 Preface of the History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Beth Thomas. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Preface. Works of this kind are in general of so captivating a nature to young readers, that let them run through but a few pages of almost any novel, and they will feel their affections or curiosity so interested either in the characters or the events, that it is with difficulty they can be diverted to any other study or amusement till they have got to the end of the story. From the experience then, of this species of attraction, such sort of writings may be rendered by good and ingenious authors, extremely serviceable to morals and other useful purposes of life. Place the magnet low, and it will degrade our sentiments, hold it high, and it elevates them. Imitation is natural to the human mind, and as we copy these patterns best, which we are most conversant with, it depends upon the choice that parents and preceptors make of such compositions to produce the best effect from this general sympathy. Tell me your company is a just adage, but tell me your studies is as true a maxim. In the selection of proper pieces to assist towards so pleasing a method of instruction, no inconsiderable part of the attention ought to be paid to the style and language of the writers, for it is certain that those who can best express their sentiments are those who conceive them best, and the same idea delivered by a gentleman will have double the effect to what it would have if uttered by his valet de chambre. All authors therefore, of mean or illiberal education, or stationed below the familiar converse of polite life, should be wholly excluded from the sort of library I am here recommending. Nor should any translations be admitted there, though done from the originals by the best hands, according to the phrase of their title pages, for there is a stiffness in the style of all the publications of this kind I have ever met with, that constrains the ease and freedom of our language, and impures it with a number of Galicisms, Italianisms, etc. Which, even those who are allowed to be the best hands that have ever condescended to so servile an office, find it impossible to avoid. A work framed from one's own ideas is like learning to write from a copy. A translation is like tracing the letters after the master has penciled them for us. If I have had any success in this, or my former work of the same kind, it is owing more to accident than genius, and may therefore be deemed rather fortunate than meritorious. I have had a good deal of acquaintance with the world, and have known many private memoirs and particular circumstances in life which has afforded me an opportunity of supplying both my characters and situations from the living drama, instead of borrowing them from the mimic scene. I have felt as I wrote, and lived along the line, from the sympathy of friendship or the tenderness of compassion. This is contagious. I hope my readers may catch the infection also. For I shall think myself extremely happy if I can, in any degree, contribute towards forming or informing the young and innocent. The task of reforming I leave to greater geniuses and able appends. The characters which present themselves in this work are, as I have already hinted, mostly drawn from real life. They are therefore natural and proper objects, either for imitation or avoidance. Virtuous and vicious every man must be, few in the extreme, but all in the degree. But when writers exceed the bounds of probability, and describe an angel or a devil in human form, our reason is shocked, and revolts at the idea of a character so much above, or below, our nature. The semblance of truth vanishes. The reader's attention becomes relaxed, and both the events and the moral, if there should be any, fade like the baseless fabric of a vision, nor leave a wreck behind. With such productions as circulating libraries, those slop shops in literature abound, and with them they must still be filled, till our legislature shall think proper to enable the booksellers to pay for better works, by passing an act to secure their property in the copies they purchase. Till that is done, no person in the trade can afford to pay a large sum for any manuscript, be the merit of it what it will. And of course no authors except the very poor ones indeed, both in the literal and metaphorical sense of the word, or the rich, who form but a small squadron in the host of writers, will devote their time and labour to the public, without some hope of adequate reward. Those who amongst our legions, neither want nor abound, have therefore but one way of contributing their might to the Parnassian treasury. That of publishing by subscription, which in my estimation is at once both flattering and humiliating, as it proves the attachment of our friends, while it lays us under the painful necessity of taxing their regard. Happy and honoured as I have been by the favour of the public in general, as well as by the kind partiality of my particular friends, I shall ever be both proud and pleased to offer my present and future efforts to their indulgent candour upon any terms, and to subscribe myself, their much obliged, most grateful and obedient servant. Elizabeth Griffith End of preface. Letters 1-4 of the History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letters 1-4 from Lady Barton to Miss Cleveland. Letter 1. Lady Barton to Miss Cleveland, Bangor Fairy. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, where mountains rise and where rude waters flow, where ere I go, whatever realms I see, my heart untraveled fondly turns to thee, still to my fanny turns, with ceaseless pain, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain. How much am I indebted to the author of these beautiful lines, for having expressed my present feelings so much better than I could myself? The address was originally made to a brother. There can therefore be no impropriety in applying them to a sister, and such a one as mine. You desired me, my fanny, to write to you from every stage. This is the first moment I have had to myself. One of Sir William's most favorite maxims is that women should be treated like state criminals and utterly debarred the use of pen and ink. He says that those who are fond of scribbling are never good for anything else. That female friendship is a jest, and that we only correspond or converse with our own sex for sake of indulging ourselves in talking of the other. Why, Sir William, why will you discover such illiberal sentiments to one who has been so lately prevailed upon to pronounce those awful words, love, honor, and obey? The fulfilling the two first articles of this solemn engagement must depend upon yourself. The latter only rests on me, and I will, most sanctimoniously, perform my part of the covenant. Yes, my sister, I will stifle the rising sigh, and wipe away the wayward tear that steals involuntarily down my cheek. From the fond recollection of those dear friends that I have left behind me, would to nature that the objects necessarily followed their affections, or else retained them with themselves, instead of suffering remembrance, like a tyrant, or pursue the unhappy traveler, adding anxiety to fatigue and grief to danger. Sir William has met with some gentlemen of his acquaintance. Here he presented them to me, and I could see that he seemed pleased at that sort of approbation, which is expressed by looks at first sight of a person who happens to please us. There would be something flattering in the idea, which I should wish to cherish, if I did not fear that his pleasure arose more from vanity than affection. Yet why should I think so? He has he not pursued me with unabated ardor, near two years, and triumphed over the repeated refusals of my friends, and self by the most obstinate perseverance, but might not vanity be still thou restless, busy, perturbed spirit, and no longer seek to investigate and humiliating cause for an event which is irrevocably past. These gentlemen, then, that I told you of, are to join company with us for the remainder of our journey and voyage. There is one of them, a Lord something, I forgot his title, who is just returned from making the grand tour. His person is elegant. I think him, both in face and figure, vastly like Colonel Stanford. I suppose this young nobleman will be the bonton of this winter in Dublin. It may therefore be of some use to a stranger. As I shall be to be known to him, I shall not, however, cultivate the present opportunity, as I have left the room, determined not to return, on pretense of a headache, in order to tell my dear Fanny what she already knows, that I am her more than sister, her affectionate and faithful friend, Louise of Barton. P.S., love to my brother, and to my dear Mary Grandfell, but I charge you not to shrew my letters, even to either of them. Letter two, Lady Barton to Miss Cleveland. Holy head, will you not doubt my veracity, Fanny, when I tell you that three days spent in this dullest and most disagreeable of villages have not appeared tedious to me. There is certainly a wonderful charm in variety of situations. Every change produces new assemblage of ideas, and actuates the mind with curiosity, comparison, and inquiry. The wildness, or even horror of this place, for we have had a perpetual storm, is so strongly contrasted with the mild scenes of Cleveland Hall, or indeed any other part of England that I have seen, that one would scarce think it possible for a few days' journey to transport us in such extremes, of the sublime and beautiful. I am persuaded that all the inhabitants of Wales must be romantic. There never was any place appeared so like enchanted ground, and the scenes shift upon you as quick as in pantomime. From