 Introduction and Dedication of Evelina. Evelina or The History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World. Published in 1778 by Fanny Burney. Original inscription to Dr. Burney. Oh, author of my being! Far more dear to me than light, than nourishment or rest. Hygia's Blessings, Rapture's Burning Tear, Or the Lifeblood that Mantles in My Breast. If in my heart the love of virtue glows, To us planted there by an unerring rule, From thy example the pure flame arose, Thy life my precept, thy good works, my school. Could my weak powers thy numerous virtues trace? By filial love each fear should be repressed. The blush of incapacity I'd chase, And stand, recorder of thy worth, confessed. But since my niggered stars that gift refuse, Concealment is the only boon I claim. Obscure bestill the unsuccessful muse, Who cannot raise, but would not sink, thy fame. Oh, of my life at once the source and joy, If ere thy eyes these feeble lines survey, Let not their folly, their intent destroy, Accept the tribute, but forget the lay. Original Dedication To the authors of the Monthly and Critical Reviews Gentlemen, the liberty which I take in addressing you, the trifling production of a few idle hours, Will doubtless move your wonder and probably your contempt. I will not, however, with the futility of apologies, intrude upon your time, But briefly acknowledge the motives of my temerity, Lest, by a premature exercise of that patience, Which I hope will befriend me, I should lessen its benevolence, And be accessory to my own condemnation. Without name, without recommendation, And unknown alike to success and disgrace, To whom can I so properly apply for patronage, As to those who publicly profess themselves inspectors of all literary performances? The extensive plan of your critical observations, Which, not confined to works of utility or ingenuity, Is equally open to those of frivolous amusement, And yet worse than frivolous, dullness, Encourages me to seek for your protection, Since, perhaps for my sins, it entitles me to your annotations. To resent, therefore, this offering, however insignificant, Would ill-become the universality of your undertaking, Though not to despise it may, alas, be out of your power. The language of adulation, and the incense of flattery, Though the natural inheritance and constant resource From time immemorial of the dedicator, To me offer nothing but the wistful regret That I dare not invoke their aid. Sinister views would be imputed to all I could say, Since, thus situated, to extol your judgment Would seem the effect of art, And to celebrate your impartiality Be attributing to suspecting it. As magistrates of the press, and censors for the public, To which you were bound by the sacred ties of integrity, To exert the most spirited impartiality, And to which your suffrages should carry the marks of pure, Dauntless, irrefragable truth, To appeal to your mercy, or to solicit your dishonor, And therefore, though to sweeter than frankincense, More grateful to the senses than all the odorous perfumes of Arabia, And, though, it droppeth like the gentle rain From heaven upon the place beneath, I court it not. To your justice alone I am entitled, And by that I must abide. Your engagements are not to the supplicating authors, But to the candid public, Which will not fail to crave The penalty and forfeit of your bond. No hackneyed writer enured to abuse, And callous to criticism, here braves your severity. Neither does a half-starved garretor, Obliged by hunger and request of friends, Employ your lenity. Your examination will be alike unbiased By partiality and prejudice. No refractory murmuring will follow your censure. No private interest will be gratified by your praise. Let not the anxious solicitude, With which I recommend myself to your notice, Expose me to your derision. Remember, gentlemen, You were all young writers once, And the most experienced veteran of your core May, by recollecting his first publication, Renovate his first terrors, And learn to allow for mine, For though courage is one of the noblest virtues Of this nether sphere, And though scarcely more requisite in the field of battle To guard the fighting hero from disgrace Than in the private commerce of the world, To ward off that littleness of soul which leads, By steps imperceptible, To all the base train of inferior passions, And by which the too timid mind Is betrayed into a servility derogatory To the dignity of human nature. Yet is it a virtue of no necessity In a situation such as mine, A situation which removes even from cowardice itself The sting of ignominy, For surely that courage may easily be dispensed with, Which would rather excite disgust than admiration. Indeed it is the peculiar privilege of an author To rob terror of contempt And pusillanimity of reproach. Here let me rest And snatch myself while I yet am able From the fascination of egotism, A monster who has more votaries Than ever did homage to the most popular deity of antiquity, And whose singular quality is That while he excites a blind and involuntary adoration In almost every individual, His influence is universally disallowed, His power universally condemned, And his worship even by his followers Never mentioned but with abhorrence. In addressing you jointly, I mean but to mark the generous sentiments By which liberal criticism to the utter annihilation Of envy, jealousy, and all selfish views Aught to be distinguished. I have the honor to be, gentlemen, Your most obedient, humble servant. Original Preface In the Republic of Letters There is no member of such inferior rank Or who is so much disdained By his brethren of the Quill As the humble novelist. Nor is his fate less hard in the world at large Since among the whole class of writers Perhaps not one can be named Of which the votaries are more numerous But less respectable. Yet while in the annals of those few of our predecessors To whom this species of writing is indebted For being saved from contempt And rescued from depravity We can trace such names as Rousseau, Johnson, Marivo, Felding, Richardson, and Smollett. No man need blush at starting from the same post Though many, nay, most men may sigh At finding themselves distanced. Begin Footnote However superior the capacities in which these great writers Deserve to be considered They must pardon me that For the dignity of my subject I here rank the authors of Rasselas and Eloise As novelists. End of Footnote The following letters are presented to the public For such, by novel writers, novel readers will be called With a very singular mixture of timidity and confidence Resulting from the peculiar situation of the editor Who, though trembling for their success From a consciousness of their imperfections Yet fears not being involved in their disgrace While happily wrapped up in a mantle Of impenetrable obscurity To draw characters from nature, though not from life And to mark the manners of the times Is the attempted plan of the following letters For this purpose, a young female Educated in the most secluded retirement Makes, at the age of 17, her first appearance Upon the great and busy stage of life With a virtuous mind, a cultivated understanding And a feeling heart, her ignorance of the forms And inexperience in the manners of the world Occasion all the little incidents which these volumes record And which form the natural progression Of the life of a young woman of obscure birth But conspicuous beauty for the first six months After her entrance into the world Perhaps were it possible to affect The total extirpation of novels Our young ladies in general And boarding school damsels in particular Might profit from their annihilation But since the distemper they have spread Seems incurable, since their contagion bids defiance To the medicine of advice or reprehension And since they are found to baffle All the mental arts of physics Save what is prescribed by the slow regimen Of time and bitter diet of experience Surely all attempts to contribute To the number of those which may be read If not with advantage, at least without injury Aught, rather, to be encouraged than condemned Let me, therefore, prepare for disappointment Those who, in the perusal of these sheets Chained the gentle expectation of being transported To the fantastic regions of romance Where fiction is colored by all the gay tense Of luxurious imagination Where reason is an outcast And where sublimity of the marvelous Rejects all aid from sober probability The heroine of these memoirs Young, artless, and inexperienced Is no faultless monster that the world Saw but the offspring of nature And of nature in her simplest attire In all the arts the value of copies Can only be proportioned to the scarcity Of originals among sculptors and painters A fine statue or a beautiful picture Of some great master may deservedly Employ the imitative talents of young And inferior artists that their appropriation To one spot may not wholly prevent The more general expansion of their excellence But among authors the reverse is the case Since the noblest productions of literature Are almost equally attainable with the meanest In books, therefore, imitation Cannot be shunned too sedulously For the very perfection of a model Which is frequently seen serves But more forcibly to mark the inferiority Of a copy. To avoid what is common Without adopting what is unnatural Must limit the ambition of the vulgar Heard of authors. However zealous, therefore, my veneration Of the great writers I have mentioned. However, I may feel myself enlightened By the knowledge of Johnson, charmed With the eloquence of Rousseau, softened By the pathetic powers of Richardson And exhilarated by the wit of fielding And humor of Smollett. I yet presume not to attempt pursuing The same ground which they have tracked. Wenced though they may have cleared the weeds They have also cooled the flowers And though they have rendered the path plain They have left it barren. The candor of my readers I have not The impertinence to doubt And to their indulgence I am sensible I have no claim. I have, therefore, only to entreat That my own words may not pronounce My condemnation, and that what I have Here ventured to say in regard to imitation May be understood as it is meant In a general sense, and not be Imputed to an opinion of my own Originality, which I have not the vanity The folly or the blindness to entertain. Whatever may be the fate of these Letters, the editor is satisfied They will meet with justice And commits them to the press Though hopeless of fame Yet not regardless of censure. Evelina by Fanny Bernay Letter 1 Lady Howard to the reverend Mr. Willers, Howard Grove Kent Can anything, my good sir, Be more painful to a friendly mind Than a necessity of communicating Disagreeable intelligence? Indeed, it is sometimes difficult to determine Whether the latter or the receiver Of evil tidings is most to be pitied. I have just had a letter from Madame Duval She is totally at a loss in what manner to behave She seems to be serious to repair The wrong she has done, yet wishes the world To believe her blameless. She would feign cast upon