University of Virginia Library

“Here I am, in the favoured land of the brave, the
intelligent, and the free. Yet even while I now repeat
it, I scarcely credit it. I feel as if I were walking in
my sleep; and it is only when I look out upon the
princely buildings around me, that I can realize I am indeed
in London. Our voyage was very pleasant, with
the exception of sea-sickness. That, however, is a tax
we must all pay to lord Neptune for rocking us in his
cradle somewhat too roughly. (Pardon me. I forget
that the odious word tax is banished from the American
vocabulary.)

“It was not until we came within sight of this ancient
city, that I felt the desolate sensations of an exile from
my native land. We cast anchor in the evening, among

a forest of tall black masts. The bowsprits threw their
grim shadows on the water, and seemed like so many
ugly sea-monsters, grinning defiance at each other.
The very stars looked terrific in their sublime beauty.
—I gazed on them till I could almost imagine the Great
Bear shook his shaggy head above me, and that the
various fantastic shapes with which Chaldean imagination
has peopled the zodiac, were frowning upon me in
their wrath.

“Far off in the distance twinkled the many hundred
lights of London; and among all the busy haunts they
illuminated, poor Lucretia had not a single friend. It
was a sad, sickening thought, dearest Grace,—and my
heart yearned for beloved America. I fancied you
seated at your work-table, listening to Henry as he read
some newly arrived volume, and the tears started to my
eyes.

“Captain Somerville saw that I was melancholy, and
he did all he could to cheer me. We sat leaning over the
stern of the vessel, until a late hour, talking of you, and
watching the motion of the little boat as it rose and fell
with the rippling tide. The shore on either side was
noiseless as death; and the creaking of the rigging, and
the loud, protracted “Hoa up Hoy” of the distant sailors
alone reminded us that they were from New
England.

“Very early in the morning, a message was sent to uncle
Fitzherbert,—and according to aunt Sandford's directions,
I dressed myself as splendidly as possible; for
I must acknowledge, I felt exceedingly anxious concerning

my reception. At our usual breakfasting hour,
Captain Somerville came to my cabin, and told me that
a carriage and four, with servants in the Fitzherbert
livery, were on the bank of the river. A boat was immediately
sent from the vessel, and a footman returned
in it, bringing an invitation to Captain Somerville and
myself to breakfast at Tudor Lodge. Had you seen
my equipage, you would not wonder that my eyes were
a little dazzled. Phaeton himself might have been proud
of the horses; the servants were in rich liveries of grey
and silver; the polished harness glittered in the morning
sun; the Fitzherbert arms were gorgeously blazoned on
the pannels of the carriage; and the carriage itself was
much more superb than any thing I had ever seen in
New England.

“We were whirled along by villas, hospitals, and hotels,—any
one of which seemed to me sufficiently magnificent
for a royal palace.

“The coachman stopped before a large, noble-looking
building of Portland stone, with a piazza in front, supported
by a range of Corinthian pillars. In a state of
dizzy incredulity I was handed up the steps, and paused
in the drawing-room until my arrival was announced.

“After considerable delay, during which my heart
throbbed high with expectation and anxiety, I was ushered
into the presence of my uncle. He received me
with great pomp and etiquette, scated in his crimson
velvet chair, in a morning robe of the same materials.
For the moment, I only remembered that he was the
first of my kindred I had ever seen, and I would have

rushed into his arms and wept. However, I immediately
discovered that an oriental salam would be much
more acceptable to him. Indeed it was too evident that
my personal appearance disappointed him; but when
Captain Somerville introduced me, he took my hand
with stately courtesy, and bade me welcome to England.

“Mrs. Edgarton, a distant relation, of middle age,
whose polished manners indicate habitual intercourse
with the fashionable world, superintends his establishment.
She seems intelligent and cultivated; but she
too is cold, dignified, and reserved.

“The papers are full of the arrival of Miss Lucretia
Fitzherbert, the newly discovered American heiress,
niece of the Honourable Edmund Fitzherbert of Tudor
Lodge.

