catholic as he is? Can the Bishop refuse, good man as he is, and as steady in his principles, to second the Father?

But what trials are these, my dear Dr. Bartlett, to an expecting heart!—Will they not serve to convince us of the vanity of all human reliance for happiness? I am in a very serious humour. But what can I say to you on such subjects, that you knew not much better before than I? "Let us, I remember you once said, when we are called upon to act a great or manly part, preach by action. Words then will be needless." God only knows, whether the ardent heart would be punished or rewarded, by the completion of its wishes: But this I know, that were Clementina to give me both her hand and her heart, and could not, by reason of religious doubts, be happy with me, I should myself be extremely miserable; especially if I had been earnest to prevail upon her to favour me against her judgment.

Volume V - Letter 32

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. IN CONTINUATION.

I was obliged to lay down my pen. My mind was too much disturbed to write on.

We had a great deal of discourse before we quitted Jeronymo's chamber, on this extraordinary subject. They all, as I told you, expressed their doubts, that the Lady would be able to persist in her new resolution. The Marquis and Marchioness gave their opinion, that she should be left entirely to the workings of her own will: And the Count proposed, by way of enforcing their opinions, that neither the Bishop and Father Marescotti on one hand (tho' religion was in the question) nor Jeronymo and myself on the other, should endeavour to prevail upon her either to alter or persevere in, her way of thinking. Jeronymo said, he desired only one conversation with his sister alone, before he complied with this proposal.

They put it to me. I said, That several passages in her paper were of too solemn a nature for me to refuse my consent to their proposal: But, however, if I should observe, in future conversations between her and me, that she was inclined to alter her mind, and seemed to wish to be encouraged to declare the alteration, they must allow me, for the sake of my own honour, as a man, and of her delicacy, as a woman, to show the ardour of my attachment to her, by my preventing declaration, and even entreaty.

The Marchioness bowed to me, with a grateful smile of approbation.

Father Marescotti hesitated, as if he had something of an objection to make; but he was silenced by the Marquis's saying, On your honour, on your delicacy, I am sure, Chevalier, we may rely.

I am absolutely of opinion that we may, said the Count. The Chevalier can put himself in every one's situation; and can forget his own interest, when a right and just measure is to be taken.

This is true, said Jeronymo—But let it be our part to show the Chevalier, that he is not the only man in the world who can do so.

You must remember, my dear Jeronymo, said the Bishop, that Religion is a consideration superior to all others. Shall our sister, who follows the example set her by the Chevalier, be discouraged in an effort so noble? But I am willing to subscribe to the proposal, as an equal one.

Father Marescotti, said I, you must return me the paper. I must often have recourse to it, to strengthen my own mind, in order to enable myself to answer your expectations.

The Father desired leave to take a copy of it in shorthand; and retired for that purpose.

I have no doubt but he will make great use of it with the family, and perhaps with the Lady, should there be occasion, hereafter. For my own part, if the noble Enthusiast, when the heat of her imagination is gone off, shall persist in believing that she has a divine impulse in favour of her resolution, and that given in answer to her prayers, I will endeavour to show her, that her call upon me to support her in it, tho' against myself, shall be answered, whatever it cost me.

They prevailed on me to stay dinner. She excused herself from being present; but desired to see me, when it was over.

Camilla then led me to her. I found her in tears. She was afraid, she said, that I would not forgive her: Yet I would, she was sure, if I knew the conflicts with which her soul laboured.

I soothed her disturbed mind. I told her, that I desired her direction, and was resolved to pursue it. Her paper should be one of my constant lessons; and her conscience the rule of my conduct, with regard to my expectations of her favour.

O Sir, said she, how good you are! It is from your generosity, next to the divine assistance, that I expect support in my resolution. I but imperfectly remember what I would have done, and what I consented to, when you were last among us—But when I best knew myself, I was more inclined to support my parents and brothers in their expectations, with regard to the two great articles of religion and residence, than to comply with yours. My fortune, my rank, merited your consideration; and my pride was sometimes piqued. "But it was the regard that I had to the welfare of your immortal soul, that weighed most with me. O Sir! could you have been a Catholic!"—

She then wrung her clasped hands, and tears trickled down her cheeks. God Almighty convert you, Chevalier!—But you must leave me. I am beginning to be again unhappy!—Leave me, Sir. But let me see you to-morrow. I will pray for a composure of mind, in the mean time. Do you pray for me too. "And pray for yourself, Chevalier! The welfare of your soul, your immortal soul, was ever my principal concern."

She began to ramble. Her looks were a little wild, I took leave of her; and going hastily from her, in order to hide my own emotion, I surprised Father Marescotti, who, as it was at first sight evident to me, from the confusion I found him in, and the attempts he hesitatingly made to excuse himself, had been listening to what passed between the Lady and me. Pity! that a well-intended zeal should make a good man do mean things!

No apologies, my dear Father, said I. If you doubted my honour, I can think myself, in some measure, obliged to your condescension, for taking this method to prove me. Allow me, my dear Sir, to say (It is to Father Marescotti) that the man, who, in the greater actions of his life, thinks himself under the Allseeing Eye, will not be afraid of a fellow-creature's ear.

I beg a thousand pardons, said he, hesitating, and in confusion. But I will confess the truth; I believed it was next to impossible, that a young man, whose Love to one of the most excellent of women is not to be questioned, should be able to keep the conditions prescribed to him, and forbear to make use of the power she acknowledges he has over her affections—But forgive me, Chevalier.

Forgive yourself, my dear Father; I do most heartily forgive you.

I led him down to Jeronymo's chamber, begging of him not to say a syllable more of this matter; and not to let me suffer in his esteem by this accident.

I have more than once, Dr. Bartlett, experienced the irreconcilable enmity of a man whom I have forgiven for a meanness; and who was less able to forgive me my forgiveness, than I was him his fault. But Father Marescotti cannot be such a man. He is capable of generous shame. He could hardly hold up his head all the time I stayed.

I related to the family, in the presence of the Father, the substance of what passed between the Lady and me. They seemed surprised at her steadfastness. The Bishop told me, that he had dispatched a messenger post to the General, with a Letter, in which he had written a faithful account of their present situation. He would show me a copy of it, if I pleased. I was sure, I said, I could depend upon his generosity and honour; and should be glad to know the sentiments of the General and his Lady upon it, when they returned an answer.

I promised to attend them in the morning: And going to my lodgings, found there, waiting for me, the Count of Belvedere. Saunders, and his gentleman, were both together below-stairs, waiting for, yet dreading, as they said, my return. Saunders had told the Count, it was uncertain: But he declared that he would wait for me, were it ever so late. They both besought me to take care of my own safety. His gentleman told me, that his master had been very much disturbed in his mind ever since he was with me last; declaring often, that his life was a burden to him. He believed, he said, he had a brace of pistols with him: And then again expressed his care for my safety, as well as his Lord's. Fear not, said I: The Count is a man of honour: I would not, for the world, hurt him: And I dare say he will not hurt me.

I hastened up. Why, my Lord, said I, taking his unwilling hands, each in mine, for a double reason, did you not let me know you intended me this honour? Or why did not your Lordship send for me, as soon as you came?

Send for you! with a melancholy air; What from your Clementina? No!—But tell me what is concluded upon? My soul is impatient to know. Answer me like a man: Answer me like a man of honour.

Nothing, my Lord, is concluded upon: Nothing can be concluded upon till Lady Clementina's mind be fully known.

If that be all the obstacle—

Not a slight one. I assure you, that Clementina knows her own worth. She will put a just value upon herself. In her unhappy delirium, she always preserved a high sense of that delicacy, which distinguishes the woman of true honour. It shines forth now in all her words and actions with redoubled lustre. She will make the more difficulties, as her friends make less. Nothing can be done soon: And if it will make your Lordship easier (for I see you are disturbed) I will acquaint you when any-thing is likely to be carried into effect.

And is nothing yet concluded on? And will you give me such notice?

I will, my Lord.

Upon your honour?

Upon my honour.

Well then, I have some days longer to crawl upon this earth.

What means my Lord?

This I mean, withdrawing his hands from mine, and taking out of his pockets two pistols: I came resolved, that you should take one of these, at your choice, had the affair been concluded upon, as I dreaded it would. I am no assassin Sir, nor ever employed one: Nor would I have deprived Clementina of her elected husband. All I intended was, that the hand to which she is to give hers, should have first taken my life. I will not, I cannot live, to see her the wife of any man on earth, tho' she has refused to be mine—You should have found I would not.

What a rashness!—But I see your mind is disturbed. The Count of Belvedere could not otherwise talk in this manner.

It is not impossible, surely, my dear Dr. Bartlett (however improbable, as I begin to apprehend) that Clementina may change her mind. I could not, therefore, acquaint the Count with our present situation; because the hope he would have conceived from it, would, in case of a change, have added strength to his despair. I contented myself, therefore, to reason with him on his rash intention. And having renewed my assurances, as above, he took leave of me so much recovered, as to thank me for the advice I had given him; and to promise, that he would make it the foundation of his prayers to heaven for a calmer mind, than he had known for some days past.

Saunders and his valet seemed overjoyed at seeing us come down together, in an amicable manner; and in the high civility each paid the other.

I should have mentioned, that the Count, of his own accord, in passing thro' my antechamber to the stairs, laid in one of the windows the two pistols. My dear Grandison, said he, let these remain in your keeping. They are pieces of curious workmanship. Whither might one of them, by this time, have sent me!—And in what difficulties might you the survivor, a foreigner, have been involved; which then I considered not; for all my malice was levelled against my unhappy self! I will not trust myself with them—

Here I conclude for this night. I will not dispatch these last-written Letters, till I see what to-morrow will produce. My dear friend! How grievous is suspense!—Perhaps I should have thought myself more obliged to bear it, had I been thus entangled, fettered, suspended, by my own fault.

Volume V - Letter 33

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. IN CONTINUATION.

I was obliged to lay down my pen. My mind was too much disturbed to write on.

We had a great deal of discourse before we quitted Jeronymo's chamber, on this extraordinary subject. They all, as I told you, expressed their doubts, that the Lady would be able to persist in her new resolution. The Marquis and Marchioness gave their opinion, that she should be left entirely to the workings of her own will: And the Count proposed, by way of enforcing their opinions, that neither the Bishop and Father Marescotti on one hand (tho' religion was in the question) nor Jeronymo and myself on the other, should endeavour to prevail upon her either to alter or persevere in, her way of thinking. Jeronymo said, he desired only one conversation with his sister alone, before he complied with this proposal.

They put it to me. I said, That several passages in her paper were of too solemn a nature for me to refuse my consent to their proposal: But, however, if I should observe, in future conversations between her and me, that she was inclined to alter her mind, and seemed to wish to be encouraged to declare the alteration, they must allow me, for the sake of my own honour, as a man, and of her delicacy, as a woman, to show the ardour of my attachment to her, by my preventing declaration, and even entreaty.

The Marchioness bowed to me, with a grateful smile of approbation.

