Miss Seymour to Mrs. Galton.

London, May 25,——

My dear, dear Aunt,

Your last letter has made me very unhappy. Is it possible that you can really believe I have forgotten you?—I acknowledge that I have been very very remiss about writing; but indeed my heart has always been right towards you, though perhaps my conduct has not been so; however, I acknowledge my fault in this instance, though Lady Eltondale told me the other day, when I regretted not having answered either of your two last letters, that nobody but me kept a debtor and creditor account of correspondence; and that she was sure you could not really be uneasy about me, as you could never look at a newspaper without seeing my name in it, and of course knowing I was both "alive and merry." And, indeed, I often wonder how people have time to think and write so much about such a foolish girl as I am.—Do you know, the milliners have called a new cap, and a little satin hat, by my name?—Could you have believed, that your poor Selina would ever have been godmother to such bantlings? Mais le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable; and I verily am installed, without any probation, into all the dignities of the ton. Mr. Sedley always tells me, I must be more than ever attentive to my manners; as, if I was to walk like the "Anthropophagi, whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders," I should make it the fashion, and every other girl would do the same. I do acknowledge, dear dear aunt, that I am quite delighted with London. It far, far exceeds my expectation: indeed all the descriptions of it I used to hear from Miss Cecilia Webberly are so different from what I found the reality to be, that I wonder where she can have met the originals of her extraordinary caricatures. And as for Vauxhall and Astley's, that Miss Martin used to talk so much about, I should hardly believe there were such places in existence, if it was not for the advertisements I sometimes see in the newspapers. Poor Lucy! I wonder what she is doing now at Deane, vegetating in the country, as Lady Eltondale calls it, like a red cabbage, all through the winter. Do you know, aunt, I never like to think of the poor old Hall: I was so very happy there—so cheerful—so contented—you all then loved me so dearly, I had not a wish ungratified: now, in town, I am much more gay, but yet I seldom go into a crowded room, without a kind of feverish anxiety about a something, I know not what; and I seldom return home, at night, without a languor on my spirits I never experienced in former times;—but all that will soon wear away.—I am much fonder now of going to parties than I was at first; for though I always liked balls and the Opera, I did not much admire routs, but now I think them very pleasant, for I generally meet Mr. Sedley, and he is always entertaining, and always kind to me: and, after all, I am determined to like the life I lead. For of what avail would it be to me to regret those quiet peaceful days, which can now never return? and if they did, they would probably appear insipid, after the greater pleasures I have now been accustomed to: so whenever my thoughts happen to turn to the poor dear old Hall, I jump up and immediately seek out Lady Eltondale; and there is something so calm, so elegant, and at the same time so freezing about her, that no person could feel what she calls romance in her presence. Her manners are like the snow on the Alps, they smooth down all the surface, and give a dazzling brilliancy to the whole appearance; but they are cold, almost to petrefaction, and I believe, after all, cover only a heart of stone. Do you know, I have found out lately I could never love Lady Eltondale. I have the greatest reliance on her judgment, and I am sure there is nothing she could advise me to do (for she never desires me to do any thing) that I would not do; but if I was to live with her to all eternity, I should never call her aunt, as I do you; or feel for her, in any degree, as I feel for you. I believe the difference is this—I would go any distance to be with you, or to prove how much I loved you; but if you and Lady Eltondale were to give me contrary directions, (don't be angry,) I should regret that I could not fulfil yours, but I should feel with her there was no alternative. We don't see as much of the Webberly family, at least of the ladies, as I expected; for though they call very often, they are not on Lady Eltondale's "at home" list; and, except one day that I went with them to Somerset House, and last Sunday in Kensington Gardens, I have scarcely met them any where since we came to town. The last time, however, that I saw them, Mrs. Sullivan was all bustle and importance, for she has received an invitation from one of Mr. Sullivan's relations, to go and visit him in Ireland; and she talks so much of his "intense fortune, and great old castle," which Lady Eltondale, by the bye, says, is only a chÂteau en Espagne. But poor Mrs. Sullivan declares, "her Carline shall be an air-ass after all, as she is sure Mr. Sullivan is so proud of his geology, that he will take care to leave every thing after him to his progenitors; and it is but fair he should give it to her daughter, as all old retailed estates ought to ascend to the hairs male." I sincerely hope, that dear charming Miss Wildenheim will not be dragged after them into one of those horrid Irish bogs: what a pity it is she should, in any way, be united to such a barbarous family; theirs is certainly the connection of la belle et la bÊte. But I had almost forgot to tell you, that Mrs. Sullivan and her son and heir intend to do me the honour of adding me to their establishment also. I wish I could describe Mr. Sedley's manner and words, as he entertained Lady Eltondale and me last night at the Opera, with an account of Mr. Webberly having invited him to dinner, for the express purpose, he says, of informing him of his intention to propose for me, in form, very shortly; and that Mr. Webberly told Mr. Sedley this, lest he should have any intention of doing so himself. I don't know whether the idea of Mr. Webberly's own design, or his ridiculous suspicions of Mr. Sedley's, amused Lady Eltondale or him most: however they both agreed, that it was quite impossible I should ever marry a commoner. I wish you knew Mr. Sedley well, as I am sure you would like him, and be convinced that your prejudice last autumn, and your idea that he was unprincipled, would soon vanish. He is uncommonly good natured, and always tells me all my faults, and I am not the least afraid of him as I am of Lady Eltondale; indeed he is the only person in town I have real pleasure in conversing with. When I talk to any body else, I am always afraid of their misconstruing either my vivacity or my gravity. But Mr. Sedley's conversation is always adapted to the turn of the moment. If I am gay, he does not accuse me of levity; and if I am inclined to talk rationally, he does not call it pedantry. Would you believe it, the other night, when I know Mr. Webberly thought he was making love to me, we were literally talking of Montesquieu's Esprit des Loix, which you may remember was one of the last books we read together—I mean with Mr. Temple. Lady Eltondale is to give a great ball next week; I believe soon after that we shall leave town. Lord Osselstone, whom I meet constantly——Lady Eltondale has this moment called me into the drawing-room—I must go.—Good bye, dear dear aunt.