the stupendous bleak and barren hills of Cambria, you are almost instantly transported into fertile and laughing valleys. There never was a richer and more beautiful view than that of the Vale of Clyde. I am not at all surprised that poetry took its rise in this part of Britain. The ancient druids could not be at a loss for poetic images. Every object they saw must have inspired them, and exceeded both in beauty and wildness. Whatever supportive fancy could have invented or creative genius drawn forth from the storehouse of imagination. I think that even I seem to be possessed with a kind of poetic rapture. While I describe these charming scenes, but I will not anticipate the pleasure that I hope you will yourself receive from them. Next summer, though I already forestall the much higher delight, I shall feel on seeing my dear Fanny at Southfield. Sir William has been in great spirits ever since we have been here and highly pleased at a very trifling mark of my obedience. He proposed writing out the morning after we came, and though there was a high wind and a drizzling rain, I made not the least objection to mounting one of the little Welsh Palfreys and clamoring up the hills at his request. Our fellow travellers, Lord Lucan and Colonel Walter, accompanied us. I have described the former to you. The latter is remarkably handsome, but with a peculiar expression in his counterance, which is not the result of his features, but seems to arise from the predominance of a particular passion in his mind. In short, it is that sort of expression which has made you and me dislike so many handsome men. The Colonel is to be our neighbor in the country. He is now going to Ireland to take possession of his estate and a seat in Parliament for a borough he never saw. I am no politician, or I should am the avert a little upon the subject. This self same Colonel has just tapped at my door to tell me that the wind veers a little and that Sir William desires I will hold myself in readiness to embark. I obey at you, my fanny, Louisa Barton. P.S. I forgot to tell you that Lord Lucan was at Paris when we were there last year. He has made me smile two or three times by his pathetic manner of lamenting his not knowing me then. I tell him that he may date his acquaintance from what era he pleases, as our living together at an inn has brought on greater intimacy in four days than almost as many years could have effected in his usual course of meeting at operas, roots, etc. But he sighs out a rueful, oh canon, and the Colonel laughs to shrew his white teeth and superior understanding. I come, Sir William, adieu, adieu! What scenes of distress have I gone through since I concluded my last letter to my dear fanny? We embarked aboard the packet boat with what they called a shifting gale, and to do the Captain Justice he was unwilling to sail, but Sir William and Colonel Walter were both impatient, and their impetuosity, as it generally does, triumphed over our calmer reason. We had not been three hours at sea before there arose so violent a storm that the Captain said it was impossible for the ship to weather it. Six hours he was, however, mistaken for a continued six and thirty, during which time we had been driven upon the northern coast of Ireland, and it was then to be feared that we should beat to pieces on the rocks. There was a great number of passengers on board, and their groans and lamentations would have effected me extremely in any other situation, but the violent and continued sickness which I suffered rendered me insensible, even to my own danger, nor did I feel the smallest emotion when Lord Lucan, who had seldom left my bedside, caught hold of my hand with a degree of wildness, and pressing it to his lips said, We must perish, but we shall die together. The Captain had fired guns of distress upon our approaching the shore, and a fishing boat came to our relief, into which the passengers crowded so fast that the gentlemen were obliged to draw their swords to prevent their sinking it. How I got into the boat I do not know, but I found myself there, rolled up in Lord Lucan's rocquillaire, and my head supported by Sir William's knee. There were two other ladies in the boat with us, the youngest of whom a Miss Leicester seemed to be, if possible, worse than I. But I will not detain you longer in this scene of horror, where we expected to be swallowed up by the waves that came rolling on us, like moving mountains every moment till we reached the shore. Behold us then landed upon what may almost be called a desert island, for it's entirely surrounded by an arm of the sea, and uninhabited by everything but a few goats, and some fishermen, who are almost as wild as they. It was about four o'clock in the morning when we arrived at this dismal place, and such a morning for darkness, rain, and wind I never saw. Neither Miss Leicester nor I could stand, much less walk, and the gentlemen were obliged to carry us in their arms by turns for nearer two miles till we arrived at some of the huts where the hospitable cottagers received us with that sort of surprise, which I imagine we should feel if an order of higher beings were to descend by miracle to visit us. But be their kindness never forgot by me, and may their beds of straw smoky rafters yield them such soft and balmy sleep, as they afforded to my harassed frame, let them never envy those that toss on down. I did not wait till near ten in the morning, which was then as mild as it had been temptuous when I retired to rest. Lord Lucan and Miss Leicester were seated on a little bank, without side the door of the cottage where I slept, to prevent any person from disturbing me as soon as they heard me move. Miss Leicester came in to offer her assistance, in dressing me. She smiling said that breakfast was prepared for me, in a large drawing-room, and under the finest canopy she had ever seen. Then led me by the hand to the bank where she had been sitting. I was surprised to see tea there, which, though made in wooden vessels, appeared to me more delicious than any that I had ever drank out of the finest dresden china. Lord Lucan told me that Sir William, the rest of the gentlemen, and Mrs. Leighton, who was Miss Leicester's aunt, were gone to Reconautre la carte de paix, de la terre inconnue, eau nu étan, and that now he had seen me so happily recovered, he would try to join them. I found that another boat had arrived from the ship, and that our servants and a part of our baggage were come, when my poor Benson saw me, she cried for joy, and indeed nothing but the state of insensibility, in which I quitted the vessel, could have made me leave her behind. Upon inquiring, we were told that there were neither horses or carriages of any kind to be had to convey us out of the island, but that we might cross in a boat to a piece of land that lay opposite to one side of it, which, when we reached, was eight miles from any town or village. As soon as I had changed my clothes, Miss Leicester and I set out to meet or overtake our company to confer about the difficulties of our sad situation. I will bring you acquainted with Miss Leicester in my next letter, and for the present I will call her Lucy, for I am sure I shall love her, and in that case I hate the formality of Miss. Suppose us now to have walked about a mile and a half without discovering any object but the sea, which surrounded us, when, to our great delight, we spied land, though still divided from us by a gulf we thought impassable. We stood, however, on the shore, inventing a thousand impractical schemes to cross this tremendous hell-spout, but never once thought of the only possible one, though we had been told of it. We at last grew weary of indulging our visions, and Lucy, who I find is extremely romantic, said that were she in my situation she could, with the utmost pleasure, think of passing her days on the spot we were thrown on, for that the constant presence of the beloved object must render any place an Eden to her. I told her that if we were fated to remain there, that either Lord Lucan or Colonel Walter would, I hope, make this spot a paradise to her on her own plan. She wiped away a starting tear, and said that was impossible. At that instant, a new object roused our attention. We perceived a gentleman well mounted and attended by a couple of servants on the opposite shore. Lucy put up a most feverant ejaculation, that he might have night-arantee enough to cross the river, and rescue us from our melancholy situation. Her prayer was heard. He swam his horse across the flood, and Lucy called him a second Leander. He came up to us with infinite politeness and address, and told us that the mail which had been put on shore with us had been forwarded to his father, who was the next justice of peace, and lived about twelve miles from thence, that by that means he became acquainted with our distress, and had sent his carriage as far as the roads were passable, with a number of saddle horses to bring us to his house. I confess I was charmed with this instance of hospitality and generosity. I hope I should have been as much pleased with it, had I only heard it related, without having benefited by it. There is nothing affects my heart so much as benevolent actions. I will flatter myself, that this is owing to unnatural sympathy. We made all the acknowledgments that our joy would permit, and walked, or rather ran, back to our cottage with the stranger, where we met our company, and many more of the passengers who had come in the second boat from the ship. Mr. Matthew's servants were by this time come up to us, and opened two large baskets of provisions, cold meats, wine, tea, etc. Every person seemed surprised and overjoyed, while universal gladness diffused itself through our little