Father Marescotti hesitated, as if he had something of an objection to make; but he was silenced by the Marquis's saying, On your honour, on your delicacy, I am sure, Chevalier, we may rely.

I am absolutely of opinion that we may, said the Count. The Chevalier can put himself in every one's situation; and can forget his own interest, when a right and just measure is to be taken.

This is true, said Jeronymo—But let it be our part to show the Chevalier, that he is not the only man in the world who can do so.

You must remember, my dear Jeronymo, said the Bishop, that Religion is a consideration superior to all others. Shall our sister, who follows the example set her by the Chevalier, be discouraged in an effort so noble? But I am willing to subscribe to the proposal, as an equal one.

Father Marescotti, said I, you must return me the paper. I must often have recourse to it, to strengthen my own mind, in order to enable myself to answer your expectations.

The Father desired leave to take a copy of it in shorthand; and retired for that purpose.

I have no doubt but he will make great use of it with the family, and perhaps with the Lady, should there be occasion, hereafter. For my own part, if the noble Enthusiast, when the heat of her imagination is gone off, shall persist in believing that she has a divine impulse in favour of her resolution, and that given in answer to her prayers, I will endeavour to show her, that her call upon me to support her in it, tho' against myself, shall be answered, whatever it cost me.

They prevailed on me to stay dinner. She excused herself from being present; but desired to see me, when it was over.

Camilla then led me to her. I found her in tears. She was afraid, she said, that I would not forgive her: Yet I would, she was sure, if I knew the conflicts with which her soul laboured.

I soothed her disturbed mind. I told her, that I desired her direction, and was resolved to pursue it. Her paper should be one of my constant lessons; and her conscience the rule of my conduct, with regard to my expectations of her favour.

O Sir, said she, how good you are! It is from your generosity, next to the divine assistance, that I expect support in my resolution. I but imperfectly remember what I would have done, and what I consented to, when you were last among us—But when I best knew myself, I was more inclined to support my parents and brothers in their expectations, with regard to the two great articles of religion and residence, than to comply with yours. My fortune, my rank, merited your consideration; and my pride was sometimes piqued. "But it was the regard that I had to the welfare of your immortal soul, that weighed most with me. O Sir! could you have been a Catholic!"—

She then wrung her clasped hands, and tears trickled down her cheeks. God Almighty convert you, Chevalier!—But you must leave me. I am beginning to be again unhappy!—Leave me, Sir. But let me see you to-morrow. I will pray for a composure of mind, in the mean time. Do you pray for me too. "And pray for yourself, Chevalier! The welfare of your soul, your immortal soul, was ever my principal concern."

She began to ramble. Her looks were a little wild, I took leave of her; and going hastily from her, in order to hide my own emotion, I surprised Father Marescotti, who, as it was at first sight evident to me, from the confusion I found him in, and the attempts he hesitatingly made to excuse himself, had been listening to what passed between the Lady and me. Pity! that a well-intended zeal should make a good man do mean things!

No apologies, my dear Father, said I. If you doubted my honour, I can think myself, in some measure, obliged to your condescension, for taking this method to prove me. Allow me, my dear Sir, to say (It is to Father Marescotti) that the man, who, in the greater actions of his life, thinks himself under the Allseeing Eye, will not be afraid of a fellow-creature's ear.

I beg a thousand pardons, said he, hesitating, and in confusion. But I will confess the truth; I believed it was next to impossible, that a young man, whose Love to one of the most excellent of women is not to be questioned, should be able to keep the conditions prescribed to him, and forbear to make use of the power she acknowledges he has over her affections—But forgive me, Chevalier.

Forgive yourself, my dear Father; I do most heartily forgive you.

I led him down to Jeronymo's chamber, begging of him not to say a syllable more of this matter; and not to let me suffer in his esteem by this accident.

I have more than once, Dr. Bartlett, experienced the irreconcilable enmity of a man whom I have forgiven for a meanness; and who was less able to forgive me my forgiveness, than I was him his fault. But Father Marescotti cannot be such a man. He is capable of generous shame. He could hardly hold up his head all the time I stayed.

I related to the family, in the presence of the Father, the substance of what passed between the Lady and me. They seemed surprised at her steadfastness. The Bishop told me, that he had dispatched a messenger post to the General, with a Letter, in which he had written a faithful account of their present situation. He would show me a copy of it, if I pleased. I was sure, I said, I could depend upon his generosity and honour; and should be glad to know the sentiments of the General and his Lady upon it, when they returned an answer.

I promised to attend them in the morning: And going to my lodgings, found there, waiting for me, the Count of Belvedere. Saunders, and his gentleman, were both together below-stairs, waiting for, yet dreading, as they said, my return. Saunders had told the Count, it was uncertain: But he declared that he would wait for me, were it ever so late. They both besought me to take care of my own safety. His gentleman told me, that his master had been very much disturbed in his mind ever since he was with me last; declaring often, that his life was a burden to him. He believed, he said, he had a brace of pistols with him: And then again expressed his care for my safety, as well as his Lord's. Fear not, said I: The Count is a man of honour: I would not, for the world, hurt him: And I dare say he will not hurt me.

I hastened up. Why, my Lord, said I, taking his unwilling hands, each in mine, for a double reason, did you not let me know you intended me this honour? Or why did not your Lordship send for me, as soon as you came?

Send for you! with a melancholy air; What from your Clementina? No!—But tell me what is concluded upon? My soul is impatient to know. Answer me like a man: Answer me like a man of honour.

Nothing, my Lord, is concluded upon: Nothing can be concluded upon till Lady Clementina's mind be fully known.

If that be all the obstacle—

Not a slight one. I assure you, that Clementina knows her own worth. She will put a just value upon herself. In her unhappy delirium, she always preserved a high sense of that delicacy, which distinguishes the woman of true honour. It shines forth now in all her words and actions with redoubled lustre. She will make the more difficulties, as her friends make less. Nothing can be done soon: And if it will make your Lordship easier (for I see you are disturbed) I will acquaint you when any-thing is likely to be carried into effect.

And is nothing yet concluded on? And will you give me such notice?

I will, my Lord.

Upon your honour?

Upon my honour.

Well then, I have some days longer to crawl upon this earth.

What means my Lord?

This I mean, withdrawing his hands from mine, and taking out of his pockets two pistols: I came resolved, that you should take one of these, at your choice, had the affair been concluded upon, as I dreaded it would. I am no assassin Sir, nor ever employed one: Nor would I have deprived Clementina of her elected husband. All I intended was, that the hand to which she is to give hers, should have first taken my life. I will not, I cannot live, to see her the wife of any man on earth, tho' she has refused to be mine—You should have found I would not.

What a rashness!—But I see your mind is disturbed. The Count of Belvedere could not otherwise talk in this manner.

It is not impossible, surely, my dear Dr. Bartlett (however improbable, as I begin to apprehend) that Clementina may change her mind. I could not, therefore, acquaint the Count with our present situation; because the hope he would have conceived from it, would, in case of a change, have added strength to his despair. I contented myself, therefore, to reason with him on his rash intention. And having renewed my assurances, as above, he took leave of me so much recovered, as to thank me for the advice I had given him; and to promise, that he would make it the foundation of his prayers to heaven for a calmer mind, than he had known for some days past.

Saunders and his valet seemed overjoyed at seeing us come down together, in an amicable manner; and in the high civility each paid the other.

I should have mentioned, that the Count, of his own accord, in passing thro' my antechamber to the stairs, laid in one of the windows the two pistols. My dear Grandison, said he, let these remain in your keeping. They are pieces of curious workmanship. Whither might one of them, by this time, have sent me!—And in what difficulties might you the survivor, a foreigner, have been involved; which then I considered not; for all my malice was levelled against my unhappy self! I will not trust myself with them—

Here I conclude for this night. I will not dispatch these last-written Letters, till I see what to-morrow will produce. My dear friend! How grievous is suspense!—Perhaps I should have thought myself more obliged to bear it, had I been thus entangled, fettered, suspended, by my own fault.

Volume V - Letter 34

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. IN CONTINUATION.

At my entrance into the palace of Porretta, I was desired to walk into the garden to the Bishop. I found with him Father Marescotti.

Dear Grandison, said the Bishop, meeting me, and taking my hand, you must decide a point between the Father and me, that we are afraid has made us a little accountable to you.

I was silent. He proceeded.

Clementina is very sedate. She sent for me and the Father, soon after you left us. She asked us several questions in relation to you; and insisted on our advice, as religious men, and as we would answer for it to our own consciences. Her first was, Whether we thought there were any hopes of your conversion?—I answered negatively.

I don't expect, said she, that he would be induced to change his religion for a wife, nor even for a crown, were he not convinced of the falsehood of his own, and the truth of ours: But again I ask, Cannot you and Father Marescotti convince his judgment? I should think it would not be so hard a task, learned and good men, as you both are: Good man, and modest, and patient, and unpresuming, as he is; who has been so long among Catholics; who came from England so young; has been left so much to his own direction; and who must see the difference of the two religions to the advantage of ours, were he but to judge by the efficacy of each on the lives and manners of the people professing each; for, surely, the men of name and family, who are sent among us by their parents, from the heretic countries, in order to observe our manners, and to improve their own, are not the worst of the people of those countries.

I told her, proceeded the Bishop, that, to be impartial, there were bad and good of all nations; that she was not likely to be approached by any of her own but who were good; that you, Chevalier, and Mrs. Beaumont, might convince us that there were good people among the Protestants; and that now-and then a young man of that profession, did actually appear among us, who was not a discredit to his country. But, continued I, I have heretofore debated the subject with the Chevalier Grandison. You know I was in a manner called upon to do it: And have found him a Protestant upon principle; and that he has a great deal to say for himself. You, Father, would not allow me this; but you never entered into close argument with him on the subject, as I have done.

My sister then asked, proceeded the Bishop, if I thought that her own religious principles would be endangered, if she became yours, and went with you to England?

We both referred her to certain passages in the paper she gave you.

My heart, said she, could never be proof against a generous and kind treatment. The condescending compliances with my weakness, which my father, mother, brothers, and uncle, have made, have effected what opposition and cruelty, as you see, could not. So compassionate, so humane a man, as I think the Chevalier Grandison, and so steady as he is in his principles, so much, as you own, as he has to say for himself, joined with the sense I always had, from my mother's example, of the duties of a good wife, will too probably stagger me in my faith: And if so, I shall be unhappy: I shall make my confessor so. I am determined, added she (as you, brother, have seen) in my own mind: But I ask your opinion, and yours, Father Marescotti. The Chevalier now is a favourite with you both. Religion only can now be the question—Is it not too probable that I shall be staggered in my own faith, were I to be his?

We gave her, continued the Bishop, our opinions freely, as religious men. Could we, Chevalier, do otherwise? And yet we are both ready to accuse ourselves of infringing conditions with you. Tell us, if in your opinion we have?