Yours most affectionately,
Selina Seymour.

The pretext the Viscountess made use of for interrupting Miss Seymour was, that she might comply with Mr. Sedley's request of showing him her drawings, as to see them was ostensibly the purpose for which he had called that morning; though in truth a day seldom passed, in which he did not find some good reason for visiting Portman square. Selina made no hesitation in producing them; for, though she was not quite exempt from the foible of personal vanity, yet she was entirely free from that despicable affectation, which assumes the appearance of modesty, when the reality is most wanting. Her drawings were, in truth, beautiful, and much superior to the common school girl exhibitions of would-be artists. But her knowledge was even superior to her execution; and she so correctly appreciated the merits of her paintings, that she received both the encomiums and the criticisms they produced with equal candour. While her miniatures and her portfolio were lying on Lady Eltondale's table, Lord Osselstone was announced. At first he expressed the surprise he felt, at thus unexpectedly discovering Selina's talent, and then complimented her on her excellence with his usual politeness. But believing Sedley's gallantry was more agreeable than his own, he gradually withdrew with Lady Eltondale to another part of the room. Their attention was, however, soon attracted by a brouillerie that had arisen between Sedley and Selina. It appeared, that he had possessed himself of a drawing out of her portfolio, which he seemed determined to retain; alleging it was a subject that particularly suited his taste; while she was still more anxious to regain the stolen treasure. In the struggle that ensued, the drawing fell to the ground; and Lord Osselstone, stooping to pick it up, discovered it to be a beautiful portrait of a pointer. The dog, at full length, was inimitably drawn; and over the different parts of the paper the same head was sketched in pencil, in a variety of different attitudes; and in one corner was written also in pencil these lines of Metastasio's Partenza:—

"I have seen the original of that admirable portrait," said Lord Osselstone, in a tone of inquiry, as he politely returned the drawing to its mistress; while at the same time his dark penetrating eye rested full upon hers. She looked down instantly, and blushing deeply, replied, "Perhaps your Lordship may have seen the dog: I meant it for Carlo. I only drew it from recollection:—it's a mere daub of no value now;" and so saying, she tore the drawing into a thousand pieces. Mr. Sedley uttered a volume of apologies and regrets; and Lady Eltondale, half laughingly half sarcastically, remonstrated at her not having sooner been informed of Miss Seymour's talent for taking dogs' portraits; alleging that she would now make Mignon sit for his picture. Then seeing that Selina's embarrassment was increased, and Lord Osselstone's observation of it not withdrawn, she proposed adjourning to Selina's boudoir, to see some of her other miniatures that adorned it. Here her various occupations, her books, her harp, her work-box, all of which had evidently been lately used, served by Lady Eltondale's address as fresh subjects of conversation; and the current of Selina's thoughts being as rapidly turned, she soon resumed her natural gaiety; and perhaps Lord Osselstone's regret was scarcely less manifested than Sedley's, when the arrival of Lady Eltondale's carriage put an end to their visit.

The Viscountess made no further mention of Carlo's portrait, and both the original and the picture seemed to have entirely vanished from Selina's recollection, till a few days afterwards she discovered on her writing table in the boudoir an exact representation of Carlo himself in a garde de feuille. The dog was in bronze, on a marble pedestal, and on his collar were engraved the words, "Je la garderai pour mon maitre." Selina was not less delighted than surprised at this unexpected present; and immediately ran to thank Lady Eltondale for it, conceiving her to have been the donor. But she denied any knowledge of it, and they both concluded the gallantry must have been Sedley's. Accordingly the next time they met him, Selina made her acknowledgements for the gift. At first he expressed, in the most natural manner, his surprise at her address, and affected total ignorance of the occasion of her gratitude. But notwithstanding his laughable confusion and affected unconcern, both the Viscountess and her niece attributed the present to him;—a circumstance that gave room for reflection to both their minds, though the feelings it occasioned in each were far different.