It is well Lady Elizabeth stands portress at the door of my heart:—there is such bustling and pushing to get in;—but, notwithstanding her Ladyship's vigilance, Miss Powis has slipp'd by, and sits perch'd up in the same corner with Darcey.

If you go back to Lady Mary's dressing-room, you will find nobody there:—but give a peep into the dining-parlour, and you will see us just set down at dinner;—all smiling,—all happy;—an inexhaustible fountain of pleasure in every breast.

I will go down to Slope Hall;—give Lady Dorothy a hint that she has it now in her power to make one man happy;—a hint I believe she never had before.—A snug twenty thousand added to my present fortune,—the hand of Lady Elizabeth,—and then, Risby, get hold of my skirts, and you mount with me.

Next Tuesday prepare, as governor of the castle, for a warm siege.—Such a battery of eyes,—such bundles of darts,—such stores of smiles,—such a train of innocence will be laid before the walls, as never was withstood!—No; I shall see you cap-a-pee open the gates to the besiegers.—Away goes my pen.—I write no more positively.

MOLESWORTH.



LETTER XLIII.

Miss DELVES to Mrs. DELVES.

Barford Abbey.

Are you well, Madam? Is my dear father well? Tell me you are, and never was so happy a creature as your daughter. I tremble with pleasure,—with joy,—with delight:—but I must—my duty, my affection, every thing says I must sit down to write.—You did not see how we were marshall'd at setting out:—I wish you could have got up early enough:—never was there such joyous party!

All in Lady Mary's dining-room by seven;—the fine equipages at the door;—servants attending in rich new liveries, to the number of twenty;—Lord Darcey and his heavenly bride that is to be,—smiling on each other,—smiling on all around;—Lady Mary Sutton—yes, she is heavenly too;—I believe I was the only earthly creature amongst them;—Lord and Lady Hampstead,—the angelic Ladies Elizabeth and Sophia,—Mr. Molesworth,—the generous, friendly, open-hearted Mr. Molesworth,—Lord Hallum.—But why mention him last?—Because, Bessy, I suppose he was last in your thoughts.—Dear Madam, how can you think so?

In Lady Mary's coach went her Ladyship, Lord Darcey, Mrs. and Miss Powis:—in Lord Hampstead's, his Lordship, Lady Hampstead, Lady Elizabeth, and Mr. Molesworth:—in Lord Darcey's, Lady Sophia, Mr. Powis, Lord Hallum, and your little good-for-nothing:—in Mr. Powis's, the women-servants.—We lay fifty miles short of the Abbey, and the next evening reach'd it at seven.

We reach'd Barford Abbey, I say—but what shall I say now?—I cannot do justice to what I have seen of duty,—of affection,—of joy,—of hospitality.—Do, dear Madam, persuade my father to purchase a house in this neighbourhood.

Servants were posted at the distance of six miles to carry intelligence when we should approach.—I suppose in their way back it was proclaim'd in the village:—men, women, and children, lined the road a mile from the Abbey, throwing up their hats with loud huzzaing,—bells ringing in every adjacent parish;—bonfires on every rising ground;—in short, we were usher'd in like conquerors.—The coachmen whipp'd up their horses full speed through the park;—thump, thump, went my heart, when by a number of lights I discover'd we were just at the house.

What sensations did I feel when the carriages stopp'd!—At the entrance stood Sir James and Lady Powis,—the Chaplain,—Mr. Morgan,—Captain Risby,—you know their characters, Madam;—every servant in the house with a light:—but who could have stay'd within at this juncture?

The first coach that drove up was Lady Mary's. Out sprang Lord Darcey, Miss Powis in his hand; both in a moment lock'd in parental embraces.—Good heaven, what extasy!—I thought Mr. Watson and Mr. Morgan would have fought a duel which should first have folded Miss Powis in his arms, whilst Sir James and Lady Powis quitted her to welcome Lady Mary.—We were all receiv'd tenderly affectionate:—a reception none can have an idea of, but those who have been at Barford Abbey.

In my way to the house, I suppose I had a hundred kisses:—God knows from whom.—What can I say of Lord Hampstead's family?—what of Mr. Molesworth?—The general notice taken of him is sufficient.—Absolutely that charming man will be spoil'd.—Pity to set him up for an idol!—I hope he will not always expect to be worshipp'd—Mr. Risby too—Well, I'll mention you all, one after another, as fast as possible.—Let me see, where did I leave off?—Oh! we were just out of our carriages.—And now for the pathetics:—an attempt;—a humble attempt only.

Lady Powis, Lady Mary, and their darling, had given us the slip.—What could be done?—I mean with Mr. Morgan:—he was quite outrageous.—What could be done? I repeat.—Why Sir James, to pacify him, said, we should all go and surprize them in his Lady's dressing-room.—We did go;—we did surprize them;—great God! in what an attitude!—The exalted Lady Powis at the feet of Lady Mary;—Miss Powis kneeling by her;—she endeavouring to raise them.—I said it would be an attempt at the pathetics;—it must be an attempt:—I can proceed no farther.