I cannot, my Lord, judge from this general account. If you did more than answer her questions; if you expatiated argumentatively on the subject; I must think you have: And your own doubts help to convince me, that you have; tho' I cannot but respect you greatly for the frankness of your application to me on this subject.

We were earnest, Chevalier; we were warm in what we said—

Well, my Lord, called upon as you both were, it would not have become your characters to be cool—For my own part, I have been recollecting the behaviour of your admirable sister throughout every stage of her delirium, respecting myself: And I have not been able to call to mind one instance in it of an attachment merely personal. I need not tell you, Father, nor you, my Lord, what a zealous Catholic she is, She early wished me to be one: And had I not thought myself obliged in honour, because of the confidence placed in me by the whole family, to decline the subject, our particular conversations, when she favoured me with the name of tutor, would have generally taken that turn. Her unhappy illness was owing to her zeal for religion, and to her concealing her struggles on that account. She never hinted at marriage in her reveries. She was still solicitous for the SOUL of the man she wished to proselyte; and declared herself ready to lay down her life, could she have effected that favourite wish of her heart. At other times, she supposed my marriage with some other woman; and was only generously solicitous, that it should not be with one who might discredit the regard she herself professed for me. At another time she wished to be acquainted with my sisters, and hoped they would come to Italy: She proposed to perfect them in the Italian tongue, as they should her in the English: But as to me, only bespoke a visit from me now-and-then, when they came. I have the vanity to think, that I stand high in her favour. But religion, it is evident, as it ought, stands higher. From all these recollections and observations, I have endeavoured to account for the noble behaviour of your sister; and am the less surprised at it, now she is come to her memory. It is all great; all uniform; and most probably we should have been in a very different situation than what we have been long in, had she had her way given her at the time she was so earnest—For what! Only to be allowed a second interview, a farewell visit, when she had shown a little before, on a first, that marriage seemed not to be in her thoughts.

And had she not been entrusted to the management of the cruel Laurana, said the Bishop—

From which, thank God, said the Father, I was the instrument of freeing her.

By all this, proceeded I, I mean not recrimination; but only to observe the consistency of the noble Lady's mind, when she was able to reflect. And what now remains for me to do, but to reconcile myself, if possible, to a conduct that I must ever admire, however I may, in its consequences, as to my own particular, regret it?—Your Lordship, I am afraid, thinks, that she adheres to the contents of the paper she put into my hands.

Unless you, Chevalier—

That, my Lord is out of the question. Let it, however, be remembered, that I have not prescribed to her that hard condition, which is made an indispensable one to me. Yet is Lady Clementina the only woman on earth that I would have wished to call mine, on the terms on which I should have been proud to receive her hand: For it is easy to foresee, that, generally, great inconveniencies must attend a marriage between persons of a different religion, one of them zealous, the other not indifferent.

But, Chevalier, you acquit Father Marescotti and me.

I do, my Lord. Be you your own judges. The condition was not proposed by me. I consented to it, for the sake of those who prescribed it, and for your sister's sake. I could not wish to prosecute my humble suit, notwithstanding her declared favour for me, against the pleas of conscience which she so earnestly urged. How could I, while religion, and the generosity of her friends to her, required, as she thought, that she should get above all regards for me? I was therefore willing to comply with the proposal, and to wait the issue of her spontaneous determination, and to be governed by it. But now that your Lordship and Father Marescotti have dispensed with the condition, I presume that I am not bound by it.

What means my Grandison?

Only this: I could not be thought to bear a Love so fervent to the admirable Clementina, as the man ought to bear who aspires to the honour of calling her his, if I made not one effort to convince her, that she may be happy with me as to the article she is so solicitous about—From female delicacy, she may perhaps, expect to be argued with, and to be persuaded. Allow me to give her assurances of my inviolable honour in that point. It becomes me, as a man, and as her admirer, to remove her scruples, if I can, before I yield up my Love to the force of them.

Would you argue with her on the merits of the two persuasions?

I would not. I never did. I would only assure her of my firm resolution never to attempt to bring her over to mine, nor to traverse the endeavours of her confessor, to keep her steady in hers. But were we to consider only her future ease of mind [You, see my Lord, that she herself has a view to that, in the proposal made me, as from herself] in which the happiness of all your family is included, it is right to see if she builds on a foundation that cannot be shaken; that she may not hereafter regret the steps she has taken, which might possibly—

I understand you, Chevalier—It is prudently, it is kindly, put, as well for her sake, as ours.

I shall be glad, my Lord, that you should be within hearing of every word that shall pass between us on this occasion. One effort I ought to make. If she is determined, I will not urge her further. For all the world, and the dear Clementina in it, I would not have her act against her conscience: Nor will I take advantage of the declaration she has repeatedly made, that it is in my power to hold her fast, or to set her free. I will not so much as urge it to her, left, if she should alter her purpose, it should be from the conscience of a kind of promise implied in that declaration, and not from her heart. No, my Lord, she shall be wholly free. I will not, excellent as she is, accept of her hand against her conscience: Neither my conscience, nor let me say, my pride, will permit me to do so. But the world, as well as my own heart, would blame me if I made not one effort. If it fail, I shall be easier in my own mind; and so will she in hers. Be you, my Lord, within hearing of our next conversation.

I would not, Dr. Bartlett, propose to Father Marescotti, that he should, for fear of making him uneasy, on his listening to what passed between the Lady and me.

I can absolutely depend upon your honour, Chevalier, replied the Bishop. We have brought ourselves to be sincere favourers of this alliance with you. But I own to you, that both Father Marescotti and myself, on the unexpected turn my sister has voluntarily taken, are of opinion, that you will both be happier, if it take not place. The difference in religion; her malady—

No more, my Lord, of this subject. If I cannot succeed, I must endeavour to draw consolation to myself from reason and reflexion. Mean time, all I ask is, that you will both acquit me of any supposed breach of condition, as well in your own minds, as to the rest of the family, if I make this one effort: After which, if it succeed not, I will, whatever I suffer, divest myself of Self, and join with you, and Father Marescotti, to secure the ground gained in the restoration of the noblest of female minds.

They looked upon each other, as if they were afraid of the event. The Father whispered the Bishop. I believe, by a word or two that I could not but hear, it was to induce him to place himself so as to hear (as I had proposed) the conversation that was next to pass between the Lady and me.

Turning round on their whispering, Don't I see Camilla, my Lord, said I, at distance, watching our motions, as if she wanted an opportunity to speak to one of us?

She has been walking for some time within sight, said Father Marescotti.

The Bishop made signs to her to advance. She did. And told me, that her young Lady was desirous to see me.

I followed her. Clementina was alone. Camilla introduced me to her, and withdrew.

She was in great confusion on my approach. Her complexion frequently varied. She looked at me often, and as often turned away her eyes; and sighed. Two or three times she hemm'd, as if she would have cleared her voice; but could not find words to express her labouring mind. It was easy to see, that her perplexity was not favourable to me. I thought it would be cruel, not to break the way for her to speak.

Let not my dear Clementina forbear to say all that is in her heart, to the man who greatly prefers her peace of mind to his own.

I had, I had, said she, a great deal to say, before I saw you: But now you are present—She stopped.

Take time to recollect yourself, madam—I have been talking in the garden to my Lord the Bishop, and to Father Marescotti. I greatly revere them both. You have consulted them on the contents of the paper you are pleased to put into my hands. I have hopes from thence, that you may be made easy in your mind. I will never, dearest madam, urge you on the article of Religion. You shall be absolute mistress of your own will. You shall prescribe to me what conditions you please, with regard to your way of life, your pleasures, your gratuities to your servants, and others. Father Marescotti and your Camilla with you, you will be as safe from innovation, as you can be in your father's house.

Ah Chevalier!

We may, perhaps, prevail upon your father and mother to honour us with their company, in your first journey to England. They have not been of late so well as it were to be wished: We have baths there of sovereign efficacy, in many disorders. By using them, and change of climate, they will very probably receive benefit in their healths. Jeronymo—

Ah, Chevalier!—She arose from her seat, and reseated herself several times, with great emotion. I proceeded.

Jeronymo, our dear Jeronymo, I hope will accompany us, and his skilful Lowther. Those baths are restorative.

O Chevalier! what a man you are?—

She stopped with an air of attention, as if she wished me to proceed.

—And when your honoured and beloved friends shall see their Clementina happy, as I am determined she shall be, if all the tenderness of affection I am able to show, can make her so, how happy will they all be?—Your chapel, madam! Your confessor! Your own servants!—

Ah, Sir! Sir!—Ought I to listen to such temptations, after what I have given you, upon deliberation, in writing? Good Heaven! and the whole heavenly host! direct me!—

She had recourse to her beads; and her lips, as a word now-and-then half-pronounced informed me, moved to a Pater-noster. Again she assumed an attentive air.

My sisters, madam, will revere you. You will have pleasure in calling them yours. Their Lords are men of the first figure in their country. I ask not for fortune. I ask only for you, and you I ask of yourself. My estate is considerable, and improving. The pride I take in being independent, and in the power of obliging, suffers me not to be imprudent with regard to economy. My capital mansion (I value it for not being a house of yesterday) tho' not so magnificent as your palace in Bologna, is genteel, spacious, convenient. The paper you gave me, shows me that the grandeur of your soul is equal to that of your birth. I revere you for the pious and noble sentiments contained in it. What obligations will you lay me under to your goodness, if you can prevail upon yourself to rely upon my assurances, that I will never seek to make you unhappy on a religious account; and if you can be satisfied with the enjoyment of your own religion, and leave to me the exercise of mine! Dear madam, why may not this be? Why will you not leave me as free as I am ready to leave you? Justice, generosity, are my pleas to a Lady, who surely cannot but be just and generous. Think, madam; dear Lady Clementina, think; if you cannot, by making me happy, be yourself so.

I took her unresisting hand, and kissed it. She sighed. She wept. She was silent.

With what pleasure, proceeded I, will you every other year visit and revisit England, and your native country! How dear will you be to your old friends, and to your new, in turn! Never revisiting England without some of your relations to accompany you; now one, now another; and who will be of our family. Your Grandison, madam, allow me to say your Grandison, has not, he presumes to aver, a narrow heart. You see, how well he can live with the most zealous of your religion, yet not be an hypocrite; but, when called upon, fears not to avow his own—My dearest Clementina! [Again I pressed her hand with my lips] say, you think you can be happy, and yet bless me with your Love.

O Sir! God is my witness—But leave me, leave me, for a few moments. I dare not trust myself with myself.

Command me not to leave you, madam, till you resolve in my favour—Say, cannot you be happy in the free exercise of your own religion?—Father Marescotti, Camilla, with you—In England but one year at a time—In Italy, under the re-assuring eye of your father, mother, brothers, the next.

Ah, Sir! you must retire—Indeed you must. You leave me not at liberty—You must let me consider—On this crisis of time, as far as I know, depends an eternity of happiness or misery.

