I HAVE formerly taken the liberty of holding some prefatory discourse with my readers, on the subject of those little histories which accident enabled me to lay before them. This is probably the last time I shall make use of their indulgence; and, even if this Introduction should be found superfluous, it may claim their pardon, as the parting address of one, who has endeavoured to contribute to their entertainment.

I was favoured last summer with a visit from a gentleman, a native of France, with whose father I had been intimately acquainted when I was last in that country. I confess myself particularly delighted with an intercourse, which removes the barrier of national distinction, and gives to the inhabitants of the world the appearance of one common family. I received, therefore, this young Frenchman into that humble shed, which Providence has allowed my age to rest in, with peculiar satisfaction; and was rewarded for any little attention I had in my power to shew him, by acquiring the friendship of one, whom I found to inherit all that paternal worth which had fixed my esteem, about a dozen years ago, at Paris. In truth, such attention always rewards itself; and, I believe, my own feelings, which I expressed to this amiable and accomplished Frenchman on his leaving England, are such as every one will own, whose mind is susceptible of feeling at all. He was profuse of thanks, to which my good offices had no title, but from the inclination that accompanied them-Ici, Monsieur, (said I, for he had used a language more accommodated than ours to the lesser order of sentiments, and I answered him as well as long want of practice would allow me in the same tongue,)—Ici, Monsieur, obscur et inconnu, avec beaucoup de bienveillance, mais peu de pouvoir, je ne goûte pas d'un plaisir plus sincere, que de penser, qu'il ya, dans aucun coin du monde, un cœur honnête qui se souvient de moi avec reconnoissance.

But I am talking of myself, when I should be giving an account of the following papers. This gentleman, discoursing with me on the subject of those letters, the substance of which I had formerly published under the title of the Man of the World, observed, that if the desire of searching into the records of private life were

common, the discovery of such collections would cease to be wondered at. "We look," said he, "for the Histories of Men, among those of high rank; but memoirs of sentiment and suffering may be found in every condition.

"My father," continued my young friend, made, since you saw him, an acquisition of that nature, by a whimsical accident. Standing one day at the door of a grocery-shop, making inquiry as to the lodgings of some person of his acquaintance, a little boy passed him, with a bundle of papers in his hand, which he offered for sale to the master of the shop, for the ordinary uses of his trade; but they differed about the price, and the boy was ready to depart, when my father desired a sight of the papers, saying to the lad with a smile, that, perhaps, he might deal with him for his book; upon reading a sentence or two, he found a style much above that of the ordinary manuscripts of a grocery-shop, and gave the boy his price at a venture, for the whole. When he got home, and examined the parcel, he found it to consist of letters put up, for the most part, according to their dates, which he committed to me, as having, he said, better eyes, and a keener curiosity, than his. I found them to contain a story in detail, which, I believe, would interest one of your turn of thinking a good deal. If you chuse to undergo the trouble of the perusal, I shall take care to have them sent over to you by the first opportunity I can find, and if you will do the Public the favour to digest them, as you did those of Annesly and his children,-" My young Frenchman speaks the language of compliment; but I do not choose to translate any farther. It is enough to say, that I received his papers some time ago, and that they are those which I have translated, and now give to the world. I had, perhaps, treated them as I did the letters he mentioned; but I found it a difficult task to reduce them into narrative, because they are made up of sentiment, which narrative would destroy. The only power I have exercised over them, is that of omitting letters, and passages of letters, which seem to bear no relation to the story I mean to communicate. In doing this, however, I confess I have been cautious: I love myself (and am apt, therefore, from a common sort of weakness, to

imagine that other people love) to read nature in her smallest character, and am often more apprized of the state of the mind, from very trifling, than from very important circumstan

ces.

As, from age and situation, it is likely I shall address the public no more, I cannot avoid taking this opportunity of thanking it for the reception it has given to those humble pages which I formerly introduced to its notice. Unknown and unpatronized, I had little pretensions to its favour, and little expectation of it; writing, or arranging the writings of others, was to me only a favourite amusement, for which a man easily finds both time and apology. One advantage I drew from it, which the humane may hear with satisfaction; I often wandered from my own

woe, in tracing the tale of another's affliction; and, at this moment, every sentence I write, I am but escaping a little farther from the pres sure of sorrow.

Of the merits or faults of the composition, in the volumes of which I have directed the publication, a small share only was mine; for their tendency I hold myself entirely accountable, because, had it been a bad one, I had the power of suppressing them; and from their tendency, I believe, more than any other quality belonging to them, has the indulgence of their readers arisen. For that indulgence I desire to return them grateful acknowledgments as an editor; I shall be proud, with better reason, if there is nothing to be found in my publications, that may forfeit their esteem as a man.

LETTER I.

Julia de Roubigné to Maria de Roncilles.

"THE friendship of your Maria, misfortune can never deprive you of."-These were the words with which you sealed that attachment we had formed in the blissful period of infancy. The remembrance of those peaceful days we passed together in the convent, is often recalled to my mind, amidst the cares of the present. Yet do not think me foolish enough to complain of the want of those pleasures which affluence gave us; the situation of my father's affairs is such as to exclude luxury, but it allows happiness; and, were it not for the recollection of what he once possessed, which now and then intrudes itself upon him, he could scarce form a wish that were not gratified in the retreat he has found.

You were wont to call me the little philosopher; if it be philosophy to feel no violent distress from that change which the ill fortune of our family has made in its circumstances, I do not claim much merit from being that way a philosopher. From my earliest days I found myself unambitious of wealth or grandeur, contented with the enjoyment of sequestered life, and fearful of the dangers which attend an exalted station. It is therefore more properly a weakness, than a virtue, in me, to be satisfied with my present situation.