To be sure, Mr. Morgan is a queer-looking man, but a great favourite at the Abbey.—He took Miss Powis on his knee;—call'd her a hundred times his dear, dear daughter;—and I could not forbear laughing, when he told her he had not wore a tye-wig before these twenty years. This drew me to observe his dress, which, unless you knew the man, you can have no idea how well it suited him:—a dark snuff-colour'd coat with gold buttons, which I suppose by the fashion of it, was made when he accustomed himself to tye-wigs;—the lace a rich orrice; but then it was so immoderately short, both in the sleeves and skirts, that whilst full dress'd he appeared to want cloathing.

The next morning,—ay, the next morning, then it was I lost my freedom.—Disrob'd of his gingerbread coat, I absolutely sell a sacrifice to a plain suit of broad cloth,—or rather, to a noble, plain heart.—Now pray, dear Madam, do not cross me in my first love;—at least, see Mr. Morgan, before you command me to give him up:—and you, sweet Sir, steal to a corner of your new possession, whilst I take notice of those who are capering to my fingers ends.

You have seen Miss Powis, Madam, on Mr. Morgan's knee;—you have heard him say enough to fill any other girl than myself with jealousy:—nay, Madam, you may smile;—he really makes love to me.—But for a moment let me forget my lover;—let me forget his melting sighs,—his tender protections,—his persuasive eloquence,—his air so languishing:—let me forget them all, I say, and lead you to the library, where by a message flew Miss Powis.—A look from her drew me after:—I suppose Lord Darcey had a touch from the same magnet.

A venerable pair with joy next to phrenzy caught her in their extended arms, as the door open'd. My kind, my dear, ever dear friends, said the lovely creature,—and is it thus we meet? is it thus I return to you?—Mr. Jenkings clasp'd her to him; but his utterance was quite choak'd:—the old Lady burst into a flood of tears, and then cried out,—How great is thy mercy, O God!—Suffer me to be grateful.—Again she flew to their arms;—again they folded her to their bosoms.—Lord Darcey too embrac'd them;—he condescendingly kiss'd their hands;—he said, next to the parents of his Fanny,—next to Lady Mary, they were most dear to him.—Miss Powis seated herself between them, and hung about the neck of Mrs. Jenkings;—whilst his Lordship, full of admiration, look'd as if his great soul labour'd for expression.—

Overcome with tender scenes, I left the library.—I acquainted Lady Mary who was there, and she went to them immediately.—Mr. Watson and Mr. Morgan for a quarter of an hour were all my own;—captain Risby, Mr. Molesworth, Lady Elizabeth and Sophia, being engag'd in a conversation at another part of the room:—you may guess our subject, Madam;—but I declare, whilst listening to Mr. Watson, I thought myself soaring above earthly enjoyments.—

Sir James, who had follow'd Lady Mary, soon return'd with her Ladyship, Miss Powis, Lord Darcey, and, what gave me heart-felt pleasure, the steward and his wife;—an honour they with difficulty accepted, as they were strangers to Lord Hampstead's family.—

Who says there is not in this life perfect happiness?—I say they are mistaken:—such felicity as I here see and partake of, cannot be call'd imperfect—How comes it that the domestics of this family so much surpass those of other people?—how is it one interest governs the whole?—I want to know a thousand mysteries.—I could write,—I could think eternally,—of the first happy evening.—First happy evening do I say? And can the days that crown that eve be forgot?—Heaven forbid! at least whilst I have recollection.—My heart speaks so fast to my pen, that fain my fingers would,—but cannot keep up with it.

The next morning Lord Darcey introduc'd to us the son of Mr. Jenkings.—A finer youth I never saw!—Well might the old gentleman be suspicious.—Few fathers would, like him, have sacrificed the interest of a son, to preserve that of a friend.—To know the real rank of Miss Powis;—her ten thousand virtues;—her great expectations; yet act with so much caution!—with an anxiety which the most sordid miser watching his treasure, could not have exceeded! and for what?—Why lest involuntarily she might enrich his belov'd son with her affections.—Will you part with me to this extraordinary man?—Only for an hour or two.—A walk is propos'd.—Our ramble will not be farther than his house.—You say I may go. Thank you, Madam: I am gone.

Just return'd from the steward's, so cramm'd with sweet-meats, cake, and jellies, that I am absolutely stupified.

I must tell you who led Miss Powis.—Lord Darcey, to be sure.—No, Madam; I had the favour of his Lordship's arm:—it was Edmund.—I call him Edmund;—every body calls him Edmund;—yes, and at Lord Darcey's request too.—Never shall I forget in what a graceful manner!—But his Lordship does every thing with grace.—He mention'd something of past times, hinting he should not always have courted him to such honour, presenting the hand of his belov'd.

