University of Virginia Library

“How very seldom you write; and how wo-begone
are your epistles. Do not think me heartless with regard
to your father's sickness. Indeed, I have felt most
keenly for you and for him; but I have not the least
doubt that the fine, clear climate of Canada will restore
him; and even if the event should be the worst that we
can fear, you must not thus mourn away your young
existence. When you wrote last, you were just on the
point of starting for Montreal; and I assure you I envied
you the excursion. I wish I could have visited
Gertrude before I came to England. Not only because
I loved her more than I ever loved any one in so short a
time; but I am really ashamed when asked about Niagara
and the Lakes, to say that I have never seen them.
People here are not aware how very unusual it is for
American ladies to go out of sight of their own chimnies;

and as for space, they do not seem to imagine
there is such a thing on the other side of the Atlantic.
They would ask a Vermontese about the Blue Ridge,
or a Georgian about Niagara, as readily as I should
question a Londoner about St. Paul's, or beg a description
of Snowdon from a Welchman born and bred within
sight of its cloud-kissing peak.

“During the whole of last winter we had the finest
collection of company in the world. Johnson, Burke,
Sir Joshua Reynolds, Garrick, and Goldsmith, spent an
evening with us, almost as regularly as they did at the
Turk's Head, Gerrard-street, Soho. The mere contact
of such great minds is enough to inspire one with genius.
I have the good fortune to be a favourite with that famous
cynic, Samuel Johnson;—principally, I believe,
because I treat him with the most profound reverence,
and never contradict his opinions. To Sir Joshua, I
could listen forever,—because he talks of what I understand
and love. He has described half the fine paintings
in Italy so vividly that I imagine I have seen them.
Burke is becoming famous as a speaker; and if he is
half as delightful in parliament as he is in the drawing-room,
I do not wonder at his fame. `His talk,' says
Johnson, `is the ebullition of his mind; he does not
talk from a desire of distinction, but because his mind
is full.' It would amuse Henry to hear the political
disputes between these two great men. Johnson sneers
about `whig dogs,' speaks of America as an uncivilized
land,—and says it would puzzle any one to tell what
good the discovery of it has done the world. Burke

contends that our country will eventually be one of the
greatest on the globe,—and says that if Britain ever
loses her American Colonies, she will part with a jewel
worth her whole regalia. It is curious to observe how
sharp contention will call forth passions, which we little
folks can hardly imagine to exist in such mighty minds.
These great men remind me of Alfred's horse, cut in
the side of a chalk-hill in Berkshire. At a distance, it
looks like a fine warlike steed; but as you approach it,
all its fine proportions are lost; and at last you begin to
doubt whether it be really an animal, or merely a surface
accidentally indented by wind and storm. Among all
the geniuses to whom I have been introduced, Goldsmith
is my favourite. He loves a broad laugh, but never a
malicious one; and his constant flow of humour originates
in fulness,—not in vacuity.

“We shall soon return to the city. I must say I regret
to leave our country-seat; for thickly as this beautiful
island is gemmed with mansions and parks, cottages
and gardens, it can boast few spots so cultivated and so
varied. The Thames sparkles before it, like a broad,
bright line of silver on the green robe of Summer. In
the distance are seen the verdant hills of Kent and Surry;
around whose majestic brows the setting sun daily
twines his topaz coronet of light. In every direction
the foliage is delightfully interspersed with majestic
domes, venerable turrets, and light, airy, graceful spires.
Boats of all sizes and descriptions, from the eight-oared
barge to the slender skiff, are gliding up and down the
river, like a troop of wild swans on the Potomac, giving
life and motion to its slumbering beauty.

“Within doors, I can feast my eye on a fine gallery
of paintings. Here are the pictures of Rembrandt,
steeped in sunshine; the gods and goddesses of Guido,
—more like the seraphs of a Christian heaven, than the
deities of Olympus; and the sublime productions of
Raphael, beaming with an expression of soul, which his
pencil alone could give. But there is one picture here
that seems to me like dreaming of a distant friend,—
troubling while it pleases me. I is among the family
portraits which decorate my bed-chamber; and was
taken, I am told, for my grandmother Fitzherbert. It
is Gertrude Percival to the life! The same high, intellectual
forehead; the same Aurora freshness of complexion;
the same majestic contour of neck and shoulders.
I do not know how they would compare together;
but I thought the likeness so striking, that I have employed
Sir Joshua Reynolds to make me a copy to bring to
America. What associations that name awakens! how
much the very sound makes my heart leap toward you.
Yet my affections cling to good old England. I love
her country scenes embosomed in forests, and garlanded
with flowers; I love the rapid pulsation of her mighty
capital; I love to gaze on her far-stretching galaxy of
genius; and, `last, not least' I love the bravery, frankness,
and hospitality of her sons.