another The odium of those misfortunes For which she alone is unswerble. Her letter is violent, sometimes abusive And that of you, you, to whom Under obligations, which are greater Even than her faults, but to whose advice She wickedly imputes all the sufferings Of her much-endured daughter, The late Lady Belmont. The chief purport of her writing I will equate a new whiz The letter itself is not worthy your notice. She tells me that she has, for many years past Been in continual expectation Of making a journey to England Which prevented her writing for information Concerning this melancholy subject By giving her hopes of making personal inquiries But family occurrences have still detained Her in France, which country She now sees no prospect of quitting She has therefore lately used her At most endeavours to obtain a faithful account Of whatever related to her ill-advised daughter The result of which giving her some reason To apprehend that upon her deathbed She bequeathed an infant orphan to the world She most graciously says that if you With whom she understands that child is placed Will procure authentic proofs of its relationship to her You may send it to Paris Where she will properly provide for it This woman is undoubtedly at length Self-convicted of her most unnatural behaviour It is evident from her writing That she is still as vulgar and illiterate As when her first husband, Mr Evelyn Had the weakness to marry her Nor does she at all apologise For addressing herself to me Though I was the only once in her company Her letter has excited in my daughter Mirvan A strong desire to be informed of the motives Which induced Madame Duval To abandon the unfortunate Lady Belmont At a time when a mother's protection Was peculiarly necessary for her peace And her reputation Notwithstanding I was personally acquainted With all the parties concerned in that affair The subject always appeared of too delicate a nature To be spoken of with the principles I cannot therefore satisfy Mrs Mirvan Otherwise than by applying to you By saying that you may send the child Madame Duval aims at conferring Where she most owes application I pretend not to give you advice You, to host generous protection This helpless orphan is indebted For everything are the best and only judge Of what she ought to do But I am much concerned at the trouble and uneasiness Which is unworthy of women, my occasion you My daughter and my grandchild Join with me in desiring to be most kindly remembered To the amiable girl And they have bid me remind you To the annual visit to Howard Grove Which we were formally promised Has been discontinued for more than four years I am, dear sir, with great regard Your most obedient friend and servant M. Howard End of letter one Recording by Ed Mead Evelina by Fanny Burney Letter two from Mr. Velars to Lady Howard Barry Hill Dorsetcher Your ladyship did but too well foresee The perplexity and uneasiness Of which Madame Duval's letter has been productive However, I ought rather to be thankful That I have so many years remained unmalested Than repine at my present embarrassment Since it proves at least that this wretched woman Is at length awakened to remorse In regard to my answer, I must humbly request Your ladyship to write to this effect That I would not, upon any account, Intentionally offend Madame Duval But that I have weighty, nay unanswerable reasons For detaining her granddaughter at present in England The principle of which is That it was the earnest desire Of one to whose will shows implicit duty Madame Duval may be assured That she meets with the utmost attention and tenderness That her education, however short of my wishes Almost succeeds my abilities And I flatter myself when the time arrives That she shall pay her duty to her grandmother Madame Duval will find no reason to be dissatisfied With what has been done for her Your ladyship will not, I am sure, Be surprised at this answer Madame Duval is by no means a proper companion Or guardian for a young woman She is at once uneducated and unprincipled Ungentle in temper and unamiable in her manners I have long known that she has persuaded herself To harbor an aversion for me Unhappy woman, I can only regard her as an object of pity I dare not hesitate at a request from Mrs. Mervin Yet, in complying with it, I shall, for her own sake Be as concise as I possibly can Since the cruel transactions which preceded the birth of my ward Can afford no entertainment to a mind so humane as hers Your ladyship may probably have heard That I had the honour to accompany Mr. Evelyn The grandfather of my young charge Went upon his travels in the capacity of a tutor His unhappy marriage Immediately upon his return to England With Madame Duval, then a waiting girl at a tavern Contrary to the advice and entries of all his friends Among whom I was myself the most urgent Induced him to abandon his native land And fix his abode in France Thither he was followed by shame and repentance Feelings which his heart was not framed to support For notwithstanding he had been too weak To resist the allurements of beauty Which nature, though a nigger to her of every other boon Had with a lavish hen bestowed on his wife Yet he was a young man of excellent character Until thus unaccountably infatuated of unblemished conduct He survived this ill-judged marriage but two years Upon his deathbed, with an unsiddy hand He wrote me the following note My friend, forget your resentment In favour of your humanity A father, trembling for the welfare of his child Bequease her to your care Who will ours here pity and relieve me Had my circumstances permitted me I should have answered these words By an immediate journey to Paris But I was obliged to act by the agency of a friend Who was upon the spot and present At the opening of the will Mr. Evelyn left to me a legacy of a thousand pounds And the sole guardianship of his daughter's person Till her eighteenth year Conjuring me in the most affecting terms To take the charge of her education Till she was able to act with propriety for herself But in regard to fortune He left her wholly dependent on her mother To whose tenderness he earnestly recommended her Thus, though he would not To a woman low-bred and illiberal as Mrs. Evelyn Trust the conduct and morals of his daughter He nevertheless thought proper to secure to her The respect and duty to which From her own child were certainly her due But unhappily it never occurred to him That the mother, on her part, Could fail in affection or justice Miss Evelyn, madam, from the second to the eighteenth year Of her life was brought up under my care And except when at school under my roof I need not speak to your ladyship Of the virtues of that excellent young creature She loved me as her father Nor was Mrs. Villars less valued by her While to me she became so dear That her loss was little less afflicting Than that which I have since sustained Of Mrs. Villars herself At that period of her life we parted Her mother, then married to Mishir Deval Sent for her to Paris How often have I since regretted That I did not accompany her thither Protected and supported by me The misery and disgrace which awaited her Might perhaps have been avoided But to be brief, madam Deval At the instigation of her husband Earnestly or rather tyrannically Endeavored to affect a union between Miss Evelyn and one of his nephews And when she found her power inadequate To her attempt enraged at her non-compliance She treated her with the grossest unkindness And threatened her with poverty and ruin Devalin to whom wrath and violence Had hitherto been strangers Soon grew weary of such usage And rashly and without a witness Consented to a private marriage With Sir John Belmont, a very profligate young man Who had but too successfully found means To insinuate himself into her favor He promised to conduct her to England He did Oh, madam, you know the rest Disappointed of the fortune he expected By the inexorable ranker of the Duvales He infamously burnt the certificate of their marriage And denied that they had ever been united She flew to me for protection With what mixed transports of joy and anguish Did I again see her By my advice she endeavored to procure proofs Of her marriage but in vain Her credulity had been no match for his art Everybody believed her innocent From the guiltless tenor of her unspotted youth And from the known libertinism Of her barbarous betrayer Yet her sufferings were too acute For her slender frame And the same moment they gave birth to her infant Put an end at once to the sorrows And the life of its mother The rage of madam Duval at her elopement Abated not while this injured victim of cruelty Yet true breath She probably intended, in time, To have pardoned her But time was not allowed She was informed of her death, I have been told, That the agonies of grief and remorse With which she was seized Occasioned her a severe fit of illness But from the time of her recovery To the date of her letter to your ladyship I had never heard that she manifested any desire To be made acquainted with the circumstances Which attended the death of Lady Belmont And the birth of her helpless child That child, madam, shall never While life has lent me To the loss she has sustained I have cherished, suckered, And supported her From her earliest infancy to her sixteenth year And so amply has she repaid my care and affection That my fondest wish is now circumscribed By the desire of bestowing her On one who may be sensible of her worth And then sinking to eternal rest In her arms Thus it has happened That the education of the father, Daughter, and granddaughter Has devolved on me What infinite misery Have the two first caused me Should the fate of the dear survivor Be equally adverse How wretched will be the end of my cares The end of my days Even had Madam Deval Murdered the charge she claims I fear my fortitude would have been Unequal to such a parting But being such as she is Not only my affection, but my humanity Recoils at the barbarous idea Of deserting the sacred trust reposed in me Indeed, I could but ill-support her Former yearly visits to the respectable mansion At Howard Grove. Pardon me, dear Madam, and do not think me insensible Of the honour which your ladyship's condescension Confers upon us both. But so deep is the impression Which the misfortunes of her mother Have made on my heart That she does not, even for a moment, Quit my sight without exciting apprehensions And terrors which almost overpower me Such Madam is my tenderness And such my weakness But she is the only time I have upon earth And I trust to your ladyship's goodness Not to judge of my feelings with severity I beg leave to present my humble respects To Mrs. and Miss Mirvin And have the honour to be, Madam, Your ladyship's most obedient And most humble servant Arthur Villars END OF LETTER 2 Dear and Reverend Sir, Your last letter gave me infinite pleasure. After so long and tedious an illness How grateful to yourself and to your friends Must be your returning health. You have the hurt and wishes of every individual Of this place for its continuance and increase. Will