Command me not from you: Bid me not leave you. Obey the tender impulse that, I flatter myself, I discover in my favour. I seek your happiness, in pursuing my own. Your eternal welfare cannot be endangered. My conscience will oblige me to strengthen yours, when I see it is yours—Bid me not leave you—Excellent Clementina, bid me not leave you!—

You must, you must—How can I trust myself against a voice, that is the voice of Love; and claims my kindness, my justice, my generosity—Was I ever ungenerous, unjust, unkind?—And if thus staggered now, what, were I to be yours, would the superadded sense of my duty do!—O leave me, Sir, a few moments, leave me.

Be propitious, madam, be propitious, to my humble hope; that is all I will at present say: and now I obey you—Profoundly bowing, I withdrew into the next apartment. She to her closet.

I went out slowly; and heard the hasty motion of somebody going out of the apartment, as I entered it. It was, it seems, the Bishop, who had placed himself within hearing of what passed between his sister and me, as I had desired he would.

It was a full quarter of an hour before I heard her move; and then it was to seek for me.

I was sitting in a pensive mood, revolving the embarrassments I had met with from some of the best of women; and, as you, my dear Dr. Bartlett, know, in different countries; and particularly the unexpected turn which the excellent creature had taken. She approached me with an air of majesty, yet mixed with tenderness. I met her, and, with a bent knee, taking her hand—My fate hangs upon those lips, said I; and was proceeding; when interrupting me—O Sir! I hear not, it is not safe for me to hear, that voice, accompanying this manner—Let me bend to you—I have been craving the divine direction. An irresistible impulse (surely it is that direction) bids me say—Yet what can I say?—If I attempt to argue, I am lost!—Does not this show me, that were I to be yours, I must be all you wish me to be? And then my everlasting peace, my everlasting happiness!—O Sir! I doubt not your justice, your generosity—But I fear myself!—Seek not, let me repeat, and looked a little wildly, seek not, kindest of men, to entangle me with your Love.

She bent her knee, and I was afraid would have fainted. I clasped my supporting arms about her.

Let me, let me cut short all I intended to say, said she, by referring to my paper. The contents of that are not, cannot be, answered to my satisfaction. Be my advocate to yourself, to your own heart, and seek not to entangle me with your Love.

Whatever it cost me, taking both her hands in mine, and bowing upon them, I will yield to your pleasure. I never will urge you again on this subject, unless your brother the Bishop give me hope of your welcome change of mind.

Best of men, said she, withdrawing her hands, and clasping them together!—But this is not enough—You must promise me your future friendship. You must let me call you Brother: You must be my Tutor, I your Pupil, once more—Happy days were those! The happiest of my life! And encourage and confirm in me the resolution I have taken, or I shall not be happy!

Look upon me, madam, as your brother, as your friend: But this latter task requires more magnanimity than I am master of. To your brother the Bishop, and to Father Marescotti, I must leave that task. They will be in earnest in it. I cannot; because I am convinced, in my own mind, that we might have been happy—Could you—But I forbear, tho' with difficulty—I have promised not to urge you further.

Indeed I have consulted them both, resumed she; but not before I had given you my written determination: Had they given their opinions different from what they did, I never could have got over the apprehensions I have of your strength, and my own weakness. I only consulted them, in hopes they would (as they could, or they had not been good Catholics) confirm and strengthen my mind. And why, why, should I punish the man, I must for ever esteem as my best friend, with a wife, that her unhappy malady has made unworthy of him? Dear Chevalier, I find myself at times not recovered. I may never be quite well. You and yours deserve not to be punished but rewarded. Believe me, Sir, this has been a second consideration with me. God enable me to adhere to my resolution! for his sake, for your sake, and for the sake of my own peace of mind!

Must it not be difficult, my dear Dr. Bartlett, more difficult than when I came over to Bologna, to give up all hopes of so exalted a woman?

But say, Chevalier, you are not angry with me. Say, that you do not, that you will not, think me ungrateful. To obviate such a charge as that of ingratitude, to a man who has laid us all under such obligations—What is it that I would not do?

I cannot be displeased with you, madam. You cannot be ungrateful. I must not speak: Yet hardly know how to be silent. I will take a walk in the garden. I have a new lesson to learn.

With profound reverence I withdrew. She rang. Camilla came in—

I hastened into the garden, greatly dissatisfied with myself, yet hardly knowing why. I thought I wanted somebody to accuse, somebody to blame—Yet how could it be Clementina? But the words Narrow zeal!—Sweet Enthusiast!—as if I would find fault with her religion, involuntarily slipped from me to myself.

It is difficult, my dear Dr. Bartlett, at the instant in which the heart finds itself disappointed of some darling hope, to avoid reflexions that, however, can only be justified by self-partiality. What must I be, if led as I have been, by all her friends to hope, I had not been earnest in my hope!

The Bishop joined me in the garden—Excuse me, Grandison, said he, for breaking in upon your contemplations: But I was desirous to apologise to you, for taking the liberty, tho' you allowed it to me, of attending to what passed between you and my sister.

I should, my Lord, have said every-thing I did say to your sister, the occasion the same, before your whole assembled family. Your Lordship has therefore no apologies to make to me. Heard you all that passed?

I believe I did. Those apartments were always the women's. Camilla placed me in a closet that I knew not of, where I heard every word you both said of the last part of your conversation. I must ask you, Chevalier—Is not Clementina—

Clementina, my Lord, is all that is great and good in woman. You will imagine, that it would have been much more easy for me to support myself under the resolution she has taken, had I not had such testimonies of her magnanimity. Permit me, my Lord, to say, that I have one good quality: I can admire goodness or greatness wherever I meet with it; and whether it makes for me, or against me. Clementina has all my reverence.

He made me compliments, and withdrew.

The Marquis, the Count, and the Marchioness, afterwards joined me in the garden. The Bishop and Father Marescotti not coming with them, or presently after them, I doubted not but they went to Clementina, in order to applaud her for, and confirm her in, a resolution, which must be agreeable to them. I was right in my conjecture.

The Marquis and Count each took my hand, and first expressed their surprise at the young Lady's adherence to her resolution; and next their high value of me. The Marchioness observed, "that her daughter, with all her excellencies, was ever difficult of persuasion, when she had deliberately resolved upon any point."

It was easy, I said, to see, that they all now were of one opinion: which was, that Lady Clementina was not to be moved from her present purpose.

They owned they were: But said, that if it were not mine, they thought themselves bound in honour to consent, that I should try, by generous means (and they were sure I would not think of any other) to prevail upon her in my favour.

I presume, said I, that the Bishop has already acquainted you with the substance of what passed just now, between Lady Clementina and me.

They were silent.

Has not your Ladyship seen Lady Clementina since?

I have: And she is extremely uneasy. She wishes you could be of our religion. Could it have been so, I, for my part, should rather have called the Chevalier Grandison my son, than any man in the world. Clementina told me, added she (I cannot but say with more composure than I could have expected tho' not without tears) that you promised to urge her no more on this subject. She owns, that more than once, as you talked to her, she could hardly forbear giving you her hand, on your own terms. But she says, that you were the most generous of men, when you saw she made a point of conscience of her adherence to her newly-taken resolution. And now, Chevalier, having made my Lord and the Count acquainted with all these things, we are come to advise with you what is to be done.

Dear Grandison, said the Marquis, advise us. We want an opportunity to show you, in more than words, our gratitude for all your goodness to us: We want to appease our Jeronymo; who is ready to suspect, that his Brother and Father Marescotti have contributed to this turn in our daughter's mind: And we want you to declare freely your own sentiments, with regard to Clementina; and whether you would advise us, as well for her own sake, as for yours, to endeavour to prevail on her to change her mind. Dear creature! a relapse would now be fatal to her, and to her mother and me.

I have no difficulty, my Lord, to answer to these points. As to the first, I am greatly rewarded by the pleasure I have, in the more than could be hoped-for happy effects of Mr. Lowther's skill; and in the prospects that open to us of Lady Clementina's restored health of mind. On this subject I have but one request to make: It is that you will not mortify me so much, as to suppose, that I am not sufficiently rewarded.

As to appeasing the generous mind of Signor Jeronymo, let that task be Lady Clementina's. She can plead conscience with more force for herself, than any second person can do for her; and if she does, it will be a demonstration to us all, of her being likely to be happy in her perseverance!—More happy than I shall be! The admirable Lady who has silenced, on this head, a man so deeply interested to contest this point with her, will certainly be able to appease a brother by the same pleas; and the sooner, as, being of the same religion with the lovely pleader, her arguments will have greater force with him, than they could be supposed to have on me. For, let me say, my Lord, that I could not so much as seem to give way to them, had I not been accustomed, when I was to judge of another's actions, to suppose myself that very person: Hence have I often thought myself obliged to give judgement against my own wishes; though, on resuming MYSELF, I have not found reason to disapprove of my first expectation.

As to the third point, what can I say?—And yet, as your Lordship has put it, does it not call upon me, as I may say, to give a proof of the disinterestedness I have mentioned? I answer then, as supposing myself in your situation—I cannot expect that you will urge an interest, which I, by having put myself into that of Lady Clementina, have promised not to urge, unless she change her mind. What plea can a parent make use of, but that of filial duty? And where the child can plead conscience in answer, ought it to be insisted on?

And now, resuming MYSELF, let me presume to advise you to give the dear Lady full time to consider and re-consider the case. Her imagination may be heated: In other words, her malady may have a share in the heroism she has so nobly exerted: And yet I am afraid she will persevere. Permit me, my Lords, to say afraid. I cannot wholly divest myself of Self, in this very affecting case. We will not therefore take her at her word: I will absent myself for some time from Bologna; but (as she has the goodness to acknowledge an esteem for me) with her leave. I will return at my time. I will repeat my absences, if we have the least shadow of doubt. But if she hold her purpose, and shall not be visibly worse in her health or mind, we may conclude her resolution unalterable. In this case, I shall have one or two requests to make you; and, if granted, will endeavour to make myself as happy as a man in such a situation can be.

They applauded my advice. They declared themselves unwilling to think of giving up the pleasure they had brought themselves to have, in considering me as one of their family; and assured me, that it would have been impossible, that any the least difficulty should have arisen from them, after they had brought themselves to dispense with the most material one.

They were earnest with me to pass the evening with them. But I excused myself. I wanted to be at my own lodgings, in order to revolve all that had passed. But having not taken leave of Lady Clementina, I imagined she might think I went away in ill humour, if I forbore it. My whole study, I told them, should be to make Lady Clementina easy: And if the Marchioness would be so good as to permit me to take leave of her for the evening, in her presence, I would depart; only making my compliment to Signor Jeronymo, by Mr. Lowther; knowing that he would be grieved for my disappointment; and my mind not being at present easy enough, to contend with his concern for me.

The Marchioness said, she would see the way her Clementina was then in; and acquaint me, by Camilla, with her wishes; and then withdrew; leaving the Marquis, the Count, and me together.

