Skip to main content

Full text of "Tales and novels"

See other formats 


THE  LONGFORD  EDITION 


TALES   AND  NOVELS 


TATRONAGE  {concluded);  COMIC  DRAMAS; 
LEONORA;  and  LETTERS 


VOL.  VIII. 


V  ll*rt<yr. 


X.JE  oisr  ©  B.  A. 


'  JtMna  long  -jjast  •uiiam^.b.l.    sheTiad  a  ieap  of  Jd'?  I, — s 
old  alters  "beaae]iCT.   3hji>  denied  that  slie   -w»s  in.  tears. 


.S-O^^TH,  JilOJ,  ^ 


THE  LONGFORD  EDITION' 


TALES   AND   NOVELS 


BY 

MARIA   EDGEWORTH 


IN    TEN    VOLUMES 


VOL.  VIIL 

TATRONAGE  (concluded);  COMIC  DRAMAS; 

LEONORA;  and  LETTERS 


LONDON 

GEORGE     ROUTLEDGE    AND    SONS,     LIMITED 

Broadway,  Ludgate  Hill 

MANCHESTER   AND   NEW   YORK 

1893 


PATRONAGE    CONCL.UDEB 

COMIC    DRAMAS.  X.£0 NORA, 

BX 

MAmiA  EBGEWORTH, 


-.'/'-.-•'• 


^•^,  vov 


t.^" 


—  'O.  3aav  Lfoiiorr..'  IriQy  Tieanora.  is  £11 1     exdainiei 
f^Kxrr  "vooce,  "Xh.*^  coaistEzualiau-  "waa  "wandfEfaX. 


CONTENTS. 


HGHO 
V.3 


r.«oB 
•PATRONAGE    (coticluded)  ,•%,*,  m,  I 

COMIC    DRAMAS .       \2B 

LEONORA 243 


Letter  from  a  Gentleman  to  his  Eriend,  upon  the  Birth  of  a 

Daughter      .....  ....  425 

Answer  to  the  preceding  Letter  .         .         *  •         .  440 

Letters  of  Julia  and  Caroline <<*3 


PATRONAGE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVl. 

No  ^ess  an  event  than  Alfred's  marriage,  no  event  calling  less 
imperatively  upon  her  feelings,  could  have  recovered  Lady 
Jane's  sympathy  for  Caroline.  But  Alfred  Percy,  who  had 
been  the  restorer  of  her  fortune,  her  friend  in  adversity,  what 
pain  it  would  give  him  to  find  her,  at  the  moment  when  he 
might  expect  her  congratulations,  quarrelling  with  his  sister— 
that  sister,  too,  who  had  left  her  home,  where  she  was  so  happy, 
and  Hungerford  Castle,  where  she  was  adored,  on  purpose  to 
tend  Lady  Jane  in  sickness  and  obscurity ! 

Without  being  put  exactly  into  these  words,  or,  perhaps,  into 
any  words,  thoughts  such  as  these,  with  feelings  of  gratitude  and 
affection,  revived  for  Caroline  in  Lady  Jane's  mind  the  moment 
she  heard  of  Alfred's  intended  marriage. 

"Good  young  man! — Excellent  friend! — Well,  tell  me  all 
about  it,  my  dear." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  her  ladyship  had  said  my  dear  to 
Caroline  since  the  day  of  the  fatal  refusal. 

Caroline  was  touched  by  this  word  of  reconciliation — and  the 
tears  it  brought  into  her  eyes  completely  overcame.  Lady  Jane, 
who  hastily  wiped  her  own. 

"  So,  my  dear  Caroline — where  were  we  ?  Tell  me  about  your 
brother's  marriage — when  is  it  to  be  ? — How  has  it  been  brought 
about  ? — ^The  last  I  heard  of  the  Leicesters  was  the  good  dean's 
death — I  remember  pitying  them  very  much— —Were  they  not 
left  in  straitened  circumstances,  too?  Will  Alfred  have  any 
fortime  with  Miss  Leicester  ? — ^Tell  me  every  thing — read  me  his 
letters." 

Patronage. — ii. 


2  PATRONAGE. 

To  go  back  to  Dr.  Leicester's  death.  For  some  months  his 
preferments  were  kept  in  abeyance.  Many  were  named,  or 
thought  of,  as  likely  to  succeed  him.  The  deanery  was  in  the 
gift  of  the  crown,  and  as  it  was  imagined  that  the  vicarage  was 
also  at  the  disposal  of  government,  applications  had  poured  in, 
on  all  sides,  for  friends,  and  friends'  friends,  to  the  remotest  link 

of  the  supporters  of  ministry But — to  use  their  own  elegant 

phrase — the  hands  of  government  were  tied. 

It  seems  that  in  consequence  of  some  parliamentary  interest, 
formerly  given  opportunely,  and  in  consideration  of  certain 
arrangements  in  his  diocese,  to  serve  persons  whom  ministers 
were  obliged  to  oblige,  a  promise  had  long  ago  been  given  to 
Bishop  Clay  that  his  recommendation  to  the  deanery  should  be 
accepted  on  the  next  vacancy.  The  bishop,  who  had  promised 
the  living  to  his  sister's  husband,  now  presented  it  to  Mr.  Buck- 
hurst  Falconer,  with  the  important  addition  of  Dr.  Leicester's 
deanery. 

To  become  a  dean  was  once  the  height  of  Buckhurst's  ambition, 
that  for  which  in  a  moment  of  elation  he  prayed,  scarcely  hoping 
that  his  wishes  would  ever  be  fulfilled :  yet  now  that  his  wish 
was  accomplished,  and  that  he  had  attained  this  height  of  his 
ambition,  was  he  happy  ?  No ! — far  from  it ;  farther  than  ever. 
How  could  he  be  happy—dissatisfied  with  his  conduct,  and 
detesting  his  wife  ?  In  the  very  act  of  selling  himself  to  this 
beldam,  he  abhorred  his  own  meanness  ;  but  he  did  not  know 
how  much  reason  he  should  have  to  repent,  till  the  deed  was 
done.  It  was  done  in  a  hurry,  with  all  the  precipitation  of  a 
man  who  hates  himself  for  what  he  feels  forced  to  do.  Unused 
to  bargain  and  sale  in  any  way,  in  marriage  never  having  thought 
of  it  before,  Buckhurst  did  not  take  all  precautions  necessary  to 
make  his  sacrifice  answer  his  own  purpose.  He  could  not 
conceive  the  avaricious  temper  and  habits  of  his  lady,  till  he 
was  hers  past  redemption.  Whatever  accession  of  income  he 
-obtained  from  his  marriage,  he  lived  up  to;  immediately,  his 
establishment,  his  expenses,  surpassed  his  revenue.  His  wife 
would  not  pay  or  advance  a  shilling  beyond  her  stipulated  quota 
to  their  domestic  expenses.  He  could  not  bear  the  parsimonious 
TOanner  in  which  she  would  have  had  him  live,  or  the  shabby 
ityle  in  which  she  received  his  friends.     He  was  more  profuse 


PATRONAGE.  S 

In  proportion  as  she  was  more  niggardly ;  and  whilst  she  scolded 
end  grudged  every  penny  she  paid,  he  ran  in  debt  magnanimously 
•tor  hundreds.     When  the  living   and  deanery  came  into   his 
possession,  the  second  year's  fruits  had  been  eaten  beforehand. 
Money  he  must  have,  and  money  his  wife  would  not  give — but 
a  litigious  agent  suggested   to   him  a  plan  for  raising  it,  by 
demanding  a  considerable  sum  from  the  executors  of  the  late 
Dr.  Leicester,  for  what  is  called  dilapidation.     The  parsonage- 
house  seemed  to  be  in  good  repair ;  but  to  make  out  charges  of 
dilapidation    was  not    difficult   to   those   who  understood   the 
business — and  fifteen  hundred  pounds  was  the  charge  presently 
made  out  against  the  executors  of  the  late  incumbent.     It  was 
invidious,  it  w^s  odious  for  the  new  vicar,  in  the  face  of  his 
parishioners,  of  all  those  who  loved  and  respected  his  predecessor, 
to  begin  by  making  such  a  demand — especially  as  it  was  well 
known  that  the  late  dean  had  not  saved  any  of  the  income  of 
his  preferment,  but  had  disposed  of  it  amongst  his  parishioners 
as  a  steward  for  the  poor.     He  had  left  his  family  in  narrow 
circumstances.      They   were    proud    of   his   virtues,    and  not 
•ashamed  of  the   consequences.     "With   dignity  and   ease  they 
retrenched  their  expenses ;  and  after  having  lived  as  became  the 
family  of  a  dignitary  of  the  church,  on  quitting  the  parsonage, 
the  widow  and  her  niece  retired  to  a  small  habitation,  suited  to 
their  altered   circumstances,    and  lived   with  respectable   and 
respected  economy.     The  charge  brought  against  them  by  the 
new  dean  was  an  unexpected  blow.     It  was  an  extortion,   to 
which   Mrs.  Leicester  would  not  submit — could  not  without 
injury  to  her  niece,  from  whose  fortune  the  sum  claimed,  if 
yielded,  must  be  deducted. 

Alfred  Percy,  from  the  first  moment  of  their  distress,  from  the 
time  of  good  Dr.  Leicester's  death,  had  been  assiduous  in  his 
attentions  to  Mrs.  Leicester ;  and  by  the  most  affectionate  letters 
and,  whenever  he  could  get  away  from  London,  by  his  visits  to 
her  and  to  his  Sophia,  had  proved  the  warmth  and  constancy  of 
his  attachment.  Some  months  had  now  passed — ^he  urged  his 
suit,  and  besought  Sophia  no  longer  to  delay  his  happiness. 
Mrs.  Leicester  wished  that  her  niece  should  now  give  herself  a 
protector  and  friend,   who  might  console   her  for  the  uncle 


4  FATRONAQE. 

she  had  lost.  It  was  at  this  period  the  dilapidation  charge 
was  made.  Mrs.  Leicester  laid  the  whole  statement  before 
Alfred,  declaring  that  for  his  sake,  as  well  as  for  her  niece's,  she 
was  resolute  to  defend  herself  against  injustice.  Alfred  could 
scarcely  bring  himself  to  believe  that  Buckhurst  Falconer  had 
acted  in  the  manner  represented,  with  a  rapacity,  harshness,  and 
cruelty,  so  opposite  to  his  natural  disposition.  Faults,  Alfred 
well  knew  that  Buckhurst  had ;  but  they  were  all,  he  thought, 
of  quite  a  different  sort  from  those  of  which  he  now  stood 
accused.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Alfred  was  extremely  averse 
from  going  to  law  with  a  man  who  was  his  relation,  for  whom 
he  had  early  felt,  and  still  retained,  a  considerable  regard :  yet 
he  could  not  stand  by,  and  see  the  woman  he  loved,  defrauded  of 
nearly  half  the  small  fortune  she  possessed.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  was  employed  as  a  professional  man,  and  called  upon  to  act. 
He  determined,  however,  before  he  should,  as  a  last  resource, 
expose  the  truth  and  maintain  the  right  in  a  court  of  justice, 
previously  to  try  every  means  of  conciliation  in  his  power.  To 
all  his  letters  the  new  dean  answered  evasively  and  unsatis- 
factorily, by  referring  him  to  his  attorney,  into  whose  hands  he 
said  he  had  put  the  business,  and  he  knew  and  wished  to  hear 
nothing  more  about  it.  The  attorney,  Solicitor  Sharpe,  was  im- 
practicable— Alfred  resolved  to  see  the  dean  himself;  and  this, 
after  much  diflSculty,  he  at  length  effected.  He  found  the  dean 
and  his  lady  tete-a-tete.  Their  raised  voices  suddenly  stopped 
short  as  he  entered.  The  dean  gave  an  angry  look  at  his  servant 
as  Alfred  came  into  the  room. 

"Your  servants,"  said  Alfred,  *'  told  me  that  you  were  not  at 
home,  but  I  told  them  that  I  knew  the  dean  would  be  at  home 
to  an  old  friend." 

"  You  are  very  good, — (said  Buckhurst) — you  do  me  a  great 
deal  of  honour,"  said  the  dean. 

Two  different  manners  appeared  in  the  same  person :  one  natu- 
ral— belonging  to  his  former,  the  other  assumed,  proper,  as  he 
thought,  for  his  present  self,  or  rather  for  his  present  situation. 

"Won't  you  be  seated?     I  hope  all  our  friends "    Mrs. 

Buckhurst,  or,   as  she  was  called,  Mrs.  Dean  Falconer,  made 
divers  motions,  with  a  very  ugly  chin,  and  s*»  si  as  if  she  thought 


PATRONAGE.  5' 

there  ought  to  be  an  introduction.  The  dean  knew  it,  but  being 
ashamed  to  introduce  her,  determined  against  it.  Alfred  stood 
in  suspension,  waiting  their  mutual  pleasure. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down,  sir?"  repeated  the  dean. 

Down  plumped  Mrs.  Falconer  directly,  and  taking  out  her 
spectacles,  as  if  to  shame  her  husband,  by  heightening  the 
contrast  of  youth  and  age,  deliberately  put  them  on ;  then  draw- 
ing her  table  nearer,  settled  herself  to  her  work. 

Alfred,  who  saw  it  to  be  necessary,  determined  to  use  his 
best  address  to  conciliate  the  lady. 

"  Mr.  Dean,  you  have  never  yet  done  me  the  honour  to 
introduce  me  to  Mrs.  Falconer." 

"  I  thought — I  thought  we  had  met  before — since Mrs. 

Falconer,  Mr.  Alfred  Percy." 

The  lady  took  oflPher  spectacles,  smiled,  and  adjusted  herself, 
evidently  with  an  intention  to  be  more  agreeable.  Alfred  sat 
down  by  her  work-table,  directed  his  conversation  to  her,  and 
soon  talked,  or  rather  induced  her  to  talk  herself  into  fine 
humour.  Presently  she  retired  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  "  hoped 
Mr.  Alfred  Percy  had  no  intention  of  running  away — she  had  a 
•well-aired  bed  to  offer  him." 

The  dean,  though  he  cordially  hated  his  lady,  was  glad,  for 
his  own  sake,  to  be  relieved  from  her  fits  of  crossness ;  and  was 
pleased  by  Alfred's  paying  attention  to  her,  as  this  was  a  sort  of 
respect  to  himself,  and  what  he  seldom  met  with  from  those 
young  men  who  had  been  his  companions  before  his  marriage — 
they  usually  treated  his  lady  with  a  neglect  or  ridicule  which 
reflected  certainly  upon  her  husband. 

Alfred  never  yet  had  touched  upon  his  business,  and  Buck- 
hurst  began  to  think  this  was  merely  a  friendly  visit.  Upon 
Alfred's  observing  some  alteration  which  had  been  lately  made 
in  the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting,  the  dean  took  him  to  see 
other  improvements  in  the  house ;  in  pointing  out  these,  and  all 
the  conveniences  and  elegancies  about  the  parsonage,  Buckhurst 
totally  forgot  the  dilapidation  suit ;  and  every  thing  he  showed 
and  said  tended  unaw^ares  to  prove  that  the  house  was  in  the 
most  perfect  repair  and  best  condition  possible.  Gradually, 
whatever  solemnity  and  beneficed  pomp  there  had  at  first  ap- 
peared in  the  dean's  manner,  wore  off,  or  was  laid  aside ;  and,. 


C  PATRONAGE. 

except  his  being  somewhat  more  corpulent  and  rubicund  than  in 
early  years,  he  appeared  like  the  original  Buckhurst.  His  gaiety 
of  heart,  indeed,  was  gone,  but  some  sparkles  of  his  former 
spirits  remained. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  showing  Alfred  into  his  study,  "  here,  as  our 
good  friend  Mr.  Blank  said,  when  he  showed  us  his  study,  ^  Here 
is  where  I  read  all  day  long — quite  snug — and  nobody's  a  bit 
the  wiser  for  it'  " 

The  dean  seated  himself  in  his  comfortable  arm-chair. 

"  Try  that  chair,  Alfred,   excellent  for  sleeping  in  at  one's 

ease." 

"To  rest  the  cushion  and  soft  dean  invite." 

"  Ah!"  said  Alfred,  "  often  have  I  sat  in  this  room  with  my 
excellent  friend.  Dr.  Leicester!" 

The  new  dean's  countenance  suddenly  changed :  but  endea- 
vouring to  pass  it  off  with  a  jest,  he  said,  "Ay,  poor  good  old 
Leicester,  he  sleeps  for  ever, — that's  one  comfort — to  me — if  not 
to  you."  But  perceiving  that  Alfred  continued  to  look  serious, 
the  dean  added  some  more  proper  reflections  in  a  tone  of  eccle- 
siastical sentiment,  and  with  a  sigh  of  decorum — then  rose,  for  he 
smelt  that  the  dilapidation  suit  was  coming. 

"  Would  not  you  like,  Mr.  Percy,  to  wash  your  hands  before 
dinner  ?" 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Dean,  I  must  detain  you  a  moment  to 
speak  to  you  on  business." 

Black  as  Erebus  grew  the  face  of  the  dean — ^he  had  no  resource 
but  to  listen,  for  he  knew  it  would  come  after  dinner,  if  it  did  not 
come  now ;  and  it  was  as  well  to  have  it  alone  in  the  study,  where 
nobody  might  be  a  bit  the  wiser. 

When  Alfred  had  stated  the  whole  of  what  he  had  to  say, 
which  he  did  in  as  few  and  strong  words  as  possible,  appealing 
to  the  justice  and  feelings  of  Buckhurst — to  the  fears  which 
the  dean  must  have  of  being  exposed,  and  ultimately  defeated,  in 
a  court  of  justice — "  Mrs.  Leicester,"  concluded  he,  "  is  deter- 
mined to  maintain  the  suit,  and  has  employed  me  to  carry  it  on 
for  her." 

"  I  should  very  little  have  expected,"  said  the  dean,  "  that 
Mr.  Alfred  Percy  would  have  been  employed  in  such  a  way 
against  me." 


PATRONAGE.  7 

**  Still  less  should  I  have  expected  that  I  could  he  called  upon 
in  such  a  way  against  you,"  replied  Alfred.  "No  one  can  feel 
it  more  than  I  do.  The  object  of  my  present  visit  is  to  try 
whether  some  accommodation  may  not  be  made,  which  will 
relieve  us  both  from  the  necessity  of  going  to  law,  and  may  pre- 
vent me  from  being  driven  to  the  performance  of  this  most  pain- 
fid  professional  duty." 

"  Duty  !  professional  duty !"  repeated  Buckhurst :  "  as  if  I  did 
not  understand  all  those  cloak^oordsj  and  know  how  easy  it  is  to 
put  them  on  and  off  at  pleasure  !" 

"To  some  it  may  be,  but  not  to  me,"  said  Alired, calmly. 

Anger  started  into  Buckhurst's  countenance:  but  conscious 
how  inefficacious  it  would  be,  and  how  completely  he  had  laid 
himself  open,  the  dean  answered,  "  You  are  the  best  judge,  sir. 
But  I  trust — though  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  the  honour  of 
lawyers — I  trust,  as  a  gentleman,  you  will  not  take  advantage 
against  me  in  this  suit,  of  any  thing  my  openness  has  shown  you 
about  the  parsonage." 

"  You  trust  rightly,  Mr.  Dean,"  replied  Alfred,  in  his  turn, 
with  a  look  not  of  anger,  but  of  proud  indignation ;  *'  you  trust 
rightly,  Mr.  Dean,  and  as  I  should  have  expected  that  one  who 
has  had  opportunities  of  knowing  me  so  well  ought  to  trust." 

"  That's  a  clear  answer,"  said  Buckhurst.  "  But  how  could  I 
tell? — so  much,  jockeying  goes  on  in  every  profession — how  could 
I  tell  that  a  lawyer  would  be  more  conscientious  than  another 
man  ?  But  now  you  assure  me  of  it — I  take  it  upon  your  word, 
and  believe  it  in  your  case.  About  the  accommodation — accom- 
modation means  money,  does  not  it? — ^frankly,  I  have  not  a 
shilling.  But  Mrs.  Falconer  is  all  accommodation.  Try  what  you 
can  do  with  her — and  by  the  way  you  began,  I  should  hope  you 
would  do  a  great  deal,"  added  he,  laughing. 

Alfred  woidd  not  undertake  to  speak  to  his  lady,  imless  the 
dean  would,  in  the  first  instance,  make  some  sacrifice.  He  re- 
presented that  he  was  not  asking  for  money,  but  for  a  relinquish- 
ment of  a  claim,  which  he  apprehended  not  to  be  justly  due  ; 
"  And  the  only  use  I  shall  ever  make  of  what  you  have  shown 
me  here,  is  to  press  upon  your  feelings,  as  I  do  at  this  moment,  the 
conviction  of  the  injustice  of  that  claim,  which  I  am  persuaded 
your  lawyers  only  instigated,  and  that  you  will  abandon." 


S  PATRONAGE. 

Buckliurst  begged  hitn  not  to  be  persuaded  of  any  such  ttmg. 
The  instigation  of  an  attorney,  he  laughing  said,  was  not  in  law 
counted  the  instigation  of  the  devil — at  law  no  man  talked  of 
feelings.  In  matters  of  property  judges  did  not  understand  them, 
whatever  figure  they  might  make  with  a  jury  in  criminal  cases — 
with  an  eloquent  advocate's  hand  on  his  breast, 

Alfred  let  Buckhurst  go  on  with  his  vain  wit  and  gay  rhetoric 
till  he  had  nothing  more  to  say,  knowing  that  he  was  hiding 
consciousness  of  unhandsome  conduct.  Sticking  firmly  to  his 
point,  Alfred  showed  that  his  client,  though  gentle,  was  resolved, 
and  that,  unless  Buckhurst  yielded,  law  must  take  its  course- 
that  though  he  should  never  give  any  hint,  the  premises  must  be 
inspected,  and  disgrace  and  defeat  must  follow. 

Forced  to  be  serious,,  fretted  and  hurried,  for  the  half-hour 
bell  before  dinner  had  now  txing,  and  the  dean's  stomach  began 
to  know  canonical  hours,  he  exclaimed,  "The  upshot  of  the 
whole  business  is,  that  Mr.  Alfred  Percy  is  in  love,  I  understand, 
with  Miss  Sophia  Leicester,  and  this  fifteen  hundred  pounds, 
which  he  pushes  me  to  the  bare  wall  to  relinquish,  is  eventually, 
as  part  of  her  fortune,  to  become  his.  Would  it  not  have  been 
as  fair  to  have  stated  this  at  once  ?" 

"  No — ^because  it  would  not  have  been  the  truth." 

"  No  ! — You  won't  deny  that  you  are  in  love  with  Miss 
Leicester?" 

"  I  am  as  much  in  love  as  man  can  be  with  Miss  Leicester  ; 
but  her  fortune  is  nothing  to  me,  for  I  shall  never  touch  it.  "* 

*'  Never  touch  it !  Does  the  aunt — the  widow — the  cunning 
widow,  refuse  consent?" 

"  Far  from  it ;  the  aunt  is  all  the  aunt  of  Miss  Leicester  should 
be — all  the  widow  of  Dr.  Leicester  ought  to  be.  But  her 
circumstances  are  not  what  they  ought  to  be ;  and  by  the 
liberality  of  a  friend,  who  lends  me  a  house,  rent  free,  and  by 
the  resources  of  my  profession,  I  am  better  able  than  Mrs. 
Leicester  is  to  spare  fifteen  hundred  pounds :  therefore,  in  the 
recovery  of  this  money  I  have  no  personal  interest  at  present, 
I  shall  never  receive  it  from  her." 

"Noble!  Noble! — just  what  I  could  have  done  myself-— 
"once!     What  a  contrast!" 

Buckhurst  laid  his  head  down  upon  his  arms  flat  on  the  table. 


PATRONAGE.  9 

4ind  remained  for  some  moments  silent — then,  starting  upright, 
I'll  never  claim  a  penny  from  her — I'll  give  it  all  up  to  you! 
will,  if  I  sell  my  band  for  it,  by  Jove  !" 

"  Oh !  what  has  your  father  to  answer  for,  who  forced  you 
.to  the  church  !"  thought  Alfred. 
"  My  dear  Buckhurst,"  said  he,  "my  dear  dean——" 
"  Call  me  Buckhurst,  if  you  love  me." 

"  I  do  love  you,  it  is  impossible  to  help  it,  in  spite  of " 

"  All  my  faults — say  it  out — say  it  out — in  spite  of  your 
conscience,"  added  Buckhurst,  trying  to  laugh. 

"Not  in  spite  of  my  conscience,  but  in  favour  of  yours,"  said 
llfred,  "  against  whose  better  dictates  you  have  been  compelled 
all  your  life  to  act." 

"  I  have  so,  but  that's  over.  What  remains  to  be  done  at 
present?  I  am  in  real  distress  for  five  hundred  pounds. 
Apropos  to  your  being  engaged  in  this  dilapidation  suit,  you 
can  speak  to  Mrs.  Falconer  about  it.  Tell  her  I  have  given  up 
the  thing;  and  see  what  she  will  do." 

Alfred  promised  he  would  speak  to  Mrs.  Falconer.  "  And, 
Alfred,  when  you  see  your  sister  Caroline,  tell  her  that  I  am  not 
in  one  sense  such  a  wretch — quite,  as  she  thinks  me.  But  tell 
tter  that  I  am  yet  a  greater  wretch — infinitely  more  miserable 
■flian  she,  I  hope,  can  conceive — beyond  redemption — beyond 
endurance  miserable."  He  turned  away  hastily  in  an  agony  of 
mind.  Alfred  shut  the  door  and  escaped,  scarcely  able  to  bear 
his  own  emotion. 

When  they  met  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Dean  Falconer  was  an  altered 
person — ^her  unseemly  morning  costume  and  well-worn  shawl 
being  cast  aside,  she  appeared  in  bloom-coloured  gossamer 
gauze,  and  primrose  ribbons,  a  would-be  young  lady.  Nothing 
of  that  curmudgeon  look,  or  old  fairy  cast  of  face  and  figure,  to 
which  he  had  that  morning  been  introduced,  but  in  their  place 
smiles,  and  all  the  false  brilliancy  which  rouge  can  give  to  the 
eyes,  proclaimed  a  determination  to  be  charming. 

The  dean  was  silent,  and  scarcely  ate  any  thing,  though  the 
dinner  was  excellent,  for  his  lady  was  skilled  in  the  culinary 
department,  and  in  favour  of  Alfred  had  made  a  more  hospitable 
display  than  she  usually  condescended  to  make  for  her  hus- 
band's friends.    There  were  no  other  guests,  except  a  young 


10  PATRONAOB. 

lady,  companion  to  Mrs.  Falconer.  Alfred  was  as  agreeable  and 
entertaining  as  circumstances  permitted  ;  and  Mrs.  Buckhurst 
Falconer,  as  soon  as  she  got  out  of  the  dining-room,  even  before 
she  reached  the  drawing-room,  pronounced  him  to  be  a  most 
polite  and  accomplished  young  man,  very  different  indeed  from 
the  common  run,  or  the  usual  style,  of  Mr.  Dean  Falconer's 
dashing  bachelor  beaux,  who  in  her  opinion  were  little  better 
than  brute  bears. 

At  coffee,  when  the  gentlemen  joined  the  ladies  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, as  Alfred  was  standing  beside  Mrs.  Falconer,  medi- 
tating how  and  when  to  speak  of  the  object  of  his  visit,  she 
cleared  the  ground  by  choosing  the  topic  of  conversation,  which, 
at  last  fairly  drove  her  husband  out  of  the  room.  She  judiciously, 
maliciously,  or  accidentally,  began  to  talk  of  the  proposal  which 
she  had  heard  a  near  relation  of  hers  had  not  long  since  made 
to  a  near  relation  of  Mr.  Alfred  Percy's — Mr.  Clay,  of  Clay-hall, 
her  nephew,  had  proposed  for  Mr.  Alfred's  sister.  Miss  Caroline 
Percy.  She  was  really  sorry  the  match  was  not  to  take  place> 
for  she  had  heard  a  very  high  character  of  the  young  lady  in 
every  way,  and  her  nephew  was  rich  enough  to  do  without 
fortune — ^not  but  what  that  would  be  very  acceptable  to  all  men 
— especially  young  men,  who  are  now  mostly  all  for  money 
instead  of  all  for  love — except  in  the  case  of  very  first  rate 
extraordinary  beauty,  which  therefore  making  a  woman  a  prey,, 
just  as  much  one  as  the  other,  might  be  deemed  a  misfortune  as 
great,  though  hardly  quite,  Mrs.  Buckhurst  said,  as  she  had 
found  a  great  fortune  in  her  own  particular  case.  The  involution 
of  meaning  in  these  sentences  rendering  it  not  easy  to  be 
comprehended,  the  dean  stood  it  pretty  well,  only  stirring  his 
coffee,  and  observing  that  it  was  cold ;  but  when  his  lady  went 
on  to  a  string  of  interrogatories  about  Miss  Caroline  Percy — on 
tb«»  colour  of  her  eyes  and  hair — size  of  her  mouth  and  nose — 
requiring  in  short  a  complete  full-length  portrait  of  the  young 
lady,  poor  Buckhurst  set  down  his  cup,  and  pleading  business  in 
his  study,  left  the  field  open  to  Alfred. 

"  Near-sighted  glasses  !  Do  you  never  use  them,  Mr.  Percy?" 
Baid  Mrs.  Dean  Falconer,  as  she  thought  Alfred's  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  spectacles,  which  lay  on  the  table. 

No — he  never  used  them,  he  thanked  her:  he   was  rather 


PATRONAGE.  H 

far-sighted  than  short-sighted.  She  internally  commended  his 
politeness  in  not  taking  them  up  to  verify  her  assertion,  and  put 
them  into  her  pocket  to  avoid  all  future  danger. 

He  saw  it  was  a  favourable  moment,  and  entered  at  once  into 
his  business — ^beginning  by  observing  that  the  dean  was  much 
x)ut  of  spirits.  The  moment  monej'  was  touched  upon,  the  cur- 
mudgeon look  returned  upon  the  lady ;  and  for  some  time 
Alfred  had  great  difficulty  in  making  himself  heard :  she  poured 
forth  such  complaints  against  the  extravagance  of  the  dean, 
with  lists  of  the  debts  she  had  paid,  the  sums  she  had  given, 
and  the  vow  she  had  made,  never  to  go  beyond  the  weekly 
allowance  she  had,  at  th^  last  settlement,  agreed  to  give  her 
husband. 

Alfred  pleaded  strongly  the  expense  of  law,  and  the  certainty, 
in  his  opinion,  of  ultimate  defeat,  with  the  being  obliged  to  pay 
all  the  costs,  which  would  fall  upon  the  dean.  The  dean  was 
willing  to  withdraw  his  claim — he  had  promised  to  do  so,  in  the 
most  handsome  manner;  and  therefore,  Alfred  said,  he  felt 
particularly  anxious  that  he  should  not  be  distressed  for  five 
hundred  pounds,  a  sum  for  which  he  knew  Mr.  Falconer  was 
immediately  pressed.  He  appealed  to  Mrs.  Falconer's  gene- 
rosity. He  had  been  desired  by  the  dean  to  speak  to  her  on 
the  subject,  otherwise  he  should  not  have  presumed — and  it  was 
as  a  professional  man,  and  a  near  relation,  that  he  now  took  the 
liberty  :  this  was  the  first  transaction  he  had  ever  had  with  her, 
and  he  hoped  he  should  leave  the  vicarage  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  her  generosity,  and  enabled  to  do  her  justice  in  the 
opinion  of  those  who  did  not  know  her. 

That  was  very  little  to  her,  she  bluntly  said — she  acted  only 
up  to  her  own  notions — she  lived  only  for  herself. 

"And  for  her  husband."  Love,  Alfred  Percy  said,  he  was 
assured,  was  superior  to  money  in  her  opinion.  "  And  after  all, 
my  dear  madam,  you  set  me  the  example  of  frankness,  and 
permit  me  to  speak  to  you  without  reserve.  What  can  you, 
who  have  no  reason,  you  say,  to  be  pleased  with  either  of  your 
nephews,  do  better  with  your  money,  than  spend  it  while  you 
live  and  for  yourself,  in  securing  happiness  in  the  gratitude  and 
affection  of  a  husband,  who,  generous  himself,  will  be  peculiarly 
touched  and  attached  by  generosity  1" 

2 


12  PATRONAGE. 

The  words,  love,  generosity,  generotts,  sounded  upon  the  lady's 
ear,  and  she  was  unwilling  to  lose  that  high  opinion  which  she 
imagined  Alfred  entertained  of  her  sentiments  and  character. 
Besides,  she  was  conscious  that  he  was  in  fact  nearer  the  truth 
than  all  the  world  would  have  believed.  Avaricious  in  trifles, 
and  parsimonious  in  those  every-day  habits  which  brand  the 
reputation  immediately  with  the  fault  of  avarice,  this  woman 
was  one  of  those  misers  who  can  be  generous  by  fits  and  starts, 
and  who  have  been  known  to  give  hundreds  of  pounds,  but  never 
without  reluctance  would  part  with  a  shilHng. 

She  presented  the  dean,  her  husband,  with  an  order  on  her 
banker  for  the  money  he  wanted,  and  Alfred  had  the  pleasure  of 
leaving  his  unhappy  friend  better,  at  least,  than  he  found  him. 
He  rejoiced  in  having  compromised  this  business  so  successfully, 
and  in  thus  having  prevented  the  litigation,  ill-will,  and  disgrace- 
ful circumstances,  which,  without  his  interference,  must  have 
ensued. 

The  gratitude  of  Mrs.  Leicester  and  her  niece  was  delightful. 
The  aunt  urged  him  to  accept  what  he  had  been  the  means  of 
saving,  as  part  of  her  niece's  fortune ;  but  this  he  absolutely 
refused,  and  satisfied  Mrs.  Leicester's  delicacy,  by  explaining, 
that  he  could  not,  if  he  would,  now  yield  to  her  entreaties,  as  he 
had  actually  obtained  the  money  from  poor  Buckhurst's  generous 
repentance,  upon  the  express  faith  that  he  had  no  private  interest 
in  the  accommodation. 

"You  would  not,"  said  Alfred,  "bring  me  under  the  act 
against  raising  money  upon  false  pretences  ?" 

What  Alfred  lost  in  money  he  gained  in  love.  His  Sophia's 
eyes  beamed  upon  him  with  delight.  The  day  was  fixed  for 
their  marriage,  and  at  Alfred's  suggestion,  Mrs.  Leicester  con- 
sented, painful  as  it  was,  in  some  respects,  to  her  feelings,  that 
they  should  be  married  by  the  dean  in  the  parish  church. 

Alfred  brought  his  bride  to  town,  and  as  soon  as  they  were 
established  in  their  own  house,  or  rather  in  that  house  which  Mr. 
Gresham  insisted  upon  their  calling  their  own,  Lady  Jane  Gran- 
ville was  the  first  person  to  offer  her  congratulations. — Alfred 
begged  his  sister  Caroline  from  Lady  Jane,  as  he  had  already 
obtained  his  father's  and  mother's  consent.  Lady  Jane  was 
really  fond  of  Caroline's  company,  and  had  forgiven  her,  as  well 


PATEONAGE.  (Ti 

as  she  could ;  yet  her  ladyship  had  no  loii^r  a  hope  of  being'  </ 
nse  to  her,  and  felt  that  even  if  any  other  ofifer  were  to  occur — 
and  none  such  as  had  been  mcide  could  ever  more  he  expected — 
it  would  lead  only  to  fresh  disappointment  and  altercation ; 
therefore  she,  with  the  less  reluctance,  relinquished  Caroline 
altogether. 

Caroline's  new  sister  had  been,  from  the  time  they  were  first 
acquainted,  her  friend,  and  she  rejoiced  in  seeing  all  her  hopes 
for  her  brother's  happiness  accomplished  by  this  marriage.  His 
Sophia  had  those  habits  of  independent  occupation  which  are 
essential  to  the  wife  of  a  professional  man,  and  which  enable 
her  to  spend  cheerfully  many  hours  alone,  or  at  least  without 
the  company  of  her  husband.  On  his  return  home  every 
evening,  he  was  sure  to  find  a  smiling  wife,  a  sympathizing 
friend,  a  cheerful  fireside. — She  had  musical  talents — ^her  hus- 
band was  fond  of  music ;  and  she  did  not  lay  aside  the  accom- 
plishments which  had  charmed  the  lover,  but  made  use  of  them 
to  please  him  whom  she  had  chosen  as  her  companion  for  life. 
Her  voice,  her  harp,  her  utmost  skill,  were  ready  at  any  moment, 
and  she  found  far  more  delight  in  devoting  her  talents  to  him 
than  she  had  ever  felt  in  exhibiting  them  to  admiring  auditors. 
This  was  th€  domestic  use  of  accomplishments  to  which  Caroline 
had  always  been  accustomed ;  so  that  joining  in  her  new  sister's 
occupations  and  endeavours  to  make  Alfred's  evenings  pass 
pleasantly,  she  felt  at  once  as  much  at  home  as  if  she  had  been 
in  the  country;  for  the  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  domestic 
happiness  may  be  naturalized  in  a  capital  city. 

At  her  brother's  house,  Caroline  had  an  opportimity  of  seeing 
a  society  thiit  was  new  to  her,  that  of  the  professional  men  of 
the  first  eminence  both  in  law  and  medicine,  the  men  of  science 
and  of  literature,  with  whom  Alfred  and  Erasmus  had  been  for 
years  assiduously  cultivating  acquaintance.  They  were  now 
happy  to  meet  at  Alfred's  house,  for  they  liked  and  esteemed 
him,  and  they  found  his  wife  and  sister  sensible,  well-informed 
women,  to  whom  their  conversation  was  of  real  amusement  and 
instruction;  and  who,  in  return,  knew  how  to  enliven  their 
leisure  hours  by  female  sprightliness  and  elegance.  Caroline 
now  saw  the  literary  and  scientific  world  to  the  best  advantage  : 
not  the  amateurs,  or  the  mere  «Aoier  people,  but  those  who,  really 


14  PATRONAOE. 

excelling  and  feeling  their  own  superiority,  had  too  much  pride, 
and  too  little  time  to  waste  upon  idle  flattery,  or  what  to  them 
were  stupid,  uninteresting  parties.  Those  who  refused  to  go  to 
Lady  Spilsbury's,  or  to  Lady  Angelica  Headingham's,  or  who 
were  seen  there,  perhaps,  once  or  twice  in  a  season  as  a  great 
favour  and  honour,  would  call  three  or  foiu:  evenings  every  week 
at  Alfred's. 

The  first  news,  the  first  hints  of  discoveries,  inventions,  and 
literary  projects,  she  heard  from  time  to  time  discussed.  Those 
men  of  talent,  whom  she  had  heard  were  to  be  seen  at  con- 
versazionesj  or  of  whom  she  had  had  a  glimpse  in  fine  society, 
now  appeared  in  a  new  point  of  view,  and  to  the  best  advantage  ; 
without  those  pretensions  and  rivalships  with  which  they  some- 
times are  afflicted  in  public,  or  those  affectations  and  singularities, 
which  they  often  are  supposed  to  assume,  to  obtain  notoriety 
among  persons  inferior  to  them  in  intellect  and  superior  in 
fashion.  Instead  of  playing,  as  they  sometimes  did,  a  false 
^ame  to  amuse  the  multitude,  they  were  obliged  now  to  exert 
their  real  skill,  and  play  fair  with  one  another. 

Sir  James  Harrington  tells  us,  that  in  his  days  the  courtiers 
who  played  at  divers  games  in  public,  had  a  way  of  exciting 
the  admiration  and  amazement  of  the  commoner  sort  of  spectators, 
by  producing  heaps  of  golden  counters,  and  seeming  to  stake 
immense  sums,  when  all  the  time  they  had  previously  agreed 
among  one  another,  that  each  guinea  should  stand  for  a  shilling, 
or  each  hundred  guineas  for  one :  so  that  in  fact  two  modes  of 
calculation  were  used  for  the  initiated  and  uninitiated ;  and  this 
exoteric  practice  goes  on  continually  to  this  hour,  among  literary 
-performers  in  the  intellectual,  as  well  as  among  courtiers  in  the 
fasl»onable  world. 

Besides  the  pleasure  of  studying  celebrated  characters,  and 
persons  of  eminent  merit,  at  their  ease  and  at  her  own,  Caroline 
had  now  opportunities  of  seeing  most  of  those  objects  of  rational 
curiosity,  which  with  Lady  Jane  Granville  had  been  prohibited 
as  mauvais  ton.  With  men  of  sense  she  found  it  was  not  mauvais 
ton  to  use  her  eyes  for  the  purposes  of  instruction  or  enter- 
tainment. 

With  Mrs.  Alfred  Percy  she  saw  every  thing  in  the  best 
manner;  in   the  company  of  well-informed  guides,  who  were 


PATRONAGE.  15 

able  to  point  out  what  was  essential  to  be  observed ;  ready  to 
explain  and  to  illustrate ;  to  procure  for  them  all  those  privileges, 
and  advantages  as  spectators,  which  common  gazers  are  denied, 
but  which  liberal  and  enlightened  men  are  ever  not  only  ready  to. 
allow,  but  eager  to  procure  for  intelligent,  unassuming  females. 

Among  the  gentlemen  of  learning,  talents,  and  eminence  in. 
Alfred's  own  profession,  whom  Caroline  had  the  honour  of 
seeing  at  her  brother's,  were  Mr.  Friend,  the  friend  of  his  early 
years  at  the  bar ;  and  that  great  luminary,  who  in  a  higher  orbit, 
had  cheered  and  guided  him  in  his  ascent.  The  chief  justice 
was  in  a  station,  and  of  an  age,  where  praise  can  be  conferred 
without  impropriety,  and  without  hurting  the  feelings  of  delicacy 
or  pride.  He  knew  how  to  praise — a  difficult  art,  but  he  excelled 
in  it.  As  Caroline  once,  in  speaking  of  him,  said,  "  Common 
compliments  compared  to  praise  from  him,  are  as  common  coin 
compared  to  a  medal  struck  and  appropriated  for  the  occasion." 

About  this  time  Mr.  Temple  came  to  tell  Alfred,  that  a  ship, 
had  been  actually  ordered  to  be  in  readiness  to  carry  him  on  his 
intended  embassy ;  that  Mr.  Shaw  had  recovered ;  that  Cunning- 
ham Falconer  had  no  more  excuses  or  pretences  for  delay;, 
despatches,  the  last  Lord  Oldborough  said  he  should  ever 
receive  from  him  as  envoy,  had  now  arrived,  and  Temple  was  to 
have  set  out  immediately ;  but  that  the  whole  embassy  bad  beeik 
delayed,  because  Lord  Oldborough  had  received  a  letter  from 
Count  Altenberg,  giving  an  account  of  alarming  revolutionary 
symptoms,  which  had  appeared  in  the  capital,  and  in  the 
provinces,  in  the  dominions  of  his  sovereign.  Lord  Oldborough 
had  shown  Mr.  Temple  what  related  to  public  affairs,  but  had 
not  put  the  whole  letter  into  his  hands.  All  that  he  could  judge 
from  what  he  read  was,  that  the  Count's  mind  was  most  seriously 
occupied  with  the  dangerous  state  of  public  affairs  in  his  country. 
"  I  should  have  thought,"  added  Mr.  Temple,  "that  the  whole 
of  this  communication  was  entirely  of  a  political  nature,  but  that 
in  the  last  page  which  Lord  Oldborough  put  into  my  hand,  the 
catch-words  at  the  bottom  were  Countess  Christina.'' 

Alfred  observed,  "  that,  without  the  aid  of  Rosamond's  imagi- 
nation to  supply  something  more,  nothing  could  be  made  of  this. 
However,  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  have  had  direct  news  of  C-ount 
Altenberg." 


16  PATRONAGE. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Temple  came  for  Alfred.    Lord  Oldborougc 
desired  to  see  him. 

"  Whatever  his  business  may  be,  I  am  sure  it  is  important; 
and  interesting,"  said  Mr.  Temple ;  "by  this  time  I  ought  to  i>3 
well  acquainted  with  Lord  Oldborough — I  know  the  signs  of  hii 
suppressed  emotion,  and  I  have  seldom  seen  him  put  such  for^e 
upon  himself  to  appear  calm,  and  to  do  the  business  of  the  day 
before  he  should  yield  his  mind  to  what  pressed  on  his  secret 
thoughts." 


CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

When  Alfred  arrived,  Lord  Oldborough  was  engaged  with  some 
gentlemen  from  the  city  about  a  loan.  By  the  length  of  time 
which  the  negotiators  stayed,  they  tried  Alfred's  patience ;  but 
the  minister  sat  with  immoveable  composure,  till  they  knew  their 
own  minds,  and  till  they  departed.  Then,  the  loan  at  once  dis- 
missed from  his  thoughts,  he  was  ready  for  Alfred. 

"  You  have  married,  I  think,  Mr.  Alfred  Percy,  since  I  saw 
you  last — I  congratulate  you." 

His  lordship  was  not  in  the  habit  of  noticing  such  common 
events ;  Alfred  was  surprised  and  obliged  by  the  interest  in  his 
private  affairs  which  this  congratulation  denoted. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  sir,  because  I  understand  you  have 
married  a  woman  of  sense.  To  marry  a  fool — to  form  or  to 
have  any  connexion  with  a  fool,"  continued  his  lordship,  his 
countenance  changing  remarkably  as  he  spoke,  "  I  conceive  to 
be  the  greatest  evil,  the  greatest  curse,  that  can  be  inflicted  on 
^  man  of  sense." 

He  walked  across  the  room  with  long,  firm,  indignant  strides 
— then  stopping  short,  he  exclaimed,  " Lettres  de  cachet! — « 
Dangerous  instruments  in  bad  hands! — As  what  are  not? — But 
one  good  purpose  they  answered — they  put  it  in  the  power  of 
the  head  of  every  noble  house  to  disown,  and  to  deprive  of  the 
liberty  to  disgrace  his  family,  any  member  who  should  manifest 
the  will  to  commit  desperate  crime  or  desperate  folly." 


PATRONAGE.  17 

Alfred  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  join  in  praise  even  of  this 
use  of  a  lettre  de  cachet^  but  he  did  not  think  it  a  proper  time  to 
argue  the  point,  as  he  saw  Lord  Oldborough  was  under  the 
influence  of  some  strong  passion.  He  waited  in  silence  till  his 
lordship  should  explain  himself  farther. 

His  lordship  unlocked  a  desk,  and  produced  a  letter. 
"  Pray,  Mr.  Percy — Mr.  Alfred  Percy — have  you  heard  any 
thing  lately  of  the  Marchioness  of  Twickenham?" 
"  No,  my  lord." 

Alfred,  at  this  instant,  recollected  the  whisper  which  he  had 
once  heard  at  chapel,  and  he  added,  "  Not  of  late,  my  lord." 

"  There,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  putting  a  letter  into  Alfred's 
hands — "there  is  the  sum  of  what  I  have  heard." 

The  letter  was  from  the  Duke  of  Greenwich,  informing  Lord 
Oldborough  that  an  unfortunate  discovery  had  been  made  of  an 
affair  between  the  Marchioness  of  Twickenham  and  a  certain 
Captain  Bellamy,  which  rendered  an  immediate  separation 
necessary. 

"So!"  thought  Alfred,  "my  brother  Godfrey  had  a  fine 
escape  of  this  fair  lady  !" 

"  I  have  seen  her  once  since  I  received  that  letter,  and  I 
never  will  see  her  again,"  said  Lord  Oldborough:  "that's  past 
< — all  that  concerns  her  is  past  and  irremediable.  Now  as  to  the 
future,  and  to  what  concerns  myself.  I  have  been  informed — 
how  truly,  I  cannot  say — that  some  time  ago  a  rumour,  a  sus- 
picion of  this  intrigue  was  whispered  in  what  they  call  the 
fashionable  world." 

"  I  believe  that  your  lordship  has  been  truly  informed,"  said 
Alfred ;  and  he  then  mentioned  the  whisper  he  had  heard  at  the 
chapel. 

"  Ha ! — Farther,  it  has  been  asserted  to  me,  that  a  hint  was 
given  to  the  Marquis  of  Twickenham  of  the  danger  of  suffering 
that — what  is  the  man's  name? — Bellamy,  to  be  so  near  his 
wife  ;  and  that  the  hint  was  disregarded." 

"The  marquis  did  very  weakly  or  very  wickedly,"  said  Alfred. 

"  All  wickedness   is  weakness,  sir,  you  know :   but  to  our 

point.     I  have  been  assured  that  the  actual  discovery  of  the 

intrigue  was  made  to  the  marquis  some  months  previously  to  the 

birth  of  his  child — and  that  he  forbore  to  take  any  notice  of  tliis» 

Patronage. — ii. 


18  PATRONAGE. 

lest  it  might  affect  the  legitimacy  of  that  child.  After  the  birth 
of  the  infant — a  boy — subsequent  indiscretions  on  the  part  of 
the  marchioness,  the  marquis  would  make  it  appear,  gave  rise  to 
his  first  suspicions.  Now,  sir,  these  are  the  points,  of  which,  as 
my  friend,  and  as  a  professional  man,  I  desire  you  to  ascertain 
the  truth.  If  the  facts  are  as  I  have  thus  heard,  I  presume  no 
divorce  can  be  legally  obtained." 

"  Certainly  not,  my  lord." 

*'  Then  I  will  direct  you  instantly  to  the  proper  channels  for 
information." 

Whilst  Lord  Oldborough  wrote  directions,  Alfred  assured  him 
he  would  fulfil  his  commission  with  all  the  discretion  and 
celerity  in  his  power. 

"  The  next  step,"  continued  Lord  Oldborough — "  for,  on  such 
a  subject,  I  wish  to  say  all  that  is  necessary  at  once,  that  it  may 
be  banished  from  my  mind— your  next  step,  supposing  the  facts 
to  be  ascertained,  is  to  go  with  this  letter — my  answer  to  the 
Duke  of  Greenwich.  See  him — ^and  see  the  marquis.  In  mat- 
ters of  consequence  have  nothing  to  do  with  secondary  people — 
deal  with  the  principals.  Show  in  the  first  place,  as  a  lawyer, 
that  their  divorce  is  unattainable — next,  show  the  marquis  that 
he  destroys  his  son  and  heir  by  attempting  it.  The  duke,  I 
believe,  would  be  glad  of  a  pretext  for  dissolving  the  political 
connexion  between  me  and  the  Greenwich  family.  He  fears 
me,  and  he  fears  the  world :  he  dares  not  abandon  me  without  a 
pretence  for  the  dissolution  of  friendship.  He  is  a  weak  man, 
and  never  dares  to  act  without  a  pretext ;  but  show  him  that  a 
divorce  is  not  necessary  for  his  purpose — a  separation  will  do  as 

well Or  without  it,  I  am  ready  to  break  with  him  at  council, 

in  the  House  of  Lords,  on  a  hundred  political  points ;  and  let 
him  shield  himself  as  he  may  from  the  reproach  of  desertion,  by 
leaving  the  blame  of  quarrel  on  my  impracticability,  or  on  what 
he  will,  I  care  not — so  that  my  family  be  saved  from  the  igno- 
miny of  divorce." 

As  he  sealed  his  letter,  Lord  Oldborough  went  on  in  abrupt 
sentences. 

"  I  never  counted  on  a  weak  man's  friendship 1  can  do 

without  his  grace Woman  !  Woman  1    The  same — ever  since 

the  beginning  of  the  world!" 


PATRONAGE.  IS 

Then  turning  to  Alfred  to  deliver  the  letter  into  his  hand, 

"Your  brother,  Major  Percy,  sir — I  think  I  recollect He 

was  better  in  the  West  Indies." 

•*  I  was  just  thinking  so,  my  lord,"  said  Alfred. 

"  Yes — better  encounter  the  plague  than  a  fool." 

Lord  Oldborough  had  never  before  distinctly  adverted  to  his 
knowledge  of  his  niece's  partiality  for  Godfrey,  but  his  lordship 
now  added,  "  Major  Percy's  honourable  conduct  is  not  \m- 
known  :  I  trust  honourable  conduct  never  was,  and  never  will 
be,  lost  upon  me.'        This  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich — and  thia 

to  the  marquis. Since  it  was  to  be,  I  rejoice  that  this  Captain 

Bellamy  is  the  gallant. Had  it  been  your  brother,  sir — could 

there  have  been  any  love  in  the  case — not,  observe,  that  I 
believe  in  love,  much  less  am  I  subject  to  the  weakness  of 
remorse — but  a  twinge  might  have  seized  my  mind — I  might 
possibly  have    been   told  that  the   marchioness   was    married 

against  her  inclination. But  I  am  at  ease  on  that  point — my 

judgment  of  her  was  right. You  will  let  me  know,  in  one 

word,  the  result  of  your  negotiation  without  entering  into 
particulars — divorce,  or  no  divorce,  is  all  I  wish  to  hear." 

Alfred  did  not  know  all  the  circimistances  of  the  Marchioness 
of  Twickenham's  marriage,  nor  the  peremptory  manner  in  which 
it  had  been  insisted  upon  by  her  uncle,  otherwise  he  would  have 
felt  still  greater  surprise  than  that  which  he  now  felt,  at  the 
stem,  unbending  character  of  the  man.  Possessed  as  Lord 
Oldborough  was  by  the  opinion,  that  he  had  at  the  time  judged 
and  acted  in  the  best  manner  possible,  no  after-events  could 
make  him  doubt  the  justice  of  his  own  decision,  or  could  at  all 
shake  him  in  his  own  estimation. 

Alfred  soon  brought  his  report.  "  In  one  word — no  divorce, 
my  lord." 

"  That's  well — I  thank  you,  sir." 

His  lordship  made  no  farther  inquiries — ^not  even  whether 
there  was  to  be  a  separation. 

Alfred  was  commissioned  by  the  Duke  of  Greenwich  to  deliver 
a  message,  which,  like  the  messages  of  the  gods  in  Homer,  he 
delivered  verbatim,  and  without  comment :  *'  His  grace  of 
Greenwich  trusts  Lord  Oldborough  will  believe,  that,  notwith- 
standing the  unfortunate  circumstances,  which  dissolved  in  some 


20  PATRONAGE. 

degree  the  family  connexion,  it  was  the  farthest  possible  from 
his  grace's  wish  or  thoughts  to  break  with  Lord  Oldborough,  as 
long  as  private  feelings,  and  public  principles,  could  be  rendered 
by  any  means  compatible." 

Lord  Oldborough  smiled  in  scorn — and  Alfred  could  scarcely 
command  his  countenance. 

Loid  Oldborough  prepared  to  give  his  grace  the  opportunity, 
■whijch  he  knew  he  desired,  of  differing  with  him  on  principle  : 
his  lordship  thought  his  favour  and  power  were  now  sufficiently 
established  to  be  able  to  do  without  the  Duke  of  Greenwich,  and 
his  pride  prompted  him  to  show  this  to  his  grace  and  to  the 
"world.  He  carried  it  with  a  high  hand  for  a  short  time ;  but  even 
whilst  he  felt  most  secure,  and  when  all  seemed  to  bend  and  bow 
before  his  genius  and  his  sway,  many  circumstances  and  many 
persons  were  combining  to  work  the  downfall  of  his  power. 

One  of  the  first  slight  circumstances  which  shook  his  favour, 
was  a  speech  he  had  made  to  some  gentleman,  about  the 
presentation  of  the  deanery  to  Buckhurst  Falconer.  It  had 
been  supposed  by  many,  who  knew  the  court  which  Commis- 
sioner Falconer  paid  to  Lord  Oldborough,  that  it  was  through 
his  lordship's  interest,  that  this  preferment  was  given  to  the  son  ; 
but  when  some  person,  taking  this  for  granted,  spoke  of  it  to  his 
lordship,  he  indignantly  disclaimed  all  part  in  the  transaction, 
and  it  is  said  that  he  added,  "  Sir,  I  know  what  is  due  to  private 
regard  as  a  man — and  as  a  minister  what  must  be  yielded  to 
parliamentary  influence ;  but  I  never  could  have  advised  the 
bestowing  ecclesiastical  benefice  and  dignity  upon  any  one 
whose  conduct  was  not  his  first  recommendation." 

This  speech,  made  in  a  moment  of  proud  and  perhaps  un- 
guarded indignation,  was  repeated  with  additions,  suppressions, 
variations,  and  comments.  Any  thing  will  at  court  serve  the 
purpose  of  those  who  wish  to  injure,  and  it  is  inconceivable  what 
mischief  was  done  to  the  minister  by  this  slight  circumstance. 
In  the  first  place,  the  nobleman  high  in  office,  and  the  family 
connexions  of  the  nobleman  who  had  made  the  exchange  of 
livings,  and  given  the  promise  of  the  deanery  to  Bishop  Clay, 
were  ofiended  beyond  redemption — because  they  were  in  the 
wrong.  Then,  all  who  had  done,  or  wished  to  do  wrong,  in 
-similar  instances,  were  displeased  by  reflection  or  by  anticipation. 


PATRONAGE.  21 

But  Lord  Oldboroiigh  chiefly  was  injured  by  misrepresentation 
in  tlie  quarter  where  it  was  of  most  consequence  to  him  to  pre- 
serve his  influence.  It  was  construed  by  the  highest  authority 
into  disrespect,  and  an  imperious  desire  to  encroach  on  favour, 
to  control  prerogative,  and  to  subdue  the  irnind  of  his  sovereign. 
Insidious  arts  had  long  been  secretly  employed  to  infuse  these 
ideas ;  and  when  once  the  jealousy  of  power  was  excited,  every 
trifle  confirmed  the  suspicion  which  Lord  Oldborough's  un- 
courtier-like  character  was  little  calculated  to  dispel.  His 
popularity  now  gave  umbrage,  and  it  was  hinted  that  he  wished 
to  make  himself  the  independent  minister  of  the  people. 

The  afiairs  of  the  country  prospered,  however,  under  his 
administration  ;  there  was  trouble,  there  was  hazard  in  change. 
It  was  argued,  that  it  was  best  to  wait  at  least  for  some  reverse 
of  fortune  in  war,  or  some  symptom  of  domestic  discontent, 
before  an  attempt  should  be  made  to  displace  this  minister, 
formidable  by  his  talents,  and  by  the  awe  his  commanding 
character  inspired. 

The  habit  of  confidence  and  deference  for  his  genius  and 
integrity  remained,  and  to  him  no  difference  for  some  time 
appeared,  in  consequence  of  the  secret  decay  of  favour. 

Commissioner  Falconer,  timid,  anxious,  restless,  was  disposed 
by  circumstances  and  by  nature,  or  by  second  nature,  to  the 
vigilance  of  a  dependent's  life ;  accustomed  to  watch  and 
consult  daily  the  barometer  of  court  favour,  he  soon  felt  the 
coming  storm ;  and  the  moment  he  saw  prognostics  of  the 
change,  he  trembled,  and  considered  how  he  should  best  provide 
for  his  own  safety  before  the  hour  of  danger  arrived.  Numerous 
Hbels  against  the  minister  appeared,  which  Lord  Oldborough  never 
read,  but  the  commissioner,  with  his  best  spectacles,  read  them 
all ;  for  he  well  knew  and  believed  what  the  sage  Selden  saith, 
that  "  though  some  make  slight  of  libels,  yet  you  may  see  by 
them  how  the  wind  sets." 

After  determining  by  the  throwing  up  of  these  straws  which 
•way  the  wind  set,  the  commissioner  began  with  all  possible  skill 
and  dexterity  to  trim  his  boat.  But  dexterous  trimmer  though 
he  was,  and  "prescient  of  change,"  he  did  yet  not  foresee  from 
what  quarter  the  storm  would  come. 

Count  Altenberg's  letters  had  imveiled  completely  the  envoy 


22  PATRONAGE. 

Cunningham  Falconer's  treachery,  as  far  as  it  related  to  his 
intrigues  abroad,  and  other  friends  detected  some  of  hia 
manoeuvres  with  politicians  at  home,  to  whom  he  had  en 
deavoured  to  pay  court,  by  betraying  confidence  reposed  in  him 
respecting  the  Tourville  papers.  Much  of  the  mischief  Cimning- 
ham  had  done  this  great  minister  still  operated,  unknown  to  hi» 
unsuspicious  mind  :  but  sufficient  was  revealed  to  determine 
Lord  Oldborough  to  dismiss  him  from  all  future  hopes  of  his 
favour. 

"Mr.  Commissioner  Falconer,"  he  began  one  morning,  the 
moment  the  commissioner  entered  his  cabinet,  "  Mr.  Com- 
missioner Falconer,"  in  a  tone  which  instantly  dispelled  the 
smile  at  entrance  from  the  commissioner's  coimtenance,  and  in 
the  same  moment  changed  his  whole  configurature.  "My 
confidence  is  withdrawn  from  your  son,  Mr.  Cunningham 
Falconer — ^for  ever — and  not  without  good  reason — as  you  may 
—if  you  are  not  aware  of  it  already — see,  by  those  papers." 

Lord  Oldborough  turned  away,  and  asked  his  secretaries  for 
his  red  box,  as  he  was  going  to  council. 

Just  as  he  left  his  cabinet,  he  looked  back,  and  said,  "  Mr. 
Falconer,  you  should  know,  if  you  be  not  already  apprised  of  it^ 
that  your  son  Cunningham  is  on  his  road  to  Denmark.  You 
should  be  aware  that  the  journey  is  not  made  by  my  desire,  or 
by  his  majesty's  order,  or  by  any  official  authority ;  consequently 
he  is  travelling  to  the  court  of  Denmark  at  his  own  expense  or 
yours — unless  he  can  prevail  upon  his  Grace  of  Greenwich  to 
defray  his  ambassadorial  travelling  charges,  or  can  affi^rd  to 
wait  for  thern  till  a  total  change  of  administration — of  which,  sir, 
if  I  see  any  symptoms  to-day  in  council,"  added  his  lordship,  lit 
the  tone  of  bitter  irony ;  "  I  will  give  you  fair  notice — for  fab 
dealing  is  what  I  practise." 

This  said,  the  minister  left  the  commissioner  to  digest  his- 
speech  as  he  might,  and  repaired  to  council,  where  he  found 
every  thing  apparently  as  smooth  as  usual,  and  where  he  was 
received  by  all,  especially  by  the  highest,  with  perfect  con- 
sideration. 

Meantime  Commissioner  Falconer  was  wretched  beyond  ex- 
pression— wretched  in  the  certainty  that  his  son,  that  he  himself^ 
had  probably  lost,  irrecoverably,  one  excellent  patron,  before 


PATRONAGE.  23 

they  had  secured,  even  in  case  of  change,  another.  This  prema- 
ture discovery  of  Cunningham's  intrigues  totally  disconcerted 
and  overwhelmed  him  ;  and,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  he 
cursed  the  duplicity  which  he  had  taught  and  encouraged,  still 
more  by  example,  than  by  precept.  But  Cunningham's  duplicity 
had  more  and  closer  folds  than  his  own.  Cunningham,  conceited 
of  his  diplomatic  genius,  and  fearful  of  the  cautious  timidity  of 
his  father,  did  not  trust  that  father  with  the  knowledge  of  all  he 
did,  or  half  of  what  he  intended ;  so  that  the  commissioner,  who 
had  thought  himself  at  the  bottom  of  every  thing,  now  found 
that  he,  too,  had  been  cheated  by  his  son  with  false  confidences ; 
and  was  involved  by  him  in  the  consequences  of  a  scheme,  of 
which  he  had  never  been  the  adviser.  Commissioner  Falconer 
knew  too  well,  by  the  experience  of  Cumberland  and  others,  the 
fate  of  those  who  suffer  themselves  to  be  lured  on  by  second- 
hand promises  ;  and  who  venture,  without  being  publicly 
acknowledged  by  their  employers,  to  undertake  any  diplomatic 
mission.  Nor  would  Cunningham,  whose  natural  disposition  to 
distrust  was  greater  than  his  father's,  have  sold  himself  to  any 
political  tempter,  without  first  signing  and  sealing  the  compact, 
had  he  been  in  possession  of  his  cool  judgment,  and  had  he  been 
in  any  other  than  the  desperate  circumstances  in  which  he  was 
placed.  His  secret  conscience  whispered  that  his  recall  was  in 
consequence  of  the  detection  of  some  of  his  intrigues,  and  he 
dreaded  to  appear  before  the  haughty,  irritated  minister. 
Deceived  also  by  news  from  England  that  liOrd  Oldborough's 
dismission  or  resignation  could  not  be  distant,  Cunningham  had 
ventured  upon  this  bold  stroke  for  an  embassy. 

On  Lord  Oldborough's  return  from  council,  the  commissioner 
finding,  from  his  secret  informants,  that  every  thing  had  gone 
on  smoothly,  and  being  over-awed  by  the  confident  security  of 
the  minister,  began  to  doubt  his  former  belief;  and,  in  spite  of 
all  the  symptoms  of  change,  was  now  inclined  to  think  that 
none  would  take  place.  The  sorrow  and  contrition  with  which 
he  next  appeared  before  Lord  Oldborough  were,  therefore,  truly 
sincere ;  and  when  he  found  himself  alone  once  more  with  his 
lordship,  earnest  was  the  vehemence  with  which  he  disclaimed  his 
unworthy  son,  and  disavowed  all  knowledge  of  the  transaction. 

"  If  I  had  seen  cause  to  believe  that  you  had  any  part  in  tl»is 


2-t  PATRONAQE. 

transaction,  sir,  you  would  not  be  here  at  this  moment :  there- 
fore your  protestations  are  superfluous — none  would  be  accepted 
if  any  were  necessary." 

The  very  circumstance  of  the  son's  not  having  trusted  the 
father  completely,  saved  the  commissioner,  for  this  time,  from 
utter  ruin:  he  took  breath;  and  presently — oh,  weak  man! 
doomed  never  to  know  how  to  deal  with  a  strong  character- 
fancying  that  his  intercession  might  avail  for  his  son,  and  that 
the  pride  of  Lord  Oldborough  might  be  appeased,  and  might  be 
suddenly  wrought  to  forgiveness,  by  that  tone  and  posture  of 
submission  and  supplication  used  only  by  the  subject  to  offended 
majesty,  he  actually  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  minister. 

"  My  gracious  lord — a  pardon  for  my  son  !" 

"  I  beseech  you,  sir!"  cried  Lord  Oldborough,  endeavouring^ 
to  stop  him  from  kneeling — the  commissioner  sunk  instantly  on 
his  knee. 

"  Never  will  the  unhappy  father  rise  till  his  son  be  restored  to 
your  favour,  my  lord." 

