Lady Powis doats on this paragon of beauty:  scarce within their walls,—­when she was mention’d with such a just profusion of praises, as fill’d me with impatience.—­Lady Powis is a heavenly woman.—­You do not laugh;—­many would, for supposing any of that sex heavenly after fifty.—­The coach is this moment going for Miss Warley;—­it waits only for me;—­I am often her conductor.—­Was you first minister of state,—­I the humble suitor whose bread depended on your favour,—­not one line more, even to express my wants.

Twelve o’clock, at night.

Our fair visitor just gone;—­just gone home with Edmund.—­What an officious fool, to take him in the carriage, and prevent myself from a pleasure I envy him for.—­I am not in spirits;—­I can write no more;—­perhaps the next post:—­but I will promise nothing.

I am, _&c. &c._

DARCEY.

LETTER V.

The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to LORD DARCEY.

Bath.

Confound your friendships!—­Friendship indeed!—­What! up head and ears in love, and not know it.—­So it is necessary for every woman you think capable of friendship, to have fine eyes, fine hair, a bewitching smile, and a neck delicately turn’d.—­Have not I the highest opinion of my cousin Dolly’s sincerity?—­Do I not think her very capable of friendship?—­Yet, poor soul, her eyes are planted so deep, it requires good ones to discover she has any.—­Such a hand, George!—­Such a hand, Darcey!—­Why, Lady Dorothy too has hands; I am often enough squeez’d by them:—­though hard as a horse’s hoof, and the colour of tanned leather, I hold her capable of friendship.—­Neck she has none,—­smile she has none! yet need I the determination of another, to tell me whether my regard for her proceeds from love or friendship?—­Awake,—­Awake, Darcey,—­Awake:—­Have you any value for your own peace?—­have you any for that of Miss Warley’s?  If so, leave Barford Abbey.—­Should you persist in loving her, for love her I know you do?—­Should the quiet of such an amiable woman as you describe be at stake?  To deal plainly, I will come down and propose the thing myself.—­No sword,—­no pistol.  I mean not for myself, but one whose happiness is dear to me as my own.

Suppose your estate is but two thousand a-year, are you so fond of shew and equipage, to barter real felicity for baubles?—­I am angry,—­so angry, that it would not grieve me to see you leading to the altar an old hobbling dowager without a tooth.—­Be more yourself,

And I am yours,

MOLESWORTH.

LETTER VI

Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.

Barford Abbey,

Angry!—­You are really angry!—­Well, I too am angry with myself.—­I do love Miss Warley;—­but why this to you?—­Your penetration has already discover’d it.—­Yet, O Molesworth! such insurmountable obstacles:—­no declaration can be made,—­at least whilst I continue in this neighbourhood.