Before we could renew our discourse, the Bishop and Father Marescotti joined us; both in high spirits. They were excessively complaisant to me. It was easy to guess at the occasion of their good humour. I could not be greatly delighted with it. But when the Count told them what had passed, before they joined us, the Bishop embraced me; the Father unawares snatched my hand, and kissed it.

I was glad to be relieved from their compliments, by the expected message from the Marchioness and Clementina.

The young Lady met me, as I entered at the door of her apartment. She held out her hand to me. I respectfully took it. I saw she had been in tears: But she looked with a serenity, that I was glad to see, tho' I doubted not but it was partly owing to the conversation she had had since I left her, with her brother and her confessor, as well as to what might have passed between her mother and her.

She led me to a chair between them both. She withdrew not her hand; and aimed at a more cheerful countenance than I had a heart. I congratulated her on her serenity. It is in your power, Sir, said she, to make me still more serene—Can you, of a truth, and from your heart, approve of my present way of thinking? Can you, Chevalier?—

I can admire you for it, madam! You have exalted yourself, in my opinion. But I must regret it—Because—But I have promised not to urge you. Your conscience, madam, is concerned—To endeavour but to persuade against conscience, if you have no doubt of your motive, is not warranted, even in a parent.

I am, I think I am, returned she, absolutely sure of my motive. But, my dear mamma, be pleased to put the questions I wished you to put to the Chevalier.

She still suffered me to withhold her hand; and with the other took out her handkerchief; not to wipe away her tears, but to hide her blushes. She wept not: Her bosom heaved with the grandeur of her sentiments.

The question, my dear Grandison, said the Marchioness, is this—We have all of us told my Clementina, that you are invincible on the article of religion. She believes us: She doubts it not from your behaviour and words: But as she would not omit any means to convince you of her high regard for you, she is desirous to hear from your own lips, that you are not to be convinced: She is not afraid, the article so important, to hear you declare, that you will not be a Catholic. It will make her more easy upon reflexion, to be told by you yourself, that you cannot comply, even were she to consent to be yours, at a very short day, if you could—

The exalted Lady stood up, still not withdrawing her hand—False shame, I despise thee, said she: Yet, covered with blushes, she turned her face from me.—That hand, as this heart, putting her other hand to her throbbing bosom, is yours, on that one condition—I am convinced of your affection for me—But fear not to tell me (it is for my own future peace of mind, that I ask it) that you cannot accept it on the terms. She then withdrew her hand, and would have gone from me: But again I snatched it with both mine.

Do you, most excellent of human beings, let me ask you; do you consider the inequality in the case between us, as you are pleased to put it? I presume not to require a change of principles in you. You are only afraid of your perseverance, tho' you are to be left to your freedom; and your confessor to strengthen and confirm you. Of me, is not an actual change required against conviction?—Dearest Lady Clementina! Can you, can you (your mind great and generous in every other case) insist upon a condition so unequal?—Be great throughout; and I kneeled to her—Be uniformly noble—Withdraw not your hand—She struggled it, however, from me; and, hastening to her closet—Once more, Chevalier, said she, read my paper.

I left her, and approaching the Marchioness, who was in tears, Judge me, madam, said I, as I, in your opinion, deserve—What shall I say?—I can urge my hopes no farther: My promise is against me: Clementina is despotic—Forgive me!—But indeed Clementina is not impartial—

Dear Chevalier, said the Marchioness, giving me her hand, what can I say?—I admire you! I glory in my child! I could not, myself in her place, have withstood your plea. When her imagination is cool, I still question if she will hold her purpose—Propose to her, if you can engage her to descend from these heights, your intended absences—You must calm her. You only can. Her soul is wrought up to too high a pitch.

O madam! But I must first try to quiet my own.

I withdrew into the room adjoining; and, in two or three minutes, returning, found the lovely daughter encircled by the arms of the indulgent mother, both in tears. Clementina was speaking. These were the words I heard her say:

Indeed, my dearest mamma, I am not angry with the Chevalier. Why should I? But he can allow for me. I cannot be so great as he. Don't I say, that I should be undone by his goodness.

She turned her head, and seeing me, disengaged herself from her mother's arms, and met me. Allow for me, Sir, I beseech you, said she. I may be partial. I believe I am. But you can forgive me. I will hope you can—Read my paper, said I, and went from you: But it was not in anger. Read it, I again say. I can give no other answer. I never can be happy with a man whom I think a heretic; and the moment I should, in tenderness, in duty, think him not one, I shall cease myself to be a Catholic. A husband, Sir, allied to perdition, what wife can bear the reflection?

The Chevalier, my dear, urges you not. He adheres to his promise. You were willing to put a question to him yourself. I consented that he should answer it in your presence, for the sake of your future peace of mind. He has spoken to it like himself: He has shown you, how much he admires you, at the same time that he signifies his inviolable adherence to his own religion. My dearest Love, he has conceded to terms in our favour, that we have not conceded to in his. Glorious and unexceptionable is his adherence, were it to a right religion. He believes it is. He might urge much to his own advantage from your adherence to yours: But he has only hinted at that to us, not to you. He is willing to wait the event of your own will. He will leave us, as he did more than once before, and return; and if you persevere, he will endeavour to make himself easy—

And leave us; and return to England, I suppose?

No doubt of it, my dear—

While the Florentine is there—

I never, madam, can be any-thing but a well-wisher to the Florentine—

God give you, Sir, and me too, ease of mind. But I find my head overstrained. It is bound round as with a cord, I think, putting her hands to each side of it, for a moment—You must leave me, Sir. But if you will see me to-morrow morning, and tell me whither you intend to go, and what you intend to do, I shall be obliged to you. Cannot we talk together, Sir, as brother and sister? Or as tutor and pupil?—Those were happy days! Let us try to recover them.

She put her hand to her forehead, as apprehensive of disorder; and looked discomposed. I bowed to both Ladies, in silence; retired; and, without endeavouring to see any-body else, went to my lodgings.

Volume V - Letter 35

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. IN CONTINUATION.

Bologna, Thursday, July 13-24.

I had a visit early this morning from the Count of Belvedere. He found me very much indisposed. He had heard that I had met with some difficulties, and attributed my indisposition to them.

I owned that it might be so. My life, my Lord, said I, has not been so happy as might have been hoped for, by a man, who has made it his study to avoid giving offence, either to man or woman; and has endeavoured to restrain passions, that otherwise might have been as unruly as those of other young men, in my circumstances. But, I bless God, I have resolution. I may bend beneath a weight, when it is first laid upon me: But if I find I cannot shake it off, I will endeavour to collect my strength, and make myself easy under it. Pardon me, my Lord: I do not often allow my mind to break out thus into words. But I hold the Count of Belvedere for my friend.

You do me honour, said he: And I came with a heart disposed to cultivate your friendship. I thank you for your last goodness to me. Your advice and gentle behaviour, when I was not fit to be trusted with myself, have saved me, as far as I know, from final destruction. To the last day of my life, I shall confess obligation to you. But, dear Chevalier, if some account of the difficulties you meet with will not be a renewal of grief, now you are not very well—

It will not be so, my Lord, interrupted I, since at present I can think of nothing else. Yet putting myself in the place of every one of the family of Porretta, I have nobody to blame; but the contrary. And I must admire Lady Clementina as one of the noblest of women.

He was all impatience for further particulars.

What may yet be the event, I cannot tell, proceeded I: Therefore will only say, that difference in religion is the difficulty with the Lady. I am willing to allow her the full and free exercise of hers. She insists upon a change of mine. For the rest, you, my Lord, want not friends among the principals of the family; let them give you what account they think fit. I would not scruple to gratify your curiosity, could I give you a conclusive one.

I am curious, Chevalier, said he. I loved Clementina above all women, before her illness. I loved her not the less for her illness; for then my Pity joined with my Love, and added a tenderness to it, of which I had not, in equal degree, been before sensible. The treatment she met with, and the self-interested cruelty of Lady Laurana, heightened her illness, and that (I did not think it possible) my Love. In order to free her from that treatment; and in hopes that a different one (my hopes you see were not ill founded) would restore her reason; and that the happy result might be the defeating of the cruel Laurana's expectations; I tender'd myself in marriage to her, notwithstanding her illness. But I must say, that I never knew how much I loved her, till I was apprehensive that, not only I, but Italy, and her Religion, were likely to lose her for ever. And will you not allow of my curiosity now? God give you, Chevalier, health and happiness here and hereafter! But may you never be the husband of Clementina, but of some woman of your own country, if there be one in it that can deserve you!

The Count left me with this wish, pronounced with earnestness: And I suppose will visit the Bishop and Father Marescotti, in order to gratify his curiosity.

My indisposition requiring indulgence, I sent a billet to the Marchioness, excusing my attendance till the afternoon, on the score of an unexpected engagement. I was loth to mention that I was not very well, lest it should be thought a lover-like artifice, to move compassion. I will not owe my success, even with a Clementina, to mean contrivances. You know I have pride, my dear friend—Pride which your example has not been able to subdue, tho' it has sometimes made me ashamed of it.

One o'Clock.

Camilla, by direction of her two Ladies, made me a visit about two hours ago. They were alarmed at my postponing my attendance on Lady Clementina till the afternoon; suspecting that the Count of Belvedere had unwelcomely engaged me; and therefore sent the worthy woman to know the true cause. Camilla observing that I looked ill, I desired her to take no notice of it to any-body: But she could not help acquainting the Marchioness with it; who, ordering her to forbear mentioning it to Clementina and Jeronymo, was so good, attended by Father Marescotti, to make me a visit in person.

Never was mother more tender to her own son, than she was to me. The Father expressed a paternal affection for me. I made light of the illness, being resolved, if possible, to attend them in the afternoon. My mind, my dear friend, is disturbed. I want to be at a certainty: Yet, from what the Marchioness hinted, I believe I have no reason to doubt. The Father and the Bishop have spared no pains, I dare say, to strengthen the Lady's scruples. Their whole study (the Marchioness intimated) is now, in what manner to acknowledge their obligations to me.

They owe me none.

My dear Chevalier, said she, at parting, take care of your health: She put her hand on mine—Your precious health. Don't think of coming out. We will in turn attend you here.

* *

Notwithstanding the advice of the Marchioness, I went to the palace of Porretta, as soon as I thought their dinner-time was over. Signor Jeronymo desired to be alone with me for a few minutes; and when he was, began upon the subject of the unexpected turn which his sister had taken. I found, that he had been acquainted with the truth of every-thing: Not a single circumstance was omitted, that might enable him to judge fairly of the whole.

And will you, Grandison, can you, my dear friend, said he, have the goodness to attend with patience the event of this dear girl's heroism, or what shall I call it?

I assured him, that the restoration of his sister's health of mind was the dearest to me of all considerations; and that I came over at first with no other hopes than his recovery and hers; resolved to leave to Providence all the rest.

The Marchioness came in soon after, and taking me aside, chid me with tenderness even maternal, for coming abroad. The Marquis, the Count, the Bishop, and Father Marescotti, joined us; and then they all, as with one voice, offered to use their interests with Clementina in my favour, if either my peace of mind, or my health, were likely to be affected by her present resolution.