I wish I could send you her look at that moment; it was all love,—all condescension.—I say I cannot send it.—Mortifying! I cannot even borrow it.

Adieu, dear Madam!—Adieu, dear Sir!—Adieu, you best of parents—It is impossible to say which is most dear to your ever dutiful and affectionate

E. DELVES.



LETTER XLIV.

Miss DELVES to the same.

Barford Abbey.

Lost my heart again!—Be not surpriz'd, Madam; I lose and find it ten times a day;—yet it never strays from Barford Abbey.—The last account you had from me it was button'd inside Mr. Morgan's hunting-frock:—since that, it has been God knows with whom:—sometimes wrapt in a red coat;—sometimes in a blue;—sometimes in a green:—but finding many competitors flew to black, where it now lies snug, warm, and easy.—Restless creature! I will never take it home again.

What think you, Madam, of a Dean for a son-in-law?

What do I think? you say.—Why the gentlemen of the church have too much sense and gravity to take my madcap off my hands.—Well, Madam, but suppose the Dean of H—— now you look pleas'd.—Oh, the Dean of H——! What the Dean, Bessy, that Lady Mary used to talk of:—the Dean that married Mr. and Mrs. Powis.

As sure as I live, Madam, the very man:—and to-morrow,—to-morrow at ten, he is to unite their lovely daughter with Lord Darcey.—Am I not very good,—extremely good, indeed, to sit down and write,—when every person below is solacing themselves on the approach of this happy festival?

I would suffer shipwreck ten times;—ten times would I be drove on uninhabited islands, for such a husband as Lord Darcey.—Miss Powis's danger was only imaginary, yet she must be so rewarded.—Well, she shall be rewarded:—she ought to be rewarded:—Lord Darcey shall reward her.

But is it not very hard upon your poor girl, that all the young smarts we brought down, and that which we found here, should have dispos'd of their hearts?—All;—even Lord Hallum,—he who used to boast so much of freedom,—now owns he has dispos'd of his.—

But to whom?—Aye: that's a question.—

They think, perhaps, the old stuff will do well enough for poor me!—Thanks to my genius, I can set my cap at any thing.

Why there's something tolerable in the sound of a Dean's Lady—Let me see if it will do.—"The Deans's coach;—the Dean's servants."—Something better this than a plain Mr.

Here comes Miss Powis. Now shall I be forc'd to huddle this into my pocket.—I am resolv'd she shall not see the preferment I have chalk'd out for myself.—No, no; I must be secret, or I shall have it taken from me.

This Miss Powis,—this very dutiful young Lady, that I used to have set up for a pattern,—now tells me that I must write no more; that you will not expect to hear from me 'till the next post.—If I must take Miss Powis's advice in everything;—if I must be guided by her;—you know who said this, Madam;—why then there is an end of my scribbling for this night.—But remember it is not my fault.—No, indeed, I was sat down as sober sedate as could be.—Quite fit for a Dean's Lady?—Yes;—quite fit, indeed.—Now comes Lady Elizabeth and Lady Sophia.—Well, it is impossible, I find, to be dutiful in this house.

Thursday, twelve o'clock at noon.

Bless my soul! one would think I was the bride by my shaking and quaking! Miss Powis is—Lady Darcey.—Down drops my letter:—Yes, dear Madam, I see you drop it to run and tell my father.

I may write on now;—I may do what I will;—Lord and Lady Darcey are every thing with every body Well as I love them, I was not present at the ceremony:—I don't know why neither.—Not a soul but attended, except your poor foolish girl—At the window I stood to see them go, and never stirr'd a step 'till they return'd.—Mr. Molesworth gave her away.—I vow I thought near as handsome as the bridegroom.—But what signifies my thinking him handsome?—I'll ask Lady Elizabeth by and bye what she thinks.—Now for a little about it, before I ature myself with implements of destruction.—The Dean is not quite dead yet; but if he live out this day,—I say, he is invulnerable.

Let us hear no more of yourself:—tell us of Lord and Lady Darcey

Have patience, Madam, and I will,

Well, their dress?—Why their faces were dress'd in smiles of love:—Nature's charms should always take place of art.—You see with what order I proceed.

Lord Darcey was dress'd in white richly lac'd with gold;—Lady Darcey in a white lutestring negligee nounc'd deep with a silver net;—no cap, a diamond sprig; her hair without powder; a diamond necklace and sleeve-knots;—bracelets set round with diamonds; and let me tell you, her jewels are a present from my first Adorable;—on the knowledge of which I discarded him.—No, no, Mr. Morgan; you are not a jewel of yourself neither.—Lady Darcey would have wore quite a morning dishabille, if the vain old Gentleman had not requested the contrary:—so forsooth, to humour him, we must be all put out of our way.