“One other association knocks at my heart, dearer
than all that taste or reason can furnish. It was here I
first heard declarations of love from the only man I ever
wished to please. There was a time when you indulged
yourself in a little gentle raillery about my sliding

heart;—and why, dear Grace, did you cease to be unreserved
on the subject? I once supposed that Captain
Somerville had a powerful advocate in your own feelings.
Was it so? and did you reject him from the dictates of
judgment? Or are you still a stranger to that mysterious
affinity which draws two young souls toward each other?
Perhaps timidity was the only enemy our patriotic young
friend had to contend with; and after all that is past
and gone, Mrs. Willard may stand ready to greet Mrs.
Somerville, on her return to America.—I forgot, when I
said Mrs. Somerville,—for uncle will not consent to our
marriage, unless the Captain will take my family name;
and he is now going through the necessary forms for
that purpose. I wish you could have a share in the
ceremony that gives me a hand invaluable to my heart,
though it proved unacceptable to yours.

“When you write again, I trust your father will be
quite recovered. You do not know how grateful I am
for the kind wishes he always sends me. Kiss his
venerable forehead, and tell him that, to such a generous
creditor, I shall never be a bankrupt in affection. I
thought happiness had dried up the fountain of my tears;
but your last letter was so sad that I wept in spite of
myself.

“Ever yours with all the intense affection I am capable
of feeling.

“I found your letter dated November 15th, waiting our
arrival, when we returned from Canada. Gertrude and
I wrote you a crowded epistle last autumn; I wonder
you had not received it before you wrote. She is very
happy. Indeed her affectionate heart deserves it. Had
she been a sister in very truth, she could not have
loved me more, or been more kindly attentive to my
father.

“I have heard you speak of people in whom delicacy
and refinement seemed like instinct. Mrs. Percival's
certainly is so. She perceived that images and pictures
of the saints distressed my good father (his soul you
know entereth not into their strange worship)—nothing
was said;—but the morning after our arrival, I noticed
they had all disappeared. I cannot tell such fine stories
about my Canadian excursion, as you tell of England.
I was ever seated at my father's bed-side, or supporting
his arm as he walked. You will think this was wearisome;
but I assure you it is like cordial to the spirit to
meet affection in the languid eye of sickness, and to see
blessings and thanks quiver on lips that have not strength
to utter them. Truly, I would not have exchanged my
solitary task for all the treasures of Burke's eloquence,
or Goldsmith's wit. Your speaking of pictures reminds
me of a Magdalen which an Italian artist painted for
Mrs. Percival. It would doubtless appear mean to your
practised eye; but it found its way to my heart. The
countenance is pale and melaneholy—like one who has

loved and been forsaken—one who has early learned
that the flowers of earth wither away; but there is
devotion in the uplifted eye, which speaks of better
hopes than this vain world can offer. So purely did it
breathe of celestial joys, that my spirit fluttered like a
captive bird,—and I would fain have gone away and
slept the last quiet sleep.

“My father is recovering fast. A gentle light beams
from his eye, and his step is firm even as it was wont to
be, when you and I and all of us were happy together.

“Long long, Lucretia, may you enjoy the scenes
you love so well, and the society you so well know how
to adorn. I am often selfish enough to wish you were
here. However, the luxuriance of the park and the
green-house must be yours;—enough for me, the trembling
little wild flower that breathes its fragrance at my
feet. Blessings on its innocent beauty! It smiles
through a delicious existence, and at the end of one
brief season droops its dying head on the bosom of the
turf that nourished it. Why should we envy them?
Are not mortals as fragile as they? I love flowers.
They speak of nature, and they speak of God. I would
rather have them cluster around my grave and moisten
it with the dew-drop of morning and evening, than to
repose beneath the cold, heavy monuments of West-minster
Abbey.