While there was conscience in it, I answered, I would not, for the world, that she should be urged to change it. Nothing now, as I believed, remained to be done, but to try the firmness of her resolution, by first short, and then longer absences: And those I would propose to herself, if they thought fit, when I was next admitted to her presence.

Jeronymo, and all the family, I saw were of one mind. Tell me, say, my dear Dr. Bartlett, is it excusable in a man, who has been so long favoured by your conversation, and should have been benefited by your example, who have behaved so greatly in disappointments, and even persecutions, to find in himself a pride that, at the instant, had almost carried him into petulance, when he saw every one of this family appear to be more pleased than displeased, that he was not likely to be allied to them?—Who yet, when he coolly considers, and puts himself in the case of each individual of it, must acknowledge, that they might well be allowed to rejoice (the great article of religion out of the question) in the hope of keeping her among them in her native country; and the more, because of the unhappy disorder of her mind; and out of a distant one, obnoxious to them all, as England is? Would not my own father and mother, would not I myself, have equally rejoiced in such a turn in the affections of a sister of my own; especially if we had complied with her principally from motives of compassion, and contrary to the interests of our family?

The Marchioness conducted me to the young Lady. She received me with a blush, as a person would do another whom she was sensible she had causelessly disappointed. She took notice, after the first emotion, that I seemed not to be well, and cast an eye of compassion on me. A slight indisposition, I said, that might, perhaps, be owing to my late inactivity, and want of exercise. I had thoughts of once more making the tour of Italy, in order to visit the many kind friends at different Courts, who had honoured me with their notice during my former abode in Italy.

How long do you propose to be absent, Sir?

Perhaps a month, madam.

A month, Sir!—She sighed, and looked down.

Signor Jeronymo, I hope, said I, will correspond with me.

I could almost wish, said she—Pardon me, madam, to her mother—and looked bashfully down.

What would my child wish?

That I might correspond with the Chevalier in his absence—As his sister, as his pupil, I think I might—

You will do me, madam, the highest honour—Dear madam, to the Marchioness, may I not have your interest with Lady Clementina, to engage her to pursue her kind hint?

By all means. My dearest Love, it will not misbecome you in any character, whether as pupil, as sister, or friend, to write to such a man as the Chevalier Grandison.

Perhaps then I may, said she. You, madam, shall see all that passes in this correspondence.

That shall be as you please, my Love. I can absolutely depend upon the Chevalier's generosity, and your prudence.

I should choose, madam, said I, that you should see all that passes. As amusement is principally my view in this tour, I can be punctual to place and time.

But shall you be gone a month, Sir?

As much less, madam, as you shall command.

Nay, as things are circumstanced, it is not for me—She stopped, sighed, and looked down.

You, madam, are above unnecessary reserve. I never yet abused a confidence. I am proud of your good opinion. I never will do any-thing to forfeit it. Whatever shall be your pleasure, that signify to me in the Letters you will favour me with. I will be all grateful obedience.

Whither, Sir, do you intend to go first?

To Florence, madam—

To Florence, Sir?—But Lady Olivia, I think, is not there—To Mrs. Beaumont, I suppose?

I will send you, madam, from Florence, the beginning Letter of the hoped-for correspondence. I will be careful to be within distance of receiving your favour in a very short space, by means of a servant, whom I will leave at Florence, to attend to our correspondence.

And when, Sir, do you leave Bologna?

I will now take leave of my new correspondent, and my dear friends here; and dispose myself for my little route.

She looked at her mother: then at me—again sighed, blushed, and looked down—Well, Sir, was all she said.

Will you not drink chocolate with us to-morrow? said the Marchioness.

I excused myself. As I was not well, I thought I might be obliged to keep my chamber for two or three days; and that therefore it was better to take leave of her then, that I might not give them anxiety, for their own sakes, on a supposal, that I owed my indisposition to my disappointment. And yet, Dr. Bartlett—But you know my heart, and all its imperfections: And will you not, on this extraordinary occasion, allow me to give way to my native pride, for my own sake? Who but must admire the exalted mind of this young Lady? What man would not wish her to be his?—But to covet a relation to a family, however illustrious, however worthy, every one of which wishes, and with reason on his side, that it may not take place—I must, if possible—But a few weeks will now determine my fate—I will not leave them or myself, if I can help it, any cause of regret.

I took a solemn leave of Clementina. She wept at parting; and dropping down on one knee, prayed for a blessing to attend me wherever I went.

Even had not my indisposition lowered my spirits, I should have been affected at the solemnity and grace of her manner. The Marchioness was.

I went from her to Jeronymo. I left it to his mother to tell him all that had passed; and took almost as ardent a leave of him. I desired a visit from Mr. Lowther: And left my compliments for the rest of a family that I ever must highly respect.

Thursday, July 13-24.

I took, by advice, a medicine over-night, that composed me. I had wanted rest. I am much better, and preparing for my journey to Florence. I have returned answer that I am, to enquiries made after my health by the whole family. The Bishop excused his personal attendance, on the Count's sudden resolution to set out for Urbino; and insisting on his and Father Marescotti's accompanying him thither for a few days.

Camilla came to me from her two Ladies, and the Marquis. All three, she told me, were indisposed. Their enquiries after my health were very tender: The Marquis bid her tell me, that he hoped to be well enough to make me a visit before I set out. Jeronymo wished to see me first, if I had opportunity. But, as I probably must, if I go, see Lady Clementina, and another solemn parting will follow, I think it will be best, for both our sakes, as well as for Jeronymo's, not to obey him; and so I hinted by Camilla.

The Count of Belvedere has made me a visit. He is setting out for Parma. Not one word passed his lips about Lady Clementina, or her family. He was very earnest with me, to promise him a visit at his palace. I gave him room to expect me. By his silence on a subject so near his heart, as well as by the very great respect he paid me, I have no reason to doubt but he knows the situation I am in with Clementina: She will have his prayers, I dare say, for perseverance in her present way of thinking. Indeed now, everybody's of her family—for who can doubt the General's?

She would have had mine to the same purpose, the more sincerely, had not they all joined to indulge my hopes; and had she not given such instances of the noblest of female minds.

But, how great soever may be the occasion given me for fortitude, by a resolution so unexpected by every-body from Lady Clementina, I cannot be deprived of all pleasure; since the contents of my last packets, as well those from Paris as from England, afford me a great deal.

Every-thing is done at Paris, that I could have wished, in relation to Mr. Danby's legacy.

Lord W. lets me know, that he thinks himself every day happier than in the past with his Lady; who also subscribes to the same acknowledgment.

Our Beauchamp tells me, that he wants only my company to make him the happiest of men. He requests me to write a Letter of thanks, in my own name, to Lady Beauchamp, on his dutiful acknowledgment to me of her kindness to him. I will with pleasure comply; and the sooner, as I am sure that gratitude for past benefits, and not expectation of new ones, is his motive.

He laments in postscript, that his father is taken with a threatening disorder. I am sorry for it. Methinks I am interested in the life and health of Sir Harry Beauchamp. I hope he will long enjoy the happiness, of which his son says he is extremely sensible. Should he die, the Lady will be a great deal in my Beauchamp's power, large as her jointure is. If he be not, on such an event, as obliging to her, as he now is, and forget not all past disobligations, I shall not have the opinion of his heart that I now have. Our Beauchamp wants but the trial of prosperity (a much more arduous one than that of adversity) to be upon full proof an excellent man.

Lady Mansfield, with equal joy and gratitude, acquaints me, that my presence in England is only wanting to bring to a decision every point that now remains in debate with her adversaries, the Keelings; they having shown themselves inclinable, by the mediation of Sir John Lambton, to compromise on the terms I had advised she should get proposed, as from me; and the wicked Bolton having also made proposals, that perhaps ought to be accepted if he cannot be brought to amend them.

Two of Emily's Letters of distant date are come together. I will write to the dear girl by the next mail, and let her know how much absence endears to me my friends.

You give me joy my dear Dr. Bartlett, in acquainting me with the happiness of Lord and Lady G. I will write to my Charlotte upon it, and thank her for the credit she does me by her affectionate behaviour to that honest and obliging man.

How happy are you, my dear friend, and Lord and Lady G. and Emily, at Miss Byron's! I am charmed with the characters you give me of her family.

But I have Letters brought by the same mail, that are not so agreeable as those I have taken notice of. They are from Lady Olivia, and my poor cousin Grandison.

That unhappy woman is to be my disturbance! She is preparing, she says, to come back to Italy. She execrates: She threatens. Poor woman! But no more of her at present.

My cousin is by this time, I suppose, at Paris. He writes, that he was on the point of setting out, in pursuance of my advice; and will wait there for my direction to proceed to Italy, or not. I shall write to him to continue there till he hears further from me; and, at the same time, to some of my friends there, to make France agreeable to him.

I shall not perhaps write again very soon. Letters from England will, however, find an easy access, directed to me, under cover, to Mrs. Beaumont at Florence, as you know how.

I shall be pretty much in motion, if health permit. I shall take a view of the works projecting by the duke of Modena, in order to render his little Signory considerable. I shall visit the Count of Belvedere at Parma. Mrs. Beaumont and her friends will have more of my company than any other persons. Perhaps I may make a long-requested visit to the Altieri family, at Urbino. If I do, I must not put a slight on the Conte della Porretta, who pressingly invited me thither. I think to pass a few days at Rome. If I go from thence to Naples, I shall perhaps once more, in the General's company, visit Portici, in order to make more accurate observations than I have hitherto done, on those treasures of antiquity which have been discovered in the ancient Herculaneum.

I have a private intimation from Milan, that a visit there would be a welcome one to Lady Sforza. I may possibly take that city in my way, when I quit Italy. But how can I, without indignation, see the cruel Laurana?

Thus, my dear and reverend friend, have I given you an imperfect sketch of my present intentions, as to passing the month that I think of absenting myself from Bologna.

It is a long time since I have been able to tell you aforehand, with regard to some of the most material articles of my life, what I will or will not do. Yet, knowing my own motives, I cannot say, that were the last three or four years of it to come over again, I should have acted otherwise than I have done. Do you, my reverend friend, with that freedom which has been of inexpressible use to me, remind me, if I am too ready to acquit myself. You know (I repeat) all the secrets of my heart. Be not partial to your sincere friend. I write not to be praised, but corrected, Don't flatter my vanity; I am yet but a young man! You have not blamed me a great while: I am for this reason a little diffident of the ground I stand upon: but if you have no material fault to recollect, spare yourself the trouble of telling me so: Having thus renewed my call upon you, for your friendly admonition, I will look upon your silence as an acquittal, so far as I have gone. And we will begin, from the date of your next, a new account. In the mean time, he not concerned for my health. I am much better than I was. My mind was weakened by suspense. I long since thought the crisis near. If it be not already over-past, a few weeks must surely determine it.