"  Sir,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  "  I  have  no  favour  for  those 
who  have  no  sense  of  honour :  rise,  Mr.  Falconer,  and  let  not 
the  father  degrade  himself  for  the  son — unavailingly" 

The  accent  and  look  were  decisive — the  commissioner  rose. 
Instead  of  being  gratified,  his  patron  seemed  shocked,  if  not 
disgusted :  far  from  being  propitiated  by  this  sacrifice  of  dignity, 
it  rendered  him  still  more  averse ;  and  no  consolatory  omen 
appearing,  the  commissioner  withdrew  in  silence,  repenting  that 
he  had  abased  himself.  After  thi?,  some  days  and  nights  passed 
with  him  in  all  the  horrors  ©f  indecision — Could  the  minister 
weather  the  storm  or  not  ? — should  Mr.  Falconer  endeavour  to 
reinstate  himself  with  Lord  Oldborough,  or  secure  in  time  favour 
with  the  Duke  of  Greenwich? — Mrs.  Falconer,  to  whom  her 
husband's  groans  in  the  middle  of  the  night  at  last  betrayed  the 
sufferings  of  his  mind,  drew  from  him  the  secret  of  his  fears  and 
meditations.  She  advised  strongly  the  going  over,  decidedly, 
and  in  time,  but  secretly,  to  the  Greenwich  faction. 

The  commissioner  knew  that  this  could  not  be  done  secretly. 
The  attention  of  the  minister  was  now  awake  to  all  his  motions, 
and  the  smallest  movement  towards  his  grace  of  Greenwich, 
must  be  observed  and  understood.     On  the  other  hand,  to  abide 


PATRONAOE.  25 

by  a  falling  minister  was  folly,  especially  when  he  had  positively 
withdrawn  his  favour  from  Cunningham,  who  had  the  most  to 
expect  from  his  patronage.  Between  these  opposite  difficulties, 
notwithstanding  the  urgent  excitations  of  Mrs.  Falconer,  the 
poor  commissioner  could  not  bring  himself  to  decide,  till  the 
time  for  action  was  past. 

Another  blow  came  upon  him  for  which  he  was  wholly  un- 
prepared— there  arrived  from  abroad  accounts  of  the  failure  of  a- 
secret  expedition  ;  and  the  general  in  his  despatches  named 
Colonel  John  Falconer  as  the  officer  to  whose  neglect  of  orders 
he  principally  attributed  the  disappointment.  It  appeared  that 
orders  had  been  sent  to  have  his  regiment  at  a  certain  place  at 
a  given  hour.  At  the  moment  these  orders  came,  Colonel  John 
Falconer  was  out  on  a  shooting  party  without  leave.  The  troops, 
of  course,  on  which  the  general  had  relied,  did  not  arrive  in 
time,  and  all  his  other  combinations  failed  from  this  neglect  of 
discipline  and  disobedience  of  orders.  Colonel  Falconer  was 
sent  home  to  be  tried  by  a  court-martial. 

"  I  pity  you,  sir,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  as  Commissioner 
Falconer,  white  as  ashes,  read  in  his  presence  these  despatches 
— "  I  pity  you,  sir,  from  my  soul :  here  is  no  fault  of  yours— 
the  fault  is  mine." 

It  was  one  of  the  few  faults  of  this  nature  which  Lord  Old- 
borough  had  ever  committed.  Except  in  the  instance  of  the 
Falconer  family,  none  coidd  name  any  whom  his  lordship  had 
placed  in  situations,  for  which  they  were  inadequate  or  unfit.  Of 
this  single  error  he  had  not  foreseen  the  consequences ;  they 
were  more  important,  more  injurious  to  him  and  to  the  public, 
than  he  could  have  calculated  or  conceived.  It  appeared  now 
as  if  the  Falconer  family  were  doomed  to  be  his  ruin.  That  the 
public  knew,  in  general,  that  John  Falconer  had  been  promoted 
by  ministerial  favour.  Lord  Oldborough  was  aware ;  but  he 
imagined  that  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  that  affair  were 
known  only  to  himself  and  to  Commissioner  Falconer's  family. 
To  bis  astonishment  he  found,  at  this  critical  moment,  that  the 
whole  transaction  had  reached  the  ear  of  majesty,  and  that  it  was 
soon  publicly  known.  The  commissioner,  with  protestations 
and  oaths,  declared  that  the  secret  had  never,  by  his  means,, 
transpired — it  had  been  divulged  by  the  baseness  of  his  80i^ 


20  PATRONAGE. 

Cunningham,  who  betrayed  it  to  the  Greenwich  faction.  They, 
skilled  in  all  the  arts  of  undermining  a  rival,  employed  the 
means  that  were  thus  put  into  their  power  with  great  diligence 
and  effect. 

It  was  observed  at  the  levee,  that  the  sovereign  looked  coldly 
upon  the  minister.  Every  courtier  whispered  that  Lord  Old- 
borough  had  been  certainly  much  to  blame.  Disdainful  of  their 
opinions,  Lord  Oldborough  was  sensibly  affected  by  the  altered 
eye  of  his  sovereign. 

"  What !  After  all  my  services ! — At  the  first  change  of  for- 
tune!" 

This  sentiment  swelled  in  his  breast ;  but  his  countenance  was 
rigidly  calm,  his  demeanour  towards  the  courtiers  and  towards 
his  colleagues  more  than  usually  firm,  if  not  haughty. 

After  the  levee,  he  demanded  a  private  audience. 

Alone  with  the  king,  the  habitual  influence  of  this  great 
minister  s  superior  genius  operated.  The  cold  manner  was 
changed,  or  rather,  it  was  changed  involuntarily.  From  one 
"not  used  to  the  language  of  apology,'  the  frank  avowal  of  a 
fault  has  a  striking  effect.  Lord  Oldborough  took  upon  himself 
the  whole  blame  of  the  disaster  that  had  ensued,  in  consequence 
of  his  error,  an  error  frequent  in  other  ministers,  in  him,  almost 
unprecedented. 

He  was  answered  with  a  smile  of  royal  raillery,  that  the 
peculiar  family  circumstances  which  had  determined  his  lordship 
so  rapidly  to  promote  that  oflBcer,  must,  to  all  fathers  of  families 
and  heads  of  houses,  if  not  to  statesmen  and  generals,  be  a  suffi- 
cient and  home  apology. 

Considering  the  peculiar  talent  which  his  sovereign  possessed, 
and  in  which  he  gloried,  that  of  knowing  the  connexions  and 
domestic  affairs,  not  only  of  the  nobility  near  his  person,  but  of 
private  individuals  remote  from  his  court,  Lord  Oldborough  had 
little  cause  to  be  surprised  that  this  secret  transaction  should  be 
known  to  his  majesty.  Something  of  this  his  lordship,  with  all 
due  respect,  hinted  in  reply.  At  the  termination  of  this  audience, 
he  was  soothed  by  the  condescending  assurance,  that  whilst  the 
circumstances  of  the  late  unfortunate  reverse  naturally  created 
regret  and  mortification,  no  dissatisfaction  with  his  ministerial 
conduct  mixed  with  these  feelings;  on  the  contrary,  he  was 


rATRONAGE*  27 

assured  that  fear  of  the  effect  a  disappointment  might  have  on 
the  mind  of  the  public,  in  diminishing  confidence  in  his  lordship'a 
efforts  for  the  good  of  the  country,  was  the  sentiment  which  had 
lowered  the  spirits  and  clouded  the  brow  of  majesty. 

His  lordship  returned  thanks  for  the  gracious  demonstration 
of  these  sentiments — and,  bowing  respectfully,  withdrew.  In 
the  faces  and  behaviour  of  the  courtiers,  as  in  a  glass,  he  saw 
reflected  the  truth.  They  all  pretended  to  be  in  the  utmost 
consternation  ;  and  he  heard  of  nothing  but  "apprehensions  for 
the  effect  on  the  public  mind,"  and  "fears  for  his  lordship's 
popularity."  His  secretary,  Mr.  Temple,  heard,  indeed,  more 
of  this  than  could  reach  his  lordship's  ear  directly ;  for,  even 
now,  when  they  thought  they  foresaw  his  fall,  few  had  suflScient 
courage  to  hazard  the  tone  of  condolence  with  Lord  Oldborough, 
or  to  expose  the  face  of  hypocrisy  to  the  severity  of  his  penetra- 
ting eye.  In  secret,  every  means  had  been  taken  to  propagate 
in  the  city,  the  knowledge  of  all  the  circumstances  that  were 
unfavourable  to  the  minister,  and  to  increase  the  dissatisfaction 
which  any  check  in  the  success  of  our  armies  naturally  produces. 
The  tide  of  popularity,  which  had  hitherto  supported  the  minister, 
suddenly  ebbed ;  and  he  fell,  in  public  opinion,  with  astonishing 
rapidity.  For  the  moment  all  was  forgotten,  but  that  he  was 
the  person  who  had  promoted  John  Falconer  to  be  a  colonel, 
against  whom  the  cry  of  the  populace  was  raised  with  all  the 
clamour  of  national  indignation.  The  Greenwich  faction  knew 
how  to  take  advantage  of  this  disposition.  It  happened  to  be 
some  festival,  some  holiday,  when  the  common  people,  having 
flothing  to  do,  are  more  disposed  than  at  any  other  time  to 
intoxication  and  disorder.  The  emissaries  of  designing  partisans 
mixed  with  the  populace,  and  a  mob  gathered  round  the 
minister's  carriage,  as  he  was  returning  home  late  one  day — the 
same  carriage,  and  the  same  man,  whom,  but  a  few  short  weeks 
before,  this  populace  had  drawn  with  loud  huzzas,  and  almost 
with  tears  of  affection.  Unmoved  of  mind^  as  he  had  been  when 
he  heard  their  huzzas.  Lord  Oldborough  now  listened  to  their 
execrations,  till  from  abuse  they  began  to  proceed  to  outrage. 
Stones  were  thro\Mi  at  his  carriage.  One  of  his  servants 
narrowly  escaped  being  struck.  Lord  Oldborough  was  alone- 
he  threw  open  his  carriage-door,  and  sprang  out  on  the  step 

3 


28  FATROMAOB. 

"  Whose  life  is  it  you  seek  V*  cried  he,  in  a  voice  which  ob- 
tained instant  silence.  "  Lord  Oldborough's  ?  Lord  Oldbo- 
roiigh  stands  before  you.  Take  his  life  who  dares — a  life  spent 
in  your  service.  Strike  !  but  strike  openly.  You  are  English 
men,  not  assassins." 

Then,  turning  to  his  servants,  he  added,  in  a  calm  voice, 
"  Home — slowly.  Not  a  man  here  will  touch  you.  Keep  yotv 
master  in  sight.     If  I  fall,  mark  by  what  hand." 

Then  stepping  down  into  the  midst  of  the  people,  he  crossed 
the  street  to  the  flagged  pathway,  the  crowd  opening  to  make 
way  for  him.  He  walked  on  with  a  deliberate  firm  step ;  tlie 
mtb  moving  along  with  him,  sometimes  huzzaing,  sometimes 
uttering  horrid  execrations  in  horrid  tones.  Lord  Oldborough, 
preserving  absolute  silence,  still  walked  on,  never  turned  his  head 
or  quickened  his  pace,  till  he  reached  his  own  house.  The»v, 
facing  the  mob,  as  he  stood  waiting  till  the  door  should  be 
opened,  the  people,  struck  with  his  intrepidity,  with  one  acconi 
joined  in  a  shout  of  applause. 

The  next  instant,  and  before  the  door  was  opened,  they  cried. 
«  Hat  off!— Hat  off!" 

Lord  Oldborough's  hat  never  stirred.  A  man  took  up  a  stone 

**  Mark  that  man !"  cried  Lord  Oldborough. 

The  door  opened.  "  Return  to  your  homes,  my  countrymen 
and  bless  God  that  you  have  not  any  of  you  to  answer  this  nigh 
for  murder !" 

Then  entering  his  house,  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  gave  it  tf 
one  of  his  attendants.  His  secretary.  Temple,  had  run  dowa 
st-airs  to  meet  him,  inquiring  what  was  the  cause  of  the  di» 
turbance. 

"Only,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  "that  I  have  served  the 
people,  but  never  bent  to  them." 

"  Curse  them  J  they  are  not  worth  serving.  Oh  !  I  thought 
they'd  have  taken  my  lord's  life  that  minute,"  cried  his  faithful 
servant  Rodney.  "  The  sight  left  my  eyes.  I  thought  he  was 
gone  for  ever.  Thank  God  I  he's  safe.  Take  off  my  lord's  coat 
— I  can't — for  the  soul  of  me.  Curse  those  ungrateful  people!" 

"  Do  not  curse  them,  my  good  Rodney,"  said  Lord  Oldbo- 
rough, smiling.  "  Poor  people,  they  are  not  ungrateful,  only 
mistaken.    Those  who  mislead  them  are  to  blame.     The  English 


PATRONAGE.  29 

are  a  fine  people.     Even  an  English  mob,  you  see,  is  generous, 
and  just,  as  far  as  it  knows." 

Lord  Oldborough  was  sound  asleep  this  night,  before  any  other 
individual  in  the  house  had  finished  talking  of  the  dangers  he  had 
esc.iped. 

The  civil  and  military  courage  shown  by  the  minister  in  the 
sudden  attack  upon  his  character  and  person  were  such  as  to 
raise  him  again  at  once  to  his  former  height  in  public  esteem. 
His  enemies  were  obliged  to  affect  admiration.  The  Green- 
wich party,  foiled  in  this  attempt,  now  disavowed  it.  News  of 
a  victory  effaced  the  memory  of  the  late  disappointment.  Stocks 
rose — addresses  for  a  change  of  ministry  were  quashed — addresses 
of  thanks  and  congratulation  pom-ed  in — Lord  Oldborough  gave 
them  to  Mr.  Temple  to  answer,  and  kept  the  strength  of  his 
attention  fixed  upon  the  great  objects  which  were  essential  to  the 
nation  and  the  sovereign  he  served. 

Mr.  Falconer  saw  that  the  storm  had  blown  over,  the  darkness 
was  past — Lord  Oldborough,  firm  and  superior,  stood  bright  in 
power,  and  before  him  the  commissioner  bent  more  obsequious, 
more  anxious  than  ever.  Anxious  he  might  well  be — ^unhappy 
father !  the  life,  perhaps,  of  one  of  his  sons,  his  honour,  certainly, 
at  stake — the  fortune  of  another — his  existence  ruined !  And 
what  hopes  of  propitiating  him,  who  had  so  suffered  by  the 
favour  he  had  already  shown,  who  had  been  betrayed  by  one  of 
the  family  and  disgraced  by  another.  The  commissioner's  only 
hope  was  in  the  recollection  of  the  words,  "  I  pity  you  from  my 
soul,  sir,"  which  burst  from  Lord  Oldborough  even  at  the 
moment  when  he  had  most  reason  to  be  enraged  against  Colonel 
Falconer.  Following  up  this  idea,  and  working  on  the  generous 
compassion,  of  which,  but  for  this  indication,  he  should  not  have 
supposed  the  stem  Lord  Oldborough  to  be  susceptible,  the  com- 
missioner appeared  before  him  every  day  the  image  of  a  broken- 
hearted father.  In  silence  Lord  Oldborough  from  time  to  time 
looked  at  him ;  and  by  these  looks,  more  than  by  all  the  pro- 
mises of  all  the  great  men  who  had  ever  spoken  to  him,  Mr. 
Falconer  was  reassured ;  and,  as  he  told  Mrs.  Falconer,  who  at 
this  time  was  in  dreadful  anxiety,  he  felt  certain  that  Lord  Old- 
borough would  not  punish  him  for  the  faults  of  his  sons — he  was 
satisfied  that  his  place  and  his  pension  would  not  be  taken  from 


so 

him — and  that,  at  least  in  fortune,  they  should  not  be  utterly 
ruined.  In  this  security  the  commissioner  showed  rather  more 
than  his  customary  degree  of  strength  of  mind,  and  more  know- 
ledge of  Lord  Oldborough's  character  than  he  had  upon  most 
other  occasions  evinced. 

Things  were  in  this  state,  when,  one  morning,  after  the 
minister  had  given  orders  that  no  one  should  be  admitted,  as  he 
was  dictating  some  public  papers  of  consequence  to  Mr.  Temple, 
the  Duke  of  Greenwich  was  announced.  His  grace  sent  in  a 
note  to  signify  that  he  waited  upon  Lord  Oldborough  by  order 
of  his  majesty  ;  and  that,  if  this  hour  were  not  convenient,  he 
begged  to  have  the  hour  named  at  which  his  grace  could  be 
admitted.  His  grace  was  admitted  instantly.  Mr.  Temple 
retired — for  it  was  evident  this  was  to  be  a  secret  conference. 
His  grace  of  Greenwich  entered  with  the  most  important 
solemnity — infinitely  more  ceremonious  than  usual ;  he  was  at 
last  seated,  and,  after  heavy  and  audible  sighs,  still  hesitated  to 
open  his  business.  Through  the  affected  gloom  and  dejection 
of  his  countenance  Lord  Oldborough  saw  a  malicious  pleasure 
lurking,  whilst,  in  a  studied  exordium,  he  spoke  of  the  infinite 
reluctance  with  which  he  had  been  compelled,  by  his  majesty's 
express  orders,  to  wait  upon  his  lordship  on  a  business  the  most 
painful  to  his  feelings.  As  being  a  public  colleague — as  a  near 
and  dear  connexion — as  a  friend  in  long  habits  of  intimacy  with 
his  lordship,  he  had  prayed  his  majesty  to  be  excused ;  but  it 
was  his  majesty's  pleasure  :  he  had  only  now  to  beg  his  lordship 
to  believe  that  it  was  with  infinite  concern,  &c.  Lord  Old- 
borough, though  suffering  under  this  circumlocution,  never 
condescended  to  show  any  symptom  of  impatience ;  but  allowing 
his  grace  to  run  the  changes  on  the  words  and  forms  of  apology, 
when  these  were  exhausted,  his  lordship  simply  said,  that 
"his  majesty's  pleasure  of  course  precluded  all  necessity  for 
apology." 

His  grace  was  vexed  to  find  Lord  Oldborough  still  unmoved 
— ^he  was  sure  this  tranquillity  could  not  long  endure  :  he  con- 
tinued, "  A  sad  business,  my  lord — a  terrible  discovery — I 
really  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  speak " 

Lord  Oldborough  gave  his  grace  no  assistance. 

*My  private  regard,"  he  repeated. 


TATRONAGE.  St 

A  smile  of  contempt  on  Lord  Oldborough's  countenance. 

"  Your  lordship's  hitherto  invulnerable  public  integrity " 

A  glance  of  indignation  from  Lord  Oldborough. 

"  Hitherto  invulnerable ! — your  grace  will  explain." 

"  Let  these — these  fatal  notes — letters — unfortunately  got  inte 
the  hands  of  a  leading,  impracticable  member  of  opposition,  and 

by  him  laid Would  that  I  had  been  apprised,  or  could  have 

conceived  it  possible,  time  enough  to  prevent  that  step ;  but  it 
was  done  before  I  had  the  slightest  intimation — laid  before  his 
majesty " 

Lord  Oldborough  calmly  received  the  letters  from  his  grace. 

*'My  own  handwriting,  and  private  seal,  I  perceive." 

The  duke  sighed — and  whilst  Lord  Oldborotigh  drew  out, 
opened,  and  read  the  first  letter  in  the  parcel,  his  grace  went 
on — *'  This  affair  has  thrown  us  all  into  the  greatest  consterna- 
tion. It  is  to  be  brought  before  parliament  immediately — 
unless  a  resignation  should  take  place — which  we  should  all 
deplore.  The  impudence,  the  inveteracy  of  that  fellow,  is 
astonishing — no  silencing  him.  We  might  hush  up  the  affair  if 
his  majesty  had  not  been  apprised ;  but  where  the  interest  of 
the  service  is  concerned,  his  majesty  is  warm." 

"His  majesty!"  cried  Lord  Oldborough:  "His  majesty 
could  not,  I  trust,  for  a  moment  imagine  these  letters  to  be 
mine  ?" 

"  But  for  the  hand  and  seal  which  I  imderstood  your  lordship 
to  acknowledge,  I  am  persuaded  his  majesty  could  not  have 
believed  it." 

"Believed!  My  king  !  did  he  believe  it?"  cried  Lord  Old- 
borough. His  agitation  was  for  a  moment  excessive,  uncontrol- 
lable. "  No !  that  I  will  never  credit,  till  I  have  it  from  his 
own  lips."  Then  commanding  himself,  "  Your  grace  will  have 
the  goodness  to  leave  these  letters  with  me  till  to-morrow." 

His  grace,  with  infinite  politeness  and  regret,  was  under  the 
necessity  of  refusing  this  request.  His  orders  were  only  to  show 
the.  letters  to  his  lordship,  and  then  to  restore  them  to  the 
hands  of  the  member  of  opposition  who  had  laid  them  before 
his  majesty. 

Lord  Oldborough  took  off  the  cover  of  one  of  the  letters,  on 
'which   was  merely  the  address   and   seal.     The   address   was 


32  PATRONAeC. 

written  also  at  the  bottom  of  the  letter  enclosed,  therefore  the 
cover  could  not  be  of  the  least  importance.  The  duke  could 
not,  Lord  Oldborough  said,  refuse  to  leave  this  with  him. 

To  this  his  grace  agreed — protesting  that  he  was  far  from 
wishing  to  make  difficulties.  If  tliere  were  any  thing  else  he 
could  do — any  thing  his  lordship  would  wish  to  have  privately 
insinuated  or  publicly  said 

His  lordship,  with  proud  thanks,  assured  the  duke  he  did  not 
wish  to  have  any  thing  privately  insinuated ;  and  whatever  it 
was  necessary  to  say  or  do  publicly,  he  should  do  himself,  or 
give  orders  to  have  done.  His  lordship  entered  into  no  farther 
explanation.  The  duke  at  last  was  obliged  to  take  his  leave, 
earnestly  hoping  and  trusting  that  this  business  would  terminate 
to  his  lordship's  entire  satisfaction. 

No  sooner  was  the  duke  gone  than  Lord  Oldborough  rang  for 
his  carriage. 

"  Immediately — and  Mr.  Temple,  instantly." 

Whilst  his  carriage  was  coming  to  the  door,  in  the  shortest 
manner  possible  Lord  Oldborough  stated  the  facts  to  his  secre- 
tary, that  letters  had  been  forged  in  his  lordship's  name,  pro- 
mising to  certain  persons  promotion  in  the  army — and  navy — 
gratification — and  pensions.  Some  were  addressed  to  persons 
who  had  actually  obtained  promotion,  shortly  after  the  time  cf 
these  letters;  others  contained  reproaches  for  having  bee-ii 
ill-used.  Even  from  the  rapid  glance  Lord  Oldborough  had 
taken  of  these  papers,  he  had  retained  the  names  of  several  ©f 
the  persons  to  whom  they  were  addressed — and  the  nature  of 
the  promotion  obtained.  They  were  persons  who  could  have 
had  no  claim  upon  an  honest  minister.  His  lordship  left  a  list 
of  them  with  Mr.  Temple — also  the  cover  of  the  letter,  on  which 
was  a  specimen  of  the  forged  writing  and  the  private  seal. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  king.  In  my  absence,  Mr.  Temple, 
think  for  me — I  know  you  feel  for  me.  The  object  is  to  discover 
the  authors  of  this  forgery." 

"  My  lord,  may  I  consult  with  Mr.  Alfred  Percy  V* 

**  Yes — with  no  other  person." 

It  was  not  Lord  Oldborough *s  day  for  doing  business  with 
the  king.  He  was  late — the  king  was  going  out  to  ride.  His 
majesty  received  the  minister  as  usual ;  but  notwithstanding  the 


PATRONAGE.  33 

condescension  of  his  majesty's  words  and  manner,  it  was  evident 
to  Lord  Oldborough's  penetration,  that  there  was  a  coldness  and 
formality  in  the  king's  countenance. 

"  I  beg  I  maj  not  detain  your  majesty — I  see  I  am  late,"  said 
Lord  Oldborough. 

"  Is  the  business  urgent,  my  lord?" 

**  No,  sir;  for  it  concerns  principally  myself:  it  can,  there* 
fore,  wait  your  majesty's  leisure  at  any  hour  your  majesty  may 
appoint." 

The  king  dismounted  instantly. 

"  Tiiis  moment,  my  lord,  I  am  at  leisure  for  any  business  that 
concerns  your  lordship." 

Tlie  king  returned  to  the  palace — Lord  Oldborough  followed, 
and  all  the  spectators  on  foot  and  horseback  were  left  full  of 
curiosity. 

Notwithstanding  the  condescension  of  his  majesty's  words 
and  manner,  and  the  polite  promptitude  to  attend  to  any  busi- 
ness that  concerned  his  lordship,  it  was  evident  to  Lord  Old- 
borough's  penetration  that  there  was  an  unusual  coldtiess  and 
formality  in  the  king's  countenance  and  deportment,  unlike  the 
grnciousness  of  his  reception  when  satisfied  and  pleased.  As 
soon  as  the  business  of  the  day  had  been  gone  through.  Lord 
Oldborough  said  he  must  now  beg  his  majesty's  attention  on  a 
subject  which  principally  concerned  himself.  The  king  looked 
as  one  prepared  to  hear,  but  determined  to  say  as  little  as 
possible. 

Lord  Oldborough  placed  himself  so  as  to  give  the  king  the 
advantage  of  the  light,  which  he  did  not  fear  to  have  full  on  his 
own  countenance. 

"  Sir,  certain  letters,  signed  with  my  name,  and  sealed  with 
my  seal,  have,  I  am  informed,  been  laid  before  your  majesty." 

"Your  lordship  has  been  rightly  informed." 

"  I  trust — I  hope  that  your  majesty " 

At  the  firm  assertion,  in  the  tone  with  which  Lord  Oldborough 
pronounced,  I  trust — his  majesty's  eye  changed — and  moved 
away  from  Lord  Oldborough's,  when  he,  with  respectful  interro- 
gation of  tone,  added,  "  I  hape  your  majesty  could  not  believe 
those  letters  to  be  mine." 

"Frankly,  my  lord,"  said  the  king,  "the  assertions,  the 
Patronage. — ii. 


34  PATRONAGE. 

insinuations  of  no  man,  or  set  of  men,  of  any  rank  or  weight  in 
my  dominions,  could  by  any  imaginable  means  have  induced 
me  to  conceive  it  possible  that  such  letters  had  been  written  by 
your  lordship.  Not  for  one  moment  could  my  belief  have  been 
compelled  by  any  evidence  less  strong  than  your  lordship's 
handwriting  and  seal.  I  own,  I  thought  I  knew  your  lordship's 
seal  and  writing;  but  I  now  see  that  I  have  been  deceived,  and 
I  rejoice  to  see  it." 

"  I  thank  your  majesty.  I  cannot  feel  surprise  that  a  forgery 
and  a  counterfeit  which,  at  first  view,  compelled  my  own  belief 
of  their  being  genuine,  should,  for  a  moment,  have  deceived 
3'ou,  sir ;  but,  I  own,  I  had  flattered  myself  that  my  sovereign 
knew  my  heart  and  character,  yet  better  than  my  seal  and 
signature." 

"  Undoubtedly,  my  lord." 

"  And  I  should  have  hoped  that,  if  your  majesty  had  perused 
those  letters,  no  assertions  could  have  been  necessary,  on  my 
part,  to  convince  you,  sir,  that  they  could  not  be  mine.  I  have 
now  only  to  rejoice  that  your  majesty  is  undeceived ;  and  that  I 
have  not  intruded  unnecessarily  with  this  explanation.  I  am 
fully  sensible,  sir,  of  your  goodness,  in  having  thus  permitted  me 
to  make,  as  early  as  possible,  this  assertion  of  my  innocence. 
For  the  proofs  of  it,  and  for  the  detection  of  the  guilty,  I  am 
preparing ;  and  I  hope  to  make  these  as  clear  to  you,  sir,  as 
your  majesty's  assurance  of  the  pleasure  you  feel  in  being  imde- 
ceived  is  satisfactory — consolatory  to  me,"  concluded  Lord  Old- 
borough,  with  a  bow  of  profound  yet  proud  respect. 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  king,  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  this  affair 
will  redound  to  your  honour,  and  terminate  to  your  lordship's 
entire  satisfaction." 

The  very  phrase  used  by  the  Duke  of  Greenwich. 

"As  to  myself,  your  lordship  can  have  no  farther  anxiety; 
but  I  wish  your  lordship's  endeavours  to  detect  and  bring  proofs 
home  to  the  guilty  may  be  promptly  successful — for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  your  own  feelings,  and  the  satisfaction  of  the  public 
mind,  before  the  matter  should  be  brought  forward  in  parlia- 
ment." 

His  majesty  bowed,  and  as  Lord  Oldborough  retired,  he  added 
some  gracious  phrases,  expressive  of  the  high  esteem  he  felt  for 


PATRONA0E.  35 

«ie  minister,  and  the  interest  he  had  always,  and  should  always 
ake,  in  whatever  could  contribute  to  his  public  and  private — 
ttisfaction — (again). 

To  an  eye  and  ear  less  practised  in  courts  than  this  minister's, 
all  that  had  been  said  would  have  been  really  satisfactory  :  but 
Lord  Oldborough  discerned  a  secret  embarrassment  in  the  smile, 
a  constraint  in  the  manner,  a  care,  an  effort  to  be  gracious  in  the 
'anguage,  a  caution,  a  rounding  of  the  periods,  a  recurrence  to 
technical  phrases  of  compliment  and  amity,  a  want  of  the  free 
6uent  language  of  the  heart;  language  which,  as  it  flows, 
whether  from  sovereign  or  subject,  leaves  a  trace  that  the  art  of 
courtier  or  of  monarch  cannot  imitate.  In  all  attempts  at  such 
imitation,  there  is  a  want,  of  which  vanity  and  even  interest  is 
not  always  sensible,  but  which  feeling  perceives  instantly.  Lord 
Oldborough  felt  it — and  twice,  during  this  audience,  he  was  on 
the  point  of  offering  his  resignation,  and  Vce,  exerting  strong 
power  over  himself,  he  refrained. 

He  saw  plainly  that  he  was  not  where  ue  had  been  in  the 
king's  confidence ;  that  his  enemies  had  been  at  wqjrk,  and,  in 
some  measure,  had  succeeded  ;  that  suspicions  had  been  infused 
into  the  king's  mind.  That  his  king  had  doubted  him,  his 
majesty  had  confessed — and  Lord  Oldborough  discerned  that 
there  was  no  genuine  joy  at  the  moment  his  majesty  was  unde> 
ceived,  no  real  anxiety  for  his  honour,  only  the  ostensible  mani- 
festation suitable  to  the  occasion — repeatable— or  recordable. 

Still  there  was  nothing  of  which  he  could  complain ;  every 
€xpression,  if  written  down  or  repeated,  must  have  appeared 
proper  and  gracious  from  the  sovereign  to  his  minister ;  and  for 
that  minister  to  resign  at  such  a  moment,  from  pride  or  pique, 
would  have  been  fatal  to  the  dignity,  perhaps  to  the  integrity,  of 
his  character. 

Lord  Oldborough  reasoned  thus  as  he  stood  in  the  presence 
of  the  king,  and  compelled  himself,  during  the  whole  audience, 
and  to  the  last  parting  moment,  to  preserve  an  air  and  tone  of 
calm,  respectful  self-possession. 


36 


PATRONAGE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


During  Lord  Oldborough's  absence,  his  faithful  secretary  had 
been  active  in  his  service.  Mr.  Temple  went  immediately  to  his 
friend  Alfred  Percy.  Alfred  had  just  returned  fatigued  from 
the  courts,  and  was  resting  himself,  in  conversation  with  his 
wife  and  Caroline. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Alfred,"  said  Mr.  Temple,  **but 
I  must  take  you  away  from  these  ladies  to  consult  you  on  parti- 
cular business." 

"  Oh !  let  the  particular  business  wait  till  he  has  rested 
himself,"  said  Mrs.  Percy,  "  unless  it  be  a  matter  of  life  and 
death." 

"  Life  and  death !"  cried  Lady  Frances  Arlington,  running  in 
at  the  open  door — "  Yes,  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death ! — 
Stay,  Mr.  Temple !  Mr.  Percy !  going  the  moment  I  come 
into  the  room — Impossible  !" 

"  Impossible  it  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Temple,  "  in  any  other 
case;  but " 

*'  *  When  a  lady's  in  the  case. 

You  know  all  other  things  give  place,*  " 

cried  Lady  Frances.  "So,  positively,  gentlemen,  I  stop  this 
way.  But,  Mr,  Temple,  to  comfort  you — for  I  never  saw  a  man, 
gallant  or  ungallant,  look  so  impatient — I  shall  not  be  able  to 

stay  above  a  moment Thank  you,   Mrs.  Percy,  I  can't  sit 

down — Mrs.  Crabstock,  the  crossest  of  Crabstocks  and  stiffest  of 
pattern-women,  is  in  the  carriage  waiting  for  me.  Give  me  joy 
— I  have  accomplished  my  purpose,  and  without  Lady  Jane 
Granville's  assistance — obtained  a  permit  to  go  with  Lady  Trant, 
and  made  her  take  me  to  Lady  Angelica's  last  night.  Grand 
conversazione ! — Saw  the  German  baron !  Caught  both  the 
profiles — ^liave  'em  here — defy  you  not  to  smile.  Look,"  cried 
her  ladyship,  drawing  out  of  her  reticule  a  caricature,  which  she 
put  into  Caroline's  hand ;  and,  whilst  she  was  looking  at  i1^ 
Lady  Frances  went  on  speaking  rapidly.  "  Only  a  sketch,  a 
scrawl  in  pencil,  while  they  thought  I  was  copying  a  Sonnet  to 
"Wisdom — on  the  worst  bit  of  paper,  too,  in  the  world — old  cover 


PATROKAtlE.  87 

of  a  letter  I  stole  from  Lady  Trant's  reticule  while  she  was  at 
cards.  Mr.  Temple,  you  shall  see  my  chef-d' ceuvre  by  and  by  ; 
don't  look  at  the  reverse  of  the  medal,  pray.  Did  not  I  tell  you, 
you  were  the  most  impatient  man  in  the  world?" 

It  was  true  that  Mr.  Temple  was  at  this  instant  most 
impatient  to  get  possession  of  the  paper,  for  on  the  back  of  that; 
cover  of  the   letter,  on  which  the  caricature  was  drawn,  the 

hand-writing  of  the  direction  appeared  to  him He   dared 

scarcely  believe  his  eyes — his  hopes. 

"Mrs.  Crabstock,  my  lady,"  said  the  footman,  "is  waiting." 

"  I  know,  sir,"  said  Lady  Frances :  "  so,  Caroline,  you  won  c 
see  the  likeness.  Very  well;  if  I  can't  get  a  compliment,  I 
must  be  off.  When  you  draw  a  caricature,  I  won't  praise  it. 
Here!  Mr. Temple,  one  look,  since  you  are  dying  for  it." 

"One  look  will  not  satisfy  me,"  cried  Mr.  Temple,  seizing  the 
paper :  "  your  ladyship  must  leave  the  drawing  with  us  till  to- 
morrow." 

"  Us — mv^t.  Given  at  our  court  of  St.  James's.  Lord  Old- 
borough's  own  imperative  style." 

"  Imperative !  no ;  humbly  I  beseech  your  ladyship,  thus 
humbly,"  cried  Mr.  Temple,  kneeling  in  jest,  but  keeping  in 
earnest  fast  hold  of  the  paper. 

•* But  why— why  ?  Are  you  Acquainted  with  Lady  Angelica? 
I  did  not  know  you  knew  her." 

"  It  is  excellent! — It  is  admirable ! — I  cannot  let  it  go.  This 
hand  that  seized  it  long  shall  hold  the  prize." 

"  The  man's  mad !  But  don't  think  I'll  give  it  to  you — I 
would  not  give  it  to  my  mother :  but  I'll  lend  it  to  you,  if  you'll 
tell  me  honestly  why  you  want  it." 

"  Honestly — I  want  to  show  it  to  a  particular  friend,  who  will 
be  delighted  with  it." 

"Tell  me  who,  this  minute,  or  you  shall  not  have  it." 

"Mrs.  Crabstock,  my  lady,  bids  me  say,  the  duchess " 

"  The  duchess — the  deuce ! — if  she's  come  to  the  duchess,  I 
must  go.  I  hope  your  man,  Mrs.  Percy,  won't  tell  Mrs.  Crab- 
stock he  saw  this  gentleman  kneeling." 

"Mrs.  Crabstock's  getting  out,  my  lady,"  said  the  footman, 
returning. 

**  Mr.  Temple,  for  mercy's  sake,  get  up." 


S8  PATRONAGE. 

**  Never,  till  your  ladyship  gives  the  drawing." 

"There  !  there  !  let  me  go — audacious  !" 

"  Good  morning  to  you,  Mrs.  Percy — Good  bye,  Caroline 
Be  at  Lady  Jane's  to-night,  for  I'm  to  be  there." 

Her  ladyship  ran  off,  and  met  Mrs.  Crabstock  on  the  stairs, 
with  whom  we  leave  her  to  make  her  peace  as  sbe  pleases. 

"  My  dear  Temple,  I  believe  you  are  out  of  your  senses,' 
said  Alfred :  "  I  never  saw  any  man  so  importimate  about  a 
drawing  that  is  not  worth  a  straw — trembling  with  eagerness, 
and  kneeling ! — Caroline,  what  do  you  think  Rosamond  woidd 
have  thought  of  all  this  ?" 

"  If  she  knew  the  whole,  she  would  have  thought  I  acted 
admirably,"  said  Mr.  Temple.     "But  come,  I  have  business." 

Alfred  took  him  into  his  study,  and  there  the  whole  affair  was 
explained.  Mr.  Temple  had  brought  with  him  the  specimen  of 
the  forgery  to  show  to  Alfred,  and,  upon  comparing  it  with  the 
handwriting  on  the  cover  of  the  letter  on  which  the  caricature 
was  drawn,  the  similarity  appeared  to  be  strikingly  exact.  The 
cover,  which  had  been  stolen,  as  Lady  Frances  Arlington  said, 
from  Lady  Trant's  reticule,  was  directed  to  Captain  Nuttall.  He 
was  one  of  the  persons  to  whom  forged  letters  had  been  written, 
as  appeared  by  the  list  which  Lord  Oldborough  had  left  with 
Mr.  Temple.  The  secretary  was  almost  certain  that  his  lordship 
had  never  written  with  his  own  hand  to  any  Captain  Nuttall ; 
but  this  he  could  ask  the  moment  he  shoiUd  see  Lord  Old- 
borough  again.  It  seemed  as  if  this  paper  had  never  been  actually 
used  as  the  cover  of  a  letter,  for  it  had  no  postr-mark,  seal,  or 
wafer.  Upon  farther  inspection,  it  was  perceived  that  a  t  had 
been  left  out  in  the  name  of  Nuttall ;  and  it  appeared  probable 
that  the  cover  had  been  thrown  aside,  and  a  new  one  written,  in 
consequence  of  this  omission.  But  Alfred  did  not  think  it 
possible  that  Lady  Trant  could  be  the  forger  of  these  letters, 
because  he  had  seen  some  of  her  ladyship's  notes  of  invitation 
to  Caroline,  and  they  were  written  in  a  wretched  cramped  hand. 

"But  that  cramped  hand  might  be  feigned  to  conceal  the 
powers  of  penmanship,"  said  Mr.  Temple. 

"  Well !  granting  her  ladyship's  talents  were  equal  to  the  mere 
execution,"  Alfred  persisted  in  thinking  she  had  not  abilities 
sufficient  to  invent  or  combine  all  the  parts  of  such  a  scheme. 


FATRONAGE.  39 

**  She  might  be  an  accomplice,  but  she  must  have  had  a  princi- 
pal— and  who  could  that  principal  be?" 

The  same  suspicion,  the  same  person,  came  at  the  same 
moment  into  the  heads  of  both  gentlemen,  as  they  sat  looking 
at  each  other. 

"  There  is  an  intimacy  between  them,"  said  Alfred.  "  Re- 
collect all  the  pains  Lady  Trant  took  for  Mrs.  Falconer  about 
English  Clay— they " 

"  Mrs.  Falconer  I  But  how  could  she  possibly  get  at  Lord 
Oldborough's  private  seal — a  seal  that  is  always  locked  up — a 
seal  never  used  to  any  common  letter,  never  to  any  but  those 
written  by  his  own  hand  to  some  private  friend,  and  on  some 
very  particular  occasion  ?  Since  I  have  been  with  hiui  I  have 
not  seen  him  use  that  seal  three  times." 

"When  and  to  whom,  can  you  recollect?"  said  Alfred. 

"  I  recollect ! — I  have  it  all  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Temple,  striking 
the  table — "  I  have  it !  But,  Lady  Frances  Arlington — I  am 
sorry  she  is  gone." 

"Why !  what  of  her? — Lady  Frances  can  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  the  business.'.' 

"  She  has  a  great  deal  more,  I  can  assure  you — ^but  without 
1-Mowing  it." 

•  Of  that  I  am  certain,  or  all  the  world  would  have  known  it 
l.iiig  ago:  but  tell  me  how." 

"  I  recollect,  at  the  time  when  I  was  dangling  after  Lady 
Frances — there's  good  in  every  thing — just  before  we  went  down 
to  Falconer-court,  her  ladyship,  who,  you  know,  has  always  some 
reigning  fancy,  was  distracted  about  what  she  called  bread-seals. 
She  took  off  the  impression  of  seals  with  bread — ^no  matter  how, 
but  she  did — and  used  to  torment  me — no,  I  thought  it  a  great 
pleasure  at  the  time — to  procure  for  her  all  the  pretty  seals  I 
could." 

"  But,  surely,  you  did  not  give  her  Lord  Oldborough's?" 

"  I ! — ^not  I ! — how  could  you  imagine  such  a  thing?" 

"  You  were  in  love,  and  might  have  forgotten  consequences." 

"  A  man  in  love  may  forget  every  thing,  I  grant — except  his 
fidelity.  No,  I  never  gave  the  seal ;  but  I  perfectly  recollect 
Lady  Frances  showing  it  to  me  in  her  collection,  and  my  asking 
her  how  she  came  by  it." 


40  PATRONAGE. 

«  And  liow  did  she  ?" 

"  From  the  cover  of  a  note  which  the  duke,  her  uncle,  had 
received  from  Lord  Oldborough  ;  and  I,  at  the  time,  remembered 
his  lordship's  having  written  it  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich  on  the 
birth  of  his  grandson.  Lord  Oldborough  had,  upon  a  former 
occasion,  affronted  his  grace  by  sending  him  a  note  sealed  with  a 
wafer — this  time  his  lordship  took  special  care,  and  sealed  it  with 
his  private  seal  of  honour." 

"  Well !  But  how  does  this  bring  the  matter  home  to  Mrs. 
Falconer  ?"  said  Alfred. 

"  Stay — I  am  bringing  it  as  near  home  to  her  as  possible.  We 
all  went  down  to  Falconer-court  together ;  and  there  I  remember 
Lady  Frances  had  her  collection  of  bread-seals,  and  was  daubing 
and  colouring  them  with  vermilion — and  Mrs.  Falconer  was  so 
anxious  about  them — and  Lady  Frances  gave  her  several — I 
must  see  Lady  Frances  again  directly,  to  inquire  whether  she 
gave  her,  among  the  rest.  Lord  Oldborough 's — I'll  go  to  Lady 
Jane  Granville's  this  evening  on  purpose.  But  had  I  not  better 
go  this  moment  to  Lady  Trant?" 

Alfred  advised,  that  having  traced  the  matter  thus  far,  they 
should  not  hazard  giving  any  alarm  to  Lady  Trant  or  to  Mrs. 
Falconer,  but  should  report  to  Lord  Oldborough  what  progress 
had  been  made. 

Mr.  Temple  accordingly  went  home,  to  be  in  readiness  for  his 
lordship's  return.  In  the  mean  time  the  first  exaltation  of  indig- 
nant pride  having  subsided,  and  his  cool  judgment  reflecting  upon 
what  had  passed,  Lord  Oldborough  considered  that,  however 
satisfactory  to  his  own  mind  might  be  the  feeling  of  his  inno- 
cence, the  proofs  of  it  were  necessary  to  satisfy  the  public  ;  he 
saw  that  his  character  would  be  left  doubtful,  and  at  the  mercy 
of  his  enemies,  if  he  were  in  pique  and  resentment  hastily  to 
resign,  before  he  had  vindicated  his  integrity.  "  If  your  proofs 
he  produced,  my  lord!" — these  words  recurred  to  him,  and  his 
anxiety  to  obtain  these  proofs  rose  high  ;  and  high  was  his 
satisfaction  the  moment  he  saw  his  secretary,  for  by  the  first 
glance  at  Mr.  Temple's  countenance  he  perceived  that  some  dis- 
covery had  been  made. 

Alfred,  that  night,  received  through  Mr.  Temple  his  lordship's 
request,  that  he  would  obtain  what  farther  information  he  could 


PATRONAGE.  41 

relative  to  the  private  seal,  in  whatever  w&y  he  thought  most 
prudent.  His  lordship  trusted  entirely  to  his  discretion — Mr. 
Temple  was  engaged  with  other  business. 

Alfred  went  with  Caroline  to  Lady  Jane  Granville's,  to  meet 
Lady  Frances  Arlington  ;  he  entered  into  conversation,  and  by 
degrees  brought  her  to  his  point,  playing  all  the  time  with  her 
curiosity,  and  humouring  her  childishness,  while  he  carried  on 
his  cross-examination. 

At  first  she  could  not  recollect  any  thing  about  making  the 
seals  he  talked  of.  "  It  was  a  fancy  that  had  passed — and  a 
past  fancy,"  she  said,  "was  like  a  past  love,  or  a  past  beauty, 
good  for  nothing  but  to  be  forgotten."  However,  by  proper 
leading  of  the  witness,  and- suggesting  time,  place,  and  circum- 
stance, he  did  bring  to  the  fair  lady's  mind  all  that  he  wanted  her 
to  remember.  She  could  not  conceive  what  interest  Mr.  Percy 
could  take  in  the  matter — it  was  some  jest  about  Mr.  Temple,  she 
was  sure.  Yes,  she  did  recollect  a  seal  with  a  Cupid  riding  a 
lion,  that  Mr.  Temple  gave  her  just  before  they  went  to  Falconer- 
court — was  that  what  he  meant  ? 

**No — but  a  curious  seal "  (Alfred  described  the  device.) 

"  Lord  Oldborough's !  Yes,  there  was  some  such  odd  seal." 
But  it  was  not  given  to  her  by  Mr.  Temple — she  took  that  from 
a  note  to  her  uncle,  the  Duke  of  Greenwich. 

Yes — that,  Alfred  said,  he  knew  j  but  what  did  her  ladyship 
do  with  it  ? 

"  You  know  how  I  got  it !  Bless  me !  you  seem  to  know  every 
thing  I  do  and  say.  You  know  my  affairs  vastly  well — you  act 
the  conjuror  admirably — pray,  can  you  tell  me  whom  I  am  to 
marry?" 

"  That  I  will — when  your  ladyship  has  told  me  to  whom  you 
gave  that  seal." 

"  That  I  would,  and  welcome,  if  I  could  recollect — ^but  I  really 
can't.  If  you  think  I  gave  it  to  Mr.  Temple,  I  assure  you,  you 
are  mistaken — you  may  ask  him." 

"  I  know  your  ladyship  did  not  give  it  to  Mr.  Temple — but  to 
whom  did  you  give  it?" 

"  I  remember  now — not  to  any  gentleman,  after  all — ^you  are 
positively  out.     I  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Falconer." 

"  You  are  certain  of  that,  Lady  Frances  Arlington  V* 


42  PATRONAGE. 

**I  am  certain,  Mr.  Alfred  Percy." 

"  And  how  can  you  prove  it  to  me,  Lady  Frances  ?" 

"The  easiest  way  in  the  world — by  asking  Mrs.  Falconer, 
Only  I  don't  go  there  now  much,  since  Georgiana  and  I  have 
quarrelled — but  what  can  make  you  so  curious  about  it?" 

"  That's  a  secret." — At  the  word  secret^  her  attention  was 
fixed. — **  May  I  ask  if  your  ladyship  would  know  the  seal  again 
if  you  saw  it? — Is  this  any  thing  like  the  impression?"  (showing 
her  the  seal  on  the  forged  cover.) 

"  The  very  same  that  I  gave  Mrs.  Falconer,  I'll  swear  to  it — • 
I'll  tell  you  how  I  know  it  particularly.  There's  a  little  outer 
rim  here,  with  points  to  it,  which  there  is  not  to  the  other.  I 
fastened  my  bvead-seal  into  an  old  setting  of  my  own,  from 
which  I  had  lost  the  stone.  Mrs.  Falconer  took  a  fancy  to  it, 
among  a  number  of  others,  so  I  let  her  have  it.  Now  I  have 
answered  all  your  questions  —  answer  mine — Whom  am  I  to 
marry  ?" 

"  Your  ladyship  will  marry  whomsoever  —  yoiu:  ladyship 
pleases." 

"That  was  an  ambiguous  answer,"  she  observed;  "for  that 
she  pleased  every  body."  Her  ladyship  was  going  to  run  on 
with  some  further  questions,  but  Alfred  pretending  that  the 
oracle  was  not  permitted  to  answer  more  explicitly,  left  her 
completely  in  the  dark  as  to  what  his  meaning  had  been  in  this 
whole  conversation. 

He  reported  progress  to  Lord  Oldborough — and  his  lordship 
slept  as  soundly  this  night  as  he  did  the  night  after  he  had  been 
attacked  by  the  mob. 

The  nsxt  morning  the  first  person  he  desired  to  see  was  Mr. 
Falconer — ^liis  lordship  sent  for  him  into  his  cabinet, 

"  Mr.  Commissioner  Falconer,  I  promised  to  give  you  notice, 
whenever  I  should  see  any  probability  of  my  going  out  of 
power." 

"  Good  Heaven !  my  lord,"  exclaimed  the  commissioner, 
starting  back.  The  surprise,  the  consternation  were  real — Lord 
Oldborough  had  his  eye  upon  him  to  determine  that  point. 

"  Impossible,  surely  ! — I  hope  ■ 

His  hope  flitted  at  the  moment  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich— 
but  returned  instantly :  he  had  made  no  terms — had  missed  his 


FATRONAOE.  43 

time.  If  Lord  Oldborough  should  go  out  of  office — ^his  place, 
his  pension,  gone — utter  ruin. 

Lord  Oldborough  marked  the  vacillation  and  confusion  of  his 
countenance,  and  saw  that  he  was  quite  unprepared. 

"  I  hope  —  Merciful  Powers !       I   trust 1  thought  your 

lordship  had  triumphed  over  all  your  enemies,  and  was  firmer 
in  favour  and  power  than  ever.     What  can  have  occurred?" 

Without  making  any  answer.  Lord  Oldborough  beckoned  to 
the  commissioner  to  approach  nearer  the  window  where  his  lord- 
ship was  standing,  and  then  suddenly  put  into  his  hand  the 
cover  with  the  forged  handwriting  and  seal. 

"What  am  I  to  understand  by  this,  my  lord?"  said  the 
bewildered  commissioner,  turning  it  backwards  and  forwards. 
'*  Captain  Nuttall ! — I  never  saw  the  man  in  my  life.  May  I 
ask,  my  lord,  what  I  am  to  comprehend  from  this  ?" 

"  I  see,  sir,  that  you  know  nothing  of  the  business." 

The  whole  was  explained  by  Lord  Oldborough  succinctly. 
The  astonishment  and  horror  in  the  poor  commissioner's  coimte- 
nance  and  gestures,  and  still  more,  the  eagerness  with  which  he 
begged  to  be  permitted  to  try  to  discover  the  authors  of  this 
forgery,  were  sufficient  proofs  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
suspicion  that  the  guilt  could  be  traced  to  any  of  his  own  family. 

Lord  Oldborough's  look,  fixed  on  the  commissioner,  expressed 
"what  it  had  once  before  expressed — "  Sir,  from  my  soul,  I 
pity  you!" 

The  commissioner  saw  this  look,  and  wondered  why  Lord 
Oldborough  should  pity  him  at  a  time  when  all  his  lordship's 
ieelings  should  naturally  be  for  himself. 

"  My  lord,  I  would  engage  we  shall  discover — we  shall  trace 
it." 

"  I  believe  that  I  have  discovered — that  I  have  traced  it," 
said  Lord  Oldborough ;  and  he  sighed. 

Now  that  sigh  was  more  incomprehensible  to  the  commissioner 
than  all  the  rest,  and  he  stood  with  his  lips  open  for  a  moment 
before  he  could  utter,  "  Why  then  resign,  my  lord  ?" 

"  That  is  my  affair,"  said  Lord  Oldborough.  "  Let  us,  if  you 
please,  sir,  think  of  yours ;  for,  probably,  this  is  the  only  time 
I  shall  ever  more  have  it  in  my  power  to  be  of  the  least  service 
to  you." 

4 


44  PATRONAGE. 

"  Oh  I  my  lord — my  lord,  don't  say  so  !"  said  the  commissioner 
quite  forgetting  all  his  artificial  manner,  and  speaking  naturally  t 
**the  last  time  you  shall  have  it  in  your  power!— Oh!  my  dear 
lord,  don't  say  so!" 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  must — it  gives  me  pain — you  see  it  does." 

"At  such  a  time  as  this  to  think  of  me  instead  of  yourself !  My 
lord,  I  never  knew  you  till  this  moment — so  well." 

"  Nor  I  you,  sir,"  said  Lord  Oldborough.  "  It  is  the  more 
imfortunate  for  us  both,  that  our  connexion  and  intercourse  must 
now  for  ever  cease." 

"  Never,  never,  my  lord,  if  you  were  to  go  out  of  power  to- 
morrow— which  Heaven,  in  its  mercy  and  justice,  forbid !  I 
could  never  forget  the  goodness — I  would  never  desert — in  spite 
of  all  interest — I  should  continue — I  hope  your  lordship  would 
permit  me  to  pay  my  duty  —  all  intercourse  could  never 
cease." 

Lord  Oldborough  saw,  and  almost  smiled  at  the  struggle 
between  the  courtier  and  the  man — the  confusion  in  the  com- 
missioner's mind  between  his  feelings  and  his  interest.  Partly 
his  lordsliip  relieved,  and  partly  he  pained  Mr.  Falconer,  by 
saying,  in  his  firm  tone,  "  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Falconer ;  but  all 
intercourse  must  cease.  After  this  hour,  we  meet  no  more.  I 
beg  you,  sir,  to  collect  your  spirits,  and  to  listen  to  me  calmly. 
Before  this  day  is  at  an  end,  you  will  understand  why  all  farther 
intercourse  between  us  would  be  useless  to  your  interest,  and  in- 
compatible with  my  honour.  Before  many  hours  are  past,  a  blow 
■will  be  struck  which  will  go  to  your  heart — for  I  see  you  have 
one — and  deprive  you  of  the  power  of  thought.  It  is  my  wish  to 
make  that  blow  fall  as  lightly  upon  you  as  possible." 

"  Oh  !  my  lord,  your  resignation  would  indeed  be  a  blow  I 
could  never  recover.  The  bare  apprehension  deprives  me  at  this 
moment  of  all  power  of  thought ;  but  still  I  hope         " 

"  Hear  me,  sir,  I  beg,  without  inteniiption  :  it  is  my  business 
to  think  for  you.  Go  immediately  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich, 
make  what  terms  with  him  you  can — make  what  advantage  you 
can  of  the  secret  of  my  approaching  resignation — a  secret  I  now 
put  in  your  power  to  communicate  to  his  grace^  and  which  no 
one  yet  suspects — I  having  told  it  to  no  one  living  but  to  your- 
self.   Go  quickly  to  the  duke — time  presses — I  wish  you  success 


PATRONAGE.  45 

md  a  better  patron  than  I  have  been,  than  my  principles  would 
permit  me  to  be.     Farewell,  Mr.  Falconer." 

The  commissioner  moved  towards  the  door  when  Lord  Oldbo- 
Tongh  said  **  Time  presses;"  but  the  commissioner  stopped-— 
turned  back — could  not  go  :  the  tears — real  tears — rolled  down 

his  cheeks Lord  Oldborough  went  forward,  and  held  out  his 

hand  to  him — the  commissioner  kissed  it,  with  the  reverence  with 
which  he  would  have  kissed  his  sovereign's  hand;  and  bowing, 
he  involuntarily  backed  to  the  door,  as  if  quitting  the  presence  of 
majesty. 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  man  was  bred  a  mere  courtier,  and  that  he  is 
cursed  with  a  family  on  none  of  whom  there  is  any  dependence," 
thought  Lord  Oldborough,  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  commis- 
sioner for  ever. 

Lord  Oldborough  delayed  an  hour  purposely,  to  give  Mr.  Fal- 
coner advantage  of  the  day  with  the  Duke  of  Greenwich :  then 
ordered  his  carriage,  and  drove  to — Mrs.  Falconer's. 

Great  was  her  surprise  at  the  minister's  entrance. — "  Con- 
cerned the  commissioner  was  not  at  home." 

"  My  business  is  with  Mrs.  Falconer." 

"  My  lord — your  lordship — the  honour  and  the  pleasure  of  a 
visit— ^Georgiana,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Falconer  nodded  to  her  daughter,  who  most  unwillingly, 
and  as  if  dying  with  curiosity,  retired. 

The  smile  died  away  upon  Mrs.  Falconer's  lips  as  she  observed 
the  stern  gravity  of  Lord  Oldborough's  countenance.  She  moved 
a  chair  towards  his  lordship — he  stood,  and  leaning  on  the  back 
of  the  chair,  paused,  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  What  is  to  come  ? — Cunningham,  perhaps,"  thought  Mrs. 
Falconer  ;  "  or  perhaps  something  about  John.     When  will  he 

speak  t — I  can't — I  must lam  happy  to  see  your  lordship 

looking  so  well." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Falconer  acquainted  with  Lady  Trant?" 

"Lady  Trant — yes,  my  lord." 

"  Mercy !  Is  it  possible  ? — No,  for  her  own  sake  she  would  not 
betray  me,"  thought  Mrs.  Falconer. 

*•  Intimately?"  said  Lord  Oldborough. 

"  Intimately — that  is,  as  one's  intimate  with  every  body  of  a 


46  FATRONAOE. 

certain  sort — one  visits — but  no  farther — I  can't  say  I  have  the 
honour " 

Mrs.  Falconer  was  so  distracted  by  seeing  Lord  Oldborough 
searching  in  his  pocket-book  for  a  letter,  that  in  spite  of  all  her 
presence  of  mind,  she  knew  not  what  she  said;  and  all  her 
presence  of  countenance  failed,  when  Lord  Oldborough  placed 
before  her  eyes  the  cover  directed  to  Captain  Nuttall. 

Can  you  gness  how  this  came  into  Lady  Trant's  possession, 
madam  1'* 

"  I  protest,  my  lord,"  her  voice  trembling,  in  spite  of  her 
utmost  efforts  to  command  it,  "  I  don't  know — nor  can  I  con- 
ceive——" 

"Nor  can  you  conceive  by  whom  it  was  written,  madam  V 

"  It  appears — it  bears  a  resemblance — some  likeness — as  far 
as  I  recollect — ^but  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  your  lordship's 
own  hand — and  hands  are  so  like — sometimes — and  I  am  so  bad 
a  judge — every  hand,  all  fashionable  hands,  are  so  like." 

"And  eveify  seal  like  every  seal?"  said  Lord  Oldborough, 
placing  the  counterfeit  seal  before  Mrs.  Falconer.  "  I  recom- 
mend it  to  you,  madam,  to  waste  no  farther  time  in  evasion ;  but 
to  deliver  to  me  the  counterpart  of  this  seal,  the  impression  of 
my  private  seal,  which  you  had  from  Lady  Frances  Arling- 
ton." 

"A  mere  bread-seal!  Her  ladyship  surely  has  not  said — 
I  really  have  lost  it — if  I  ever  had  it — I  declare  your  lordship 
terrifies  me  so,  by  this  strange  mode " 

"  I  recommend  it  to  you  once  more,  madam,  and  for  the  last 
time  I  earnestly  recommend  it  to  you,  to  deliver  up  to  me  that 
seal,  for  I  have  sworn  to  my  belief  that  it  is  in  your  possession  ; 
a  warrant  will  in  consequence  be  issued,  to  seize  and  search  your 
papers.  The  purport  of  my  present  visit,  of  which  I  should 
gladly  have  been  spared  the  pain,  is  to  save  you,  madam,  from 
the  public  disgrace  of  having  a  warrant  executed.  Do  not  faint, 
madam,  if  you  can  avoid  it,  nor  go  into  hysterics;  for  if  you  do, 
I  must  retire,  and  the  warrant  must  be  executed.  Your  best 
course  is  to  open  that  desk,  to  give  me  up  the  seal,  to  make  to  mie 
at  this  instant  a  full  confession  of  all  you  know  of  this  trans- 
action. If  you  do  thus,  for  your  husband's  sake,  madam,  I  will,  as 


*Aad.  aletter  «.'UcIi  Isee  in  t<Ti«  same   liajii-Tvcitiug',  niadxm, 
if  yi«a  pLease? —  She  gave  itj-aad  tHcq.  unaoLe  to  sapport 
liecself   Umtfcr,  sunk  upon  a  :ia£a.:  —  „ 


!.J.f, 


PATRONAGE.  17 

far  as  I  can  consistently  with  what  is  due  to  myself,  spare  you 
the  shame  of  an  arrest." 

Mrs.  Falconer,  with  trembling  hands,  unlocked  the  desk,  and 
delivered  the  seal. 

"  And  a  letter  which  I  see  iu  the  same  hand-writing,  madam, 
if  you  please." 

She  gave  it ;  and  then,  unable  to  support  herself  longer,  sunk 
upon  a  sofa :  but  she  neither  fainted  nor  screamed — she  was 
aware  of  the  consequences.  Lord  Oldborough  opened  the 
window  to  give  her  air.  She  was  relieved  by  a  biurst  of  tears, 
and  was  silent — and  nothing  was  heard  but  her  sobs,  which  she 
endeavoured  to  suppress  in  vain.  She  was  more  relieved  on 
looking  up  by  one  glance  at  Lord  Oldborough's  coimtenance, 
where  she  saw  compassion  working  strongly. 

But  before  she  could  take  any  advantage  of  it,  the  expression 
was  changed,  the  feeling  was  controlled :  he  was  conscious  of 
its  weakness — he  recollected  what  public  justice,  and  justice  to 
his  own  character,  required — ^he  recollected  all  the  treachery,  the 
criminality,  of  which  she  had  been  guilty. 

"  Madam,  you  are  not  now  in  a  condition,  I  see,  to  explain 
yourself  farther — I  will  relieve  you  from  my  presence :  my 
reproaches  you  will  never  hear ;  but  I  shall  expect  from  you, 
before  one  hour,  such  an  avowal  in  writing  of  this  whole  trans- 
action, as  may,  with  the  written  confession  of  Lady  Trant,  afibrd 
the  proofs  which  are  due  to  my  sovereign,  and  to  the  public,  of 
my  integrity." 

Mrs.  Falconer  bowed  her  head,  covered  her  face,  clasped  her 
hands  in  agony :  as  Lord  Oldborough  retired,  she  sprang  up, 
followed  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  yet  without  knowing  what 
she  could  say. 

"  The  commissioner  is  innocent ! — If  you  forsake  him,  he  is 
undone — all,  all  of  us,  utterly  ruined !  Oh  !  Georgiana !  Geor- 
giana!  where  are  you?  speak  for  me!" 

Georgiana  was  in  an  inner  apartment,  trying  on  a  new  robe  a 
la  Georgienne. 

"  Whatever  you  may  wish  farther  to  say  to  me,  madam,"  said 
Lord  Oldborough,  disengaging  himself  from  her,  and  passing  deci- 
dedly on,  before  Gieorgiana  appeared,  "  you  will  put  in  writings 
and  let  me  have  within  this  hour — or  never." 


48  PATRONAGE. 

"VVitiiin  that  hour,  Commissioner  Falconer  brought,  for  Lord 
Oldborough,  the  paper  his  wife  had  drawn  up,  but  which  he  was 
obliged  to  deliver  to  Mr.  Temple ;  for  Lord  Oldborough  had  so 
ordered,  and  his  lordship  persevei*ed  in  refusing  to  see  him  more. 
Mrs.  Falconer's  paper  was  worded  with  all  the  art  and  address 
of  which  she  was  mistress,  and  all  the  pathos  she  could  com- 
mand— Lord  Oldborough  looked  only  for  facts — these  he  marked 
with  his  pencil,  and  observed  where  they  corroborated  and  where 
they  differed  from  Lady  Trant's  confession,  which  Mr.  Temple 
had  been  charged  to  obtain  during  his  loi'dship's  visit  to  Mrs. 
Falconer.  The  greater  part  of  the  night  Lord  Oldborough  and 
Mr.  Alfred  Percy  were  employed  arranging  these  documents,  so 
as  to  put  the  proofs  in  the  clearest  and  shortest  fonn,  to  be  laid 
before  his  majesty  the  succeeding  day. 

It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Falconer  had  been  first  tempted  to 
these  practices  by  the  distress  for  money  into  which  extravagant 
entertainments,  or,  as  she  stated,  the  expenses  incident  to  her 
situation — expenses  which  far  exceeded  her  income — had  led 
her.  It  was  supposed,  from  her  having  kept  open  house  at 
times  for  the  minister,  that  she  and  the  commissioner  had  great 
influence ;  she  had  been  applied  to — presents  had  been  offered, 
and  she  had  long  withstood.  But  at  length.  Lady  Trant  acting 
in  concert  with  her,  they  had  been  supplied  with  information  by 
a  clerk  in  one  of  the  offices,  a  relation  of  Lady  Trant,  who  was 
a  vain,  incautious  youth,  and,  it  seems,  did  not  know  the  use 
made  of  his  indiscretion  :  he  told  what  promotions  he  heard 
spoken  of — what  commissions  were  making  out.  The  ladies 
prophesied,  and  their  prophecies  being  accomplished,  they  gained 
credit.  For  some  time  they  kept  themselves  behind  the  scenes 
— and  many,  applying  to  A.  B.,  and  dealing  with  they  did  not 
know  whom,  paid  for  promotions  which  would  have  come  unpaid 
for ;  others  paid,  and  were  never  promoted,  and  wrote  letters  of 
reproach — Captain  Nutlall  was  among  these,  and  he  it  was,  who, 
finding  himself  duped,  first  stirred  in  the  business;  and  by  means 
of  an  active  member  of  opposition,  to  whom  he  made  known 
his  secret  grievance,  brought  the  whole  to  light. 