you not think I take advantage Of your acknowledged recovery If I once more went here to mention Your pupil and Howard Grove together? Yet you must remember the patience With which we submitted to your desire Of not parting with her During the bad state of your house Though it was with much reluctance We forbade to solicit her company. My granddaughter in particular Has scarce been able to repress her eagerness To again meet the friend of her infancy. And for my own part it is very strongly My wish to manifest the regard I had for the unfortunate Lady Belmond By providing serviceable to her child Which seems to me the best respect That can be paid to her memory. Permit me therefore to lay before you a plan Which Mrs. Mervyn and I have formed In consequence of your restoration to health. I would not frighten you, But do you think you could bear to part With your young companion for two or three months? Mrs. Mervyn proposes to spend The ensuing spring in London With her for the first time My grandchild will accompany her. Now, my good friend, it is very earnestly Their wish to enlarge and enliven their party By the addition of your amiable word Who would share equally with her own daughter The care and attention of Mrs. Mervyn. Do not start at this proposal. It is time that she should see something of the world. When young people are too rigidly Sequestered from it, Their lively and romantic imaginations Paint it to them as a paradise Of which they have been beguiled. But when they are shown it properly and in due time They see it such as it really is Equally shared by pain and pleasure, hope and disappointment. You have nothing to apprehend From her meeting with Sir John Belmont, As that abandoned man is now abroad And not expected home this year. Well, my good sir, What say you to our scheme? I hope it will meet with your approbation, But if it should not, be assured I can never object to any decision Of one who is so much respected and esteemed As Mr. Willers, By his most faithful humble servant M. Howard. I am Griefed Madame to appear obstinate, And I blush to incur the imputation of selfishness. In detaining my young charge thus long With myself and the country, I consulted not solely my own inclination. Destined in all probability To possess a very moderate fortune, I wish to contract her views To some extent, But I do not. I do not. I do not. I do not. I do not. I poorestly accept her views to something within it. The mind is but too naturally prone to pleasure, But too easily yielded to dissipation, And has been my study to guard her against their delusions By preparing her to expect and to despise them. But the time draws on for experience And observation, To take the place of instruction. If I have, in some measure, using one with discretion, and making the other with improvement, I shall rejoice myself with assurance of having largely contributed to her welfare. She is now of an age that happiness is eager to attend. Let her, and then, enjoy it. I commit her to the protection of your ladyship, and only hope she may be found worthy half the goodness I am satisfied she will meet with at your hospitable mansion. Thus far, madam, I cheerfully submit to your desire. In confiding my ward to the care of Lady Howard, I can feel no uneasiness from her absence, but what will arise from the loss of her company, since I shall be as well convinced of her safety as if she were under my own roof. But can your ladyship be serious in proposing to introduce her to the gayities of a London life? Permit me to ask, for what end, or for what purpose? A youthful mind is seldom totally free from ambition. To curb that is the first step to contentment, since to diminish expectation is to increase enjoyment. I apprehend nothing more than too much raising her hopes and her views, which the natural vivacity of her disposition would render but too easy to affect. The town acquaintance of Mrs. Mirvan are all in the circle of high life. This artless young creature, with too much beauty to escape notice, has too much sensibility to be indifferent to it, but she has too little wealth to be sought with propriety by men of the fashionable world. Consider, madam, the peculiar cruelty of her situation. Only child of a wealthy baronette whose person she has never seen, whose character she has reasoned to abhor, and whose name she is forbidden to claim, and titled as she is to lawfully inherit his fortune in his state, is there any probability that he will properly own her. And while he continues to persevere in disavowing his marriage with Miss Evelyn, she shall never, at the expense of her mother's honor, receive a part of her right as the donation of his bounty. And as to Mr. Evelyn's estate, I have no doubt that madam Duvall and her relations will dispose of it among themselves. It seems therefore as if this deserter child, though legally heiress to two large fortunes, must owe all her rational expectations to adoption and friendship. Yet her income will be such as may make her happy if she is disposed to be so in private life, though it will by no means allow her to enjoy the luxury of a London fine lady. Let Miss Mirvan then, madam, shine in all the splendor of high life, but suffer my child still to enjoy the pleasures of humble retirement, with the mind to which greater views are unknown. I hope this reasoning will be honored with your approbation, and I have yet another motive which has some weight with me. I would not willingly give offense to any human being, and surely Madame Duvall might accuse me of injustice, if, while I refuse to let her granddaughter wait upon her, I consent that she should join a party of pleasure to London. In sending her to Howard Grove not one of these scruples arise, and therefore Mrs. Clinton, a most worthy woman, formerly her nurse, and now my housekeeper, shall attend her thither next week. Although I have always called her by the name of Annville, and reported in this neighborhood that her father, my intimate friend, left her to my guardianship, yet I have thought it necessary she should herself be acquainted with the melancholy circumstances attending her birth. For though I am very desirous of guarding her from curiosity and impertinence by concealing her name, family, and story, yet I would not leave it in the power of chance to shock her gentle nature with a tale of so much sorrow. You must not, Madame, expect too much from my pupil. She is quite a little rustic, and knows nothing of the world, and though her education has been the best I could bestow in this retired place, to which Dorchester, in the nearest town, is seven miles distant, yet I shall not be surprised if you should discover in her a thousand deficiencies of which I have never dreamt. She must be very much altered since she was last at Howard Grove, but I will say nothing of her. I leave her to your ladyship's own observations, for which I beg a faithful relation, and am, dear Madame, with great respect, your obedient and most humble servant. Dear Madame, this letter will be delivered to you by my child, to child of my adoption, my affection. Unblessed with one natural friend, she merits a thousand. I send her to you innocent as an angel, and artless as purity itself, and I send you with her the heart of your friend, the only hope he has on earth, the subject of his tenderest thoughts, and the object of his latest cares. She is one Madame for whom alone I have lately wished to live, and she is one whom to serve I would with transport die. Restore her, but to me, all innocence as you receive her, and the fondest hope of my heart will be amply gratified. Avelar's End of Letter V Avelar's End of Letter V Dear Reverend Sir, the solemn manner in which you have committed your child to my care has in some measure damped the pleasure which I receive from the trust, as it makes me fear that you suffer from your compliance, in which case I shall very sincerely blame myself, from the earnestness with which I have requested this favour. But remember, my good Sir, she is within a few days' summons, and be assured I will not detain her a moment longer than you wish. You desire my opinion of her. She is a little angel, I cannot wonder that you sought to monopolise her, neither ought you at finding it impossible. Her face and person answer my most refined ideas of complete beauty, and this, though a subject of praise less important to you, or to me than any other, is yet so striking, it is not possible to pass it unnoticed. Had I not known from whom she received her education, I should at first sight of so perfect a face have been in pain for her understanding, since it has been long and justly remarked that Foley has ever sought alliance with beauty. She has the same gentleness in her manners, the same natural graces in her motions that I formally so much admired in her mother. Her character seemed truly ingenious and simple, and at the same time that nature has blessed her with an excellent understanding and great quickness of parts. She has a certain air of inexperience and innocence that is extremely interesting. You have no reason to regret the retirement in which she has lived, since that politeness which is acquired by an acquaintance with high life is in her so well supplied by a natural desire of obliging, joined to a deportment infinitely engaging. I observe with great satisfaction a growing affection between this amiable girl and my granddaughter, whose heart is as free from selfishness or concede as that of her young friend is from all kind. The regard might be mutually useful, since much is to be expected from a relation where nothing is to be feared from envy. I would have them love each other as sisters, and reciprocally supply the place of that tender and happy relationship to which neither of them has a natural claim. Be satisfied, my good sir, that your child shall meet with the same attention as our own. We all join in most earthly wishes for your health and happiness, and in returning our sincere thanks for the favor you have conferred on us. I am, dear sir, your most faithful servant. Aim hard. End of the Letter 6. Letter 7 of Evelina. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine. Evelina. By Fanny Burney. Letter 7. From Lady Howard to the Reverend Mr. Willers. Howard Groove, March 26. Be not alarmed, my worthy friend, at my so speedily troubling you again. I seldom use the ceremony of waiting for answers or writing with any irregularity, and I have at present immediate occasion for begging your patience. Mrs. Mervyn has just received a letter from her long absent husband, containing the welcome news of his hoping to reach London by the beginning of next week. My daughter and the captain have been separated almost seven years, and it would therefore be needless to say what joy, surprise, and consequently confusion his at present unexpected return has caused at Howard Groove. Mrs. Mervyn, you can not doubt, will go instantly to town to meet him. Her daughter is under a thousand obligations to attend her. I agree that her mother cannot. And now, my good sir, I almost blushed to proceed, but tell me, may I ask, will you permit that your child may accompany them? Do not think us unreasonable, but consider the many inducements which conspire to make London's happiest place at present she can be in. The joyful occasion of the journey, the guiety of the whole party, opposed to the dull life she must lead. If left here with a solitary old woman from her soul companion, while she so well knows the cheerfulness and felicity enjoyed by the rest of the family, are circumstances that seem to merit your consideration. Mrs. Mervyn desires me to assure you that one week is all she asks, as she is certain that the captain who hates London will be eager to revisit Howard Groove. And Mervyn is so very earnest and wishing to have the company of her friend, that if you are inexorable, she will be deprived of half the pleasure she otherwise hopes to receive. However, I will not, my good sir, deceive you into an opinion that they intend to live in a retired manner, as that cannot be fairly expected. But you have no reason to be uneasy concerning Madame Duval. She has not any correspondent in England and obtains no intelligence but by common report. She must be a stranger to the name your child Beers. And even should she hear of this excursion, so short a time is a week or less spent in town upon so particular an occasion, so previous to their meeting cannot be construed into disrespect to herself. Mrs. Mervyn desires me to assure you that if you will oblige her, her two children shall equally share her time and her attention. She has sent a commission to a friend in town to take a house for her. And while she waits for an answer concerning it, I shall for one from you to our petition. However, your child is writing herself, and that, I doubt not, will more avail that all we can possible urge. My daughter desires her best compliments to you if, she says, you will grant her a request but not else. Adieu, my dear sir, we all hope everything from your goodness. M. Howard. This house seems to be the house of joy. Every face wears a smile, and a laugh is at every body's service. It is quite amusing to walk about and see the general confusion. A room leading to the garden is fitting up for Captain Mervyn's study. Lady Howard does not sit a moment in a place. Miss Mervyn is making caps. Everybody so busy—such flying from room to room! So many orders given and retracted and given again! Nothing but hurry and perturbation. Well, but, my dear sir, I am desired to make a request to you. I hope you will not think me in encroacher. Lady Howard insists upon my writing, yet I hardly know how to go on. A petition implies a want, and have you left me one? No, indeed. I am half ashamed of myself for beginning this letter. But these dear ladies are so pressing, I cannot for my life resist wishing for the pleasures they offer me, provided you do not disapprove them. They are, to make a very short stay in town. The captain will meet them in a day or two. Mrs. Mervyn and her sweet daughter both go—what a happy party! Yet I am not very eager to accompany them. At least I shall be contented to remain where I am, if you desire that I should. Assured my dearest sir, of your goodness, your bounty, and your indulgent kindness, what I do form a wish that has not your sanction? Decide for me, therefore, without the least apprehension, that I shall be uneasy or discontented. While I am yet in suspense, perhaps I may hope, but I am most certain that when you have once determined, I shall not repine. They tell me that London is now in full splendour. Two playhouses are open—the Opera House, Ranala, and the Pantheon. You see, I have learned all their names. However, pray don't suppose that I make any point of going, for I shall hardly sigh to see them depart without me, though I shall probably never meet with such another opportunity. And indeed, their domestic happiness will be so great, it is natural to wish to partake of it. I believe I am bewitched. I made a resolution when I began that I would not be urgent, but my pen, or rather my thoughts, will not suffer me to keep it, for I acknowledge, I must acknowledge, I cannot help wishing for your permission. I almost repent already that I have made this confession. Pray forget that you have read it, if this journey is displeasing to you. But I will not write any longer, for the more I think of this affair, the less indifferent to it I find myself. Adieu, my most honoured, most reverenced, most beloved father, for by what other name can I call you? I have no happiness or sorrow, no hope or fear, but what your kindness bestows, or your displeasure may cause. You will not, I am sure, send a refusal without reasons unanswerable, and therefore I shall cheerfully acquiesce. Yet I hope, I hope you'll be able to permit me to go. I am, with the utmost affection, gratitude, and duty, your Everliner. I cannot to you, sign Anvil, and what other name may I claim? To resist the urgency of entreaty is the power which I have not yet acquired. I aim not at an authority which surprives you of liberty, yet I would feign guide myself by a prudence which should save me the pangs of repentance. You are impatient to fly to a place which your imagination has painted to you in colors so attractive, surprizes me not. I have only to hope that the liveliness of your fancy may not deceive you. To refuse would be raising is so higher. To see my Everliner happy is to see myself without a wish. Go then, my child, and may that heaven which alone can direct, preserve, and strengthen you. To that my love will I daily offer prayers of your felicity. O may it guard, watch over you, defend you from danger, save you from distress, and keep vice as distant from your person as from your heart. And to me may it grant the ultimate blessing of closing these aged eyes in the arms of one so dear, so deservedly beloved. This moment arrived, just going to Drury Lane Theatre. The celebrated Mr. Garrick performs a ranger, I am quite an ecstasy, so is Miss Mervyn. How fortunate that he should happen to play! We would not let Mrs. Mervyn rest as she consented to go. Her chief objection was to our dress, for we have had no time to Londonise ourselves, but we teased her into compliance, and so we are to sit in some obscure place that she may not be seen. As to me, I should be like unknown in the most conspicuous or private part of the house. I can write no more now, I have hardly time to breathe, only just this, the houses and streets are not quite so superb as I expected. However, I have seen nothing yet, so I ought not to judge. Well, adieu, my dearest sir, for the present, I could not forbear writing a few words instantly on my arrival, though I suppose my letter of thanks for your consent is still on the road. Saturday night. Oh, my dear sir, in what raptures am I returned? Well may Mr. Garrick be so celebrated, so universally admired. I had not any idea of so great a performer. Such ease, such vivacity in his manner, such grace in his motions, such fire and meaning in his eyes. I could hardly believe he had studied a written part, for every word seemed to be uttered from the impulse of the moment. His action, at once so graceful and so free, his voice so clear, so melodious, yet so wonderfully various in its tone. Such animation, every look speaks. I would have given the world to have had the whole play acted over again, and when he danced—oh, how I envied Clarinda. I almost wished to have jumped on the stage and joined them. I am afraid you will think me mad, so I won't say any more yet. Yet I really believe Mr. Garrick would make you mad, too, if you could see him. I intend to ask Mrs. Mervin to go to the play every night while we stay in town. She is extremely kind to me, and Mariah, her charming daughter, is the sweetest girl in the world. I shall write to you every evening all that passes in the day, and that in the same manner as, if I could see, I should tell you. Sunday. This morning we went to Portland Chapel, and afterwards we walked in the Mall of St. James' Park, which by no means answered my expectations. It is a long, straight walk of dirty gravel, very uneasy to the feet, and at each end, instead of an open prospect, nothing is to be seen but houses built of brick. When Mrs. Mervin pointed out the palace to me, I think I was never much more surprised. However, the walk was very agreeable to us. Everybody looked gay and seemed pleased, and the ladies were so much dressed that Mrs. Mervin and I could do nothing but look at them. Mrs. Mervin met several of her friends. No wonder, for I never saw so many people assembled together before. I looked about for some of my acquaintance, but in vain, for I saw not one person that I knew, which is very odd, for all the world seemed there. Mrs. Mervin says we are not to walk in the park again next Sunday, even if we should be in town, because there is better company in Kensington Gardens. But really, if you had seen how much everybody was dressed, you would not think that possible. Monday. We are to go this evening to a private ball, given by Mrs. Stanley, a very fashionable lady of Mrs. Mervin's acquaintance. We have been a-shopping, as Mrs. Mervin calls it, all this morning, to buy silks, caps, gauzes, and so forth. The shops are really very entertaining, especially the mercers—there seemed to be six or seven men belonging to each shop, and every one took care by bowing and smirking to be noticed. We were conducted from one to another, and carried from room to room with so much ceremony that at first I was almost afraid to go on. I thought I should never have chosen a silk, for they produced so many I knew not which to fix upon, and they recommended them all so strongly that I fancy they thought I only wanted persuasion to buy everything they showed me, and indeed they took so much trouble that I was almost ashamed I could not. At the milleners the ladies we met were so much dressed that I should rather have imagined they were making visits than purchases. But what most diverted me was, that we were more frequently served by men than men by women—and such men!—so finical, so affected!