“What would the world say, if they knew that, with
`all my blushing honours thick upon me,' I often
retire to my chamber, to think of Boston, and give
vent to my tears as they start up from their fountain
of bitterness. Wealth is a glittering and much
coveted bauble; but the heart cannot nestle in it,
and cling to it, in its hour of loneliness. What do I
care for Turkey carpets, Parisian mirrors, and Chinese
vases, when every being around me is as chilling as the
tessellated marble of our grand saloon? Splendour may
please the unsated eye, but it cannot relieve a heart
bursting with the full tide of unemployed tenderness.
Do not think by this that I am unhappy. It only means
that I am not yet used to stiffened elegance and magnificent
formality.

“You cannot imagine with how much delight I have
accompanied my uncle around London and its environs.
The city itself, so varied in its beauty—so crowded in
its grandeur. Then there is such life—such energy—
such never-ceasing bustle. It is well called the heart of
Britain; for it seems heaving and bounding with the vitality
of a whole empire. Of the suburbs, I am almost
tempted to say nothing; for I despair of giving you an
idea how lovely are the scenes among which the Thames
has spread the silver drapery of his couch. Turrets
and steeples peer above the foliage, as if on tiptoe to
view the dimpled course of this majestic river; clusters
of ancient elms dance gracefully to the wayward music
of the winds; venerable oaks stand like a firm phalanx
in their towering strongth; the fragile willows bend over
their watery mirror, sad and drooping, as if passion-stricken
with their own shadows; and the blossoms are
so abundant in their luxuriant beauty, that one would
think Flora, enamoured of the spot, had flung all her
garlands there in frolic. The goddess, however, is not
so partial in the distribution of her favours. Your
American pastures are doubtless covered with wild
flowers. The Violet lifts up its timid blue eye in supplication,
as if loath to be crushed, even by your fairy
foot; the Anemone is gradually changing its rose-tint to
the purest white, like maidens outgrowing their youthful
blushes; and the beautiful Trillium bows its starry
head beneath its dark green leaves, like a scared and
petted infant hiding its bashful face behind a mother's
sheltering arm.

“Oh, when I think of all our pleasant rambles, our unreserved
communications, and our playful disputes, it
seems as if my heart would burst its tenement, and
bound forward to meet you. I told Somerville so, this
morning; and I thought he sympathized in my impatience
most warmly.

“By the way, he called to take me to Westminster
Abbey,—the first public place I have visited since my
arrival.

“If Henry had not told you about it again and again, I
would inform you how I stood in the Poets' Corner, and
`held high converse with the mighty dead;' what exultation
I felt when I saw that the sceptre had fallen
from the powerless hand of Queen Elizabeth,—that
self-same cruel hand that signed the death warrant of
the beautiful Mary Stuart; and how, amid all this `pomp
and circumstance' of morality, the figure of Mr. Nightingale,
shielding his beloved wife from the impending
dart of death, was the only thing that touched me with
melancholy. I was indeed powerfully excited by the
whole scene. Association seems to hold her court in
this mansion of departed glory; and as her magic fingers
touch the octaves in the human soul, imagination
runs rapidly over the intermediate notes. When I came
from the long and gloomy labyrinths of this ancient abbey,
I felt as if I had actually been in Elysium, talking
with kings, heroes, statesmen, and poets. Why did not
Henry tell us how his heart ached when he passed from
that still, solemn sanctuary of the dead, into all the tumult
of this noisy city? But then he never speaks with

enthusiasm; unless, indeed, you rouse him up about
American taxation. Well! perhaps the glowing embers,
kept alive on the secret shrine of Apollo, burned
with more intense and consuming heat, than Cybele's
torches, flaring on the midnight air.

“I shall never have done, if I write all I wish to say;
for the thoughts rush into my mind so furiously that they
push each other down in their course. Most sincere and
respectful affection to your good father; and to all my
friends the kindest wishes they can desire from me.
Write soon, and remember to speak of Gertrude Percival.
Do not forget me, dearest Grace, nor suffer any
one I love to forget me.