The  proofs  arranged  (and  Lord  Oldborough  never  slept  till 
they  were  perfected),  he  reposed  tranquilly.  The  next  day, 
asking  an  audience  of  liis  majesty,  he  simply  laid  the  papers  ou 


PATRONAGE.  49 

liis  majesty's  table,  observing  that  lie  had  been  so  fortunate  as 
to  succeed  in  tracing  the  forgery,  and  that  he  trusted  these 
papers  contained  all  the  necessary  proofs. 

His  lordship  bowed  and  retired  instantly,  lea\-ing  his  majesty 
to  examine  the  papers  alone. 

The  resolution  to  resign  his  ministerial  station  had  long  beeri 
forming  in  Lord  Oldborough's  mind.  It  was  not  a  resolution 
taken  suddenly  in  pride  or  pique,  but  after  reflection,  and  upon 
strong  reasons.  It  was  a  measure  which  he  had  long  been 
revolving  in  his  secret  thoughts.  During  the  enthusiasm  of 
political  life,  the  proverbial  warnings  against  the  vanity  of  am- 
bition, and  the  danger  of  dependence  on  the  favour  of  princes, 
had  passed  on  his  ear  but  as  a  schoolboy's  lesson  :  a  phrase  "  to 
point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale."  He  was  not  a  reading  man, 
and  the  maxims  of  books  he  disregarded  or  disbelieved  ;  but  ia 
the  observations  he  made  for  himself  he  trusted  :  the  lessons  he 
drew  from  life  were  never  lost  upon  him,  and  he  acted  in  conse- 
quence of  that  which  he  believed,  with  a  decision,  vigour,  and 
invariability,  seldom  found  even  among  philosophers.  Of  late 
years  he  had,  in  real  life,  seen  striking  instances  of  the  treachery 
of  courtiers,  and  had  felt  some  symptoms  of  insecimty  in  the  smile 
of  princes.  Fortune  had  been  favourable  to  him — she  was  fickle 
— he  determined  to  quit  her  before  she  should  change.  Ambition, 
it  is  true,  had  tempted  him — ^he  had  risen  to  her  highest  pinnacle : 
he  would  not  be  hurled  from  high — he  would  descend  voluntarily, 
and  with  dignity.  Lord  Oldborough's  habits  of  thought  were 
as  different  as  possible  from  those  of  a  metaphysician  :  he  had 
reflected  less  upon  the  course  of  his  own  mind  than  upon  almost 
any  other  subject ;  but  he  knew  human  nature  practically ; 
disquisitions  on  habit,  passion,  or  the  sovereign  good,  were 
unread  by  him,  nor,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  had  he  ever  formed 
a  system,  moral  or  prudential ;  but  the  same  penetration,  the 
same  longdnimity,  which  enabled  him  to  govern  the  affairs  of  a 
^reat  nation,  gave  him,  when  his  attention  turned  towards  him- 
self, a  foresight  for  his  own  happiness.  In  the  meridian  of  life, 
he  had  cherished  ambition,  as  the  only  passion  that  could  supply 
him  with  motive  strong  enough  to  call  great  powers  into  great 
action.  But  of  late  years  he  had  felt  something,  not  only  of  the 
waywardness  of  fortune,  but  of  the  approaches  of  age— not  in 

Patronage. — ii. 


■50  PATRONAGE. 

his  mind,  but  in  his  health,  which  had  suffered  by  his  exertioni. 
The  attacks  of  hereditary  gout  had  become  more  violent  and 
more  frequent.  If  he  lived,  these  would,  probably,  at  seasons,  often 
incapacitate  him  from  his  arduous  ministerial  duties :  much, 
that  he  did  well,  must  be  ill  done  by  deputy.  He  had  ever 
reprobated  the  practice  of  leaving  the  business  of  the  nation  to 
be  done  by  clerks  and  underlings  in  office.  Yet  to  this  the 
minister,  however  able,  however  honest,  must  come  at  last,  if  he 
persist  in  engrossing  business  and  power  beyond  what  an  indivi- 
dual can  wield.  Love  for  his  country,  a  sense  of  his  own 
honour,  integrity,  and  consistency,  here  combined  to  determine 
this  great  minister  to  retire  while  it  was  yet  time — to  secure,  at 
once,  the  dignity  and  happiness  of  the  evening  of  life.  The  day 
had  been  devoted  to  good  and  high  purposes — that  was  enough 
— he  could  now,  self-satisfied  and  full  of  honour,  bid  adieu  to 
ambition.  This  resolution,  once  formed,  was  fixed.  In  vain 
even  his  sovereign  endeavoured  to  dissuade  him  from  carrying 
it  into  execution. 

When  the  king  had  examined  the  papers  which  Lord  Old- 
borough  had  laid  before  him,  his  majesty  sent  for  his  lordship 
again,  and  the  moment  the  minister  entered  the  cabinet,  his 
majesty  expressed  his  perfect  satisfaction  in  seeing  that  his  lord- 
ship had,  with  so  little  trouble,  and  with  his  usual  ability,  got  to 
the  bottom  of  this  affair. 

What  was  to  be  done  next?  The  Duke  of  Greenwich  was  to 
be  summoned.  His  grace  was  in  astonishment  when  he  saw 
the  papers  which  contained  Lord  Oldborough's  complete  vindi- 
cation, and  the  crimination  of  Mrs.  Falconer.  Through  the 
whole,  as  he  read  on,  his  grace  had  but  one  idea,  viz.  "  Commis- 
sioner Falconer  has  deceived  me  with  false  intelligence  of  the 
intended  resignation."  Not  one  word  was  said  by  Lord  Old- 
borough  to  give  his  grace  hope  of  that  event — till  the  member 
of  opposition  by  whom  the  forged  letters  had  been  produced — 
till  all  those  who  knew  or  had  heard  any  thing  of  the  transaction 
were  clearly  and  fully  apprised  of  the  truth.  After  this  was 
established,  and  that  all  saw  Lord  Oldborough  clear  and  bright 
in  honour,  and,  at  least  apparently,  as  firm  in  power  as  he  had 
ever  been,  to  the  astonishment  of  his  sovereign  his  lordship 
begged  permission  to  resign. 


PATRONAGE.  51 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  eilect  of  misrepresentation,  to 
lower  Lord  Oldborough's  favour,  at  the  moment  when  he  spoke 
of  retiring,  his  king  recollected  all  his  past  services — all  that 
must,  in  future,  be  hazarded  and  lost  in  parting  with  such  a 
minister — so  eminent  in  abilities,  of  such  tried  integrity,  of  such 
fidelity,  such  attachment  to  his  person,  such  a  zealous  supporter 
of  royalty,  such  a  favourite  with  his  people,  so  successful  as  well 
as  so  able  a  minister !  Never  was  he  so  much  valued  as  at  this 
moment.  All  his  sovereign's  early  attachment  returned  in  fidl 
strength  and  warmth. 

"  No,  my  lord,  you  must  not — you  will  not  leave  me." 

These  simple  words,  spoken  with  the  warmth  of  the  heart, 
touched  Lord  Oldborough  more  than  can  be  told.  It  was  diflS- 
cult  to  resist  them^  especially  when  he  saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of 
the  monarch  whom  he  loved. 

But  his  resolution  was  taken.  He  thanked  his  majesty,  not 
with  the  common-place  thanks  of  courtiers,  but  with  his  whol^ 
heart  9nd  soul  he  thanked  his  majesty  for  this  gracious  conde- 
scension— this  testimony  of  approbation- — these  proofs  of  sensi- 
bility to  his  attachment,  which  paid — overpaid  him,  in  a  moment, 
for  the  labours  of  a  life.  The  recollection  of  them  would  be  the 
glory,  the  solace  of  his  age^-could  never  leave  his  memory 
while  life  lasted — would,  he  thought,  be  present  to  him,  if  he 
should  retain  his  senses,  in  his  dying  moment.  But  he  was,  in 
the  midst  of  this  strong  feeling,  firm  to  the  resolution  his  reason 
had  taken.  He  humbly  represented,  that  he  had  waited  for  a 
favourable  time  when  the  affairs  of  the  country  were  in  a  pros- 
perous train,  when  there  were  few  difficulties  to  embarrass  those 
whom  his  majesty  might  name  to  succeed  to  his  place  at  the 
head  of  administration :  there  were  many  who  were  ambitious 
of  that  station — zeal,  talents,  and  the  activity  of  youth  were  at 
his  majesty's  command.  For  himself,  he  found  it  necessary  for 
his  health  andt  happiness  to  retire  from  public  business ;  and  to 
resign  the  arduous  trust  with  which  he  had  been  honoured. 

"  My  lord,  if  I  must  accept  of  your  resignation,  I  must — but 
I  do  it  with  regret.  Is  there  any  thing  your  lordship  wishes— 
any  thing  you  will  name  for  yourself  or  your  friends,  that  I  can 
do,  to  show  my  sense  of  your  services  and  merit?" 


62  PATRONAGE. 

"  For  myself,  your  majesty's  bounty  has  left  me  nothing  to 
wish." 

"  For  your  friends,  then,  my  lord? — Let  me  have  tlie  satisfac- 
tion of  obliging  you  through  them." 

Nothing  could  be  more  gracious  or  more  gratifying  than  the 
■whole  of  this  parting  audience.  It  was  Lord  Oldborough's  last 
audience. 

The  news  of  his  resignation,  quickly  whispered  at  court,  was 
not  that  day  publicly  known  or  announced.  The  next  morning 
his  lordship's  door  was  crowded  beyond  example  in  the  memory 
of  ministers.  Mr.  Temple,  by  his  lordship's  order,  announced 
as  soon  as  possible  the  minister's  having  resigned.  All  were  in 
astonishment — many  in  sorrow :  some  few — a  very  few  of  the 
most  insignificant  of  the  crowd,  persons  incapable  of  generous 
sympathy,  who  thought  they  could  follow  their  own  paltry 
interests  unnoticed — left  the  room,  without  paying  their  farewell 
respects  to  this  great  minister — minister  now  no  more. 

The  moment  he  appeared,  there  was  sudden  silence.  All 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  every  one  pressing  to  get  into  the 
circle. 

"  Gentlemen,  thank  you  for  these  marks  of  attention — of 
regard.  Mr.  Temple  has  told  you — you  know,  my  friends,  that 
I  am  a  man  without  power." 

*•  We  know,"  answered  a  distinguished  gentleman,  "  that  you 
are  Lord  Oldborough.  With  or  without  power,  the  same  in  the 
eyes  of  your  friends,  and  of  the  British  nation." 

Lord  Oldborough  bowed  low,  and  looked  gratified.  His  lord- 
ship then  went  round  the  circle  with  an  air  more  cheerful,  more 
free  from  reserve,  tlian  usual ;  with  something  in  his  manner 
more  of  sensibility,  but  nothing  less  of  dignity.  All  who  meiited 
distinction  he  distinguished  by  some  few  appropriate  words, 
which  each  remembered  afterwards,  and  repeated  to  their 
families  and  friends.  He  spoke  or  listened  to  each  individual 
with  the  attention  of  one  who  is  courting,  not  quitting,  popu- 
larity. Free  from  that  restraint  and  responsibility  which  his 
public  and  ministerial  duties  had  imposed  upon  him,  he  now 
entered  into  the  private  concerns  of  all,  and  gave  his  parting 
assistance  or  counsel.     He  noted  all  grievances — ^registered  all 


FATRONAOE.  53 

promises  that  ought  to  be  recommended  to  the  care  of  his 
successor  in  office.  The  wishes  of  many,  to  whom  he  had 
forborne  to  give  any  encouragement,  he  now  unexpectedly 
fulfilled  and  surpassed.  When  all  were  satisfied,  and  had 
nothing  more  to  ask  or  to  hope  from  him,  they  yet  delayed,  and 
parted  from  Lord  Oldborough  with  difficulty  and  regret. 

A  proof  that  justice  commands  more  than  any  other  quality 
the  respect  and  gratitude  of  mankind.  Take  time  and  numbers 
into  the  calculation,  and  all  discover,  in  their  turn,  the  ad- 
vantage of  this  virtue.  This  minister,  a  few  regretted  instances 
excepted,  had  shown  no  favour,  but  strict  justice,  in  his 
patronage. 

All  Lord  Oldborough 's  requests  for  his  friends  were  granted 
—all  his  recommendations  attended  to  :  it  was  grateful  to  him 
to  feel  that  his  influence  lasted  after  his  power  had  ceased. 
Though  the  sun  had  apparently  set,  its  parting  rays  continued 
to  brighten  and  cheer  the  prospect. 

Under  a  new  minister,  Mr.  Temple  declined  accepting  of  the 
embassy  which  had  been  offered  to  him.  Remuneration  suitable 
to  his  services,  and  to  the  high  terms  in  which  Lord  Oldborough 
had  spoken  of  his  merit,  was  promised  :  and  without  waiting  to 
see  in  what  form,  or  manner,  this  promise  would  be  accom- 
plished, the  secretary  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  ac- 
company his  revered  master  to  his  retirement.  Alfred  Percy, 
zealous  and  ardent  in  Lord  Oldborough 's  service,  the  more  this 
great  man's  character  had  risen  upon  his  admiration,  had  already 
hastened  to  the  country  to  prepare  every  thing  at  Clermont-park 
for  his  reception.  By  his  orders,  that  establishment  had  been 
retrenched;  by  Alfred  Percy's  activity  it  was  restored.  Services, 
which  the  richest  nobleman  in  the  land  could  not  have  pur- 
chased, or  the  highest  have  commanded,  Alfred  was  proud  to 
pay  as  a  voluntary  tribute  to  a  noble  character. 

Lord  Oldborough  set  out  for  the  country  at  a  very  early  hour 
in  the  morning,  and  no  one  previously  knew  his  intentions, 
except  Mr.  Temple.  He  was  desirous  to  avoid  what  it  had  been 
whispered  was  the  design  of  the  people,  to  attend  him  in  crowds 
through  the  streets  of  the  metropolis. 

As  they  drove  out  of  town.  Lord  Oldborough  recollected  that 
in   some  account,  either  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  or  the 


54  PATRONAGE. 

Duke  of  Ormond's  leaving  London,  after  his  dismission 
from  court,  it  is  said,  that  of  all  those  whom  the  duke  had 
served,  all  those  who  had  courted  and  flattered  him  in  the  time 
of  his  prosperity  and  power,  none  showed  any  gratitude  or 
attachment,  excepting  one  page,  who  appeared  at  the  coach- 
door  as  his  master  was  departing,  and  gave  some  signs  of  genuine 
sorrow  and  respect. 

**  I  am  fortunate,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  "  in  having  few 
complaints  to  make  of  ingratitude.  I  make  none.  The  few  I 
might  make,"  continued  his  lordship,  who  now  rewarded  Mr. 
Temple's  approved  fidelity,  by  speaking  to  him  with  the  openness 
and  confidence  of  friendship,  "  tlie  few  I  might  make  have  been 
chiefly  caused  by  errors  of  my  own  in  the  choice  of  the  persons 
1  have  obliged.  I  thank  Heaven,  however,  that  upon  the  whole 
I  leave  public  life  not  only  with  a  good  conscience,  but  with  a 
good  opinion  of  human  nature.  I  speak  not  of  courtiers — there 
is  nothing  of  nature  about  them — they  are  what  circumstances 
make  them.  Were  I  to  live  my  life  over  again,  the  hours  spent 
with  courtiers  are  those  which  I  should  most  wish  to  be  spared ; 
but  by  a  statesman,  or  a  minister,  these  cannot  be  avoided.  For 
myself,  in  resigning  my  ministerial  office,  I  might  say,  as 
Charles  the  Fifth,  when  he  abdicated,  said  to  his  successor,  *  I 
leave  you  a  heavy  burthen ;  for  since  my  shoulders  have  borne 
it,  I  have  not  passed  one  day  exempt  from  anxiety.' 

"  But  from  the  first  moment  I  started  in  the  course  of  am- 
bition, I  was  aware  that  tranquillity  must  be  sacrificed;  and  to 
the  last  moment  I  abided  by  the  sacrifice.  The  good  I  had  in 
view,  I  have  reached — the  prize  at  which  I  aimed,  I  have  won. 
The  glory  of  England  was  my  object — ^her  approbation  my 
reward.  Generous  people  ! — If  ever  i  bore  toil  or  peril  in  your 
cause,  I  am  rewarded,  and  never  shall  you  hear  me  say  that 
*the  unfruitful  glories  please  no  more.'  The  esteem  of  my 
sovereign  I — I  possess  it.  It  is  indefeasibly  mine.  His  favour, 
his  smiles,  are  his  to  give,  or  take  away.  Never  shall  he  hear 
from  me  the  wailings  of  disappointed  ambition." 


PATRONAGE.  55 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Caroline  took  ao  vantage  of  the  opportunity  of  returning  home 
with  her  brother  Alfred,  when  he  went  to  tlie  country,  to  prepare 
Ciermont-park  for  the  reception  of  Lord  Oldborough.  And  now 
she  saw  her  home  again  with  more  than  wonted  delight.  Every 
thing  animate  and  inanimate  seemed  to  smile  upon  her,  every 
heart  rejoiced  at  her  return ;  and  she  enjoyed  equally  the 
pleasure  of  loving,  and  of  being  beloved  by,  such  friends.  She 
had  been  amused  and  admired  during  her  residence  in  London  ; 
but  a  life  of  dissipation  she  had  always  thought,  and  now  she 
was  convinced  from  experience,  could  never  suit  her  taste  or 
character.  She  would  immediately  have  resumed  her  former 
occupations,  if  Rosamond  would  have  permitted ;  but  Rosamond 
took  entire  possession  of  her  at  every  moment  when  her  father 
or  mother  had  not  claimed  their  prior  right  to  hear  and  to  be 
heard. 

"  Caroline,  my  dear,  don't  flatter  yourself  that  you  shall  be 

left  in  peace See  ! — she  is  sitting  down  to  write  a  letter,  as  if 

she  had  not  been  away  from  us  these  six  months You  must 

write  to  Lady  Jane  Granville !  —  Well,  finish  your  gratitude 
quickly — and  no  more  writing,  reading,  or  drawing,  this  dav  ; 
you  must  think  of  nothing  but  talking,  or  listening  to  me." 

Much  as  she  loved  talking  in  general,  Rosamond  now  so  far 
preferred  the  pleasure  of  hearing,  that,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Caroline,  her  countenance  varying  with  every  variety  of  Caroline's 
expression,  she  sat  perfectly  silent  all  the  time  her  sister  spoke. 
And  scarcely  was  her  voice  heard,  even  in  exclamation.  But, 
during  the  pauses  of  narrative,  when  the  pause  lasted  more  than 
a  minute,  she  would  say,  "  Go  on,  my  dear  Caroline,  go  on. 
Tell  us  something  more." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  entrance  of 
Mr.  Temple  —  and  Rosamond  did  not  immediately  find  her 
fluency  of  speech  increase.  Mr.  Temple  had  seized  the  first 
moment  that  duty  and  gratitude  to  his  master  and  friend  per- 
mitted to  hasten  to  the  Hills,  nor  had  Lord  Oldborough  been 
unmindful  of  his  feelings.  Little  as  his  lordship  was  disposed 
to  think  of  love  affairs,  it  seems  he  recollected  those  of  hia 


56  PATRONAGE. 

secretary;  for,  the  morning  after  their  arrival  at  Clermont- 
park,  when  he  proffered  his  services,  Lord  Oldhorough  said, 
that  he  had  only  to  trouble  Mr.  Temple  to  pay  a  visit  for  him, 
if  it  would  not  be  disagreeable,  to  his  old  friend  Mr,  Percy. 
•*  Tell  him  that  I  know  his  first  wish  will  be  to  come  to  show 
me  that  it  is  the  man,  not  the  minister,  for  whom  he  had  a 
regard :  tell  him  this  proof  of  his  esteem  is  unnecessary.  He 
will  wish  to  see  me  for  another  reason  :  he  is  a  philosopher-— 
and  will  have  a  philosophical  curiosity  to  discover  how  I  exist 
without  ambition.  But  of  that  he  cannot  yet  form  a  judgment 
—nor  can  I :  therefore,  if  he  pleases,  let  his  visit  be  delayed  till 
next  week.  I  have  some  papers  to  arrange,  which  I  should 
wish  to  show  him,  and  I  cannot  have  them  sooner  in  readiness. 
If  you,  Mr.  Temple,  can  contrive  to  pass  this  week  at  Mr. 
Percy's,  let  me  not  detain  you.  There  is  no  fear,"  added  he, 
smiling,  that  "  in  solitude  I  should  be  troubled  by  the  spectre 
which  haunted  the  minister  in  Gil  Bias  in  his  retirement." 

Never  was  man  happier  than  Mr.  Temple,  when  he  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  the  family  circle  at  the  Hills,  and  seated 
beside  Rosauiond,  free  from  all  cares,  all  business,  all  intrigues 
of  courtiers,  and  restraints  of  office ;  no  longer  in  the  horrors  of 
attendance  and  dependence,  but  with  the  promise  of  a  competent 
provision  for  life — with  the  consciousness  of  its  having  been 
honourably  obtained;  and  to  brighten  all,  the  hope,  the 
delightful  hope,  of  soon  prevailing  on  the  woman  he  loved,  to 
become  his  for  ever. 

Alfred  Percy  had  been  obliged  to  return  directly  to  London, 
and  for  pnce  in  his  life  Mr.  Temple  benefited  by  the  absence  of 
his  friend.  In  the  small  house  at  the  Hills,  Alfred's  was  the 
only  room  that  could  have  been  spared  for  him ;  and  in  this 
room,  scarcely  fourteen  feet  square,  the  ex-secretary  found  him- 
self lodged  more  entirely  to  his  satisfaction  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  the  sumptuous  apartments  of  the  great.  The  happy  are 
not  fastidious  as  to  their  accommodations ;  they  never  miss  the 
pointed  ceiling,  or  the  long  arcade,  and  their  slumbers  require 
no  bed  of  down.  The  lover's  only  fear  was,  that  this  happy 
week,  would  pass  too  swiftly  ;  and,  indeed,  time  flew  unperceived 
by  him,  and  by  Rosamond.  One  fine  day,  after  dinner,  Mrs. 
?etcy  proposed}  that  instead  of  sitting  longer  in  the  house,  th^y 


PATRONAGE.  57 

should  have  their  dessert  of  strawberries  in  some  pleasant  place 
in  the  lawn  or  wood.  Rosamond  eagerly  seconded  this  proposal, 
and  whispered,  "  Caroline's  bower." 

Thither  they  went.  This  bower  of  Caroline,  this  favourite 
spot,  Rosamond,  during  her  sister's  absence,  had  taken  delight 
in  ornamenting,  and  it  did  credit  as  much  to  her  taste  as  to  her 
kindness.  She  had  opened  a  view  on  one  side  to  a  waterfall 
among  the  rocks ;  on  the  other,  to  a  winding  path  descending 
through  the  glen.  Honey-suckle,  rose,  and  eglantine,  near  the 
bower,  were  in  rich  and  wild  profusion ;  all  these,  the  song  of 
birds,  and  even  the  smell  of  the  new-mown  grass,  seemed 
peculiarly  delightful  to  Mr.  Temple.  Of  late  years  he  had  been 
doomed  to  close  confinement  in  a  capital  city ;  but  all  his  tastes 
were  rural,  and,  as  he  said,  he  feared  he  should  expose  himself 
to  the  ridicule  Dr.  Johnson  throws  on  those  "  who  talk  of  sheep 
and  goats,  and  who  babble  of  green  fields." 

Mr.  Percy  thought  Dr.  Johnson  was  rather  too  intolerant  of 
rural  description,  and  of  the  praises  of  a  country  life,  but 
acknowledged  that  he  quite  agreed  with  him  in  disliking 
pastorals — excepting  always  that  beautiful  drama,  "  The  Gentle 
Shepherd."  Mr.  Percy  said,  that,  in  his  opinion,  a  life  purely 
pastoral  must,  if  it  could  be  realized,  prove  as  insufferably  tire- 
some in  reality,  as  it  usually  is  found  to  be  in  fiction.  He  hated 
Delias  and  shepherdesses,  and  declared  that  he  should  soon 
grow  tired  of  any  companion  with  whom  he  had  no  other 
occupation  in  common  but  "  tending  a  few  sficep."  There  was  a 
vast  difference,  he  thought,  between  pastoral  and  domestic  life. 
His  idea  of  domestic  life  comprised  all  the  varieties  of  literature, 
exercise,  and  amusement  for  the  faculties,  with  the  delights  of 
cultivated  society. 

The  conversation  turned  from  pa-^toral  life  and  pastorals  to 
Scotch  and  English  ballads  and  songs.  Their  various  merits  of 
simplicity,  pathos,  or  elegance,  were  compared  and  discussed. 
After  the  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry  had  been  sufficiently 
admired,  Rosamond  and  Caroline  mentioned  two  modem  com»- 
positions,  both  by  the  same  author,  each  exquisite  in  its  different 
style  of  poetry — one  beautiful,  the  other  sublime.  Rosamond's 
favourite  was  the  Exile  of  Erin;  Caroline's,  the  Mariners  of 
England-     To  justify  their  tastes,  they  repeated  the  poems. 


58  PATROXAGG. 

Caroline  fixed  the  attention  of  the  company  on  the  flag,  which 

has 

"  Braved  a  thousand  years  the  battle  and  the  breeze," 

when  suddenly  her  own  attention  seemed  to  be  distracted  by 
some  object  in  the  glen  below.  She  endeavoured  to  go  on,  but 
her  voice  faltered  —  her  colour  changed.  Rosamond,  whose 
quick  eye  followed  her  sister's,  instantly  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
gentleman  coming  up  the  path  from  the  glen.  Rosamond  started 
from  her  seat,  and  clasping  her  hands,  exclaimed,  "It  is!  It  m 
he  ! — It  is  Count  Altenberg !" 

They  had  not  recovered  from  their  astonishment  when  Count 
Altenberg  stood  before  them.  To  Mr.  Percy,  to  Mrs.  Percy,  to 
Rosamond,  to  each  he  spoke,  before  he  said  one  word  to  Caro- 
line. But  one  look  had  said  all,  had  spoken,  and  had  been 
understood. 

That  he  was  not  married  she  was  certain — for  that  look  said 
he  loved  her — and  her  confidence  in  his  honour  was  secure. 
Whatever  had  delayed  his  return,  or  had  been  mysterious  in  his 
conduct,  she  felt  convinced  that  he  had  never  been  to  blame. 

And  on  his  part  did  he  read  as  distinctly  the  truth  in  her 
countenance? — Was  the  high  colour,  the  radiant  pleasure  in  that 
countenance  unmarked?  The  joy  was  so  veiled  by  feminine 
modesty,  that  he  doubted,  trembled,  and  if  at  last  the  rapid 
feelings  ended  in  hope,  it  was  respectful  hope.  With  deference 
the  most  marked,  mingled  with  dignity,  tenderness,  and  pas- 
sion, he  approached  Caroline.  He  was  too  delicate,  too  well- 
bred,  to  distress  her  by  distinguishing  her  more  particularly  ;  but 
as  he  took  the  seat,  which  she  left  for  him  beside  her  mother,  the 
open  and  serene  expression  of  her  eye,  with  the  soft  sound  of  her 
voice,  in  the  few  words  she  answered  to  what  he  said,  were 
enough  to  set  his  heart  at  ease.  The  sight  of  Mr.  Temple  had  at 
first  alanned  the  Count,  but  the  alarm  was  only  momentary.  One 
glance  at  Rosamond  re-assured  him. 

Ideas,  which  it  requires  many  words  to  tell,  passed  instanta- 
neously with  the  rapidity  of  light.  After  they  were  seated,  some 
minutes  were  spent  in  common-place  questions  and  answers, 
such  as  those  which  Benjamin  Franklin  would  wisely  put  all 
together,  into  one  formula,  to  satisfy  curiosity.  Count  Alten> 
berg  landed  the  preceding  day — had  not  stopped  to  see  any  one 


VT  JSux  V  B  V . 


-t'.  £a.carL 


JP-A  nr  m  (Dis"  A  <&  E , 


SKe  enaeavtmre^  -to  go  att.ljntlier  -vrice  ±alteiea.- 
Icrw^a.  her  sistex'a 


PATRONAGE.  59 

in  England — had  not  even  heard  of  Lord  Oldborough's  resigna- 
tion— had  proceeded  directly  to  the  Hills — had  left  his  equipage 
at  a  town  a  few  miles  distant — thought  he  had  been  fully  master 
of  the  well-known  road,  but  the  approach  having  been  lately 
changed,  he  had  missed  hiis  way. 

This  settled,  to  make  room  for  a  more  interesting  explanation, 
Mr.  Temple  had  the  politeness  to  withdraw.  Rosamond  had 
the  humanity,  and  Caroline  the  discretion,  to  accompany  him  in 
his  walk. 

Count  Altenberg  then  said,  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Percy, 
on  whose  regard  he  seemed  to  have  reliance,  and  to  Mrs.  Percy, 
whom  he  appeared  most  anxious  to  interest  in  his  favour,  "  You 
certainly,  sir,  as  a  man  of  penetration,  and  a  father ;  you, 
madam,  as  a  mother,  and  as  a  lady  who  must  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  the  admiration  of  our  sex,  could  not  avoid  seeing,  when 
I  was  in  this  country  before,  that  I  felt  the  highest  admiration, 
that  I  had  formed  the  strongest  attachment  for  your  daughter — 
Miss  Caroline  Percy." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy  both  acknowledged  that  they  thoughtr. 
Count  Altenberg  had  shown  some  preference  for  Caroline ;  buti 
as  he  had  never  declared  his  attachment,  they  had  not  felt  them>- 
selves  justified  in  inferring  more  from  his  attentions  than  his- 
general  good  opinion.  A  change  in  his  manner,  which  they  ob- 
served shortly  before  they  quitted  Hungerford  Castle,  had 
impressed  them  with  the  idea  that  he  had  no  such  views  as  they 
had  once  been  led  to  imagine,  and  their  never  having  heard  any 
thing  from  him  since,  had  confirmed  them  in  this  belief. 

"  Painful — exquisitely  painful,  as  it  was  to  me,"  said  Count 
Altenberg,  "  I  felt  myself  bound  in  honour  to  leave  you  in  that 
error,  and,  at  all  hazards  to  myself,  to  suffer  you  to  continue  under 
that  persuasion,  as  I  was  then,  and  have  been  till  within  these 
few  days,  in  dread  of  being  obliged  to  fulfil  an  engagement, 
made  without  my  concurrence  or  knowledge,  and  which  must  for 
ever  have  precluded  me  from  indulging  the  first  wish  of  my  heart. 
The  moment,  literally  the  moment  I  was  at  liberty,  I  hastened 
hither,  to  declare  my  real  sentiments,  and  to  solicit  your  permis- 
sion to  address  your  daughter.  But  before  I  can  expect  that 
permission,  before  I  can  hope  for  your  approbation  of  my  suit — 
an  approbation  which,  I  am  well  aware,  must  depend  entirely 

5 


IK)  patronaue;. 

upon  your  opinion  of  my  character — I  must,  to  explain  whatever 
may  have  appeared  unintelligible  in  my  conduct,  be  permitted  to 
make  you  fully  acquainted  with  the  circumstances  in  which  I 
have  been  placed." 

Beginning  with  the  history  of  his  father's  letters  and  his  own, 
respecting  the  projected  marriage  with  the  Countess  Christina, 
he  related,  nearly  as  follows,  all  that  passed,  after  his  having,  in 
obedience  to  his  father's  summons,  returned  home.  He  found 
contracts  drawn  up  and  ready  for  his  signature — the  friends  of 
both  families  apprized  of  the  proposed  alliance,  and  every  thing 
actually  prepared  for  his  marriage.  Remonstrances  with  his 
father  were  vain.  Tlie  old  Count  said  that  it  was  impossible  to 
break  off  the  match,  that  his  honour  and  the  honour  of  his  house 
was  pledged.  But  independently  of  all  promises,  he  considered 
the  accomplishment  of  this  marriage  as  most  desirable  and  ad- 
vantageous: with  all  the  vehemence  of  affection,  and  all  the 
force  of  parental  authority,  he  charged  his  son  to  fulfil  his  engage- 
ments. The  old  Count  was  a  fond  but  an  imperious  father;  a 
good  but  an  ambitious  man.  It  was  his  belief  that  love  is  such 
a  transient  passion,  that  it  is  folly  to  sacrifice  to  its  indulgence 
any  of  the  solid  and  permanent  interests  of  life.  His  experience 
at  courts,  and  his  observation  on  the  gallantries  of  young  princes 
and  nobles,  had  taught  him  to  believe  that  love  is  not  only  a 
transient,  but  a  variable  and  capricious  feeling,  easily  changing 
its  object,  and  subsisting  only  by  novelty.  All  that  his  son  said 
of  his  attachment  to  Caroline,  of  the  certainty  of  its  permanence, 
and  of  its  being  essential  to  the  happiness  of  his  life,  the  father 
heard  but  as  the  common  language  of  every  enamoured  youth. 
He  let  his  son  speak  without  interruption,  but  smiled  incredu- 
lous, and  listened  only  as  to  the  voice  of  one  in  the  paroxysm  of 
a  passion,  which,  however  violent,  would  necessarily  subside. 
Between  the  fits,  he  endeavoured  to  control  the  fever  of  his  mind, 
and  as  a  spell  repeated  these  words,  "  Albert !  see  the  young 
Countess  Christina — ^but  once — I  ask  no  more." 

Albert,  with  the  respect  due  to  a  father,  but  with  the  firm- 
cess  due  to  himself,  and  with  all  the  courage  which  love  only 
could  have  given  to  oppose  the  authority  and  affection  of  a 
parent,  refused  to  ratify  the  contract  that  had  been  prepared, 
and  declined  the  proposed  interview.     He  doubted  not,  he  said 


that  the  lady  was  all  his  fathet  described^-4>ediatifulj  amiable, 
and  of  transcendant  talents ;  he  doubted  not  hex  power  to  win 
any  but  a  heart  already  won.  He  would  enter  into  no  invidious 
comparisons,  nor  bid  defiance  to  her  charms — his  own  choice 
was  made,  he  was  sure  of  his  constancy,  and  he  thought  it  not 
only  the  most  honourable  course,  but  the  most  respectful  to  the 
Lady  Christina,  ingenuously  at  once,  and  without  having  arty 
interview  with  her,  or  her  friends,  to  state  the  truth— that  the 
treaty  had  been  commenced  by  his  father  without  his  knowledge, 
and  carried  on  under  total  ignorance  of  an  attachment  he  had 
formed  in  England.  The  father,  after  some  expressions  of  anger 
and  disappointment,  was  silent,  and  appeared  to  acquiesce.  He 
no  longer  openly  urged  the  proposed  interview,  but  he  secretly 
■contrived  that  it  should  take  place.  At  a  masked  ball  at  court, 
Count  Albert  entered  into  conversation  with  a  Minerva,  whose 
majestic  air  and  figure  distinguished  her  above  her  companions, 
whose  language,  thoughts,  and  sentiments,  perfectly  sustained 
the  character  which  she  assumed.  He  was  struck  with  admi- 
ration by  her  talents,  and  by  a  certain  elevation  of  thought  and 
sentiment,  which,  in  all  she  said,  seemed  the  habitual  expression 
of  a  real  character,  not  the  strained  language  of  a  feigned  per- 
sonage. She  took  off  her  mask — he  was  dazzled  by  her  beauty. 
They  were  at  this  moment  surrounded  by  numbers  of  her  friends 
and  of  his,  who  were  watching  the  effect  produced  by  this  inter- 
view. His  father,  satisfied  by  the  admiration  he  saw  in  Count 
Albert's  countenance,  when  they  both  took  off  their  masks,  ap- 
proached and  whispered,  "  the  Countess  Christina."  Count 
Altenberg  grew  pale,  and  for  a  moment  stood  in  silent  con- 
sternation. The  lady  smiled  with  an  air  of  haughty  superiority, 
"which  in  some  degree  relieved  him,  by  calling  his  own  pride  to 
his  aid,  and  by  convincing  him  that  tenderness,  or  feminine 
timidity,  which  he  would  have  most  dreaded  to  wound,  were  not 
the  characteristics  of  her  mind.  He  instantly  asked  permission 
to  pay  his  respects  to  her  at  her  father's  palace  the  ensuing  day. 
She  changed  colour — darted  a  penetrating  glance  at  the  Count ; 
and  after  an  incomprehensible  and  quick  alternation  of  pleasure 
=and  pain  in  her  countenance,  she  replied,  that  '*  she  consented 
to  grant  Count  Alberi  Altenberg  that  interview  which  he  and 


62  PATRONAGE. 

their  mutual  friends  desired."     She  then  retired  with  friendt 
from  the  assemhly. 

In  spite  of  the  haughtiness  of  her  demeanour,  it  had  been 
obvious  that  she  had  desired  to  make  an  impression  upon  Count 
Albert ;  and  all  who  knew  her  agreed  that  she  had  never  on  any 
occasion  been  seen  to  exert  herself  so  much  to  shine  and  please. 
She  shone,  but  had  not  pleased.  The  father,  however,  was  con- 
tent; an  interview  was  promised — he  trusted  to  the  charms  and 
talents  of  the  Countess — ^he  trusted  to  her  flattering  desire  to 
captivate,  and  with  impatience  and  confidence,  he  waited  for  the 
event  of  the  succeeding  day.  Some  intervening  hours,  a  night 
of  feverish  and  agonizing  suspense,  would  have  been  spared  to 
Count  Albert,  had  he  at  this  time  known  any  thing  of  an  in- 
trigue— an  intrigue  which  an  artful  enemy  had  been  carrying  on, 
■with  design  to  mortify,  disgrace,  and  ruin  his  house.  The  plan 
was  worthy  of  him  by  whom  it  was  formed — M.  de  Tourville — 
a  person,  between  whom  and  Count  Albert  there  seemed  an  in- 
compatibility of  character,  and  even  of  manner;  an  aversion 
openly,  indiscreetly  shown  by  the  Count,  even  from  his  boyish 
years,  but  cautiously  concealed  on  the  part  of  M.  de  Tourville^ 
masked  in  courtly  smiles  and  a  diplomatic  air  of  perfect  con 
sideration.  Fear  mixed  with  M.  de  Tourville's  dislike.  He  was 
aware  that  if  Count  Albert  continued  in  confidence  with  the 
hereditary  prince,  he  would,  when  the  prince  should  assume  the 
reins  of  government,  become,  in  all  probability,  his  prime 
minister,  and  then  adieu  to  all  M.  de  Tourville's  hopes  of  rising 
to  favour  and  fortune.  Fertile  in  the  resources  of  intrigue,  gal- 
lant and  political,  he  combined  them,  upon  this  occasion,  with 
exquisite  address.  When  the  Countess  Christina  was  first  pre- 
sented at  court,  he  had  observed  that  the  Prince  was  struck  by 
her  beauty.  M.  de  Tourville  took  every  means  that  a  courtier 
well  knows  how  to  employ,  to  flatter  the  taste  by  which  he 
hoped  to  benefit.  In  secret  he  insinuated  into  the  lady's  ear 
that  she  was  admired  by  the  prince.  M.  de  Tourville  knew  her 
to  be  of  an  aspiring  character,  and  rightly  judged  that  ambition 
was  her  strongest  passion.  When  once  the  hope  of  captivating 
the  prince  had  been  suggested  to  her,  she  began  to  disdain  the 
proposed  alliance  with  the  house  of  Altenberg;  but  she  con- 


PAiaONAGE.  63 

cealed  this  disdain,  till  she  could  show  it  with  security :  she 
played  her  part  with  all  the  ahility,  foresight,  and  consummate 
prudence,  of  which  ambition,  undisturbed  by  love,  is  capable. 
Many  obstacles  opposed  her  views:  the 'projected  marriage  with 
Count  Albert  Altenberg — the  certainty  that  the  reigning  prince 
would  never  consent  to  his  son's  forming  an  alliance  with  the 
daughter  of  a  subject.  But  the  old  Prince  was  dying,  and  the 
Lady  Christina  calculated,  that  till  his  decease,  she  could  pro- 
tract the  time  appointed  for  her  marriage  with  Count  Albert. 
The  3'oung  Prince  might  then  break  off  the  projected  match, 
prevail  upon  the  Emperor  to  create  her  a  Princess  of  the  empire, 
and  then,  without  derogating  from  his  rank,  or  giving  offence  to 
German  ideas  of  propriety,  he  might  gratify  his  passion,  and 
accomplish  the  fulness  of  her  ambition.  Determined  to  take  no 
counsel  but  her  own,  she  never  opened  her  scheme  to  any  of  her 
friends,  but  pursued  her  plan  secretly,  in  concert  with  M.  de 
Tourville,  whom  she  considered  but  as  a  humble  instrument 
devoted  to  her  service.  He  all  the  while  considering  her  merely 
as  a  puppet,  played  by  his  art,  to  secure  at  once  the  purposes  of 
his  interest  and  of  his  hatred.  He  thought  he  foresaw  that 
Count  Albert  would  never  yield  his  intended  bride  peaceably  to 
his  prince — he  knew  nothing  of  the  Count's  attachment  in  Eng* 
land — the  Lady  Christina  was  charming — the  alliance  highly 
advantageous  to  the  house  of  Altenberg — the  breaking  off  such 
a  marriage,  and  the  disappointment  of  a  passion  which  he 
thought  the  young  Countess  couid  not  fail  to  inspire,  would,  as 
M.  de  Tourville  hoped,  produce  an  irreparable  breach  between 
the  Prince  and  his  favourite.  On  Count  Albert's  return  from 
England,  symptoms  of  alarm  and  jealousy  had  appeared  in  the 
Prince,  unmarked  by  all  but  by  the  Countess  Christina,  and  by 
the  confidant,  who  was  in  the  secret  of  his  passion. 

So  far  M.  de  Tourville's  scheme  had  prospered,  and  from  the 
character  of  the  hereditary  Prince,  it  was  likely  to  succeed  in  its 
ultimate  view.  He  was  a  Prince  of  good  dispositions,  but 
w-anting  in  resolution  and  civil  courage  :  capable  of  resisting  the 
allurements  of  pleasure  for  a  certain  time,  but  soon  weary  of 
painful  endurance  in  any  cause ;  with  a  taste  for  virtue,  but 
destitute  of  that  power  to  bear  and  forbear,  without  which  there 
bino  virtue:  a  hero,  when  supported  by  a  stronger  mind,  such 


04  TATRaNAGf:; 

as  that  of  his  friend,  Count  Albert;  but  relaxing  and  sinking  at 
once,  when  exposed  to  the  influence  of  a  flatterer  such  as  M.  de- 
Tourville  :  subject  to  exquisite  shame  and  self-reproach,  whenr 
he  had  acted  contrary  to  his  own  idea  of  right ;  yet,  from  the 
very  same  weakness  that  made  him  err,  disposed  to  be  obstinate 
in  error.  M.  de  Tourville  argued  well  from  his  knowledge  of  his 
character,  that  the  Prince,  enamoured  as  he  was  of  the  charms  of 
the  fair  Christina,  would  not  loi)g  be  able  to  resist  his  passion ;  and 
that  if  once  he  bi-oke  through  his  sense  of  honour,  and  declared, 
that  passion  to  the  destined  bride  of  his  friend,  he  would  ever 
afterwards  shun  and  detest  the  man  whom  he  had  injured.  All 
this  M.  de  Tourville  had  admirably  well  combined :  no  man 
understood  and  managed  better  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature, 
but  its  strength  he  could  not  so  well  estimate;  and  as  for  gene- 
rosity, as  he  could  not  believe  in  its  sincerity,  he  was  never 
prepared  for  its  effects.  The  struggles  which  the  Prince  made- 
against  his  passion  were  greater,  and  of  longer  duration,  than 
M.  de  Tourville  had  expected.  If  Count  Albert  had  continued 
absent,  the  Prince  might  have  been  brought  more  easily  to- 
betray  him ;  but  his  return  recalled,  in  the  midst  of  love  and 
jealousy,  the  sense  of  respect  he  had  for  the  superior  character 
of  this  friend  of  his  early  days :  he  knew  the  value  of  a  friend- 
even  at  the  moment  he  yielded  his  faith  to  a  flatterer.  He 
could  not  at  once  forfeit  the  esteem  of  the  being  who  esteemed 
him  most — ^he  could  not  sacrifice  the  interest,  and  as  he  thought, 
the  happiness,  of  the  man  who  loved  him  best.  The  attach- 
ment his  favourite  had  shown  him,  his  truth,  his  confiding 
openness  of  temper,  the  pleasure  in  his  countenance  when  he 
saw  him  first  upon  his  return  from  England,  all  these  operated 
on  the  heart  of  the  Prince,  and  no  declaration  of  his  passion 
had  been  made  at  the  time  when  the  appointed  interview  took 
place  between  Count  Albert  and  the  Countess  Christina  at 
her  father's  palace.  Her  friends  not  doubting  that  her  marriage 
was  on  the  ■eve  of  its  accomplishment,  had  no  scruple,  even  in 
that  court  of  etiquette,  in  permitting  the  affianced  lovere  to  have 
as  private  a  conference  as  each  seemed  to  desire.  The  lady's- 
manner  was  this  morning  most  alarmingly  gracious.  Count 
Albert  was,  however,  struck  by  a  difference  in  her  air  the 
moment  she  was  alone  with  him,   from  what  it  had  been  whilst 


PATRONAGE.  65 

in  the  presence  of  her  friends.  All  thiat  he  might  without  vanity 
have  interpreted  as  marking  a  desire  to  please,  to  show  him  favour, 
and  to  evince  her  approbation,  at  least,  of  the  choice  her  friends 
had  made  for  her,  vanished  the  moment  they  withdrew.  What 
her  motives  might  be.  Count  Altenberg  could  not  guess  j  but 
the  hope  he  now  felt,  that  she  was  not  really  inclined  to  consider 
him  with  partiality,  rendered  it  more  easy  to  enter  into  that 
explanation,  upon  which  he  was,  at  all  events,  resolved.  With 
all  the  delicacy  due  to  her  sex,  with  all  the  deference  due  to  her 
character,  and  all  the  softenings  by  which  politeness  can  soothe 
and  conciliate  pride,  he  revealed  to  the  Countess  Christina  the 
real  state  of  his  aiSections :  he  told  her  the  whole  truth,  con- 
cluding, by  repeating  the  assurance  of  his  belief,  that  her 
charms  and  merit  would  be  irresistible  to  any  heart  that  was- 
disengaged. 

The  lady  heard  him  in  astonishment:  for  this  turn  of  fate  she 
had  been  wholly  unprepared — the  idea  of  his  being  attached  to 
another  had  never  once  presented  itself  to  her  imagination  ;  she 
had  never  calculated  on  the  possibility  that  her  alliance  should  be 
declined  by  any  individual  of  a  family  less  than  sovereign.  She 
possessed,  however,  pride  of  character  superior  to  her  pride  of 
rank,  and  strength  of  mind  suited  to  the  loftiness  of  her  ambi- 
tion. With  dignity  in  her  air  and  countenance,  after  a  pause  of 
reflection,  she  replied,  "  Count  Albert  Altenberg  is,  I  find,  equal 
to  the  high  character  I  have  heard  of  him :  deserving  of  my 
esteem  and  confidence,  by  that  which  can  alone  command: 
esteem  and  merit  confidence — sincerity.  His  example  has 
recalled  me  to  my  nobler  self,  and  he  has,  in  this  moment,, 
rescued  me  from  the  labyrinth  of  a  diplomatist.  Count  Albert's 
sincerity  I — little  accustomed  to  imitation,  but  proud  to  foUaw 
in  what  is  good  and  great — shall  imitate.  Know  then,  sir,  that 
my  heart,  like  your  own,  is  engaged :  and  that  you  may  be 
convinced  I  do  not  mock  your  ear  with  the  semblance  of  confi- 
dence, I  shall,  at  whatever  hazard  to  myself,  trust  to  you  my 
secret.  My  affections  have  a  high  object — ai-e  fixed  upon  him^ 
whose  friend  and  favourite  Count  Albert  Altenberg  deservedly 
is.  I  should  scorn  myself — no  throne  upon  earth  could  raise 
me  in  my  own  opinion,  if  I  could  deceive  or  betray  the  man  wh*- 
has  treated  me  with  such  sincerity." 

Patronage, — ii. 


06  FATRONAGIE. 

Relieved  at  once  by  this  explanation,  and  admiring  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  made,  mingled  joy  and  admiration  were 
manifest  in  his  countenance ;  and  the  lady  forgave  him  the  joy, 
in  consideration  of  the  tribute  he  paid  to  her  superiority.  Ad- 
miration was  a  tribute  he  was  most  willing  to  yield  at  this 
moment,  when  released  from  that  engagement  to  love,  which  it 
had  been  impossible  for  him  to  fulfil. 

The  Countess  recalled  his  attention  to  her  affairs  and  to  his 
own.  Without  his  making  any  inquiry,  she  told  him  all  that 
had  been  done,  and  all  that  yet  remained  to  be  done,  for  the 
accomplishment  of  her  hopes:  she  had  been  assured,  she  said, 
by  one  now  in  the  favour  and  private  confidence  of  the  here- 
ditary prince,  that  his  inclination  for  her  was — ^painfully  and 
with  struggles,  which,  in  her  eyes,  made  his  royal  heart 
worthy  her  conquest — suppressed  by  a  sense  of  honour  to  his 
friend. 

"This  conflict  would  now  cease,"  Count  Albert  said.  "It 
should  be  his  immediate  care  to  relieve  his  Prince  from  all  diffi- 
culty on  his  account." 

"  By  what  means  ?"  the  Countess  asked. 

"  Simply  by  informing  him  of  the  truth — as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. Your  secret,  madam,  is  safe — ^your  confidence  sacred. 
Of  all  that  concerns  myself — my  own  attachment,  and  the 
resignation  of  any  pretensions  that  might  interfere  with  his,  he 
shall  immediately  be  acquainted  with  the  whole  truth." 

The  Countess  coloured,  and  repeating  the  words,  "  tite  whah 
truth,"  looked  disconcertedj  and  in  great  perplexity  replied, 
that  Count  Albert's  speaking  to  the  Prince  directly — his  imme- 
diate resignation  of  his  pretensions — would,  perhaps,  defeat  her 
plans.  This  was  not  the  course  she  had  intended  to  pursue — 
far  from  that  which  M.  de  Tourville  had  pointed  out.  After 
some  moments'  reflection,  she  said,  "  I  abide  by  the  truth — 
speak  to  the  prince — be  it  so  :  I  trust  to  your  honour  and 
discretion  to  speak  to  him  in  such  terms  as  not  to  implicate  me, 
to  commit  my  delicacy,  or  to  derogate  from  my  dignity.  We 
shall  see  then  whether  he  loves  me  as  I  desire  to  be  loved.  If 
he  does,  he  will  free  me,  at  once,  from  all  difficulty  with  my 
friends,  for  he  will  speak  en  prince — and  not  speak  in  vain  ;  if 
he  loves  me  not,  I  need  not  tell  you,  sir.  that  you  are  equally 


PATRONAGE.  67 

free.     My  friends  shall  be  convinced  that  I  "will  never  be  the 
bride  of  any  other  man." 

After  the  explanation  with  the  Lady  Christina,  Count  Albert 
lost  no  time ;  he  went  instantly  to  the  palace.  In  his  way 
thither,  he  was  met  by  one  of  the  pages,  who  told  him  the 
Prince  desired  to  see  him  immediately.  He  found  the  Prince 
alone.  Advancing  to  meet  him,  with  great  effort  in  his  manner 
to  command  his  emotion,  the  Prince  said,  "  I  have  sent  for  you, 
Count  Albert,  to  give  you  a  proof  that  the  friendship  of  Princes 
is  not,  in  every  instance,  so  vain  a  thing  as  it  is  commonly 
believed  to  be.  Mine  for  you  has  withstood  strong  temptation : 
—you  come  from  the  Countess  Christina,  I  believe,  and  can 
measure,  better  than  any  one,  the  force  of  that  temptation. 
Know,  that  in  your  absence  it  has  been  my  misfortune  to  become 
passionately  enamoured  of  your  destined  bride ;  but  I  have  never, 
either  by  word  or  look,  directly  or  indirectly,  infringed  on  what  I 
felt  to  be  due  to  your  friendship  and  to  my  own  honour.  Never 
did  I  give  her  the  slighest  intimation  of  my  passion,  never 
attempted  to  take  any  of  the  advantages  which  my  situation 
might  be  supposed  to  give." 

Count  Albert  had  just  received  the  most  convincing  testimony 
corroborating  these  assertions — ^he  was  going  to  express  his 
sense  of  the  conduct  of  his  Prince,  and  to  explain  his  own 
situation,  but  the  Prince  went  on  speaking  with  the  eagerness  of 
one  who  fears  his  own  resolution,  who  has  to  say  something 
which  he  dreads  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  resume  or  finish, 
if  his  feelings  should  meet  with  any  interruption. 

"And  now  let  me,  as  your  friend  and  prince,  congratulate 
you.  Count  Albert,  on  your  happiness ;  and,  with  the  same  sin- 
cerity, I  request  that  your  marriage  may  not  be  delayed,  and  that 
you  will  take  your  bride  immediately  away  from  my  father's  court. 
Time  will,  I  hope,  render  her  presence  less  dangerous;  time 
will,  I  hope,  enable  me  to  enjoy  your  society  in  safety ;  and 
when  it  shall  become  my  duty  to  govern  this  state,  I  shall  hope 
for  the  assistance  of  your  talents  and  integrity,  and  shall  hav^ 
deserved,  in  some  degree,  your  attachment." 

The  Count,  in  the  strongest  manner,  expressed  his  gratitude 
to  his  Prince  for  these  proofs  of  his  regard,  given  under  circum 
«tances  the  most  trying  to  the  human  heart.     He  felt,  at  thit 


08  PATRONAGK. 

instant,  exquisite  pleasure  in  revealing  to  his  highness  the 
truth,  in  showing  him  that  the  sacrifice  he  had  so  honourahly^ 
so  generously  determined  to  make,  was  not  requisite,  that  their 
affections  were  fixed  on  different  objects,  that  before  Count 
Albert  had  any  idea  of  the  prince's  attachment  to  the  Lady 
Christina,  it  had  been  his  ardent  wish,  his  determination,  at  all 
hazards,  to  break  off  engagements  which  he  could  not  fulfil. 

The  Prince  was  in  rapturous  joy — all  his  ease  of  manner 
towards  his  friend  returned  instantly,  his  affection  and  confidence 
flowed  in  full  tide.  Proud  of  himself,  and  happy  in  the  sense  of 
the  imminent  danger  from  which  he  had  escaped,  he  now  de- 
scribed the  late  conflicts  his  heart  had  endured  with  the 
eloquence  of  self-complacency,  and  with  that  sense  of  relief 
which  is  felt  in  speaking  on  the  most  interesting  of  all  subjects 
to  a  faithful  friend  from  whom  a  secret  has  been  painfully  con- 
cealed. The  Prince  now  thre^y  open  every  thought,  every 
feeling  of  his  mind.  Count  Altenberg  rose  higher  than  ever  in 
his  favour :  not  the  temporary  favourite  of  the  moment — the 
companion  of  pleasures — the  flatterer  of  present  passion  or 
caprice ;  but  the  friend  in  whom  there  is  certainty  of  sympathy, 
and  security  of  counsel.  The  Prince,  confiding  in  Count  Albert's 
zeal  and  superior  powers,  now  took  advice  from  him,  and  made 
a  confidant  no  longer  of  M.  de  Toxirville.  The  very  means 
which  that  intriguing  courtier  had  taken  to  undermine  the  Count 
thus  eventually  proved  the  cause  of  establishing  more  firmly  his 
credit.  The  plain  sincerity  of  the  Count,  and  the  generous 
magnanimity  of  the  lady,  at  once  disconcerted  and  destroyed 
the  artful  plan  of  the  diplomatist.  M.  de  Tourville's  disap- 
pointment when  he  heard  from  the  Countess  Christina  the  result 
of  her  interview  with  Count  Albert,  and  the  reproaches  which  in 
that  moment  of  vexation  he  could  not  refrain  from  uttering 
against  the  lady  for  having  departed  from  their  plan,  and  having 
trusted  to  the  Count,  imveiled  to  her  tlie  meanness  of  his 
character  and  the  baseness  of  his  designs.  She  plainly  saw 
that  his  object  had  been  not  to  assist  her  love,  but  to  gratify  his 
own  hate  :  not  merely  to  advance  his  own  fortvme — that,  she 
knew,  must  be  the  first  object  of  every  courtier — but  "  to  rise 
upon  the  ruins  of  another's  fame  ;"  and  this,  she  determined, 
should  never  be  accomplished  by  her  assistance,  or  with  her 


PATRONAaS.  69 

connivance.     She  put  Count  Albert  on  his  guard  against  this 
insidious  enemy. 

The  Count,  grateful  to  the  lady,  yet  biassed  neither  by  hope  of 
her  future  favour  nor  by  present  desire  to  please,  firm  in  honour 
and  loyalty  to  the  Prinee  who  asked  his  counsel,  carefully  studied 
the  character  of  the  Countess  Christina,  to  determine  whether  she 
possessed  the  qualities  fit  for  the  high  station  to  which  love  was 
impatient  that  she  should  be  elevated.  When  he  was  convinced 
that  her  character  was  such  as  was  requisite  to  ensure  the  pri- 
vate happiness  of  the  prince,  to  excite  him  to  the  attainment  of 
true  glory — then,  and  not  till  then,  he  decidedly  advised  the 
marriage,  and  zealously  offered  any  assistance  in  his  power  to- 
promote  the  union.  The  hereditary  Prince  about  this  time 
became,  by  the  death  of  his  father,  sole  master  of  his  actions ; 
but  it  was  not  prudent  to  begin  his  government  with  an  act  in 
open  defiance  of  the  prejudices  or  customs  of  his  country.  By 
these  customs,  he  could  not  marry  any  woman  under  the  rank  of 
a  Princess ;  and  the  Emperor  had  been  known  to  refuse  con- 
ferring this  rank,  even  on  favourites  of  powerful  potentates,  by 
whom  he  had  been  in  the  most  urgent  manner  solicited.  Count 
Albert  Altenberg  stood  high  in  the  esteem  of  the  Emperor,  at 
whose  court  he  had  spent  some  time  ;  and  his  prince  now  com- 
missioned him  to  g^  to  Vienna,  and  endeavour  to  move  the 
Emperor  to  concede  this  point  in  his  favour.  This  embassy  was 
a  new  and  terrible  delay  to  the  Count's  anxious  desire  of  return- 
ing to  England.  But  he  had  offered  his  services,  and  he  gave- 
them  generously.  He  repaired  to  Vienna,  and  persevering 
through  many  diflBculties,  at  length  succeeded  in  obtaining  for 
the  Countess  the  rank  of  Princess.  The  attachment  of  the  Prince 
was  then  publicly  declared — the  marriage  was  solemnized — all 
approved  of  the  Prince's  choice — all — except  the  envious,  who- 
never  approve  of  the  happy.  Coimt  Albert  received,  both  from 
the  Prince  and  Princess,  the  highest  marks  of  esteem  and  favour, 
M.  de  Tourville,  detected  and  despised,  retired  from  court  in 
disgrace  and  in  despair. 

Immediately  after  his  marriage,  the  Prince  declared  his  inten- 
tion of  appointing  Count  Albert  Altenberg  his  prime  minister ; 
but  before  he  entered  on  the  duties  of  his  office,  and  the  very 


to  PATRONAGE. 

moment  that  he  could  be  spared  by  his  Prince,  he  asked  and 
obtained  permission  to  return  to  England,  to  the  lady  on  whom 
his  affections  were  fixed.  The  old  Count,  his  father,  satisfied 
with  the  turn  which  affairs  had  taken,  and  gratified  in  his  utmost 
ambition  by  seeing  his  son  minister  of  state,  now  willingly  per- 
mitted him  to  follow  his  own  inclination  in  the  choice  of  a  wife. 
"And,"  concluded  Count  Albert,  "my  father  rejoices  that  my 
heart  is  devoted  to  an  Englishwoman :  having  himself  married  an 
English  lady,  he  knows,  from  experience,  how  to  appreciate  the 
domestic  merits  of  the  ladies  of  England ;  he  is  prepossessed  in 
their  favour.  He  agrees,  indeed,  with  foreignei-s  of  every  nation, 
who  have  had  opportunities  of  judging,  and  who  all  allow  that 
— next  to  their  own  countrywomen — the  English  are  the  most 
charming  and  the  most  amiable  women  in  the  world." 

When  the  Count  had  finished,  and  had  pronounced  this  pane- 
gyric of  a  nation,  while  he  thought  only  of  an  individual,  he 
paused,  anxious  to  know  what  eflfect  his  narrative  had  produced 
on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy. 

He  was  gratified  both  by  their  words  and  looks,  which  gave 
him  full  assurance  of  their  entire  satisfaction. 

"  And  since  he  had  done  them  the  honour  of  appealing  to  their 
opinion,  they  might  be  permitted  to  add  their  complete  approba- 
tion of  every  part  of  his  conduct,  in  the  diflScult  circumstances  in 
which  he  had  been  placed.  They  were  fully  sensible  of  the  high 
honour  that  such  a  man  as  Count  Altenberg  conferred  on  their 
daughter  by  his  preference.  As  to  the  rest,  they  must  refer  him 
to  Caroline  herself."  Mr.  Percy  said  with  a  grave  voice,  but 
with  a  smile  from  which  the  Count  augured  well,  "  that  even  for 
the  most  advantageous  and,  in  his  opinion,  desirable  connexion, 
he  would  not  influence  his  daughter's  inclination. — Caroline  must 
decide." 

The  Count,  with  all  the  persuasive  tenderness  and  energy  of 
truth  and  love,  pleaded  his  own  cause,  and  was  heard  by  Caro- 
line with  a  modest,  dignified,  ingenuous  sensibility,  which  in- 
creased his  passion.  Her  partiality  was  now  heightened  by  her 
conviction  of  the  strength  and  steadiness  of  his  attachment ;  but 
whilst  she  acknowledged  how  high  he  stood  in  her  esteem,  and 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  impression  he  had  made  on  l^r 


PATRONAQE.  71 

heart,  yet  he  saw  that  she  dreaded  to  yield  to  the  passion  which 
must  at  last  require  from  her  the  sacrifice  of  her  home,  country, 
friends,  and  parents.  As  long  as  the  idea  of  being  united  to  him 
was  faint  and  distant,  so  was  the  fear  of  the  sacrifices  that  union 
might  demand ;  but  now,  the  hope,  the  fear,  the  certainty,  at 
once  pressed  on  her  heart  with  the  most  agitating  urgency. 
The  Count  as  far  as  possible  relieved  her  mind  by  the  assurance, 
that  though  his  duty  to  his  Prince  and  his  father,  that  though  all 
his  private  and  public  connexions  and  interests  obliged  him  to 
reside  some  time  in  Germany,  yet  that  he  could  occasionally 
visit  England,  that  he  should  seize  every  opportunity  of  visiting 
a  country  he  preferred  to  all  others ;  and,  for  his  own  sake,  he 
should  cultivate  the  friendship  of  her  family,  as  each  individual- 
was  in  different  ways  suited  to  his  taste  and  stood  high  in  his 
esteem. 

Caroline  listened  with  fond  anxiety  to  these  hopes :  she  was 
willing  to  believe  in  promises  which  she  was  convinced  were 
made  with  entire  sincerity ;  and  when  her  affections  had  been 
wrought  to  this  point,  when  her  resolution  was  once  determined, 
she  never  afterwards  tormented  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
attached,  with  wavering  doubts  and  scruples. 

Count  Altenberg's  promise  to  his  prince  obliged  him  to  return 
at  an  appointed  time.  Caroline  wished  that  time  had  been  more 
distant ;  she  would  have  delighted  in  spending  the  spring-time  of 
love  in  the  midst  of  those  who  had  formed  till  now  all  the 
happiness  of  her  life — with  her  parents,  to  whom  she  owed 
every  thing,  to  whom  her  gratitude  was  as  warm,  as  strong,  as 
her  affection — with  her  beloved  sister,  who  had  sympathized  sa 
tenderly  in  all  her  sorrow,  and  who  ardently  wished  to  have 
some  time  allowed  to  enjoy  her  happiness.  Caroline  felt  aU 
this,  but  she  felt  too  deeply  to  display  feeling :  sensible  of  what 
the  duty  and  honour  of  Count  Altenberg  demanded,  she  asked  for 
no  delay. 

The  first  letters  that  were  written  to  announce  her  intended 
marriage  were  to  Mrs.  Hungerford  and  to  Lady  Jane  Granville. 
And  it  may  be  recorded  as  a  fact  rather  unusual,  that  Caroline 
was  so  fortunate  as  to  satisfy  all  her  friends :  not  to  offend  one 
of  her  relations,  by  telling  any  too  soon,  or  too  late,  of  her 
intentions.     In  fact,  she  made  no  secret,  no  mystery,  whert 


72  PATRONAOE. 

none  was  required  by  good  sense  or  propriety.  Nor  did  she 
communicate  it  under  a  strict  injunction  of  secrecy  to  twenty 
friends,  who  were  afterwards  each  to  be  angry  with  the  other  for 
■having,  or  not  having,  told  that  of  which  they  were  forbidden  to 
speak.  The  order  of  precedency  in  Caroline's  confidential  com- 
munications was  approved  of  even  by  all  the  parties  concerned. 
Mrs.  Hungerford  was  at  Pembroke  with  her  nieces  when  she 
received  Caroline's  letter :  her  answer  was  as  follows  : 


'*MY    DEAR    CHII.D, 

"  I  am  ten  years  younger  since  I  read  your  letter,  therefore 
■do  not  be  surprised  at  the  quickness  of  my  motions — I  shall  be 
with  you  at  the  Hills,  in  town,  or  wherever  you  are,  as  soon  as 
it  is  possible,  after  you  let  me  know  when  and  where  I  can 
embrace  you  and  our  dear  Count.  At  the  marriage  of  my  niece. 
Lady  Mary  Barclay,  your  mother  will  remember  that  I  prayed 
to  Heaven  I  might  live  to  see  my  beloved  Caroline  united  to  the 
man  of  her  choice — I  am  grateful  that  this  blessing,  this  comple- 
tion of  all  my  earthly  hopes  and  happiness,  has  been  granted  to 
me. 

"M.  Elizabeth  Hungerford." 

The  answer  of  Lady  Jane  Granville  came  next. 

"  Confidential. 