—they seemed to understand every part of a woman's dress better than we do ourselves, and they recommended caps and ribbons with an air of so much importance, that I wished to ask them how long they had left off wearing them. The dispatch with which they work in these great shops is amazing, for they have promised me a complete suit of linen against the evening. I have just had my hair dressed. You can't think how oddly my head feels, full of powder and black pins, and a great cushion on the top of it. I believe you would hardly know me, for my face looks quite different to what it did before my hair was dressed. When I shall be able to make use of a comb for myself, I cannot tell, for my hair is so much entangled—frizzled, they call it—that I fear it will be very difficult. I am half-afraid of this ball to-night. For you know, I have never danced, but at school—however, Miss Mervyn says, there is nothing in it. Yet I wish it was over. Ah, dear, my dear sir, pray excuse the wretched stuff, I write—perhaps I may improve by being in this town, and then my letters will be less unworthy, your reading. Meantime, I am your dutiful and affectionate, though unpolished. Everliner." Miss Mervyn cannot wear one of the caps she made, because they dress her hair too large for them. April 5th, Tuesday morning. I have a vast deal to say, and shall give all this morning to my pen. As to my plan of writing every evening the adventures of the day, I find it impracticable, for the diversions here are so very late, that if I begin my letters after them, I could not go to bed at all. We passed a most extraordinary evening—a private ball, this was called, so I expected to have seen about four or five couples. But Lord! My dear sir, I believe I saw half the world. Two very large rooms were full of company, in one were cards for the elderly ladies, and in the other were the dancers. My mamar Mervyn, for she always calls me her child, said she would sit with Mariah and me till we were provided with partners, and then join the card-players. The gentlemen, as they passed and repast, looked as if they thought we were quite at their disposal, and only waiting for the honour of their commands, and they sought it about, in a careless, indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in suspense. I don't speak of this in regard to Miss Mervyn and myself only, but to the ladies in general, and I thought it so provoking, that I determined in my own mind that, far from humoring such heirs, I would rather not dance at all, than with any one who would seem to think me ready to accept the first partner who would condescend to take me. Not long after, a young man, who had for some time looked at us with a kind of negligent impertinence, advanced on tiptoe towards me. He had a set smile on his face, and his dress was so foppish, that I really believed he even wished to be stared at. And yet he was very ugly. Bowing almost to the ground with a sort of swing, and waving his hand with the greatest conceit, after a short and silly pause, he said, Madame, may I presume? And stopped, offering to take my hand. I drew it back, but could scarcely forbear laughing. Allow me, Madame! continued he, effectively breaking off every half-moment. The honour and happiness, if I am not so unhappiest would rest you too late, to have the happiness and honour. Again, he would have taken my hand, but bowing my head I begged to be excused, and turned to Miss Mervyn to conceal my laughter. He then desired to know if I had already engaged myself to some more fortunate man. I said no, and that I believed I should not dance at all. He would keep himself, he told me, disengaged, in hopes I should relent, and then uttering some ridiculous speeches of sorrow and disappointment, though his face still wore the same invariable smile, he retreated. It so happened, as we have since recollected, that during this little dialogue Mrs. Mervyn was conversing with the lady of the house, and very soon after another gentleman, who seemed about six and twenty years old, gaily but not forpishly dressed, and indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness and gallantry, desired to know if I was engaged, or would honour him with my hand. So he was pleased to say, though I am sure I know not what honour he could receive from me. But these sort of expressions I find are used as words of course, without any distinction of persons or study of propriety. Well, I bowed, and I am sure I coloured, for indeed I was frightened at the thoughts of dancing before so many people, all strangers, and which was worse, with a stranger. However that was unavoidable, for though I looked round the room several times, I could not see one person that I knew. And so he took my hand, and led me to join in the dance. The minuettes were over before we arrived, for we were kept late by the milleners making us wait for our things. He seemed very desirous of entering into conversation with me, but I was seized with such a panic that I could hardly speak a word, and nothing but the shame of so soon changing my mind prevented my returning to my seat, and declining to dance at all. He appeared to be surprised at my terror, which I believe was but too apparent. However, he asked no questions, though I fear he must think it very strange, for I did not choose to tell him it was owing to my never-before dancing but with a school-girl. His conversation was sensible and spirited, his air and dress were open and noble, his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging. His person is all elegance, and his countenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen. In a short time we were joined by Miss Mervyn, who stood next couple to us. But how I was startled when she whispered me that my partner was a nobleman! This gave me a new alarm. How will he be provoked, thought I, when he finds what a simple rustic he is honoured with his choice, one whose ignorance of the world makes her perpetually fear doing something wrong? That he should be so much my superior in every way quite disconcerted me, and he will suppose my spirits were not much raised, when I heard a lady in passing us say, This is the most difficult dance I ever saw. Oh, dear, then, cried Mariah to her partner, with your leave I'll sit down till the next. So will I too, then, cried I, for I am sure I can hardly stand. But he must speak to your partner first, answered she, for he had turned aside to talk with some gentleman. However, I had not sufficient courage to address him, and so away we all three tripped and seated ourselves at another end of the room. But unfortunately for me, Miss Mervyn soon after suffered herself to be profailed upon to attempt the dance, and just as she rose to go, she cried, My dear, yonder is your partner, Lord Orville, walking about the room in search of you. Don't leave me, then, dear girl, cried I. But she was obliged to go, and now it was more uneasy than ever. I would have given the world to have seen Miss Mervyn, and begged of her to make my apologies. For what, thought I, could I possibly say to him an excuse for running away? He must either conclude me a fool, or half-mat, for anyone brought up in the great world and accustomed to its ways, can have no idea of such sort of fears as mine. My confusion increased when I observed that he was everywhere seeking me, with apparent perplexity and surprise. But when at last I saw him move towards the place where I sat, I was ready to sink with shame and distress. I found it absolutely impossible to keep my seat, because I could not think of a word to say for myself. And so I rose and walked hastily towards the cardram, resolving to stay with Miss Mervyn the rest of the evening, and not to dance at all. But before I could find her, Lord Orville saw and approached me. He begged to know if I was not well. You may easily imagine how much I was embarrassed. I made no answer, but hung my head like a fool and looked on my fan. He then, with an air the most respectfully serious, asked if he had been so unhappy as to offend me. No, indeed, cried I. And in hopes of changing the discourse and preventing his further inquiries, I desired to know if he had seen the young lady who had been conversing with me. No, but would I honour him with any commands to her? Oh, by no means! Was there any other person with whom I wished to speak? I said no, before I knew I had answered at all. Should he have the pleasure of bringing me any refreshment? I bowed, almost involuntarily, and away he flew. I was quite ashamed of being so troublesome, and so much above myself as these seeming airs made me appear, but indeed I was too much confused to think or act with any consistency. If he had not been as swift as lightning, I don't know whether I should not have stolen away again, but he returned in a moment. When I had drank a glass of lemonade, he hoped, he said, that I would again honour him with my hand, as a new dance was just begun. I had not the presence of mind to say a single word, and so I let him once more lead me to the place I had left. Shocked to find how silly, how childish a part I had acted, my former fears of dancing before such a company, and with such a partner, returned more forcibly than ever. I suppose he perceived my uneasiness, for he entreated me to sit down again if dancing was disagreeable to me, but I was quite satisfied with the folly I had already shown, and therefore declined his offer, though I was really scarce able to stand. Under such conscious disadvantages you may easily imagine, my dear sir, how ill I acquitted myself. But though I both expected and deserved to find him very much mortified and displeased at his ill fortune in the choice he had made, yet to my very great relief he appeared to be even contented, and very much assisted and encouraged me. These people in high life have too much presence of mind, I believe, to seem disconcerted or out of humour, however they may feel, for had I been the person of the most consequence in the room, I could not have met with more attention and respect. When the dance was over, seeing me still very much flurried, he led me to a seat, saying that he would not suffer me to fatigue myself from politeness. And then, if my capacity, or even if my spirits had been better, in how animated a conversation I might have been engaged, it was then I saw that the rank of Lord Orville was his least recommendation, his understanding and his manners being far more distinguished. His remarks upon the company in general were so apt, so just, so lively, I am almost surprised myself that they did not re-animate me. But indeed I was too well convinced of the ridiculous part I had myself played before so nice an observer, to be able to enjoy his pleasantry, so self-compassion gave me feeling for others. Yet I had not the courage to attempt either to defend them or to rally in my turn, but listened to him in silent embarrassment. When he found this, he changed the subject, and talked of public places and public performers, but he soon discovered that I was totally ignorant of them. He then, very ingeniously, turned the discourse to the amusements and occupations of the country. It now struck me that he was resolved to try whether or not I was capable of talking upon any subject. This put so great a restraint upon my thoughts, that I was unable to go further than a monosyllable, and not ever so far when I could possibly avoid it. We were sitting in this manner, he conversing with all gaity, I looking down with all foolishness, when that fop would first ask me to dance, with the most ridiculous solemnity approached, and after a profound bow or two said, I humbly beg pardon, madame, and of you too, my lord, for breaking in upon such agreeable conversation which must doubtless be more delectable than what I have the honour to offer, but I interrupted him, I blush for my folly, with laughing, yet I could not help it, for added to the man's stately foppishness, and he actually took snuff between every three words. When I looked around at Lord Orville, I saw such extreme surprise in his face, the cause of which appeared so absurd that I could not for my life preserve my