colony. Lucy appeared almost frantic with the light. The common occurrences of life appear like enchantment to some minds, but there was an elegant simplicity mingled with her transports that rendered them extremely pleasing. I have now, my dearest Fanny, delivered you from the painful anxiety you must have suffered from the first part of my letter. My next, I hope, shall transport you to more pleasing scenes. In the meantime, rest assured that through every change of circumstance or situation, I shall remain unalterably yours, El Barton. I long to hear from you. Pray tell me, have you heard from the continent, and how and where Lord Hume now is? Letter four, Lady Barton to Miss Cleveland. For the present, I will continue my letters, journal wise, as Miss Brian calls it, but I cannot for my life be circumstantial and carry you up and downstairs to the parlor, the drawing room, the harpsichord, the card table, etc. etc. etc. Suppose us then to have crossed the so much dreaded arm of the sea with some difficulty and less danger, that we have performed our 12 miles journey through rugged roads and over hills and dales, and are at last safely arrived at Mr. Matthew's very handsome seat, welcomed by him and his lady, and a very numerous family of sons and daughters, grown up to men and women's estate. On our entrance, we were shroomed into a room where there was a table laid with all kinds of breakfasts that could be pleasing or necessary to the sick or healthful appetite, and were informed that there were beds prepared for any of the company who might require rest after their fatigue. The offer was declined by us all for the present, but the whole company, which amounted to 18 ladies and gentlemen, besides servants, accepted Mr. Matthew's invitation to spend the day and night at his house, except Colonel Walter, who said he would go on to Newbury, the next great town, and send us carriages from thence. From the first notion that you could conceive of our generous hosts, you must believe that we were very politely and elegantly entertained. But neither your idea nor my description can do justice to their hospitality. They have given me the most favorable impressions of this country on my first entering it. But even Sir William, who is partial to his native land, says I am not to expect a whole nation of such fools. I think he said, Hi, Ho, this is my only comment. The manners and behavior of this worthy and amiable family were expressive of the sincerest pleasure at having it in their power to relieve our distress. May they or theirs never know any. Lucy was in raptures with the young ladies, both she and I flatter ourselves with a prospect of much pleasure. From a future intimacy with Mrs. Matthews and her daughters, next morning, our carriages, a coach and four, and several post chases arrived, and we took a grateful and affectionate leave of our kind hosts. Our journey had nothing remarkable in it, except Colonel Walter's waiting for us. At the first stage, we came to, which considering the hurry he affected, when he left us was rather an overstrain piece of politeness arising, I imagine from a supposition that his company was of some consequence to the party. And perhaps he is not mistaken. Lucy's aunt, Mrs. Layton, a good agreeable and well jointured relic. About six and 30 seems to admire him much. She speaks Italian badly. He is master of the language and she is forever applying to him to correct her pronunciation. Who knows but he may find pleasure in instructing so hopeful a pupil. The Colonel is what is called a woman's man. He has lived a good deal abroad and has a superficial knowledge of almost every science. His head may be aptly enough compared to the drawer of a lady's writing cable, which contains a little of everything. I have this moment looked into mine to see if the illusion is just its contents are a miniature picture of Sir William with a slight crack in the enamel and the catch that fastens the bracelet broken. My housekeepers accounts a little billet from Lucy, a French song, and the Colonel gave me some scented ceiling wax, writing paper, message cards, and a pocket book with scissors, penknife, pencil, blank leaves, etc. I do really think that this far ago of materials conveys a very expressive image of what I would describe. I hope you will think so too. And henceforth acknowledge the Colonel as an acquaintance. I promised in my last to give you a sketch of my Lucy. But I'm fine. I am not equal to the task. For even in her outward appearance, there is a variability that renders it almost impossible to draw an exact resemblance of her. At some times, you would think that her form and face were designed to personify vivacity, dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air. At other times, a soft melancholy or serves the place of gaiety, so that at different eras, she may pass alternately for a melapalm or a thia. Yet she is agreeable under both these characters. And I by no means think her temper changeable, but am rather inclined, though sorry to believe that these transitions are rather the effect of peculiar circumstances that natural constitution. I know she is in love. But I should suppose that to be rather a consistent passion where the flame is mutual. And I should be tempted almost to despise her or any other woman in the world who continued still to love without sympathy. For true love is a passion of that extraordinary nature, as some author has well expressed it, that it requires the felicity of two persons to render one happy. Without being positively handsome, the men all like her, she has good eyes, hair and teeth, a lively, though not a fine complexion, and a form that may justly be styled elegant, though small. And now my dear Fanny, let me speak of, and to, yourself. It is above a month since I left London. I have been a fortnight in Dublin, and have not received a single line from you, or any of the other dear friends I parted from in Dover Street. They tell me something about contrary winds. For my own peace, I will believe them. But if I am to remain in this island much longer under such suspense, I shall be tempted to sell my jewels, and send the money to Lapland, to purchase, I know not whether it is to be an easterly or a westerly wind, but it shall be a fair gale to waft your letters to me. For the story of Eoldus and Ulysses, you know, is quite an errant fiction. Your impatient but truly affectionate, Louisa Barton. End of Letters one to four, recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, BC. Letters five and six of the history of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter five. Miss Cleveland to Lady Barton, Dover Street. I received my dear sister's two letters from Wales together, and I'm pleased to find that you illustrate your own remark on the good effects which change of objects produce upon our minds. I have always thought that in the separation of two persons who love each other, the one who is left is by far the greatest sufferer. The mind, in spite of us, must necessarily in some degree accompany or rather attend upon the body. And while that is in motion, it feels a kind of rotation also. Beau banish Beau, and coaches coaches drive. And now I talk of coaches. I have never set my foot an hour since you left London. I begin to think that this is carrying the idea of locality too far, and will therefore order it to set me down at the playhouse this evening. Your description of South Britain has increased my curiosity, but not my desire of travelling through it. For what can augment my wishes to see you? Your first letter affected me extremely. Oh, beware of a propensity to unhappiness my much loved sister. Sir William has a roughness in his manner, which I really believe to be more owing to an illiberal education than a coarse mind. I say illiberal, though I know he was breaded a college. Learning in science may be there acquired, but alas, I fear the professors of universities do not attend much to le petit moral. There are many men weak enough to imagine that an affectation of contempt for the understandings of women is proof sufficient of the superiority of their own. But these persons ought never to marry. For we can neither love those we despise nor those who seem to despise us. But I am far from imagining this to be Sir William's case. I know he both loves and esteems my Louisa, though he be deficient in that sort of gallant address which might better enable him to show his sentiments. But how few husbands are there after all, even in what is styled polite life, who seem to think such an attention necessary? I affirm it to be absolutely so. For they must be sad philosophers indeed who mistake the possession of a treasure for the enjoyment of it. But I will not forgive your trifling with your own happiness by seeming to doubt a fact on which alone it can be founded. I am glad you have happened to meet with the gentleman you mention. Agreeable society is always pleasing to a rational mind. But more particularly so when there is any little difficulty, danger, or fatigue to encounter. And notwithstanding your flourishing description of Wales, I cannot help thinking that a journey through it must be attended, in some degree, with those slight evils I have mentioned. My brother has been remarkably grave ever since you left us. But I will not flatter you by imputing his reserve entirely to your absence. His Delia, his beloved Miss Colville, is going to France, with her ridiculous mother. And ill-used as my sensible brother has been by that absurd widow, I have no doubt that he will be weak enough to follow her daughter there, and leave poor solitary me to pass the winter to Seul in Dover Street. I have told him, and I really believe it, that Mrs. Colville has no exception