“With heart-felt, soul-felt affection for you all, I am
as ever,

“We last week received your long and affectionate
letter. I was delighted, but not dazzled, with your picture
of London. I love my own quiet chamber better
than I should marble saloons or Corinthian piazzas.
Yet our humble mansion has been sad enough since you
left us. My father's health fails daily; and long, long
before you return to us, Lucretia, I fear the dear venerable
old man will have gone to his last home. It
grieves me to think of it. Yet why should they whose
lives have been stainless, and their purposes all holy,
shrink from the hand that enrobes them with immortality.
Young as I am, there are times when I would lay
down my weary, aching head, and sleep, never more
to wake in this cold world, as cheerfully as the tired
infant presses the soft pillow of its cradle.

“I know this is not the right spirit. Those who would
take up the cross and follow their Divine Master, must
be resigned to live as well as to die. Yet how hard it is
to endure life, when those we have loved are dropping
around us like the leaves of autumn;—when the smiles
that have been as sunshine to the soul, have left it all
dark and lonely; and tones that have been dear, yea,
very dear to us, are heard no longer. I am foolishly
melancholy just this moment; and I am childish enough
to dip my pen in my heart.

“My father's sickness and uncommon depression of
spirits casts a shadow over every hing. Not only has
it rendered our dwelling dismal,—but the sky does not
seem so blue, nor the grass so green, as it did last summer.
You, I dare say would make some sparkling
metaphor concerning such a state of things; but I have
not the gift. Henry smiled when I showed him your
letter, and said it did one as much good to read any
thing of yours, as it did to see a bed of tulips blown
about by the wind. You see that he has imagination,
my dear friend. He has enthusiasm, too,—though few
discover it. Ought I to tell you, or ought I not, that when
he returned your letter, I found what you had written
of him cut out? He seems in excellent spirits,—always
doing something to make us happy and cheerful; but
there are things the heart never forgets, you know, how
calmly soever it may remember them. I have not seen
him roused on the subject of taxation lately. Indeed
the times are now so peaceful and quiet, that it is seldom
mentioned even when Doctor Willard is here. By

the way, I read a part of your letter to him; and I assure
you, his expressive black eyes grew brighter and
brighter at every line. I wonder he was not captivated
with you, Lucretia,—you are so very much like each
other. You cannot tell how solicitous he is concerning
our good father,—how anxious about every symptom,—
how enlivening in his conversation whenever the invalid
can bear it,—and how still, kind, and careful, when his
spirits are exhausted. It is very painful not to repay
the love of a heart so generous and tender; and when
day after day I meet the same affectionate glance, and
hear the same mild, insinuating tones, it seems such a
deep and stinging reproach to my ingratitude, that I
half believe it possible;—but the affections are stubborn
things and are not easily bent according to our
wishes.

“I have received two letters from Gertrude since you
left. They reside at a beautiful country-seat, not far
from Montreal; and they have both sent the most urgent
invitations for us to visit them this summer. She
has improved wonderfully in her hand-writing. `Who,'
she asks, `can do otherwise, when Edward Percival is
the instructer?' Still her letters are as stiff, straight,
and precise as Madam Sandford. Will you pardon the
comparison? With regard to Canada, even if my father
were well enough, I should not have spirit sufficient to
make the exertion. Long may they live to enjoy their
romantic attachment. Mr. Percival has sent me a very
neat and handsome set of jewels. I thanked him, because
I knew he meant it kindly; but I shall never wear

them. If you had not a variety much more elegant, I
would send them to you. Do you know Henry has at
length persuaded me to have my portrait taken? Yes,
there I am in our little breakfast parlour, smiling as graciously
as if I looked on absent friends. My brother
says, `Tell Lucretia I am the same sincere well-wisher;'
and my father adds, `You must leave a corner of
your paper, that I may try to hold a pen long enough to
give her my blessing.' In order to comply with his request,
I must close by saying,