"  This  is  the  last  confidential  letter  I  shall  ever  be  able  to 
write  to  you — for  a  married  woman's  lettei's,  you  know,  or  you 
will  soon  know,  become,  like  all  the  rest  of  her  property,  subject 
to  her  husband— excepting  always  the  secrets  of  which  she  was 
possessed  before  marriage,  which  do  not  go  into  the  common 
«tock,  if  she  be  a  woman  of  honour— so  I  am  safe  with  you, 
Caroline ;  and  any  erroneous  opinion  I  might  have  formed,  oo* 
any  hasty  expressions  I  may  have  lee  drop,  about  a  certain 
Count,  you  will  bury  in  oblivion,  and  never  let  me  see  you  look 
even  as  if  you  recollected  to  have  heard  them. 

**  You  were  right,  my  dear,  in  that  whole  business — I  was 
wrong ;  and  all  I  can  say  for  myself  is,  that  I  was  wrong  with 
the  best  possible  intentions.     I   now  congratulate  you  with  as 


PATRONAGE.  73 

sincere  joy,  as  if  this  charming  match  had  been  made  by  my 
advice,  under  my  chaperonagej  and  by  favour  of  thsit  patronoffe 
of  fashion,  of  which  I  know  your  father  thinks  that  both  my  head 
and  heart  are  full ;  there  he  is  only  half  right,  after  all :  so  do 
not  let  him  be  too  proud.  I  will  not  allow  that  my  heart  is  ever 
wrong,  certainly  not  where  you  are  concerned. 

"  I  am  impatient,  my  dear  Caroline,  to  see  your  Count  Alten- 
berg.  I  heard  him  most  highly  spoken  of  yesterday  by  a  Polish 
nobleman,  whom  I  met  at  dinner  at  the  Duke  of  Greenwich's. 
Is  it  true,  that  the  Count  is  to  be  prime  minister  of  the  Prince  of 
*  *  *  ?  The  Duke  of  Greenwich  asked  me  this  question,  and 
I  promised  I  would  let  his  grace  know  from  the  best  possible 
authority — but  I  did  not  commit  you. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,  for  my  own  interest.  If  you  have  really 
And  cordially  forgiven  me,  for  having  so  rashly  said,  upon  a  late 
occasion,  that  I  would  never  forgive  you,  prove  to  me  your 
placability  and  your  sincerity — use  your  all-powerful  influence 
to  obtain  for  me  a  favour  on  which  I  have  set  my  heart.  Will 
you  prevail  on  all  your  house  to  come  up  to  town  directly,  and 
take  possession  of  mine?  —  Count  Altenberg,  you  say,  has 
business  to  transact  with  ministers :  whilst  this  is  going  on,  and 
whilst  the  lawyers  are  settling  preliminaries,  where  can  you  all 
be  better  than  with  me?  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  make  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Percy  feel  as  much  at  home,  in  one  hour's  time,  as  I 
found  myself  the  first  evening  after  my  arrival  at  the  Hills  some 
years  ago. 

"  I  know  the  Hungerfords  will  press  you  to  go  to  them,  and 
Alfred  and  Mrs.  A.  Percy  will  -plead  nearest  of  kin — I  can  only 
throw  myself  upon  your  generosity.  The  more  inducements 
you  have  to  go  to  other  friends,  the  more  I  shall  feel  gratified 
and  obliged,  if  you  favour  me  with  this  proof  of  your  preference 
and  affection.  Indulge  me,  my  dear  Caroline,  perhaps  for  the 
last  time,  with  your  company,  of  which,  believe  me,  I  have, 
though  a  woman  of  the  world,  sense  and  feeling  sufficient  fully 
to  appreciate  the  value.  Yours  /at  all  events),  ever  and  affec- 
tionately, 

"J.  Granville. 
**  l^pring  Gardeas — TtiescU 


74  PATRONAGE. 

"  P.  S. — t  hope  your  father  is  of  my  opinion,  that  weddings, 
especially  among  persons  of  a  certain  rank  of  life,  ought  alway» 
to  be  ptcblicj — attended  by  the  friends  and  connexions  of  the 
families,  and  conducted  with  something  of  the  good  old  aristo- 
cratic formality,  pomp,  and  state,  of  former  times." 

Lady  Jane  Granville's  polite  and  urgent  request  was  granted. 
Caroline  and  all  her  family  had  pleasure  in  showing  Lady  Jane 
that  they  felt  grateful  for  her  kindness. 

Mr.  Temple  obtained  permission  from  Lord  Oldborough  to 
accompaiiy  the  Percys  to  town  ;  and  it  was  settled  that  Rosa- 
mond and  Caroline  should  be  married  on  the  same  day. 

But  the  morning  after  their  arrival  in  London,  Mr.  Temple 
appeared  with  a  countenance  very  unlike  that  which  had  been 
seen  the  night  before — Hope  and  joy  had  fled. — All  pale  and  in. 
consternation ! — Rosamond  was  ready  to  die  with  terror.  She  was 
lelieved  when  he  declared  that  the  evil  related  only  to  his 
fortune.  The  place  that  had  been  promised  to  him  was  given, 
indeed — the  word  of  promise  was  kept  to  the  ear — ^but  by  some 
management,  either  of  Lord  Skreene's  or  Lord  Skrimpshire's,  the 
place  had  been  saddled  with  a  pension  to  the  widow  of  the 
gentleman  by  whom  it  had  been  previously  held,  and  the 
amount  of  this  pension  was  such  as  to  reduce  the  profits  of  the 
place  to  an  annual  income  by  no  means  sufficient  to  secure 
independence,  or  even  competence,  to  a  married  man.  Mr. 
Temple  knew  that  when  the  facts  were  stated  to  Lord  Old- 
borough,  his  lordship  would,  by  his  representations  to  the 
highest  authority,  obtain  redress ;  but  the  secretary  was  un- 
willing to  implicate  him  in  this  disagreeable  affair,  unwilling  to 
trouble  his  tranquillity  again  with  court  intrigues,  especially,  as 
Mr.  Temple  said,  where  his  own  personal  interest  alone  was 
concerned — at  any  rate  this  business  must  delay  his  marriage. 
Count  Altenberg  could  not  possibly  defer  the  day  named  for  his 
wedding— despatches  from  the  continent  pressed  the  absolute 
necessity  of  his  return.  Revolutionary  symptoms  had  again 
appeared  in  the  city — his  prince  could  not  dispense  with  his 
services.     His  honour  was  at  stake. 

Mr.  'I'emple  did  not  attempt  or  pretend  to  bear  his  disappoint- 


PATRONAGE.  75 

ment  like  a  philosopher :  he  bore  it  like  a  lover,  "that  is  to  say, 
very  ill.  Rosamond,  poor  Rosamond,  rallied  him  with  as  much 
gaiety  as  she  could  command  with  a  very  heavy  heart. 

After  a  little  time  for  reflection,  her  good  sense,  which,  when 
called  upon  to  act,  never  failed  to  guide  her  conduct,  induced 
her  to  exert  decisive  influence  to  prevent  Mr.  Temple  from 
breaking  out  into  violent  complaints  against  those  in  power,  by 
whom  he  had  been  ill-treated. 

The  idea  of  being  married  on  the  same  day  with  her  sister, 
she  said,  after  all,  was  a  mere  childish  fancy,  for  which  no  solid 
advantage  should  be  hazarded ;  therefore  she  conjured  her  lover, 
not  in  heat  of  passion  to  precipitate  things,  but  patiently  to  wait 
—to  return  and  apply  to  Lord  Oldborough,  if  he  should  find 
that  the  representations  he  had  already  made  to  Lord  Skrimp- 
shire  failed  of  effect.  With  much  reluctance,  Mr.  Temple 
submitted  to  postpone  the  day  promised  for  his  marriage ;  but 
both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy  so  strongly  supported  Rosamond's 
arguments,  that  he  was  compelled  to  be  prudent.  Rosamond 
now  thought  only  of  her  sister's  approaching  nuptials.  Mrs. 
Hungerford  and  Mrs.  Mortimer  arrived  in  town,  and  all  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Percy's  troops  of  friends  gathered  round  them  for  this 
joyful  occasion. 

Lady  Jane  Granville  was  peculiarly  happy  in  finding  that  Mr. 
Percy  agreed  with  her  in  opinion  that  marriages  ought  to  be 
publicly  solemnized ;  and  rejoiced  that,  when  Caroline  should  be 
led  to  the  altar  by  the  man  of  her  choice,  she  would  feel  that 
choice  sanctioned  by  the  approbation  of  her  assembled  family 
and  friends.  Lady  Jane  justly  observed,  that  it  was  advantageous 
to  mark  as  strongly  as  possible  the  difference  between  marriages 
with  consent  of  friends,  and  clandestine  unions,  which  from  their 
very  nature  must  always  be  as  private  as  possible. 

If  some  little  love  of  show,  and  some  aristocratic  pride  of 
family,  mixed  with  Lady  Jane's  good  sense  upon  this  as  upon 
most  other  occasions,  the  truly  philosophic  will  be  inclined  to 
pardon  her ;  for  they  best  know  how  much  of  all  the  principles 
which  form  the  strength  and  happiness  of  society,  depends  upon 
-mixed  motives. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy,  grateful  to  Lady  Jane,  ^nd  willing  -to 


76  PATRONAGE. 

indulge  her  afFection  in  its   own  way,  gratified  her  with  per- 
mission to  arrange  the  whole  ceremonial  of  the  wedding. 

Now  that  Rosamond's  marriage  was  postponed,  she  claimed 
first  right  to  be  her  sister's  bridemaid ;  Lady  Florence  Pembroke, 
Mrs.  Hungerford's  niece,  had  made  her  request,  and  obtained 
Caroline's  promise,  to  be  the  second ;  and  these  were  all  that 
Caroline  desired  to  have :  but  Lady  Jane  Granville  evidently 
wished  for  the  honour  and  glory  of  Lady  Frances  Arlington  for 
a  third,  because  she  was  niece  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich ;  and 
besides,  as  Lady  Jane  pleaded,  "  though  a  little  selfish,  she 
really  would  have  been  generous,  if  she  had  not  been  spoiled : 
to  be  sure,  she  cared  in  general  for  no  one  but  herself;  yet  she 
absolutely  showed  particular  interest  about  Caroline.  Besides, 
her  ladyship  had  set  her  heart  upon  the  matter,  and  never  would 
forgive  a  disappointment  of  a  fancy."  Her  ladyship's  request 
was  granted.  Further  than  this  affair  of  the  three  bridemaids 
we  know  not — there  is  no  record  concerning  who  were  the  bride- 
men.  But  before  we  come  to  the  wedding-day,  we  think  it 
necessary  to  mention,  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  prudent  part  of 
the  world,  that  the  settlements  were  duly  signed,  sealed,  and 
delivered,  in  the  presence  of  proper  witnesses. 

At  the  moment  of  recording  this  fact,  we  are  well  aware  that 
as  much  as  we  shall  gain  in  the  esteem  of  the  old,  we  shall  lose 
in  the  opinion  of  the  young.  We  must  therefore  be  satisfied  with 
the  nod  of  approbation  from  parents,  and  must  endure  the  smile 
of  scorn  from  lovers.     We  know  that 

"  Jointure,  portion,  gold,  estate, 

Houses,  household-stuff,  or  land, 
The  low  conveniences  of  fate, 
Are  Greek,  no  lovers  undei-stanu.'* 

We  regret  that  we  cannot  gratify  some  of  our  courteous 
readers  with  a  detailed  account  of  the  marriage  of  Caroline  and 
Count  Altenberg,  with  a  description  of  the  wedding-dresses,  or 
a  list  of  the  company,  who,  after  the  ceremony,  partook  of  an 
elegant  collation  at  Lady  Jane  Granville's  house  in  Spring- 
Gardens.  We  lament  that  we  cannot  even  furnish  a  paragraph 
in  honour  of  Count  Altenberg's  equipage. 


PATRONAGE.  77 

After  all  their  other  friends  had  made  their  coDgratulations, 
had  taken  leave  of  Caroline,  and  had  departed,  Mrs.  Hungerford 
and  Mrs.  Mortimer  still  lingered. 

'*  I  know,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Hungerford,  "  I  ought  to  resign 
you,  in  these  last  moments,  to  your  parents,  your  brothers,  your 
own  Rosamond ;  yet  I  have  some  excuse  for  my  selfishness-— 

they  will  see  you  again,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  often But  I! — that 

is  not  in  the  course  of  nature  :  the  blessing  I  scarcely  could  have 
expected  to  live  to  enjoy  has  been  granted  to  me.  And  now 
that  I  have  seen  you  united  to  one  worthy  of  you,  one  who  knows 
your  value,  I  am  content — I  am  grateful.  Farewell,  again  and 
again,  my  beloved  Caroline,  may  every  — — " 

Tears  spoke  the  rest.  Turning  from  Caroline,  she  leaned  on 
Count  Altenberg's  arm ;  as  he  conducted  her  to  her  carriage,. 
"  You  are  a  happy  man.  Count  Altenberg,"  said  she  :  "  forgive 
me,  if  I  am  not  able  to  congratulate  you  as  I  ought Daugh- 
ter Mortimer,  you  know  my  heart — speak  forme,  if  you  can." 

Count  Altenberg  was  more  touched  by  this  strong  affection 
for  Caroline  than  he  could  have  been  by  any  congratulatory 
compliments  to  himself.  After  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Hungerford 
and  Mrs.  Mortimer,  came  the  separation  so  much  dreaded  by  all 
the  famUy,  for  which  all  stood  prepared.  Despising  and  de- 
testing the  display  of  sensibility,  they  had  fortified  themselves 
for  this  moment  with  all  their  resolution,  and  each  struggled  to 
repress  their  own  feelings. 

Count  Altenberg  had  delayed  till  the  last  moment.  It  was 
now  necessary  that  they  should  set  out.  Caroline,  flushed 
crimson  to  the  very  temples  one  instant,  and  pale  the  next, 
commanded  with  the  utmost  effort  her  emotion ;  Rosamond, 
unable  to  repress  hers,  clung  to  her  sister  weeping.  Caroline's 
lips  quivered  with  a  vain  attempt  to  speak — she  could  only 
embrace  Rosamond  repeatedly,  and  then  her  mother.  Her 
father  pressed  her  to  his  bosom — ^blessed  her — and  then  drawing 
her  arm  within  his,  led  her  to  her  husband. 

As  they  passed  through  the  hall,  the  faithful  housekeeper,  and 
the  old  steward,  who  had  come  from  the  country  to  the  marriage, 
pressed  forward,  in  hopes  of  a  last  look.  Caroline  stopped,  and 
took  leave  of  each.  She  was  able,  though  with  difficulty,  to- 
speak,  and  she  thanked  them  for  all  the  services  and  kindnesa. 


T8 


PATRONAGE. 


she  had  received  Irom  them  from  childhood  to  this  hour :  then 
her  father  led  her  to  the  carriage. 

"  It  is  the  order  of  nature,  my  dear  child,"  said  he  :  "  we  are 
fond  but  not  selfish  parents ;  your  happiness  is  gained  by  the 
sacrifice,  and  we  can  part  with  you." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

'Some  sage  moralist  has  observed,  that  even  in  the  accomplishment 
■of  our  most  ardent  wishes  in  this  world,  there  is  always  some 
<urcumstance  that  disappoints  our  expectations,  or  mixes  some- 
what of  pain  with  the  joy.  "This  is  perfectly  true,"  thought 
Rosamond.  "  Hdw  often  have  I  wished  for  Caroline's  marriage 
"with  Count  Altenberg — and  now  she  is  married — really  married 
— and  gone !" 

It  had  passed  with  the  rapidity  of  a  dream  :  the  hurry  of  joy, 
the  congratulations — all,  all  was  over ;  and  in  sad  silence,  Rosa- 
mond felt  the  reality  of  her  loss — by  Rosamond,  doubly  felt  at 
this  moment,  when  all  her  own  affairs  were  in  great  uncertainty. 
Mr.  Temple  was  still  unable  to  obtain  the  performance  of  the 
promise  which  had  been  made  him  of  remuneration  and  competent 
provision.  He  had  gone  through,  in  compliance  with  the  advice 
«ff  his:  friends,  the  mortification  of  reiterating  vain  memorials  and 
applications  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich,  Lord  Skrimpshire,  Lord 
Skreene,  and  Mr.  Secretary  Cope.  The  only  thing  which  Mr. 
Temple  refused  to  do,  was  to  implicate  Lord  Oldborough,  or  to 
disturb  him  on  the  subject.  He  had  spent  some  weeks  with  his 
old  master  in  his  retirement  without  once  adverting  to  his  own 
difficulties,  still  hoping  that  on  ,his  return  to  town  a  promise 
would  be  fulfilled,  which  Lord  Skreene  had  given  him,  that  "  tlie 
affair  should  in  his  absence  be  settled  to  his  satisfaction."  But 
on  his  return  to  town,  his  lordship  found  means  of  evasion  and 
<deUy,  and  threw  the  blame  on  others ;  the  course  of  memorials 
and  representations  was  to  be  recommenced.  Mr.  Temple's 
pride  revolted,  his  love  was  in  despair — and  frequently,  in  the 
inttemess  of  disappointment,  he  reiterated  to  his  friend  Alfred 


PATRONAGE.  79 

his  exclamations  of  regret  and  self-reproach,  for  having  quitted, 
from  pique  and  impatience  of  spirit,  a  profession  where  his  own 
perseverance  and  exertions  would  infallibly  have  rendered  him 
oy  this  time- independent.  Rosamond  saw  with  sympathy  and 
anguish  the  effect  which  these  feelings  of  self-reproach,  and  hope 
delayed,  produced  on  Mr.  Temple's  spirits  and  health.  His 
sensibility,  naturally  quick,  and  rendered  more  acute  by  disap- 
pointment, seemed  now  continually  to  draw  from  all  characters 
and  events,  and  even  from  every  book  he  opened,  a  moral  against 
himself,  some  new  illustration  or  example,  which  convinced  him 
more  and  more  of  the  folly  of  being  a  dependant  on  the  great. 
He  was  just  in  this  repentant  mood,  when  one  morning,  at  Mrs, 
Alfred  Percy's,  Rosamond  heard  bim  sigh  deeply  several  times,, 
as  he  was  reading  with  great  attention.  She  could  not  forbear 
asking  what  it  was  that  touched  him  so  much.  He  put  the 
Dook  into  her  hands,  pointing  to  the  following  passage.  "  The 
whole  of  this  letter  *,**  said  he,  "  is  applicable  to  me  and  ex- 
cellent ;  but  this  really  seems  as  if  it  had  been  written  for  me  or 
by  me," 

She  read. 

''  I  was  a  young  man,  and  did  not  think  that  men  were  to  die, 
or  to  be  turned  out  »*♦♦♦*♦*••  What  was  to  be  done 
DOW  ? — No  money,  my  former  patron  in  disgrace  !  friends  that 
were  in  favour  not  able  to  serve  me,  or  not  willing ;  that  is, 
cold,  timid,  careful  of  themselves,  and  indifferent  to  a  man  whose 
disappointments  made  him  less  agreeable  ♦♦•***♦♦♦•► 
•********!  languished  on  for  three  long  melancholy 
years,  sometimes  a  little  elated ;  a  smile,  a  kind  hint,  a  down- 
right promise,  dealt  out  to  me  from  those  in  whom  I  had  placed 
some  silly  hopes,  now  and  then  brought  a  little  refreshment,  but 
that  never  lasted  long ;  and  to  say  nothing  of  the  agony  of 
being  reduced  to  talk  of  one's  own  misfortunes  and  one's  wants, 
and  that  basest  and  lowest  of  all  conditions,  the  slavery  of 
borrowing,  to- support  an  idle  useless  being — my  time,  for  those 
three  years,  was  unhappy  beyond  description.  What  would  I 
have  given  then  for  a  profession  !***•***♦♦•♦•* 

1  Letter  from  Mr.  Williams  (secretary  to  Lord  Chancellor  Wett)  to  Mri; 
WilHams. 


80  PATRONAGE. 

any  useful  profession  is  infinitely  better  than  a  thousand 
patrons." 

To  this  Rosamond  entirely  acceded,  and  admired  the  strong 
good  sense  of  the  whole  letter  ;  but  she  observed  to  Mr.  Temple, 
that  it  was  very  unjust,  not  only  to  himself,  but  what  was  of 
much  more  consequence,  to  Aer,  to  say  that  all  this  applied 
exactly  to  his  case.  "  Did  Mr.  Temple,"  she  asked,  "mean  to 
assert  that  she  could  esteem  a  man  who  was  an  idle  useless  beings 
a  mere  dependant  on  great  men,  a  follower  of  courts  ?  Could 
such  a  man  have  recommended  himself  to  her  father?  Could 
such  a  man  ever  have  been  the  chosen  friend  of  her  brother 
Alfred? 

"  It  was  true,"  she  acknowledged,  "  that  this  friend  of  her 
brother  had  made  one  mistake  in  early  life ;  but  who  is  there 
that  can  say  that  he  has  not  in  youth  or  age  committed  a  slr.gie 
error  ?  Mr.  Temple  had  done  one  silly  thing,  to  be  sure,  in 
quarrelling  with  his  profession ;  but  he  had  suffered,  and  had 
made  amends  for  this  afterwards,  by  persevering  application  to 
literature.  There  he  had  obtained  the  success  he  deserved. 
Gentlemen  might  sigh  and  shake  their  heads,  but  could  any  gen- 
tleman deny  this  ?  Could  it  be  denied  that  Mr.  Temple  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  literature  ?  Could  any  person  deny  that 
a  political  pamphlet  of  his  recommended  him  to  the  notice  of 
Lord  Oldborough,  one  of  the  ablest  statesmen  in  England,  who 
made  him  his  secretary,  and  whose  esteem  and  confidence  he 
afterwards  acquired  by  his  merit,  and  continued,  in  place  and 
out,  to  enjoy? — Will  any  gentleman  deny  this?"  Rosamond 
added,  that,  "  in  defence  of  her  brother's  friend,  she  could  not 
help  observing,  that  a  man  who  had  obtained  the  esteem  of  some 
of  the  first  persons  of  their  day,  who  had  filled  an  employment  of 
trust,  that  of  secretary  to  a  minister,  with  fidelity  and  credit,  who 
had  published  three  celebrated  political  pamphlets,  and  two 
volumes  of  moral  and  philosophical  disquisitions,  which,  as  she 
had  heard  the  bookseller  say,  were  become  stock  books,  could  not 
deserve  to  be  called  an  idle  useless  being.  To  be  born  and  die 
would  not  make  all  his  history — no,  such  a  man  would  at  least 
hQ  secure  of  honourable  mention  in  the  Biographia  Britannica  as 
a  writer — moral — political — metaphysical." 

But  while  Rosamond  thus  did  her  utmost  to  support  the  spirits 


PATKONAOE.  81 

of  her  lover,  her  own  began  to  fail ;  her  vivacity  was  no  longer 
natural  :  she  felt  every  day  more  and  more  the  want  of  her  sister's 
sympathy  and  strength  of  mind. 

Letters  from  abroad  gave  no  hope  of  Caroline's  return— delay 
after  delay  occurred.  No  sooner  had  quiet  been  restored  to  the 
country,  than  Count  Altenberg's  father  was  taken  ill,  and  his 
illness,  after  long  uncertainty,  terminated  fatally. 

After  the  death  of  his  father,  the  Count  was  involved  in  a 
variety  of  domestic  business,  which  respect  for  the  memory  of 
his  parent,  and  affection  for  surviving  relations,  could  not  allow 
him  to  leave.  When  all  this  had  been  arranged,  and  when  all 
seemed  preparing  for  their  return  to  England,  just  when  Rosa- 
mond hoped  that  the  very  next  letter  would  announce  the  day 
when  they  would  set  out,  the  French  declared  war,  the  French 
troops  were  actually  in  motion — invasion  was  hourly  expected — 
it  was  necessary  to  prepare  for  the  defence  of  the  country.  At 
such  a  moment  the  Count  could  not  quit  his  country  or  his 
Prince.  And  there  was  Caroline,  in  the  midst  of  a  country  torn 
by  civil  war,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  horrors  of  revolution. 

About  this  time,  to  increase  the  anxiety  of  the  Percy  family, 
they  learned  that  Godfrey  was  taken  prisoner  on  his  way  home 
from  the  West  Indies.  The  transport,  in  which  his  division  of 
the  regiment  had  embarked  had  been  separated  from  her  convoy 
by  a  gale  of  wind  in  the  night,  and  it  was  apprehended  that  she 
had  been  taken  by  the  enemy.  Godfrey's  family  hoped  for  a 
moment  that  this  might  be  a  false  alarm  ;  but  after  enduring  the 
misery  of  reading  contradictory  paragraphs  and  contests  of  the 
niBWSpaper  writers  with  each  other  for  several  successive  days,  it 
was  at  last  too  clearly  established  and  confirmed,  by  official  in- 
telligence, that  the  transport  was  taken  by  a  Dutch  ship. 

In  the  midst  of  these  accumulating  causes  of  anxiety,  trials  of 
another  kind  were  preparing  for  this  family,  as  if  Fortune  was 
determined  to  do  her  utmost  to  ruin  and  humble  those  who  had 
despised  her  worshippers,  struggled  against  her  influence,  and 
lisen  in  the  world  in  defiance  of  her  power.  To  explain  the 
danger  which  now  awaited  them,  we  must  return  to  their 
old  family  enemy.  Sir  Robert  Percy.  Master  of  Percy-hall, 
and  of  all  that  wealth  could  give,  he  could  not  enjov  his  prospe- 

Patronage. — ii. 


82  PATRONAGE. 

rity,  but   was   continually   brooding   on  plans  of  avarice  and 
malice. 

Since  his  marriage  with  Miss  Falconer,  Sir  Robert  Percy's 
establishment  had  become  so  expensive  as  to  fret  his  temper  con- 
tinually. His  tenants  had  had  more  and  more  reason  to  complain 
of  their  landlord,  who,  when  any  of  his  farms  were  out  of  lease, 
raised  his  rents  exorbitantly,  to  make  himself  amends,  as  he  said, 
for  the  extravagance  of  his  wife.  The  tenants,  who  had  ever 
disliked  him  as  the  successor  and  enemy  of  their  own  good  and 
beloved  landlord,  now  could  not  and  attempted  not  to  conceal 
their  aversion.  This  renewed  and  increased  the  virulence  of  his 
dishke  to  our  branch  of  the  Percys,  who,  as  he  knew,  were 
always  compared  with  him  and  his,  and  seemed  to  be  for  ever 
present  to  the  provoking  memories  of  these  tenants. 

Sir  Robert  was  disappointed  hitherto  in  the  hope  for  which  he 
married,  the  hope  of  an  heir,  who  should  prevent  the  estate  from 
returning  to  those  from  whom  it  had  been  wrested  by  his  arts. 
Envy  at  seeing  the  rising  and  prosperous  state  of  those  Perci/s, 
who,  in  spite  of  their  loss  of  fortune,  had  made  their  way  up 
again  through  all  obstacles,  combined  to  increase  his  antipathy 
to  his  relations.  His  envy  had  been  exasperated  by  the  marriage 
of  Caroline  to  Count  Altenberg,  and  by  the  high  reputation  of 
her  brother.  He  heard  their  praises  till  his  soul  sickened ;  and 
he  was  determined  to  be  their  destruction.  He  found  a  willing 
and  able  assistant  in  Sharpe  the  attorney,  and  they  soon  devised 
a  plan  worthy  of  their  conjoined  malice.  At  the  time  when  Sir 
Robert  had  come  into  possession  of  Percy-hall,  after  the  suit  had 
been  decided  in  his  favour,  he  had  given  up  all  claim  to  the  rents 
which  Mr.  Percy  had  received  during  the  years  which  he  had. 
held  the  estate,  and  had  accepted  in  lieu  of  them  the  improve- 
ments which  Mr.  Percy  had  made  on  the  estate,  and  a  consider- 
able quantity  of  family  plate  and  a  collection  of  pictures.  But 
now  Sir  Robert  wrote  to  Mr.  Percy  without  adverting  to  this 
agreement,  and  demanding  from  him  the  amount  of  all  the  rents 
which  he  had  received,  deducting  only  a  certain  sum  on  his  own 
valuation  for  improvements.  The  plate  and  pictures,  which  he 
had  left  at  Percy-hall,  Sir  Robert  said  he  was  willing  to  take  in, 
lieu  of  the  debt ;  but  an  immense  balance  against  Mr.  Percy  re^ 


PATRONAGE.  g3 

m^ned.  In  technical  phrase,  we  helieve,  he  warned  Mr.  Percy 
that  Sharpe  his  attorney  had  directions  to  commence  a  suit  against 
him  for  the  mesne  rents.  The  amount  of  the  claim  was  such  as 
it  was  absolutely  impossible  that  Mr.  Percy  could  pay,  even  by  the 
sale  of  every  thing  he  possessed  in  the  world.  If  this  claim  were 
established,  his  family  would  be  reduced  to  beggary,  he  must  end 
his  days  in  a  prison,  or  fly  his  country,  and  take  refuge  in  some 
foreign  land.  To  this  last  extremity  Sir  Robert  hoped  to  reduce 
him.  In  reply,  however,  to  his  insolent  letter,  he  was  surprised, 
by  receiving  from  Mr.  Percy  a  calm  and  short  reply,  simply 
saying  that  his  son  Alfred  would  take  the  proper  steps  to  bring 
the  affair  to  trial,  and  that  he  must  submit  to  the  decision  of  the 
law,  whatever  that  might  be.  Sir  Robert  was  mortified  to  the 
quick  by  finding  that  he  could  not  extort  from  his  victim  one 
concession  or  complaint,  nor  one  intemperate  expression. 

But  however  calm  and  dignified  was  Mr.  Percy's  conduct,  it 
could  not  be  without  the  greatest  anxiety  that  he  awaited  the 
event  of  the  trial  which  was  to  decide  his  future  fate  and  th&t  of 
his  whole  family. 

The  length  of  time  which  must  elapse  before  the  trial  could 
come  on  was  dreadful.  Suspense  was  the  evil  they  found  most 
diflScult  to  endure.  Suspense  may  be  easily  borne  by  persons  of 
an  indolent  character,  who  never  expect  to  rule  their  destiny  by 
their  own  genius ;  but  to  those  who  feel  themselves  possessed  of 
energy  and  abilities  to  surmount  obstacles  and  to  brave  dangers, 
it  is  torture  to  remain  passive — to  feel  that  prudence,  virtue, 
genius  avail  them  not — that  while  rapid  ideas  pass  in  their  ima- 
gination, time  moves  with  an  unaltered  pace,  and  compels  them 
to  wait,  along  with  the  herd  of  vulgar  mortals,  for  knowledge  of 
futuritv. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

What  has  become  all  this  time  of  the  Falconer  family  ? 

Since  the  marriage  of  Miss  Falconer  with  Sir  Robert  Percy, 
all  intercourse  between  the  Falconers  and  our  branch  of  the 
Percy  family  had  ceased ;  but  one  morning,  when  Alfred  was 
alone,  intently  considering  his  father's  case,,  and  the  legal  difli- 


8i  FATROMAOE. 

culties  which  threatened  him,  he  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from 
Commissioner  Falconer.  The  commissroner  looked  thin,  pale, 
and  wretched.  He  began  by  condoling  with  Alfred  on  their 
mutual  family  misfortunes.  Alfred  received  this  condolence 
with  politeness,  but  with  a  proud  consciousness  that,  notwith- 
standing his  father's  present  diflficulties,  and  the  total  loss  of 
fortune  with  which  he  was  threatened,  neither  his  father,  nor 
any  individusd  in  his  family,  would  change  places  with  any  one 
of  the  Falconers ;  since  nothing  dishonourable  could  be  imputed 
to  Mr.  Percy,  and  since  none  of  his  misfortunes  had  been  occa- 
sioned by  any  imprudence  of  his  own. 

A  deep  sigh  from  the  commissioner,  at  the  moment  these 
thoughts  were  passing  in  Alfred's  mind,  excited  his  compassion, 
for  he  perceived  that  the  same  reflections  had  occurred  to  him. 

After  taking  an  immoderate  quantity  of  snuff,  the  commis- 
sioner went  on,  and  disclaimed,  in  strong  terms,  all  knowledge  of 
his  son-in-law  Sir  Robert's  cruel  conduct  to  his  cousin.  The 
commissioner  said  that  Sir  Robert  Percy  had,  since  his  marriage 
with  Bell  Falconer,  behaved  very  ill,  and  had  made  his  wife 
show  great  ingratitude  to  her  own  family — that  in  Mrs.  Fal- 
coner's distress,  when  she  and  Georgiana  were  most  anxious 
to  retire  from  town  for  a  short  time,  and  when  Mrs.  Falconer 
had  naturally  looked  to  the  house  of  her  married  daughter  as  a 
sure  asylum,  the  doors  of  Percy-hall  had  been  actually  shut 
against  her ;  Sir  Robert  declaring,  that  he  would  not  be  involved 
in  the  difficulties  and  disgrace  of  a  family  who  had  taken  him 
in  to  marry  a  girl  without  any  fortune. 

Alfred  was  perfectly  convinced,  both  from  the  cordial  hatred 
with  which  the  commissioner  now  spoke  of  his  son-in-law,  and 
from  Mr.  Falconer's  disposition,  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  cruel  measures  which  Sir  Robert  had  taken  against  his 
father.  Commissioner  Falconer  was  not  a  malevolent,  but  a 
weak  man — incapable  of  being  a  disinterested  friend — equally 
incapable  of  becoming  a  malicious  enemy.  The  commissioner 
now  proceeded  to  his  own  affairs,  and  to  the  business  of  his 
visit.  He  said  that  he  had  been  disappointed  in  all  his  hopes 
from  the  Greenwich  party — that  when  that  sad  usiness  of  Mrs, 
Falconer's  came  outf  they  had  seized  this  as  a  pretence  for  drop- 
ping him  altogether — that  when  they  had,  by  Lord  Oldborough'a 


PATRONAGE.  85 

retreat  from  office,  obtained  every  thing  they  wanted,  and  had 
no  more  occasion  for  assistance  or  information,  they  had  shame- 
fully forgotten,  or  disowned,  all  their  former  promises  to  Cunning- 
ham. They  had  refused  to  accredit  him  at  the  court  of  Den- 
mark, refused  even  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his  journey  thither, 
which,  in  the  style  he  had  thought  it  necessary  for  an  ambas- 
sador to  travel  in,  had  been  considerable.  Upon  the  hopes  held 
out,  he  had  taken  a  splendid  house  in  Copenhagen,  and  had 
every  day,  for  some  weeks,  been  in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of 
his  credentials.  When  it  was  publicly  known  that  another 
ambassador  was  appointed,  Cunningham's  creditors  became 
clamorous ;  he  contrived  to  escape  from  Copenhagen  in  the 
night,  and  was  proceeding  incog,  in  his  journey  homewards, 
when  he  was  stopped  at  one  of  the  small  frontier  towns,  and  was 
there  actually  detained  in  prison  for  his  debts. 

The  poor  commissioner  produced  his  son's  letter,  giving  an 
account  of  his  detention,  and  stating  that,  unless  the  money  he 
had  raised  in  Copenhagen  was  paid,  there  was  no  hope  of  his 
being  liberated — he  must  perish  in  a  foreign  jail. 

We  spare  the  reader  the  just  reproaches  which  the  unhappy 
father,  at  this  moment,  uttered  against  the  son's  duplicity.  It 
was  his  fate,  he  said,  to  be  ruined  by  those  for  whom  he  had 
been  labouring  and  planning,  night  and  day,  for  so  many  yeai-s. 
"  And  now,"  concluded  Mr.  Falconer,  "here  am  I,  reduced  to 
sell  almost  the  last  acre  of  my  paternal  estate — I  shall  literally 
have  nothing  left  but  Falconer-court,  and  my  annuity ! — No- 
thing ! But  it  must  be  done,  ill  as  he  has  used  me,  and  im- 
possible as  it  is,  ever,  even  at  this  crisis,  to  get  the  truth  from 
him — I  must  pay  the  money :  he  is  in  jail,  and  cannot  be 
liberated  without  this  sum.     I  have  here,  you  see,  under  the 

hand  of  the  chief  magistrate,  sufficient  proof 1  will   not, 

however,  trouble  you,  my  dear  sir,  with  showing  more  of  these 
letters — only  it  is  a  comfort  to  me  to  speak  to  one  who  will  liste 
with  some  sympathy — Ah !  sir,  when  out  of  place  ! — out  o 
favour ! — selling  one's  estate ! — how  people  change ! — But  I  am 
taking  up  your  time.  Since  these  lands  are  to  be  sold,  the  sooner 
the  better.  Your  father,  you  know,  is  trustee  to  my  marriage- 
settlements,  and,  I  believe,  his  consent,  his  signature,  will  be 
necessary — will  it  not  ? 1  am  no  lawyer — I  really  am  not 


8G  PATRONAGE. 

clear  what  is  necessary — and  my  solicitor,  Mr.  Sharpe,  I  have 
dismissed :  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  put  the  business  into 
your  hands?" 

Alfred  undertook  it,  and  kindly  told  the  commissioner  that  if 
he  would  send  him  his  papers,  he  would,  without  putting  him  to 
any  expense,  look  them  over  carefully — have  all  the  necessary 
releases  drawn — and  make  his  title  clear  to  any  purchaser  who 
should  apply. 

The  commissioner  was  full  of  gratitude  for  this  friendly  offer^ 
and  immediately  begged  that  he  might  leave  his  title-deeds* 
Accordingly  the  servant  was  desired  to  bring  in  the  box  which 
he  had  left  in  the  carriage.  The  commissioner  then  rose  to  take 
leave,  but  Alfred  begged  he  would  stay  till  he  had  written  a  list 
of  the  deeds,  as  he  made  it  a  rule  never  to  take  charge  of  any 
papers,  without  giving  a  receipt  for  them.  The  commissioner 
thought  this  "  a  superfluous  delicacy  between  friends  and  rela- 
tives;"  but  Alfred  observed  that  relations  would,  perhaps,  oftener 
continue  friends,  if  in  matters  of  business,  they  took  care  alwaya- 
to  be  as  exact  as  if  they  were  strangers. 

The  commissioner  looked  at  his  watch — said  he  was  in  haste 
— he  was  going  to  wait  upon  Lord  Somebody,  from  whom,  in 
spite  of  all  his  experience,  he  expected  something. 

"  You  will  find  a  list  of  the  deeds,  I  have  a  notion,"  said  he, 
**  in  the  box,  Mr.  Alfred  Percy,  and  you  need  only  sign  it — that 
will  be  quite  sufficient." 

"  When  I  have  compared  the  papers  with  the  list,  I  will  sign 
it,"  said  Alfred  :  "  my  clerk  and  I  will  do  it  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible.    Believe  me,  you  cannot  be  in  greater  haste  than  I  am." 

The  commissioner,  secretly  cursing  Alfred's  accuracy,  and 
muttering  something  of  the  necessity  for  his  own  punctuality, 
was  obliged  to  submit.  He  sat  down — the  clerk  was  sent  for — 
the  box  was  opened.  The  list  of  the  papers  was,  as  Alfred 
found,  drawn  out  by  Buckhurst  Falconer  ;  and  the  commissioner 
now  recollected  the  time.  "  Just  when  poor  Buckhurst,"  said 
the  father,  with  a  sigh,  "  was  arguing  with  me  against  going 
into  the  church — at  that  time,  I  remember,  he  was  desperately 
in  love  with  your  sister  Caroline." 

"  Why,  in  truth,"  said  Alfred,  smiling,  as  he  read  over  the 
•crawled  list,  "  this  looks  a  little  as  if  it  were  written  by  a  man 


PATRONAGE.  37 

in  love — ^here's  another  reason  for  our  comparing  the  papers  and 
the  list." 

"  Well,  well,  I   took  it  all  upon  trust — I  am  no  lawyer I 

never  looked  at  them — never  opened  the  box,  and  am  very  sorry 
to  be  obliged  to  do  it  now." 

The  essential  care,  either  of  papers  or  estate,  the  commissioner 
had  evermore  neglected,  while  he  had  all  his  life  been  castle- 
building,  or  pursuing  some  pliantom  of  fortune  at  court.  Whilst 
Alfred  was  comparing  the  papers  and  the  list,  the  commissioner 
went  on  talking  of  the  marriage  of  Caroline  with  Count  Al ten- 
berg,  asking  when  they  expected  them  to  return.  It  was  pos- 
sible that  Count  Altenberg  might  be  moved  to  make  some 
remonstrance  in  favour  of  Cunningham ;  and  a  word  or  two 
from  him  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich  would  do  the  business.  The 
commissioner  longed  to  hint  this  to  Alfred,  but  he  was  so  intent 
upon  these  bundles  of  parchment,  that  till  every  one  of  them 
was  counted,  it  would  be  in  vain  to  make  that  attempt :  so  the 
commissioner  impatiently  stood  by,  while  the  clerk  went  on 
calling  over  the  papers,  and  Alfred,  in  equal  strains,  replying. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  said  he  to  himself,  "they  have  got  to  the 
last  bundle." 

"Bundle  eighteen,"  cried  the  clerk, 

"Bundle  eighteen,"  replied  Alfred.  "How  many  numbers 
does  it  contain?" 

"  Six,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Six! — no,  seven,  if  you  please,"  said  Alfred. 

"  But  six  in  the  list,  sir." 

"  I  will  read  them  over,"  said  Alfred.  "No.  1.  Deed  of 
assignment  to  Filmer  Griffin,  Esq.  No.  2.  Deed  of  mortgage 
to  Margaret  Simpson,  widow.  No.  3.  Deed  of  lease  and  re- 
lease.    No.  4.  Lease  for  a  year " 

"No.  4.  no  such  thing — stop,  sir — Deed!" 

Alfred  gave  one  look  at  the  paper,  and  starting  up,  snatched 
it  from  the  hands  of  his  clerk,  with  an  exclamation  of  joy,  signed 
the  receipt  for  the  commissioner,  put  it  into  his  hands,  locked 
the  box,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  letter,  all  with  such  rapidity 
that  the  commissioner  was  struck  with  astonishment  and  cu- 
riosity. Notwithstanding  all  his  impatience  to  be  punctual  to 
his  own  engagement  he  now  stood  fixed  to  the  spot,  and  at  last 


88  PATRONAGE. 

began  with  "  My  dear  Mr.  Alfred  Percy,  may  I  ask  what  has 
happened  ?" 

"  My  dear  commissioner,  I  have  found  it — I  have  found  it — 
the  long-lost  deed,  and  I  am  writing  to  my  father,  to  tell  him. 
Excuse  me — excuse  me  if  I  am  not  able  to  explain  farther  at 
this  moment." 

The  commissioner  understood  it  all  too  quickly.  He  saw  how 
it  had  happened  through  Buckhurst's  carelessness.  At  the  time 
Buckhurst  had  been  packing  up  these  papers,  some  of  Mr. 
Percy's  had  been  lying  on  the  table — Buckhurst  had  been 
charged  not  to  mix  them  with  his  father's ;  but  he  was  in  love, 
and  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 

The  commissioner  began  three  sentences,  and  left  them  all 
unfinished,  while  Alfred  did  not  hear  one  word  of  them  :  the 
first  was  an  apology  for  Buckhurst,  the  second  a,  congratulation 
for  his  good  cousin  Percy,  the  third  was  an  exclamation  that 
came  from  his  heart.  "  Good  Heavens  !  but  what  will  become 
of  my  daughter  Bell  and  Sir  Robert?  I  do  not  comprehend 
quite,  my  dear  sir." 

Perceiving  that  he  was  not  heard  by  Alfred,  the  commissioner 
took  up  his  hat  and  departed,  determining  that  he  would  inquire 
farther  from  Sir  Robert's  solicitor  concerning  the  probable 
consequences  of  the  recovery  of  this  deed. 

Alfred  had  no  sooner  finished  his  joyful  letter  to  his  father  than 
he  wrote  to  Sir  Robert  Percy,  informing  him  of  the  recovery  of 
the  deed,  and  letting  him  know  that  he  was  ready  to  show  it  to 
whomsoever  Sir  Robert  would  send  to  his  house  to  examine  it. 
He  made  this  offer  to  put  an  end  at  once  to  all  doubts.  He 
trusted,  he  said,  that  when  Sir  Robert  should  be  satisfied  of  the 
existence  and  identity  of  the  deed,  he  would  stop  his  present 
proceedings  for  the  recovery  of  the  mesne  rents,  and  that  he 
would,  without  obliging  his  father  to  have  farther  recourse  to 
law,  restore  to  him  the  Percy  estate. 

To  this  letter  no  answer  was  received  for  some  time.  At 
length  Mr.  Sharpe  called  on  Alfred,  and  begged  to  see  the  deed. 
He  was  permitted  to  examine  it  in  Alfred's  presence.  He  noted 
down  the  date,  names  of  the  witnesses,  and  some  other  parti- 
culars, of  which,  he  observed,  it  was  necessary  he  should  inform 
Sir  Robert,  before  he  could  be  satisfied  as  to  the  identity  of  the 


PATRONAGE.  89 

conveyance.  Sharpe  was  particularly  close  and  guarded  in  his 
looks  and  words  during  this  interview  ;  would  neither  admit  nor 
deny  that  he  was  satisfied,  and  went  away  leaving  nothing 
certain,  but  that  he  would  write  to  Sir  Robert.  Alfred  thought 
he  saw  that  they  meant  to  avoid  giving  an  answer,  in  order  to 
keep  possession  some  months  longer,  till  another  term.  He  took 
all  the  necessary  steps  to  bring  the  matter  to  trial  immediately, 
without  waiting  for  any  answer  from  Sir  Robert.  No  letter 
came  from  him,  but  Alfred  received  from  his  solicitor  the 
following  note : 

"  SIR, 

"  I  am  directed  by  Sir  Robert  Percy  to  acquaint  3'^ou,  in  reply 
to  yours  of  the  20th  instant,  that  conceiving  his  title  to  the  Percy 
estate  to  be  no  way  affected  by  the  instrument  to  which  you 
allude  therein,  he  cannot  withdraw  his  present  suit  for  the  me&ne 
rents  that  had  been  already  received,  if  you  proceed  in  an  eject- 
ment for  the  recovery  of  the  aforesaid  estate. 

"  I  am,  sir, 

"  Your  humble  servant, 

"A.  Sharpe. 
"  Wednesday."'' 

Alfred  was  surprised  and  alarmed  by  this  letter.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  as  possible,  that  Sir  Robert  and  his  counsel 
would  attempt  to  stand  a  new  trial  in  the  face  of  this  recovered 
deed ;  this  was  beyond  all  he  could  have  conceived  even  from 
their  effrontery  and  villany.  He  consulted  Mr.  Friend,  who, 
after  considering  Sharpe 's  letter,  could  not  devise  what  defence 
they  intended  to  make,  as  the  deed»  upon  most  accurate  exami- 
nation, appeared  duly  executed,  according  to  the  provision  of 
the  statute  of  frauds.  Upon  the  whole,  Mr.  Friend  was  of 
opinion  that  tlie  letter  was  meant  merely  to  alarm  the  plaintiffs, 
and  to  bring  them  to  offer  or  consent  to  a  compromise.  In  this 
opinion  Alfred  was  confirmed  the  next  day,  by  an  interview  with 
Sharpe,  accidental  on  Alfred's  part,  but  designed  and  prepared 
by  the  solicitor,  who  Avatched  Alfred  as  he  was  coming  out  of 
the  courts,  and  dogged  him  till  he  parted  from  some  gentlemen 
with  whom  he  was  walking — then  joining  him,  he  said,  in  a 


^  PATRONAGE. 

voice  which  Mr.  Allscrip  might  have  envied  for  its  power  of 
setting  sense  at  defiance,  "  I  am  happy,  Mr.  Alfred  Percy,  to 
chance  to  see  you  to-day ;  for,  with  a  view  to  put  an  end  to 
litigation  and  difficulties,  I  had  a  few  words  to  suggest — pre- 
mising that  I  do  not  act  or  speak  now,  in  any  wise,  as  or  for  Sir 
Robert  Percy,  or  with  reference  to  his  being  my  client,  or  as  a 
solicitor  in  this  cause,  be  it  understood,  but  merely  and  solely  as 
one  gentleman  to  another,  upon  honour — and  not  bringing 
forward  any  idea  to  be  taken  advantage  of  hereafter,  as  tending 
to  any  thing  in  the  shape  of  an  offer  to  compromise,  which,  in  a 
legal  point  of  view,  you  know,  sir,  I  could  not  be  warranted  to 
hazard  for  my  client,  and  of  consequence,  which  I  hereby 
declare,  I  do  not  in  any  degree  mean." 

"  Would  you  be  so  good,  Mr.  Sharpe,  to  state  at  once  what 
you  do  mean  ?  for  I  confess  I  do  not,  in  any  degree,  understand 
you." 

"  Why,  then,  sir,  what  I  mean  is,  simply,  and  candidly,  and 
frankly,  this :  that  if  I  could,  without  compromising  the  interest 
of  my  client,  which,  as  an  honest  man,  I  am  bound  not  to  do  or 
appear  to  do,  I  should  wish  to  put  an  end  to  this  litigation 
between  relations ;  and  though  your  father  thinks  me  his  enemy, 
would  convince  him  to  the  contrary,  if  he  would  allow  me,  and 
could  point  out  the  means  of  shortening  this  difference  between 
relations,  which  has  occasioned  so  much  scandal ;  and  moreover, 
could  devise  an  accommodation,  which  might  be  agreeable  to 
both  parties,  and  save  you  a  vast  deal  of  trouble  and  vexation ; 
possession,"  added  he,  laughing,  "being  nine  points  of  the  law." 

Mr.  Sharpe  paused,  as  if  hoping  that  something  would  now  be 
said  by  Alfred,  that  might  direct  him  whether  to  advance  or 
recede ;  but  Alfred  only  observed,  that  probably  the  end  Mr. 
Sharpe  proposed  to  himself  by  speaking  was  to  make  himself 
understood,  and  that  this  desirable  end  he  had  not  yet  attained. 

"  Why,  sir,  in  some  cases,  one  cannot  venture  to  make  one's 
self  understood  any  way,  but  by  inuendoes." 

"  Then,  good  morning  to  you,  sir — you  and  I  can  never 
understand  one  another." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  unless  you  are  in  a  hurry,"  cried  Mr. 
Sharpe,  caiching  Alfred  by  the  button,  "  which  (when  so  large 
an  estate,  to  which  you  might  eventually  succeed,  is  in  question) 


PATRONAGE.  9i 

you  are  too  much  a  man  of  business  to  be — in  one  word,  then, 
for  I  won't  detain  you  another  moment,  and  I  throw  myself 
:-»pen,  and  trust  to  your  honour " 

"  You  do  me  honour." 

"  Put   a  parallel  case.     You,  plaintiff  A ,  I,  defendant 

ii .     I  should,  if  I  were  A——,  but  no  way  advising  it, 

ii'iiig  B ,  offer  to  divide  the  whole  property,  the  claim  for 

( lie  mesne  rents  being  wholly  given  up ;  and  that  the  offer  would 
be  accepted,  I'd  engage  upon  my  honour,  supposing  myself 
witnessing  the  transaction,  only  just  as  a  gentleman." 

"Impossible,  sir,"  cried  Alfred,  with  indignation.  "Do  you 
take  me  for  a  fool?  Do  you  think  I  would  give  up  half  my 
fjither's  estate,  knowing  that  he  has  a  right  to  the  whole?" 

"  Pardon  me,  sir — I  only  suggested  an  A.  B.  case.  But  one 
word  more,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Sharpe,  holding  Alfred,  who  was 
breaking  from  him,  "  for  your  own — your  father's  interest :  you 
^ee  this  thing  quite  in  a  wrong  point  of  view ;  when  you  talk  of 
a  few  months'  more  or  less  delay  of  getting  possession,  being  all 
there  is  between  us — depend  upon  it,  if  it  goes  to  trial  you  will 
never  get  possession." 

"  Then,  sir,  if  you  think  so,  you  are  betraying  the  interest  of 
your  client,  in  advising  me  not  to  let  it  go  to  trial." 

"  Good  God !  sir:  but  that  is  between  you  and  me  only." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  it  is  between  you  and  your  conscience." 

"  Oh  !  if  that's  all — my  conscience  is  at  ease,  when  I'm  trying 
to  prevent  the  scandal  of  litigation  between  relations :  therefore, 
just  let  me  mention  to  you  for  your  private  information,  what 
1  know  Sir  Robert  would  not  wish  to  come  out  before  the 
trial." 

"Don't  tell  it  to  me,  sir — I  will  not  hear  it,"  cried  Alfred, 
breaking  from  him,  and  walking  on  very  fast. 

Faster  still  Sharpe  pursued.  "  You'll  remember,  sir,  at  all 
events,  that  what  has  been  said  is  not  to  go  further — you'll  not 
forget." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  I  am  a  man  of  honour,  sir,"  said 
Alfred. 

Sharpe  parted  from  him,  muttering,  "that  if  be  lived  to  the 
;'iay  of  trial,  he  would  repent  this." 

7 


92  PATRONAGE. 

"  And  if  I  live  till  the  day  of  judgment,  I  shall  never  repent 
it,"  thought  Alfred. 

Now  fully  convinced  that  Sir  Robert  desired  a  compromise, 
and  wanted  only  to  secure,  while  in  possession,  some  portion  of 
that  property,  which  he  knew  the  law  would  ultimately  force  him 
to  relinquish,  Alfred  persevered  in  his  course,  relieved  from  the 
alarm  into  which  he  had  at  first  been  thrown,  when  he  learned 
that  his  opponents  intended  to  make  a  defence.  Alfred  felt 
assured  that  they  would  never  let  the  matter  come  to  trial ;  but 
time  passed  on,  and  they  still  persisted.  Many  of  his  brother 
lawyers  were  not  only  doubtful,  but  more  inclined  to  despond 
than  to  encourage  him  as  to  the  event  of  the  trial ;  several 
regretted  that  he  had  not  accepted  of  Mr.  Sharpe's  oflfered 
compromise.  "  Half  the  estate  certain,  and  his  father's  release 
from  all  difficulties,  they  thought  too  good  offers  to  have  been 
rejected.  He  might,  as  Sharpe  had  prophesied,  have  to  repent 
his  rejection  of  that  proposal." 

Others  observed,  that  though  Mr.  Alfred  Percy  was  certainly 
a  young  man  of  great  talents,  and  had  been  successful  at  the 
bar,  still  he  was  a  young  lawyer ;  and  it  was  a  bold  and  hazardous, 
not  to  say  rash  thing,  to  take  upon  himself  the  conduct  of  a 
suit  against  such  opponents  as  Mr.  Sharpe  and  Sir  Robert  Percy, 
practised  in  law,  hardened  in  iniquity,  and  now  driven  to 
desperation. 

Mr.  Friend  was  the  only  man  who  stood  steadily  by  Alfred, 
and  never  wavered  in  his  opinion.  "  Trust  to  truth  and  justice," 
said  he ;  "  you  did  right  not  to  compromise — be  firm.  If  you 
fail,  you  will  have  this  consolation — you  will  have  done  all  that 
man  could  do  to  deserve  success." 

The  day  of  trial  approached.  Mr.  Friend  had  hoped,  till  very 
late  in  the  business,  that  the  object  of  their  adversaries  was  only 
to  intimidate,  and  that  they  would  never  let  it  go  to  trial :  now  it 
was  plain  they  would.  But  on  what  grounds  ?  Again  and  again 
Mr.  Friend  and  Alfred  perused  and  reperused  Sir  John  Percy's 
deed,  and  ex^iuined  the  opinions  of  counsel  of  the  first  eminence. 
Both  law  and  right  appeared  to  be  clearly  on  their  side  ;  but  it 
was  not  likely  that  their  experienced  opponents  should  persist 
without  having  some  strong  resource. 


PATRONAGE.  93 

A  dread  silence  was  preserved  by  Sir  Robert  Percy  and  by 
"Mr.  Solicitor  Sharpe.  They  must  have  some  deep  design : 
what  it  could  be,  remained  to  be  discovered  even  tiU  the  day 
of  trial. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

The  day  of  trial  arrived — Mr.  Percy  came  up  to  to.-Ti,  and 
brought  Mrs.  Percy  and  Rosamond  with  him  to  his  son  Alfred's, 
that  they  might  all  be  together,  and  hear  as  soon  as  possible 
their  fate. 

The  trial  came  on  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
court  was  uncommonly  crowded.  Mr.  Percy,  his  son  Erasmus, 
and  all  his  friends,  and  Sir  Robert  and  his  adherents,  appeared 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  galleries. 

The  excellent  countenance  and  gentlemanlike  demeanour  of  Mr. 
Percy  were  contrasted  with  the  dark,  inauspicious  physiognomy 
of  Sir  Robert,  who  sat  opposite  to  him,  and  who  was  never 
tranquil  one  second,  but  was  continually  throwing  notes  to  his 
counsel,  beckoning  or  whispering  to  his  attorney — while  con- 
vulsive twitches  of  face  and  head,  snuflP-taking,  and  handkerchief 
spread  frequently  to  conceal  the  expression  of  his  countenance, 
betrayed  the  malignant  flurry  of  his  spirits. 

Alfred  conducted  his  father's  cause  in  the  most  judicious  and 
temperate  manner.  An  attempt  had  been  made  by  Sir  Robert 
to  prejudice  the  public  against  Mr.  Percy,  by  representing  him 
as  the  descendant  of  a  younger  brother,  who  was  endeavouring 
to  dispossess  the  heir  of  the  elder  branch  of  the  family  of  that 
estate,  which  belonged  to  him  by  right  of  inheritance.  Alfred's 
first  care  was  to  put  the  court  and  the  jury  in  full  possession 
of  the  facts.  He  stated  that  "  His  father,  Lewis  Percy,  plaintiflf 
in  this  cause,  and  Robert  Percy,  Bart,  defendant,  both  descended 
from  Sir  John  Percy,  who  was  their  grandfather.  Sir  John 
outlived  both  his  sons,  who  left  him  two  grandsons,  Robert  was 
the  son  of  his  eldest,  and  Lewis  of  his  youngest  son.  Sir  John  had 
two  estates,  one  of  them  paternal,  which  went  in  the  ordinary 


94  PATRONAGE. 

course  of  descent  to  the  representative  of  the  eldest  son,  being 
the  present  Sir  Robert  Percy.  Sir  John's  other  estate,  in  Hamp- 
shire, which  came  to  him  by  his  wife,  he  conveyed,  a  short  time 
before  his  death,  to  his  youngest  grandson,  the  present  Lew^ 
Percy,  who  had  held  undisturbed  possession  of  it  for  many  years. 
But,  in  process  of  time,  Sir  Robert  Percy  ruined  himself  by  play^ 
and  having  frequent  intercourse  with  Sharpe,  the  solicitor,  upon 
some  great  emergency  inquired  whether  it  was  not  possible  to 
shake  the  title  of  his  cousin  Mr.  Percy's  estate.  He  suggested 
that  the  conveyance  might  not  be  forthcoming  ;  but  Sir  Robert 
assured  him  that  both  his  grandfather  and  the  present  Mr. 
Percy  were  men  of  business,  and  that  there  was  little  likelihood 
either  that  the  deeds  should  be  lost,  or  that  there  should  be  any 
flaw  in  the  title.  Afterwards  a  fire  broke  out  at  Percy-hall,  which 
consumed  that  wing  of  the  house  in  which  were  Mr.  Percy's 
papers — the  papers  were  all  saved  except  this  deed  of  convey- 
ance. Mr.  Sharpe  being  accidentally  apprized  of  the  loss, 
conveyed  the  intelligence  to  Sir  Robert.  He  immediately 
commenced  a  suit  against  his  cousin,  and  had  finally  succeeded 
in  obtaining  a  verdict  in  his  own  favour,  and  possession  of  the 
Hampshire  estate.  At  the  time  when  Mr.  Percy  delivered  up 
possession  and  quitted  Percy-hall,  in  consideration  of  the 
extensive  improvements  which  he  had  made,  and  in  con- 
sideration of  his  giving  up  to  Sir  Robert  plate,  furniture,  wine, 
horses,  and  equipages.  Sir  Robert  had  promised  to  forego  what- 
ever claim  he  might  have  upon  Mr.  Percy  for  the  rents  whicli 
he  had  received  during  the  time  he  had  held  the  estate ;  but, 
afterwards,  Sir  Robert  repented  of  having  made  this  agreement, 
broke  his  promise,  and  took  out  a  writ  against  his  cousin  for  the 
mesne  rents.  They  amounted  to  an  immense  sum,  which  Mr. 
Percy  was  utterly  imable  to  pay,  and  he  could  have  had  no 
hope  of  avoiding  ruin,  had  the  claim  been  by  law  decided  against 
him.  By  fortunate  circumstances,  however,  he  had,  while  this 
cause  was  pending,  recovered  that  lost  conveyance,  which 
proved  his  right  to  the  Hampshire  estate.  Of  this  he  had 
apprized  Sir  Robert,  who  had  persisted,  nevertheless,  in  holding 
possession,  and  in  his  claim  for  the  mesne  rents.  The  present 
action  was  brought  by  Mr.  Percy  in  resistance  of  this  unjust 
claim,  and  for  the  recovery  of  his  property." 


PATRONAGE.  95 

Not  one  word  of  invective,  of  eloquence,  of  ornament,  or  of 
any  attempt  at  pathos,  did  our  barrister  mix  with  this  statement. 
It  was  his  object  to  put  the  jury  and  the  coiurt  clearly  in  posses- 
sion of  facts,  which,  unadorned,  he  knew  would  appear  stronger 
than  if  encumbered  by  any  flowers  of  oratory. 

Having  produced  the  deed,  conveying  the  Hampshire  estate 
to  his  father,  Alfred  called  evidence  to  prove  the  signature  of 
Sir  John  Percy,  and  the  handwriting  of  the  witnesses.  He 
farther  proved  that  this  conveyance  had  been  formerly  seen 
among  his  father's  papers  at  Percy-hall,  showed  it  had  been 
recently  recovered  from  Mr.  Falconer's  box  of  papers,  and 
explained  how  it  had  been  put  there  by  mistake,  and  he  sup- 
ported this  fact  by  the  evidence  of  Commissioner  Falconer, 
father-in-law  to  the  defendant. — Alfred  rested  his  cause  on  these 
proofs,  and  waited,  anxious  to  know  what  defence  the  defendant 
was  prepared  to  make. 

To  his  astonishment  and  consternation,  Sir  Robert's  counsel 
produced  another  deed  of  Sir  John  Percy's,  revoking  the  deed  by 
which  Sir  John  had  made  over  his  Hampshire  estate  to  his  younger 
grandson,  Mr.  Percy ;  it  appearing  by  a  clause  in  the  original 
deed  that  a  power  for  this  purpose  had  been  therein  reserved. 
This  deed  of  revocation  was  handed  to  the  judge  and  to  the  jury, 
that  it  might  be  examined.  The  two  deeds  were  carefully  com- 
pared. The  nicest  inspection  could  not  discover  any  difference 
in  the  signature  or  seal.  When  Mr.  Friend  examined  them,  he 
was  in  dismay.  The  instrument  appeared  perfect.  Whilst  the 
jury  were  occupied  in  this  examination,  Mr.  Friend  and  Alfred 
had  a  moment  to  consult  together. 

"We  are  undone,"  whispered  Mr.  Friend,  "if  they  establish 
this  deed  of  revocation — ^it  sets  us  aside  for  ever." 

Neither  Mr.  Friend  nor  Alfred  had  any  doubt  of  its  being  a 
forgery,  but  those,  who  had  plunged  thus  desperately  in  guilt, 
would  probably  be  provided  with  perjury  sufficient  to  support 
their  iniquity. 

"If  we  had  been  prepared!"  said  Mr.  Friend:  "but  how 
eould  we  be  prepared  for  such  a  stroke  ?  Even  now,  if  we  had 
time,  we  could  summon  witnesses  who  would  discredit  theirs, 
but " 

"Do  not  despair,"  said  Alfred:  "still  we  have  a  chance  tihal 


96  PATRONAOe. 

their  own  witnesses  may  cross  each  other,  or  contradict  them- 
selves.    Falsehood,  with  all  its  caution,  is  seldom  consistent." 

Tlie  trial  proceeded.  Alfred,  in  the  midst  of  the  fears  and 
sighs  of  his  friends,  and  of  the  triumphant  smiles  and  antici- 
pating congratulations  of  his  enemies,  continued  to  keep  both 
his  temper  and  his  understanding  cool.  His  attention  was  fixed 
upon  the  evidence  produced,  regardless  of  the  various  sug- 
gestions whispered  or  written  to  him  by  ignorant  or  learned 
advisers. 

William  Gierke,  the  only  surviving  witness  to  the  deed  of 
revocation  produced  by  Sir  Robert,  was  the  person  on  whose 
evidence  this  cause  principally  rested.  He  was  now  summoned 
to  appear,  and  room  was  made  for  him.  He  was  upwards  of 
eighty  years  of  age :  he  came  slowly  into  court,  and  stood 
supporting  himself  upon  his  staff,  his  head  covered  with  thin 
gray  hairs,  his  countenance  placid  and  smiling,  and  his  whole 
appearance  so  respectable,  so  venerable,  as  to  prepossess,  imme- 
diately, the  jury  and  the  court  in  his  favour, 

Alfred  Percy  could  scarcely  believe  it  possible,  that  such  a 
man  as  this  could  be  the  person  suborned  to  support  a  forgery. 
After  being  sworn,  he  was  desired  to  sit  down,  which  he  did, 
bowing  respectfully  to  the  court.  Sir  Robert  Percy's  counsel 
proceeded  to  examine  him  as  to  the  points  they  desired  to  esta- 
blish. 

"  Your  name,  sir,  is  William  Gierke,  is  it  not?" 

"My  name  is  William  Gierke,"  answered  the  old  man,  in  a 
feeble  voice. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  this  paper  before  ?"  showing  him  the 
deed. 

**  I  did — I  was  present  when  Sir  John  Percy  signed  it — he  bid 
me  witness  it,  that  is,  write  my  name  at  the  bottom,  which  I  did, 
and  then  he  said,  *  Take  notice,  William  Gierke,  this  is  a  deed, 
revoking  the  deed  by  which  I  made  over  my  Hampshire  estate  to 
my  youngest  grandson,  Lewis  Percy.'  " 

The  witness  was  going  on,  but  the  counsel  interrupted. 

**  You  saw  Sir  John  Percy  siafn  this  deed— t-you  are  sure  of 
that?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  that." 

**  Is  this  Sir  John  Percy's  signature  V* 


PATRONAGE.  97 

"  It  is — the  very  same  I  saw  him  write ;  and  here  is  my  own 
name,  that  he  hid  me  put  just  there." 