either to his person, rank, or fortune, though she will never consent to his marrying her daughter. But I am persuaded that she would most readily accept of him herself. Sir George cannot help smiling when I talk in this train, though he affects to be displeased at what he calls my folly. I know that you will expect that I should say something of myself. Alas, Louisa, my history, like poor Viola's, is a blink. I have not received a line from Lord Hume since I saw you. My apprehensions for his health and safety are however relieved by a letter his sister had from him, dated at Siena a few days ago. I will believe for his sake as well as my own that he has written to me. A letter may miscarry. I have often heard that the posts upon the Continent are not so regular as ours. I will believe anything but that he has forgotten me. Is this philosophy or vanity? And is my opinion of his constancy founded on his merits or my own? I ask questions without wishing to have them resolved. Adieu, my only confidante, my much loved sister. Adieu. F. Cleveland. PS. Sir George's best affections, along with mine, wait on Sir William and our dear Louisa. Mary Granville is at Bath with her aunt. Letter six. Miss Cleveland to Lady Barton. London. Why, surely, my dear Louisa, you intend to publish your travels and to push Madame Discoudery from the shelf she has so long usurped in a lady's library. What a sweet romance is yours! What hairbreath scapes! What amazing perils by sea and by land! What imminent danger of passing your life on a desolate island, which, by the way, would, I fear, had you remained there, have become a dissolute one, for I don't find that you had a parson among you. And I have doubts whether the Colonel on the widow would have waited till another shipwreck might have sent you a Jonas. As to Lucy and Lord Lucan, to be sure they would have remained in the state of perfect purity. And Sir William and you are already joined in the holy bands of matrimony, so that upon a fair calculation I do not think that your community would have been worse than the rest of this habitable globe. For one couple of delinquents in three is as little as can be expected, even in the island of saints, of which you are happily now become an inhabitant, or in the territories of His Holiness the Pope, where all should be perfect. But a truce with badanage, and be assured, my dear sister, that I felt for your distresses, and sincerely rejoice at your safe arrival in Dublin. I both love and admire, though not without a little mixture of envy your generous hosts. What extreme pleasure must they have received from such a noble exercise of their benevolence and hospitality? All girls build mine have always been situated on a sea coast. And in them have I often received shipwrecked princesses and drowning heroes. I have chafed their temples and rubbed their hands for whole hours. And when my great care and humanity have brought them back to this world of woes, they have repaid my pains by a faithful recital of their doleful adventures. I once fell in love with a man I never saw for the same sentiment. I did not then imagine I should ever have so near and dear a connection as my Louisa, involved in the reality of such a dreadful situation. And now may heaven be praised for my loved sister's preservation. I like her description of the Colonel much. One knows abundance of table drawers, though not all as well furnished as yours. But I do not much like the character. Smatterers in science are generally triflers in everything. That same want of stability which prevents their being master of any art, like a shaken marble runs through the whole block and lessens the value of every part. I should not like such a man, either as a friend or lover, though he may perhaps be an agreeable acquaintance. I am much more charmed with your Lucy, your little pocket iris. I hope she always wears changeable silks and alters them from grave to gay according to the complexion of the day. I did not mean to rhyme, as you may see by my mode of writing. I agree with you that those transitions you mention may possibly be owing rather to particular circumstances than a peculiar inconsistency of mind. The latter would render her contemptible. The former entitles her to our tenderness and love. I think, even from the slight account you have given of her, there must be a charming frankness in her manner, which is one of the first qualities I would seek for in a friend. Life is not long enough. But were I an antediluvian, I should not think it worthwhile to seek for a heart that is wrapped up in a hundred and fifty envelopes? Enquerserais would disgust me, though the possessor of it had ten thousand amiable qualities. I think that your misfortunes with regard to the storm, like most other disasters, have been productive of some good by bringing you acquainted with Miss Lester. But what have you done with Lord Lucan? When the pencil and pallet were in your hands, why lay them by without giving a sketch of him? I should fancy, from his rueful, oh, canon, that there were traits of character sufficient to mark him by. If so, I desire that you will resume your new calling, and let me have a full length of his lordship by the next post. Sir George, as I guessed, actually intends to set out for Paris in the fortnight. I am strongly tempted to accompany him, Luisa. I should then be on the same continent, nay, perhaps in the same city with Lord Hume. For us his route is not absolutely determined. I think it is most likely that he will pass the winter in Paris, as I know it is his favorite city. But then, may not my delicacy be wounded by its being said, or even thought, that I pursued him thither? And to what end? If his heart, as I much fear, be already estranged, will my presence recall it? Ah, no. To what then should I expose myself? To be slighted by the man I love? Oh, never. Never. In woods and deserts let me rather dwell, and hide my woes in solitude. I now wish I had gone with you to Ireland, and yet I should not choose to be farther removed from that blessed spot, where ere it be, for at present I know not, that holds my happiness, perhaps my misery. How can you say, Luisa, that love is a consistent passion? Alas, you know it not. Ten thousand contradictory wishes are born and perish in my mind in the same moment. And yet there was a time when you, my sister, used to blame my calmness, and upbraed me with having too much philosophy. Where is that calmness, that philosophy fled to now? Oh, let me once more woo them to my breast, and be what I then was. You're happy, as well as affectionate sister, F. Cleveland. P.S., you will perceive by this long epistle, that I have received both your letters from Dublin. I do not, my dear, expect two for one, but the first came last night when I happened to be out, and the last arrived this morning. You may also perceive I began my letter with an affected gai de du coeur, and ended it in real sadness. I had determined not to mention Lord Hume, but my brother's coming into my dressing room and telling me of his going to Paris threw me off my guard. Excuse my weakness, my loved, my dear Louisa. End of Letter Six. Letter Seven of the History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter Seven. Lady Barton to Miss Cleveland. Dublin. Indeed, my dear Fanny, your last letter has hurt me sensibly. I cannot express the tender concern I feel for your sufferings. Yet with that frankness we both so much admire. I will confess that I am, on this occasion, conscious of the force of Rochenfaltz, selfish, maxim. In the distresses of our best friends we find something that does not displease us. Horrid adage! Yet how true! When I cannot help rejoicing that I have never felt the passion of love in the extreme that you seem to do. I have ever thought that love, like friendship, could only be founded on the annual qualities of its object, and that with them it must, because it ought, decay. How often have you and I laughed at the persevering passion of Miss B. When we knew that Lord M despised her. But the little tyrant has taken ample vengeance upon you. Heaven shield me from his resentment. I am, however, far from doubting Lord Hume's constancy or love to my sweet Fanny, and my opinion is founded on your charms rather than his merits. Yet grant him to be all you can wish. Surely it is a miserable state to have our happiness so totally dependent upon any human being, that our not hearing from them for a few days or weeks shall render us totally wretched and create such a fever in the mind as you describe, and I tremble at. Heavens, what a wretch should I be where I possessed of this tormenting passion. I am certain Sir William has no more idea of it than of a sixth sense. However, with the roughness and asperity of his manners, which are now scarce sufferable, then wound me to the heart. Rejoice with me, my Fanny, at what? Not at my want of sensibility, for sure I think not even you have more. And can I be delighted then at not having found in Sir William an object to awaken it? Oh, no, I fear I ought, rather to lament than exult, in my present torpid state, but still I have a subject for my tenderness, my much-loved dearest sister. Come to me then, my Fanny, and I will soothe your sorrow, will listen to your soft complainings, and share each paying that wounds your gentle heart. I was alarmed at the first part of your last letter. Your treating the discresses I went through, ludicrously, was not like my Fanny, and when we stray so far out of ourselves, there must be some particular cause, which we would wish to conceal, that occasions are acting or speaking out of character. You were unhappy, and did not wish that I should know it, but let not even that sort of pious fraud be ever practiced between us more. You may write freely, your letters are sacred, no I but my own will ever see them. Sir William is satisfied with our correspondence and says, he is sure we shall both be tired of it. In three months I will venture to say he is mistaken in us both. And so my brother is a stricken deer, also, and is setting off on a wild goose chase. After Miss Colville, surely two victims to love in one family are quite sufficient, and Don Cupid will, I flatter myself, let the third go free. Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart, how hard thy yoke, how cruel is thy dart, though scape the anger who refuse thy sway, and those are punished most, who most obey. For heaven's sake, Fanny, if you have not by this time received a volume of beledue from Lord Whom, get up your spirits, break at once into open rebellion against him, and the little pure blind deity, fly to me and try whether a hiberian swain cannot make you a mens for his lust. I am persuaded that it is possible to shake off an ill-placed affection, but I am afraid by saying so, I may offend you. However, I shall let the sentiment pass, since tis written, and you are welcome to make as free with it as you please, and perhaps may say, with the philosopher Boyle, that to undertake the cure of a lover is perhaps the next weakness to that of being one. I perceive myself falling into the very error which I represent in you, that of affecting to treat your distresses lightly, but believe me, my Fanny, that I lay restraint on myself in doing so, and feel them not the less. Cheerfulness and dissipation are the only remedies for a wounded mind, and if I can make you smile even at my folly, my end will be answered. You will, I daresay, discover that this letter has been written at different areas. Morning visitors are a past that rages in all cities, but is, I think, more violent here than any place I ever was in, except Bath. There is some excuse for this intemperate desire of getting there, as the use of the waters forbids all sedentary amusements, and a game of neighbor I come to torment you may be conductive to health, but here, without temptation or excuse, the ladies make it a rule to pass their mornings in any one's house but their own, and would almost persuade one that they can neither read, write, work, housewife, or pray. Exclusive of this grand mal, I like the people and country extremely. There is an air of freedom, cheerfulness, and aftability that runs through all the better, sort of men and women, and inclines you to like them, even at first sight. Rien qui jee, Rien serre. We may be allowed to speak of a people in this language, who seem to resemble the French more than any of their near neighbors. The old Irish families still themselves, Malaysians from Malicia, a Spaniard, who brought over a colony of his countrymen to people the island, but I should think from their manners as I hinted at before, that they were originally derived rather from the French. I hate all national reflections, but they seem not to have anything of the Spanish character among them. The court, which is called the castle here, is extremely agreeable, as well as brilliant, both in beauty and finery. It abounds particularly with the former. I think I never saw so many handsome women together in any place, as I have seen here on a ball night. Beauty is not, however, so general in this kingdom as in England. It is chiefly confined to the higher ranks of life, while there I have observed that it was most frequently met with in the middling and lower classes. I have run this letter into such an extravagant length, that though I am very well inclined to proceed in the picturesque style and give you an idea of Lord Lucan ungross, which is certainly as much as I can venture to pretend to at present, I find my paper has circumcised me with the limits of the smallest miniature, and as my art cannot yet rise to the nicer touches, requisite to that small scale, I shall begin his portrait on a new sheet. Next post. In the meantime, this will barely allow me to assure you that my affection and tenderness are, if possible, increased by the unhappiness of my ever dear Fanny, Louisa Barton. Miss Leicester is highly pleased with the title you have given her and says she will charge all her poetic swings to celebrate her, henceforward by the name of Iris. End of Letter Seven, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Letter Eight of the History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter Eight, Miss Cleveland to Lady Barton. My dear Louisa's agreeable melange gave me infinite pleasure, as I am very certain it is an exact representation of her soft yet lively mind. I am sorry the gloomy picture I sent of my own affected you even transiently. Lovers, my dear, are a strange, inconsistent race of mortals. Their pains and pleasures so totally dependent upon trifling accidents, and yet so exquisite that they are scarcely to be considered as rational beings. You who are not of the sighing tribe will be amazed when I tell you that at the time I received the effusions of your sympathetic tenderness, I had almost forgotten the source of my own distress, and could have cried out with Orestes, I never was unhappy. After this I think I need not tell you that I had just then received a letter from Lord Hume. He is well and kind, my sister. But alas, he talks of spending three years on his tour. We are both young, to his certain, but three years are three centuries in a lover's calendar, and should he hold his purpose, I should fancy myself old as a sible, or as sibley before that time may elapse. Though I detest the maxim you have quoted from Roche Foucault, I do not blame you for rejoicing in your own ease and tranquility. But surely you might do so though I were not in love, and yet perhaps the idea of your own felicity would not have struck you so strongly if you would not then thought me miserable. They say it is in sickness that health is only valued. I fear there is a certain perverseness in human nature that enhances the value of every blessing from the privation of it. I had conceived an idea here, but fear I have not sufficiently expressed it. But what I mean is that as a friend is a second self, you have had the happy occasion of comparing the good and ill together without the sad experience of the latter. You see I am becoming a philosopher again. But alas, Louisa, my philosophy is literally the sport of chance, for I confess that the only happiness I am at present capable of enjoying is absolutely dependent on wins, tides, post-boys and a thousand other wayward contingencies. I very sincerely join with you in wishing, since you have not yet, that you may never feel the passion of love in an extreme degree. For I am firmly persuaded that it does not contribute much to the happiness of the female world. And yet, Louisa, I will frankly tell you that I am extremely grieved at some hints you have dropped in your letters, which speak of a want of affection for Sir William. It is dangerous to sport with such sentiments. You should not suffer them to dwell even upon your own mind, much less express them to others. We ought not be too strict in analyzing the characters of those we wish to love. If we once come to habituate ourselves to thinking of their faults, it insensibly lessens the person in our esteem, and saps the foundation of our happiness with our love. I am perfectly convinced that you have fallen into this era from want of reflection, and through what is called un manier de parler. For I will not suppose that my Louisa, though persuaded by her friends and solicited most earnestly by Sir William, gave him her hand without feeling in her heart that preference for his person and esteem for his character, which is the surest basis for a permanent and tender affection. I almost condemn myself for the severity of this stricture, but my Louisa's happiness is of too much consequence to mine to pass over an error that may destroy it unnoticed before she is aware. We are all wiser for others than ourselves, but let this pretense to sagacity be pardoned by an elder sister, as proceeding from the tenderest affection of hers. Most truly, F. Cleveland. PS. Sir George holds his purpose and sets out in two days. I shall not accompany him, nor can I at present accept of your kind and soothing invitation. I mean that in the first part of your letter. I abominate your volatile idea of a hibernian or any other swain as a remedy for hapless love. Adieu, my Louisa, and forgive me the matronly heirs I have assumed in this letter, for I shall think myself extremely happy if, in the future correspondence of our lives, I do not make you more than amends by affording you in your turn many opportunities of appearing as much wiser than I as you are in reality. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith Letter 9 from Lady Barton to Miss Cleveland Indeed, my Fanny, I rejoice in your happiness, though I cannot help feeling that I am a sufferer by it, for if you had not received a very kind letter from Lord Hume, you would not, in all probability, have had spirits sufficient to have written an unkind one to me. You are, my dear sister, perfectly acquainted with every sentiment of my heart. Therefore, to repeat what you already know is needless, but in my own justification I must hold up a portrait to your view, which, from a very short absence, you seem to have forgotten. By the loss of the best of parents I became my own mistress. Before I was seventeen, my brother, who is three years elder than I, was then returned from the university and set out almost immediately on his travels. I then looked up to him as the soul stay, both of your youth and mine, and though my father's indulgence had rendered us all independent of each other, I firmly resolved never to marry without the consent and approbation of Sir George. Young as you were, you may remember that during the time we passed at my Aunt Marriott's, in Wiltshire, there were several proposals of marriage made to me, and among the rest Sir William offered me his hand, but as my heart was by no means engaged by any of the persons who honoured me with their addresses, I adhered to my first plan and referred them all to my brother's decision, as there had been no time fixed for Sir George's return. Most of those who called themselves my lovers withdrew, but Sir William, either more enamoured or more artful than the rest, set out immediately for Naples, where my brother then was, and by conciliating his esteem obtained his consent, which he pretended was all that was wanting to complete his happiness. When my brother wrote to us to meet him at Paris, I was transported at the thought of seeing him after a two years absence, but did not once reflect upon his motive for sending for us, nor did I even know that Sir William Barton was to be one of the party. Sir William's gallantry in coming from Paris to meet us at Dover flattered my vanity, I will confess. The continuance of his assudities, during our stay in France, confirmed my brother's opinion of his passion for me, but alas, I was still incapable of making any other return to his attention. Then what near politeness exacted from me? How often have my brother, Sir William, and you, seemed to doubt my sincerity, when I have declared I knew not what love was, and oh, how fatal has that inexperience been to my peace, since, yes, Fanny, your sister is a wretch, and gave away her hand before she knew she had a heart to transfer. Yet this I am convinced of, that had Sir William persevered, perhaps a few months longer, in wishing still to obtain that heart, it might, I doubt not, have been all his own. But can it now bestow itself unsought, and trembling yield to harshness, and unkindness? Impossible! The little rebel owns, as yet, no lord, and it may break. But it will never bow beneath a tyrant's frown. There never was any person's behavior so altered as Sir William's. I perceived a visible change in his manners, before we left London, but it has gone on in a blessed graduation ever since, and is at length arrived at the neplu-ultra of matrimonial disgust. I shall tell you a short story by way of instancing the uncouthness of my present situation with regard to him. Sir William is naturally humane. At least he used to seem so. I was applied to, by a wretched family, tenants of his own, who had lost their entire substance by fire. I immediately took ten guineas out of my purse, to pay my charity, when he, with the most supercilious air imaginable, took hold of my hand, bid me to put up my money, and not meddle with matters that I did not understand. Said I was rather too young for a lady bountiful yet, and that if I went on at that rate they would fire every cottage on his lands, and he should be run into a goal by my generosity. I stood amazed at this harangue, however I obeyed my husband by putting up the money, but made Benson convey it to the poor sufferers, as from a third person, while they, with transports of gratitude acknowledged there having received twenty pounds from Sir William, though forbidden to reveal his bounty to his steward, or any of his family on pain of his displeasure. Now, pray thee, tell me, Fanny, if you do not consider this an instance of a peculiar sort of perversiveness, why should he wish to restrain me from the virtuous pleasure of bestowing charity, or endeavour to persuade me that he was totally devoid of it himself? Chide me no longer, my sister, for what is much more my misfortune than my fault, and what a misfortune at my time of life to look forward to a length of years that must necessarily pass away. Joyless, loveless, unendeered, may you be happier far, dissipation must now be my resource, tis all that I have left, what a slight and worthless counterpoise for domestic felicity. I will change the subject. We are to spend the Christmas at Southfield, Lord Lucen, Colonel Walter, and my Lucy, are to accompany us next to yourself. She is the most agreeable companion I could have met with. Her mind is as delicate as her form, and I can see that she is frequently hurt at the roughness of Sir William's manners, though she takes infinite pains to conceal her feelings from me on such occasions. I once wished that Colonel Walter would have fallen in love with her, that I might have had the happiness of her living near me in the country, but I am now convinced that they were not formed to make each other happy, and that she would have refused him had he been an emperor. She has made me her confidant. She loves and is beloved by one of the most charming men in the world, yet the odds are many against their ever being united. I often tell her I envy her situation, for surely there is something indefinitely delightful in suffering for or with an amiable person whom we love. It almost equals the happiness of sharing their good fortune. I am sorry I did not sketch out Lord Lucen's portrait while I was in the vein, but he is now so much altered that my former idea of him would bear no resemblance to what he appears at present. From the extreme of gaiety he has fallen into a profound gravity, and sometimes appears gloomy and distraught. It is impossible to account for this change, as he is much light and admired by everyone who knows him, and I cannot conceive him to be in love, as he is hardly ever absent from our coterie, and I have never observed the least particularly in his behavior or addressed to any member of it, though there are a number of pretty and agreeable women in our circle. The Colonel perceives the alteration, as well as I, and seems to hint as if his sagacity could discover the cause of it. But I have never given him the least encouragement to reveal his friend's secret, and I almost hate him for affecting to triumph over him. I have another reason for disliking the Colonel, which I will not at present communicate even to you. He continues to court Mrs. Layton, but I will not take upon me to say they will be married, though I am sure it would make her very miserable to doubt it. There is an orphan niece of Sir Williams, a very lovely girl, at a boarding school here. I have endeavored to prevail on him to let her live with us. She is near fifteen, which, in my mind, renders her present situation extremely improper, and indeed I have a particular dislike to a boarding school education for girls at any age as they must necessarily contract from it to qualities that I detest, formality and insincerity. Harriet Wesley has just written to her uncle to second my request, and he has complied with it, though in his ungracious manner by adding an observation by way of codicell to his consent, that two women in a house are too too many. Perhaps Sir William only meant to be witty and not ill-natured. A play upon words is apt to dazzle those who cannot play with them. I am glad Colonel Walter was not by when this ingenious remark was made, as he seems to take particular pleasure in repeating Sir William's Bon Mott's. As the scene I am engaged in is not extremely active, my dear fanny must be contented with letting me fill my paper with such trivial and domestic occurrences, as may arise from day to day, nor must she expect order or connection in any of my letters. I write at every leisure moment, and am perhaps interrupted ten times in the filling of a page. You are very differently situated, mistress of your leisure and yourself, and I cannot forgive your barely mentioning events, in which you know I am extremely interested, as they relate to a brother and a sister whom I can never cease to love, and therefore I can readily pardon your representing the weakness, the indiscretion, call it anything but a fault of your affectionate. Louisa Barton, P.S., I know not whether I told you before that Lord Hume and Lord Lucen are intimately acquainted. End of Letter 9, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Believe me, my ever dear Louisa, when I tell you that my heart feels at this moment the tenderest sympathy with yours, and most truly resents the unhappiness of your situation, I will chide no more, my sister, but henceforward endeavor to soothe those sorrows which I cannot cure. Disappation, as you say, must be your course, anything is better than brooding over irremediable evils. Yet great are the hazards which a young and beautiful married woman has to run, who enters too deeply into a life of gaiety. The grave part of the world will censure her conduct, as arising from the levity of her mind, and the dissolute will form schemes for the destruction of that innocence, which is the only true foundation and support of cheerfulness or vivacity. Beware of artful men, my dear sister. I cannot help it, I will tell you all my fears. They may be, nay, I hope they are, quite vain. But I will confess I do not like your intimacy either with Lord Lucan or Colonel Walter. I am persuaded that you have not the least apprehension from your connection with them, but remember, Louisa, the dangers that we see are easily prevented, but those strike surest that come unexpected, like lightning which we view and feel at once. I am much pleased that Sir William's niece is to live with you. There is something flattering even to virtue in having a constant witness to approve our conduct. At least I think we should be more at ease, more self-assured in any trial with a companion than when left alone. Not that I think my sister so to seek or so unprincipled in virtue's book, to need a guard, save her own purity. I remember poor Stern used to say that all the mischief which was done in this