“May you ever be happy, dear Lucretia;—particularly
may you be fortunate in that important step—the
only one, save death, which can never be retraced.
Your allusion to Doctor Willard was very painful to me.

My heart is not cold and unfeeling—perhaps it has
thought on domestic happiness too deeply,—too fondly;
but the day dream has vanished.

“My kind remembrance to your intended husband.

“The blessing of Israel's God be with you.

“I last week received a package from Boston, containing
letters from uncle Hutchinson, Grace Osborne,
and yourself.

“Many thanks for your bridal sash. I shall most
certainly wear it at the important time for which it was
designed.

“Captain Somerville now writes his name Frederic
Somerville Fitzherbert. I was sorry uncle's family
pride required this sacrifice. There seems to be something
degrading in the bridegroom's losing his name instead
of the bride. However he seems resolved to
repay this acquiescence by the most rapid promotion.
He is now Colonel of his Majesty's 14th regiment of
dragoons. I have repeatedly told you, that uncle is one
of the most formal, precise men in the world. You
would have been amused with his reception of Captain
Somerville, the day he came to make proposals in due
form. It was at an hour when he did not usually receive
visiters; Mrs. Edgarton had just placed the bolster of
the couch so that he could recline comfortably; and I,

like a dutiful niece, stood ready to read the newspaper,
which had just been brought in,—when the servant entered,
and, making a low bow said, `Captain Somerville
is in the library, wishing to speak with your
honour.'

“`Show him up, John.'

“`He wishes to speak with you alone, if it pleases
you.'

“I guessed his errand,—for I had heard some intimation
of it in the picture gallery, the day before. My uncle seemed to suspect too; for he chucked me under
the chin, as he rose, and said, `These nieces are dear
creatures to an old, ease-loving man.'

“Captain Somerville afterwards told me that when he entered the library, he made one of his most stately
bows, and inquired, `What is your business, sir?'

“`I came to speak of your niece,—and to ask permission—'

“`Tomorrow at four o'clock, post meridian, I will give
you an audience, sir. You are aware this is not my
hour of business;'—and with another haughty inclination
of the head, he left him to his meditations.

“Captain Somerville, somewhat daunted by his repulsive
manner, came at the appointed time. Without
answering his salutation, or even requesting him to be seated, uncle said in a hurried, business tone, `Are you willing to take the name and arms of Fitzherbert?'

“After a moment's hesitation, Somerville replied in
the affirmative. `Follow me then,' said he; and he
led the way to the gallery, where I was seated, copying

a Flemish landscape. He threw the door open with an
air of great importance, pointed to a vacant seat, and
said, `Whatever you value in this apartment is yours.'

“If my uncle had mistaken the real nature of his
business, it would have been very embarrassing; as it
was, however, there was no mistake about the matter.

“You would be surprised to see how much I have
improved in my painting. Somerville is a great amateur,
you know; and there is no exertion too great for
a woman who loves. I have actually improved more
within the last three months than I ever did in my whole
life.

“Uncle Fitzherbert is evidently much pleased with
my approaching marriage; and from uncle Hutchinson's
letter, I should judge he was well nigh mad with joy.

“I do not exactly know why it is,—but I do wish the
wedding could be deferred until I have visited America.
My friends here will not consent to it, I know; especially
as I should find it difficult to give them any very
good reasons for it. If I must tell the truth, I have certain
undefined apprehensions about Grace Osborne.
She seldom mentions Captain Somerville in her letters—
which is very strange, considering how much he was
with us, in the winter of '65,—and how obviously she
was a favourite. Once indeed, she requested me to tell
him that the rose-bush he had given her was flourishing.
When I mentioned it, one of those dreadful shadows
passed over his face, and the blood seemed starting
from his temples. `Tell Miss Osborne,' said he, `that
no flower can be fairer than herself.' These circumstances

brought to my recollection that when we parted,
there were certain very expressive glances about a
broken ring, which I had never seen before. As Captain
Somerville had then treated me with nothing more
than gallantry and politeness, I was confirmed in my
supposition that they were betrothed to each other.