gravity. I had not laughed before from the time I had left Miss Mervyn, and I had much better have cried than. Lord Orville actually stared at me. The bow, I knew not his name, looked quite enraged. Refrain, madame, said he with an important air. A few moments refrain, I have, but ascendance to trouble you with. May I know to what accident I must attribute not having the honour of your hand? Accident, sir? repeated I, much astonished. Yes, accident, madame, for surely I must take the liberty to observe—pardon me, madame—it ought to be no common one that should tempt a lady so young a one too to be guilty of ill manners. A confused idea now for the first time entered my head, for something I had heard of the rules of an assembly, but I was never at one before—I have only danced at school—and so giddy and heedless I was, that I had not once considered the impropriety of refusing one partner, and afterwards accepting another. I was thunderstruck at the recollection, but while these thoughts were rushing into my head, Lord Orville with some warmth said, This lady, sir, is incapable of meriting such an accusation. The creature, for I am very angry with him, made a low bow, and with a grin the most malicious I ever saw. My lord," said he, far be it from me to accuse the lady for having the discernment to distinguish and prefer the superior attractions of your lordship. Again he bowed, and walked off. Was ever anything so provoking? I was ready to die with shame. What a coxcomb! exclaimed Lord Orville, while I, without knowing what I did, rose hastily and moving off, I can't imagine, crowd-eye, where Mrs. Mervyn has hid herself. Give me leave to see," answered he. I bowed and sat down again, not daring to meet his eyes. For what must he think of me, between my blunder and the supposed preference? He returned in a moment, and told me that Mrs. Mervyn was at cards, but would be glad to see me, and I went immediately. There was but one chair vacant, so to my great relief Lord Orville presently left us. I then told Mrs. Mervyn my disasters, and she good-naturedly blamed herself for not having better instructed me, but said she had taken it for granted that I must know such common customs. However, the man may, I think, be satisfied with his pretty speech and carry his resentment no farther. In a short time, Lord Orville returned. I consented with the best grace I could to go down another dance, for I had had time to recollect myself, and therefore resolved to use some exertion, and if possible to appear less a fool than I had hitherto done, for it occurred to me that, insignificant as I was, compared to a man of his rank and figure, yet, since he had been so unfortunate as to make a choice of me for a partner, why I should endeavour to make the best of it. The dance, however, was short, and he spoke very little, so I had no opportunity of putting my resolution in practice. He was satisfied, I suppose, with his former successless efforts to draw me out, or rather I fancied he had been inquiring who I was. This again disconcerted me, and the spirits I had determined to exert again failed me. I had ashamed and mortified. I begged to sit down till we returned home, which I did soon after. Lord Orville did me the honour to hand me to the coach, talking all the way of the honour I had done him. Oh, these fashionable people! Well, my dear sir, was it not a strange evening? I could not help being thus particular, because to me everything is so new. But it is now time to conclude. I am, with all love and duty, your Everliner. End of LETTER XI. LETTER XII. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Clutt. EVILINER. By Fanny Burney. LETTER XII. EVILINER. In continuation. TUESDAY, APRIL FIFTH. There is to be no end to the troubles of last night. I have this moment between persuasion and laughter, gathered from Mariah the most curious dialogue that ever I heard. You will at first be startled at my vanity, but my dear sir, have patience. It must have passed while I was sitting with Mrs. Mervyn in the cardram. Mariah was taking some refreshment, and saw Lord Orville advancing for the same purpose himself, but he did not know her, though she immediately recollected him. Only after, a very gay-looking man, stepping hastily up to him, cried, Why, my Lord, what have you done with your lovely partner? Nothing! answered Lord Orville, with a smile and a shrug. By Jove! cried the man, She is the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life. Lord Orville, as well he might, laughed, but answered, Yes, a pretty modest-looking girl. Oh! my Lord! cried the madman. She is an angel. A silent one. returned he. Why, I, my Lord, how stands she as to that? She looks all intelligence and expression. A poor, weak girl, answered Lord Orville, shaking his head. By Jove! cried the other, I am glad to hear it. At that moment the same Odys creature, who had been my former tormentor, joined them. Missing Lord Orville with great respect he said, I beg pardon, my Lord, if I was, as I fear, might be the case, rather too severe in my censure of the lady who was honoured with your protection, but, my Lord, ill-breeding is apt to provoke a man. Ill-breeding! cried my unknown champion, Impossible! that elegant face can never be so vile a mask. Oh, sir, as to that, answered he, you must allow me to judge, for though I pay all deference to your opinion in other things, yet I hope you will grant, and I appeal to your lordship also, that I am not totally despicable as a judge of good or ill manners. I was so wholly ignorant, said Lord Orville gravely, of the provocation you might have had, that I could not but be surprised at your singular resentment. It was far from my intention, answered he, to avenge your lordship, but really for a person who is nobody, to give herself such heirs, I own I could not command my passion. For my Lord, though I have made diligent inquiry, I cannot learn who she is. By what I can make out, cried my defender, she must be a country Parsons' daughter. Ha! Ha! Very good, pawn honour! cried the fob. Well, so I could have sworn by her manners. And then, delighted at his own wit, he laughed and went away, as I suppose, to repeat it. But what the deuce is all this? demanded the other. Why, a very foolish affair, answered Lord Orville, your Helen first refused this coxcomb, and then danced with me. This is all I can gather of it. Oh! Orville! returned he. You are a happy man! But ill-bred! I can never believe it! And she looks too sensible to be ignorant. Whether ignorant or mischievous, I will not pretend to determine. But certain it is, she attended to all I could say to her, though I have really fatigued myself with fruitless endeavours to entertain her, with the most immovable gravity. But no sooner did Lovell begin his complaint, that she was seized with a fit of laughing, first affronting the poor beau, and then enjoying his mortification. Ah! Why, there was some genius in that, my Lord, perhaps rather rustic. Here Mariah was called to dance, and so heard no more. Now tell me, my dear sir, did you ever know anything more provoking? A poor, weak girl, ignorant or mischievous. What mortifying words! I am resolved, however, that I will never again be tempted to go to an assembly. I wish I had been in dorseture. Well, after this, you will not be surprised that Lord Orville contented himself with an inquiry after our health this morning, by his servant, without troubling himself to call, as Miss Mervyn had told me he would, but perhaps it may only be a country custom. I would not live here for the world. I cannot, how soon you leave town. London soon goes tiresome. I wish the captain would come. Mrs. Mervyn talks of the opera for this evening. However, I am very indifferent about it. Wednesday morning. Well, my dear sir, I have been pleased against my will, I could almost say, for I must own I went out in verial humour, which I think you cannot wonder at, but the music and the singing were charming. They soothed me into a pleasure the most grateful, the best suited to my present disposition in the world. I hoped if swayed Mrs. Mervyn to go again on Saturday. I wish the opera was every night. It is, of all entertainments, the sweetest and most delightful. Some of the songs seemed to melt my very soul. It was what they call a serious opera, as the comic First Singer was ill. Tonight we go to Rannala. If any of those three gentlemen who conversed so freely about me should be there, but I won't think of it. Thursday morning. Well, my dear sir, we went to Rannala. It is a charming place, and the brilliancy of the lights on my first entrance made me almost think I was in some enchanted castle or fairy palace, for all looked like magic to me. The very first person I saw was Lord Orville. I felt so confused, but he did not see me. After tea, Mrs. Mervyn being tired, Mariah and I walked around the room alone. Then again we saw him standing by the orchestra. We too stopped to hear a singer. He bowed to me, I curtsied, and I am sure I colored. We soon walked on, not liking our situation. However, he did not follow us, and when we passed by the orchestra again, he was gone. Afterwards in the course of the evening we met him several times, but he was always with some party, and never spoke to us, though whenever he chanced to meet my eyes, he condescended to bow. I cannot but be hurt at the opinion he entertains of me. It is true, my own behavior incurred it, yet he is himself the most agreeable, and seemingly the most amiable man in the world, and therefore it is that I am grieved to be thought ill of by him. For of whose esteem ought we to be ambitious, if not of those people who most merit our own? But it is too late to reflect upon this now. Well, I can't help it. However, I think I have done with assemblies. This morning was destined for seeing sights, auctions, curious shops, and so forth, but my head ached, and I was not in a humour to be amused, and so I made them go without me, though very unwillingly. They are all kindness. And now I am sorry I did not accompany them, for I know not what to do with myself. I had resolved not to go to the play to-night, but I believe I shall. In short, I hardly care whether I do or not. I thought I had done wrong. Mrs. Mervyn and Mariah have been half the town over, and so entertained, while I, like a fool, stayed at home to do nothing. And at the auction in Paul Mall, who should they meet but Lord Orville, he sat next to Mrs. Mervyn, and they talked a great deal together, but she gave me no account of the conversation. I may never have such another opportunity of seeing London. I am quite sorry that I was not of the party, but I deserve this mortification, for having indulged my ill humour. Thursday night. We are just returned from the play, which was King Lear, and has made me very sad. We did not see anybody we knew. Well, do you? It is too late to write more. Friday. Captain Mervyn has arrived. I have not spirits to give an account of his introduction, for he has really shocked me. I do not like him. He seems to be surly, vulgar, and disagreeable. Almost the same moment that Mariah was presented to