There they are on the lawn, as I hope to live, going to invite in Caesar.—Only an old dog, Madam, that lives betwixt this house and the steward's.

Lady Elizabeth and Mr. Molesworth, Lady Sophia and Captain Risby,—Oh, I long to be with you!—throw no more gravel to my window.—I will be dutiful;—in spite of your allurements, I will.

I left them in the library, inspecting a very charming piece, just brought from Brandon Lodge, done by the hand of Lady Mary Sutton.—Upon my word, they have soon conn'd it over:—but I have not told you it is the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Powis;—my dear Dean too joining their hands.—

God defend me! there he is, hopping out.—I wish he had kept within.—Why, Sir, I should have been down in a moment: then we might have had the most comfortable tete-a-tete.

Seriously, Madam—now I am really serious—can you believe, after beholding Lord and Lady Darcey, I will ever be content with a moderate share of happiness?—No, I will die first.—To see them at this instant would be an antidote for indifference.—Not any thing of foolish fondness:—no; that will never be seen in Lord and Lady Darcey.—Their happiness is not confin'd:—we are all refreshed by it:—it pours forth from their homes like streams flowing from a pure terrain.—I think I said I could not go to church:—no, not for the world would I have gone:—I expected Miss Powis would be crying, fainting, and I know not what.—Instead of all this fuss, not a tear was shed.—I thought every body cried when they were married:—those that had, or had not cause.—Well, I am determin'd to appear satisfied, however, if the yoke is a little galling.

How charming look'd Miss Powis, when she smil'd on Lord Darcey!—On Lord Darcey? On every body I mean.—And for him—But I must forget his air,—his words,—his looks, if ever I intend to say love, honour, and obey.—Once I am brought to say love,—honour and obey will slide off glibly enough. I must go down amongst them. Believe me, Madam, I shut myself up to write against intreaties,—against the most persuasive eloquence.

This is the day when the Powis family are crown'd with felicity.—I think on it with rapture.—I will set it down on the heart of your dutiful and affectionate

E. Delves.



LETTER XLV.

Miss Delves to the same.

Barford Abbey

Surely I must smell of venison,—roast beef, and plumb-puddings.—Yes, I smell of the Old English hospitality.—You, Madam, have no tenants to regale so;—are safe from such troubles on my account.—Will you believe me, Madam, I had rather see their honest old faces than go to the finest opera ever exhibited.—What think you of a hundred-and-seven chearful farmers sitting at long tables spread with every thing the season can afford;—two hogsheads of wine at their elbows;—the servants waiting on them with assiduous respect:—Their songs still echo in my ears.

I thought the roof would have come down, when Lord and Lady Darcey made their appearance.—Some sung one tune,—some another;—some paid extempore congratulations;—others that had not a genius, made use of ballads compos'd on the marriage of the King and Queen.—One poor old soul cried to the Butler, because he could neither sing or repeat a verse.—Seeing his distress, I went to him, and repeated a few lines applicable to the occasion, which he caught in a moment, and tun'd away with the best of them.

Lord and Lady Hampstead are so delighted with the honest rustics, that they declare every Christmas their tenants shall be regal'd at Hallum Grove.

What can one feel equal to the satisfaction which arises on looking out in the park?—Three hundred poor are there feasting under a shed erected for the purpose;—cloath'd by Sir James and Lady Powis;—so clean,—so warm,—so comfortable, that to see them at this moment, one would suppose they had never tasted of poverty.

Lord Darcey has order'd two hundred guineas to be given amongst them,—that to-morrow might not be less welcome to them than this day.

For my part, I have only two to provide for out of the number;—a pretty little boy and girl, that pick'd me up before I came to the shed.—The parents of those children were very good, and gave them to me on my first application.

Here comes Mrs. Jenkings.—Well, what pleasing thing have you to tell me, Mrs. Jenkings?

Five hundred pounds, as I live, to be given to the poor to-morrow from Lady Mary Sutton.—

What blessings will follow us on our journey! I believe I have not told you, Madam, we set out for Faulcum Park on Monday.—Not to stay:—no, I thank God we are not to stay.—If Lord and Lady Darcey were to inhabit Faulcum Park, yet it would not be to me like Barford Abbey,—Barford Abbey is to be their home whilst Sir James and Lady Powis live.

Lord Hallum wants me to walk with him.—Not I, indeed:—I hate a tete-a-tete with heartless men.—On second thoughts, I will go.

Oh Madam! out of breath with astonishment!—What think you:—I am the confidante of Lord Hallum's passion;—with permission too of the earl and countess.—Heavens! and can you guess, Madam, who it is he loves?—Adieu, my dear,—dear Dean!—Need I say more?—Will you not spare the blushes of your happy daughter,

E. DELVES.



FINIS.