"  You  can  swear  that  this  is  your  handwriting  ?" 

"  I  can— I  do." 

"Do  you  recollect  what  time  Sir  John  Percy  signed  this 
deed?" 

**  Yes;  ahout  three  or  four  days  before  his  death." 

"  Very  well,  that  is  all  we  want  of  you,  Mr.  Gierke." 

Alfred  Percy  desired  that  Gierke  should  be  detained  in  court, 
that  he  might  cross-examine  him.  The  defendants  went  on, 
produced  their  evidence,  examined  all  their  witnesses,  and 
established  all  they  desired. 

Then  it  came  to  Alfred's  turn  to  cross-examine  the  witnesses 
that  had  been  produced  by  his  adversary.  When  William 
Gierke  re-appeared,  Alfred  regarding  him  stedfastly,  the  old 
man's  countenance  changed  a  little  ;  but  still  he  looked  prepared 
to  stand  a  cross-examination.  In  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  however, 
he  trembled. 

"Oh!  you  are  trembling  on  the  brink  of  the  grave!"  said 
Alfred,  addressing  him  in  a  low,  solemn  tone  :  "  pause,  and  re- 
flect, whilst  you  are  allowed  a  moment's  time.  A  few  years 
must  be  all  you  have  to  spend  in  this  world.  A  few  moments 
may  take  you  to  another,  to  appear  before  a  higher  tribunal — 
before  that  Judge,  who  knows  our  hearts,  who  sees  into  yours  at 
this  instant." 

The  staff  in  the  old  man's  hand  shook  violently. 

Sir  Robert  Percy's  counsel  interrupted — ^said  that  the  witness 
should  not  be  intimidated,  and  appealed  to  the  court.  The  judge 
was  silent,  and  Alfred  proceeded,  "  You  know  that  you  are  upon 
your  oath — these  are  possibly  the  last  words  you  may  ever  utter 
— look  that  they  be  true.  You  know  that  men  have  been  struck 
dead  whilst  uttering  falsehoods.  You  are  upon  your  oath — did 
you  see  Sir  John  Percy  sign  this  deed?" 

The  old  man  attempted  in  vain  to  articulate. 

"  Give  him  time  to  recollect,"  cried  the  counsel  on  the  oppo- 
site side :  *'  give  him  leave  to  see  the  writing  now  he  has  his 
spectacles." 

He  looked  at  the  writing  twice — his  head  and  hands  shaking 
Patronage, — ii. 


98  PATRONAGE. 

SO  that  he  could  not  fix  his  spectacles.  The  question  was  re^ 
peated  by  the  judge.  The  old  man  grew  pale  as  death.  Sir 
Robert  Percy,  just  opposite  to  him,  cleared  his  throat  to  catch 
the  witness's  attention,  then  darted  at  him  such  a  look  as  only 
he  could  give. 

"Did  I  see  Sir  John  Percy  sign  this  deed?"  repeated  William 
Gierke :  "  yes,  I  did." 

"  You  hear,  my  lord,  you  hear,"  cried  Sir  Robert's  counsel, 
"  the  witness  says  he  did — there  is  no  occasion  farther  to  intimi- 
date this  poor  old  man.  He  is  not  used  to  speak  before  such  an 
audience.  There  is  no  need  of  eloquence — all  we  want  is  truth. 
The  evidence  is  positive.  My  lord,  with  your  lordship's  leave,  I 
fancy  we  may  dismiss  him." 

They  were  going  to  hurry  him  away,  but  Alfred  Percy  said  that, 
with  the  permission  of  the  court,  he  must  cross-examine  that  wit- 
ness farther,  as  the  whole  event  of  the  trial  depended  upon  the 
degree  of  credit  that  might  be  given  to  his  evidence. 

By  this  time  the  old  man  had  somewhat  recovered  himself;  he 
saw  that  his  age  and  reverend  appearance  still  prepossessed  the 
jury  in  his  favour,  and  from  their  looks,  and  from  the  whispers 
near  him,  he  learned  that  his  tremor  and  hesitation  had  not 
created  any  suspicion  of  guilt,  but  had  been  attributed  rather  to 
the  sensibility  of  virtue,  and  the  weakness  of  age.  And,  now  that 
the  momentary  emotion  which  eloquence  had  produced  on  his 
mind  had  subsided,  he  recollected  the  bribe  that  had  been  pro 
mised  to  him.  He  was  aware  that  he  had  already  sworn  what, 
if  he  contradicted,  might  subject  him  to  be  prosecuted  for 
perjury.  He  now  stood  obstinately  resolved  to  persevere  in  his 
iniquity.  The  first  falsehoods  pronounced  and  believed,  the  next 
would  be  easy. 

"Your  name  is  William  Gierke,  and  this,"  said  Alfred 
(pointing  to  the  witness's  signature),  "  is  your  handwriting  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  say  it  is." 

"  You  can  write  then?"  (putting  a  pen  into  his  hand)  "be  so 
good  as  to  write  a  few  words  in  the  presence  of  the  court."  He 
took  the  pen,  but  after  making  some  fruitless  attempts,  replied, 
"  I  am  too  old  to  write — I  have  not  been  able  to  write  my  name 
these  many  years— Indeed  !  sir,  indeed !  you  are  too  hard  upon 


PATRONAGE.  99 

one  like  me.  God  knows,"  said  he,  looking  up  to  Heaven,  some 
thought  with  feeling,  some  suspected  with  hypocrisy — "  God 
knows,  sir,  I  speak  the  truth,  and  nothing  hut  the  truth.  Have 
you  any  more  questions  to  put  to  me  ?  I  am  ready  to  tell  all  I 
know.  What  interest  have  I  to  conceal  any  thing?"  continued  he, 
his  voice  gaining  strength  and  confidence  as  he  went  on  repeating 
the  lesson  which  he  had  been  taught. 

"  It  was  long,  a  long  while  ago,"  he  said,  "  since  it  had  all 
happened ;  but  thank  Heaven,  his  memory  had  been  spared 
him,  and  he  remembered  all  that  had  passed,  the  same  as  if  it 
tras  but  yesterday.  He  recollected  how  Sir  John  looked,  where 
he  sat,  what  he  said  when  he  signed  this  deed ;  and,  moreover, 
he  had  often  before  heard  of  a  dislike  Sir  John  had  taken  to  his 
younger  grandson — ay,  to  that  young  gentleman's  father," 
looking  at  Alfred ;  "  and  I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  it — very  sorry 
there  should  be  any  dispute  in  the  family,  for  I  loved  them  all," 
said  he,  wiping  his  eyes — "  ay,  I  loved  'em  all,  and  all  alike,  from 
the  time  they  were  in  their  cradles.  I  remember  too,  once,  Sir 
John  said  to  me,  *  William  Gierke,'  says  he,  *  you  are  a  faithful 
lad' — for  I  was  a  lad  once " 

Alfred  had  judiciously  allowed  the  witness  to  go  on  as  far  as 
he  pleased  with  his  story,  in  the  expectation  that  some  exagge- 
ration and  contradiction  would  appear;  but  the  judge  now 
inteiTupted  the  old  man,  observing  that  this  was  nothing  to  the 
purpose — that  he  must  not  take  up  the  time  of  the  court  with 
idle  tales,  but  that  if  he  had  any  thing  more  to  give  in  evidence 
respecting  the  deed,  he  should  relate  it. 

The  judge  was  thought  to  be  severe ;  and  the  old  man,  after 
glancing  his  eye  on  the  jury,  bowed  with  an  air  of  resignatioit, 
and  an  appearance  of  difficulty,  which  excited  their  compassion. 

"  We  may  let  him  go  now,  my  lord,  may  not  we  ?"  said  Sir 
Robert  Percy's  counsel. 

"  With  the  permission  of  his  lordship,  I  will  ask  one  other 
question,"  said  Alfred. 

Now  it  should  be  observed,  that  after  the  first  examination  of 
this  witness,  Alfred  had  heard  him  say  to  Mr.  Sharpe,  "  They 
forgot  to  bring  out  what  I  had  to  say  about  the  seal."  To  which 
Sharpe  had  replied,  "  Enough  without  it." 

Alfred  had  examined  the  seal,  and  had  observed  that  there 


100  PATRONAGE. 

■was  something  underneath  it — through  a  small  hole  in  the 
parchment  he  saw  something  between  the  parchment  and  the 
sealing-wax. 

"You  were  present,  I  think  you  say,  Mr.  Gierke,  not  only 
when  this  deed  was  signed,  but  when  it  was  sealed?" 

"  I  was,  sir,"  cried  Gierke,  eager  to  bring  out  this  part  of  the 
evidence,  as  it  had  been  prepared  for  him  by  Sir  Robert ;  "  I 
surely  was  ;  and  I  remember  it  particularly,  because  of  a  little 
remarkable  circumstance  :  Sir  John,  God  bless  him ! — I  think  I 

see  him  now My  lord,  under  this  seal,"  continued  the  old 

man,  addressing  himself  to  the  judge,  and  putting  his  shrivelled 
linger  upon  the  seal,  "  under  this  very  seal  Sir  John  put  a  six- 
J)ence — and  he  called  upon  me  to  observe  him  doing  it — for,  my 
lord,  it  is  my  opinion,  he  thought  then  of  what  might  come  to 
pass — he  had  a  sort  of  a  foreboding  of  this  day.  And  now,  my 
lord,  order  them,  if  you  please,  to  break  the  seal — ^break  it  before 
them  all, — and  if  there  is  not  the  sixpence  under  it,  why  this 
deed  is  not  Sir  John's,  and  this  is  none  of  my  writing,  and," 
cried  he,  lifting  up  his  hands  and  eyes,  "  I  am  a  liar,  and  per- 
jured." 

There  was  a  profound  silence.  The  seal  was  broken.  The 
sixpence  appeared.  It  was  handed  in  triumph,  by  Sir  Robert 
Percy's  counsel,  to  the  jury  and  to  the  judge.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  longer  a  doubt  remaining  in  the  minds  of  the  jury — and  a 
murmur  of  congratulation  among  the  partisans  of  Sir  Robert 
seemed  to  anticipate  the  verdict. 

"  'Tis  all  over,  I  fear,"  whispered  Friend  to  Alfred.  "  Alfred, 
you  have  done  all  that  could  be  done,  but  they  have  sworn  through 
every  thing — ^it  is  over  with  us." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Alfred.  Every  eye  turned  upon  him,  some 
from  pity,  some  from  curiosity,  to  see  how  he  bore  his  defeat. 
At  length,  when  there  was  silence,  he  begged  to  be  permitted  to 
look  at  the  sixpence.  The  judge  ordered  that  it  should  be  shown 
to  him.  He  held  it  to  the  light  to  examine  the  date  of  the  coin; 
he  discovered  a  faint  impression  of  a  head  on  the  sixpence,  and, 
upon  closer  inspection,  he  made  out  the  date,  and  showed  clearly 
that  the  date  of  the  coin  was  later  than  the  date  of  the  deed :  so 
that  there  was  an  absolute  impossibility  that  this  sixpence  could 
nave  been  put  under  the  seal  of  the  deed  by  Sir  John. 


PATRONAGE.  101 

Tlie  moment  Alfred  stated  this  fact,  the  counsel  on  the 
opposite  side  took  the  sixpence,  examined  it,  threw  down  liis 
brief,  and  left  the  court.  People  looked  at  each  other  in  asto- 
nishment. The  judge  ordered  that  William  Gierke  should  be 
detained,  that  he  might  be  prosecuted  by  the  crown  for  perjury. 

The  old  man  fell  back  senseless.  Mr.  Sharpe  and  Sir  Robert 
Percy  pushed  their  way  together  out  of  court,  disclaimed  by 
all  who  had  till  now  appeared  as  their  friends.  No  farther 
evidence  was  offered,  so  that  here  the  trial  closed.  The  judge  gave 
a  short,  impressive  charge  to  the  jury,  who,  without  withdraw- 
ing, instantly  gave  their  verdict  in  favour  of  the  plaintiff,  Lewis 
Percy — a  verdict  that  was  received  with  loud  acclamations,  which 
not  even  respect  to  the  court  could  restrain. 

Mr.  Percy  and  Alfred  hastily  shook  hands  with  their  friends, 
and  in  the  midst  of  universal  applause  hurried  away  to  carry 
the  good  news  to  Mrs.  Percy  and  Rosamond,  who  were  at  Alfred's 
house,  waiting  to  hear  the  event  of  the  trial. 

Neither  Alfred  nor  Mr.  Percy  had  occasion  to  speak — the 
moment  Mrs.  Percy  and  Rosamond  saw  them  they  knew  the 
event. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  "our  fortune  is  restored ;  and  doubly 
happy  we  are,  in  having  regained  it,  in  a  great  measure,  by  the 
presence  of  mind  and  ability  of  my  son." 

His  mother  and  sister  embraced  Alfred  with  tears  of  delight. 
For  some  moments  a  spectator  might  have  imagined  that  he 
beheld  a  family  in  deep  affliction.  But  soon  through  these  tears 
appeared  on  the  countenance  of  each  individual  the  radiance  of 
joy,  smiles  of  affection,  tenderness,  gratitude,  and  every  d^ 
lightful  benignant  feeling  of  the  human  heart, 

"  Has  any  body  sent  to  Mrs.  Hungerford  and  to  Lady  Jane 
Granville?"  said  Mr.  Percy. 

"  Yes,  yes,  messengers  were  sent  off  the  moment  the  verdict 
was  given,"  said  Erasmus :  "  I  took  care  of  that." 

*'  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Rosamond,  *'  that  Caroline  is  not  here  at 
this  moment,  and  Godfrey." 

"  It  is  best  as  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Percy  :  "  we  have  that  pleasure 
still  in  store." 

"And  now,  my  beloved  children,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  "after 
having  returned  thanks  to  Providence,  let  me  here,  in  the  midst 


102  PATRONAGE. 

of  all  of  you  to  whom  I  owe  so  large  a  share  of  my  happiness, 
sit  down  quietly  for  a  few  minutes  to  enjoy  '  the  soher  certainty 
of  waking  bliss.'  " 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  day  after  the  trial  brought  several  happy  letters  to  the 
Percys.  Rosamond  called  it  the  day  of  happy  letters,  and  by 
that  name  it  was  ever  after  recorded  in  the  family.  The  first  of 
these  letters  was  from  Godfrey,  as  follows : 

"  Dear  father,  mother,  brothers,  and  sisters  all !  I  hope  you 
are  not  under  any  anxiety  about  me,  for  here  I  am,  safe  and 
sound,  and  in  excellent  quarters,  at  the  house  of  Mynheers 
Grinder  weld,  Groensveld,  and  Slidderschild,  Amsterdam,  the 
Dutch  merchants  who  were  shipwrecked  on  our  coast  years  ago ! 
If  it  had  happened  yesterday,  the  thing  could  not  be  fresher  in 
their  memories.  My  dear  Rosamond,  when  we  laughed  at  their 
strange  names,  square  figures,  and  formal  advice  to  us,  if  ever 
we  should,  by  the  changes  and  chances  of  human  events,  be 
reduced  to  distress,  we  little  thought  that  I,  a  prisoner,  should 
literally  come  to  seek  shelter  at  their  door.  And  most  hospitably 
have  I  been  received.  National  prejudices,  which  I  early 
acquired,  I  don't  know  how,  against  the  Dutch,  made  me  fancy 
that  a  Dutchman  could  think  only  of  himself,  and  would  give 
nothing  for  nothmg :  I  can  only  say  from  experience,  I  have 
been  as  hospitably  treated  in  Amsterdam  as  ever  I  was  in 
London.  These  honest  merchants  have  overwhelmed  me  with 
civilities  and  substantial  services,  and  still  they  seem  to  think 
they  can  never  do  enough  for  me.  I  wish  I  may  ever  see  them 
on  English  ground  again.  But  we  have  no  Percy-hall  to  receive 
them  in  now ;  and  as  well  as  I  remember  the  Hills,  we  could 
not  conveniently  stow  more  than  one  at  a  time.  Side  by  side, 
as  they  stood  after  breakfast,  I  recollect,  at  Percy-hall,  they 
would  completely  fill  up  the  parlour  at  the  Hills. 

**  I  may  well  be  in  high  spirits  to-day  ;  for  these  good  people 
have  just  been  telling  me,   that  the  measures  they  have  been 


PATRONAOE.  108 

taking  to  get  my  exchange  effected,  have  so  far  succeeded,  they 
have  reason  to  believe  that  in  a  week,  or  a  fortnight  at  farthest 
I  shall  be  under  weigh  for  England. 

"  In  the  mean  time,  you  will  wonder  perhaps  how  I  got  here ; 
for  I  perceive  that  I  have  subjected  myself  to  Rosamond's  old 
reproach  of  never  beginning  my  story  at  the  beginning.  My 
father  used  to  say,  half  the  mistakes  in  human  affairs  arise  from 
our  taking  for  granted ;  but  I  think  I  may  take  it  for  granted^ 
that  either  from  the  newspapers  or  from  Gascoigne,  who  must 
be  in  England  by  this  time,  you  have  learned  that  the  transport 
I  was  on  board,  with  my  division  of  the  regiment,  parted  convoy 
in  the  storm  of  the  18th,  in  the  night,  and  at  daybreak  fell  in 
with  two  Dutchmen.  Our  brave  boys  fought  as  Englishmen 
always  do ;  but  all  that  is  over  now,  so  it  does  not  signify 
prosing  about  it.  Two  to  one  was  too  much — we  were  captured. 
I  had  not  been  five  minutes  on  the  Dutchman's  deck,  when  I 
observed  one  of  the  sailors  eyeing  me  very  attentively.  Presently 
he  came  up  and  asked  if  my  name  was  not  Percy,  and  if  I  did 
not  recollect  to  have  seen  him  before  ?  He  put  me  in  mind  of 
the  shipwreck,  and  told  me  he  was  one  of  the  sailors  who  were 
harboured  in  one  of  my  father's  outhouses  whilst  they  were 
repairing  the  wreck.  I  asked  him  what  had  become  of  the 
di-unken  carpenter,  and  told  him  the  disaster  that  ensued  in 
consequence  of  that  rascal's  carelessness.  My  sailor  was  exces- 
sively shocked  at  the  account  of  the  fire  at  Percy-hall:  he 
thumped  his  breast  till  I  thought  he  would  have  broken  his 
breast-bone;  and  after  relieving  his  mind  by  cursing  and 
swearhig  in  high  Dutch,  low  Dutch,  and  English,  against  the 
drunken  carpenter,  he  told  me  there  was  no  use  in  saying  any 
more,  for  that  he  had  punished  himself. — He  was  found  dead 
one  morning  behind  a  barrel,  from  which  in  the  night  he  had 
been  drinking  spirits  surreptitiously  through  a  straw.  Pray  tell 
this  to  old  John,  who  used  always  to  prophesy  that  this  fellow 
would  come  to  no  good :  assure  him,  however,  at  the  same  time, 
that  all  the  Dutch  sailors  do  not  deserve  his  maledictions.  Tell 
him,  1  can  answer  for  the  poor  fellow  who  recognized  me,  and 
who,  during  the  whole  passage,  never  failed  to  show  me  and  my 
fellow-prisoners  every  little  attention  in  his  power.  When  we 
got  to   Amsterdam,   it  was  he  reminded  me  of   the    Dutch 


104  PATRONAGE. 

merchants,  told  me  their  names,  which,  without  his  assistance,  I 
might  have  perished  before  I  could  ever  have  recollected,  and 
showed  me  the  way  to  their  house,  and  never  rested  till  he  saw 
me  well  settled. 

"  You  will  expect  from  me  some  account  of  this  place.  You 
need  not  expect  any,  for  just  as  I  had  got  to  this  line  in  my 
letter  appeared  one  who  has  put  all  the  lions  of  Amsterdam 
fairly  out  of  my  head — Mr.  Gresham  !  He  has  been  for  some 
weeks  in  the  country,  and  has  just  returned.  The  Dutch 
merchants,  not  knowing  of  his  being  acquainted  with  my  family, 
never  mentioned  him  to  me,  nor  me  to  him  :  so  our  surprise  at 
meeting  was  great.  What  pleasure  it  is  in  a  foreign  country, 
and  to  a  poor  prisoner,  to  see  any  one  from  dear  England,  and 
one  who  knows  our  owni'riends  !  I  had  never  seen  Mr.  Gresham 
myself,  but  you  have  all  by  your  letters  made  me  well  acquainted 
with  him.  I  like  him  prodigiously,  to  use  a  lady's  word  (not 
yours,  Rosamond).  Letters  from  Mr.  Henry  were  waiting  for 
him  here ;  he  has  just  opened  them,  and  the  first  news  he  tells 
me  is,  tha';  Caroline  is  going  to  be  married !  Is  it  possible  ? 
Coimt  Altenberg !  The  last  time  I  heard  from  you,  you  men- 
tioned nothing  of  all  this.  Some  of  your  letters  must  have  been 
lost.  Pray  write  again  immediately,  and  do  not  take  it  for 
granted  that  I  shall  be  at  home  before  a  letter  reaches  me;  but 
^ive  me  a  full  hi-^tory  of  every  thing  up  to  the  present  moment. 
Groensveld  is  sealing  his  letters  for  London,  and  must  have 
mine  now  or  never.  Adieu!  Pray  write  fully  :  you  cannot  be 
too  minute  for  a  poor  prisoner. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"burning  with  curiosity, 

"  Godfrey  Percy." 

A  letter  from  Mr.  Gresham  to  Mr.  Henry  farther  informed 
them,  that  Godfrey's  exchange  was  actually  effected,  and  that 
he  had  secured  his  passage  on  board  a  vessel  just  ready  to  sail 
for  England. 

Next  came  letters  from  Count  Altenberg.  Briefl\%  in  the 
laconic  style  of  a  man  pressed  at  once  by  sudden  events  and 
strong  feelings,  he  related  that  at  the  siege  of  the  city  of  »  *  *  *  * 
by  the  French,  early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  it  was 


PATRONAGE.  105 

expected  that  the  enemy  would  attempt  to  storm  the  place,  hia 
prince,  while  inspecting  the  fortifications,  was  killed  by  a 
cannon-ball,  on  the  very  spot  where  the  Count  had  been  standing 
but  a  moment  before.  All  public  affairs  were  changed  in  his 
country  by  the  death  of  the  prince.  His  successor,  of  a  weak 
character,  was  willing  to  purchase  present  ease,  and  to  secure 
his  low  pleasures,  at  any  price — ready  to  give  up  the  honour 
of  his  country,  and  submit  to  the  conqueror — that  he  had  been 
secretly  intriguing  with  the  enemy,  had  been  suspected,  and 
this  suspicion  was  confirmed  by  his  dastardly  capitulation  when 
the  means  of  defence  were  in  his  power  and  the  spirit  of  his 
people  eager  for  resistance. 

With  indignation,  heightened  by  grief,  contrast,  and  despairing 
patriotism.  Count  Altenberg  had  remonstrated  in  vain — had 
refused,  as  minister,  to  put  his  signature  to  the  capitulation — 
had  been  solicited  urgently  to  concede — offers  of  wealth  and 
•dignities  pressed  upon  him  :  these  he  rejected  with  scorn.  Re- 
leased from  all  his  public  engagements  by  the  death  of  the 
prince,  and  by  the  retiring  of  the  princess  from  court,  Count 
Altenberg  refused  to  act  as  minister  under  his  successor ;  and 
seeing  that,  under  such  a  successor  to  the  government,  no  means 
of  serving  or  saving  the  country  remained,  he  at  once  deter- 
mined to  quit  it  forever:  resolved  to  live  in  a  free  country, 
already  his  own,  half  by  birth  and  wholly  by  inclination,  where 
he  had  property  sufficient  to  secure  him  independence,  sufficient 
for  his  own  wishes,  and  for  those  of  his  beloved  Caroline — a 
country  where  he  could  enjoy  better  than  on  any  other  spot  in 
the  whole  compass  of  the  civilized  world,  the  blessings  of  real 
liberty  and  of  domestic  tranquillity  and  happiness. 

His  decision  made,  it  was  promptly  executed.  He  left  to  a 
friend  the  transacting  the  sale  of  his  German  property,  and 
Caroline  concluded  his  letter  with 

"my  deak  briends, 
"  Passports   are   obtained,   every   thing  ready.     Early  next 
week  we  set  out  for  England  j  by  the  first  of  next  month  we 
shall  be  at  home." 

Then  came  a  letter  from  Lord  Oldborowgh.    Some  time  pre- 


106  PATRONAGE. 

viousiy  to  the  trial,  surprised  at  neither  seeing  Mr.  Temple  nor 
hearing  of  his  marriage,  his  lordship  had  written  to  inquire  what 
delayed  his  promised  return.  Taking  it  for  granted  that  he  was 
married,  his  lordship  in  the  most  polite  manner  begged  that  he 
would  prevail  upon  his  bride  to  enliven  the  retirement  of  an  old 
statesman  by  her  sprightly  company.  As  the  friend  of  her 
father  he  made  this  request,  with  a  confidence  in  her  hereditary 
disposition  to  show  him  kindness. 

In  reply  to  this  letter,  Mr.  Temple  told  his  friend  and  master 
what  had  delayed  his  inarriage,  and  why  he  had  hitherto  for- 
borne to  trouble  him  on  the  subject.  Lord  Oldborough,  asto- 
nished and  indignant,  uttered  once  and  but  once  contemptuous 
exclamations  against  the  "  inconceivable  meanness  of  Lord 
Skrimpshire,"  and  the  "  infinitely  small  mhid  of  his  grace  of 
Greenwich  :"  then,  without  condescending  to  any  communication 
with  inferior  powers,  his  lordship  applied  directly  to  the  highest 
authority.  The  consequence  was  that  a  place  double  the  value 
of  that  which  had  been  promised  was  given  to  Mr.  Temple,  and 
it  was  to  announce  his  appointment  to  it  that  occasioned  the 
present  letter  from  Lord  Oldborough,  enclosing  one  from  Mr. 
Secretary  Cope,  who  "  had  it  in  command  to  assure  his  lordship 
that  the  delay  had  arisen  solely  from  the  anxious  desire  of  his 
majesty's  ministers  to  mark  their  respect  for  his  lordship's 
recommendation,  and  their  sense  of  Mr.  Temple's  merit,  by 
doing  more  than  had  been  originally  proposed.  An  opportunity, 
for  which  they  had  impatiently  waited,  had  now  put  it  into  their 
power  to  evince  the  sincerity  of  their  intentions  in  a  mode 
which  they  trusted  would  prove  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  his 
lordship." 

The  greatest  care  was  taken  both  in  substance  and  manner  to 
gratify  Lord  Oldborough,  whose  loss  had  been  felt,  and  whose 
value  had,  upon  comparison,  increased  in  estimation. 

Rosamond  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  happiness  of  the  man 
she  loved,  and  hearing  him  declare  that  he  owed  it  to  hei 
prudence. 

"  Rosamond's  prudence  ! — Whoever  expected  to  hear  this?' 
Mr.  Percy  exclaimed.     *'  And  yet  the  praise  is  just.     So,  hence- 
forward,  none  need  ever  despair   of  grafting  prudence   upon 
generosity  of  disposition  and  vivacity  of  temper." 


PATRONACiE.  107 

Mr.  Temple  obtained  from  Rosamond  a  promise  to  be  his,  as 
soon  as  her  sister  Caroline  and  her  brother  should  arrive. 

Lady  Jane  Granville,  who  felt  the  warmest  interest  in  their 
prosperity,  was  the  first  to  whom  they  communicated  all  this 
joyful  intelligence.  Her  ladyship's  horses  had  indeed  reason  to 
rue  this  day ;  for  they  did  more  work  this  day  than  London 
horses  ever  accomplished  before  in  the  same  number  of  hours, 
not  excepting  even  those  of  the  merciless  Mrs.  John  Prevost; 
for  Lady  Jane  found  it  necessary  to  drive  about  to  her  thousand 
acquaintance  to  spread  the  news  of  the  triumph  and  felicity  of 
the  Percy  family. 

In  the  midst  of  this  tumult  of  joy,  Mr.  Percy  wrote  two  letters: 
one  was  to  his  faithful  old  steward,  John  Nelson,  who  deserved 
from  his  master  this  mark  of  regard ;  the  other  was  to  Commis- 
sioner Falconer,  to  make  him  some  friendly  offers  of  assistance 
in  his  own  affairs,  and  to  beg  that,  through  him,  his  daughter, 
the  unhappy  and  deserted  lady  of  Sir  Robert  Percy,  might  be 
assured  that  neither  Mr.  Percy  nor  any  of  his  family  wished  to 
put  her  to  inconvenience  ;  and  that  far  from  being  in  haste  to 
return  to  Percy-hall,  they  particularly  wished  to  wait  in  town 
for  the  arrival  of  Caroline  and  Count  Altenberg;  and  they 
therefore  requested  that  she  would  not  hasten  her  removal,  from 
any  false  idea  of  their  impatience.  We  said  the  deserted  lady 
of  Sir  Robert  Percy,  for  Sir  Robert  had  fled  from  the  countrj\ 
On  quitting  the  court  after  the  trial,  he  took  all  the  ready  money 
he  had  previously  collected  from  his  tenants,  and  set  out  for  the 
continent,  leaving  a  note  for  his  wife,  apprizing  her  "  that  she 
would  never  see  him  more,  and  that  she  had  better  return  to 
her  father  and  mother,  as  he  had  no  means  left  to  support  her 
extravagance." 

Commissioner  Falconer  was  at  this  time  at  Falconer-court, 
where  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  to  settle  some  business  with  his 
tenantry,  previously  to  the  sale  of  his  land  for  the  redemption  of 
Cunningham.  The  Commissioner's  answer  to  Mr.  Percy's  letter 
'was  as  follows : 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  my  dear  sir,  how  much  I  was  touched  by 
the  kindness  of  your  letter  and  conduct — so  different  from  what 
'  have  met  with  from  others.     I  will  not  cloud  your  happiness 

8 


108  PATRONAGE. 

—in  which,  believe  me,  I  heartily  rejoice — by  the  melancholy 
detail  of  all  my  own  sorrows  and  disappointments ;  but  only 
answer  briefly  to  your  friendly  inquiries  respecting  my  affairs. 

"  And  first,  for  my  unfortunate  married  daughter,  who  has  been 
in  this  terrible  manner  returned  upon  our  hands.  She  thanks 
you  for  your  indulgence,  on  which  she  will  not  encroach. 
Before  you  receive  this,  she  will  have  left  Percy-hall.  She  is 
going  to  live  with  a  Miss  Clapham,  a  great  heiress,  who  wants  a 
fashionable  companion  and  chaperon.  Mrs.  Falconer  became 
acquainted  with  her  at  Tunbridge,  and  has  devised  this  plan  for 
Arabella.  I  fear  Bell's  disposition  will  not  suit  such  a  situation, 
but  she  has  no  other  resource. 

"  Mrs.  Falconer  and  Georgiana  have  so  over-managed  matters 
vith  respect  to  Petcalf,  that  it  has  ended,  as  I  long  since  feared 
it  would,  in  his  breaking  off.  If  Mrs.  Falconer  had  taken  my 
advice,  Georgiana  might  now  be  completely  settled ;  instead  of 
which  she  is  fitting  out  for  India.  She  is  going,  to  be  sure,  in 
good  company  ;  but  in  my  opinion  the  expense  (which.  Heaven 
knows,  I  can  ill  afford)  will  be  thrown  away  like  all  the  rest — 
for  Georgiana  has  been  much  worn  by  late  hours,  and  though 
3till  young,  has,  I  fear,  lost  her  bloom,  and  looks  rather  old 
for  India. 

"  I  am  truly  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  sir,  for  your  friendly 
offer  with  respect  to  Falconer-court,  and  have  in  consequence 
stopped  the  sale  of  the  furniture.  I  shall  rejoice  to  have  such  a 
good  tenant  as  Mr.  Temple.  It  is  indeed  much  more  agreeable 
to  me  to  let  than  to  sell.  The  accommodation,  as  you  propose, 
will  put  it  in  my  power  to  release  Cunningham,  which  is  my 
most  pressing  difficulty. 

"As  you  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  now  who  takes  an 
interest  in  my  affairs,  or  to  whom  I  can  safely  unburden  my 
mind,  I  must,  though  I  know  complaint  to  be  useless,  relieve 
my  heart  by  it  for  a  moment.  I  can  safely  say,  that  for  the 
last  ten  years  of  my  life  I  have  never  spent  a  day  for  myself.  I 
have  been  continually  planning  and  toiling  to  advance  my 
family, — not  an  opportimity  has  been  neglected ;  and  yet  from 
this  very  family  springs  all  my  unhappiness.  Even  Mrs. 
Falconer  blames  me  as  the  cause  of  that  sad  business,  which  has 
disgraced  us  for  ever,  and  deprived  us  of  all  our  friends — and 


PATROMAOn.  109 

has  afforded  an  excuse  for  breaking  all  promises;  There  are 
many,  whom  I  will  not  name,  but  they  are  persons  now  high  in 
oflSce,  who  have — I  may  venture  to  say  it  to  you — used  me 
shamefully  ill. 

"  Many  an  lionest  tradesman  and  manufacturer,  to  say  nothing 
of  men  of  talents  in  the  liberal  professions,  I  have  seen  in  the 
course  of  the  last  forty  years  make  their  own  fortunes,  and  large 
fortunes,  while  I  have  ended  worse  than  I  began — have  literally 
been  working  all  my  life  for  others,  not  only  without  reward, 
but  without  thanks.  If  I  were  to  begin  life  again,  I  certainly 
should  follow  your  principles,  my  dear  sir,  and  depend  more 
upon  myself  and  less  upon  others,  than  I  have  done — But  now 
all  is  over.  Let  me  assure  you,  that  in  the  midst  of  my  own 
misfortunes,  I  rejoice  in  your  prosperity,  and  in  the  esteem  and 
respect  with  which  1  hear  you  and  yours  spoken  of  by  all. 

"  Present  my  affectionate  regards  and  congi*atulations  to  Mrs. 
Percy,  and  to  all  your  amiable  and  happy  circle.  Propriety  and 
feeling  for  my  poor  daughter.  Lady  Percy,  must  prevent  my 
paying  at  present  my  personal  congratulations  to  you  at  Percy- 
hall  ;  but  I  trust  you  will  not  the  less  believe  in  the  sincerity  of 
xny  attachment. 

**  I  am,  my  dear  sir, 

**Your  obliged  and  faithful 
"  Friend  and  servant, 

"T.  Falconer. 

**P.S. — I  have  just  learnt  that  the  little  place  I  mentioned  to 
Mr.  Alfred  Percy,  when  we  last  met,  is  not  disposed  of.  Lord 
Oldborough's  influence,  as  Mr.  Temple  well  knows,  is  still  all- 
powerful;  and  your  interest  with  his  lordship,  you  must  be 
sensible,  is  greater  than  that  of  any  other  person  living,  without 
exception.  A  word  from  you  would  do  the  business  for  me.  It 
is  but  a  trifle,  which  I  should  once  have  been  ashamed  to  ask : 
but  it  is  now  a  matter  of  necessity." 

Tlie  event  of  the  trial,  and  the  restoration  of  the  Percy  family 
to  their  property,  were  heard  with  transports  of  joy  by  the  old 
tenantry.  They  had  not  needed  the  effect  of  contrast,  to  make 
them  love   and  feel   the   value  of  their  good  landlord ;    but- 


110  PATRONAGE. 

certainly  Sir  Robert  Percy's  tyranny,  and  all  that  he  had  made 
them  suffer  for  their  obstinate  fidelity  to  the  old  branch,  had 
heightened  and  fortified  their  attachment.  It  was  now  their 
turn  to  glory  in  that  honest  obstinacy,  and  with  the  strong 
English  sense  of  justice,  they  triumphed  in  having  the  rightful 
owners  restored  to  their  estate,  and  to  the  seat  of  their  ancestors. 

As  the  Percy  family  crossed  the  well-known  bridge  at  the  end 
of  the  village,  those  bells,  which  had  sounded  so  mournfully,  which 
had  been  muffled  when  they  quitted  their  home,  now  rang  out  a 
merry  triumphant  peal — and  it  was  rung  by  the  hands  of  the  very 
same  persons  who  had  formerly  given  that  proof  of  attachment 
to  him  in  his  adversity. — Emotion  as  strong  now  seized  Mr. 
Percy's  heart.  At  the  same  spot  he  jumped  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  by  the  same  path  along  which  he  had  hastened  to  stop  the 
bell-ringers,  lest  they  should  ruin  themselves  with  Sir  Robert, 
he  now  hastened  to  see  and  thank  these  honest,  courageous 
people.  In  passing  through  the  village,  which  had  been  freshly 
swept  and  garnished  the  people,  whom,  he  remembered  to  have 
seen  in  tears  following  the  carriage  at  their  departure,  were  now 
crowding  to  their  doors  with  faces  bright  with  smiles.  Hats 
that  had  never  stirred,  and  backs  that  had  never  bent  for  the 
usurper,  were  now  eager  with  low  bows  to  mark  their  proud 
respect  to  the  true  man.  There  were  no  noisy  acclamations,  for 
all  were  touched.  The  voices  of  the  young  children,  however, 
were  heard,  who,  as  their  mothers  held  them  up  in  their  arms, 
to  see  the  landlord,  of  whom  they  had  heard  so  much,  ofiered 
their  little  nosegays  as  the  open  carriage  passed,  and  repeated 
blessings  on  those,  on  whom  from  their  cradles,  they  had  heard 
blessings  bestowed  by  their  parents. 

The  old  steward  stood  ready  at  the  park-gate  to  open  it  for  his 
master.  His  master  and  the  ladies  put  their  hands  out  of  the 
carriage  to  shake  hands  with  him,  but  he  could  not  stand  it.  He 
just  touched  his  master's  hand.  Tears  streamed  down  his  face, 
and  turning  away  without  being  able  to  say  one  word,  he  hid 
himself  in  the  porter's  lodge. 

As  they  drove  up  to  the  house,  they  saw  standing  on  the  steps 
waiting — and  long  had  he  been  waiting  there,  for  the  first  sound 
of  the  carriage — Johnson,  the  butler,  who  had  followed  the 
family  to  the  Hills,  and  had  served  them  in  their  fallen  fortunes 


PATRONAGE.  Ill 

— Johnson  was  now  himself.  Before  the  hall-door,  wide  open 
to  receive  them,  he  stood,  with  the  livery-servants  in  due  order. 

Mrs.  Harte,  the  good  old  housekeeper,  had  been  sent  down  to 
prepare  for  the  reception  of  the  family,  and  a  world  of  trouble 
she  had  had ;  but  all  was  now  right  and  proper,  and  she  was  as 
active  and  alert  as  the  youngest  of  her  maidens  could  have  been, 
in  conducting  the  ladies  to  their  apartments,  in  showing  all  the 
old  places,  and  doing  what  she  called  the  honours  of  the  re-irtf 
stallation.  She  could  have  wished  to  have  vented  a  little  of  her 
indignation,  and  to  have  told  how  some  things  had  been  left ; 
but  her  better  taste  and  judgment,  and  her  sense  of  what  would 
be  pleasing  to  her  master  and  mistress,  repressed  all  recrimina*- 
tion.  By  the  help  of  frequent  recurrence  to  her  snufP-box,  in 
diflSculties  great,  together  with  much  rubbing  of  her  hands,  and 
some  bridling  of  her  head,  she  got  through  it,  without  naming 
those,  who  should  not  be  thought  of,  as  she  observed,  on  this 
joyful  day. 

The  happiness  of  the  Percy  family  was  completed  by  the 
return  of  Godfrey,  of  Caroline,  and  Count  Altenberg.  Godfrey 
arrived  just  as  his  family  were  settled  at  Percy-hall.  After  his 
long  absence  from  his  home  and  country,  he  doubly  enjoyed  this 
scene  of  domestic  prosperity.  Beloved  as  Rosamond  was  by  rich 
and  poor  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  general  favourite  of  her 
family,  her  approaching  marriage  spread  new  and  universal  joy. 
It  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of  the  congratulations,  and  of  the 
bustle  of  the  various  preparations,  which  were  going  on  at  this 
time  at  Percy-hall,  especially  in  the  lower  regions.  Even  Mrs. 
Harte's  all-regulating  genius  was  insufficient  for  the  exigencies 
of  the  times.  Indeed,  her  head  and  her  heart  were  now  at  per- 
petual variance,  continually  counteracting  and  contradicting  each 
other.  One  moment  delighted  with  the  joy  and  affection  of  the 
world  below,  she  would  come  up  to  boast  of  it  to  her  mistress  and 
her  young  ladies ;  the  next  moment  she  would  scold  all  the 
people  for  being  out  of  their  wits,  and  for  not  minding  or  knowing 
a  single  thing  they  were  doing,  or  ordered  to  do,  **  no  more  than 
the  babes  in  the  wood;"  then  proving  vhe  next  minute  and 
acknowledging  that  she  was  "  really  quite  as  had  as  themselvet. 
And  no  wonder,  for  the  thoughts  of  Miss  Rosamond's  marriage 
had  turned  her  head  entirely  upside  down — for  she  had  been  at 


112  PATRONAGE. 

Miss  Rosamond's  christening,  lield  her  by  prox)',  and  considered 
her  always  as  her  particular  own  child,  and  well  she  might,  for 
a  better,  except,  perhaps.  Miss  Caroline — I  should  say  Uie 
countess — never  breathed." 

The  making  a  desert  island  for  Miss  Rosamond's  wedding- 
dinner  was  the  object  which  had  taken  such  forcible  possession 
of  Mrs.  Harte's  imagination,  that  till  it  was  accomplished  it  was 
in  vain  to  hope  that  any  other  could,  in  her  eyes,  appear  in  any 
kind  of  proportion.  In  the  midst  of  all  the  sentimental  joy  above 
stairs,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  important  business  of  settlements 
and  lawyers,  Mrs.  Harte  was  pursuing  the  settled  pui-pose  of  her 
soul,  constructing  with  infinite  pare,  as  directed  by  her  complete 
English  Housekeeper,  a  desert  island  for  a  wedding,  in  a  deep 
china  dish,  with  a  mount  in  the  middle,  two  figures  upon  the 
mount,  with  crowns  on  their  heads,  a  knot  of  rock-candy  at  their 
feet,  and  gravel-walks  of  shot  comfits,  judiciously  intersecting  in 
every  direction  their  dominions. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

As  soon  as  it  was  possible,  after  his  return  to  Percy-hall,  Mr. 
Percy  went  to  pay  his  respects  to  Lord  Oldborough.  He  found 
this  great  statesnan  happy  in  retirement,  without  any  affectation 
of  happiness.  There  were  proofs  in  every  thing  about  him  that 
his  mind  had  unbent  itself  agreeably ;  his  powers  had  expanded 
upon  different  objects,  building,  planting,  improving  the  soil  and 
the  people. 

He  had  many  tastes,  which  had  long  lain  dormant,  or  rather 
which  had  been  held  in  subjugation  by  one  tyrant  passion.  That 
passion  vanquished,  the  former  tastes  resumed  their  activity. 
The  superior  strength  of  his  character  was  shown  in  his  never 
recurring  to  ambition.  Its  vigour  was  displayed  in  the  means 
by  which  he  supplied  himself,  not  only  with  variety  of  occupation, 
but  with  variety  of  motive.  Those,  who  best  know  the  human 
mind  must  be  aware  of  the  difficulty  of  supplying  motive  for 
one  accustomed  to  stimulus  of  so  high  a  kind,  as  that  to  which 
Lord  Oldborough  bad  been  habituated.     Eor  one  who  had  been 


PATRONAGE.  llg 

at  the  head  of  the  government  of  a  g^eat  nation,  to  make  for 
himself  objects  in  the  stillness  and  privacy  of  a  country  life, 
required  no  common  talent  and  energy  of  soul.  The  difficulty 
was  increased  to  Lord  Oldborough,  for  to  him  the  vast  resource 
of  a  taste  for  literature  was  wanting. 

The  biographer  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole  tells  us,  that  though  he 
had  not  forgotten  his  classical  attainments,  he  had  little  taste  for 
literary  occupations.  Sir  Robert  once  expressed  his  regret  on 
this  subject  to  Mr.  Fox,  in  tlie  library  at  Houghton.  "  I  wish," 
he  said,  "  I  took  as  much  delight  in  reading  as  you  do ;  it  would 
be  the  means  of  alleviating  many  tedious  hours  in  my  present 
retirement.  But,  to  my  misfortune,  I  derive  no  pleasure  from 
Buch  pursuits." 

Lord  Oldborough  felt,  but  never  condescended  to  complain  of 
that  deficiency  of  general  literature,  which  was  caused  in  him, 
partly  by  his  not  having  had  time  for  the  attainment,  an  1  partly 
by  his  having  formed  too  low  an  estimate  of  the  influence  and 
power  of  literature  in  the  political  world.  But  he  now  took 
peculiar  delight  in  recalling  the  classical  studies  in  which  he  had 
in  his  youth  excelled :  as  Mr.  Percy  sympathized  with  him  in 
this  taste,  there  was  another  point  in  which  they  coalesced. 
Mr.  Percy  stayed  with  his  old  friend  some  days,  for  he  was 
anxious  to  give  him  this  proof  of  attachment,  and  felt  interested 
in  seeing  his  character  develope  itself  in  a  new  direction,  dis- 
playing fresh  life  and  strength,  and  unexpected  resource  in 
circumstances,  in  which  statesmen  of  the  most  vigorous  minds, 
and  of  the  highest  spirit,  have  been  seen  to  "droop  and  drowse," 
to  sink  into  indolence,  sensuality,  or  the  horrors  of  hypochon- 
driacism  and  superstition. 

Lord  Oldborough,  on  his  first  retiring  to  Clennont-park,  had 
informed  Mr.  Percy  that  he  should  wish  to  see  him  as  soon  as 
he  had  arranged  certain  papers.  He  now  remhided  his  lordship 
of  it,  and  Lord  Oldborough  put  into  lus  hands  a  sketch,  which 
he  had  been  drawing  out,  of  tlie  principal  transactions  in  which 
he  had  been  engaged  during  his  political  career,  with  copies  of 
his  letters  to  the  first  public  characters  of  the  day  in  our  own 
and  in  foreign  countries.  Even  by  those  who  had  felt  no  regard 
for  the  man,  the  letters  of  sucli  a  minister  would  have  been  read 
with   avidity;    but   Mr.  Percy  perused   them  with  a   scrorger 

Patronage. — ii. 


114  PATRONAOE. 

interest  than  any  which  could  be  created  by  mere  political  or 
philosophical  curiosity.  He  read  them  with  a  pleasure  which  a 
generous  mind  takes  in  admiring  that  which  is  good  and  great, 
with  the  delight  which  a  true  friend  feels  in  seeing  proofs  that 
justify  all  the  esteem  he  had  previously  felt.  He  saw  in  these 
original  documents,  in  this  history  of  Lord  Oldborough's  political 
life,  the  most  perfect  consistency  and  integrity,  the  most  disin- 
terested and  enlightened  patriotism.  When  Mr.  Percy  returned 
the  manuscript  to  his  lordship,  he  spoke  of  the  satisfaction  he 
must  experience  in  looking  back  upon  this  record  of  a  life  spent 
in  the  service  of  his  country,  and  observed  that  he  was  not 
surprised  that,  with  such  a  solid  source  of  self-approbation,  such 
indefeasible  claims  to  the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen,  and  such 
■well-earned  fame,  he  should  be,  as  he  appeared,  happy  in 
retirement. 

"  I  am  happy,  and,  I  believe,  principally  from  the  cause  you 
have  mentioned,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  who  had  a  mind  too 
great  for  the  affectation  of  humility.     "  So  far  I  am  happy." 

"  Yet,"  added  he,  after  a  considerable  pause,  "I  have,  I  feel, 
a  greater  capability  of  happiness,  for  which  I  have  been  pre- 
vented from  making  any  provision,  partly  by  the  course  of  life 
of  which  I  made  choice,  and  partly  by  circumstances  over  which 
I  had  no  control." 

He  paused  again  ;  and,  turning  the  conversation,  spoke  of 
his  sister,  an  elderly  lady,  who  had  come  to  pass  some  time  with 
him.  They  had  lived  separate  almost  all  their  lives;  she  in 
Scotland  with  her  husband,  a  Scottish  nobleman,  who  having 
died  about  the  time  when  Lord  Oldborough  had  resigned  his 
ministerial  situation,  she  had  accepted  his  lordship's  invitation 
to  visit  him  in  his  retirement.  The  early  attachment  he  had  had 
for  this  sister  seemed  to  revive  in  his  mind  when  they  met ;  and, 
as  if  glad  to  have  some  object  for  his  affections,  they  were  poured 
out  upo'.i  her.  Mr.  Percy  observed  a  tenderness  in  his  manner 
and  voice  when  he  spoke  to  her,  a  thousand  little  attentions, 
which  no  one  would  have  expected  from  the  apparently  stem 
Lord  Oldborough,  a  man  who  had  been  engrossed  all  his  life  by 
politics. 

On  the  morning  of  the  last  day  which  Mr.  Percy  meant  to 
spend  at   Clennont-park,   his   lordship,    as   they   were    sitting- 


PATRONAGE.  115 

together  in  his  study,  expressed  more  than  common  regret  at  the 
necessity  for  his  friend's  departure,  but  said,  "  I  have  no  right 
to  detain  you  from  your  family."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he 
added,  "  Mr.  Percy,  you  first  gave  me  the  idea  that  a  private 
life  is  the  happiest." 

"  My  lord,  in  most  cases  I  believe  it  is ;  but  I  never  meant  to 
assert  that  a  public  life  spent  in  noble  exertion,  and  with  the 
consciousness  of  superior  talent  and  utility,  is  not  more  desirable 
than  the  life  of  any  obscure  individual  can  possibly  be,  even 
though  he  possess  the  pleasure  of  domestic  ease  and  tranquillity. 
There  are  men  of  eminent  abilities,  capable  of  extraordinary 
exertions,  inspired  by  exalted  patriotism.  I  believe,  notwith- 
standing the  corruption  of  so  many  has  weakened  all  faith  in 
public  virtue,  I  believe  in  the  existence  of  such  men,  men  who 
devote  themselves  to  the  service  of  their  country :  when  the 
time  for  their  relinquishing  the  toils  of  public  life  arrives,  honour 
and  self-approbation  follow  them  in  retirement." 

"  It  is  true,  I  am  happy,"  repeated  Lord  Oldborough  ;  "but 
to  go  on  with  what  I  began  to  say  to  you  yesterday — I  feel  that 
some  addition  might  be  made  to  my  happiness.  The  sense  of 
having,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  done  my  duty,  is  satisfactory. 
I  do  not  require  applause — I  disdain  adulation — I  have 
sustained  my  public  life  without  sympathy — I  could  seldom 
meet  with  it — where  I  could,  I  have  enjoyed  it — and  could  now 
enjoy  it — exquisitely — as  you  do,  Mr.  Percy — surrounded  by  a 
happy  family.  Domestic  life  requires  domestic  pleasures — 
objects  for  the  affections." 

Mr-  Percy  felt  the  tnith  of  this,  and  could  answer  only  by 
suggesting  the  idea  of  Mr.  Temple,  who  was  firmly  and  warmly 
attached  to  Lord  Oldborough,  and  for  whom  his  lordship  had  a 
strong  regard. 

"  Mr.  Temple,  and  my  daughter  Rosamond,  whom  your  lord- 
ship honoured  with  so  kind  an  invitation,  propose,  I  know, 
paying  their  respects  to  you  next  week.  Though  I  am  her 
father,  I  may  venture  to  say  that  Rosamond's  sprightliness  is  so 
mixed  with  solid  information  and  good  sense,  that  her  society 
will  become  agreeable  to  your  lordship." 

*'  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  Mrs.  Temple  here.  As  the  daughter 
of  one  friend,  and  the  wife  of  another,  she  has  a  double  claim  to 


116  PATRONAGE. 

my  regard.  And  (to  say  nothing  of  hereditary  genius  or  dispo- 
sitions— in  which  you  do  not  believe,  and  I  do),  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  society  of  a  lady,  educated  as  your  daughter  has 
been,  must  suit  my  taste.  The  danger  is,  that  her  society  should 
become  necessary  to  me.  For  Mr.  Temple  1  already  feel  a 
degree  of  affection,  which  I  must  repress,  rather  than  indulge." 

"  Repress ! — Why  so,  my  lord  ?  You  esteem  him — you  believe 
in  tlie  sincerity  of  his  attachment?" 

"I  do." 

"  Then  why  with  stoicism — pardon  me,  my  dear  lord — why 
repress  affection  ?" 

"  Lest  I  should  become  dependent  for  my  daily  happiness  on 
one,  whose  happiness  is  independent  of  mine — in  some  degree 
incompatible  with  mine.  Even  if  his  society  were  given  to  me, 
his  heart  must  be  at  his  home,  and  with  his  family.  You  see  I 
am  no  proud  stoic,  but  a  man  who  dares  to  look  at  life — the 
■decline  of  life,  such  as  it  is — as  it  must  be.  Different,  Mr.  Percy, 
in  your  situation — and  in  mine.  " 

The  con\rersation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  arrivtd  of  a 
carriage. 

Lord  Oldborough  looked  out  of  the  window  as  it  passed — then 
smiled,  and  observed  how  altered  the  times  were,  since  Clermont- 
park  used  to  be  crowded  with  visitors  and  carriages — now  the 
arrival  of  one  is  an  event. 

The  servant  announced  a  foreign  name,  a  Neapolitan  abb^ 
who  had  come  over  in  the  train  of  a  new  ambassador:  he  had 
just  arrived  in  England,  and  had  letters  from  tlie  Cardinal 
*  *  *  *,  his  uncle,  which  he  was  desired  to  deliver  into  Lord 
Oldborough's  own  hand.  The  abbe  was,  it  appeared,  personally 
a  stranger  to  him,  but  there  had  been  some  ministerial  intercourse 
between  his  lordship  and  the  cardinal.  Lord  Oldborough 
received  these  political  letters  with  an  air  of  composure  and 
indifference  which  proved  that  he  ceased  to  have  an  interest  in 
the  game. 

"  He  supposed,"  he  said,  *'  that  the  abbe  had  been  apprized 
that  he  was  no  longer  one  of  his  majesty's  ministers — that  he 
had  resigned  his  official  situation — had  retired — and  that  he  took 
jio  ]);irt  whatever  in  public  affairs." 

The  abbe  replied  that  he  had  been  apprized  that  Lord  01d» 


PATRONAGE.  117 

borough  had  retired  from  the  public  office ;  but  his  luicle,  he 
added,  with  a  significant  smile,  was  aware  that  Lord  Oldborough's 
influence  was  as  great  still  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  greater  than 
that  of  any  ostensible  minister. 

This  Lord  Oldborough  disclaimed — coolly  observing  that  his 
influence,  whatever  it  might  be,  could  not  be  known  even  to 
himself,  as  it  was  never  exerted ;  and  that,  as  he  had  determined 
nevermore  to  interfere  in  public  business,  he  could  not  be  of  the 
least  political  service  to  the  cardinal.  The  Duke  of  Greenwich 
was  now  the  person  to  whom  on  such  subjects  all  applications 
should  be  addressed. 

The  abbe,  however,  repeated,  that  his  instructions  from  the 
cardinal  were  positive  and  peremptory.,  to  deliver  these  letters 
into  no  hands  but  those  of  Lord  Oldborough — that  in  consequence 
of  this  strict  injunction  he  had  come  purposely  to  present  them. 
He  was  instructed  to  request  his  lordship  would  not  put  the 
letters  into  the  hands  of  any  secretary,  but  would  have  the 
goodness  to  examine  them  himself,  and  give  his  counsel  how  to 
proceed,  and  to  whom  they  should,  in  case  of  his  lordship's 
declining  to  interfei-e,  be  addressed. 

"Mr.  Percy!"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  recalling  Mr.  Percy, 
who  had  risen  to  quit  the  room,  "  you  will  not  leave  me 
Whatever  you  may  wish  to  say,  M.  I'abb^,  may  be  said  before 
this  gentleman — my  friend." 

His  lordship  then  opened  the  packet,  examined  the  letters — 
read  and  re-directed  some  to  the  Duke  of  Greenwich,  others  to 
the  king :  the  abbe,  all  the  time,  descanting  vehemently  on 
Neapolitan  politics — regretting  Lord  Oldborough's  resignation — 
adverting  still  to  his  lordship's  powerful  influence— -and  pressing 
some  point  in  negotiation,  for  which  his  uncle,  the  cardinal,  was 
most  anxious. 

Among  the  letters,  there  was  one  which  Lord  Oldborough  did 
not  open  :  he  laid  it  on  the  table  with  the  direction  downwards, 
leaned  his  elbow  upon  it,  and  sat  as  if  calmly  listening  to  the 
abbe ;  but  Mr.  Percy,  knowing  his  countenance,  saw  signs  of 
extraordinary  emotion,  with  difficulty  repressed. 

At  length  the  gesticulating  abb^  finished,  and  waited  his 
ilordship's  instructions. 

They  were  given  in  few  words.     The  letters  re-directed  to  the 


118  PATRONAGE. 

king  and  the  Duke  of  Greenwich  were  returned  to  him.  He 
thanked  his  lordship  with  many  Italian  superlatives — declined 
his  lordship's  invitation  to  stay  till  the  next  day  at  Clermont- 
pavk — said  he  was  pressed  in  point  of  time — that  it  was 
indispensahly  necessary  for  him  to  he  in  London,  to  deliver 
these  papers,  as  soon  as  possible.  His  eye  glanced  on  the; 
unopened  letter. 

"Private,  sir,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  in  a  stern  voice,  with- 
out moving  his  elbow  from  the  paper :  '*  whatever  answer  it  may 
require,  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  transmit  to  you — for  the 
cardinal." 

The  abbe  bowed  low,  left  his  address,  and  took  leave.     Lord 
Oldborougli,  after  attending  him  to  the   door,  and  seeing  him 
depart,  returned,  took  out  his  watch,  and  said  to  Mr.  Percy 
**  Come  to  me,  in  my  cabinet,  in  five  minutes." 

Seeing  his  sister  on  the  walk  approaching  his  house,  ho  added, 
*'  Let  none  follow  me." 

When  the  five  minutes  were  over,  Mr.  Percy  went  to  Lord 
Oldborougli's  cabinet — knocked — no  answer — knocked  again — 
louder — all  was  silent — he  entered — and  saw  Lord  Oldborough 
seated,  but  in  the  attitude  of  one  just  going  to  rise  ;  he  looked 
more  like  a  statue  than  a  living  person  :  there  was  a  stiffness  in 
his  muscles,  and  over  his  face  and  hands  a  deathlike  colour. 
His  eyes  were  fixed,  and  directed  towards  the  door — but  they 
never  moved  when  Mr.  Percy  entered,  nor  did  Lord  Oldborough 
stir  at  his  approach.  From  one  hand,  which  hung  over  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  his  spectacles  had  dropped ;  his  other  hand  grasped 
an  open  letter. 

"  My  dear  lord  !"  cried  Mr.  Percy. 

He   neither    heard   nor   answered.     Mr.    Percy   opened   the 
window  and  let  down  the  blind.     Then  attempting  to  raise  the 
hand  which  hung  down,  he  perceived  it  was  fixed  in  all  the 
rigidity  of  catalepsy.     In  hopes  of  recalling  his  senses  or  his 
power  of  motion,  Mr.  Percy  determined  to  try  to  draw  the  letter 
from  his  grasp  ;  the  moment  the  letter  was  touched.  Lord  Old- 
borough started — ^his  eyes  darting  fiercely  upon  him. 
"  Who  dares'     Who  are  you,  sir?"  cried  he. 
"  Your  friend,  Percy — my  lord." 
Lord  Oldborough  pointed  to  a  chair — Mr.  Percy  sat  down. 


PATRONAGE.  119 

His  lordship  recovered  gradually  from  the  species  of  trance  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  The  cataleptic  rigidity  of  his  figure 
relaxed — the  colour  of  life  returned — the  body  regained  its 
functions  —  the  soul  resumed  at  once  her  powers.  Without 
seeming  sensible  of  any  interruption  or  intermission  of  feeling  or 
thought,  Lord  Oldborough  went  on  speaking  to  Mr.  Percy. 

"  The  letter  which  I  now  hold  in  my  hand  is  from  that  Italian 
lady  of  transcendent  beauty,  in  whose  company  you  once  saw  me 
when  we  first  met  at  Naples.  She  was  of  high  rank — high 
endowments.  I  loved  her  ;  how  well — I  need  not — cannot  say. 
We  married  secretly.  I  was  induced — no  matter  how  —  to 
suspect  her  fidelity — pass  over  these  circumstances — I  cannot 
speak  or  think  of  them.  We  parted — I  never  saw  her  more. 
She  retired  to  a  convent,  and  died  shortly  after :  nor  did  I,  till 
I  received  this  letter,  written  on  her  death-bed,  know  that  she  had 
given  me  a  son.  The  proofs  that  I  wronged  her  are  irresistible. 
Would  that  they  had  been  given  to  me  when  I  could  have 
repaired  my  injustice  ! — But  her  pride  prevented  their  being 
sent  till  the  hour  of  her  death." 

On  the  first  reading  of  her  letter,  Lord  Oldborough  had  been 
so  struck  by  the  idea  of  the  injustice  he  had  done  the  mother, 
that  he  seemed  scarcely  to  advert  to  the  idea  of  his  having  a  son. 
Absorbed  in  the  past,  he  was  at  first  insensible  both  to  the 
present  and  the  future.  Early  associations,  long  dormant,  were 
suddenly  wakened ;  he  was  carried  back  with  irresistible  force  to 
the  days  of  his  youth,  and  something  of  likeness  in  air  and  voice 
to  the  Lord  Oldborough  he  had  formerly  known  appeared  to 
Mr.  Percy.  As  the  tumult  of  passionate  recollections  subsided, 
as  this  enthusiastic  reminiscence  faded,  and  the  memory  of  the 
past  gave  way  to  the  sense  of  the  present.  Lord  Oldborough 
resumed  his  habitual  look  and  manner.  His  thoughts  turned 
upon  his  son,  that  unknown  being  who  belonged  to  him,  who 
had  claims  upon  him,  who  might  form  a  great  addition  to  the 
happiness  or  misery  of  his  life.  He  took  up  the  letter  again, 
looked  for  the  passage  that  related  to  his  son,  and  read  it 
anxiously  to  himself,  then  to  Mr.  Percy — observing,  "  that  the 
directions  were  so  v?.gue,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  act  upon 
them." 


120  PATRONAGE. 

"The  boy  was  sent  when  three  years  old  to  England  or 
Ireland,  under  the  care  of  an  Irish  priest,  who  delivered  him  to 
a  merchant,  recommended  by  the  Hamburg  banker,  &c." 

"  I  shall  have  difficulty  in  tracing  this — great  danger  of  being 
mistaken  or  deceived,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  pausing  with  a 
look  of  anxiety,  "  Would  to  God  that  I  had  means  of  knowing 
with  certainty  where,  and  above  all,  what,  he  is,'  or  that  I  had 
never  heard  of  his  existence  !" 

"My  lord,  are  there  any  more  particulars?"  inquired  Mr. 
Percv,  eagerlv. 

Lord  Oldborough  continued  to  read,  "'  Four  hundred  pounds 
of  your  English  money  have  been  remitted  to  him  annually,  by 
means  of  these  Hamburg  bankers.  To  them  we  must  apply  in 
the  first  instance,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  "and  I  will  write  this 
moment." 

"  I  think,  my  lord,  I  can  save  you  the  trouble,"  said  Mr^ 
Percy  :  "I  know  the  man." 

Lord  Oldborough  put  down  his  pen,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Percy 
with  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  however  extraordinary  it  may  appear,  I  repeat 
it — I  believe  I  know  your  son ;  and  if  he  be  the  man  I  imagine 
him  to  be,  I  congratulate  you — you  have  reason  to  rejoice." 

"The  facts,  my  dear  sir,"  cried  Lord  Oldborough:  "do  not 
raise  my  hopes." 

Mr.  Percy  repeated  all  that  he  had  heard  from  Godfrey  of  Mr. 
Henry — related  every  circumstance  from  the  first  commencement 
of  them — the  impertinence  and  insult  to  which  the  mystery  that 
hung  over  his  birth  had  subjected  him  in  the  regiment — -the 
quarrels  in  the  regiment — the  goodness  of  Major  Gascoigne — 
the  gratitude  of  Mr.  Henry — the  attachment  between  him  and 
Godfrey — his  selling  out  of  the  regiment  after  Godfrey's  in- 
effectual journey  to  London — ^his  wishing  to  go  into  a  mercantile 
house — the  letter  which  Godfrey  then  wrote,  begging  his  fatlier 
to  recommend  Mr.  Henry  to  Mr.  Gresham,  disclosing  to  Mr. 
Percy,  with  Mr.  Henry's  permission,  all  that  he  knew  of  his^ 
birth. 

"I  have  that  letter  at  home."  said  Mr.  Percy:  "your  lord- 
ship shall  see  it.     I  perfectly  recollect  the  circumstances  of  Mr, 


FATRONAOE.  121 

Henry's  having  been  brought  up  in  Ireland  by  a  Dublin  merchant, 
and  having  received  constantly  a  remittance  in  quarterly  pay- 
ments of  four  hundred  pounds  a  year,  from  a  banker  in  Cork." 

"  Did  he  inquire  why,  or  from  whom?"  said  Lord  Oldborough  ; 
**and  does  he  know  his  mother?" 

"  Certainly  not :  the  answer  to  his  first  inquiries  prevented 
all  further  questicns.  He  was  told  by  the  bankers  that  they 
had  directions  to  stop  payment  of  the  remittance  if  any  questions 
were  asked." 

Lord  Oldborough  listened  with  profound  attention  as  Mr. 
Percy  went  on  with  the  history  of  Mr.  Henry,  relating  all  the 
circumstances  of  his  honourable  conduct  with  respect  to  Miss 
Panton — his  disinterestedness,  decision,  and  energy  of  affection. 

Lord  Oldborough 's  emotion  increased — he  seemed  to  recognize 
some  traits  of  his  own  character. 

"  I  hope  this  youth  is  my  son,"  said  his  lordship,  in  a  low 
suppressed  voice. 

"He  deserves  to  be  yours,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Percy. 

"  To  have  a  son  might  be  the  greatest  of  evils — to  have  such 
a  son  must  be  the  greatest  of  blessings,"  said  his  lordship. 
He  was  lost  in  thought  for  a  moment,  then  exclaimed,  "  I  must 
see  the  letter — I  must  see  the  man." 