“After our engagement, I once ventured to say to him
that I had thought him very much fascinated by a certain
friend of mine in Boston. That darkening frown, always
so terrible to me, again came over his face. `She
is a most beautiful creature,' said he; `and you will
forgive me, Lucretia, if I did love her, since she did not
consider my love worth her acceptance. I have long
ceased to regret it; for I am convinced she has not
mind enough to make me happy.' I began to vindicate
Grace,—but he interrupted me with an earnest, almost
authoritative request, never to mention the subject to him
again. This interdiction might originate in wounded
pride. But why was the rose kept? From whence
came the ring? During the winter he spent with us,
my own heart taught me how to judge of another; and
I would then have risked my life that Grace loved him
with all the pure, deep tenderness of which she is capable.
Her letters seem to come from a weary and
broken spirit; and she dwells upon the peacefulness of
the grave with a sort of sickening impatience very remarkable
in one so contented and devotional. If my
rank and wealth have purchased me his hand, while his
affections are lingering in America, mine will indeed be
splendid misery.

“I loved Grace at that early age when the soul sends
forth its waters in warm and gushing torrents. I have
seen her the idol of every circle, while I, poor and
homely, was neglected—I have seen Love pass by me,
and shower his wreaths among her beautiful flaxen hair—
but she never was the less dear to me; and if I now
supposed that her breaking heart was a steppingstone to
Hymen's altar, my own would burst, ere I trod upon it.
In your last letter, you sneered at the possibility of her
having refused such a match;—but you do not know
her, aunt Sanford I never saw one who had such power
to curb and to endure. If she doubted the firmness
of a man's principles, or feared her father's disapprobation,
she could tear an image from her heart, if every
fibre bled at the parting.

“However, in one fortnight I shall be a wedded wife;
and I ought not to indulge any doubtings and misgivings;
for I never had reason to doubt Colonel Fitzherbert's
integrity. (It is the first time I have thought to give
him his new title.)

“I have introduced all my acquaintance, in town and
country to you, I believe,—unless Miss Anne Pitt be
excepted,—whom I have not met till very recently.
She is the sister of Lord Chatham, and almost as celebrated
as he is. Mr. Burke told me he thought her the
most perfectly eloquent person he ever saw. There is
indeed a charm in every thing she says. Her ideas
have great beauty; and she mingles her syllables in a
liquid cadence which gives to the English tongue the
far-famed softness of the Tuscan.

“Last Sabbath, I went to Stepney old church, St.
Dunstan,—a pile venerable for its extreme antiquity.
An inscription on one of the corner-stones imports that
it was brought from the ruins of Carthage. Colonel
Fitzherbert laughed at me for paying court to St. Dunstan
just at this time. You know he consecrated a
fountain, which ever after had the blessed effect of
making wives obedient. The servant has just come up
to say that Sir Joshua Reynolds and Garrick are below.
I may thank you and uncle Hutchinson that I am not a
disgrace to the society in which fortune has placed me.
Good night. August 14th—the anniversary of Oliver's
mob,—and of something far more important—viz. of
the evening on which I was introduced to Captain Somerville.

“How mutable are all human prospects! My last
lines were written on the 14th; and uncle Fitzherbert
was then in fine health, and animated to a remarkable
degree. On the night of the 15th, he was suddenly attacked
by violent convulsions. The fits continued with
increasing power until the third day,—when, with anguish
that cannot be described, I saw the only relative I
had on earth stretched on the bed of death. I have never
before seen Mrs. Edgarton subdued by emotion; but now
I am obliged to exert all my fortitude to support her.
Alas! I shall never again be idolized as I was by that
dear old gentleman. He seemed to consider me the
prop of his house,—the stay and support of his age.
Why did my heart ever accuse him of coldness and
formality?

“Colonel Fitzherbert wrote all the particulars of his
death to uncle Hutchinson, immediately after his decease;
but grief and the pressure of cares, to which I
have been unaccustomed, have hitherto prevented my
writing to you. Mrs. Edgarton has £5000; and all
the servants have legacies. To every thing else I am
sole heiress.

“All preparations for the wedding are, of course, delayed.
It was the earnest request, indeed the command,
of my dying uncle, that the marriage should be solemnized
in three or four weeks at the utmost.