great city was brought about by mourning teta-tets, which must be unavoidable without a female inmate, and she should always be a near relation. On this principle I think you extremely lucky in having Miss Wesley for an eleve, as her presence will be a perpetual guard against another danger you have to fear, the invenoment tongue of slander. The house is in an uproar. What can be the matter? Sir George's returned. I fly to him. Oh, Louisa, my heart is rent and pieces. I have seen my brother almost distracted, his manly face bedewed with flowing tears. Miss Colville is dead. She died at Amiens of a three days fever. My brother met her hearse at Dover. I fear Louisa he will never recover the sad stroke. Sweet Delia, I may say with the queen and Hamlet, I thought thy bride bed to have decked sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave. I cannot write more, my tears blind me. You know that I most truly love this dear departed saint. Her brutal mother has gone on to Paris, which she and her whole race had perished in her stead. My brother's bell rings, adieu, adieu, my sister. F. Cleveland. My dearest Fanny, your letter has affected me more than I can express. I am indeed most truly grieved for my brother. For the sweet Delia and yourself, yet wide lament for her, whose state I envy. Her life was innocence, her death was arly. Would mine had been so too? Young as she was, yet she had tasted sorrow. Her mother's cruelty in first accepting Sir George's proposals for her, and then rejecting him without a cause, prayed on her tender heart. She loved him, Fanny, and he deserved her passion. Her death has sealed his constancy. Her merits, nay, her beauties, are graved upon his heart. In their full luster they will remain for ever undiminished in his memory, and bloom before him from the silent tomb. My dearest brother, how my heart bleeds for thine! I would write to him, Fanny, but fear to increase his grief by mentioning the cause. You will be watchful over his distress, till time's lenient power shall blunt the arrows of disastrous love, and soften its sharp pangs to gentle melancholy. Why, am I not with you to share this tender office? Alas! Why am I not anywhere but where I am? O my sister, I could a tale unfold, but I will not add to your present distress, nor take off your attention from that dear brother, to whom it may be useful to bestow it on one to whom it cannot be of service, but who will ever be, with the tenderest affection to Sir George, and you, a faithful friend and sister, Louisa Barton? P.S., as soon as my spirits will permit, I shall reply to the first part of your last letter. I will not now, my Fanny, insist on regular answers, as I am sure you will devote every moment of your time to our dear mourner, but if any extraordinary particular relative to poor Delia should come to your knowledge, pray equate me with it. LETTER XII I now sit down to thank my dearest Fanny for the kind caution she gave me in the first part of her last letter. I will try, if possible, to forget the melancholy conclusion of it, and reply only to what relates to myself. I have had Harriet Wesley with me for some days, and find as much comfort in her innocent and cheerful society, as my unhappy situation will admit. But, alas, she is incapable of ministering either consolation or advice to me. Her knowledge of the world is even less than mine, nor would I, for that world, render her wretched by reposing the distresses of my perturbated mind in her soft bosom. O Fanny, there is neither friend nor confident for a married woman, who does not find them both in her husband. I am almost afraid to communicate my thoughts to you, yet why? For they are innocent, but letters may miscarry. A thousand accidents bring them to light, and oft undo the peace of the poor rider. But I have not to lose. My peace is fled. Your apprehensions are but too well-sounded. I am in the most imminent danger from my acquaintance with Colonel Walter. But, as Isabella says, danger Claudio, to hear in everywhere our forced companion, the rising and setting sun beholds us environed with it, our whole life's a journey ending in certain ruin. Would mine were come to the last stage? I told you before that Lord Lucan was extremely altered, from gay to grave, and that Colonel Walter affected to know the cause of this sudden transition, and repeatedly offered to acquaint me with it, which I constantly declined, and turned it off with railery. I will confess to you that I, before suspected, what the Colonel meant to inform me of. Women are generally too quick-sighted in these matters, and I by no means wish to have my doubts upon this subject confirmed. I observe that whenever Lord Lucan was present, the Colonel used to strive to sit as near me as possible, and frequently whisper nothing in my ear, then laugh as if he had said something smart and lively. I have often looked grave and sometimes silly on these occasions, but could not define the meaning of this absurd behavior till this morning. I was at work in my dressing-room and Harriet reading to me, when Lucy came in. I could visibly discover that something had affected or ruffled her mind, and therefore made a pretense to send Harriet out of the room. As soon as she was gone, Lucy burst into tears, and drew a letter out of her pocket, which she had just received from Colonel Walter. She made a thousand apologies for putting it in my hands, but said she knew not how to act upon so nice and critical an occasion. The contents were as follows. 2. Miss Leicester Dear Madame, the friendship you profess for Lady Barton, of which I can no more doubt the sincerity then my own to you inclines me to acquaint her through such a proper medium of an affair which I think of some consequence to her, but of which she, at present, seems wilfully ignorant. Through, I dare say you, and every other person who knows her, except Sir William, have long seen the ardent passion which Lord Lucan has conceived for her. Now, really, my dear Lucy, it is a thousand pities that such a fine young man should waste his life in size and groans, for a perverse beauty who will not even deign to own that she perceives his passion. We all know it is impossible that she can love her husband, and in that case it is highly probable that she should love somebody else, and why not her poor sighing swain. I have tried every possible means to prevail on Lord Lucan to avow his passion, but the simpleton denies it, even to me, though he must be sensible that I have seen its rise and progress from the first moment he beheld her, at Pangor Ferry, to this present writing, I have even attempted to make him jealous by an affected familiarity with Lady Barton, though both she, and you know, come on core, Ed Devole, a Madame Votretante, but all this I'll swear I did in pure goodwill, in hopes of bringing the lovers to an explanation, which might possibly prevent their going on at the absurd rate they do at present. You know, my dear Lucy, that I have a very high opinion of Lady Barton. I therefore could not presume to mention Lord Lucan as a lover for her ladyship, if I were not perfectly convinced that he is as true a platonic as she or even your little romantic self. I would not by any means have you ventured to shrew her this letter, but you ladies have a thousand agreeable ways of conveying a secret to each other, especially where you have reason to imagine that the information will not be displeasing. I shall have had the honour of seeing you this evening at Mrs. Layton's, but pray don't take notice of this letter to her or to any other person, but the one whom it concerns. Adu, ma bella, ibuno figulua, J. Walter. I shall never be able to describe what I felt upon reading this detestable scroll, this outrage to honour, delicacy, friendship, virtue, but how to act. It was impossible to think of shrewing such a letter to a husband as the consequences must in all probability an ought to have been fatal, and neither Lucy nor I could submit to the meanness of telling a falsehood by saying she had not shrew me the letter. In this dilemma I determined on sending for Colonel Walter, myself, to speak my sentiments to him upon the occasion, which I did. He came and on my asking him what I had ever done to provoke his malice, or how he dared to insult me by his letter to Miss Leicester. He burst into an affected laugh, and said he was sorry to find that English ladies had no idea of a jest, and that he really meant nothing more than a little badinage, and to bring about a kind of platonic gallantry between Lord Lucan and me, which might serve to amuse us in the long evenings we were to pass together at Southfield, but if his railery had given me a moment's pain he asked my pardon and promised never to offend again on the same subject. I was, imprudence, obliged to acquiesce with the insincere submission, but from this hour I know him for mine enemy. O Fanny, what a situation is mine! Would to heaven I could exchange it, for that of our dear departed Delia. She is at peace, my sister, while I. But let me not distress you farther. Tell me, I conjure you. Tell me, that my brother's virtue and philosophy have calmed his sorrows, and that he now only feels that sort of tender regret, which arises from the fond idea of a long absent friend. Tell me something of yourself, but let that something give me leave to hope that you are happy and I shall repine the less at my own wretchedness. My true love waits on Sir George and you, and you, my Fanny, Louisa Barton. End of Letters 11 to 12, Recording by Linda R. Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Letter 13 of the History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter 13. Miss Cleveland to Lady Barton. My dear Louisa, I have received both your letters and really think no situation can be more difficult than yours. But as you see the precipice before you, I will trust in that good providence which is the guardian and support of innocence that he will enable you to avoid it. I am persuaded I felt as much resentment as yourself on reading Colonel Walter's letter. I perfectly approve if you're not showing it to Sir William, but I cannot by any means divine what could be the motive for writing it. Ever since you mentioned the change in Lord Lucan's behavior, I have had some apprehensions of his passion for you, but would not hint them for fear of giving you uneasiness. Oh, my Louisa, how nicely circumspect must your conduct be if you mean to escape the dangers that surround you? And how much brighter than gold, seven times tried in the furnace, will that conduct appear when it has passed through more than a trial or a deal, unsullied and unhurt? You have never given me the least reason to apprehend that Sir William is inclinable to jealousy. This is certainly a very fortunate circumstance in your present situation, but do not suffer yourself to be lulled into a state of security by his apparent indolence. Vigilant and watchful must that woman be who has so many foes to shield against. The unkindness of Sir William, the passion and merits of Lord Lucan, the arts and malice of Colonel Walter, but the last and most formidable, shall I venture to speak out, is your own heart. You have not yet begun to suspect it. It is therefore the more dangerous enemy. Examine it, my sister. Call it to strict account, and if you find one sentiment or wish that lurks in secret there unworthy of yourself, banish it, I beseech you. Thoughts, even without purposes, are criminal, where our honor is in question. Consider the slightest idea of this kind as a young serpent. Though stingless now, its growth will give it strength and power to wound the breast that nursed and cherished it. Crush it but times, Louisa, and be at peace for life. I weep faster than I write, my brother's unhappiness and yours have sunk my spirits to the lowest ebb. He is still inconsolable. He has received a most extraordinary letter from brute Colville. I can call her nothing else. She says, she hopes he has by this time surmounted his grief for her daughter, as it is highly irrational to mourn for one who is so surely happy. She entreats him to go directly to Paris as she has something very particular to inform him of, relative to Delia's last request, which she will not communicate by letter. This hint has roused Sir George's curiosity, or rather, awakened the fond desire of fulfilling any wish that Delia might have made. Yet he says he could not bear the sight of Mrs. Colville, whom he considers as her daughter's murderer, and the destroyer of his earthly happiness. I know not what to think of this affair, but I most earnestly wish that he would go anywhere, exercises always of service to an oppressed mind. Like the wheels of a machine, it lessens the weight, which rest restores again. However, Sir George shall not go by Amiens, if he goes at all and that I have any power to persuade him. No one can tell where Lord Hume has been for some time past. The only letter I received was dated from Naples, which he said he should quit the next day, and write to me the moment he was determined to fix it any place. If a brother's and sister's unhappiness did not at present take up all my thoughts, and as it were usurp the place of my own sorrow, I could allow it ample scope, Louisa. But I will now restrain it, at least within my own breast, and indulge myself in the more generous sensation of grieving for the distresses of those who are more wretched and not less dear to me than myself. Sir George returns your love a hundredfold. I have never given him the least hint of your being unhappy, as I knew it would render him still more so. I do not think that even a brother should interfere between husband and wife, unless matters were come to such extremities as I hope they never will between Sir William and you. I would by all means wish to make you a friend, though not a confidant, of the young Harriet. If her heart and understanding be good, her want of knowledge in the ways of the world will not render her a less eligible companion or advisor. There is something extremely striking in the natural sentiments of an untainted mind. They resemble the purity and delicacy of water drank at the fountain, before it has been impregnated with these adventitious flavors which it acquires in its currency. I know not why, but I am vastly prejudiced in Harriet's favor. I am apt to think she will lessen your domestic uneasinesses, or at least prevent your brooding over them in solitude and silence. If I ever visit you in Ireland, I shall endeavor to obtain a corner of her little innocent heart. This will be no robbery, for I flutter myself that she will love you the better the more she loves me. Ms. Granville is returned from Bath. She is at present my only companion. Within these two days, Sir George has admitted her into his apartment. She has lost all her spirits in vivacity, and is perfectly qualified to perform the part of a mute in a tragedy, for she sighs often and never speaks. She has not, however, communicated the cause of her mourning to me. Yet I fancy if she were obliged to sing a French song, Maudite Moul would be the first that would occur to her. You will easily perceive that my letters, like yours, are written at different intervals, and I hope you will also perceive that my spirits are better than when I began this epistle, though nothing particular has happened to enliven them, except my taking in airing with Sir George and my quantum admirer Mr. Lloyd in Richmond Park this morning. The moral of the tale I sing, as before, is that air and exercise are the best medicines in the world, both for mind and body. By the way, I hope you both continue and indulge your passion for writing. I hear the outlets about Dublin are delightful. You will be unpardonable if you don't visit them all. Pray give my love to the little Harriet. You may also offer it to Sir William, for indeed I am very well inclined, even to bestow, since he will not suffer me to pay it to him. Adieu, adieu, madré cher sur. F. Cleveland. P.S. Pray inquire of Lord Lucan if he ever hears from Lord Hume. End of Letter 13. Letter 14 of the history of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter 14. Lord Hume, to Lord Lucan Naples. Yes, my dear Lucan, I will acknowledge your censure just in some degree, and that I think is full as much as can be expected from a person of my lively involuntary disposition. We idle fellows are seldom perverse enough to defend our follies, or perhaps the same indolence of temper which makes us commit prevents our justifying them. No matter from what principle our humility arises, I hate searching for remote causes, just like seeking for a grain of wheat in a bushel of chap. I never was a good logician, though a very tolerable sophist, for myself at least, and while I find the effects of my passion for the lovely margarita, pleasant I shall never perplex myself with endeavoring to find out why they are so. You cannot, my dear Lucan, have an idea of anything half so charming, or you would not only excuse but countenance my fondness by your own admiration. No, hang it, I should not like that either, nor would I have you see her for a thousand guineas notwithstanding what you say of your being already in love. You know, I thought myself the most enamored swain alive when I left England and used to write you the most docile accounts of my sufferings. You laughed at them, then I laughed at them now. Tempor, out, morees, mulled on tour. No matter which, I can't help, however, sometimes feeling a little quam, not of conscience, though, Lucan, for my former mistress, she is handsome, I confess, but margarita is divine. When I landed on the continent, I was such a novice in love as to fancy that I could not bear a six-month absence from Fanny Cleveland, but I had not been six days acquainted with my present object when I found that I could sacrifice friends, country, nay myself to her. I'd never felt passion before, and what's life without passion, sweet passion of love? I have, I hope, dealt like a man of honor with Ms. Cleveland by not dissembling with her, I've written but once to her since I came here, and then told her I intended to stay abroad for three years and had not fixed upon any place of residence. Nay even said I should quit Naples directly merely to prevent her writing to me. I hope she will understand all this properly, and that her pride will give the better of whatever regard she might have had for me, and that whenever I return to England, if that should ever happen, I may find her what I really wish married entirely to her own satisfaction. For notwithstanding my infidelity, I think it impossible that I should ever be capable of divesting myself of the warmest interest in her happiness. I have now, my dear Lucan, laid my heart as open before you as I would were a Catholic to my confessor. I expect much more from you than I should from him not only absolution and indulgence, but a reciprocal confidence also. Tell me who and what this fair hibernian is, whose turret charms have been able to thaw your frozen zone? Is it un affaire de coeur, ou dauneur? Is she kind, or cruel, brown, or fair? In short, deal as frankly with me as as I have done with you, and we shall then have mutually exchanged the truest test of friendship with each other. Yours most truly hewn. P.S. I propose spending the winter here and setting out early in spring either to Rome or Venice, whichever my fair compass points her taper index to, that we may enjoy the carnival together. End of letter 14.