•*  My  lord,  he  is  at  my  house." 

Lord  Oldborough  started  from  his  seat — "  Let  me  see  him 
instantly." 

*'  To-morrow,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  in  a  calm  tone,  for  it 
■was  necessary  to  calm  his  impetuosity — *^  to-morrow.  Mr. 
Henry  could  not  be  brought  here  to-night  without  alarming  him, 
or  without  betraying  to  him  the  cause  of  our  anxiety." 

**  To-morrow,  let  it  be — you  are  right,  my  dear  friend.  Let  me 
see  him  without  his  suspecting  that  I  am  any  thing  to  him,  or  he 
to  me — you  will  let  me  have  the  letter  to-night." 

"  Certainly,  my  lord." 

Mr.  Percy  sympathized  with  his  impatience,  and  gratified  it 
with  all  the  celerity  of  a  friend :  the  letter  was  sent  that  night 
to  Lord  Oldborough.  In  questioning  his  sons  more  particularly 
concerning  Mr.  Henry,  Mr.  Percy  learnt  from  Erasmus  a  fresh 
and  strong  corroborating  circumstance.  Dr.  Percy  had  been 
lately  attending  Mr.  G resh am 's  porter,  O'Brien,  the  Irishman; 


122  PATRONAGE. 

who  had  been  so  ill,  that,  imagining  himself  dying,  he  had  sent 
for  a  priest.  Mr.  Henry  was  standing  by  the  poor  fellow's  bed- 
side when  the  priest  arrived,  who  was  so  much  struck  by  the 
sight  of  him,  that  for  some  time  his  attention  could  scarcely  be 
fixed  on  the  sick  man.  The  priest,  after  he  had  performed  his 
official  duties,  returned  to  Mr.  Henry,  begged  pardon  for  having 
looked  at  him  with  so  much  earnestness,  but  said  that  Mr.  Henry 
strongly  reminded  him  of  the  features  of  an  Italian  lady  who 
liad  committed  a  child  to  his  care  man)''  years  ago.  Tliis  led  to 
farther  explanation,  and  upon  comparing  dates  and  circum- 
stances, Mr.  Henry  was  convinced  that  this  was  the  very  priest 
who  had  carried  him  over  to  Ireland — the  priest  recognized  him 
to  be  tlie  child  of  whom  he  had  taken  charge  ;  but  farther,  all 
was  darkness.  The  priest  knew  nothing  more — not  even  the 
name  of  the  lady  from  whom  he  had  received  the  child.  He 
knew  only  that  he  had  been  handsomely  rewarded  by  the 
Dublin  merchant,  to  whom  he  had  delivered  the  boy — and  he 
had  heard  that  this  merchant  had  since  become  bankrupt,  and 
had  fled  to  America.  This  promise  of  a  discovery,  and  sudden 
stop  to  his  hopes,  had  only  mortified  poor  Mr.  Henry,  and  had 
irritated  that  cvuriosity  which  he  had  endeavoured  to  lull  to 
repose. 

Mr.  Percy  was  careful,  both  for  Mr.  Henry's  sake  and  for  Lord 
Oldborough's,  not  to  excite  hopes  which  might  not  ultimately  be 
accomplished.  He  took  precautions  to  prevent  him  from  sus- 
pecting any  thing  extraordinary  in  the  intended  introduction  to 
Lord  Oldborough. 

There  had  been  some  dispute  between  the  present  minister  and 
some  London  merchant,  about  the  terms  of  a  loan  which  had 
been  made  by  Lord  Oldborough — Mr.  Gresham's  house  had 
some  concern  in  this  transaction ;  and  it  was  now  settled 
between  Mr.  Percy  and  Lord  Oldborough,  that  his  lordship 
should  write  to  desire  to  see  Mr.  Henry,  who,  as  Mr.  Gresham's 
partner,  could  give  every  necessary  information.  Mr.  Henry 
accordingly  was  summoned  to  Clermont-park,  and  accompanied 
Mr.  Percy,  with  his  mind  intent  upon  this  business. 

Mr.  Henry,  in  common  with  all  who  were  capable  of  esti- 
mating a  great  public  character,  had  conceived  high  admiration 
for  Lord  Oldborough  ;  he  had  seen  him  only  in  public,  and  at  a 


PATRONAOC.  12$ 

distance — and  it  was  not  without  awe  that  he  now  thought  ot 
being  introduced  to  him,  and  of  hearing  and  speaking  to  him  in 
private. 

Lord  Oldborough,  meanwhile,  who  had  been  satisfied  by  the 
perusal  of  the  letter,  and  by  Mr.  Percy's  information,  waited  for 
his  arrival  with  extreme  impatience.  He  was  walking  up  and 
down  his  room,  and  looking  frequently  at  his  watch,  which  he 
believed  more  than  once  to  have  stopped.  At  length  the  door 
opened. 

"  Mr.  Percy,  and  Mr.  Henry,  my  lord." 

Lord  Oldborough's  eye  darted  upon  Henry.  Struck  instantly 
with  the  resemblance  to  the  mother,  Lord  Oldborough  rushed 
forward,  and  clasping  him  in  his  arms,  exclaimed,  "  My  son  !" 

Tenderness,  excessive  tenderness,  was  in  his  look,  voice,  soul, 
as  if  he  wished  to  repair  in  a  moment  the  injustice  of  years. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Oldborough,  "  now  I  am  happy — notp,  I 
also,  Mr.  Percy,  may  be  proud  of  a  son — I  too  shall  know  thes 
pleasures  of  domestic  life.     Now  I  am  happy !"  repeated  he, 

"  And,  pleased,  resigned 
To  tender  passions  all  Lis  mighty  mind.** 

March  26th,  iSld, 


«XS  OF   PATRONAGE. 


9 


COMIC    DRAMAS. 


LOVE  AND  LAW. 

A  DRAMA. 
IN  THREE  ACTS, 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


MEN. 


Mr.  Carver,  of  Bob's  Fort 
Old  Matthew  M'Briub 
Philip  M'Bride   . 
Randal  Rooney  . 

Mr.  Gf.rald  O'Blanrv 
Patrick  Coxe 


A  Justice  of  (he  Peace  in  IreUnd. 

A  iHch  Farmer. 

His  Son. 

Son  of  tite  Witiow  Catherine  Rooney 

— a  Lover  of  Honor  M"" Bride. 
A  Distiller. 
Clerk  to  Gerald  CDlaneif. 


Mrs.  Carver 
Miss  Bloomsbury 


WOMEN. 

.     Wife  of  Mr.  Carver. 
,    A  fine  London  Waiting-maid  of  Mrs» 
Carvers, 
Mrs.  Catherine    Rooney,  cotw- 

moniy  called  Catt^   Rooney       .    A  Widow — Mother  of  Randal  Roone^^ 
Honor  M'Bride    ....    DatigMer  of  Matthew  MDnde,  and 

Sister  of  Philip  M'liride, 


A  Justice'' s  Clerk — a  Cor^aJtle — Witrtesses — i,nd  two  FooUnen. 


LOVE   AND    LAW, 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Cottage. — A  Table — Breakfast, 

Honor  M'Bride,  alone. 
Honor,  Phil ! — {calls) — PhC,  dear  I  come  out. 
pjiil, — {answers  from  within.)  Wait  till  I  draw  on  my  boots ! 
Honor.  Oh,  I  may  give  it  up :  he's  full  of  his  new  boots— 
and  singing,  see ! 

Enter  Phil  M'Bride,  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  Irish  huck- 
farmer  fashion,  singing, 

**  Oh  the  boy  of  Bairnavogue ! 
Oh  the  dasher !  oh  the  rogue ! 
He's  the  thing !  and  he*8  the  pride 
Of  town  and  country,  Phil  M' Bride- 
All  the  talk  of  shoe  and  brogue  I 
Oh  the  boy  of  Bairnavogue  V 

There's  a  song  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  your — of  your  brotier. 
Honor  I     And  who  made  it,  do  you  think,  girl  ? 

Honor.  Miss  Caroline  Flaherty,  no  doubt.  But,  dear  Phil^ 
I've  a  favour  to  ask  of  you. 

Phil,  And  welcome !  What  ?  But  first,  see !  isn't  there  an 
elegant  pair  of  boots,  that  fits  a  leg  like  wax? — There's  what'U 
plase  Car'line  Flaherty,  I'll  engage.    But  what  ails  you,  Honor? 

Comic  Dramas. 


13C  LOVE    AND   LAW. 

—you  look  as  if  your  own  heart  was  like  to  break.  Are  not  you 
for  the  fair  to-day  ? — and  why  not  ? 

Honor.  Oh !  rasons.     (Aside)  Now  I  can't  speak. 

Phil.  Speak  on,  for  I'm  dumb  and  all  ear — speak  up,  dear- 
no  fear  of  the  father's  coming  out,  for  he's  leaving  his  bird  (i.  e, 
beard)  in  the  bason,  and  that's  a  work  of  time  with  him. — Tell 
•all  to  your  own  Phil. 

Honor.  Why  then  I  won't  go  to  the  fair — because — better 
keep  myself  to  myself,  out  of  the  way  of  meeting  them  that 
mightn't  be  too  plasing  to  my  father. 

Phil.  And  might  be  too  plasing  to  somebody  else — Honor 
M*Bride. 

Honor.  Oh,  Phil,  dear !  But  only  promise  me,  brother,  dear- 
«st,  if  you  would  this  day  meet  any  of  the  Rooneys 

Phil.  That  means  Randal  Rooney. 

Honor.  No,  it  was  his  mother  Catty  was  in  my  head. 

Phil.  A  bitterer  scould  never  was ! — ^nor  a  bigger  lawyer  in 
petticoats,  which  is  an  abomination. 

Honor.  *Tis  not  pritt)-^,  I  grant;  but  her  heart's  good,  if  her 
temper  would  give  it  fair  play.  But  will  you  promise  me,  PhO, 
whatever  she  says — you  won't  let  her  provoke  you  this  day. 

Phil.  How  in  the  name  of  wonder  will  I  hinder  her  to  give 
me  provocation  ?  and  when  the  spirit  of  the  M'Brides  is  up 

Honor.  But  don't  lift  a  hand. 

Phil.  Against  a  woman?— no  fear — not  a  finger  against  a 
woman. 

Honor.  But  I  say  not  against  any  Rooney,  man  or  woman. 
Oh,  Phil !  dear,  don't  let  there  be  any  fighting  betMrixt  the 
M 'Bride  and  Rooney  factions. 

Phil.  And  how  could  I  hinder  if  I  would?  The  boys  will  be 
having  a  row,  especially  when  they  get  the  spirits — and  all  the 
better. 

Honor.  To  be  drinking  !  Oh  !  Phil,  the  mischief  that  drink- 
ing does ! 

Phil.  Mischief!  Quite  and  clane  the  contrary — when  the 
ahillelah's  up,  the  pike's  down.  'Tis  when  there'd  be  no  fights  at 
fairs,  and  all  sober,  then  there's  rason  to  dread  mischief.  No 
man,  Honor,  dare  be  letting  the  whiskey  into  his  head,  was  there 
any  mischief  in  his  heart. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  131 

Honor,  Well,  Phil,  you've  made  it  out  now  cliverly.  So  there's 
■most  danger  of  mischief  when  men's  sober — ^is  that  it  ? 

Phil.  Irishmen? — ay;  for  sobriety  is  not  the  nat'ral  state  of 
the  craturs  ;  and  what's  not  nat'ral  is  hypocritical,  and  a  hjrpo- 
crite  is,  and  was,  and  ever  will  be  my  contempt. 

Honor.  And  mine  too.     But 

Phil.  But  here's  my  hand  for  you.  Honor.  They  call  me  a 
beau  and  a  buck,  a  slasher  and  dasher,  and  floiuishing  Phil.  All 
that  I  am,  may  be ;  but  there's  one  thing  I  am  not,  and  will 
never  be — and  that's  a  bad  brother  to  you.  So  you  have  my 
honour,  and  here's  my  oath  to  the  back  of  it.  By  all  the  pride 
of  man  and  all  the  consate  of  woman — where  will  you  find  a 
bigger  oath  ? — happen  what  will,  this  day,  I'll  not  lift  my  hand 
against  Randal  Rooney ! 

Honor.  Oh,  thanks !  warm  from  the  heart.  But  here's  my 
father — and  where's  breakfast  1 

Phil.  Oh!  I  must  be  at  him  for  a  horse:  you,  Honor,  mind 
and  back  me. 

Enter  Old  M'Bride. 

Old  M'B.  Late  I  am  this  fair  day  all  along  with  my  beard, 
that  was  thicker  than  a  hedgehog's.     Breakfast,  where  ? 

Honor.  Here,  father  dear — all  ready. 

Old  M'B.  There's  a  jewel !  always  supple  o'  foot.  Phil,  cal? 
to  them  to  bring  out  the  horse  bastes,  while  I  swallow  my  break- 
fast— and  a  good  one,  too. 

PhU.  Your  horse  is  all  ready  standing,  sir.  But  that's  what 
I  wanted  to  ax  you,  father — will  you  be  kind  enough,  sir, 
to  shell  out  for  me  the  price  of  a  daacent  horse,  fit  to  mount  a 
man  like  me  ? 

Old  M^B,    "What  ails  the  baste  you  have  under  you  always  ? 

Phil,  Fit  only  for  the  hounds : — not  to  follow,  but  to  feed 
'.em. 

Old  M'B.  Hounds !  I  don't  want  you,  Phil,  to  be  following 
the  hounds  at-all-at-all. 

Honor.  But  let  alone  the  hounds.  If  you  sell  your  bullocks 
well  in  the  fair  to-day,  father  dear,  I  think  you'll  be  so  kind  to 
spare  Phil  the  price  of  a  horse. 

Old  M'B,  Stand  out  o*  my  way.  Honor,  with  that  wheedling 


132  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

voice  o*  your  awn— I  won't.  Mind  your  own  affairs — you're 
leaguing  again  me,  and  I'll  engage  Randal  Rooney's  at  the 
bottom  of  all — and  the  cement  that  sticks  you  and  Phil  so  close 
together.  But  mind,  Madam  Honor,  if  you  give  him  the 
meeting  at  the  fair  the  day 

Honor.  Dear  father,  I'm  not  going — I  give  up  the  fair  o' 
purpose,  for  fear  I'd  see  him. 

Old  M^B.  {kissing  her)  Why  then  you're  a  piece  of  an  angel ! 

Honor.  And  you'll  give  my  brother  the  horse  ? 

Old  M^B.  I  won't !  when  I've  said  I  won't — I  wont 

[^Buttons  his  coat,  and  exit, 

Phil.  Now  there's  a  sample  of  a  father  for  ye  ! 

Old  M^B.  {returning.)  And,  Mistress  Honor,  may  be  you'd  be 

staying  at  home  to Where's  Randal  Rooney  to  be,  pray, 

while  I'd  be  from  home  ? 

Honor.  Oh !  father,  would  you  suspect 

Old  M^B,  {catching  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her  again  and 
again)  Then  you're  a  true  angel,  every  inch  of  you.  But  not  a 
word  more  in  favour  of  the  horse — sure  the  money  for  the 
bullocks  shfJl  go  to  your  portion,  every  farthing. 

Honor.  There's  the  thing  !  {Holding  her  father)  I  don't  wish 
that. 

Phil,  {stopping  her  mouth)  Say  no  more,  Honor — I'm  best 
pleased  so. 

OldM'B.  {aside)  I'll  give  him  the  horse,  but  he  sha'n't  know 
it,     {Aloud)  I  won't.     When  I  say  I  won't,  did  I  ever? 

[Exit  Old  M'Bride. 

Phil.  Never  since  the  world  stud — to  do  you  justice,  you  are 
as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  Not  all  the  bullocks  he's  carrying  to 
the  fair  the  day,  nor  all  the  bullocks  in  Ballynavogue  joined  to 
'em,  in  one  team,  would  draw  that  father  o'  mine  one  inch  out  of 
his  way. 

Honor,  {aside,  tuith  a  deep  sigh)  Oh,  then  what  will  I  do 
about  Randal  ever ! 

Phil.  As  close  a  fisted  father  as  ever  had  the  grip  of  a  guinea ! 
If  the  guineas  was  all  for  you — wilcome.  Honor !  But  that's  not 
it.  Pity  of  a  lad  o'  spirit  like  me  to  be  cramped  by  such  a  hunx 
of  a  father. 

Honor.  Oh !  don't  be  calling  him  names,  Phil  :  stiff  he  is^ 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  13$ 

more  than  close — and  any  way,  Phil  dear,  he's  the  father  still— 
and  or.ld,  consider. 

Phil.  He  is, — and  I'm  fond  enough  of  him,  too,  would  he  only 
give  me  the  price  of  a  horse.  But  no  matter — spite  of  him  I'll 
have  my  swing  the  day,  and  it's  I  that  will  tear  away  with  a 
good  horse  under  me  and  a  good  whip  over  him  in  a  capital 
style,  up  and  down  the  street  of  Ballynavogue,  for  you.  Miss 
Car'line  Flaherty!  I  know  who  I'll  ^o  to,  this  minute — a  man 
I'll  engage  will  lend  me  the  loan  of  his  bay  gelding  ;  and  that's 
Counshillor  Gerald  O'Blaney.  \_Going,  Honor  stops  him. 

Honor.  Gerald  O'Blaney  !  Oh,  brother  ! — Mercy  ! — Don't  f 
any  thing  rather  than  that 

Phil,  {impatiently)  Why,  then,  Honor  ? 

Honor,  {aside)  If  I'd  tell  him,  there'd  be  mischief.  {Aloud.) 
Only — I  wouldn't  wish  you  under  a  compliment  to  one  I've  no 
opinion  of. 

Phil.  Phoo !  you've  taken  a  prejudice.  What  is  thei*e  again 
Counshillor  O'Blaney  ? 

Honor.  Counshillor!  First  place,  why  do  you  call  him 
counshillor  ?  he  never  was  a  raal  counshillor  sure — nor  jantleman 
at  all. 

Phil.  Oh  !  counshillor  by  courtesy — he  was  an  attorney  once 
— just  as  we  doctor  the  apotecary. 

Honor.  But,  Phil,  was  not  there  something  of  this  man's  being 
dismissed  t./e  cv,arts  for  too  sharp  practice  ? 

Phil.  But  that  was  long  ago,  if  it  ever  was.  There's  sacrets 
in  all  families  to  be  forgotten — bad  to  be  raking  the  past.  I 
never  knew  you  so  sharp  on  a  neighbour,  Honor,  before  :•— what 
ails  ye  ? 

Honor,  {sighing)  I  can't  tell  ye.  [Still  holding  him. 

Phil.  Let  me  go,  then ! — Nonsense  ! — the  boys  of  Ballyna* 
vogue  will  be  wondering,  and  Miss  Car'line  most. 

[Exitj  singing^ 
"  Oh  the  boys  of  Ball'navogue." 

Honor,  alone. 
Honor.  Oh,  Phil !  I  could  not  tell  it  you ;  but  did  you  but 
know  how  that  Gerald  O'Blaney  insulted  your  shister  with  hi» 
vile  proposhals;  you'd  no  more  ask  the  loan  of  his  horse  ! — and  I 


'134  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

in  dread,  whenever  I'd  be  left  in  the  house  alone,  that  that  bad 
man  would  boult  in  upon  me — and  Randal  to  find  him  !  and 
Randal's  like  gunpowder  when  his  heart's  touched  ! — and  if 
Randal  should  come  by  himself ^  worse  again !  Honor,  where 
would  be  your  resolution  to  forbid  him  your  presence  ?  Then 
there's  but  one  way  to  be  right — I'll  lave  home  entirely.  Down, 
proud  stomach!  You  must  go  to  service.  Honor  M'Bride. 
There's  Mrs.  Carver,  kind-hearted  lady,  is  wanting  a  girl — she's 
English,  and  nice  ;  may  be  I'd  not  be  good  enough  ;  but  I  can 
but  try,  and  do  my  best ;  any  thing  to  plase  the  father. 

[Exit  Honor. 
SCENE  il. 

O'Blaney's  Counting-house. 

Gerald  O'Blaney  alone  ai  a  desk  covered  with  Papers. 

O'Bla.  Of  all  the  employments  in  life,  this  eternal  balancing 
of  accomits,  see-saw,  is  the  most  sickening  of  all  things,  except 
it  would  be  the  taking  the  inventory  of  your  stock,  when  you're 
reduced  to  invnt  the  stock  itself; — then  that's  the  most  lowering 
to  a  man  of  all  things  !  But  there's  one  comfort  in  this  distillery 
business — come  what  will,  a  man  has  always  proof  spirits. 

Enter  Pat  Coxe. 

Pat.  The  whole  tribe  of  Connaught  men  come,  craving  to  be 
ped  for  the  oats,  counsellor,  due  since  last  Serapht*  fair. 

O'Bla.  Can't  be  ped  to-day,  let  'em  crave  never  so. — Tell  'em 
Monday  ;  and  give  'em  a  glass  of  whiskey  round,  and  that  will 
send  'em  off  contint,  in  a  jerry. 

Pat.  I  shall — I  will — I  see,  sir.  [Exit  Pat  Coxe. 

O'Bla.  Asy  settled  that  I — but  I  hope  many  more  duns  for 
oats  won't  be  calling  on  me  this  day,  for  cash  is  not  to  be  had : 
— ^here's  bills  plenty — long  bills,  and  short  bills — but  even  the 
kites,  which  I  can  fly  as  well  as  any  man,  won't  raise  the  wind 
for  me  now. 

Me-enter'l^  AT. 

Pat.  Tim  M'Gudikren,  sir,  for  his  debt — and  talks  of  the  sub- 
sheriff,  and  can't  wait. 

1  Shrovetide. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  136 

O'Bla.  I  don't  ax  him  to  wait ;  but  he  must  take  in  payment, 
since  he's  in  such  a  hurry,  this  bill  at  thirty-one  days,  tell  him. 

Pat.  I  shall  tell  him  so,  plase  your  honour.  \_Exit  Pat. 

O'Bla,  They  have  all  rendezvous'd  to  drive  me  mad  this  day ; 
but  the  only  thing  is  to  keep  the  head  cool.  What  I'm  dreading 
beyant  all  is,  if  that  ould  Matthew  M'Bride,  who  is  as  restless 
as  a  ferret  when  he  has  lodged  money  with  any  one,  should  come 
this  day  to  take  out  of  my  hands  the  two  hundred  pounds  I've 
got  of  his — Oh,  then  I  might  shut  up !  But  stay,  I'll  match  him 
— and  I'll  match  myself  too  :  that  daughter  Honor  of  his  is  a 
mighty  pretty  girl  to  look  at,  and  since  I  can't  get  her  any  other 
way,  why  not  ax  her  in  marriage  ?     Her  portion  is  to  be- 

Re-enter  Pat. 

Pat.  The  protested  note,  sir — with  the  charge  of  the  protest 
to  the  back  of  it,  from  Mrs.  Lorigan ;  and  her  compliments,  and 
to  know  what  will  she  do  ? 

O'Bla.  What  will  /  do,  fitter  to  ax.  My  kind  compliments 
to  Mrs.  Lorigan,  and  I'll  call  upon  her  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
to  settle  it  all. 

Pat.  I  understand,  sir.  [Exit  Pat. 

O'Bla.  Honor  M'Bride's  portion  will  be  five  hundred  pounds 
on  the  nail — that  would  be  no  bad  hit,  and  she  a  good,  clever, 
likely  girl.     I'll  pop  the  question  this  day. 

Re-enter  Pat. 

Pat.  Corkeran  the  cooper's  bill,  as  long  as  my  arm. 

O'Bla.  Oh !  don't  be  bothering  me  any  more.  Have  you  no 
sinse  ?  Can't  you  get  shut  of  Corkeran  the  cooper  without  me  ? 
Can't  ye  quarrel  with  the  items  ?  Tear  the  bill  down  the  middle, 
if  necessary,  and  sind  him  away  with  a  flay  (flea)  in  his  ear,  Ui 
make  out  a  proper  bill — which  I  can't  see  till  to-morrow,  mind. 
I  never  pay  any  man  on  fair-day. 

Pat.  (aside)  Nor  on  any  other  day.  (Aloud)  Corkeran 's  my 
cousin,  counsellor,  and  if  convanient,  I'd  be  glad  you'd  advance 
him  a  pound  or  two  on  account. 

O'Bla.  'Tis  not  convanient  was  he  twenty  times  your  cousin, 
Pat.     I  can't  be  paying  in  bits,  nor  on  account — all  or  none. 

Pat.  None,  then,  I  may  tell  him,  sir  ? 


136  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

O'Bla.  You  may — you  must ;  and  don't  come  up  for  any  of 
'em  any  more.  It's  hard  if  I  can't  have  a  minute  to  talk  to 
myself. 

Pat.  And  it's  hard  if  I  can't  have  a  minute  to  eat  my  break- 
fast, too,  which  I  have  not.  \_Exit  Pat. 

O'Bla.  Where  was  I  ? — I  was  popping  the  question  to  Honor 
M'Bride.  The  only  thing  is,  whether  the  girl  herself  wouldn't 
have  an  objection : — there's  that  Randal  Rooney  is  a  gvea.tbachelor 
of  hers,  and  I  doubt  she'd  be  apt  to  prefar  him  before  me,  even 
when  I'd  purpose  marriage.  But  the  families  of  the  Rooneys 
and  M'Brides  is  at  vareance — then  I  must  keep  *em  so.  I'll 
keep  Catty  Rooney's  spirit  up,  niver  to  consent  to  that  match. 
Oh !  if  them  Rooneys  and  M'Brides  were  by  any  chance  to 
make  it  up,  I'd  be  undone  :  but  against  that  catastrophe  I've  a 
preventative.  Pat  Coxe  !  Pat  Coxe  !  where  are  you,  my  young 
man? 

Enter  Pat,  wiping  his  mouth. 

Pat.  Just  swallowing  my  breakfast 

O'Bla.  Mighty  long  swallowing  you  are.  Here — don't  be 
two  minutes,  till  you're  at  Catty  Rooney's,  and  let  me  see  how 
cliverly  you'll  execute  that  confidential  embassy  I  trusted  you 
with.  Touch  Catty  up  about  her  ould  ancient  family,  and  all 
the  Kings  of  Ireland  she  comes  from.  Blarney  her  cliverly,  and 
work  her  to  a  foam  against  the  M'Brides. 

Pat.  Never  fea/,  your  honour.  I'll  tell  her  the  story  we 
agreed  on,  of  Honor  M*Bride  meeting  of  Randal  Rooney  behind 
the  chapel. 

O'Bla.  That  will  do — don't  forget  the  ring ;  for  I  mane  to 
put  another  on  the  girl's  finger,  if  she's  agreeable,  and  knows 
her  own  interest.  But  that  last's  a  private  article.  Not  a  word 
of  that  to  Catty,  you  understand. 

Pat.  Oh !  I  understand — and  I'll  engage  I'll  compass  Catty, 
tho'  she's  a  cunning  shaver. 

O'Bla.  Cunning? — No;  she's  only  hot  tempered,  and  asy 
managed. 

Pat.  Whatever  she  is,  I'll  do  my  best  to  plase  you.  And  I 
expict  your  honour,  counsellor,  won't  forget  the  promise  you 
made  me,  to  ask  Mr.  Carver  for  that  little  place — that  situation 
that  would  just  shute  me. 


LOVB   AND   LAW.  137 

O'Bla,  Never  fear,  never  fear.      Time  enough  to  think  of 
shuting  you,  when  you've  done  my  business.  [Exit  Pat. 

That  will  work  like  barm,  and  ould  Matthew,  the  father,  I'll 
speak  to,  myself,  genteelly.  He  will  be  proud,  I  warrant;  to  match 
his  daughter  with  a  gentleman  like  me.  But  what  if  he  should 
smell  a  rat,  and  want  to  be  looking  into  my  affairs  ?  Oh  !  I  must 
get  it  sartified  properly  to  him  before  all  things,  that  I'm  as  safe 
as  the  bank ;  and  I  know  who  shall  do  that  for  me — ^my  worthy 
friend,  that  most  consequential  magistrate,  Mr.  Carver  of  Bob's 
Fort,  who  loves  to  be  advising  and  managing  of  all  men,  women, 
and  children,  for  their  good.  'Tis  he  shall  advise  ould  Matthew 
for  my  good.  Now  Carver  thinks  he  lades  the  whole  county, 
and  ten  mile  round — but  who  is  it  lades  him,  I  want  to  know? 
Why,  Gerald  O'Blaney. — And  how  ?  Why,  by  a  spoonful  of 
the  universal  Tpa.nacca,  Jlatteri/ — in  the  vulgar  tangne^  Jlummery. 
{A  knock  at  the  door  heard.)  Who's  rapping  at  the  street  ? — 
Carver  of  Bob's  Fort  himself,  in  all  his  glory  this  fair-day.  See 
then  how  he  struts  and  swells.  Did  ever  man,  but  a  pacock, 
look  so  fond  of  himself  with  less  rason  ?  But  I  must  be  caught 
deep  in  accounts,  and  a  balance  of  thousands  to  credit.  {Sits 
doum  to  his  desk,  to  account  books.)  Seven  thousand,  three  hun- 
dred, and  two  })ence.  (Starting  and  rising.)  Do  I  see  Mr. 
Carver  of  Bob's  Fort?— Oh !  the  honour 

Mr.  Carv.  Don't  stir,  pray — I  beg — I  request — I  insist.  I 
am  b)'  no  means  ceremonious,  sir. 

O'Bla.  {bustling  and  setting  two  chairs)  No,  but  I'd  wish  to 
show  respect  proper  to  him  I  consider  the  first  man  in  the 
county. 

Mr.  Carv.  (aside)  Man  !  gentleman,  he  might  have  said. 

[Mr.  Carver  sits  down  and  rests  himself  conseqtientiaUy. 

O'Bla.  Now,  Mr.  Carver  of  Bob's  Fort,  you've  been  over 
fartiguing  yourself—— 

Mr.  Carv.  For  the  public  good.     I  can't  help  it,  really. 

O'Bla.  Oh !  but,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  it's  too  much : 
there's  rason  in  all  things.  A  man  of  Mr.  Carver's  fortin  to  be 
slaving  !  If  you  were  a  man  in  business,  like  me,  it  would  be 
another  thing.  I  must  slave  at  the  desk  to  keep  all  round.  See, 
Mr.  Carver,  see ! — ever  since  the  day  you  advised  me  to  be  as 


138  LOVE    AND   LAW* 

particular  as  yourself  in  keeping  accounts  to  a  farthing,  I  do,  t(>- 
a  fraction,  even  like  state  accounts,  see ! 

Mr,  Carv.  And  I  trust  you  find  your  advantage  in  it,  sir; 
Pray,  how  does  the  distillery  business  go  on  ? 

O'Bla.  Swimmingly !  ever  since  that  time,  Mr.  Carver,  your 
interest  at  the  castle  helped  me  at  the  dead  lift,  and  got  tliat 
fine  took  off.  'Tis  to  your  purtiction,  encouragement,  and 
advice  entirely,  I  owe  my  present  unexampled  prosperity,  which 
you  prophesied;  and  Mr.  Carver's  prophecies  seldom,  I  may 
say  never,  fail  to  be  accomplished. 

Mr.  Carv.  I  own  there  is  some  truth  in  your  observation.  I 
confess  I  have  seldom  been  mistaken  or  deceived  in  my  judg- 
ment of  man,  woman,  or  child. 

O'Bla.  Who  can  say  so  much  ? 

Mr.  Carv.  For  what  reason,  I  don't  pretend  to  say ;  but  the 
fact  ostensibly  ts,  that  the  few  persons  I  direct  with  my  advice 
are  unquestionably  apt  to  prosper  in  this  world. 

O'Bla.  Mighty  apt !  for  which  rason  I  would  wish  to  trouble 
you  for  your  unprecedently  good  advice  on  another  pint,  if  it 
would  not  be  too  great  a  liberty. 

Mr.  Carv.  No  liberty  at  all,  my  good  Gerald — I  am  always 
ready  to  advise — only  to-day — certainly,  the  fair  day  of  Bally- 
navogue,  there  are  so  many  calls  upon  me,  both  in  a  public  and 
private  capacity,  so  much  business  of  vitjd  importance  ! 

O'Bla.  (aside)  Vital  importance! — that  is  his  word  on  all 
occasions.  (Aloud)  May  be  then,  (oh !  where  was  my  head  ?) 
may  be  you  would  not  have  breakfasted  all  this  time?  and  we've 
the  kittle  down  always  in  this  house,  (rising)  Pat ! — Jack ! — 
Mick ! — Jenny !  put  the  kittle  down. 

Mr.  Carv.  Sit  down,  sit  still,  my  worthy  fellow.  Breakfasted 
at  Bob's  Fort,  as  I  always  do. 

O'Bla.  But  a  bit  of  cake — a  glass  of  wine,  to  refrish  and 
replinish  nature. 

Mr.  Carv.  Too  early — spoil  my  dinner.  But  what  was  I 
going  to  say  ? 

O'Bla.  (aside)  Burn  me,  if  I  know ;  and  I  pray  all  the  saints 
you  may  never  recollect. 

Mr.  Carv.  I  recollect.     How  many  times  do  you  think  I  wai 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  139 

stopped  on  horseback  coming  up  the  street  of  Ballynavogue  ? — 
Five  times  by  weights  and  measures  imperiously  calling  for 
reformation,  sir.  Thirteen  times,  upon  my  veracity,  by  booths, 
apple-stalls,  nuisances,  vagabonds,  and  drunken  women.  Pigs 
without  end,  sir — wanting  ringing,  and  all  squealing  in  my  ears, 
while  I  was  settling  sixteen  disputes  about  tolls  and  customs. 
Add  to  this,  my  regular  battle  every  fair-day  with  the  crane, 
which  ought  to  be  any  where  but  where  it  is  ;  and  my  perpetual 
discoveries  of  fraudulent  kegs,  and  stones  in  the  butter !  Now, 
sir,  I  only  ask,  can  you  wonder  that  I  wipe  my  forehead? 
{iviping  his  forehead). 

O'Bla,  In  troth,  Mr.  Carver,  I  cannot !  But  these  are  the 
pains  and  penalties  of  being  such  a  man  of  consequence  as  you 
evidently  are ; — and  I  that  am  now  going  to  add  to  your  troubles 
too  by  consulting  you  about  my  little  pint! 

Mr.  Carv.  A  point  of  law,  I  dare  to  say ;  for  people  somehow 
or  other  have  got  such  a  prodigious  opinion  of  my  law.  {Talces 
&nuff.) 

O'Bla.  (asiae)  No  coming  to  the  pint  till  he  has  finished  his 
own  panygeric. 

Mr.  Carv.  And  I  own  I  cannot  absolutely  turn  my  back  on 
people.  Yet  as  to  poor  people,  I  always  settle  them  by  telling 
them,  it  is  my  principle  that  law  is  too  expensive  for  the  poor : 
I  tell  them,  the  poor  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  laws. 

O'Bla.  Except  the  penal. 

Mr.  Carv.  True,  the  civil  is  for  us,  men  of  property  ;  and  no 
man  should  think  of  going  to  law,  without  he's  qualified.  There 
should  be  licences. 

O'Bla,  No  doubt.  Pinalties  there  are  in  plinty ;  still  those 
who  can  afford  should  indulge.  In  Ireland  it  would  as  ill 
become  a  gentleman  to  be  any  way  shy  of  a  law-shute,  as  of  a 
duel. 

Mr.  Carv.  Yet  law  is  expensive,  sir,  even  to  me. 

O'Bla.  But  'tis  the  best  economy  in  the  end ;  for  when  once 
yx)u  have  cast  or  non-shuted  your  man  in  the  courts,  'tis  as  good 
as  winged  him  in  the  field.  And  suppose  you  don't  get  sixpence 
costs,  and  lose  your  cool  hundred  by  it,  still  it's  a  great  advan- 
tage ;  for  you  are  let  alone  to  enjoy  your  own  in  pace  and  quiet 
ever  after,  which  you  could  not  do  in  this  county  without  it.    But 

10 


140  LOV<   AND  LAW* 

the  love  of  the  law  has  carried  me  away  from  my  business  :  the 
pint  I  wanted  to  consult  you  about  is  not  a  pint  of  law ;  'tis 
another  matter. 

Mr.  Carv.  (looJcing  at  his  watch)  I  must  be  at  Bob's  Fort,  to 
seal  my  despatches  for  the  castle.  And  there's  another  thing  I 
say  of  myself. 

O'Bla.  (aside)  Remorseless  agotist ! 

Mr,  Carv.  I  don't  know  how  the  people  all  have  got  such  an 
idea  of  my  connexions  at  the  castle,  and  my  influence  with  his 
Excellency,  that  I  am  worried  with  eternal  applications :  they 
expect  I  can  make  them  all  gangers  or  attorney-generals,  I 
believe.     How  do  they  know  I  write  to  the  castle  ? 

O'JBla.  Oh !  the  post-office  tells  asy  by  the  big  sales  (seals)  to 
your  despatches — (aside) — which,  I'll  engage,  is  all  the  castle  ever 
rades  of  them,  though  Carver  has  his  Excellency  always  in  his 
mouth,  God  help  him ! 

Mr.  Carv.  Well,  you  wanted  to  consult  me,  Gerald  ? 

O'Bla.  And  you'll  give  me  your  advice,  which  will  be  conclu- 
sive, law,  and  every  thing  to  me.  You  know  the  M'Brides-^ 
would  they  be  safe  ? 

Mr.  Carv.  Very  safe,  substantial  people. 

O'Bla.  Then  here's  the  thing,  Mr.  Carver:  as  you  recom- 
mend them,  and  as  they  are  friends  of  yours — I  wUl  confess  to 
you  that,  though  it  might  not  in  pint  of  interest  be  a  very  prudent 
match,  I  am  thinking  that  Honor  M*Bride  is  such  a  prudent 
girl,  and  Mrs.  Carver  has  taken  her  by  the  hand,  so  I'd  wish  to 
follow  Mrs.  Carver's  example  for  life,  in  taking  Honor  by  the 
hand  for  better  for  worse, 

Mr.  Carv.  In  my  humble  opinion  you  cannot  do  better ;  and 
I  can  teU  you  a  secret — Honor  will  have  no  contemptible  fortune 
in  that  rank  of  life. 

O'Bla.  Oh,  fortune's  always  contemptible  in  marriage. 

Mr.  Carv.  Fortune  !  sir  ? 

O'Bla.  (aside)  Overshot.  (Aloud)  In  comparison  with  the 
patronage  and  protection  or  countenance  she'd  have  from  you 
and  your  family,  sir. 

Mr.  Carv.  That  you  may  depend  upon,  my  good  Gerald,  as 
far  as  we  can  go  ;  but  you  know  we  are  nothing. 

O'BIa.  Oh,  I  know  you're  everv  thing — every  thing  on  earth 


LOTS    AND    LAW.  141 

— particularly  with  ould  M*Bride ;  and  you  know  how  to  speak 
so  well  and  iloquent,  and  I'm  so  tongue<-tied  and  haashfid  on 
such  an  occasion. 

Mr,  Carv.  Well,  well,  I'll  speak  for  you; 

O^Bla,  A  thousand  thanks  down  to  the  ground. 

Mr.  Carv.  {patting  him  on  the  hack  as  he  rises)  My  poor 
Gerald. 

O'Bla.  Then  I  am  poor  Gerald  in  point  of  wit,  I  know  ;  but 
you  are  too  good  a  friend  to  be  calling  me  poor  to  ould  M'Bride 
— you  can  say  what  I  can't  say. 

Mr.  Carv.  Certainly,  certainly ;  and  you  may  depend  on  me. 
I  shall  speak  my  decided  opinion  ;  and  I  fancy  M'Bride  has  sense 
enough  to  be  ruled  by  me. 

O'Bla.  I  am  sure  he  has — only  there's  a  Randal  Rooney,  a 
wild  young  man,  in  the  case.  I'd  bo  sorry  the  girl  was  thrown 
away  upon  Randal. 

Mr.  Carv.  She  has  too  much  sense :  the  father  will  settle 
that,  and  I'll  settle  the  father.  \_Mr.  Carver  going. 

O'Bla.   (follomng,  aside)  And  who  has  settled  you  ? 

Mr.  Carv.  Don't  stir — don't  stir — men  of  business  must  be 
nailed  to  a  spot — and  I'm  not  ceremonious.    [^Exit  Mr.  Carver. 

O'Bla.  Pinned  him  by  all  that's  cliver  !         [Exit  O'Blaney. 

SCENE  III. 
Mrs.  Carver's  Dressing-room. 

Mrs.  Carver  sitting  at  work. — Bloomsbury  standing. 

Bloom.  Certainly,  ma'am,  what  I  always  said  was,  that  for  the 
commonalty,  there's  no  getting  out  of  an  Irish  cabin  a  girl  fit  to 
be  about  a  lady  such  as  you,  Mrs.  Carver,  in  the  shape  of  a 
waiting-maid  or  waiting-maid's  assistant,  on  account  they  smell 
so  of  smoke,  which  is  very  distressing ;  but  this  Honor  M'Bride 
seems  a  bettermost  sort  of  girl,  ma'am  ;  if  you  can  make  up  your 
mind  to  her  vice. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Vice? 

Bloom.  That  is,  vicious  pronounciations  in  regard  to  their  Irish 
brogues. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Is  that  all  ? — I  am  quite  accustomed  to  the  accent. 

Bloom.  Then,  ma'am,  I  declare  now,  I've  been  forced  to  stuff 


142  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

my  hears  with  cotton  wool  hever  since  I  corned  to  Ireland.  But 
this  here  Honor  M 'Bride  has  a  mighty  pretty  vicCy  if  you  don't 
take  exceptions  to  a  little  nationality  ;  nor  she  i?  not  so  smoke- 
dried  :  she's  really  a  nice,  tidy-looking  like  girl  considering.  I've 
taken  tea  with  the  family  often,  and  they  live  quite  snug  for 
Hirish.  I'll  assure  you,  ma'am,  quite  bettermost  people  for 
Hibernians,  as  you  always  said,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Carv.  I  have  a  regard  for  old  Matthew,  though  he  is 
something  of  a  miser,  I  fear. 

Bloom.  So,  ma'am,  shall  I  call  the  girl  up,  that  we  may  see 
and  talk  to  her?  I  think,  ma'am,  you'll  find  she  will  do ;  and  I 
reckon  to  keep  her  under  my  own  eye  and  advice  from  morning 
till  night:  for  when  I  seed  the  girl  so  willing  to  lam,  I  quite 
took  a  fancy  to  her,  I  own — as  it  were. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Well,  Bloomsbury,  let  me  see  this  Honor 
M'Bride. 

Bloom,  (calling)  One  of  you  there  !  please  call  up  Honor 
M'Bride. 

Mrs.  Carv.  She  has  been  waiting  a  great  while,  I  fear ;  I  don't 
like  to  keep  people  waiting. 

Bloom,  {watching  for  Honor  a«  she  speaks)  Dear  heart,  ma'am, 
IB  this  here  country,  people  does  love  waiting  for  waiting's  sake, 
that's  sure — they  got  nothinf;  else  to  do.  Here,  Honor — walk 
in.  Honor, — ^rub  your  shoes  always. 

Enter  Honor,  timidly. 

Mrs.  Carv.  {in  an  encouraging  voice)  Come  in,  my  good  girl. 

Bloom.  Oh !  child,  the  door :  the  peoples  never  shut  a  door  in 
Ireland!  Did  not  I  warn  you? — says  I,  "Come  when  you're 
called — do  as  you're  bid — shut  the  door  after  you,  and  you'll 
never  be  chid."     Now  what  did  I  tell  you,  child? 

Honor.  To  shut  the  door  after  me  when  I'd  come  into  a 
room. 

Bloom.   When  Fd  come — ^now  that's  not  dic'snary  English, 

Mrs.  Carv.  Good  Bloomsbury,  let  that  pass  for  the  present- 
come  a  little  nearer  to  me,  my  good  girl. 

Honor.  Yes,  ma'am. 

Bloom.  Take  care  of  that  china  pyramint  with  your  cloak— 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  143 

walk  on  to  Mrs.  Carver— no  need  to  be  afraid — I'll  stand  your 
friend. 

Mrs.  Carv.  I  should  have  thought,  Honor  M'Bride,  you  were 
ih  too  comfortable  a  way  at  home,  to  think  of  going  into  service. 

Honor,  {sighs)  No  better  father,  nor  brother,  nor  (than)  I 
have,  ma'am,  I  thank  your  ladyship;  but  some  things  come 
across. 

Mrs.  Carv.  (aside)  Oh  !  it  is  a  blushing  case,  I  see :  I  must 
talk  to  her  alone,  by-and-by.  (Aloud)  I  don't  mean,  my  good 
girl,  to  pry  into  your  family  affairs. 

Honor.  Oil !  ma'am,  you're  too  good.  (Aside)  The  kind- 
hearted  Lady,  how  I  love  her  ah*eady  !  (She  wipes  the  tears  from 
her  eyes.) 

Bloom.  Take  care  of  the  bow-pot  at  your  elbow,  child;  for  if 
you  break  the  necks  of  them  moss  roses 

Honor.  I  ax  their  pardon. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Better  take  the  flower-pot  out  of  her  way,  Blooms- 
bury. 

Bloom,  (moving  the  flower-pot)  There,  now :  but,  Honor, 
keep  your  eyes  on  my  lady,  never  turn  your  head,  and  keep 
your  hands  always  afore  you,  as  I  show  you.  Ma'am,  shell 
lam  manners  in  time — Lon'on  was  not  built  in  a  day.  It  i'n!t 
to  be  expected  of  she ! 

Mrs.  Carv.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  indeed  that  she  should 
learn  every  thing  at  once ;  so  one  thing  at  a  time,  good  Blooms- 
bury,  and  one  person  at  a  time.  Leave  Honor  to  me  for  the 
present. 

Bloom.  Certainly,  ma'am ;  I  beg  pardon — I  was  only  say- 
ing  

Mrs.  Carv.  Since  it  is,  it  seems,  necessary,  my  good  girl,  that 
you  should  leave  home,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  not  too  proud  to 
gc»  into  service. 

Honor.  Oh !  into  your  service,  ma'am, — I'd  be  too  proud  if 
you'd  be  kind  enough  to  accept  me. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Then  as  to  wages,  what  do  you  expect? 

Honor.  Any  thing  at  all  you  please,  ma'am. 

Bloom,  (pressing  down  her  shoulder)  And  where *s  your 
-curtsy  ?  We  shall  bring  these  Irish  knees  into  training  by  aiid 
by,  I  hopes. 


114  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

Honor.  I'm  awk'ard  and  strange,  ma'am — I  never  was  from 
home  afore. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Poor  girl — we  shall  agree  very  well,  I  hope. 

Honor.  Oh  yes,  any  thing  at  all,  ma'am  ;  I'm  not  greedy— 
nor  needy,  thanks  above !  but  it's  what  I'd  wish  to  be  under 
your  protection  if  it  was  plasing,  and  I'll  do  my  very  best, 
madam.  {Curtsies.) 

Mrs.  Carv.  Nobody  can  expect  more,  and  I  hope  and  trust 
you'll  find  mine  an  easy  place — Bloomsbury,  you  will  tell  her 
what  will  be  required  of  her.  {Mrs.  Carver  looks  at  her  watch) 
At  twelve  o'clock  I  shall  be  returned  froni  my  walk,  and  then, 
Honor,  you  will  come  into  my  cabinet  here ;  I  want  to  say  a 
few  words  to  you.  [^Exeunt  omnes. 

SCENE  IV. 

27ie  High  Road — A  Cottage  in  view — Turf-stack^  Hay-rick,  8fc* 

Catty  Rookey  alone,  walJcing  backwards  and  forwards. 
Catty.  'Tis  but  a  stone's  throw  to  Ballynavogue.  But  I  don't 
like  to  be  going  into  the  fair  on  foot,  when  I  been  always  used 
to  go  in  upon  my  pillion  behind  my  husband  when  living,  and 
my  son  Randal,  after  his  death.  Wait,  who  comes  here  ? — 'Tis 
Gerald  O'Blaney's,  the  distiller's,  young  man,  Pat  Coxe :  now 
we'll  lam  all — and  whether  O'Blaney  can  lend  me  the  loan  of  a 
horse  or  no.     A  good  morrow  to  you,  kindly,  Mr.  Pat  Coxe. 

Enter  Pat  Coxe. 

Pat.  And  you  the  same,  Mrs.  Rooney,  tinfold.  Mr.  O'Blaney 
has  his  sarvices  to  you,  ma'am :  no,  not  his  sarvices,  but  his 
compliments,  that  was  the  word — ^his  kind  compliments,  that 
was  the  very  word. 

Catty.  The  counshillor's  always  very  kind  to  me,  and  genteel. 

Pat,  And  was  up  till  past  two  in  the  morning,  last  night, 
madam,  he  bid  me  say,  looking  over  them  papers  you  left  with 
him  for  your  shuit,  ma'am,  with  the  M*Brides,  about  the  bit  of 
Ballynascraw  bog ;  and  if  you  call  upon  the  counshillor  in  the 
course  of  the  morning,  he'll  find,  or  make,  a  minute,  for  a  con- 
sultation, he  says.  But  mane  time,  to  take  no  step  to  compro- 
mise, or  make  it  up,  for  your  life,  ma'am. 


LOVE    4ND    LAW.  145 

Catty.  No  fear,  I'll  not  give  up  at  law,  or  any  way,  to  a 
M'Bride,  while  I've  a  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins — and  it's  good 
thick  Irish  blood  runs  in  these  veins. 

Pat.  No  doubt,  ma'am — from  the  kings  of  Ireland,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  Mrs.  Rooney, 

Catty    And  the  M'Brides  have  no  blood  at-all-at-all. 

Pat.  Not  a  drop,  ma'am — so  they  can't  stand  before  you. 

Catty.  They  ought  not,  any  way ! — What  are  they  ?  Crom- 
wellians  at  the  best.  Mac  Brides !  Scotch ! — not  Irish  native, 
at-all-at-all.  People  of  yesterday,  graziers — which  tho'  they've 
made  the  money,  can't  buy  the  blood.  My  anshestors  sat  on  a 
throne,  when  the  M'Brides  had  only  their  hunkers^  to  sit  upon ; 
and  if  I  walk  now  when  they  ride,  they  can't  look  down  upon 
me — for  every  body  knows  who  I  am — and  what  they  are. 

Pat.  To  be  sure,  ma'am,  they  do — the  whole  country  talks  of 
nothing  else,  but  the  shame  when  you'd  be  walking  and  they 
riding. 

Catty.  Then  could  the  counshillor  lend  me  the  horse  ? 

Pat.  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  ma'am,  only  every  horse  he 
has  in  the  world  is  out  o'  messages,  and  drawing  turf  and  one 
thing  or  another  to-day — and  he  is  very  sorry,  ma'am. 

Catty.  So  am  I,  then — I'm  unlucky  the  day.  But  I  won't  be 
saying  so,  for  fear  of  spreading  ill  luck  on  my  faction.  Pray 
now  what  kind  of  a  fair  is  it  ? — Would  there  be  any  gcod  signs 
of  a  fight,  Mr.  Pat  Coxe  ? 

Pat.  None  in  life  as  yet,  ma'am — only  just  buying  and  sell- 
ing. The  horse-bastes,  and  horned-cattle,  and  pigs  squeaking, 
has  it  all  to  themselves.  But  it's  early  times  yet — it  won't  be 
long  so. 

Catty.  No  M'Brides,  no  Ballynavogue  boys  gathering  yet? 

Pat.  None  to  signify  of  the  M 'Brides,  ma'am,  at  alL 

Catty.  Then  it's  plain  them  M'Brides  dare  not  be  showing 
their  faces,  or  even  their  backs,  in  Ballynavogue.  But  sure  all 
our  Ballynascraw  boys,  the  Roonies,  are  in  it  as  usual,  I  hope  ? 

Pat.  Oh,  ma'am,  there  is  plinty  of  Roonies.  I  marked  Big 
Briny  of  Cloon,  and  Ulick  of  Eliogarty,  and  little  Charley  of 
Killaspugbrone. 

1  Their  hunkers,  i.  e.  their  hams. 
Comic  Dramas. 


146  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

Catty,  All  good  men  ^ — no  better.     Praise  be  where  due, 

Pat.  And  scarce  a  M'Bride  I  noticed.  But  the  father  and 
son — ould  Matthew,  and  flourishing  Phil,  was  in  it,  with  a  new 
pair  of  boots  and  the  silver-hilted  whip. 

Catty.  The  spalpeen !  turned  into  a  buckeen,  that  would  be  a 
squireen, — but  can't. 

Pat.  No,  for  the  father  pinches  hira. 

Catty.  That's  well — and  that  ould  Matthew  is  as  obstinate  a 
neger  as  ever  famished  his  stomach.  What's  he  doing  m 
Ballynavogue  the  day  ? 

Pat,  Standing  he  is  there,  in  the  fair-green  with  his  score  of 
fat  bullocks,  that  he  has  got  to  sell. 

Catty.  Fat  bullocks  I  Them,  I  reckon,  will  go  towards  Honor 
M'Bride's  portion,  and  a  great  fortin  she'll  be  for  a  poor  man — 
but  I  covet  none  of  it  for  me  or  mine. 

Pat.  I'm  sure  of  that,  ma'am, — you  would  not  demane  your- 
self to  the  likes. 

Catty.  Mark  me,  Pat  Coxe,  now — with  all  them  fat  bullocks 
at  her  back,  and  with  all  them  fresh  roses  in  her  cheeks — and  I 
don't  say  but  she's  a  likely  girl,  if  she  wa'n't  a  M'Bride ;  but 
with  all  that,  and  if  she  was  the  best  spinner  in  the  three 
counties — and  I  don't  say  but  she's  good,  if  she  wa'n't  a 
M'Bride ; — ^but  was  she  the  best  of  the  best,  and  the  fairest  of 
the  fairest,  and  had  she  to  boot  the  two  stockings  full  of  gould, 
Honor  M'Bride  shall  never  be  brought  home,  a  daughter-in-law 
to  me  !     My  pride's  up. 

Pat.  {aside)  And  I'm  instructed  to  keep  it  up. (Aloud) 

True  for  ye,  ma'am,  and  I  wish  that  all  had  as  much  proper 
pride,  as  ought  to  be  having  it. 

Catty.  There's  maning  in  your  eye,  Pat — give  it  tongue. 

Pat.  If  you  did  not  hear  it,  I  suppose  there's  no  truth  in  it. 

Catty,  What?— which? 

Pat.  That  your  son  Randal,  Mrs.  Rooney,  is  not  of  your  way 
of  thinking  about  Honor  M*Bride,  may  he's. 

Catty.  Tut !  No  matter  what  way  of  thinking  he  is — a  young 
slip  of  a  boy  like  liim  does  not  know  what  he'll  think  to-morrow. 
He's  a  good  son  to  me ;  and  in  regard  to  a  wife,  one  girl  will  d» 

1  Good  men-~-mtn  who  fight  well. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  147 

him  as  well  as  another,  if  he  has  any  sinse — and  I'll  find  him  a 
girl  that  will  plase  him,  I'll  engage. 

Pat.  May  be  so,  ma'am — no  fear:  only  boys  do  like  to  be 
plasing  themselves,  by  times — and  I  noticed  something. 

Catty.  What  did  you  notice  ? — till  me,  Pat,  dear,  quick, 

Pat.  No — 'tis  bad  to  be  meddling  and  remarking  to  get 
myself  ill-will ;  so  I'll  keep  myself  to  myself:  for  Randal's 
ready  enough  with  his  hand  as  you  with  the  tongue — no  offence, 
Mrs.  Rooney,  ma'am. 

Catty.  Niver  fear— only  till  me  the  truth,  Pat,  dear. 

Pat.  Why,  then,  to  the  best  of  my  opinion,  I  seen  Honor 
M 'Bride  just  now  giving  Randal  Rooney  the  meeting  behind  the 
chapel ;  and  I  seen  him  putting  a  ring  on  her  finger. 

Catty,  {clasping  Iter  hands)  Oh,  murder ! — Oh !  the  unnat'ral 
monsters  that  love  makes  of  these  yoimg  men  ;  and  the  traitor, 
to  use  me  so,  when  he  promised  he'd  never  make  a  stolen  match 
unknown  *st  to  me. 

Pat.  Oh,  ma'am,  I  don't  say — I  wouldn't  swear — it's  a  match 
yet. 

Catty.  Then  I'll  run  down  and  stop  it — and  catch  'em. 

Pat.  You  haven't  your  jock  on,  ma'am — {she  turns  towards 
the  house) — and  it's  no  use — for  you  won't  catch  *em :  I  seen 
them  after,  turning  the  back  way  into  Nick  Flaherty's. 

Catty.  Nick  Flaherty's,  the  publican's?  oh,  the  sinners! 
And  this  is  the  saint  that  Honor  M 'Bride  would  be  passing 
herself  upon  us  for  ?  And  all  the  edication  she  got  at  Mrs. 
Carver's  Sunday  school !  Oh,  this  comes  of  being  better  than 
one's  neighbours  !  A  fine  thing  to  tell  Mrs.  Carver,  the  English 
lady,  that's  so  nice,  and  so  partial  to  Miss  Honor  M'Bride !  Oh, 
I'll  expose  her ! 

Pat.  Oh!  sure,  Mrs.  Rooney,  you  promised  you'd  not  tell". 
{Standing  so  as  to  stop  Catty.) 

Catty.  Is  it  who  told  me  ?  No — I  won't  mintion  a  sintence 
of  your  name.  But  let  me  by — I  won't  be  put  off  now  I've  got 
the  scent.  I'll  hunt  'em  out,  and  drag  her  to  shame,  if  they're 
above  ground,  or  my  name's  not  Catty  Rooney !  Mick  !  Mick ! 
little  Mick !  {calling  at  the  cottage  door)  bring  my  blue  jock  up 
the  road  after  me  to  Ballynavogue.  Don't  let  me  count  three 
till  you're  after  me,  or  I'll  bleed  ve !     {Exit  Catty,  shaking  Iter 


148  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

closed  hand,  and  repeating)    I'll   expose  Honor  M'Bride — I'll 
■expose  Honor !  I  will,  by  the  blessing ! 

Pat.  {alone)  Now,  if  Randal  Rooney  would  hear,  he'd  make 
«l  jelly  of  me,  and  how  I'd  trimble  ;  or  the  brother,  if  he  corned 
across  me,  and  knewed.  But  they'll  niver  know.  Oh,  Catty 
won't  say  a  sintence  of  my  name,  was  she  carded !  No,  Catty's 
a  scould,  but  has  a  conscience.  Then  I  like  conscience  in  them 
I  have  to  dale  with  sartainly.  [Exit* 

SCENE  V. 

Mrs.  Carver's  Dressing-room, 

Honor  M'Bride  and  Miss  Bloomsbury  discovered. 

Honor.  How  will  I  know.  Miss  Bloomsbury,  when  it  will  be 
twelve  o'clock? 

Bloom.  You'll  hear  the  clock  strike :  but  I  suspect  you'se 
don't  understand  the  clock  yet — well,  you'll  hear  the  workmen's 
bell. 

Honor.  I  know,  ma'am,  oh,  I  know,  true — only  I  was  flurried, 
so  I  forgot. 

Bloom.  Flurried!  but  never  be  flurried.  Now  mind  and  keep 
your  head  upon  your  shoulders,  while  I  tell  you  all  your  duty — 
you'll  just  ready  this  here  room,  your  lady's  dressing-room ;  not 
a  partica/  of  dust  let  me  never  find,  petticlarly  behind  the  vindor 
shuts. 

Honor.  Vindor  shuts  ! — where,  ma'am  ? 

Bloom.  The  shuts  of  the  viwrfor*— did  you  never  hear  of  a 
vindor,  child? 

Honor.  Never,  ma'am. 

Bloom,  {pointing  to  a  window)  Don't  tell  me !  why,  your 
head  is  a  wool-gathering  !  Now,  mind  me,  pray — see  here, 
always  you  put  that  there, — and  this  here,  and  that  upon  that, 
—and  this  upon  this,  and  this  under  that, — and  that  under  this 
— you  can  remember  that  much,  child,  I  supposes  ? 

Honor.  I'll  do  my  endeavour,  ma'am,  to  remember  all. 

Bloom.  But  mind,  now,  my  good  girl,  you  takes  petticlar  care 
of  this  here  pyramint  of  japanned  china — and  very  petticlar  care 
of  that  there  great  joss — and  the  very  most  petticularest  care  of 
this  here  right  reverend  Mandolin.  {Pointing  tOj  and  touching 
<<  Mand<irin,  so  as  to  make  it  shake.     Honor  starts  hack.) 


LOVE    >ND    LAW.  Ii9 

Bloim.  It  i'n't  alive.      Silly  child,  to  start  at  a   Mandolin 
shaking  his  head  and  heard  at  you.     But,  oh  !  mercy,  if  there 
i'n't  enough  to  make  him  shake  his  liead.     Stand  there  ! — stand 
here ! — now  don't  you  see  ? 
Honor.   WJiichj  ma'am? 

Bloom.  "  Which,  ma'am  /"  you're  no  witch,  indeed,  if  you 
don't  see  a  cobweb  as  long  as  my  arm.  Run,  run,  child,  for  the 
pope's  head. 

Honor.  Pope's  head,  ma'am  ? 

Bloom.  Ay,  the  pope's  head,  which  you'll  find  under  the 
stairs.  Well,  a'n't  you  gone  ?  what  do  you  stand  there  like  a 
stuck  pig,  for? — Never  see  a  pope's  head? — never  'ear  of  a 
pope's  head  ? 

Honor.  I've  heard  of  one,  ma'am — with  the  priest ;  but  we 
are  protestants. 

Bloom.  Protestants  !  what's  that  to  do  ?  I  do  protest,  I  believe 
that  little  head  of  yours  is  someway  got  w^rong  on  your  shoulders 
to-day.  \The  clock  strikes — Honor,  who  is  close  to  it,  starts. 

Bloom.  Start  again  ! — why,  you're  all  starts  and  fits.  Never 
start,  child  !  so  ignoramus  like  !  'tis  only  the  clock  in  your  eai*, 
— twelve  o'clock,  hark ! — The  bell  will  ring  now  in  a  hurry. 
Then  you  goes  in  there  to  my  lady — stay,  you'll  never  be  able, 
I  dare  for  to  say,  for  to  open  the  door  without  me ;  for  I  opine 
you  are  not  much  usen'd  to  brass  locks  in  Hirish  cabins— can't 
be  expected.  See  here,  then !  You  turns  the  lock  in  your  hand 
this'n  ways — the  lock,  mind  now ;  not  the  key  nor  the  bolt  for 
your  life,  child,  else  you'd  bolt  your  lady  in,  and  there'd  be  my 
lady  in  Lob's  pound,  and  there'd  be  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish ! — So 
3'ou  keep,  if  you  can,  all  I  said  to  you  in  your  head,  if  possible 
— and  you  goes  in  there — and  I  goes  out  here. 

[^Exit  Bloomsburt. 
Honor,  (curtsying)  Thank  ye,  ma'am.  Then  all  this  time  I'm 
sensible  I've  been  behaving  and  looking  little  better  than  like  a 
fool,  or  an  innocent. — But  I  hope  I  won't  be  so  bad  when  the 
lady  shall  speak  to  me.  (The  bell  rings.)  Oh,  the  bell  summons 
me  in  here. — (Speaks  with  her  hand  on  the  lock  of  the  door) 
The  lock's  asy  enough — I  hope  I'll  take  courage — (sighs) — 
Asier  to  spake  before  one  nor  two,  any  way — and  asier  tin  times 
to  the  mistress  than  the  maid.  lExit  Honor. 


150  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

ACT    II. 

SCENE    I. 

Gerald  O'Blaney's  Counti7ig-hoiis 

O'Blaney  alone. 
O'JBla.  Then  I  wonder  that  ould  Matthew  M 'Bride  is  notheie^ 
yet.     But  is  not  this  Pat  Coxe  coming  up  yonder?    Ay.     Well^ 
Pa^  what  success  with  Catty  ? 

Enter  Pat  Coxe,  panting. 
Take  breath,  man  alive — What  of  Catty  ? 

Pat.  Catty  !  Oh,  murder !  No  time  to  be  talking  of  Catty 
now  1     Sure  the  shupervizor's  come  to  town. 

O'Bla.  Blood ! — and  the  malt  that  has  not  paid  duty  in  the 
cellar !  Run,  for  your  life,  to  the  back-yard,  give  a  whistle  to 
call  all  the  boys  that's  ricking  o'  the  turf,  away  with  'em  to  the 
cellar,  out  v.ith  every  sack  of  malt  that's  in  it,  through  the  back- 
yard, throw  all  into  the  middle  of  the  turf-stack,  and  in  the  wink 
of  an  eye  build  up  the  rick  over  all,  snoog  (snug), 

Pat.  I'll  engage  we'll  have  it  done  in  a  crack.         [Exit  Pai. 

O'Bla.  (calling  (ifter  him)  Pat !  Pat  Coxe  !  man  ! 

He-enter  Pat. 
O'Bla.  Would  there  be  any  fear  of  any  o'  the  boys  informin  ? 
Pat.  Sooner  cut  their  ears  off!  [Exit  Pat. 

Enter  Old  M'Bride,  at  the  opposite  side. 

Old  M^B.  {speaking  in  a  slow,  drawling  brogue)  Would  Mr. 
Gerald  O'Blaney,  the  counsellor,  be  within? 

O'Bla.  (quick  brogue)  Oh,  my  best  friend,  Matthew  M'Bride, 
is  it  you,  dear?  Then  here's  Gerald  O'Blaney,  always  at  your 
sarvice.  But  shake  hands;  for  of  all  n)en  in  Ireland,  you  are 
the  man  I  was  aching  to  lay  my  eyes  on.  And  in  the  fair  did 
ye  happen  to  meet  Carver  of  Bob's  Fort  ? 

OldM'B.  (speaking  very  slowly)  Ay,  did  I — and  he  was  a- 
talking  to  me,  and  I  was  a-talking  to  him — and  he's  a  very  good 
gentleman,  Mr.  Carver  of  Bob's  Fort — so  he  is — and  a  gentle- 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  151 

man  that  knows  how  things  should  he  ;  and  he  has  heen  giving 
of  me,  Mr.  O'Blaney,  a  great  account  of  you,  and  how  you're 
thriving  in  the  world — and  so  as  that. 

O'Bla,  Nobody  should  know  that  better  than  Mr.  Carver  of 
Bob's  Fort — ^he  knows  all  my  affairs.  He  is  an  undeniable 
honest  gentleman,  for  whom  I  profess  the  highest  regard. 