“I thought this arrangement very heartless and unfeeling.
I therefore told Colonel Fitzherbert that I
thought it best to go to America with several ladies of
my acquaintance, who sail in September; and added
my resolution to be married at the house where we first
met.

“At first, he urged me, with all possible eagerness,
to comply with my uncle's request; then offered to
throw up his commission, and remain in England, until
the period of mourning had expired: and when he
found that I continued firm in my purpose, he flew into
the most violent rage, and said he should not consider
the engagement binding, if I chose to display my obstinacy
in this way. I answered, it was very well. He
was left entirely to his own choice in that matter.

“He went away in great anger. The next day,
however, he called to apologize, and to express his reluctant
acquiescence. I had rather die than doubt him;
but all this powerful emotion does increase my suspicions,—and
yet they do not amount to suspicions, either.

“You will be displeased, I know;—but I must, Aunt
Sandford, I must have confidence in the man I marry.
I merely wish to see Grace, and satisfy my doubts.
Doubts, do I say? I will not suffer myself to doubt the
word of Colonel Fitzherbert; and if, as I believe, no
blame can be attached to him, I assure you I love him
too well to require from him any romantic sacrifice.
You have often wished to be present at my wedding;
—I trust you will not be angry if your wish is gratified.

“Give my grateful, fervent affection to uncle Hutchinson.
I have been collecting a library more splendid
than the one destroyed by the mob; which I intend to
bring with me.

“Silly Girl,

“I am indeed angry with you. In my day, a child
of six years old would have been whipped and sent to
bed, for taking such foolish whims. Is a man of Colonel
Fitzherbert's rank and talents, and the nephew of
your greatest benefactor, to be treated in this unbecoming
manner, because a simpleton of eighteen chooses to
talk about dying, as if it was a matter of pleasure or
convenience? I suppose brother Henry had scolded
her,—or papa had frowned on the trembling little one.

As for the ring and the flower,—they weigh nothing at
all in my mind. If girls of the present day will suffer
a gentleman to see as plain as daylight that they are living
and breathing only for him, what can you expect
from human vanity? I dare say Colonel Fitzherbert
made up the story about her rejection, wholly from motives
of delicacy and generosity. I am not surprised
that he was in a passion when he found you refused to
obey your uncle's dying command.

“To say nothing about the foolish jealousy you indulge,—are
you not ashamed to cross the seas with a
regiment of soldiers? In the days of my youth, a single
lady would have thought twice before she undertook any
thing so grossly improper; but blushes are out of fashion
now-a-days, I find.

“My indignation may have betrayed me into unlady-like
expressions; and perhaps it may have made me
seem very indecorous with regard to Mr. Fitzherbert's
death. You no doubt feel his loss very severely,—and
under any other circumstances, a year ought certainly
to be given to his memory; but your destined husband
loves the army too well to quit it; he is ordered to
America; and you are anxious to accompany him. As
for staying in England unmarried, at the head of such a
large establishment, it would neither be pleasant nor
proper. To be sure, you have no thoughts of the last
scheme.—You must forsooth see Grace Osborne, and
ask her if she is willing you should marry her old favourite.
Such whims might pass in a girl of fifteen,
who had never read any thing but romances; but for

one of your good sense, great advantages, and uncommon
attainments, it is highly ridiculous;—and let me
tell you, that to set your judgment against your elders
in this way, is paying a poor compliment to those who
brought you up. Come to America as Mrs. Fitzherbert,
and you will find all hearts open to receive you.

“There is no chance to send this letter, for a week
or more. I earnestly hope you will not have taken any
rash step before you hear from me. I mentioned in my
last, that your portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds had
safely arrived;—and who do you think came, a few
days since, and craved permission to see it? Assuredly
no other than Molly Bradstreet, or Polly May, as she
styles herself. She marched in with a very unceremonious
stride,—looked earnestly at the picture for a few
moments, then threw herself into your uncle's chair, and
burst into tears, moving her right hand up and down all
the while, as if beating time to some funeral dirge.

“When she arose, I ventured to ask her what interest
she took in that young person. She looked at me very
keenly for a moment, and turned away as she answered,
`I knew her mother in Halifax; and she did me many a
kind turn, while she' (pointing to your picture) `was a
baby.'