I am not in haste to send this packet. A week hence Sir Alexander Nesbit will set out directly for England. He has a great desire of being acquainted with my dear Dr. Bartlett, and requests me to give him a commission, that may introduce him to you. Were my future destiny in this country absolutely determined, I would not, however, have delayed sending you these Letters by a speedier conveyance.

Sir Alexander is a worthy man: As such, wants not a recommendation to my dear and reverend friend, from his

CHARLES GRANDISON.

Volume V - Letter 36

LADY G. TO MISS BYRON.

[With the preceding seven Letters of Sir Charles.]

Grosvenor-Square, Tuesday, Aug. 8.

Good God, my dear!—I dispatch a packet to you; received, a few hours ago, from Dr. Bartlett, with desire of forwarding it to you. My sister was with me. We read the Letters together. I dispatch them by an express messenger—What shall we say? Tell me, Harriet. More suspense still. Dear creature, tell me, tell me, all you think of the contents of this packet. If I enter into the particulars, I shall never have done scribbling. Adieu, my Love!

CHARLOTTE G.

Return the Letters, when perused. I want to study them before the Doctor has them back.

Volume V - Letter 37

MISS BYRON TO LADY G.

Selby-house, Friday, Aug. 11.

Tell you, my dear Lady G. all I think of the contents of the packet you so kindly sent me by an express messenger!—What will you say to me, if I do? I can much better tell you, what all my friends here say of them. They are for congratulating me upon those contents. But can I congratulate myself? Can I receive their congratulations? A woman! an angel!—So much more worthy of Sir Charles Grandison, than the poor Harriet Byron can be!—O how great is Clementina, how little am I, in my own eyes! The Lady will still be his. She must. She shall. She will change her mind. So earnest he! So fervently in love with him, she! Who will presume to hope a place in his affections after her? My pride, my dear, is all up! Can I? How mean will any one now appear in his eyes, when he thinks of his Clementina? And who can be contented with half a heart? Nay, not half a one, if he does justice to this wonder of a woman? It was always my consolation, when I looked upon him as lost to myself, that it was to a person of superior merit.

But who can forbear pitying the glorious man! O my dear, I am lost in the subject! I know not what to say. Were I to tell you what I thought, what were my emotions, as I read now his generous pity for the Count of Belvedere—Now his affectionate and respectful address to the noble Lady—Her agitations of mind, previous to the delivery of her paper to him—That paper, the contents so greatly surpassing all that I had read of woman! Yet so much of a piece with the conduct she showed, when the struggle between her Religion and her Love cost her her reason. His delicacy, yet equal steadiness, in his religion—In short, the whole of his conduct and hers, in the various lights in which they appeared in the different conversations with her, with her family—Were I to tell you, I say, what I thought, and what were my emotions, as I read, a volume would not be sufficient; nor know I what measure would contain my tears. Suffice it to say, that I was not able to rise in two days and nights; and it has been with the greatest difficulty, that I obtained pen and ink, and leave to write; and the physician talks of confining me to my chamber for a week to come.

Sir Charles cries out upon suspense. Indeed it is a grievous thing.

You will observe, that in these last Letters he mentions me but once; and that is, in making me a compliment on the favour which the beloved four conferred upon me, and all of us, in the visit you were so good as to make us. And why do you think I take notice of this?—Not from petulance, I assure you: But for the praise of his justice as well as delicacy. For could Sir Charles Grandison excusably (if, on other occasions he remembered the poor girl whom he rescued; could he excusably, I say) while his soul was agitated by his own suspense, occasioned by the uncommon greatness of Clementina's behaviour, think of any other woman in the world?

But you see, my Charlotta, that the excellent man has been, perhaps is, greatly indisposed. Can we wonder at it? Such a prize in view, so many difficulties overcome, as he had to struggle with; yet, at last, a seemingly insuperable one arising from the Lady herself, and from motives that increased his admiration of her? But a woman may be eloquent, from grief and disappointment; when a man, though his nobler heart is torn in pieces, must hardly complain!—How do I pity the distresses of a manly heart!

But should this noble Lady, on his return to Bologna, after a month's absence, hold her purpose, unless he changes his religion, I will tell you my thoughts of what will probably be the result. He will not marry at all. If he cannot love another woman, as well as he does Clementina, ought he? And who can equally deserve his Love? Have we not heard from himself, as well as from Dr. Bartlett, that all the troubles he has had, have proceeded from our Sex? It is true, that men and women can hardly ever have any great troubles, but what must arise from each other. And his have arisen from good women too (I hope Lady Olivia is not deliberately bad). And why should so good a man continue to make himself subject to the petulance, to the foibles, of us wayward women, who hardly know our own minds, as Signor Jeronymo told his friend, when our wishes are in our power?

But, sick or well, you see Sir Charles Grandison loses not his spirit. His enlarged heart can rejoice in the happiness of his friends. I will have joy, said he once to me. And must he not have it in the hopes of the recovery of his friend Jeronymo? In the restoration of the admirable Clementina? And in the happiness those recoveries must give to a worthy and illustrious family? Let me enumerate, from him, the pleasure he enjoys, in the felicity he has given to many; tho' he cannot be, in himself, the happy person he makes others. Is he not delighted with the happiness of Lord and Lady W.? Of his Beauchamp, and his Beauchamp's father and mother?—Of Lady Mansfield, and her family? With yours and Lord G's happiness? Does it not rejoice you, my dear, to have it in your power to contribute to the pleasure of such a brother? And how great, how honourable, how considerate, how delicate, is his behaviour to the noble Clementina; how patient, how disinterested, with her family! How ready to enter into their sentiments, and to allow for them, tho' against himself! But he is prudent: He sees before him at a great distance: He is resolved to have nothing to reproach himself with, in future, that he can obviate at present. But is not his conduct such, as would make a considerate person, who has any connections with him, tremble? Since if there be a fault between them, it must be all that person's; and he will not, if it be possible for him to avoid it, be a sharer in it? Do you think, my dear, that had he been the first man, he would have been so complaisant to his Eve as Milton makes Adam [So contrary to that part of his character, which made him accuse the woman to the Almighty (Note: The woman that thou gavest me, tempted me, and I did eat)—To taste the forbidden fruit, because he would not be separated from her, in her punishment, tho' all posterity were to suffer by it?—No; it is my opinion, that your brother would have had gallantry enough to his fallen spouse, to have made him extremely regret her lapse; but that he would have done his own duty, were it but for the sake of posterity, and left it to the Almighty, if such had been his pleasure, to have annihilated his first Eve, and given him a second—But, my dear, do I not write strangely? I would be cheerful, if I could, because you are so kind as to take pains to make me so. But on re-perusing what I have written, I am afraid that you have taught me to think oddly. Tell me truth, Charlotte: Is not what has last slipped from my pen, more in Lady G's manner, than in that of

Her HARRIET BYRON?

One line more; and no more, my dear, my indulgent aunt Selby!—They won't let me write on, Charlotte, when I had a thousand things further to say, on the contents of this important packet; or I should not have concluded so uncharacteristically.

Volume V - Letter 38

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON TO LADY CLEMENTINA DELLA PORRETTA.

Florence, July 18-29.

I begin, dear and admirable Lady Clementina, the permitted correspondence, with a due sense of the favour done me in it: Yet, can I say, that it is not a painful favour? Was ever man before circumstanced as I am?—Permitted to admire the noblest and most amiable of women, and even generously allowed to look upon himself as a man esteemed, perhaps more than esteemed, by her, and her illustrious family; yet in honour forbidden to solicit for a blessing that once was designed for him; and which he is not accused of demeriting by misbehaviour, or by assuming an appearance that he made not good—Excellent Lady! Am I other than you ever had reason to think me, in my manners, in my principles? Did I ever endeavour to unsettle you in your attachments to the religion of your country? No, madam: Invincibly attached as I knew you were to that religion, I contented myself with avowing my own; and indeed should have thought it an ill requital for the protection I enjoyed from the civil and ecclesiastical powers, and a breach of the Laws of hospitality, had I attempted to unsettle the beloved daughter of a house so firmly likewise attached, as they always were, to their principles. From such a conduct, could this beloved daughter doubt the free exercise of her religion, had she—

But, hushed be the complainings, that my expostulating heart will hardly be denied to dictate to my pen! Have I not said, that I will be all you wish me to be—All hope, or all acquiescence—Forgive me, madam, forgive me, dear and ever-to-be respected family, that yet I use the word hope. Such a prize almost in possession—can I forbear to say hope?—Yet do I not at the same time promise acquiescence?—Painful as it is to me, and impossible as it would be, were not all-commanding conscience pleaded, most excellent of women! I will, I do, acquiesce. If you persevere, dear to my soul as you ever must be, I resign to your will.

The disappointed heart, not given up to unmanly despair, in a world so subject to disappointments, will catch at the next good to that it has lost—Shall I not hope, madam, that a correspondence so allowably begun, whatever be the issue in the greater event, will for ever last? That a friendship so pure will ever be allowed? That the disappointed man may be considered as the Son, the Brother, of a family, which must, in all the branches of it, be ever dear to him?—I will hope it. I will even demand the continuance of its esteem; why should I not say, of its affection? But so long only, as my own impartial heart, and my zeal for the glory and happiness of your whole house, shall tell me I deserve this; and so long as I can make out my pretensions, to the satisfaction of every one of it. It cannot be on my side, nor will I allow it on yours, that the man who once, by the favour of your whole family, was likely to be happy in a near alliance to it, should (and perhaps for that reason, as it often happens, in like instances) be looked upon as the most remote from its friendly Love.

Never, madam, could the heart of man boast a more disinterested passion for an object, whose mind was dearer to it, than even her person; or a more sincere affection to every one of her family, than mine does. I am unhappily called upon to the proof. The proof is unquestionable. And—To the last hour of my life, you and they, madam, will be dear to me.

Adieu, most excellent of women!—Circumstanced as I am, what more can I say?—Adieu, most excellent of women!—May every good, temporal and eternal, be yours, and every one's of your beloved family, prays Your and their most grateful, most affectionate, and most obedient,

GRANDISON.

Volume V - Letter 39

LADY CLEMENTINA DELLA PORRETTA TO SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.

Bologna, Tuesday, Aug. 5. N. S.

I was the more willing, Sir, to become your correspondent, as I thought I could write to you with greater freedom, than I could speak. And indeed I will be very free, and very sincere, in all I shall write. I will suppose, that I am writing, when I write to you, to my Brother, and best friend. And indeed to which of my other brothers can I write, with equal freedom?—You, in imitation of the God of us all, require only the heart. My heart shall be as open to you, as if, like Him, you could look into every secret recess of it.