Old  APB.  Why  then  he  has  a  great  opinion  of  you  too,  coun- 
eellor — for  he  has  been  advising  of,  and  telling  of  me,  O'Blaney, 
of  your  proposhal,  sir — and  very  sinsible  I  am  of  the  honour 
done  by  you  to  our  family,  sir — and  condescension  to  the  likes 
of  us — though,  to  be  sure.  Honor  M'Bride,  though  she  is  my 
daughter,  is  a  match  for  any  man. 

O'Bla.  Is  a  match  for  a  prince — a  Prince  Ragent  even.  So 
no  more  about  condescension,  my  good  Matthew,  for  love  livels 
all  distinctions. 

Old  M^B.  That's  very  pretty  of  you  to  say  so,  sir  j  and  I'll  re- 
peat it  to  Honor. 

O'Bla.  Cupid  is  the  great  livelier,  after  all,  and  the  only 
democrat  Daity  on  earth  I'd  bow  to — for  I  know  you  are  no 
democrat,  Mr.  M'Bride,  but  quite  and  clane  the  contrary  way. 

Old  M'B.  Quite  and  clane  and  stiff,  I  thank  my  God ;  and 
I'm  glad,  in  spite  of  the  vowel  before  your  name,  Mr.  O'Blaney, 
to  hear  you  are  of  the  same  kidney. 

O'Bla.  I'm  happy  to  find  myself  agreeable  to  you,  sir. 

Old  M*B.  But,  however  agreeable  to  me,  as  I  won't  deny,  it 
might  be,  sir,  to  see  my  girl  made  into  a  gentlewoman  by  mar- 
riage, I  must  observe  to  you 

O'Bla.  And  I'll  keep  her  a  jaunting  car  to  ride  about  the 
-country ;  and  in  another  year,  as  my  fortune's  rising,  my  wife 
■should  rise  with  it  into  a  coach  of  her  own. 

Old  M'B.  Oh !  if  I'd  live  to  see  my  child,  my  Honor,  in  a 
coach  of  her  own  !  I'd  be  too  happy — oh,  I'd  die  contint! 

O'Bla.  (aside)  No  fear ! — (Aloud)  And  why  should  not  she 
ride  in  her  own  coach.  Mistress  Counsellor  O'Blaney,  and  look 
t)ut  of  the  windows  down  upon  the  RoonieSf  that  have  the  inso« 
lence  to  look  up  to  her  ? 

Old  M'B.  Ah!  you  know  thatj  then.  That's  all  that's  against 
us,  sir,  in  this  match. 

O'Bla.  But  if  you  are  against  Randal,  no  fear. 


152  LOVE    AND    LAWw 

Old  M^B.  I  am  ag:ainst  him — that  is,  against  his  family,  and 
all  his  seed,  breed,  and  generation.  But  I  would  not  break  my 
daughter's  heart  if  I  could  help  it. 

O'Bla.  Wheugh ! — liearts  don't  break  in  these  days,  like 
china. 

Old  M^B.  This  is  my  answer,  Mr.  O'Blaney,  sir :  you  have 
my  lave,  but  you  must  have  hers  too. 

O'Bla.  I  would  not  fear  to  gain  that  in  due  time,  if  you  would 
stand  my  friend  in  forbidding  her  the  sight  of  Randal. 

Old  M'B.  I  will  with  pleasure,  that — for  tho'  I  won't  force 
her  to  marry  to  plase  me,  I'll  forbid  her  to  marry  to  displase 
me  ;  and  when  I've  said  it,  whatever  it  is,  I'll  be  obeyed.  (Stri&es 
his  stick  on  the  ground.) 

O'Bla.  That  is  all  I  ax. 

Old  M*B.  But  now  what  settlement,  counshillor,  will  you  make 
on  my  girl  ? 

O'Bla.  A  hundred  a  year — I  wish  to  be  liberal — Mr.  Carver 
will  see  to  that — ^he  knows  all  my  affairs,  as  I  suppose  he  was 
telling  you. 

Old  M^B.  He  was — I'm  satisfied,  and  I'm  at  a  word  myself 
always.     You  heard  me  name  my  girl's  portion,  sir  ? 

O'Bla.  I  can't  say — I  didn't  mind — 'twas  no  object  to  me  in 
life. 

Old  M'B.  (in  a  very  low,  mysteriotts  tone,  and  slow  brogue) 
Then  five  himdred  guineas  is  some  object  to  most  men. 

O'Bla.  Certainly,  sir ;  but  not  such  an  object  as  your  daugh- 
ter to  me  :  since  we  are  got  upon  business,  however,  best  settle 
all  that  out  of  the  way,  as  you  say  at  once.  Of  the  five  himdred, 
I  have  two  in  my  hands  already,  which  you  can  make  over  to 
me  with  a  stroke  of  a  pen.  (Rising  quickly ,  and  getting  pen,  ink, 
and  books.) 

Old  M'B.  (speaking  very  slowly)  Stay  a  bit — no  huny — in  life. 
In  business — 'tis  always  most  haste,  worse  speed. 

O'Bla.  Take  your  own  time,  my  good  Matthew — I'll  be  as 
slow  as  you  plase — only  love's  quick. 

Old  M*B.  Slow  and  sure — love  and  all — fast  bind,  fast  find- 
three  and  two,  what  does  that  make  ? 

O'Bla.  It  used  to  make  five  before  I  was  in  love. 

Old  M*B.  And  will  the  same  after  you're  married  and  dead* 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  153 

What  am  I  thinking  of?  A  score  of  bullocks  1  had  in  the  fair 
— half  a  score  sold  in  my  pocket,  and  owing  half — that's  John 
Dolan,  twelve  pound  tin — and  Charley  Duffy  nine  guineas  and 
thirteen  tin  pinnies  and  a  five-penny  bit :  stay,  then,  put  that 
to  the  hundred  guineas  in  the  stocking  at  home. 

O'Bla.  (aside)  How  he  makes  my  mouth  water:  (Aloud) 
May  be,  Matthew,  I  could,  that  am  used  to  it,  save  you  the 
trouble  of  counting? 

Old  M*B.  No  trouble  in  life  to  me  ©ver  to  count  my  money — 
only  I'll  trouble  you,  sir,  if  you  please,  to  lock  that  door ;  bad 
to  be  chinking  and  spreading  money  with  doors  open,  for  walla 
has  ears  and  eyes. 

O'Bla.  True  for  you.     (Rising,  and  going  to  lock  the  doors.) 
[^Old  M*Br!DE  with  great  difftcuUii,  and  very  sloivfy,  draws 
out  of  his  pocket  his  bag  of  money — looking  first  at  one  door, 
and  then  at  the  other,  and  going  to  try  whether  they  are 
locked,  before  he  unties  his  bag,'] 

Old  M^B.  (spreads  and  counts  his  money  and  notes)  See  me 
now,  I  wrote  on  some  scrap  somewhere  59/.  in  notes — then  hard 
cash,  twinty  pounds — rolled  up  silver  and  gould,  which  is  scarce 
— but  of  a  hundred  pounds  there's  wanting  foxirteen  pounds  odd, 
I  think,  or  something  that  way ;  for  Phil  and  I  had  our  break- 
fast out  of  a  one  pound  note  of  Finlay's,  and  I  put  the  change 
somewhere — besides  a  riband  for  Honor,  which  make  a  defi- 
ciency of  fourteen  pounds  seven  shillings  and  two  pence — that's 
what's  deficient— count  it  which  way  you  will. 

O'Bla,  (going  to  sweep  the  money  off  the  table)  Oh!  never 
mind  the  deficiency — I'll  take  it  for  a  hundred  plump. 

Old  M^B.  (stopping  him)  Plump  me  no  plumps — I'll  have  it 
exact,  or  not  at  all — I'll  not  part  it,  so  let  me  see  it  again. 

O'Bla.  (aside  with  a  deep  sigh,  almost  a  groan)  Oh !  when  I 
had  had  it  in  my  fist — almost :  but  'tis  as  hard  to  get  money 
out  of  this  man  as  blood  out  of  a  turnip ;  and  I'll  be  lost  to-night 
without  it. 

Old M^B.  'Tis  not  esact — and  I'm  exact:  I'll  put  it  all  up 
again — (he  puts  it  deW>erately  into  the  bag  again,  thrusting  the 
bag  into  his  pocket) — I'll  make  it  up  at  home  my  own  way,  and 
send  it  in  to  you  by  Phil  in  an  hour's  time ;  for  I  could  not 
sleep  sound  with  so  much  in  my  house — bad  people  about— 


154  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

safer  with  you  in  town.  Mr.  Carver  says,  you  are  as  good  as 
the  Bank  of  Ireland — there's  no  going  beyond  that.  (Buttoning 
up  his  pockets.)  So  you  may  unlock  the  doors  and  let  me  out 
now — I'll  send  Phil  with  all  to  you,  and  you'll  give  him  a  bit  of 
a  receipt  or  a  token,  that  would  do. 

O'Bla,  I  shall  give  a  receipt  by  all  means — all  regular :  short 
accounts  make  long  friends.  ( Unlocks  the  door.) 

Old  M'B.  True,  sir,  and  I'll  come  in  and  see  about  the  settle- 
ments in  the  morning,  if  Honor  is  agreeable. 

O'Bla.  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  wait  upon  the  young 
lady  myself  on  the  wings  of  love  ;  and  I  trust  I'll  not  find  any 
remains  of  Randal  Rooney  in  her  head. 

Old  M^B.  Not  if  I  can  help  it,  depend  on  that.  {TJisy  sltake 
^Muds.) 

O'Bla.  Then,  fare  ye  well,  father-in-law — that's  meat  and 
drink  to  me  :  would  not  ye  take  a  glass  of  wine  then  ? 

Old  M'B.  Not  a  drop — not  a  drop  at  all — with  money  about 
me  :  I  must  be  in  a  hurry  home. 

O'Bh.  That's  true — so  best :  recommind  me  kindly  to  Miss 
Honor,  and  say  a  great  dale  about  my  impatience — and  I'll  be 
expicting  Phil,  and  won't  shut  up  tiU  he  comes  the  night. 

Old M'B.  No,  don't;  for  he'll  be  with  you  before  night-fall. 

lExit  M'Bride. 

O'Bla.  {catting)  Dan !  open  the  door,  there  :  Dan !  Joe ! 
open  the  door  smart  for  Mr.  M'Bride  !  (O'Blaney  rubbing  his 
hands.)  Now  I  think  I  may  pronounce  myself  made  for  life — 
success  to  my  parts ! — and  here's  Pat  too  !  Well,  Pat  Coxe, 
what  news  of  the  thing  in  hand? 

Enter  Pat  Coxe. 

Pat  Out  of  hand  clane  !  that  job's  nately  done.  The  turf- 
rick,  sir,  's  built  up  cliver,  with  the  malt  snug  in  the  middle  of 
its  stomach — so  were  the  shupervishor  a  conjuror  even,  barring 
he'd  dale  with  the  ould  one,  he'd  never  suspict  a  sentence  of  it. 

O'Bla.  Not  he — he's  no  conjuror :  many's  the  dozen  tricks  I 
played  him  afore  now. 

Pat.  But,  counshillor,  there's  the  big  veshel  in  the  little 
passage — I  got  a  hint  from  a  friend,  that  the  shuper  got  informa- 
tion of  the  spirits  in  that  from  some  villain. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  155 

O'Bla.  And  do  you  think  I  don't  know  a  trick  for  that,  too  ? 

Pat.  No  doubt :  still,  counshillor,  I'm  in  dread  of  my  life 
that  that  great  big  veshel  won't  be  imptied  in  a  hurry. 

O'Bla.  Won't  it  ?  but  you'll  see  it  will,  though ;  and  what's 
more,  them  spirits  will  turn  into  water  for  the  shupervisor. 

Fat.  Water!  how? 

O'Bla.  Asy — the  ould  tan-pit  that's  at  the  back  of  the  dis- 
tillery. 

Fat.  I  know— what  of  it? 

O'Bla.  A  sacret  pipe  I've  got  fixed  to  the  big  veshel,  and  the 
pipe  goes  under  the  wall  for  me  into  the  tan-pit,  and  a  sucker  I 
have  in  the  big  veshel,  which  I  pull  open  by  a  string  in  a  crack, 
and  lets  all  oS  all  clane  into  the  tan-pit. 

Fat.  That's  capital ! — but  the  water  ? 

O'Bla.  From  the  pump,  another  pipe — and  the  girl's  pumping 
asy,  for  she's  to  wash  to-morrow,  and  knows  nothing  about  it; 
and  so  the  big  veshel  she  fills  with  water,  wondering  what  aila 
the  water  that  it  don't  come — and  I  set  one  boy  and  another  to 
help  her — and  the  pump's  bewitched,  and  that's  all : — so  that's 
settled. 

Fat.  And  cliverly.  Oh !  counshillor,  we  are  a  match  for  the 
shuper  any  day  or  night. 

O'Bla.  For  him  and  all  his  tribe,  coursing  officers  and  alL 
I'd  desire  no  better  sport  than  to  hear  the  whole  pack  in  full 
cry  after  me,  and  I  doubling,  and  doubling,  and  safe  at 
my  form  at  last.  With  you,  Pat,  my  precious,  to  drag  the 
herring  over  the  ground  previous  to  the  hunt,  to  distract  the 
scent,  and  defy  the  nose  of  the  dogs. 

Fat.  Then  I  am  proud  to  sarve  you,  counshillor. 

O'Bla.  I  know  you  are,  and  a  very  honest  boy.  And  what  did 
you  do  for  me,  with  Catty  Rooney  ? 

Fat.  The  best. — Oh !  it's  I  hlarny'd  Catty  to  the  skies,  and 
then  egged  her  on,  and  aggravated  her  against  the  M'Brides,  till 
I  left  her  as  mad  as  e'er  a  one  in  Bedlam — up  to  any  thing ! 
And  full  tilt  she's  oiF  to  Flaherty's,  the  publican,  in  her  blue 
jock — where  she'll  not  be  long  afore  she  kicks  up  a  quarrel,  I'll 
engage  ;  for  she's  sarching  the  house  for  Honor  M'Bride,  who  is 
not  in  it — and  giving  bad  language,  I  warrant,  to  all  the  M*Bride 
faction,  who  is  in  it,  drinking.     Oh !  trust  Catty's  tongue  foj- 

11 


156  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

breeding  a  riot !     In  lialf  an  hour,  I'll  warrant,  you'll  have  as 
fine  a  fight  in  town  as  ever  ye  seen  or  hard. 

O'Bla.  That's  iligantly  done,  Pat  But  I  hope  Randal  Rooney 
is  in  it  ? 

Pat.  In  the  thick  of  it  he  is,  or  will  be.  So  I  hope  your 
honour  did  not  forgit  to  spake  to  Mr.  Carver  about  that  little 
place  for  me  ? 

O'Bla.  Forgit ! — Do  I  forgit  my  own  name,  do  you  think  ? 
Sooner  forgit  that  then  my  promises. 

Pat  Oh !  r  beg  your  honour's  pardon — I  would  not  doubt 
your  word ;  and  to  make  matters  sure,  and  to  make  Catty  cocka- 
hoop,  I  tould  her,  and  swore  to  her,  there  was  not  a  M'Bride  in 
the  town  but  two,  and  there's  twinty,  more  or  less. 

0'  Bla.  And  when  she  sees  them  twinty,  more  or  less,  what  will 
she  think? — Why  would  you  say  that? — she  might  find  you  out 
in  a  lie  next  minute,  Mr.  Overdo.  'Tis  dangerous  for  a  young 
man  to  be  telling  more  lies  than  is  absolutely  requisite.  The  Ue 
swperjluous  brings  many  an  honest  man,  and,  what's  more,  many 
a  cliver  fellow,  into  a  scrape — and  that's  your  great  fau't,  Pat. 

Pat.  Which,  sir  ? 

O'Bla.  That,  sir.  I  don't  see  you  often  now  take  a  glass  too 
much.  But,  Pat,  I  hear  you  often  still  are  too  apt  to  indulge  in 
a  lie  tov">  much. 

Pat.  Lie  !  Is  it  I? — Whin  upon  my  conscience,  I  niver  to  my 
knowledge  tould  a  lie  in  my  life,  since  I  was  bom,  excipt  it 
would  be  just  to  skreen  a  man,  which  is  charity,  sure, — or  to 
skreen  myself,  whicli  is  self-defence,  sure — and  that's  lawful ;  or 
to  oblige  your  honour,  by  particular  desire,  and  that  can't  be 
helped,  I  suppose. 

O'Bla.  I  am  not  saying  again  all  that— only  {laymg  his  hand 
on  Pat's  shoulder  as  he  is  going  out)  against  another  time,  all 
I'm  warning  you,  young  man,  is,  you're  too  apt  to  think  there 
never  can  be  lying  enough.  Now  too  much  of  a  good  thing  is 
good  for  nothing.  [Exit  O'Blaney. 

Pat,  alone. 

Pat.  There's  what  you  may  call  the  divil  rebuking  sin — and 
now  we  talk  of  the  like,  as  I've  heard  my  mudther  say,  that  he 
had  need  of  a  long  spoon  that  ates  wid  the  divil— so  I'll  look 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  157 

to  that  in  time.  But  whose  voice  is  that  I  hear  coming  up 
stairs?  I  don't  believe  but  it's  Mr.  Carver — only  what  should 
bring  him  back  agin,  I  wonder  now?  Here  he  is,  all  out  of 
breath,  coming. 

Enter  Mr.  Carver. 

Mr.  Carv.  Px'ay,  j^oung  man,  did  you  happen  to  see  {pant- 
ing  for  breath)  Bless  me,  I've  ridden  so  fast  back  from  Bob's 
Fort! 

Pat.  My  master,  sir,  Mr.  O'Blaney,  is  it?     Will  I  run? 

Mr.  Carv.  No,  no — stand  still  till  I  have  breath. — What  I 
"want  is  a  copy  of  a  letter  I  dropped  some  where  or  other — here 
I  think  it  must  have  been,  when  I  took  out  my  handkerchief — a 
copy  of  a  letter  to  his  Excellency — of  great  consequence.  {Mr, 
Carver  sits  doum  and  takes  breath.) 

Pat.  {searching  about  with  officious  haste)  If  it's  above  ground, 
I'll  find  it.  What's  this?— an  old  bill :  that  is  not  it.  Would 
it  be  this,  crumpled  up  ? — "  To  His  Excellency  the  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant of  Ireland." 

Mr.  Carv.  {snatching)  No  farther,  for  your  life  ! 

Pat.  Well  then  I  was  lucky  I  found  it,  and  proud. 

Mr.  Carv.  And  well  you  may  be,  young  man;  for  I  can 
assure  you,  on  this  letter  the  fate  of  Ireland  may  depend. 
{Smoothing  the  letter  on  his  knee.) 

Pat.  I  wouldn't  doubt  it — when  it's  a  letter  of  your  honour's — 
I  know  your  honour's  a  great  man  at  the  castle.  And  plase  your 
honour,  I  take  this  opportunity  of  tanking  your  honour  for  the 
encouragement  I  got  about  that  little  clerk's  place — and  here's 
a  copy  of  my  hand-writing  I'd  wish  to  show  your  honour,  to  see 
I'm  capable — and  a  scholard. 

Mr.  Carv.  Hand- writing !  Bless  me,  young  man,  I  have  no 
time  to  look  at  your  hand-writing,  sir.  With  the  affairs  of  the 
nation  on  my  shoulders — can  you  possibly  think? — ^is  the  boy 
mad? — that  I've  time  to  revise  every  poor  scholar's  copy-book  ? 

Pat.  I  humbly  beg  your  honour's  pardon,  but  it  was  only 
becaase  I'd  wish  to  show  I  was  not  quite  so  unworthy  to  be 
under  (whin  you've  time)  your  honour's  protection,  as  promised. 

Mr.  Carv.  My  protection  ? — you  are  not  under  my  protection, 
sir : — promised  clerk's  place  ? — I  do  not  conceive  what  you  are 
•aiming  at,  sir. 


158  LOVE    AND    LAW, 

Pat.  The  little  clerk's  place,  plase  your  honour — that  my 
master,  Counshillor  O'Blaney,  tould  me  he  spoke  about  to  your 
honour,  and  was  recommending,  me  for  to  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  Never — never  heard  one  syllable  about  it,  till  this 
moment. 

Pat.  Oh!  murder: — but  I  expict  your  honour's  goodness 
will 

Mr.  Carv.  To  make  your  mind  easy,  I  promised  to  appoint  a 
young  man  to  that  place,  a  week  ago,  by  Counsellor  O'Blaney's 
special  recommendation.     So  there  must  be  some  mistake. 

[Exit  Mr.  Carver. 

Pat,  alone. 
Pat.  Mistake  ?  ay,  mistake  on  purpose.  So  he  never  spoke  f 
so  he  lied ! — my  master  that  was  praching  me !  And  oh,  the 
dirty  lie  he  tould  me !  Now  I  can't  put  up  with  that,  when  I 
was  almost  perjuring  myself  for  him  at  the  time.  Oh,  if  I  don't 
fit  him  for  this  !  And  he  got  the  place  given  to  another ! — then. 
I'll  git  him  as  well  sarved,  and  out  of  this  place  too — seen-if-I- 
don't!  He  is  cunning  enough,  but  I'm  cuter  nor  he — I  have 
him  ia  my  power,  so  I  have !  and  I'll  give  the  shupervizor  a 
scent  of  the  malt  in  the  turf-stack — and  a  hint  of  the  spirits  in  the 
tan-pit — and  it's  I  that  will  like  to  stand  by  innocent,  and  see 
how  shrunk  O'Blaney's  double  face  will  look  forenentthe  shuper- 
vizor, when  all's  found  out,  and  not  a  word  left  to  say,  but 
to  pay — ruined  hand  and  foot !  Then  that  shall  be,  and  before 
nightfall.  Oh  !  one  good  turn  desarves  another — ^in  revenge, 
prompt  payment  while  you  live !  {Exit. 

SCENE  ir. 

M'Bride's  Cottage. 
Matthew  M'Bride  and  Honor.     (Matthew  with  a 
little  table  before  him,  at  dinner.) 
Old  M'B.  (pushing  his  plate  from  him)  I'll  take  no  more— 
I'm  done.  [He  sighs. 

Honor.  Then  you  made  but  a  poor  dinner,  father,  after  being 
at  the  fair,  and  up  early,  and  all ! — Take  this  bit  from  my  bauds, 
father  dear. 

Old  M^B.  {turning  away  sullenly)  I'll  take  nothing  from  you,. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  169 

rHonor,  but  what  I  got  already  enough — and  too  much  of — and 
that's  ungratitude. 

Honor.  Ungratitude,  father !  then  you  don't  see  my  heart. 

Old  M^B,  I  lave  that  to  whoever  has  it,  Honor :  'tis  enough 
for  me,  I  see  what  you  do — and  that's  what  I  go  by. 

Honor.  Oh,  me !  and  what  did  I  do  to  displase  you,  father? 
{He  is  ohstinately  silent  ;  after  waiting  in  vain  for  an  answer ,  she 
continues)  I  that  was  thinking  to  make  all  happy,  {aside)  but 
myself,  {aloud)  by  settling  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of — all  that 
could  vex  you — and  to  go  to  sarvice,  to  Mrs.  Carver's.  I  thought 
that  would  plase  you,  father. 

Old M^B,  Is  it  to  lave  me,  Honor?  Is  it  that  you  thought 
would  plase  me,  Honor  ? — To  lave  your  father  alone  in  his  ould 
age,  after  all  the  slaving  he  got  and  was  willing  to  undergo,  whilst 
ever  he  had  strength,  early  and  late,  to  make  a  little  portion  for 
.you,  Honor, — you,  that  I  reckoned  upon  for  the  prop  and  pride  of 
my  ould  age — and  you  expect  you'd  plase  me  by  laving  me. 

Honor.  Hear  me  just  if,  pray  then,  father. 

Old  M*B.  {shaking  her  off  as  she  tries  to  caress  him)  Go,  then ; 
go  where  you  will,  and  demane  yournelf  going  into  sarvice, 
xather  than  stay  with  me — ^go. 

Honor.  No,  I'll  not  go.  I'll  stay  thei«  with  you,  father  dear, 
—say  that  will  plase  you. 

Old  M'B.  {going  on  without  listening  to  her)  And  all  for  the 
love  of  this  Randal  Rooney !  Ay,  you  may  well  put  your  two 
hands  before  your  face ;  if  you'd  any  touch  of  natural  affection 
at  all,  that  young  man  would  have  been  the  last  of  all  others 
you'd  ever  h^ve  thought  of  loving  or  liking  any  way. 

Honor.  Oh !  if  I  could  help  it ! 

Old  M'B.  There  it  is.  This  is  the  way  the  poor  fathers  ia 
always  to  be  trated.  They  to  give  all,  daughter  and  all,  and  get 
Jiothing  at  all,  not  their  choice  even  of  the  man,  the  villain 
that's  to  rob  'em  of  all — without  thanks  even ;  and  of  all  the 
plinty  of  bachelors  there  are  m  the  parish  for  the  girl  that  has 
money,  that  daughter  will  go  and  pick  and  choose  out  the  very 
man  the  father  mislikes  beyond  all  others,  and  then  it's  "  Oh  !  if 
I  could  help  it .'" — Asy  talking  ! 

Honor.  But,  dear  father,  wasn't  it  more  than  talk,  what  I 
did ? — Oh,  won't  you  listen  to  me? 


160  LOVE    ANU    LAW. 

Old  M^B  I'll  not  hear  ye  ;  for  if  you'd  a  grain  o  spirit  in 
your  mane  composition,  Honor,  you  would  take  your  father's- 
part,  and  not  be  putting  yourself  under  Catty's  feet — the  bad- 
tongued  woman,  that  hates  you.  Honor,  like  poison. 

Honor.  If  she  does  hate  me,  it's  all  through  love  of  her  own — 

Old  M'B.  Son — ay — that  she  thinks  too  good  for  you— for 
you,  Honor  ;  you,  the  Lily  of  Lismore — that  might  command  the 
pride  of  the  country.  Oh '  Honor  dear,  don't  be  lessening 
yourself;  but  be  a  proud  girl,  as  you  ought,  and  my  own  Honor. 

Honor.  Oh,  when  you  speak  so  kind  ! 

Old  M'B.  And  I  beg  your  pardon,  if  I  said  a  cross  word ;  for 
I  know  you'll  never  think  of  him  more,  and  no  need  to  lave 
home  at  all  for  his  sake.  It  would  be  a  shame  in  the  country, 
and  what  would  Mrs.  Carver  herself  think  ? 

Honor.  She  thinks  well  of  it,  then. 

Old  M'B.  Then  whatever  she  thinks,  she  sha'n't  have  my 
child  from  me !  tho'  she's  a  veiy  good  lady,  and  a  very  kind 
lady,  too.  But  see  now,  Honor — ^have  done  with  love,  for  it'» 
all  foolishness  ;  and  when  you  come  to  be  as  ould  as  I  am,  you'll 
think  so  too.  The  shadows  goes  all  one  way,  till  the  middle  of 
the  day,  and  when  that  is  past,  then  all  the  t'other  way ;  and  so 
it  is  with  love,  in  life — stay  till  the  sun  is  going  down  with  you. 

Honor.  Then  it  would  be  too  late  to  be  thinking  of  love. 

Old  M'B.  And  too  airly  now,  and  there's  no  good  time,  for 
it's  all  folly.  I'll  ax  you,  will  love  set  the  potatoes? — will  love 
make  the  rent? — or  will  love  give  you  a  jaunting  car? — as  to- 
my  knowledge,  another  of  your  bachelors  would. 

Honor.  Oh,  don't  name  him,  father. 

Old  M'B.  Why  not — when  it's  his  name  that  would  make  a 
lady  of  you,  and  there 'd  be  a  rise  in  life,  and  an  honour  to  your 
family  ? 

Honor.  Recollect  it  was  he  that  would  have  dishonoured  my 
family,  in  me,  if  he  could. 

Old  M'B.  But  he  repints  now ;  and  what  can  a  man  do  but 
repint,  and  offer  to  make  honourable  restitution,  and  thinking" 
of  marrying,  as  now.  Honor  dear ; — ^is  not  that  a  condescension' 
of  he,  who^s  a  sort  of  a  jantleman  ? 

Honor.  A  sort,  indeed — a  bad  sort. 

Old  M'B.  Why,  not  jantleman  borUf  to  be  sure. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  161 

Honor,  Nor  hred, 

OldM^B.  Well,  there's  many  that  way,  neither  bom  nor 
bred,  but  that  does  very  well  in  the  world ;  and  think  what  it 
would  be  to  live  in  the  big  shingled  house,  in  Ballynavogue, 
with  him  I 

Honor.  I'd  rather  live  here  with  you,  father. 

Old  M^B.  Then  I  thank  you  kindly,  daughter,  for  that,  but 
so  would  not  I  for  you, — ^and  then  the  jaunting-car,  or  a  coach, 
in  time,  if  he  could !  He  has  made  the  proposhal  for  you  in 
form  this  day. 

Honor.  And  what  answer  from  you,  father  ? 

Old  M'B.  Don't  be  looking  so  pale, — I  tould  him  he  had  my 
consint,  if  he  could  get  yours.  And,  oh!  before  you  speak. 
Honor  dear,  think  what  it  would  be  up  and  down  in  Bally- 
navogue, and  every  other  place  in  the  county,  assizes  days  and 
all,  to  be  Mistress  Gerald  O'Blaney ! 

Honor.  I  couldn't  but  think  very  ill  of  it,  father  ;  thinking  ill, 
as  I  do,  of  him.  Father  dear,  say  no  more,  don't  be  breaking 
my  heart — I'll  never  have  that  man  ;  but  I'll  stay  happy  with 
you. 

Old  M'B.  Why,  then,  I'll  be  contint  with  that  same ;  and 
who  wouldn't? — If  it's  what  you'd  rather  stay,  and  can  stay 
contint.  Honor  dear,  I'm  only  too  happy.  {Emhracing  her — 
then  pausing.)     But  for  Randal—— 

Honor.  In  what  can  you  fau't  him,  only  his  being  a  Rooney  ? 

Old  M^B.  That's  all — but  that's  enough.  I'd  sooner  see  you 
in  your  coffin — sooner  be  at  your  wake  to-night,  than  your 
wedding  with  a  Rooney  !  'Twould  kill  me.  Come,  promise  me 
— I'd  trust  your  word — and  'twould  make  me  asy  for  life,  and 
I'd  die  asy,  if  you'd  promise  never  to  have  him. 

Honor.  Never  till  you  would  consent — that's  all  I  can 
promise. 

Old  M^B.  Well,  that  same  is  a  great  ase  to  my  heart. 

Honor.  And  to  give  a  little  ase  to  mine,  father,  perhaps  you 
could  promise 

Old M^B.  What? — I'll  promise  nothing  at  all — I'll  promise 
nothing  at  all — I'll  promise  nothing  I  couldn't  perform. 

Honor.  But  this  you  could  perform  asy,  dear  father :  just  hear 
your  own  Honor. 

Comic  Dramas. 


162  LOYE    AND    LAW. 

Old  M*B,  (aside)  That  voice  would  wheedle  the  bird  oflp  the 
bush — and  when  she'd  prefar  me  to  the  jaunting-car,  can  I  but 
listen  to  her?  (Aloud)  Well,  what? — ^if  it's  any  thing  at  all 
in  rason. 

Honor.  It  is  in  rason  entirely.  It's  only,  that  if  Catty 
Rooney's 

Old  M^B.  (stopping  his  ears)  Don't  name  her. 

Honor.  But  she  might  be  brought  to  rason,  father ;  and  if  she 
should  be  brought  to  give  up  that  claim  to  the  bit  o'  bog  of 
yours,  and  when  all  differs  betwix'  the  families  be  made  up, 
then  you  would  consent. 

Old  M^B,  When  Catty  Rooney's  brought  to  rason  !  Oh  !  go 
shoe  the  goslings,  dear, — ay,  you'll  get  my  consint  then. 
There's  my  hand  :  I  promise  you,  I'll  never  be  called  on  to  per- 
form that.  Honor,  jewel. 

Honor,  (kissing  his  hand)  Then  that's  all  I'd  ask — ^nor  will  I 
say  one  word  more,  but  thank  you,  father. 

Old  M'B.  (putting  on  his  coat)  She's  a  good  cratur — sorrow 
better !  sister  or  daughter.  Oh  !  I  won't  forget  that  she  prefarred 
me  to  the  jaunting-car.  Phil  shall  carry  him  a  civil  refusal.  I'll 
send  off  the  money,  the  three  hundred,  by  your  brother,  this 
minute — that  will  be  some  comfort  to  poor  O'Blaney. 

lExit  M*Bride. 

Honor.  Is  not  he  a  kind  father,  then,  after  all  ? — That  promise 
he  gave  me  about  Catty,  even  such  as  it  is,  has  ased  my  heart 
wonderfully.  Oh !  it  will  all  come  right,  and  they'll  all  be 
rasonable  in  time,  even  Catty  Rooney,  I've  great  hope ;  and 
little  hope's  enough,  even  for  love  to  live  upon.  But,  hark! 
there's  my  brother  Phil  coming.  (A  noise  heard  in  the  back- 
house.) 'Tis  only  the  cow  in  the  bier.  (A  knock  heard  at  the 
door.)  No,  'tis  a  Christian  ;  no  cow  ever  knocked  so  soft.  Stay 
till  I  open — Who's  in  it? 

Randal,  (from  within)  Your  own  Randal — open  quick. 

Honor.  Oh !  Randal,  is  it  you?     I  can't  open  the  door. 

[She  holds  the  door — he  pushes  it  half  open 

Mandal.  Honor,  that  I  love  more  than  life,  let  me  in,  till  1 
speak  one  word  to  you,  before  you're  set  against  me  for 
ever. 

Honor.  No  danger  of  that — ^but  I  can't  let  you  in,  Randal. 


LOTE   AND   LAW.  163 

Randal.  Great  danger !  Honor,  and  you  must.  See  you  I 
'will,  if  I  die  for  it  I 

[He  advances,  and  she  retires  behind  the 
door,  holding  it  against  him. 

Honor*  Then  I  won't  see  you  this  month  again,  if  you  do.  My 
hand's  weak,  but  my  heart's  strong,  Randal. 

Randal.  Then  my  heart's  as  weak  as  a  child's  this  minute. 
Never  fear — don't  hold  against  me.  Honor ;  I'll  stand  where  I 
am,  since  you  don't  trust  me,  nor  love  me — and  best  so,  njay  be : 
I  only  wanted  to  say  three  words  to  you. 

Honor.  I  can't  hear  you  now,  Randal. 

Randal.  Then  you'll  never  hear  me  more.  Good  bye  to  you. 
Honor.  [He  pulls  the  door  to,  angrily. 

Honor.  And  it's  a  wonder  as  it  was  you  didn't  meet  my  father 
as  you  came,  or  my  brother. 

Randal,  {pushing  the  door  a  little  open  again)  Your  brother ! 
— Oh,  Honor !  that's  what's  breaking  my  heart — {he  sighs) — 
that's  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you ;  and  listen  to  me.  No  fear  of 
your  father,  he's  gone  down  the  road :  I  saw  him  as  I  come  the 
short  cut,  but  he  didn't  see  me. 

Honor.  What  of  my  brother  ? — say,  and  go. 

Randal.  Ay,  go— for  ever,  you'll  bid  me,  when  I've  said. 

Honor.  What!  oh,  speak,  or  I'll  drop. — {She  no  longer  holds 
the  door,  but  leans  against  a  table. — Randal  advances,  and  looks 
in.) 

Randal.  Don't  be  frightened,  then,  dearest — it's  nothing  in 
life  but  a  fight  at  a  fair.     He's  but  little  hurted. 

Honor.  Hurted! — and  by  who?  by  you,  is  it? — Then  all's 
over. — (Randal  comes  quite  in — Honor,  putting  her  hand  before 
her  eyes.) — ^You  may  come  or  go,  for  I'll  never  love  you  more. 

Randal.  I  expicted  as  much  ! — But  she'll  faint ! 

Honor.  I  won't  faint :  leave  me,  Mr.  Randal. 

Randal.  Take  this  water  from  me,  {holding  a  cup)  it's  all  I 
■ask. 

Honor.  No  need.  {She  sits  down)  But  what's  this  ? — {Seeing 
■Ais  hand  bound  up.) 
Randal.  A  cut  only. 
Honor.  Bleeding — stop  it.  {Turning  from  him  coldly.) 

Randal.  Then  by  this  blood — ^no,  not  by  this  worthless  blood 


164  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

of  mine— but  by  that  dearest  blood  that  fled  from  yonr  cheeks^ 

and  this  minute  is  coming  back,  Honor,  I  swear {kneeling  to 

her.) 

Honor.  Say  what  you  will,  or  swear,  I  don't  hear  or  heed 
you.  And  my  father  will  come  and  find  you  there — and  I  don't 
care. 

Randal.  I  know  you  don't — and  I  don't  care  myself  what 
happens  me.  But  as  to  Phil,  it's  only  a  cut  in  the  head  he  got, 
that  signifies  nothing — ^if  he  was  not  your  brother. 

Honor.  Once  lifted  your  hand  against  him — all's  over. 

Randal.  Honor,  I  did  not  lift  my  hand  against  him ;  but  I 
was  in  the  quarrel  with  his  faction. 

Honor.  And  this  your  promise  to  me  not  to  be  in  any  quarrel ! 
No,  if  my  father  consented  to-morrow,  I'd  nivir  have  you  now. 
(Rises,  and  is  going — he  holds  her.) 

Randal.  Then  you're  wrong,  Honor :  you've  heard  all  against 
me — ^now  hear  what's  for  me. 

Honor.  I'll  hear  no  more — ^let  me  go. 

Randal.  Go,  then;  (he  lets  her  go,  and  turns  away  himself) 
and  I'm  going  before  Mr.  Carver,  who  ttnU  hear  me,  and  the 
truth  will  appear — and  tho'  not  from  you.  Honor,  I'll  have 
justice.  \_JExit  Randal. 

Honor.  Justice !  Oh,  worse  and  worse  !  to  make  all  public ; 
and  if  once  we  go  to  law,  there's  an  end  of  love — -for  ever. 

[Exit  Honor. 

SCENE  III. 

O'Blaney's  House, 

O'Blaney  and  Catty  Rooney- 

Catty.  And  didn't  ye  hear  it,  counshillor?  the  uproar  in  the 
town  and  the  riot?— oh!  you'd  think  the  world  was  throwing 
out  at  windows.     See  my  jock,  all  tattered !     Didn't  ye  hear? 

O'Bla.  How  could  I  hear,  backwards,  as  you  see,  from  the 
street,  and  given  up  to  my  business  ? 

Catty.  Business !  oh !  here  is  a  fine  business — the  M'Brides 
have  driven  all  before  them,  and  chased  the  Roonies  out  of 
Ballynavogue.  (In  a  tone  of  deep  despair.)  Oh !  Catty  Rooney  1 
that  ever  you'd  live  to  see  this  day  ' 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  165 

O'Bla.  Then  take  this  glass  {ofering  a  glass  of  whiskey)  to 
comfort  your  heart,  my  good  Mrs.  Rooney. 

Catty.  No,  thank  you,  counshillor,  it's  past  that  even  !  ogh ! 
ogh !— oh !  wirrastrew ! — oh !  wi^rastrew,  ogh ! — {After  wringing 
her  handsj  and  yielding  to  a  burst  of  sorrow  and  wailing j  she  stands 
up  firmly.)  Now  I've  ased  my  heart,  I'll  do.  I've  spirit  enough 
left  in  me  yet,  you'll  see ;  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  came  to  you 
for,  counshillor. 

O'Bla.  Tell  me  first,  is  Randal  Rooney  in  it,  and  is  he  hurt  ? 

Catty.  He  was  in  it :  he's  not  hurt,  more  shame  for  him ! 
But,  howsomever,  he  bet  one  boy  handsomely  ;  that's  my  only 
comfort.  Our  faction's  all  going  full  drive  to  swear  exami- 
nations, and  get  justice. 

O'Bla.  Very  proper — ^very  proper :  swear  examinations — 
that's  the  course,  and  only  satisfaction  in  these  cases  to  get 
justice. 

Catty.  Justice ! — ^revenge  sure !  Oh !  revenge  is  sweet,  and 
I'll  have  it.  Comishillor  dear,  I  never  went  before  Mr.  Carver — 
you  know  him,  sir — what  sort  is  he? 

O'Bla.  A  mighty  good  sort  of  gentleman — only  mighty  tire- 
some. 

Catty.  Ay,  that's  what  I  hard — that  he  is  mighty  fond  of 
talking  to  people  for  their  good.  Now  that's  what  I  dread,  for 
I  can't  stand  being  talked  to  for  my  good. 

O'Bla,  'Tis  little  use,  I  confess.  We  Irish  is  wonderful  soon 
tired  of  goodness,  if  there's  no  spice  of  fun  along  with  it;  and 
poor  Carver's  soft,  and  between  you  and  I,  he's  a  little  bothered, 
but,  Mrs.  Rooney,  you  won't  repate  ? 

Catty.  Repate  ! — I !  I'm  neither  watch  nor  repater — I  scorn 
both ;  and  between  you  and  I,  since  you  say  so,  counshillor, 
that's  my  chiefest  objection  to  Carver,  whom  I  wouldn't  know 
from  Adam,  except  by  reputation.  But  it's  the  report  of  the 
country,  that  he  has  common  informers  in  his  pay  and  favour ; 
now  that's  mane,  and  I  don't  like  it. 

O'Bla.  Nor  I,  Mrs.  Rooney.  I  had  experience  of  informers 
in  the  distillery  line  once.  The  worst  varmin  that  is  ever  encou- 
raged in  any  house  or  country.  The  very  mintion  of  them  makes 
me  creep  all  over  still. 

Catty.  Then  'tis  Carver,  they  say,  that  has  the  oil  of  Rhodium 


166  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

for  them ;  for  they  foHow  and  fawn  on  him,  like  rats  on  the  rat- 
catcher— of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  he  has  'em.  They  say,  he  sets 
them  over  aud  after  one  another;  and  has  lotions  of  them  that 
he  lets  out  on  the  craturs'  cabins,  to  lam  how  many  grains  of 
salt  every  man  takes  with  his  little  prates,  and  bring  information 
if  a  straw  would  be  stirring. 

O'BUu  Ay,  and  if  it  would,  then,  it's  Carver  that  would  quake 
like  the  aspin  leaf-r-I  know  that.  It's  no  malice  at  all  in  him ; 
only  just  he's  a  mighty  great  poltroon. 

Catty.  Is  that  all  ?  Then  I'd  pity  and  laugh  at  him,  and  I  go 
to  him  preferably  to  any  other  magistrate. 

O'Bla.  You  may,  Mrs.  Rooney — for  it's  in  terror  of  his  life  he 
lives,  continually  draming  day  and  night,  and  croaking  of  carders 
and  thrashers,  and  oak  boys,  and  white  boys,  and  peep-o'-day 
boys,  and  united  boys,  and  riband-men,  and  men  and  boys  of 
all  sorts  that  have,  and  that  have  not,  been  up  and  down  the 
coimtry  since  the  rebellion. 

Catty,  The  poor  cratur !  But  in  case  he'd  prove  refractory, 
and  would  not  take  my  examinations,  can't  I  persecute  my  shute 
again  the  M'Brides  for  the  bit  of  the  bog  of  Ballynascraw,  coun- 
shillor  ? — Can't  I  harash  'em  at  law  ? 

O'Bla.  You  can,  ma'am,  harash  them  properly.  I've  looked 
over  your  papers,  and  I'm  happy  to  tell  you,  you  may  go  on 
at  law  as  soon  and  as  long  as  you  plase. 

Catty,  (speaking  very  rapidly)  Bless  you  for  that  word,  coun- 
shillor;  and  by  the  first  light  to-morrow,  I'll  drive  all  the 
grazing  cattle,  every  four-footed  baast  oflf  the  land,  and  poimd 
*em  in  Ballynavogue ;  and  if  they  replevy,  why  I'll  distrain 
again,  if  it  be  forty  times,  I  will  go.  I'll  go  on  distraining,  and 
I'll  advertise,  and  I'll  cant,  and  I'll  sell  the  distress  at  the  end  of 
the  eight  days.  And  if  they  dare  for  to  go  for  to  put  a  plough  in 
that  bit  of  reclaimed  bog,  I'll  come  down  upon  *em  with  an  in- 
junction, and  I  would  not  value  the  expinse  of  bringing  down  a 
record  a  pin's  pint ;  and  if  that  went  again  me,  I'd  remove  it  to 
the  courts  above  and  wilcome ;  and  after  that,  I'd  go  into  equity, 
and  if  the  chancillor  would  not  be  my  friend,  I'd  take  it  over  to 
the  House  of  Lords  in  London,  so  I  would  as  soon  as  look 
at  'em ;  for  I'd  wear  my  feet  to  the  knees  for  justice — bo  I 
would. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  167 

O'Bla.  That  you  would !  You're  an  iligant  lawyer,  Mrs. 
Rooney  ;  but  have  you  the  sinews  of  war  ? 

Catty.  Is  it  money,  dear? — I  have,  and  while  ever  I've  one 
shilling  to  throw  down  tc  ould  Matthew  M'Bride's  guinea,  ITi 
go  on ;  and  every  guinea  he  parts  will  twinge  his  vitals  :  so  I'll 
keep  on  while  ever  I've  a  fiv'-penny  bit  to  rub  on  another — for 
my  spirit  is  up. 

O'Bla.  Ay,  ay,  so  you  say.  Catty,  my  dear,  your  back's  asy 
up,  but  it's  asy  down  again. 

Catty.  Not  when  I've  been  trod  on  as  now,  counshillor :  it's 
then  I'd  turn  and  fly  at  a  body,  gentle  or  simple,  like  mad, 

O'Bla.  Well  done.  Catty  (patting  her  on  the  back).  There's 
my  own  pet  mad  cat — and  there's  a  legal  venom  in  her  claws, 
that  every  scratch  they'll  give  shall  fester  so  no  plaister  in  law 
can  heal  it. 

Catty.  Oh,  counshillor,  now,  if  you  wouldn't  be  flattering  a 
wake  woman. 

O'Bla.  Wake  woman  ! — not  a  bit  of  woman's  wakcness  in  ye. 
Oh,  my  cat-o'-cats!  let  any  man  throw  her  from  him,  which 
way  he  will,  she's  on  her  legs  and  at  him  again,  tooth  and  claw. 

Catty.  With  nine  lives,  renewable  for  ever. 

lEmt  Catty. 

O'Bla.  (alone)  There's  a  demon  in  woman's  form  set  to  work 
for  me  !  Oh,  this  works  well — and  no  fear  that  the  Roonies  and 
M'Brides  should  ever  come  to  an  understanding  to  cut  me  out. 
Young  Mr.  Randal  Rooney,  my  humble  compliments  to  you, 
and  I  hope  you'll  become  the  willow  which  you'll  soon  have  to 
wear  for  Miss  Honor  M'Bride's  pretty  sake.  But  I  wonder  the 
brother  a'n't  come  up  yet  with  the  rist  of  her  fortune.     (Calls 

behind  the  scenes.)     Mick!  Jack!  Jenny!     Where's  Pat? 

Then  why  don't  you  know  ?  run  down  a  piece  of  the  road  towards 
Ballynascraw,  see  would  you  see  any  body  coming,  and  bring 
me  word  would  you  see  Phil  M'Bride — you  know,  flourishing 

Phil. Now  I'm  prepared  every  way  for  the  shupervishor, 

only  I  wish  to  have  something  genteel  in  my  fist  for  him,  and  a 
show  of  cash  flying  about — nothing  like  it,  to  dazzle  the  eyes. 

[£«tVO'BLANET. 


168  LOVE   AND   LAW. 

ACT   III. 

SCENE    I. 

An  Apartment  in  Mr.  Carver's  House.  Mr.  Carver  seated: 
a  table,  pens,  ink,  paper,  and  laiv-hooks.  A  clerk,  pen  in  hand, 
— On  the  right-hand  side  of  Mr.  Carver  stands  Mrs.  Catty 
RooNEY. — Randal  Rooney  beside  her,  leaning  against  a  piUar, 
his  arms  folded. — Behind  Mrs.  Rooney,  three  men — one  re- 
markably taU,  one  remarkably  little. — On  the  left-hand  of  Mr. 
Carver  stand  Old  Matthew  M'Bride,  leaning  on  his  stick; 
beside  him,  Philip  M'Bride,  toith  Ids  silver-hilted  whip  in  his 
hand. — A  Constable  at  some  distance  behind  Mr.  Carver's 
chair. — Mr.  Carver  looking  over  and  placing  his  hooks,  and 
seeming  to  speak  to  his  clerk. 

Catty,  (aside  to  her  son)  See  I'll  take  it  asy,  and  be  very 
shivel  and  sweet  wid  him,  till  I'll  see  which  side  he'll  lane,  and 
how  it  will  go  with  us  Roonies — (Mr.  Carver  rising,  leans 
forward  with  both  his  hands  on  the  table,  as  if  goiry  to  speak, 
looks  round,  and  clears  his  throat  loudly.) — Will  I  spake  now, 
plase  your  honour  ? 

Old  M^B.  Dacency,  when  you  see  his  honour  preparing  his 
throat.  [Mr.  Carver  clears  his  throat  again. 

Catty,  (curtsying  between  each  sentence)  Then  I  ixpect  his 
honour  will  do  me  justice.  I  got  a  great  character  of  his 
honour.  I'd  sooner  come  before  your  honour  than  any  j  an  tie- 
man  in  all  Ireland,    I'm  sure  your  honour  will  stand  my  f rind. 

Clerk.  Silence  I 

Mr.  Carv.  Misguided  people  of  Ballynavogue  and  Ballyna- 
scraw 

[At  the  instant  Mr.  Carver  pronounces  the  word  "  Ballyna- 
vogue," Catty  curtsies,  and  all  the  Roonies,  behind  her, 
bow,  and  answer — 

Here,  plase  your  honour. 

{And  when  Mr.  Carver  says  "  Bally nascraw,"  aU  the 
M'Brides  bow,  and  reply — 

Here,  plase  yoiu:  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  (speaking  with  pomposity,  but  embarrassmenif  and 


LOVE    AND    LilW.  1 G9 

clearing  his  throat  frequently)  When  I  consider  and  look  round 
tne,  gentlemen,  and  when  I  look  round  me  and  consider,  how 
long  a  period  of  time  I  have  had  the  honour  to  hear  his  majesty's 
commission  of  the  peace  for  this  county 

Catty,  {curtsying)  Your  honour's  a  good  warrant,  no  doubt. 

Mr,  Carv.  Hem ! — hem ! — also  being  a  residentiary  gentle- 
man at  Bob's  Fort — hem  I — hem! — hem! — (Coughs^  and  blows 
his  nose.) 

Catty,  (aside  to  her  son)  Choking  the  cratur  is  with  the 
words  he  can't  get  out.  (Aloud)  Will  I  spake  now,  plase 
your  honour  ? 

Clerk.  Silence  !  silence  ! 

Mr.  Carv.  And  when  I  consider  all  the  ineffectual  attempts  I 
have  made  by  eloquence  and  otherwise,  to  moralize  and  civilize 
you,  gentlemen,  and  to  eradicate  all  your  heterogeneous  or 
rebellious  passions • 

Catty.  Not  a  rebel,  good  or  bad,  among  us,  plase  your 
honour. 

Clerk.  Silence! 

Mr,  Carv.  I  say,  my  good  people  of  Ballynavogue  and  Bally- 
nascraw,  I  stand  here  really  in  unspeakable  concern  and  asto- 
nishment, to  notice  at  this  fair-time  in  my  barony,  these  sjrmp- 
toms  of  a  riot,  gentlemen,  and  features  of  a  tumult. 

Catty.  True,  your  honour,  see — scarce  a  symptom  of  a  fature 
lift  in  the  face  here  of  little  Charley  of  Killaspugbrone,  with  the 
b'ating  he  got  from  them  M'Brides,  who  bred  the  riot,  entirely 
under  Flourishing  Phil,  plase  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  (turning  to  Phil  M'Bride.)  Mr.  Philip  M'Bride, 
son  of  old  Matthew,  quite  a  substantial  man, — I  am  really 
concerned,  Philip,  to  see  you,  whom  I  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of, 
I  had  almost  said,  gentleman 

Catty.  Gentleman !  what  sort  ?  Is  it  because  of  the  new 
topped  boots,  or  by  virtue  of  the  silver-topped  whip,  and  the  bit 
of  a  red  rag  tied  about  the  throat? — ^Then  a  gentleman's  asy 
made,  now-a-days. 

Young  M'B.  It  seems  'tis  not  so  asy  any  way,  now-a-days,  to 
make  a  gentlewoman,  Mrs.  Rooney. 

Catty,  (^ringing  forward  angrily)  And  is  it  me  you  mane, 
young  man  ? 


170  LOVE   AND  LAW. 

Randal.  Oh !  mother,  dear,  don't  he  aggravating. 

Mr.  Carv.  Clerk,  why  don't  you  maintain  silence? 

Catty,  {pressing  before  her  son)  Stand  back,  then,  Randal 
Rooney — don't  you  hear  silence  ? — don't  be  brawling  before  his 
honour.     Go  back  wid  yourself  to  your  pillar,  or  post,  and  fould 

your  arms,  and  stand  like  a  fool  that's  in  love,  as  you  are. 1 

beg  your  honour's  pardon,  but  he's  my  son,  and  I  can't  help  it. 
-  -But  about  our  examinations,  plase  your  honour,  we're  all 
come  to  swear — here's  myself,  and  little  Charley  of  Killaspug- 
brone,  and  big  Briny  of  Cloon,  and  Ulick  of  Eliogarty — all  ready 
to  swear. 

Mr,  Carv.  But  have  these  gentlemen  no  tongues  of  their  own, 
rjiadam? 

Catty.  No,  plase  your  honour,  little  Charley  has  no  Euglbh 
tongue ;  he  has  none  but  the  native  Irish. 

Mr.  Carv,  Clerk,  make  out  their  examinations,  with  a  transla- 
tion ;  and  interpret  for  Killaspugbrone. 

Catty.  Plase  your  honour,  I  being  the  lady,  expicted  I'd  get 
lave  to  swear  first. 

Mr.  Carv.  And  what  would  you  swear,  madam,  if  you  got 
leave,  pray? — ^be  careful,  now. 

Catty.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  out  o'  the  face,  plase  your 
honour.     The  whole  Rooney  faction 

Mr.  Carv.  Faction  ! — No  such  word  in  my  presence,  madam. 

Catty.  Oh,  but  I'm  ready  to  swear  to  it,  plase  your  honourj 
in  or  out  of  the  presence ; — the  whole  Rooney  faction — every 
Rooney,  big  or  little,  that  was  in  it,  was  bet,  and  banished  the 
town  and  fair  of  Ballynavogue,  for  no  rason  in  life,  by  them 
M 'Brides  there,  them  scum  o'  the  earth. 

Mr.  Carv.  Gently,  gently,  my  good  lady ;  no  such  thing  m 
my  presence,  as  scum  o'  the  earth. 

Catty.  Well,  Scotchmen,  if  your  honour  prefars.  But  before 
a  Scotchman,  myself  would  prefar  the  poorest  spalpeen — barring 
it  be  Phil,  the  buckeen — I  ax  pardon  {curtsying),  if  a  buckeen's 
the  more  honourable. 

Mr.  Carv.  Irrelevant  in  toto,  madam ;  for  buckeens  and  spal- 
peens are  manners  or  species  of  men  unknown  to  or  not  cogni- 
zable by  the  eye  of  the  law ;  against  them,  therefore,  you  cannot 
awear :  but  if  you  have  any  thing  against  Philip  M'Bride— — 


I/OVE    AND    LAW.  171 

Catty.  Oh,  I  have  plinty,  and  will  swear,  plase  your  honour, 
that  he  put  me  in  bodily  fear,  and  tore  my  jock,  my  blue  jock, 
to  tatters.  Oh,  by  the  vartue  of  this  book  (snatching  up  a  hook)^ 
and  all  the  books  that  ever  were  shut  or  opened,  I'll  swear  to 
the  damage  of  five  pounds,  be  the  same  more  or  less. 

Mr.  Carv.  My  good  lady,  more  or  less  will  never  do. 

Catty.  Forty  shillings,  any  way,  I'll  swear  to ;  and  that's  a 
felony,  your  honour,  I  hope  ? 

Mr.  Carv.  Take  time,  and  consult  your  conscience  conscien- 
tiously, my  good  lady,  while  I  swear  these  other  men 

[She  examines  the  coat,  holding  it  up  to  view — Mr.  Carver 
beckons  to  the  Booney  party, 

Mr.  Carv.  Beaten  men  !  come  forward. 

Big  Briny.  Not  beaten,  plase  yoiu:  honour,  only  bet. 

Ulick  of  Eliogarty.  Only  black  eyes,  plase  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  You,  Mr.  Charley  or  Charles  Rooney,  of  Killaspug- 
brone  ;  you  have  read  these  examinations,  and  are  you  scrupu- 
lously ready  to  swear  ? 

Catty.  He  is,  and  unU,  plase  your  honour ;  only  he's  the  boy 
that  has  got  no  English  tongue. 

Mr.  Carv.  I  wish  you  had  none,  madam,  ha !  ha !  ha !  {Tlie 
two  M'Brides  laugh — the  Roonies  look  grave.)  You,  Ulick 
Rooney,  of  Eliogarty,  are  these  your  examinations  ? 

C&tty.  He  can't  write,  nor  rade  writing  from  his  cradle,  plase 
your  honour ;  but  can  make  his  mark  equal  to  another,  sir.  It 
has  been  read  to  him  any  way,  sir,  plase  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  And  you,  sir>  who  style  yourself  big  Briny  of 
Cloon — ^you  think  yourself  a  great  man,  I  suppose  ? 

Catty.  It's  what  many  does  that  has  got  less  rason,  plase  your 
honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  Understand,  my  honest  friend,  that  there  is  a  vast 
difference  between  looking  big  and  being  great. 

Big  Briny.  I  see — I  know,  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  Now,  gentlemen,  all  of  you,  before  I  hand  you  the 
book  to  swear  these  examinations,  there  is  one  thing  of  which 
I  must  warn  and  apprize  you — that  I  am  most  remarkably  clear- 
sighted ;  consequently  there  can  be  no  thumb  kissing  with  me, 
gentlemen. 

Big  Briny.  We'll  not  ax  it,  plase  your  honour. 

12 


172  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

Catty.  No  Rooney,  living  or  dead,  was  ever  guilty  or  taxed 
with  the  like !  {Aside  to  her  son)  Oh,  they'll  swear  iligant ! 
We'll  flog  the  world,  and  have  it  all  our  own  way  !  Oh,  I  knew 
we'd  get  justice— or  I'd  know  why. 

Clerk.  Here's  the  book,  sir,  to  swear  complainants. 

[Mr.  Carver  comes  forward. 

Mr.  Carv.  Wait — wait ;  I  must  hear  both  sides. 

Catty.  Both  sides  !    Oh,  plase  your  honour — only  bother  you. 

Mr.  Carv.  Madam,  it  is  my  duty  to  have  ears  for  all  men. — 
Mr.  Philip,  now  for  your  defence. 

Catty.  He  has  none  in  nature,  plase  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  Madam,  you  have  had  my  ear  long  enough — be 
silent,  at  your  peril. 

Catty.  Ogh — ogh ! — silent !  {She  groans  piteously. 

Mr.  Carv.  Sir,  your  defence,  without  any  preamble  or  pre- 
ambulation. 

Phil.  I've  no  defence  to  make,  plase  your  honour,  but  that 
I'm  innocent. 

Mr.  Carv.  (shaking  his  head)  The  worst  defence  in  law,  my 
good  friend,  unless  you've  witnesses. 

Phil.  All  present  that  time  in  the  fair  was  too  busy  fighting 
for  themselves  to  witness  for  me  that  I  was  not;  except  I'd  call 
upon  one  that  would  clear  me  entirely,  which  is  that  there  young 
man  on  the  opposite  side. 

Catty.  Oh,  the  impudent  fellow  !     Is  it  my  son  ? 

Old  M'B.  Is  it  Randal  Rooney  ?  Why,  Phil,  are  you  turned. 
innocent  ? 

Phil.  I  am  not,  father,  at  all.  But  with  your  lave,  I  call  on 
Randal  Rooney,  for  he  is  an  undeniable  honourable  man — I 
refer  all  to  his  evidence. 

Randal.  Thank  you,  Phil.  I'll  witness  the  truth,  on  whatever 
side. 

Catty  rushes  in  between  them,  exclaiming,  in  a  tremendoics  tone. 
If  you  do.  Catty  Rooney's  curse  be  upon 

Randal  stops  her  mouth,  and  struggles  to  hold  his  mother  back. 

Oh,  mother,  you  couldn't  curse ! 

[All  the  RooNiEs  get  about  her  and  exclaimy 
Oh,  Catty,  your  son  you  couldn't  curse ! 

Mr.  Carv.  Silence,  and  let  me  be  heard.     Leave  this  lady  to 


LOVE   AND   LAW.  173 

me;  I  know  how  to  manage  these  femmine  vixen«*     Mrs;  Ca- 
therine Rooney,  listen  to  me — you  are  a  reasonable  woman. 
Catty.  I  am  not,  nor  don't  pretend  to  it,  plase  your  honour. 
Mr.  Carv.  But  you  can  hear  reason,  madam,  I  presume,  from 
the  voice  of  authority. 

Catfy.  No,  plase  your  honour — I'm  deaf,  stone  deaf. 
Mr.  Carv.  No  trifling  with  me,  madam;  give  me  leave  to 
advise  you  a  little  for  your  good. 

Catty.  Plase  your  honour,  it's  of  no  use — ^from  a  child  up 
I  never  could  stand  to  be  advised  for  my  good.  See,  I'd  get 
hot  and  hotter,  plase  your  honour,  till  I'd  bounce!  I'd  fly  !  I'd 
burst!  and  myself  does  not  know  what  mischief  I  mightn't  do. 

Mr.  Carv.  Constable  !  take  charge  of  this  cursing  and  cursed 
woman,  who  has  not  respect  for  man  or  magistrate.  Away  with 
her  out  of  my  presence  ! — I  commit  her  for  a  contempt. 

Randal,  {eagerly)  Oh  !  plase  your  honour,  I  beg  your  honour's 
pardon  for  her — my  mother — entirely.  When  she  is  in  her 
rason,  she  has  the  greatest  respect  for  the  whole  bench,  and  your 
Iionour  above  all.  Oh!  your  honour,  be  plasing  this  once! 
Excuse  her,  and  I'll  go  bail  for  her  she  won't  say  another  word 
till  she'd  get  the  nod  from  your  honour. 

Mr.  Carv.  On  that  condition,  and  on  that  condition  only,  I 
am  willing  to  pass  over  the  past     Fall  back,  constable. 

Catty,  {aside)  Why  then,  Gerald  O'Blaney  mislet  me.  This 
Carver  is  difauterer  of  the  Scotch.  Bad  luck  to  every  bone  in 
his  body !  {As  Catty  says  this  her  son  draws  her  backf  and 
tries  to  pacify  her.) 

Mr.  Carv.  Is  she  muttering,  constable  ? 

Randal.  Not  a  word,  plase  your  honour,  only  just  telling  h^- 
self  to  be  quiet.     Oh,  mother,  dearest,  I'll  kneel  to  plase  you. 

Catty.  Kneel !  oh,  to  an  ould  woman  like  me — no  standing 
that !  So  here,  on  my  hunkers  I  am,  for  your  sake,  Randal,  and 
not  a  word,  good  or  had !  Can  woman  do  more  1  {She  sits  with 
her  fingers  on- her  Tips.) 

Mr.  Carv.  Now  for  your  defence,  Philip :  be  short,  for  mercy's 
sake !  {pulling  out  his  watch.) 

Phil.  Not  to  be  detaining  your  honour  too  long — I  was  in 
Ballynavogue  this  forenoon,  and  was  just — that  is,  Miss  Car'line 
Flaherty  was  just  — 


174  LOYE    AND    LAW. 

Mr.  Carv.  Miss  Caroline  Flaherty !  What  in  nature  can  she 
have  to  do  with  the  business  ? 

Phil.  Only  axing  me,  sir,  she  was,  to  play  the  flageolets,  which 
was  the  rason  I  was  sitting  at  Flaherty's. 

Mr.  Carv.  Address  yourself  to  the  coiui;,  young  man. 

Phil.  Sitting  at  Flaherty's — in  the  parlour,  with  the  door 
open,  and  all  the  M 'Brides  which  was  in  it  was  in  the  outer 
room  taking  a  toombler  o'  punch  I  trated  'em  to — but  not  drink- 
ing— ^nota  man  out  o'  the  way — when  in  comes  that  gentlewoman. 
{Pointing  to  Mrs.  Rooney.  —  Randal  groans.)  Never  fear, 
Randal,  I'll  tell  it  as  soft  as  I  can. 

Old  M^B.  Soft,  why  ?  Mighty  soft  cratur  ever  since  he  was 
horn,  plase  your  honour,  though  he's  my  son. 

Mr,  Carv.  {putting  his  fingers  on  his  lips)  Friend  Matthew,  no 
reflections  in  a  court  of  justice  ever.     Go  on,  Philip. 

Phil.  So  some  one  having  tould  Mrs.  Rooney  lies,  as  I'm 
confident,  sir — for  she  come  in  quite  mady  and  abused  my 
sister  Honor ;  accusing  her,  before  all,  of  being  sitting  and  giving 
her  company  to  Randal  Rooney  at  Flaherty's,  drinking,  and 
something  about  a  ring,  and  a  meeting  behind  the  chapel,  which 
I  couldn't  understand ; — but  it  fired  me,  and  I  stepped — but  I 
recollected  I'd  promised  Honor  not  to  let  her  provoke  me  to  lift 
a  hand  good  or  bad — so  I  stepped  across  very  civil,  and  I  said  to 
her,  says  I,  Ma'am,  it's  all  lies — some  one  has  been  belying 
Honor  M'Bride  to  you,  Mrs.  Rooney. 

[Catty  sighs  and  groans,  striking  the  back  of  one  hand  re- 
iteratedly  into  the  palm  of  the  other — rises — heats  the  devil's 
tattoo  as  she  stands — then  claps  her  hands  again. 

Mr.  Carv.  That  woman  has  certainly  more  ways  of  making  a 
noise,  without  speaking,  than  any  woman  upon  earth.  Proceed^ 
Philip. 