“My dear Child,

“Never was `news from a far country' more welcome
than your letter. None of us knew how dear you
were, till you were gone from us. Poor Grace goes

from room to room, and looks at every memento of you
with such utter sadness, that one would think you were
actually in your grave; and when she hears a knock,
she will sometimes start,—and then check herself, as
she says, `I was thinking Lucretia was at the door.'
Alas! how apt we all are to give the freshness and vigour
of our affections to earthly objects, and thus have
nothing to offer our Heavenly Father, but `the lame, the
halt, and the blind.' The heathen offered the fairest
flowers and the choicest fruits to their gods, and shall
we, on whom the gospel has shone, do less than they?
While the cup of life is sparkling at your eager lips, do
not forget the kind hand which offered it. Remember,
my dear, there is a friend on whom to rely when all
others fall us. There is no public news of importance.
It has pleased the Lord to give us peace, if not security.
One `burning and shining light' has been removed from
us. I mean the much lamented Doctor Mayhew. I
need not talk of his talents to one who heard his eloquent
sermon on the repeal of the Stamp Act; but of
his piety, his integrity, his industry, and zeal, I would,
had I strength, write for hours. During his short life,
he did much in the cause of civil and religious liberty.
I do not believe there ever was mortal man that more
faithfully served his country and his God. Alas! that
he left not his mantle behind him.

“I have written this at many different times, and with
great pain, my dear girl. My heart says more; but my
trembling hand will not convey it. Yet a little while
longer, and the soul will drop its burden of clay. I can

only add, God bless you,—even with the greatest of all
blessings,—a disposition to do his will.

“I delivered your letters according to their directions;
and I do not hesitate to say that the general opinion here
is entirely in favour of your views. It is, however,
very difficult to ascertain what course will be taken, for
never was there such a heterogeneous, unintelligible
mass as the present ministry. They are made up of the
shreds and patches of all political opinions,—a confused
jumble of every shade and hue of whiggism.

“The Marquis of Rockingham did indeed come into
the government at a peculiarly difficult crisis. The
Regency Bill of course made an enemy of Lord Bute,
—because the public chose to implicate him in its odium;
the Duke of Grafton has forsaken their standard,
because he is offended at their treatment of Wilkes;
Chatham is as wavering and inconsistent as ever, and his
powerful friend, the excellent Duke of Cumberland,
died soon after his administration began. On the whole,

it is evident that another transformation will soon take
place. Pitt seems to have the power to lord it over
king and parliament; how he will exert his influence
nobody knows—unless he has some conjecture himself,
which his undecided character renders very doubtful.
That confoundedly clever lawyer, young Burke, gashes
him deeply in the public papers. The articles in question
possess abundance of good sense as well as cutting
irony. The resolution against general warrants, passed
in the House of Commons, has brought Wilkes back to
London. He is here threatening to annoy the government,
or make his fortune out of its fears. The plan of
American taxation is by no means given up. Charles
Townsend is as eager for it, as he is for office. He
thinks to make it go down, by giving it a different name.
He has not, like me, seen an American mob, heard Otis
speak, and Doctor Willard talk. You will judge what
views he and others entertain by the letters and documents
that accompany this.

“Mr. Fitzherbert talks much of what you have done
for his niece; and seems to think he cannot load me
with favours enough to evince his gratitude. He is a
formal, and somewhat fastidious old man; but when the
crust is once broken, he proves to have a warm heart.
He is a professed connoisseur in female beauty,—and he
was of course disappointed in Miss Fitzherbert. He
is unbounded in his hospitality, and his servants' hall
shows much of the prodigality of feudal times. I shall,
if possible, induce him to keep open doors for the choice
literary spirits that are now clustering together in this

metropolis. This will bring Lucretia forward to the
best advantage; and perhaps we all love our friends
better when we have reason to be proud of them. I
can see that her vivacity and good sense gain upon his
affections daily. She is indeed a fine girl. No one
can know her without admiring her.

The mystery concerning the report of Mr. Fitzherbert's
death is all explained. When you sent to England
in 1760, to inquire concerning Lucretia's connexions,
he was very sick at Manilla, and a profligate relation
of his palmed the story upon his creditors, in order
to relieve himself from temporary embarrassment. Mr.
Fitzherbert is so indignant at this unfeeling deception,
that he will not consent to see him.

“There is a great intimacy between Mr. Fitzherbert
and the Marquis of Rockingham. He procured Burke
the situation of private secretary to his lordship.

“I send you an elegant edition of Swift, lately published,—which
please to accept.

“Respects to Madam Sandford,—and kind remembrance
to Doctor Byles and the Osbornes.