Formerly, even during the very short space of the year we were at Belville, it was vain to think of that domestic enjoyment I used to hope for in the country; we were people of too much consequence to be allowed the privilege of retirement, and, except those luxurious walks I sometimes found means to take with you, my dear, I mean-the day was as little my own, as in the midst of our winter-hurry in town.

The loss of this momentous law-suit has brought us down to the level of tranquillity. Our days are not now pre-occupied by numberless engagements, nor our time anxiously divided for a rotation of amusements; I can walk, read, or think, without the officious interruption of polite visitors; and, instead of talking eternally of others, I find time to settle accounts with myself.

Could we but prevail on my father to think thus !-Alas! his mind is not formed for contracting into that narrow sphere, which his fortune has now marked out for him. He feels adversity a defeat, to which the vanquished submit, with pride in their looks, but anguish in their hearts. He is cut off from the enjoyment of his present state, while he puts himself under the cruel necessity of dissembling his regret for the loss of the former.

I can easily perceive how much my dearest mother is affected by this. I see her constantly on the watch for every word and look that may discover his feelings; and she has, too often, occasion to observe them unfavourable. She endeavours, and commonly succeeds in her endeavour, to put on the appearance of cheerfulness; she even tries to persuade herself, that she has reason to be contented; but, alas! an effort to be happy is always but an increase of our uneasiness.

And what is left for your Julia to do? In truth, I fear, I am of little service. My heart is too much interested in the scene, to allow me that command over myself, which would make

me useful. My father often remarks, that I look grave; I smile, (foolishly I fear,) and deny it; it is, I believe, no more than I used to do formerly; but we were then in a situation that did not lead him to observe it. He had no consciousness in himself to prompt the observation.

How often do I wish for you, Maria, to assist me! There is something in that smile of yours, (I paint it to myself at this instant,) which care and sorrow are unable to withstand; besides the general effect produced by the intervention of a third person, in a society, the members of which are afraid to think of one another's thoughts. Yet you need not answer this wish of mine; I know how impossible it is for you to come hither at present. Write to me as often as you can; you will not expect order in my letters, nor observe it in your answers; I will speak to you on paper when my heart is full, and you will answer me from the sympathy of yours.

LETTER II.

Julia to Maria.

I AM to vex my Maria with an account of trifles, and those, too, unpleasant ones; but she has taught me to think, that nothing is insignificant to her, in which I am concerned, and insists on participating, at least, if she cannot alleviate my distresses.

I am every day more and more uneasy about the chagrin which our situation seems to give my father. A little incident has just now plunged him into a fit of melancholy, which all the attention of my mother, all the attempts at gaiety which your poor Julia is constrained to make, cannot dissipate or overcome.

Our old servant Le Blanc is your acquaintance; indeed he very soon becomes acquainted with every friend and visitor of the family; his age prompting him to talk, and giving him the privilege of talking.

Le Blanc had obtained permission, a few days since, to go on a visit to his daughter, who is married to a young fellow, serving in the capacity of coachman at a gentleman's in the neighbourhood of Belville. He returned last night, and, in his usual familiar manner, gave us an account of his expedition this morning.

My father inquired after his daughter; he gave some short answer as to her; but I could see by his face, that he was full of some other intelligence. He was standing behind my father, resting one hand on the back of his chair; he began to rub it violently, as if he would have given the wood a polish by the friction. "I was at Belville, sir," said he. My father made no reply; but Le Blanc had got over the difficulty of beginning, and was too much occu

pied by the idea of the scene, to forbear attempting the picture.

"When I struck off the high road," said he, "to go down by the old avenue, I thought I had lost my way; there was not a tree to be seen. You may believe me as you please, sir; but, I declare, I saw the rooks, that used to build there, in a great flock over my head, croaking, for all the world, as if they had been looking for the avenue too. Old Lasune's house, where you, miss, (turning to me,) would frequently stop in your walks, was pulled down, except a single beam at one end, which now serves for a rubbing-post to some cattle that graze there; and your roan horse, sir, which the Marquis had of you in a present, when he purchased Belville, had been turned out to grass among the rest, it seems, for there he was, standing under the shade of the wall; and, when I came up, the poor beast knew me, as any Christian would, and came neighing up to my side, as he was wont to do. I gave him a piece of bread I had put in my pocket in the morning, and he followed me for more, till I reached the very gate of the house; I mean what was the gate when I knew it; for there is now a rail run across, with a small door, which Le Sauvre told me they call Chinese. But, after all, the Marquis is seldom seen there to enjoy these fine things; he lives in town, Le Sauvre says, eleven months in the year, and only comes down to Belville, for a few weeks, to get money to spend in Paris."

Here Le Blanc paused in his narration. I was afraid to look up to see its effect upon my father; indeed the picture which the felpoor low had innocently drawn, had too much affected myself.-Lasune's house! my Maria remembers it; but she knows not all the ties which its recollection has me. upon

I stole, however, a sidelong glance at my father. He seemed affected, but disdain was mixed with his tenderness; he gathered up his features, as it were to hide the effect of the recital. "You saw Le Sauvre then?" said he coolly."Yes," answered Le Blanc; "but he is wonderfully altered since he was in your service, sir. When I first discovered him, he was in the garden, picking some greens for his dinner; he looked so rueful when he lifted up his head and saw me! Indeed I was little better myself, when I cast my eyes around. It was a sad sight to see! for the Marquis keeps no gardener, except Le Sauvre himself, who has fifty things to do besides, and only hires another hand or two for the time he resides at Belville in the summer. The walks, that used to be trimmed so nicely, are covered with mole-hills; the hedges are full of great holes, and Le Sauvre's chickens were basking in the flowerbeds. He took me into the house, and his wife seemed glad to see her old acquaintance, and the children clambered up to kiss me, and Jeanot