him, he began some rude jests upon the bad shape of her nose, and called her a tall, ill-formed thing. She bore it with the utmost good humour, but that kind and sweet-tempered woman, Mrs. Mervyn, deserved a better lot. I am amazed she would marry him. For my own part I have been so shy that I have hardly spoken to him, or he to me. I cannot imagine why the family was so rejoiced at his return. If he had spent his whole life abroad, I should have supposed they might rather have been thankful than sorrowful. However, I hope they do not think so ill of him as I do. At least I am sure they have too much prudence to make it known. Saturday night. We have been to the opera, and I am still more pleased than I was on Tuesday. I could have thought myself in paradise, but for the continual talking of the company round me, we sat in the pit, where everybody was dressed in so high a style, that if I had been less delighted with the performance, my eyes would have found me sufficient entertainment from looking at the ladies. I was very glad I did not sit next to the captain, for he could not bear the music or singers, and was extremely gross in his observations of both. When the opera was over, we went into a place called the coffee-room, where ladies as well as gentlemen assemble. There are all sorts of refreshments, and the company walk about and chat with the same ease and freedom as in a private room. On Monday we go to a redotto, and on Wednesday we return to Howard Grove. The captain says he won't stay here to be smoked with filth any longer, but having been seven years smoked with a burning sun, he will retire to the country and sink into a fair where the chap. Adieu, my dear sir. CHAPTER XIII EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Tuesday, April 12th. MY DEAR SIR. We came home from the redotto so late, or rather so early, that it was not possible for me to write. Indeed we did not go, you will be frightened to hear it, till past eleven o'clock—but nobody does. A terrible reverse of the order of nature. We sleep with the sun, and awake with the moon. The room was very magnificent, and lights and decorations were brilliant, and the company gay and splendid. But I should have told you that I made many objections to being of the party, according to the resolution I had formed. However, Mariah laughed me out of my scruples, and so once again I went to an assembly. Miss Mervyn danced a minuet, but I had not the courage to follow her example. In our walks I saw Lord Orville. He was quite alone, but did not observe us. Yet, as he seemed of no party, I thought it was not impossible that he might join us, and though I did not wish much to dance at all, yet, as I was more acquainted with him than with any other person in the room, I must own I could not help thinking it would be infinitely more desirable to dance again with him, than with an entire stranger. To be sure, after all that had passed, it was very ridiculous to suppose it even probable that Lord Orville would again honour me with his choice, yet I am compelled to confess my absurdity by way of explaining what follows. Miss Mervyn was soon engaged, and presently after a very fashionable gay-looking man, who seemed about thirty years of age, addressed himself to me, and begged to have the honour of dancing with me. Now Mariah's partner was a gentleman of Mrs. Mervyn's acquaintance, for she had told us it was highly improper for young women to dance with strangers at any public assembly. Indeed it was by no means my wish to do so. Yet I did not like to confine myself from dancing at all. Neither did I dare refuse this gentleman as I had done Mr. Lovell, and then, if any acquaintance should offer, accept him. Perhaps so, all these reasons combining, induced me to tell him—yet I blushed to write it to you—that I was already engaged, by which I meant to keep myself at liberty to a dance, or not, as matter should fall out. I suppose my consciousness betrayed my artifice, for he looked at me as if incredulous. And instead of being satisfied with my answer and leaving me, according to my expectation, he walked at my side, and with the greatest ease imaginable, began a conversation in the free style which only belongs to old and intimate acquaintance. But what was most provoking, he asked me a thousand questions concerning the partner to whom I was engaged, and at last he said, Is it really possible that a man whom you have honoured with your acceptance can fail to be attained to profit from your goodness? I felt extremely foolish, and begged Mrs. Mervyn to lead to a seat, which she very obligingly did. The captain sat next to her, and to my great surprise, this gentleman thought proper to follow, and seat himself next to me. What an insensible, continued he, why, madam, you are missing the most delightful dance in the world. The man must be either mad, or a fool. Which do you incline to think of yourself? Neither, sir, answered I, in some confusion. He begged my pardon for the freedom of his supposition, saying, I really was off my guard from astonishment that any man can be so much and so unaccountably his own enemy. But where, madam, can he possibly be? Has he left the room, or has he not been in it? Indeed, sir, said I, peevishly, I know nothing of him. I don't wonder that you are disconcerted, madam. It is really very provoking. The best part of the evening will be absolutely lost. He deserves not that you should wait for him. I do not, sir, said I, and I beg you not to— —Mortifying indeed, madam—interrupted he—a lady to wait for a gentleman. Oh, fie! Careless fellow! What can detain him? Will you give me leave to seek him? If you please, sir, said I, quite terrified lest Mrs. Mervyn should attend to him, for she looked very much surprised at seeing me enter into conversation with a stranger. With all my heart, cried he, pray, what coat see on? Indeed, I never looked at it. Out upon him, cried he, what did he address you in a coat not worth looking at? What a shabby wretch! How ridiculous! I really could not help laughing, which I fair encouraged him, for he went on. Charming creature! And can you really bear ill usage with so much sweetness? Can you, like patience on a monument, smile in the midst of disappointment? For my part, though I am not the offended person, my indignation is so great that I long to kick the fellow round the room. Unless indeed—hesitating and looking earnestly at me—unless indeed it is a partner of your own creating—I was dreadfully abashed, and could not make an answer. But no! cried he, again and with warmth. It cannot be that you are so cruel. Softness itself is painted in your eyes. You could not surely have the barbarity so wantonly to trifle with my misery. I turned away from this nonsense with real disgust. Mrs. Mervyn saw my confusion, but was perplexed what to think of it, and I could not explain to her the cause, lest the captain should hear me. I therefore proposed to walk. She consented, and we all rose. But would you believe it? This man had the assurance to rise, too, and walk close by my side, as if of my party. Now! cried he, I hope we shall see this ingrate. Is that he? Pointing to an old man who was lame. All that? And in this manner he asked me of whomever was old or ugly in the room. I made no sort of answer, and when he found that I was resolutely silent, and walked on as much as I could without observing him, he suddenly stamped his foot, and cried out in a passion. Fool! Idiot! Booby! I turned hastily toward him. Oh, madam! continued he, forgive my vehemence, but I am distracted to think there should exist a wretch who can slight a blessing for which I would forfeit my life. Oh, that I could but meet him, I would soon. But I grow angry. Pardon me, madam. My passions are violent, and your injuries affect me. I began to apprehend he was a madman, and stared at him with the utmost astonishment. I see you are moved, madam, said he, generous creature, but don't be alarmed. I am cooled again. I am indeed. Upon my soul I am. I entreat you most lovely of mortals. I entreat you to be easy. Indeed, sir, said I, very seriously. I must insist upon your leaving me. You are quite a stranger to me, and I am both unused and averse to your language and your manners. This seemed to have some effect on him. He made me a low bow, begged my pardon, and vowed he would not for the world offend me. Then, sir, you must leave me, cried I. I am gone, madam. I am gone, with the most tragical air, and he marched away at quick pace, out of sight in a moment. But before I had time to congratulate myself, he was again at my elbow. And could you really let me go, and not be sorry? Can you see me suffer torments inexpressible, and yet retain all your favour for that miscreant who flies you? Ungrateful puppy! I could best inardo him. For heaven's sake, my dear, cried Mrs. Mervyn, who is he talking of? Indeed, I do not know, madam, said I, but I wish he would leave me. What's all that there? cried the captain. The man made a low bow, and said, Only, sir, a slight objection which this young lady makes to dancing with me, and which I am endeavouring to obviate. I shall think myself greatly honoured if you will intercede for me. That lady, sir, said the captain coldly, is her own mistress. And he walked sullenly on. You, madam, said the man, who looked delighted to Mrs. Mervyn, you, I hope, will have the goodness to speak for me. Sir! answered she gravely, I have not the pleasure of being acquainted with you. I hope when you have, ma'am, quite he, undaunted, you will honour me with your approbation, but while I am yet unknown to you, it will be truly generous in you to countenance me, and I flatter myself, madam, that you will not have cause to repent it. Mrs. Mervyn, with an embarrassed air, replied, I do not at all mean, sir, to doubt your being a gentleman, but—but what, madam? That doubt removed, why, a but? Well, sir, said Mrs. Mervyn, with a good human smile, I will even treat you with your own plainness, and try what effect that will have on you. I must therefore tell you once for all. Oh, pardon me, madam! interrupted he eagerly. You must not proceed with those words once for all. No, if I have been too plain, and though a man deserve a rebuke, remember, dear ladies, that if you copy, you ought in justice to excuse me. We both stared at the man's strange behaviour. Be nobler than your sex! continued he, turning to me. Honor me with one dance, and give up the ingrate who has merited so ill your patience. Mrs. Mervyn looked with astonishment at us both. Who does he speak of, my dear? You never mentioned? Oh, madam! exclaimed he. He was not worth mentioning. It is a pity he was ever thought of. But let us forget his existence. One dance is all, I solicit. Permit me, madam, the honour of this young lady's hand. It will be a favour I shall ever most gratefully acknowledge. Sir! answered she, favours, and strangers have with me no connection. If you have hitherto, said he, confined your benevolence to your intimate friends, suffer me to be the first for whom your charity is enlarged. Well, sir, I know not what to say to you, but— He stopped