To Col. Bellville.
Tuesday, Belmont.
OH! you have no notion what a reformation:
Who but Lady Anne Wilmot
at chapel every Sunday? grave, devout,
attentive! scarce stealing a look at the
prettiest fellow in the world, who sits close
by me! Yes, you are undone, Bellville;
Harry Mandeville, the young, the gay, the
lovely Harry Mandeville, in the full bloom
of conquering three and twenty, with all the
fire and sprightliness of youth, the exquisite
symmetry and easy grace of an Antinous;
a countenance open, manly, animated;
his hair the brightest chesnut; his complexion
brown, flushed with the rose of
health; his eyes dark, penetrating, and
full of fire, but when he addresses our sex
softened into a sweetness which is almost
irresistible; his nose inclining to the aquiline;
his lips full and red, and his teeth of
the most pearly whiteness.
There, read and die with envy:
"You with envy, I with love."
Fond of me too, but afraid to declare his
passion; respectful–awed by the commanding
dignity of my manner–poor dear creature!
I think I must unbend a little, hide
half the rays of my divinity, to encourage
so timid a worshiper.
Some flattering tawdry coxcomb, I suppose;
some fool with a tolerable outside.
No, you never was more mistaken, Bellville:
his charms, I assure you, are not all
external. His understanding is of the most
exalted kind, and has been improved by
a very extraordinary education, in projecting
which his father has employed much
time and thought, and half ruined himself
by carrying it into execution. Above all, the
Colonel has cultivated in his son an ardent
love of independence, not quite so well
suited to his fortune; and a generous,
perhaps a romantic, contempt of riches,
which most parents if they had found
would have eradicated with the utmost
care. His heart is warm, noble, liberal,
benevolent: sincere and violent in his
friendships, he is not less so, though extremely
placable, in his enmities; scorning
disguise, and laying his faults as well as
his virtues open to every eye: rash, romantic,
imprudent; haughty to the assuming
sons of wealth, but to those below
him,
"Gentle
As Zephyr blowing underneath the violet."
But whither am I running? and where
was I when this divine creature seduced
me from my right path? Oh, I remember,
at chapel: it must be acknowledged my
digressions are a little Pindaric. True,
as I was saying, I go constantly to chapel.
'Tis strange; but this lady Belmont has
the most unaccountable way in the world
of making it one's choice to do whatever
she has an inclination one should, without
seeming to desire it. One sees so clearly
that all she does is right, religion fits so
easy upon her, her style of goodness is so
becoming and graceful, that it seems want
of taste and elegance not to endeavour to
resemble her. Then my Lord too loves to
worship in the beauty of holiness; he makes
the fine arts subservient to the noblest purpose,
and spends as much on serving his
Creator as some people of his rank do on
a kennel of hounds. We have every external
incitement to devotion; exquisite
paintings, an admirable organ, fine voices,
and the most animated reader of prayers in
the universe.
Col. Mandeville, whom I should be extremely
in love with if his son was not five
and twenty years younger, leaves us tomorrow
morning, to join his regiment,
the shire militia: he served in the late
war with honour; but, meeting with some ill
usage from a minister on account of a vote
in parliament, he resigned his commission,
and gave up his whole time to the education
of my lovely Harry, whose tenderness and
merit are a full reward for all his generous
attention. Adieu!
A. Wilmot.