“She would neither eat nor drink in the house, and
hurried out of it, as if afraid to trust herself to look
back. Mr. Hutchinson seemed to think of nothing else
for two or three days,—and he finally went off in search
of this mysterious creature; but she could not be found.

“A woman who lives near her has been here to get
work, several times; and when I think it necessary, I
employ her in the kitchen. She says, `Some take Molly
for a desput bad woman; howdsomever I have gone into
her house agin and agin, and found her on her knees
at prayer. To be sure she comes and goes like sulky
soap,—and she is a sort of witch, I believe. At any
rate she has a kind of half-crazed way with her.'

“You would have laughed one of your heartiest
laughs, if you had been here last week, when this poor
washerwoman came to make her complaints against the
whigs.

“`Don't you think, madam,' said she, drawing in her
breath, with violent sobs, `don't you think, they have
torn the nice checked apron you gin me, all to pieces.'
Then turning to the Lieutenant Governor, with a profound
courtesy, she added, `If there's justice in the land,
it ought to reach such fellows, your honour.'

“We asked what provocation there was for such an
injury, and who was guilty of it. `Why, you see, I took
a few pence of the money you gin me for my labour,'
said she, `and I went to Mr. Loveking's shop, and
bought me a quarter of a pound of nice Bohea. There
was an evil looking lad on the door-stone, when I went
in; and I noticed he followed me, and kept his eye on
me. The next day, I had jest made me a comfortable
dish of tea, and set down to drink it, when the first thing
I know'd an egg come hard against my temples. Before
I could look up, another fell into my cup of tea,
and spilled it all over the floor. Thinks I to myself,

some of the whig lads are playing their tricks; so I
catched up my canister of tea and put it up chimly, out
of sight; and I stept out of the way of the window,
and chucked my black airthen teapot into my pocket.
I'm a sizeable woman, you know, and they'd never mind
what was in my pocket, so long as the pleets of my
gownd kivered it. So I thought myself safe; but to be
sure, in comes one of the young dogs, and gives a thundering
knock on the chimly, and down falls my canister.
Jest as I stooped to pick it up, they throwed a stone at
my pocket, and broke the tea-pot into a thousand bits;
—and they shook the tea all out of my canister, and
shoveled the ashes over it,—and they played foot-ball
with my tea-cups, till they broke 'em fine enough to
scour knives with. You may be sure I was as mad as
if a line of clothes had fell down jest as I got my washing
out. I called 'em all the rascals in the country,—
and they made a great clamour about the tea tax, and
the rights of man. If it is the rights of man, I think,
your honour, it is the wrongs of woman; and if there
is sich a thing as justice in the land, I ought to have it.'

“The story is good for nothing, even in her own
words, unless you could have heard her whining and
whimpering, and seen her visage of wrath.

“We gave her tea and money; and pacified her with
promises. But what can the magistrates do? These
things grow worse and worse, every day. We should
have another house pulled down about our ears, if they
knew your uncle had sent to request military assistance
from the king. When the royal troops come, Governor
Bernard will bear all the blame.

“Doctor Byles was gifted with the power to speak truth
once in his life, when he said, `He is a well-meaning
gentleman. His heart is on the right side, as old Townsend,
that is dead and gone, once said; but he is as
clever a cat's-paw as ever took hot nuts out of the fire.'

“I should not dare to write thus, if I were not sure
of putting my letter into the hands of a trust-worthy
Englishman myself; for do you know your last letter to
my brother-in-law was intercepted, and printed full
length in the Boston Gazette? What you wrote about
Charles Townsend and the taxation bill is every syllable
that can interest the rebels; but they have placed it all
before the public. However, it is all of a piece with
that scandalous paper. I do not know what the world
is coming to, when kings have not the power to stop such
proceedings. Boston is like a house on fire over one's
head. If they continue so outrageous, I think your uncle
will conclude to reside altogether at his country seat
in Milton.

“As for St. Dunstan,—if I had not known the legend
about him, suffer me to remind you, that it is not respectful
or decorous in you to attempt to teach your
seniors.

“We talk much about our adopted niece. If you
have any love or gratitude for us, give us a legal title to
relationship, before you depart for America. I live upon
the hope of seeing you and your husband soon.