I thank you, Sir, for the kind and generous contents of the Letter, by which you have opened this desirable correspondence. Such a regard have you paid in it to the weakness of my mind, and to its late unhappy state, without mentioning that unhappy state—O Sir, you are the most delicate of men—What tenderness have you always shown me, for my attachment to the religion of my fathers—Surely, you are the most pious of Protestants!—Protestants can be pious; you and Mrs. Beaumont have convinced me that they can. Little did I think I should ever be brought to acknowledge so much in favour of the people of your religion, as you and she, by your goodness, have brought me to acknowledge. O Sir! What might you not have brought me to, by your Love, by your kind treatment of me, and by your irresistible address, were I to have been yours, and residing in a Protestant nation, every one of your friends of that religion, and all amiable, and perhaps exemplarily good? I was afraid of you, Chevalier. But no more of this subject. You are invincible; and I hope I should not have been overcome, had I been yours—But do we not pray against running into temptation?—Again, I say, no more of this subject at present, yet hardly know how to forbear—

Nothing but the due consideration of the brevity as well as vanity of this life, in which we are but probationers, and of the eternity of the next, could have influenced me to act against my heart: Dear Chevalier, how happy should I have been, could I have given my hand as that heart would have directed, and on such terms, as I could have thought my Soul secure?—How shall I quit this entangling subject? I am in the midst of briars and thorns—Lend me, lend me, your extricating hand; and conduct me into the smooth and pleasant path, in which you at first found me walking with undoubting feet. Never, never, for my sake, let an unexperienced virgin trust herself with her own imagination, when she begins to meditate, with pleasure, the great qualities of an object, with whom she has frequent opportunities of conversing.

Again am I recurring to a subject I wish to quit. But since I cannot, I will give my pen its course—Pen, take thy course. Mind, equally perverse and disturbed, I will give way to thee; I see there is no withstanding thee—

Tell me, then, my brother, my friend, my faithful, my disinterested friend, what I shall do, what method take, to be indifferent to you, in another character? What I shall do, to be able to look upon you, only as my brother and friend?—Can you not tell me? Will you not? Will not your Love of Clementina permit you to tell her?—I will help you to words—Say, "you are the friend of her Soul." If you cannot be a Catholic always, be a Catholic when you advise her. And then, from your Love of her Soul, you will be able to say, "Persevere, Clementina! and I will not account you ungrateful"—

O Chevalier! I fear nothing so much as being thought capable of ingratitude, by those I Love. And am I not, can you think, that I am not, ungrateful? Once you told me so. Why, if you mean me more than a compliment, do you not tell me how to be grateful? Are you the only man on earth, who have it in your will, and in your power, to confer obligations, yet can be above receiving returns? What services did you endeavour to do to the Soul of a misguided youth, at your first acquaintance with him!—Unhappy youth! And how did he at the time requite you for them! He has let us know (generous self-accuser!) what heroic patience you had with him; and how bravely you disdained his ungrateful defiance. Well may he love you as he does. After many, many months discontinuance of friendship, you were called upon to snatch him from the jaws of death, by your bravery. You were not requited, as you might have expected, from some of our family—What regret has the recollection cost us all!—You were obliged to quit our Italy; yet, called upon, as I may say, by your wounded friend; incurably wounded, as it was apprehended; you hastened to him: You hastened to his sister, wounded in her head, in her heart: You hastened to her father, mother, brothers, wounded in their minds, by the sufferings of that son and daughter. And whence did you hasten to us? From your native country. Quitting your relations, all proud of your Love, and proud of loving you; on the wings of friendly zeal did you hasten to us, in a distant region. You encountered with, you overcame, a thousand obstacles. The genius of healing, in the form of a skilful operator, accompanying you; all the art of the physicians of your country did you collect, to assist your noble purpose. Success attended your generous wishes. We see one another, a whole family see one another, with that delight, which was wont to irradiate our countenances, before disaster overclouded them.

And now, what return shall we make for your goodness to us? You say, you are already rewarded in the success with which God has blessed your generous endeavours to serve us. Hence it is, that I call you proud, and, at the same time, happy. Well do I know, that it is not in the power of a wife to reward you. For what could a wife do by such a man more than her duty? And were it possible for Clementina to be yours, would you that your kindness, your Love to her, should be rewarded at the price of her everlasting happiness?—No, you answer—You would leave to her the full and free exercise of her religion—And can you promise, can you, the Chevalier Grandison, undertake, if you think your wife in an error, that you never will endeavour to cure her of that error? You who, as the husband, ought to be the regulator of her conscience; the strengthener of her mind—Can you, believing your own religion a right one, hers a wrong one, be contented that she shall persevere in it? Or can she avoid, on the same, and even still stricter principles, entering into debate with you? and will not then her faith, from your superior understanding, be endangered?—Of what force will be my Confessor's arguments, against yours, strengthened by your Love, your kindness, your sweetness of manners? And how will all my family grieve, were Clementina to become indifferent to them, to her country, and more than indifferent to her religion?

Say, Grandison, my tutor, my friend, my brother, can you be indifferent on these weighty matters?—O no, you cannot. My brother, the Bishop, has told me (But be not angry with my brother for telling me) that you did declare to my elder brother and him, that you would not, in a beginning address, have granted to a princess the terms you were willing to grant me; and that you offered them to me as a compromise!—Compassion and Love were equally perhaps your inducements. Poor Clementina!—Yet, were there not a greater obstacle in the way, I would have accepted of your compassion; because you are great and good; and there can be no insult, but true godlike pity, in your compassion—Well, Sir, and do not my father, my mother, the best and most indulgent of fathers and mothers; and do not my uncle, and brothers, and my other kindred; comply with their Clementina, upon the same affectionate, the same pitying motive; otherwise religion, country, the one so different, the other so remote, would they have consented?—They would not. Will you not then, my dear Chevalier, think that I do but right (knowing your motive, knowing theirs, knowing that to rely upon my own strength is presumption, and a tempting of the Almighty) to act as I act, to resolve as I have resolved—O do you, my tutor, be again my tutor—You never taught me a lesson that either of us might be ashamed to own—Do you, as I have begged of you in my paper, strengthen my mind. I own to you, that I have struggled much with myself: And now I am got—above myself, or beneath myself, I know not whether—For my Letter is not such as I designed it. You are too much the subject: I designed only a few lines; and those to express the grateful sense I have of your goodness to me, and our Jeronymo; indeed to every-body; and to beg of you, for the sake of my peace of mind, to point out some way, by which I, and all of us, may demonstrate our attachment to our superior duties, and our gratitude to you—

What have I said? What a quantity have I written!—Excuse my wandering head; and believe me to be, as much the well wisher of your glory, as of my own.

Clementina della Porretta.

Volume V - Letter 40

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON TO LADY CLEMENTINA.

Rome, Aug. 11. N. S.

"Nothing", says the most generous and pious of her Sex, "but the due consideration of the brevity as well as vanity of this life, and of the duration of the next, could have influenced me to act against my heart."—Condescending goodness! What acknowledgements do you make in my favour!—But, favour—can I say?—No, not in my favour; but, on the contrary, to the extinction of all my hopes; for what pleas remain to be urged, when you doubt not my affection, my gratitude, my tenderness, my good faith, and think from them will arise your danger?

My "extricating hand," at your command, "is held out;" and it shall not be my fault, if you recover not the "smooth and pleasant path, in which you were accustomed to walk with undoubting feet."

You bid me "tell you what you shall do to be indifferent to me"—What pain does the gracious manner of your rejection give me? Exalted goodness!— "Your brother, your friend, your faithful, your disinterested friend," will "tell you," against himself, to the forfeiture of all his hopes; "he will tell you," that you ought not "to give your hand as your heart" (condescending excellence!) "would have directed," if you cannot do it, "and think your Soul secure."

You "will help me to words," you say—I repeat them after you. "Persevere Clementina—I will not," I cannot, "account you ungrateful."

How much does the dear, the generous Clementina, over-rate the services, which Heaven, for my consolation (so I will flatter myself) in a very heavy disappointment that was to follow, made me an humble instrument of rendering to the worthiest of families! To that Heaven be all the glory! By ascribing so much to the agent, fear you not that you depreciate the First Cause? Give to the Supreme His due, and what will be left for me to claim? What but a common service, which any one of your family would, in the like circumstances, have done for me?

It is generous, it is noble, in you, madam, to declare your regard for the man you refuse: But what a restraint must I act under, who value, and must for ever value, the fair refuser; yet think myself bound in honour to acquiesce with the refusal; and to prefer your peace of mind to my own? To lay open my heart before you, would give you pain. I will not give you pain: Yet let me say, that the honour once designed me, had it been conferred, would have laid me under unreturnable obligations to as many persons as are of your family. It was, at one time, an honour too great even for my ambition; and that is one of the constitutional faults, that I have found it most difficult to restrain. But I will glory in their intended goodness; and that I lost not their or your favour from any act of unworthiness—Continue to me, most excellent Clementina; continue to me, Lords and Ladies of your illustrious house; your friendship; and I will endeavour to be satisfied.

Your "tutor," as you are pleased to call him; your friend, your "BROTHER" (too clearly do I see the exclusive force of that last recognition!) owns, that "he cannot be indifferent to those motives, that have so great weight with you." He sees your steadfastness, and that your conscience is engaged: He submits therefore, whatever the submission may cost him, to your reasoning; and repeats your words— "Persevere, Clementina."

I did tell your elder brother, and I am ready to tell all the world, "that I would not, in a beginning address, tho' to a princess, have signed to the articles I yielded to by way of compromise." Allow me, madam, to repeat his question, to which my declaration was an answer—"What would the daughters have done, that they should have been consigned to perdition (Note: See Vol. 5, letter 27)?"—I had in my thoughts this further plea, that our church admits of a possibility of salvation out of its own pale. God forbid but it should! The church of God, we hold, will be collected from the sincerely pious of all communions. Yet, I own that had the intended honour been done me, I should have rejoiced that none but sons had blessed our nuptials.

But how do your next words affect me—"Compassion and Love, say you, were equally, perhaps your inducements—Poor Clementina;" add you. Inimitably great as what follows this is, I should have thought myself concerned, as well for my own honour, as for your delicacy, to have expatiated on the self-pitying reflexion conveyed in these words, had we been otherwise circumstanced than we are: But to write but one half of what, in happier circumstances, I would have written, must, as I have hinted, give pain to your noble heart. The excellent Clementina, I am sure, would not wish me to say much on this subject. If she would, I must not; I cannot.

The best of fathers, mothers, brothers, and of spiritual directors, in your own way, are yours. They, madam, will strengthen your mind. Their advices and their indulgent love, will be your support in the resolution you have taken. You call upon me again to approve of that resolution. I do, I must approve of it. "The Lover of your soul" concludes with the repetition of the words you prescribe to his pen—If cooler reflexion, if reconsideration of those arguments which persuaded me to hope, that you would have been in no way unhappy or unsafe, had you condescended to be mine—If mature and dispassionate thought, cannot alter your present persuasion on this head— "Persevere, Clementina," in the rejection of a man as steady in his own faith as you are in yours. If your conscience is concerned—If your peace of mind is engaged—you ought to refuse. "You cannot be thought ungrateful"—So, against himself, decides your called-upon, and generously acknowledged,

"Tutor, Friend, Brother,"
GRANDISON.