her, but with so many urgent entreaties that she at last told me, I must either go down one dance, or avoid his importunities by returning home. I hesitated which alternative to choose, but this impetuous man had length prevailed, as I was obliged to consent to dance with him, and thus was my deviation from truth punished, and thus did this man's determined boldness conquer. During the dance, before we were too much engaged in it for conversation, he was extremely provoking about my partner, and tried every means in his power to make me own that I had deceived him, which, though I would not so far humble myself as to acknowledge, was indeed but too obvious. And Orville, I fancy, did not dance at all. He seemed to have a large acquaintance, and joined several different parties, but you will easily suppose I was not much pleased to see him, in a few minutes after I was gone, walk towards the place I had just left, and bow to, and join Mrs. Mervyn. How unlucky I thought myself, that I had not longer withstood the stranger's importunities! The moment we had gone down the dance, I was hastening away from him. But he stopped me, and said, that I could by no means return to my party without giving offense, before we had done our duty of walking up the dance. As I know nothing at all of these rules and customs, I was obliged to submit to his directions. But I fancy I looked rather uneasy, for he took notice of my inattention, saying, in his free way, whence that anxiety, why are those lovely eyes perpetually averted? I wish you would say no more to me, sir, cried I peevishly, you have already destroyed all my happiness for this evening. Good heaven! What is it I have done? How have I merited this at scorn? You have tormented me to death, you have forced me from my friends, and intruded yourself upon me against my will for a partner. Surely, my dear madam, we ought to be better friends, since there seems to be something of sympathy in the frankness of our dispositions. And yet, were you not an angel, how do you think I could brook such contempt? If I have offended you, cried I, you have but to leave me, and oh, how I wish you would! My dear creature!" said he, half laughing, why, where could you be educated? Where I most sincerely wish I now was. How conscious you must be, all beautiful that you are, that those charming heirs serve only to heighten the bloom of your complexion! Your freedom, sir, where you are more acquainted, may perhaps be less disagreeable, but to me, you do me justice, cried he, interrupting me. Yes, I do indeed improve upon acquaintance. You will hereafter be quite charmed with me. Hereafter, sir, I hope I shall never—oh, hush, hush! Have you forgot the situation in which I found you? Have you forgot that when deserted I pursued you? When betrayed I adored you? But for me! But for you, sir, I might perhaps have been happy. What then am I to conclude that, but for me, your partner would have appeared? Poor fellow! And did my presence awe him? I wish his presence, sir, could awe you. His presence? Perhaps, then, you see him? Perhaps, sir, I do, cried I, quite weary of his railery. Where? Where, for heaven's sake, show me the wretch? Wretch, sir! Oh, a very savage, a sneaking, shame-faced, despicable puppy! I know not what bewitched me, but my pride was hurt, and my spirits were tired, and in short I had the folly, looking at Lord Orville, to repeat, despicable, you think. His eyes instantly followed mine. Why, is that the gentleman? I made no answer. I could not affirm, and I would not deny, for I hoped to be relieved from his teasing by his mistake. The very moment we had done what he called our duty, I eagerly desired to return to Mrs. Mervyn. To your partner, I presume, madam, said he very gravely. This quite confounded me. I dreaded lest this mischievous man ignorant of his rank should address himself to Lord Orville, and say something which might expose my artifice. Fool! To involve myself in such difficulties! I now feared what I had before wished, and therefore to avoid Lord Orville, I was obliged myself to propose going down another dance, though I was ready to sink with shame while I spoke. But your partner, ma'am, said he, affecting a very solemn air. Perhaps he may resent my detaining you, if you will give me leave to ask his consent. Not for the universe. Who is he, madam? I wished myself a hundred miles off. He repeated his question. What is his name? Nothing. Nobody. I don't know." He assumed a most important solemnity. How? Not know. Give me leave, my dear madam, to recommend this caution to you. Never dance in public with a stranger, with one whose name you are unacquainted with, with who may be a mere adventurer, a man of no character, considered to what impertinence you may expose yourself. Was ever anything so ridiculous, I could not help laughing in spite of my vexation. At this instant Mrs. Mervyn, followed by Lord Orville, walked up to us. You will easily believe it was not difficult for me to recover my gravity. But what was my consternation when this strange man, destined to be the scourge of my artifice, exclaimed, Ha! my Lord Orville! I protest I did not know your lordship. What can I say for my usurpation? Yet faith, my Lord, such a prize was not to be neglected. My shame and confusion were unspeakable. Who could have supposed or foreseen that this man knew Lord Orville? But falsehood is not more unjustifiable than unsafe. Lord Orville, well he might, looked all amazement. The philosophic coldness of your lordship continued this odious creature. Every man is not endowed with. I have used my utmost endeavours to entertain this lady, though I fear without success, and your lordship will not be a little flattered, if acquainted with the difficulty which attended my procuring the honour of only one dance. Then turning to me, who was sinking with shame, while Lord Orville stood motionless, and Mrs. Mervyn astonished, he suddenly seized my hand, saying, Think, my Lord, what must be my reluctance to resign this fair hand to your lordship? In the same instant, Lord Orville took it of him. I coloured violently, and made an effort to recover it. You do me too much honour, sir," cried he, with an air of gallantry, pressing it to his lips before he let it go. However, I shall be happy to profit by it, if this lady, turning to Mrs. Mervyn, will permit me to seek for her party. To compel him thus to dance I could not endure, and eagerly called out, By no means, not for the world, I must beg, Will you honour me, madame, with your commands?" cried my tormentor. May I seek the lady's party? No, sir," answered I, turning from him. What shall be done, my dear," said Mrs. Mervyn. Nothing, mum, anything, I mean. But do you dance, or not? You see his lordship waits. I hope not. I beg that. I would not to the world. I am sure I ought to—to—I could not speak. But that confident man, determining to discover whether or not I had deceived him, Led to Lord Orville, who stood suspended. My lord, this affair which at present seems perplexed, I will briefly explain. This lady proposed to me another dance. Nothing could have made me more happy. I only wished for your lordship's permission, which, if now granted, will, I am persuaded, set everything right. I glowed with indignation. No, sir, it is your absence, and that alone can set everything right. For heaven's sake, my dear," cried Mrs. Mervyn, who could no longer contain her surprise. What does all this mean? Were you pre-engaged? Had Lord Orville? No, madam," cried I, only—only I did not know that gentleman, and so—and so I thought, I intended, I— Overpowered by all that had passed, I had not strength to make my mortifying explanation. My spirits quite failed me, and I burst into tears. They all seemed shocked and amazed. What is the matter, my dearest love? cried Mrs. Mervyn, with kindest concern. What have I done? exclaimed my evil genius, and ran officially for a glass of water. However, a hint was sufficient for Lord Orville, who comprehended all I would have explained. He immediately led me to a seat, and said in a low voice, Be not distressed, I beseech you. I shall ever think my name honoured by your making use of it. This politeness relieved me. A general murmur had alarmed Mrs. Mervyn, who flew instantly to me, while Lord Orville, the moment Mrs. Mervyn had taken the water, led my tormenter away. For heaven's sake, dear madam," cried I, let me go home—indeed, I cannot stay here any longer. Let us all go," cried my kind Mariah. But the captain, what will he say? I had better go home in a chair. Mrs. Mervyn consented, and I rose to depart. Lord Orville and that man both came to me. The first, with an attention I but ill merited from him, led me to a chair, while the other followed, pestering me with apologies. I wished to have made mine to Lord Orville, but was too much ashamed. It was about one o'clock. Mrs. Mervyn's servants saw me home. And now, what again shall ever tempt me to an assembly? I dread to hear which you will think of me, my most dear and honoured sir. You will need your utmost partiality to receive me without displeasure. This morning Lord Orville has sent to inquire after our health, and Sir Clement Willoughby, for that, I find, as the name of my persecutor, has called, but I would not go downstairs till he was gone. And now, my dear sir, I can somewhat account for the strange, provoking, and ridiculous conduct of this Sir Clement last night. For Miss Mervyn says he is the very man with whom she heard Lord Orville conversing at Mrs. Stanley's, when I was spoken of in so mortifying a manner. He was pleased to say he was glad to hear I was a fool, and therefore, I suppose, he concluded he might talk as much nonsense as he pleased to me. However, I am very indifferent as to his opinion. But for Lord Orville, if then he thought me an idiot, now I am sure he must suppose me both bold and presuming. Make use of his name! What impertinence! He can never know how it happened. You can only imagine it was from an excessive vanity. Well, however, I shall leave this bad city to-morrow, and never again will I enter it. The captain intends to take us to-night to the Fanta Cini. I cannot bear that, captain. I can give you no idea how gross he is. I heartily rejoice that he was not present at the discreble conclusion of yesterday's adventure, for I am sure he would have contributed to my confusion, which might perhaps have diverted him, as he seldom or never smiles but at some other person's expense. And here I conclude my London letters, and without any regret, for I am too inexperienced and ignorant to conduct myself with propriety in this town, where everything is new to me, and many things are unaccountable and perplexing. How do you, my dear sir? Heaven restore me safely to you. I wish I was to go immediately to Berryhill, yet the wish is ungrateful to Mrs. Mervyn, and therefore I will repress it. I will write an account of the Fanta Cini from Howard Grove. We have not been to half the public places that are now open, though I dare say we will think we have been to all. But they are almost as innumerable as the persons who fill them."