PhU.  Depind  on  it,  it's  all  lies,  Mrs.  Rooney,  says  I,  ma'am. 
No,  but  you  lie,  flourishing  Phil,  says  she.  With  that  every 
M'Bride  to  a  man,  rises  from  the  table,  catching  up  chairs  and 
stools  and  toomblers  and  jugs  to  revenge  Honor  and  me.  Not 
for  your  life,  boys,  don't  let-drive  ne'er  a  one  of  yees,  says  I — 
she's  a  woman,  and  a  widow  woman,  and  only  a  scovld  from  her 
birth :  so  they  held  their  hands ;  but  she  giving  tongue  bitter, 
twas  hard  for  flesh  and  blood  to  stand  it.     Now,  for  the  love  of 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  175 

heaven  and  me,  sit  down  all,  and  be  quite  as  Iambs,  and  finish 
your  poonch  like  gentlemen,  sir,  says  I :  so  saying,  I  tuk  Mrs. 
Rooney  up  in  my  arms  tenderly,  as  I  would  a  bould  child — she 
screeching  and  screeching  like  mad  :  —  whereupon  her  jock 
caught  on  the  chair,  pocket-hole  or  something,  and  give  one 
rent  from  head  toj^^ — and  that  was  the  tattering  of  the  jock.  So 
we  got  her  to  the  door,  and  there  she  spying  her  son  by  ill-luck 
in  the  street,  directly  stretches  out  her  arms,  and  kicking  my 
shins,  plase  your  honour,  till  I  could  not  hold  her,  "  Murder ! 
Randal  Rooney,"  cries  she,  "and  will  you  see  your  own  mother 
murdered?" 

Randal.  Them  were  the  very  words,  I  acknowledge,  she  used, 
which  put  me  past  my  rason,  no  doubt. 

Phil.  Then  Randal  Rooney,  being  past  his  rason,  turns  to  all 
them  Roonies  that  were  in  no  condition. 

Mr.  Carv.  That  were,  what  we  in  English  would  call  drunks  I 
presume  ? 

Randal.  Something  very  near  it,  plase  your  honour. 
Phil.  Sitting  on  the  bench  outside  the  door  they  were,  when 
Randal  came  up.  "Up,  Roonies,  and  at  'em!"  cried  he;  and 
up,  to  be  sure,  they  flew,  shillelahs  and  all,  like  lightning,  daling 
blows  on  all  of  us  M'Brides :  but  I  never  lifted  a  hand ;  and 
Randal,  I'll  do  him  justice,  avoided  to  lift  a  hand  against  me. 

Randal.  And  while  I  live  I'll  never  forget  that  hour,  nor  this 
hour,  Phil,  and  all  yo^r  generous  construction. 

Catty,  (aside)  Why  then  it  almost  softens  me  ;  but  I  won't  be 
made  a  fool  on. 

Mr.  Carv.  {who  has  been  re-considering  the  examinations)  It 
appears  to  me  that  you,  Mr.  Philip  M 'Bride,  did,  as  the  law 
allows,  only  lay  hands  softly  upon  complainant,  Catherine 
Rooney ;  and  the  Rooneys,  as  it  appears,  struck,  and  did  strike, 
the  first  blow. 

Randal.  I  can't  deny,  plase  your  honour,  we  did. 
Mr.  Carv.  (tearing  the  examinations)  Then,  gentlemen — ^you 
Roonies — beaten  men,  I  cannot  possibly  take  your  examinations. 
[^When  the  examinations  are  torn,  the  M'Brides  all  bow  and 

thank  his  honour. 
Mr.  Carv.  Beaten  men  !  depart  in  peace. 
[2%e  Roonies  sigh  and  groany  and  after  turning  their  hats 


176  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

several  times,  how,  walk  a  few  steps  away,  return,  and  seem 
loath  to  depart.  Catty  springs  forward,  holding  up  her 
hands  joined  in  a  supplicating  attitude  to  Mr.  Carver. 

Randal.  If  your  honour  would  be  plasing  to  let  her  spake  now, 
or  she'd  burst,  may  be. 

Mr.  Carv.  Speak  now,  woman,  and  ever  after  hold  your 
tongue. 

Catty.  Then  I  am  rasonable  now,  plase  your  hononr;  for  I'll 
put  it  to  the  test — see,  I'll  withdraw  my  examinations  entirely, 
and  I'll  recant — and  I'll  go  farther,  I'll  own  I'm  wrong — (though 
I  know  I'm  right) — and  I'll  beg  your  pardon,  M'Brides,  if — (but 
I  know  I'll  not  have  to  beg  your  pardon  either) — but  I  say  I  will 
beg  your  pardon,  M 'Brides,  if,  mind  if,  you  wiii  accept  my  test, 
and  it  fails  me. 

Mr. Carv.  Very  fair,  Mrs.  Rooney. 

Old  M^B.  What  is  it  she's  saying  X 

Phil.  What  test,  Mrs.  Rooney  ? 

Randal.  Dear  mother,  name  your  test. 

Catty.  Let  Honor  M'Bride  be  summoned,  and  if  she  can  prove 
she  took  no  ring,  and  was  not  behind  the  chapel  with  Randal; 
nor  drinking  at  Flaherty's  with  him,  the  time  she  was,  I  give 
up  all. 

Randal.  Agreed,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  mother.  Oh 
may  I  run  for  her  ? 

Old  M'B.  Not  a  fat,  you  sir — go,  Phil  dear. 

Phil.  That  I  will,  like  a  lapwing,  father. 

Mr.  Carv.  Where  to,  sir— where  so  precipitate? 

Phil.  Only  to  fetch  my  sister. 

Mr.  Carv.  Your  sister,  sir  ? — then  you  need  not  go  far  :  your 
sister,  Honor  M'Bride,  is,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  in  this 
house. 

Catty.  So.     Under  whose  protection,  I  wonder  ? 

Mr.  Can),  itnder  the  protection  of  Mrs.  Carver,  madam,  into 
whose  service  she  was  desirous  to  engage  herself;  and  whose 
advice 

Clerk.  Shall  I,  if  you  please,  sir,  call  Honor  in  ? 

Mr.  Carv.  If  you  please. 

[^A  silence. — Catty  stands  biting  her  thumb. — Old  M'Bridr 
leans  his  chin  upon  his  hands  on  his  stick,  and  never  stirs. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  177 

even  his  eyes. — Young  M'Bride  looks  out  eagerly  to  thf 
side  at  which  Honor  is  expected  to  enter — Randal  looking 
over  his  shoulder,  exclaims — 
There  she  comes ! — Innocence  in  all  her  looks. 

Catty.  Oh !  that  we  shall  see  soon.     No  making  a  fool  of  me. 
Old  M'B.  My  daughter's   step — I   should  know  it.    {Aside) 
How  my  old  heart  bates  ! 

[il/r.  Carver  takes  a  chair  out  of  the  way. 
Catty.  Walk  in — walk  on,  Miss  Honor.     Oh,  to  be  sure,  Miss 
Honor  will  have  justice. 

Enter  Honor  M'Bride,  walking  very  timidly. 
And  no  need  to  be  ashamed,  Miss  Honor,  until  you're  found 
out. 

Mr.  Carv.  Silence ! 

Old  M^B.  Thank  your  honour. 

[Mr.  Carver  whispers  to  his  clerk,  and  directs 
him  while  the  following  speeches  go  on. 
Catty,  That's  a  very  pretty  curtsy,  Miss  Honor — walk  on, 
pray — all  the  gentlemen's  admiring  you — my  son  Randal  beyant 
all. 

Randal.  Mother,  I  won't  bear 

Catty.  Can't  you  find  a  sate  for  her,  any  of  yees  ?  Here's  a 
stool — give  it  her,  Randal.  (Honor  sits  down.)  And  I  hope  it 
won't  prove  the  stool  of  repentance,  Miss  or  Madam.  Oh,  bounce 
your  forehead,  Randal — truth  must  out;  you've  put  it  to  the 
test,  sir. 

Randal.  I  desire  no  other  for  her  or  myself. 

[TJie  father  and  brother  take  each  a  hand  of  Hohor — support 
and  soothe  her. 
Catty.  I'd   pity   you,  Honor,    myself,    only  I   know   you   a 
M'Bride — and  know  you're  desaving  me,  and  all  present. 

Mr.  Carv.  Call  that  other  witness  I  allude  to,  clerk,  into  our 
presence  without  delay. 

Clerk.  I  shall,  sir.  [Exit  clerk. 

Catty.  We'll  see — we'll  see  all  soon — and  the  truth  will  come 
out,  and  shame  the  dibbil  and  the  M'Brides ! 

Randal,  {looking  out)  The  man  I  bet,  as  I'm  a  sinner! 
Catty.  What?— Which?— Where?— Tme  for  ye!— I  wa« 
Comic  Dramas, 


17S  LOVE    AND    tAWfc 

wondering  I  did  not  see  the  man  you  bet  appear  again  yc: 
and  this  is  he,  with  the  head  bound  up  in  the  garter,  coming- 
miserable  cratur  he  looks — who  would  he  be  ? 
Randal.  You'll  see  all  soon,  mother. 

Enter  Pat  Coxe,  his  head  hound  up. 

Mr.  Can*  Come  on — walk  on  boldly,  friend. 

Catty.  Pat  Coxe !  saints  above  ! 

Mr.  Carv.  Take  courage,  you  are  imder  my  protection  here — 
no  one  will  dare  to  touch  you. 

Randal,  {with  infinite  contempt)  Touch  ye !  Not  I,  ye  dirty 
dog! 

Mr.  Carv.  No,  sir,  you  have  done  enough  that  way  already^ 
ft  appears. 

Honor.  Randal!  what,  has  Randal  done  this? 

Mr.  Carv.  Now  observe — this  Mr.  Patrick  Coxe,  aforesaid, 
has  taken  refuge  with  me  ;  for  he  is,  it  seems,  afraid  to  appear 
before  his  master,  Mr.  O'Blaney,  this  night,  after  having 
been  beaten :  though,  as  he  assures  me,  he  has  been  beaten 
without  any  provocation  whatsoever,  by  you,  Mr.  Randal  Rooney 
— answer,  sir,  to  this  matter. 

Randal.  I  don't  deny  it,  sir — I  bet  him,  'tis  true. 

Pat.  To  a  jelly — without  marcy — ^he  did,  plase  your  honour, 
sir. 

Randal.  Sir,  plase  your  honour,  I  got  rason  to  suspect  this 
man  to  be  the  author  of  all  them  lies  that  was  tould  backwards 
and  forwards  to  my  mother,  about  me  and  Miss  Honor  M'Bride, 
which  made  my  mother  mad,  and  driv'  her  to  raise  the  riot, 
plase  your  honour.  I  charged  Pat  with  the  lies,  and  he  shirked, 
and  could  give  me  no  satisfaction,  but  kept  swearing  he  was  no 
liar,  and  bid  me  keep  my  distance,  for  he'd  a  pocket  pistol  about 
him.  "  I  don't  care  what  you  have  about  you — you  have  not 
the  truth  about  ye,  nor  in  ye,"  says  I;  "ye  are  a  liar,  Pat 
Coxe,"  says  I :  so  he  cocked  the  pistol  at  me,  saying,  that  would 
prove  me  a  coward — with  that  I  wrenched  the  pistol  from  him, 
and  bet  him  in  a  big  passion.  I  own  to  that,  plase  your  honouE 
— there  I  own  I  was  wrong  {turning  to  Honor),  to  demane 
myself  lifting  my  hand  any  way. 


LOVF.    AMD   LAW.  179 

Mr,  Carv.  But  it  is  not  yet  proved  that  this  man  lias  told  any 
-ies, 

Itandal,  If  he  has  tould  no  lies,  I  wronged  him.  Speak, 
mother — (Coxe  gets  behind  Catty,  and  tioitches  her  gorvn)^  was 
it  he  who  was  the  informer,  or  not  ? 

Catty.  Nay,  Pat  Coxe,  if  you  lied,  I'll  not  screen  you ;  but  if 
you  tould  the  truth,  stand  out  like  a  man,  and  stand  to  it,  and 
I'll  stand  by  you,  against  my  own  son  even,  Randal,  if  he  was 
the  author  of  the  report.  In  plain  words,  then,  he,  Pat  Coxe, 
tould  me,  that  she.  Honor  M'Bride,  gave  you,  Bandai  Rooney, 
the  meeting  behind  the  chapel,  and  you  gave  her  the  ring — ^and 
then  she  went  with  you  to  drink  at  Flaherty's. 

Honor,  (starting  up)    Oh !  who  could  say  the  like  of  me  ? 
Catty.  There  he  stands — ^now,  Pat,  you  must  stand  or  fall — 
will  you  swear  to  what  you  said?     {Old  M'Bride  and  Phil 
approach  Pat.) 

Mr.  Carv.  This  is  not  the  point  before  me ;  but,  however,  I 
waive  that  objection. 

Randal.  Oh!  mother,  don't  put  him  to  his  oath,  lest  he'd 
perjure  himself. 

Pat.  I'll  swear :  do  you  think  I'd  be  making  a  liar  of  myself? 
Honor.  Father — Phil  dear — ^hear  me  one  word ! 
Randal.  Hear  her — oh  !  hear  her — ^go  to  her. 
Honor,  (in  a  low  voice)  Would  you  ask  at  what  time  it  was 
he  pretends  I  was  taking  the  ring  and  all  that  ? 

Old  M'B.  Plase  your  honour,  would  you  ask  the  rascal  what 
time? 

Mr.  Carv.  Don't  call  him  rascal,  sir — ^no  rascals  in  my 
presence.  What  time  did  you  see  Honor  M'Bride  behind  the 
chapel,  Pat  Coxe  ? 

Pat.  As  the  clock  struck  twelve — I  mind — ^by  the  same  token 
the  workmen's  bell  rang  as  usual !  that  same  time,  just  as  I  seen 
Mr.  Randal  there  putting  the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  I  said, 
•*  There's  the  hell  ringing  for  a  wedding j"  says  I, 
Mr,  Carv.  To  whom  did  you  say  that,  sir? 
Pat,  To  myself,  plase  your  honour — I'll  tell  you  the  truth. 
Honor,  Tmth !     That  time  the  clock  struck  twelve  and  the 
bell  rang,  I  was  happily  here  in  this  house,  sir. 
Mr.  Carv.  At  Bob's  Fort  ? — what  witness  ? 


180  LOVE    AND    LAW. 

Honor.  If  I  might  take  the  liberty  to  call  one  could  do  me 
justice. 

Mr.  Carv.  No  liberty  in  justice — speak  out. 

Honor.  If  I  might  trouble  Mrs.  Carver  herself? 

Mr.  Carv.  Mrs.  Carver  will  think  it  no  trouble  {rising  with 
dignitij)  to  do  justice,  for  she  has  been  the  wife  to  one  of  his 
majesty's  justices  of  the  peace  for  many  years. 

[Sends  a  servant  for  Mrs.  Carver. 

Mr.  Carv.  Mrs.  Carver,  my  dear,  I  must  summon  you  to 
appear  in  open  court,  at  the  suit  or  prayer  of  Honor  M'Bride. 

Enter  Mrs.  Carver,  who  is  followed  by  Miss 
Bloomsbury,  on  tiptoe. 

Mrs.  Carv.  Willingly. 

Mr,  Carv.  The  case  lies  in  a  nutshell,  my  dear :  there  is  a 
man  who  swears  that  Honor  M'Bride  was  behind  the  chapel, 
with  Randal  Rooney  putting  a  ring  on  her  finger,  when  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  and  our  workmen's  bell  rang  this  morning. 
Honor  avers  she  was  at  Bob's  Fort  with  you :  now  as  she  could 
not  be,  like  a  bird,  in  two  places  at  once — was  she  with  you? 

Mrs.  Carv.  Honor  M'Bride  was  with  me  when  the  workmen's 
bell  rang,  and  when  the  clock  struck  twelve,  this  day — she 
stayed  with  me  till  two  o'clock. 

{_^ll  the  RooNiES,  except  Catty,  exclaim — 

Oh,  no  going  beyond  the  lady's  word  ! 

Mrs.  Carv.  And  I  think  it  hut  justice  to  add,  that  Honor 
M'Bride  has  this  day  given  me  such  proofs  of  her  being  a  good 
girl,  a  good  daughter,  and  a  good  sister,  that  she  has  secured 
my  good  opinion  and  good  wishes  for  life. 

Mr.  Carv.  And  mine  in  consequence. 

Bloom.  And  mine  of  course.  [Honor  curtsies. 

[Old  M'Bride  bows  very  low  to  Mr.  Carver,  and  again  to 
Mrs.  Carver.  Phil  bows  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carver,  and 
to  Miss  Bloomsbury. 

Qld  M'B.  Where  are  you  now.  Catty  ? — and  you,  Pat,  ye 
unfortinate  liar? 

Pat.  (falling  on  his  knees)  On  me  knees  I  am.  Oh,  I  am 
an  unfortinate  liar,  and  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon  this  once. 

Mr.  Carv.  A  most  abandoned  liar,  I  pronounce  you. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  181 

Pat.  Oh !  I  hope  your  honour  won't  abandon  me,  for  I  didn't 
know  Miss  Honor  was  under  her  ladyship,  Mrs.  Carver's  favour 
and  purtection,  or  I'd  sooner  ha*  cut  my  tongue  out  clane — and 
I  expict  your  honour  won't  turn  your  back  on  me  quite,  for  this 
is  the  first  lies  I  ever  was  found  out  in  since  my  creation ;  and 
how  could  I  help,  when  it  was  by  my  master's  particular  desire  ? 

Mr,  Carv,  Your  master !  honest  Gerald  O'Blaney  ! 

Catty.  O'Blar.ey  ! — save  us !  {Lifimg  up  her  hands  and  eyes.) 

Mr.  Carv.  Take  care,  Pat  Coxe. 

Pat.  Mr.  O'Blaney,  ma'am — plase  your  honour — all  truth 
now — the  counshillor,  that  same  and  no  other,  as  I've  breath  in 
my  body — for  why  should  I  tell  a  lie  now,  when  I've  no  place 
in  my  eye,  and  not  a  ha'porth  to  get  by  it?  I'll  confess  all.  It 
was  by  my  master's  orders  that  I  should  set  3'ou,  Mrs.  Rooney, 
and  your  pride  up,  ma'am,  again'  making  up  with  them 
M 'Brides.  I'll  tell  the  truth  now,  plase  your  honour — that  was 
the  cause  of  the  lies  I  mentioned  about  the  ring  and  chapel — 
I'll  tell  more,  if  you'll  bind  Mr.  Randal  to  keep  the  pace. 

Randal.  I? — ye  dirty  dog! — Didn't  I  tell  ye  already,  I'd  not 
dirty  my  fingers  with  the  likes  of  you  ? 

Pat»  All  Mr.  Gerald  O'Blaney's  aim  was  to  ruin  Mr.  Randal 
Rooney,  and  set  him  by  the  ears  with  that  gentleman,  Mr. 
Philip  M'Bride,  the  brother,  and  they  to  come  to  blows  and 
outrage,  and  then  be  in  disgrace  committed  by  his  honour. 

Randal,  {turning  to  Honor  M'Bride)  Honor,  you  saved  all 
— ^your  brother  and  I  never  lifted  our  hands  against  one  another, 
thanks  be  to  Heaven  and  you,  dearest ! 

Catty.  And  was  there  no  truth  in  tlie  story  of  the  chapel  and 
the  ring? 

Pat.  Not  a  word  of  truth,  but  lies,  Mrs.  Rooney,  dear  ma'am, 
of  the  master's  putting  into  my  mouth  out  of  his  own  head. 

[Catty  Rooney  walks  firmly  and  deliberately  across  the  room 
to  Honor  M'Bride. 

Catty.  Honor  M'Bride,  I  was  wrong ;  and  liere,  publicly,  as  1 
traduced  you,  I  ax  your  pardon  before  his  honour,  and  your 
father,  and  your  brother,  and  before  Randal,  and  before  my 
faction  and  his. 

[Both  RooNiEs  and  M'Brides  all,  excepting  Old  M'Bride, 
clap  their  hands,  and  huzza. 


182  LOVE    AND   LAW, 

Mr.  Carv.  I  ought  to  reprove  this  acclamation — but  this  once 
I  let  it  pass. 
PhxL.  Fatlier,  you  said  nothing — what  do  you  say,  sir  ? 
Old  M^B.    {never  moving)   I   say  nothing   at  all.     I  never 
doubted  Honor,  and  knew  the  truth  must  appear — that's  all  I 
say. 

Honor.  Oh  !  father  dear — more  you  will  say  {shaHng  his  stick 
gently).  Look  up  at  me,  and  remember  the  promise  you  gave 
me,  when  Catty  should  be  rasonable — and  is  not  she  rasonable 
now? 

Old  M'B.  I  did  not  hear  a  word  from  her  about  the  bog  of 
Ballynascraw. 

Catty.  Is  it  the  pitiful  bit  ? — No  more  about  it !  Make  crame 
cheeses  of  it — what  care  I  ?  'Twas  only  for  pride  I  stood  out — 
not  that  I'm  thinking  of  now ! 

Old  M'B,  Well,  then,  miracles  will  never  cease  !  here's  one  in 
your  favour.  Honor ;  so  take  her,  Randal,  fortune  and  all — a  wife 
of  five  hundred. 

Randal,  (kneeling)  Oh  !  happiest  of  men  I  am  this  minute. 
Catty.  I  the  same,  if  she  had  not  a  pinny  in  the  world. 
Mr.  Carv.  Happiest  of  men/ — Don't  kneel  or  go  into  ecstasies 
now,  I  beg,  till  I  know  the  rationale  of  this.     Was  not  I  con- 
sulted ? — did   not  I  give  my  opinion  and  advice  in  favour  of 
another  ? 

Old  M'B.  You  was — you  did,  plase  your  honour,  and  I  beg 
your  honour's  pardon,  and  Mr.  Counsellor  O'Blaney's. 

Mr.  Carv.  A»d  did  not  you  give  your  consent? — I  must  think 
him  a  very  ill-used  person. 

Old  M'B.  I  gave  my  consint  onlj'  in  case  he  could  win  hers, 
plase  your  honour,  and  he  could  not — and  I  could  not  break  my 
own  daughter's  heart,  and  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon. 

Mr.  Carv.  I  don't  know  how  that  may  be,  sir,  but  I  gave  my 
approbation  to  the  match ;  and  I  really  am  not  accustomed  to 
have  my  advice  or  opinion  neglected  or  controverted.  Yet,  on 
the  other  band 

Enter  a  Footman  with  a  note,  which  he  gives  to  Mr.  Carver. 
Old  M'B.  (atide  to  Phil)  Say  something  for  me,  Phil,  can't 
yef — I  hav'n't  a  word. 


LOVE    AND    LAW.  183 

Mr,  Carv.  (rising  with  a  quicker  motion  than  usual)  Bless  me ! 
iless  me  ! — here  is  a  revolution  !  and  a  coimter  revolution  !— 
Here's  news  will  make  you  all  in  as  great  astonishment  as  I  own 
I  am. 

OldM'B.  What  is  it? 

Randal.  I'm  made  for  life — I  don't  care  w^at  comes. 

Honor,  Nor  I ;  so  it  is  not  to  touch  you,  I'm  happy. 

Catty,  Oh!  your  honour,  spake  quick,  this  time — I  beg 
pardon  ! 

Mr.  Carv.  Then  I  have  to  confess  that /or  once  I  have  been 
deceived  and  mistaken  in  my  judgment  of  a  man  ;  and  what  is 
more,  of  a  man's  circumstances  completely — O'Blaney. 

Old  M^B,  What  of  his  circumstanceSy  oh !  sir,  in  the  name  of 
mercy  ? 

Mr.  Carv.  Bankrupt,  at  this  instant  all  under  seizure  to  the 
supervisor.     Mr,  Gerald  O'Blaney  has  fled  the  country. 

Old  M'B.  Then,  Honor,  you  are  without  a  penny;  for  all  her 
fortune,  500/.,  was  in  his  hands. 

Mandal.  Then  I'm  as  happy  to  have  her  without  a  penny — 
happier  I  am  to  prove  my  love  pure. 

Catty,  God  bless  you  for  my  own  son !  That's  our  way  of 
thinking,  Mr.  M'Bride — you  see  it  was  not  for  the  fortune. 

Honor.  Oh  !  Phil,  didn't  I  tell  you  her  heart  was  right? 

Catty,  We  will  work  hard — cheer  up,  M'Brides.  Now  the 
Roonies  and  M'Brides  has  joined,  you'll  see  we'll  defy  the 
world  and  O'Blaney,  the  chate  of  chates. 

Honor,  Randal's  own  mother  ! 

Catty,  Ay,  now,  we  are  all  one  family — now  pull  together. 
Don't  be  cast  down,  Phil  dear.  I'll  never  call  you  flourishing 
Phil  again,  so  don't  be  standing  on  pride.  Suppose  your  shister 
has  not  a  pinny,  she's  better  than  the  best,  and  I'll  love  her  and 
fold  her  to  my  ould  warm  heart,  and  the  daughter  of  my  heart 
she  is  now. 

Honor.  Oh,  mother ! — for  you  are  my  mother  now — and  happy 
I  am  to  have  a  mother  in  you. 

Mr,  Carv,  I  protest  it  makes  me  almost — almost — blow  my 
nose. 

Catty.  Why,  then,  you're  a  good  cratur.  But  who  tould  you 
I  was  a  vixen,  dear — plase  your  honour  ? 

Mr,  Carv,  Your  friend  that  is  gone. 


184  LOVS    AND   LAW. 

Catty.  O'Blaney? 

Randal.  Frind!  He  never  was  frind  to  none — ^least  of  all  t« 
liisself. 

Catty.  Oh !  the  double-distilled  villain ! — he  tould  your 
honour  I  was  a  vixen,  and  fond  of  law.  Now  would  you  believe- 
wliat  I'm  going  to  till  you  ?  he  tould  me  of  his  honour 

Mr.  Carv.  Of  me,  his  patron  ? 

Catty.  Of  you,  his  patron,  sir.  He  tould  me  your  honour — 
which  is  a  slander,  as  we  all  here  can  witness,  can't  we?  by  his- 
honour's  contempt  of  Pat  Coxe — yet  O'Blaney  said  you  was  as 
fond  and  proud  of  having  informers  about  you  as  a  rat-catcher 
is  of  rats. 

Mr.  Carv.  Mistress  Catherine  Rooney,  and  all  you  good  peoi)le, 
— there  is  a  great  deal  of  difference  between  obtaining  informa- 
tion and  encouraging  common  informers. 

Catty.  There  is,  I'm  sinsible.  (Aside  to  her  son)  Then  he's  a 
good  magistrate — except  a  little  pompous,  mighty  good.  (Aloud 
to  Mr.  Carver)  Then  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon  for  my  bad 
behaviour,  and  bad  language  and  all.  'Twas  O'Blaney's  fau't 
— but  he's  down,  and  don't  trample  on  the  fallen. 

Old  M'B.  Don't  defind  O'Blaney !  Oh !  the  villain,  to  rob 
tne  of  all  my  hard  arnings.  Mrs.  Catty,  I  thank  you  as  much  as 
a  heavy  heart  can,  for  you're  ginerous ;  and  you,  Randal,  for 
your 

BandaL  Is  it  for  loving  her,  when  I  can't  help  it? — who 
could? 

Old  M'B.  (sighing  deeply)  But  still  it  goes  against  the  father's 
heart  to  see  his  child,  his  pride,  go  pinnyless  out  of  his  house. 

Phil.  Then,  sir,  father  dear,  I  have  to  tell  you  she  is  not 
penny  less. — But  I  would  not  tell  you  before,  that  Randal,  and 
Catty  too,  might  show  themselves  what  they  are.  Honor  is  not 
pennyless :  the  three  hundred  you  gave  me  to  lodge  with 
O'Blaney  is  safe  here.  (Opening  his  pocket-book.) — When  I 
was  going  to  him  with  it  as  you  ordered,  by  great  luck,  I  was 
stopped  by  this  very  quarrel  and  riot  in  Ballynavogue  : — he  was 
the  original  cause  of  kicking  up  the  riot,  and  was  summoned 
before  your  honour, — and  here's  the  money. 

Old  M^B.  Oh,  she's  not  pinnyless  !  Well,  I  never  saw  money 
■with  so  much  pleasure,  in  all  my  long  days,  nor  could  I  think 
I'd  ever  live  to  give  it  away  with  half  so  much  satisfaction  at 


LOVE    AND   LAW.  185 

this  minute.  I  here  give  it,  Honor,  to  Randal  Rooney  and  you: 
— and  bless  ye,  child,  with  the  man  of  your  choice,  who  is  mine 
now. 

Mrs.  Carv.  {aside  to  Mr,  Carver)  My  dear,  I  wish  to  invite 
all  these  good  people  to  a  wedding  dinner;  but  really  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  blunder  in  saying  their  names — will  you  prompt 
me? 

Mr.  Carv.  (aside  to  Mrs.  Carver)  Why  really  I  am  not  used 
to  be  a  prompter ;  however,  I  will  condescend  to  prompt  tioti, 
Mrs.  Carver.   {He  prompts,  while  she  speaks.) 

Mrs.  Carv.  Mr.  Big  Briny  of  Cloon,  Mr.  Ulick  of  Eliogarty, 
Mr.  Charley  of  KillaSpugbrone,  and  you,  Mrs.  Catty  Rooney, 
and  you,  Mr.  M'Bride,  senior,  and  you,  Mr.  Philip  M'Bride,  no 
longer ^oimshincf  Phil ;  since  you  are  now  all  reconciled,  let  me 
have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  a  reconciliation  dinner,  at  the 
wedding  of  Honor  M'Bride,  who  is  an  honour  to  her  family,  and 
Randal  Rooney,  who  so  well  deserves  her  love. 

Tlie  M'Brides  and  Koohies  join  in  the  cry  of 
Long  life  and  great  luck  to  your  ladyship,  that  was  always 
good  ! 

Mr.  Carv.  And  you  comprehend  that  I  beg  that  the  wedding 
may  be  celebrated  at  Bob's  Fort. 

All  join  in  cryififfj 
Long  may  your  honour's  honour  reign  over  us  in  glory  at  Bob's 
Fort! 

Catty,  {cracking  her  fingers)  A  iig  for  the  bog  of  Bally- 
nascraw ' — Vow  'tis  all  Love  and  no  Law  I 


THE    ROSE.    THISTLE, 


AKD 


SHAMROCK. 

A  DRAMA. 
IN  THREE  ACTS. 


18 


DRAMATIS   PERSONiE. 

MEN. 
Sir  WiiiLiAM  Hamden         .        .    An  Elderly  English  GenUeman. 
Cr^isty  Gallaghbr  .        .    Landlord  of  an  Irish  village  inn. 

Mr.  Andrew  Hope       .        .        .A  Drum-major  in  a  Scotch  regiment. 
Owen  Larkbn  .        .        .     TJie  Son  of  the   Widow  Larken — a 

Boy  of  abovi  fifteen. 
Gilbert An  English  Servant  of  Sir  William 

Hamden. 

WOMEN. 

Miss  O'Hara         ...        .A  young  Heiress — Niece  of  Sir  WU' 

Uam  Hamden. 
Miss  Florinda  Gallaghbr        ,    Daughter  of  Christy  Gallagher. 
The  Widow  Larken  .        .        .    Mother  of  Owen  and  of  Mabel. 
Mabel  Larken     ....    Dauglder  of  (lie  Widow  Larkeii, 
Biddy  Doyle        ....    Maid  oftJie  Inn, 

Band  of  a  Regimen*, 
SCENE.— r^e  Village  ofBannow^  in  Ireland. 


THE    ROSE. 


ACT  I. 
SCENE  I. 


/i  Drcssing-Room  in  Bannow-Castle,  in  Ireland. 
Enter  Sir  William  Hamden,  in  his  morning-gown. 
Sir  W,  Every  thing  precisely  in  order,  even  in  Ireland  S-** 
laid,  I  do  believe,  at  the  very  same  angle  at  which  they  used  to 
be  placed  on  my  own  dressing-table,  at  Hamden-place,  in  Kent. 
Exact  Gilbert !  most  punctual  of  valet  de  chambres ! — and  a 
young  fellow,  as  he  is,  too !  It  is  admirable ! — Ay,  though  he 
looks  as  if  he  were  made  of  wood,  and  moves  like  an  automaton, 
he  has  a  warm  heart,  and  a  true  English  spirit — ^true-bom 
English  every  inch  of  him.  I  remember  him,  when  first  I  saw 
him  ten  years  ago  at  his  father's,  Farmer  Ashfield's,  at  the 
harvest-home ;  there  was  Gilbert  in  all  his  glory,  seated  on  the 
top  of  a  hay-rick,  singing, 

"  Then  sing  in  praise  of  men  of  Kent, 
So  lojal,  brave,  and  free ; 
Of  Britain^s  race,  if  one  surpass, 
A  man  of  Kent  is  he !"' 

How  he  brought  himself  to  quit  the  men  of  Kent  to  come  to 
Ireland  with  me  is  wonderful.  However,  now  he  is  here,  I 
hope  he  is  tolerably  happy :  I  must  ask  the  question  in  direct 
terms  ;  for  Gilbert  would  never  speak  till  spoken  to,  let  him  feel 
what  he  might. 
Sir  W.  {calls)  Gilbert!— Gilbert! 


190  THE    ROSEj 

Enter  Gilbert. 

Gilb.  Here,  sir. 

Sir  W,  Gilbert,  now  you  have  been  in  Ireland  some  weeks,  I' 
hope  you  are  not  unhappy. 

Gilh.  No,  sir,  thank  you,  sir. 

Sir  W.  But  are  you  happy,  man  ? 

Gilh.  Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir. 

fGiLBERT  retires,    and  seems  busy  arranging  his  master  s 
clothes  :  Sir  William  continues  dressing. 

Sir  W,  (aside)  Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir.  As  dry  as  a  chip- 
sparing  of  his  words,  as  if  they  were  his  last.  And  the  fellow 
can  talk  if  he  would — has  humour,  too,  if  one  could  get  it  out ; 
and  eloquence,  could  I  but  touch  the  right  string,  the  heart- 
string.     I'll  try  again.     {Aloud)     Gilbert! 

Gilb.  Yes,  sir.     {Comes forward  respectfully.) 

Sir  W.  Pray  what  regiment  was  it  that  was  passing  yesterday 
tiaFOUgh  the  village  of  Bannow  ? 

Gilb.  I  do  not  know,  indeed,  sir. 

Sir  W,  That  is  to  say,  you  saw  the}'  were  Highlanders,  and 
that  was  enough  for  you — you  are  not  fond  of  the  Scotch, 
Gilbert? 

GrUb.  No,  sir,  I  can't  say  as  I  be. 

Sir  W.  But,  Gilbert,  for  my  sake  you  must  conquer  this 
prejudice.  I  have  many  Scotch  friends  whom  I  shall  go  to  visit 
one  of  these  days — excellent  friends  they  are  ! 

Gilb.  Are  they,  sir?  If  so  be  you  found  them  so,  I  will  do  my 
best,  I'm  sure. 

Sir  W.  Then  pray  go  down  to  the  inn  here,  and  inquire  if 
any  of  the  Scotch  ofl&cers  are  there. 

GiU).  I  will,  sir.  I  heard  say  the  oflficers  went  off  this 
morning. 

Sir  W.  Then  you  need  not  go  to  inquire  for  them. 

Gilb.  No,  sir.  Only  as  I  heard  say,  the  drum-major  and 
band  is  to  stay  a  few  days  in  Bannow,  on  account  of  their 
wanting  to  enlist  a  new  bugle-boy.  I  was  a  thinking,  if  so  be, 
sir,  you  thought  well  of  it,  on  account  you  like  these  Scotch, 
I'd  better  to  step  down,  and  see  how  the  men  be  as  to  being* 
comfortable. 


THISTLEj    AND    SHAMROCK.  191 

Sir  W.  That's  right,  do.  Pray,  have  they  tolerable  accom- 
anodations  at  the  inn  in  this  village  ? 

Crilb.  (smiling)  I  can't  say  much  for  that,  sir. 

Sir  W,  (aside)  Now  I  shall  set  him  going.  (Aloud)  What, 
the  inn  here  is  not  like  one  of  our  English  inns  on  the  Bath 
road? 

Gilb.  (suppressing  a  laugh)  Bath  road !  Bless  you,  sir,  it*s 
no  more  like  an  inn  on  the  Bath  road,  nor  on  any  road,  cross  or 
hy-road  whatsomdever,  as  ever  I  seed  in  England.  No  more 
like — no  more  like  than  nothing  at  all,  sir  ! 

Sir  W,  What  sort  of  a  place  is  it,  then  ? 

Gilb,  Why,  sir,  I'd  be  ashamed  almost  to  tell  you.  Why,  sir, 
I  never  seed  such  a  place  to  call  an  inn,  in  all  my  bom  days 
afore.  First  and  foremost,  sir,  there's  the  pig  is  in  and  out  of 
the  kitchen  all  day  long,  and  next  the  calf  has  what  they  call 
the  run  of  the  kitchen ;  so  what  with  them  brute  beasts,  and  the 
•poultry  that  has  no  coop,  and  is  always  under  one's  feet,  or  over 
one's  head,  the  kitchen  is  no  place  for  a  Christian,  even  to  eat 
his  bread  and  cheese  in. 

Sir  W.  Well,  so  much  for  the  kitchen.  But  the  parlour — 
they  have  a  parlour,  I  suppose  ? 

GiJh.  Yes,  sir,  they  have  a  parlour  as  they  may  call  it,  if  they 
think  proper,  sir.  But  then  again,  an  honest  English  farmer 
would  be  afeard  on  his  life  to  stay  in  it,  on  account  of  the  ceiling 
just  a  coming  down  a'  top  of  his  head.  And  if  he  should  go  up 
stairs,  sir,  why  that's  as  bad  again,  and  worse ;  for  the  half  of 
them  there  stairs  is  rotten,  and  ever  so  many  pulled  down  and 
burnt. 

Sir  W.  Burnt !— the  stairs  ? 

GUb.  Blunt,  sir,  as  sure  as  I'm  standing  here ! — burnt,  sir, 
for  fuel  one  scarce  year^  as  they  says,  sir.  Moreover,  when  a 
man  does  get  up  the  stairs,  sir,  why  he  is  as  bad  off  again,  and 
worse ;  for  the  floor  of  the  place  they  calls  the  bedchamber, 
-shakes  at  every  step,  as  if  it  was  a  coming  down  with  one ;  and 
the  walls  has  all  cracks,  from  top  to  toe — and  there's  rat-holes, 
or  holes  o'  some  sort  or  t'other,  all  in  the  floor  :  so  that  if  a  man 
don't  pick  his  steps  curiously,  his  leg  must  go  down  through  the 
ceiling  below.  And  moreover,  there's  holes  over  head  through 
the  roof,  sir ;  so  that  if  it  rains,  it  can't  but  pour  on  the  bed. 


192  THE    ROSE, 

They  tell  me,  they  used  for  to  shift  the  bed  from  one  place  to 
another,  to  find,  as  they  say,  the  dry  corner ;  but  now  the  floor 
is  grown  so  crazy,  they  dare  not  stir  the  bed  for  their  lives. 

Sir  W.  Worse  and  worse  ! 

GiU).  And  moreover,  they  have  it  now  in  the  worst  place 
in  the  whole  room,  sir.  Close  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  there 
is  a  window  with  every  pane  broke,  and  some  out  entirely,  and 
the  women's  petticoats  and  the  men's  hats  just  stuck  in  to  stop 
all  for  the  night,  as  they  say,  sir. 

[Gilbert  tries  to  stifle  his  laughter. 

Sir  W,  Laugh  out,  honest  Gilbert.  In  spite  of  your  gravity 
and  your  civility,  laugh.  There  is  no  harm,  but  sometimes  a 
great  deal  of  good  done  by  laughing,  especially  in  Ireland. 
Laughing  has  mended,  or  caused  to  be  mended,  many  things 
that  never  would  have  been  mended  otherwise. 

Gilb.  {recovering  his  gravity)  That's  true,  I  dare  to  say,  sir. 

Sir  W.  Now,  Gilbert,  if  you  were  to  keep  an  inn,  it  would  be 
a  very  different  sort  of  inn  from  what  you  have  been  describing 
—would  not  it? 

Gilb.  I  hope  so,  sir. 

Sir  W.  I  remember  when  we  were  talking  of  establishing 
you  in  England,  that  your  father  told  me  you  would  like  to  set 
up  an  inn. 

Gilh.  {his  face  brightening)  For  sartin,  sir,  'tis  the  thing  in 
the  whole  world  I  should  like  the  best,  and  be  the  proudest  on, 
if  so  be  it  was  in  my  power,  and  if  so  be,  sir,  you  could  spare 
me.     {Holding  his  master's  coat  for  him  to  put  on.) 

Sir  W.  Could  spare  you,  Gilbert ! — I  will  spare  you,  whether 
I  can  conveniently  or  not.  If  I  had  an  opportunity  of  esta- 
blishing advantageously  a  man  who  has  served  me  faithfully  for 
ten  years,  do  you  think  I  would  not  put  myself  to  a  little 
inconvenience  to  do  it? — Gilbert,  you  do  not  know  Sir  William 
Hamden. 

Gilb.  Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  do — and  I  should  be  main  sorry 
to  leave  you,  that's  sartin,  if  it  was  even  to  be  landlord  of  the 
best  inn  in  all  England — I  know  I  should. 

Sir  W.  I  believe  it. — But,  stay — let  us  understand  one  another 
— I  am  not  talking  of  England,  and  perhaps  you  are  not  thinking 
of  Ireland. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  193 

Gilb.  Yes,  sir,  but  I  am. 

Sir  W.  You  are  !  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  it,  for  then  I  can 
serve  you  directly.     This  young  heiress,  my  niece,  to  whom 
this  town  belongs,  has  a  new  inn  ready  built. 
GiJh.  I  know,  sir. 

Sir  W,  Then,  Gilbert,  write  a  proposal  for  this  inn,  if  you 
"wish  for  it,  and  I  will  speak  to  my  niece. 

GiJh,  (bowing)  I  thank  you,  sir — only  I  hope  I  shall  not  stand 
in  any  honest  man's  light.  As  to  a  dishonest  man,  I  can't  say 
I  value  standing  in  his  light,  being  that  he  has  no  right  to  have 
any,  as  I  can  see. 

Sir  W.  So,  Gilbert,  you  will  settle  in  Ireland  at  last  ?  I  am 
heartily  glad  to  see  you  have  overcome  your  prejudices  against 
this  country.     How  has  this  been  brought  about  ? 

Gilb.  Why,  sir,  the  thing  was,  I  didn't  know  nothing  about 
it,  and  there  was  a  many  lies  told  backwards  and  forwards  of 
Ireland,  by  a  many  that  ought  to  have  known  better. 

Sir  W.  And  now  that  you  have  seen  with  your  own  eyes, 
you  are  happily  convinced  that  in  Ireland  the  men  are  not  all 
savages. 

Gilb.  No,  sir,  no  ways  savage,  except  in  the  article  of  some 
of  them  going  bare-footed ;  but  the  men  is  good  men,  most  of 
them. 

Sir  W.  And  the  women  ?  You  find  that  they  have  not  wings 
on  their  shoulders. 

GiU).  No,  sir.  {Smiling)  And  I'm  glad  they  have  not  got 
wings,  else  they  might  fly  away  from  us,  which  I'd  be  sorry  for 
— some  of  them. 

[After  making  this  speech,  Gilbert  steps  back,  and  brushes 
his  master's  hat  diligently. 

Sir  W.  (aside)  Ha !  is  that  the  case  ?  Now  I  understand  it 
all.  'Tis  fair,  that  Cupid,  who  blinds  so  many,  should  open  the 
eyes  of  some  of  his  votaries.  (Aloud.)  When  you  set  up  as  land- 
lord in  your  new  inn,  Gilbert,  (Gilbert  comes  forward)  you  will 
want  a  landlady,  shall  not  you  ? 

Gilb.    (falls  back,  and  answers)  I  shall,  sir,  I  suppose. 

Sir  W.  Miss — what's  her  name  ?  the  daughter  of  the  landlord 
of  the  present  inn.     Miss — what's  her  name? 

Gilb.    (answers  without  coming  forward)  Miss  Gallagher,  sir. 
Comic  Dramas, 


194  THE    ROSE, 

Sir  W.  Miss  Gallagher? — A  very  ugly  name! — I  think  it 
would  be  charity  to  change  it,  Gilbert 

GHh.  (JbcuhfuUy)  It  would,  no  doubt,  sir. 

Sir  W.  She  is  a  very  pretty  girl. 

Gilh.  She  is,  sir,  no  doubt. 

[^Cleaning  the  brush  with  his  handy  bowSj  and  is  retiring. 

Sir  W.  Gilbert,  stay.  (Gilbert  returns.)  I  say,  Gilbert,  I  took 
particular  notice  of  this  Miss  Gallagher,  as  she  was  speaking  to 
you  last  Sunday.  I  thought  she  seemed  to  smile  upon  you, 
Gilbert 

Gilb.  {very  bashfully)  I  can't  say,  indeed,  sir. 

Sir  W,  I  don't  mean,  my  good  Gilbert,  to  press  you  to  say 
any  thing  that  you  don't  choose  to  say.  It  was  not  from  idle 
CMiiosity  that  I  asked  any  questions,  but  from  a  sincere  desire  to 
serve  you  in  whatever  way  you  like  best,  Gilbert. 

Gilb.  Oh,  dear  master !  I  can't  speak,  you  are  so  good  to 
me,  and  always  was — too  good  ! — so  I  say  nothing.  Only  I'm 
not  ungrateful — I  know  I'm  not  ungrateful,  that  I  am  not !  And 
as  to  the  rest,  there's  not  a  thought  I  have,  you'd  condescend  for 
to  know,  but  ycu  should  know  it  as  soon  as  my  mother — that's 
to  say,  as  soon  as  ever  I  knowed  it  myself.  But,  sir,  the  thing 
is  this,  since  you're  so  good  to  let  me  speak  to  you,  sir 

Sir  W,  Speak  on,  pray,  my  good  fellow. 

Gilb.  Then,  sir,  the  thing  is  this.  There's  one  girl,  they  say, 
has  set  her  thoughts  upon  me :  now  I  don't  like  she,  because 
why  ?  I  loves  another ;  but  I  should  not  choose  to  say  so,  on 
account  of  its  not  being  over  and  above  civil,  and  on  account  of 
my  not  knowing  yet  for  sartin  whether  or  not  the  girl  I  loves 
loves  me,  being  I  never  yet  could  bring  myself  to  ask  her  the 
question.  I'd  rather  not  mention  her  name  neither,  till  I  be 
more  at  a  sartinty.  But  since  you  be  so  kind,  sir,  if  you  be  so 
good  to  give  me  till  this  evening,  sir,  as  I  have  now,  with  the 
\opes  of  the  new  inn,  an  independency  to  offer  her,  I  will  take 
courage,  and  I  shall  have  her  answer  soon,  sir — and  I  will  let 
you  know  with  many  thanks,  sir,  whether — whether  my  heart's 
broke  or  not  [Exit  Gilbert  hastily. 

Sir  W.  (alone)  Good,  affectionate  creature !  But  who  would 
have  thought  that  out  of  that  piece  of  wood  a  lover  could  be 
made  ?    This  is  Cupid's  delight  I  lExU  Sir  William. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  |96 


SCENE    II. 

Parlour  of  the  Inn  at  Bannow. 

Miss  Florinda  Gallagher,  sola. 

Various  articles  of  dress  on  the  floor — a  loolcinff-glass  prof>ped  up 
on  a  chest — Miss  Gallagher  is  kneeling  before  the  fflasSf 
dressing  her  long  hair,  which  hangs  over  her  shoulders. 

Miss  G.  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  this  glass,  that  it  is  not 
flattering  at  all  the  day.  The  spots  and  cracks  in  it  is  making 
me  look  so  full  of  freckles  and  crow's  feet — and  my  hair,  too, 
that's  such  a  figure,  as  straight  and  as  stiff  and  as  stuhhom  as  a 
presbyterian.  See !  it  won't  curl  for  me  :  so  it  is  in  the  papil- 
lotes  it  must  be ;  and  that's  most  genteel. 
[^Sound  of  a  drum  at  a  distance — Miss  Gallagher  «torfo  tfp  and 
listens. 
Miss  G,  Hark  till  I  hear  !  Is  not  that  a  drum  I  hear  ?  Ay, 
I  had  always  a  quick  ear  for  the  drum  from  my  cradle.  And 
there's  the  whole  band — ^but  it's  only  at  the  turn  of  the  avenue. 
It's  on  parade  they  are.  So  I'll  be  dressed  and  dacent  before 
they  are  here,  I'll  engage.  And  it's  my  plaid  scarf  I'll  throw 
over  all,  iligant  for  the  Highlanders,  and  I  don't  doubt  but  the 
drum-major  will  be  conquist  to  it  at  my  feet  afore  night — and 
what  will  Mr.  Gilbert  say  to  that  ?  And  what  matter  what  he 
says  ? — I'm  not  bound  to  him,  especially  as  he  never  popped  me 
the  question,  being  so  preposterously  bashful,  as  them  English- 
men have  the  misfortune  to  be.  But  that's  not  my  fault  any 
way.  And  if  I  happen  to  find  a  more  shutable  match,  while  he's 
turning  the  words  in  his  mouth,  who's  to  blame  me  ? — My  father, 
suppose  ! — And  what  matter  ? — Have  not  I  two  himdred  poimds 
of  my  own,  down  on  the  nail,  if  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  and 
why  need  I  be  a  slave  to  any  man,  father  or  other? — But  he'll 
kill  himself  soon  with  the  whiskey,  poor  man,  at  the  rate  he's 
going.  Two  glasses  now  for  his  tnomingSf  and  his  mornings  are 
going  on  all  day.  There  he  is,  roaring.  (Mr,  Gallaoher 
heard  singing.)     You  can't  come  in  here,  sir. 

IShe  bolts  the  door. 


196  THE    ROSE^ 

Enter  Christ r  Gallagher,  kicking  the  door  open, 

Christy.  Can't  I,  dear?  what  will  hinder  me  ? — Give  me  the 
kay  of  the  spirits,  if  you  plase. 

Miss  G,  Oh,  sir !  see  how  you  are  walking  through  all  my 
things. 

Christy.  And  they  on  the  floor  ! — where  else  should  I  walk, 
hut  on  the  floor,  pray,  Miss  Gallagher  ? — Is  it,  like  a  fly,  on  the 
ceiling  you'd  have  me  be,  walking  with  my  head  upside  down, 
to  plase  you  ? 

Miss  G.  Indeed,  sir,  whatever  way  you're  walking,  it's  with 
your  head  upside  down,  as  any  body  may  notice,  and  that  don't 
plase  me  at  all — isn't  it  a  shame,  in  a  morning? 

Christy.  Phoo!  don't  be  talking  of  shame,  you  that  knows- 
nothing  about  it.     But  lend  me  the  kay  of  the  spirits,  Florry. 

Miss  G.  Sir,  my  name's  Florinda — and  I've  not  the  kay  of 
the  spirits  at  all,  nor  any  such  vulgar  thing. 

Christy.  Vulgar !  is  it  the  kay  ? 

Miss  G.  Yes,  sir,  it's  very  vulgar  to  be  keeping  of  kays. 

Christy.  That's  lucky,  for  I've  lost  all  mine  now.  Every 
single  kay  I  have  in  the  wide  world  now  I  lost,  barring  this  kay~ 
of  the  spirits,  and  that  must  be  gone  after  the  resttoo  I  b'lieve, 
since  you  know  nothing  of  it,  unless  it  be  in  this  here  chist. 

[Christy  goes  to  the  chest. 

Miss  G.  Oh,  mercy,  sir! — ^Take  care  of  the  looking-glass, 
which  is  broke  already.  Oh,  then,  father,  'tis  not  in  the  chist, 
*pon  my  word  and  honour  now,  if  you'll  b'lieve :  so  don't  be 
nmimaging  of  all  my  things. 

[Christy  persists  in  opening  the  chest. 

Christy.  It  don't  signify,  Florry;  I've  granted  myself  a 
gineral  sarch-warrant,  dear,  for  the  kay  ;  and,  by  the  blessing, 
I'll  go  clane  to  the  bottom  o'  this  chist.  {Miss  Gallagher 
writhes  in  agony.)  Why,  what  makes  you  stand  twisting  there 
like  an  eel  or  an  ape,  child  ? — What,  in  the  name  of  the  ould 
one,  is  it  you're  afeard  on  ? — Was  the  chist  full  now  of  love- 
letter  scrawls  from  the  grand  signior  or  the  pope  himself,  you 
could  not  be  more  tinder  of  them. 

Miss  G.  Tinder,  sir ! — to  be  sure,  when  it's  my  best  bonnet 
I'm  thinking  on,  which  you  are  mashing  entirely. 

Christy.  Never,  fear,  dear  I    I   won't   mash  an   atom   of  the? 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAliROCK.  197 

bonnet,  provided  always,  you'll  mash  these  apples  for  me,  jewel. 
{He  takes  apples  out  of  the  chest.)  And  wasn't  I  lucky  to  find 
them  in  it?  Oh,  I  knew  I'd  not  sarch  this  chist  for  nothing. 
See  how  they'll  make  an  iligant  apple-pie  for  Mr.  Gilbert  now, 
"who  loves  an  iligant  apple-pie  above  all  things — your  iligant  self 
always  excipted,  dear. 

[Miss  Gallagher  makes  a  slight  curtsy^  hut  motions  the 
apples  from  her. 

Miss  G.  Give  the  apples  then  to  the  girl,  sir,  and  she'll  make 
you  the  pie,  for  I  suppose  she  knows  how. 

Christy,  And  don't  j'ou,  then,  Florry  ? 

Miss  G,  And  how  should  I,  sir  ? — You  didn't  send  me  to  the 
dancing-school  of  Ferriuafad  to  lam  me  to  make  apple-pies,  I 
conclude. 

Christy.  Troth,  Florry,  'twas  not  I  sint  you  there,  sorrow  foot 
but  your  mother ;  only  she's  in  her  grave,  and  it's  bad  to  be 
talking  ill  of  the  dead  any  way.  But  be  that  how  it  will,  Mr. 
Gilbert  must  get  the  apple-pie,  for  rasons  of  my  own  that  need 
not  be  mintioned.     So,  Biddy  I  Biddy,  girl !  Biddy  Doyle  I 

Enter  Biddt,  running,  with  a  ladle  in  her  hand. 

Christy.  Drop  whatever  you  have  in  your  hand,  and  come 
here,  and  be  hanged  to  you  I  And  had  you  no  ears  to  your  head, 
Biddy? 

Biddy.  Sure  I  have,  sir — ears  enougli.  Only  they  are 
bothering  me  so  without,  that  pig  and  the  dog  fighting,  that  I 
could  not  hear  ye  calling  at-all-at-all.  What  is  it? — ^For  I'm 
skimming  the  pot,  and  can't  lave  it. 

[Miss  Gallagher  goes  on  dressing 

Christy.  It's  only  these  apples,  see ! — You'll  make  me  an 
apple-pie,  Biddy,  smart. 

Biddy.  Save  us,  sir ! — And  how  will  I  ever  get  time,  when 
I've  the  hash  to  make  for  them  Scotch  yet?  Nor  can  I  tell,  for 
the  life  of  me,  what  it  was  I  did  with  the  onions  and  scallions 
neither,  barring  by  great  luck  they'd  be  in  and  under  the  press 
here — {running  to  look  under  the  press) — which  they  are,  praised 
be  God !  in  the  far  corner. 

[Biddy  stretches  her  arm  under  the  press,. 


19d  THE    ROSE, 

Christy.  There's  a  nice  girl,  and  a  'cute  cliver  girl,  worth  a 
dozen  of  your  Ferrinafads. 

[Biddy  throws  the  onions  out  from  under  the  presSj  while  he 
speaks. 

Miss  G.  Then  she's  as  idle  a  girl  as  treads  the  earth,  in 
or  out  of  shoe-leather,  for  there's  my  bed  that  she  has  not  made 
yet,  and  the  stairs  with  a  month's  dust  always;  and  never 
ready  by  any  chance  to  do  a  pin's  worth  for  one,  when  one's 
•dressing. 

[_A  drum  heard;  the  sound  seems  to  be  approaching  near, 

Christy.  Blood !  the  last  rowl  of  the  drum,  and  I  not  got  the 
kay  of  the  spirits. 

Miss  G.  Oh,  saints  above !  what's  gone  with  my  plaid  scarf? 
—and  my  hair  behind,  see  ! 

[^Miss  Gallagher  twists  up  her  hair  behind. — Biddy  gathers 
up  the  onions  into  her  apron,  and  exit  hastily. — Christy  runs 
about  the  room  in  a  distracted  manner,  looking  under  and 
over  every  thing,  repeating — The  kay  !  the  kay !  the  kay ! 

Christy.  For  the  whiskey  must  be  had  for  them  Scotch,  and 
the  bottled  beer  too  for  them  English ;  and  how  will  I  get  all  or 
any  without  the  kay  ?     Bones,  and  distraction  ! 

Miss  G.  And  my  plain  hanke'cher  that  must  be  had,  and 
where  will  I  find  it,  in  the  name  of  all  the  demons,  in  this  chaos 
you've  made  me  out  of  the  chist,  father?  And  how  will  I  git 
all  in  again,  before  the  drum-major's  in  it? 

Christy,  {sweeping  up  a  heap  of  things  in  his  arms,  and  throwing 
them  into  the  chest)  Very  asy,  sure  !  this  ways. 

Miss  G.  {darting  fonvard)  There's  the  plaid  hanke'cher. — 
{SJie  draws  it  out  from  the  heap  under  her  father's  arm,  and 
smooths  it  on  her  knee.)  But,  oh !  father,  how  you  are  making 
hay  of  my  things ! 

Christy.  Then  I  wish  I  could  make  hay  of  them,  for  hay  is 
much  wanting  for  the  horses  that's  in  it. 

Miss  G.  {putting  on  her  plaid  scarf)  Weary  on  these  pins ! 
that  I  can't  stick  any  way  at  all,  my  hsuids  all  trimble  so.— 
Biddy!  Biddy!  Biddy!  Biddy,  can't  yef.— {Re-enter  Biddy, 
looking  beuildered.)  Just  pin  me  behind,  girl — smart. 

Christy.  Biddy  is  it? — Biddy,  girl,  come  over  and  help  me 
tramp  do  inn  this  hay.  [Christy  ^'umps  into  the  chest. 


THISTLE,    AMD    SHAMROCK.  i99 

Miss  G.  Oh,  Biddy,  run  and  stop  him,  for  the  love  of  God ! 
with  his  brogues  and  big  feet. 

Biddy.  Oh,  marcy !  that's  too  bad,  sir ;  get  out  o'  that  if  you- 
plase,  or  Miss  Florry  will  go  mad,  sure !  and  the  major  that's 

coming  up  the  street Oh,  sir,  if  you  plase,  in  the  name  of 

mercy ! 

Christy,  (jumping  out)  Why,  then,  sittle  it  all  yourself,  Biddy, 
and  success  to  you;  but  you'll  no  more  get  all  in  again  afore- 
Christmas,  to  the  best  of  my  opinion,  no  more,  see  !  than  you'd 
get  bottled  porter,  froth  and  all,  into  the  bottle  again,  once  it 
was  out. 

Miss  G.  Such  comparisons ! — (tossing  hack  her  head.) 

Christy.  And  caparisons! — (pointing  to  the  finery  on  the  fix)or.) 
But  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  lend  me  the  poker,  which  will  answer 
for  the  master-kay,  sure ! — that  poker  that  is  houlding  up  the 
window — can't  ye,  Biddy  ? 

[Biddy  runs  and  pulls  the  poker  hastily  from  under  ilie  sash, 
which  suddenly  falls,  and  every  pane  of  glass  falls  out  and 
breaks. 

Christy.  Murder  !  and  no  glazier  ! 

Miss  G.  Then  Biddy,  of  all  girls,  alive  oi  dead,  you're  the 
awk'ardest,  vulgarest,  imluckiest  to  touch  any  thing  at  all ! 

Biddy,  (picking  up  the  glass)  I  can 't  think  what's  come  to  the 
glass,  that  makes  it  break  so  asy  the  day !  Sure  I  done  it  a 
hundred  times  the  same,  and  it  never  broke  wid  me  afore. 

Christy.  Well !  stick  up  a  petticoat,  or  something  of  the  kind, 
and  any  way  lend  me  hould  of  the  poker ;  for,  in  lieu  of  a  kay, 
that's  the  only  frind  in  need.  [^Exit  Christy  with  the  poker. 

Miss  G.  There,  Biddy,  that  will  do  —  any  how. — Just  shut 
down  the  lid,  can't  ye  ?  and  find  me  my  other  shoe.  Biddy — 
then,  lave  that, — come  out  o'  that,  do  girl,  and  see  the  bed ! — 
run  there,  turn  it  up  just  any  way ; — and  Biddy,  run  here,— 

stick  me  this  tortise  comb  in  the  back  of  my  head oh ! 

(screams  and  starts  away  from  Biddy.)  You  ran  it  fairly  into  my 
brain,  you  did  !  you're  the  grossest !  heavy  handiest ! — fit  only 
to  wait  on  Sheelah  na  Ghirah,  or  the  like. — (Turns  away  from 
Biddy  with  an  air  of  utter  contempt.)  But  I'll  go  and  resave  the 
n^ajor  properly. — (Turns  back  as  she  is  going,  and  says  to  Biddy) 
Biddy,  settle  all  here,  can't  ye  ? — Turn  up  the  bed,  and  sweep 


200  THE    ROdE, 

the  glass  and  dust  in  the  dust  corner,  for  it's  here  I'm  bringing 
him  to  dinner, — so  settle  up  all  in  a  minute,  do  you  mind  me, 
Biddy !  for  your  life  I  [Exit  Miss  Gallagher. 

Biddy,  alone — (speaking  while  she  puts  the  things  in 
the  room  in  order.) 
Settle  up  all  in  a  minute  ! — asy  said  ! — and  for  my  life  too  !— 
'Why,  then,  there's  not  a  greater  slave  than  myself  in  all  Con- 
naught,  or  the  three  kingdoms — from  the  time  I  get  up  in  the 
■morning,  and  that's  afore  the  flight  of  night,  till  I  get  to  my  bed 
again  at  night,  and  that's  never  afore  one  in  the  morning !  But 
I  wouldn't  value  all  one  pin's  pint,  if  it  was  kind  and  civil  she 
was  to  me.  But  after  I  strive,  and  strive  to  the  utmost,  and 
beyand — {sighs  deeply)  and  when  I  found  the  innions,  and  took 
the  apple-pie  off  her  hands,  and  settled  her  behind,  and  all  to 
the  best  of  my  poor  ability  for  her,  after,  to  go  and  call  me 
"Sheelah  na  Ghirah !  though  I  don't  rightly  know  who  that 
Sheelah  na  Ghirah  was  from  Adam  —  but  still  it's  the  bad 
language  I  get,  goes  to  my  heart.  Oh,  if  it  had  but  plased 
Heaven  to  have  cast  me  my  lot  in  the  sarvice  of  a  raal  jantleman 
or  lady  instead  of  the  likes  of  these  !  Now,  I'd  rather  be  a  dog 
in  his  honour's  or  her  honour's  house  than  lie  under  the  tongue 
of  Miss  Gallagher,  as  I  do — to  say  nothing  of  ould  Christy. 

Miss  Gallagher's  voice  heardy  callingy 
Biddy !  Biddy  Doyle  !  Biddy,  can't  ye  ? 

Biddy.  Here,  miss,  in  the  room,  readying  it,  I  am. 

Christy  Gallagher's  voice  heard  calling, 
Biddy!— Biddy  Doyle !— Biddy,   girl!      What's   come   o'  that 
girl,  that  always  out  o'  the  way  idling,  when  wanted  ? — Plague 
take  her ! 

Biddy.  Saints  above !  hear  him  now ! — But  I  scorn  to  answer. 

Screaming  louder  in  mingled  voices,  Christy's 
and  Miss  Gallagher's, 
3iddy !  Biddy  Doyle !— Biddy,  girl ! 

Christy,  {putting  in  his  head)  Biddy !  sorrow  take  ye !  are 
ye  in  it? — And  you  are,  and  we  cracking  our  vitals  calling  you. 
WTiat  is  it  you're  dallying  here  for  ?     Stir  I  stir !  dinner ! 

\jie  draws  hq^Jc  his  Iiead,  and  emt* 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK,  201 

Biddy,  alone. 
Coming  then  ! — Sure  it's  making  up  the  room  I  am  with  all 
speed,  and  the  bed  not  made  after  all! — {Throws  v^p  tlie press- 
bed.) — But  to  live  in  this  here  house,  girl  or  boy,  one  had  need 
have  the  lives  of  nine  cats  and  the  legs  of  forty,  [Exit, 

SCENE  III. 

The  Kitchen  of  the  Inn, 

Miss  Florinda  Gallagher  and  Christy  Gallagher. 
Boys  and  Men  belonging  to  the  Band,  in  the  hack  Scene. 
Christy,  {to  the  band)  The  girl's  coming  as  fast  as  possible  to 
get  yees  your  dinners,  jantlemen,  and  sorrow  better  dinner  than 
she'll  give  you  :  you'll  get  all  instantly — {To  Miss  Gallagher) 
And  am  not  I  telling  you,  Florry,  that  the  drum-major  did  not 
come  in  yet  at  all,  but  went  out  through  the  town,  to  see  and 
get  a  billet  and  bed  for  the  sick  man  they've  got. 

Enter  Biddy,  stops  and  listens. 

Miss  G.  I  wonder  the  major  didn't  have  the  manners  to  step 
in,  and  spake  to  the  lady  first — was  he  an  Irishman,  he  would. 

Biddy.  Then  it's  my  wonder  he  wouldn't  step  in  to  take  his 
dinner  first — was  he  an  Englishman,  he  would.  But  it's  lucky 
for  me  and  for  him  he  didn't,  becaase  he  couldn't,  for  it  won't 
be  ready  this  three-quarters  of  an  hour— only  the  Scotch  broth, 
which  boiled  over. 

[Biddy  retires^  and  goes  on  cooking. — Christ Y^Zfo  out  a  glass 
of  spirits  to  each  of  the  band. 

Miss  G.  Since  the  major's  not  in  it,  I'll  not  be  staying  here — 
for  here's  only  riflF-raff  triangle  and  gridiron  boys,  and  a  black-a- 
moor,  and  that  I  never  could  stand ;  so  I'll  back  into  the  room. 
Show  the  major  up,  co  you  mind,  father,  as  soon  as  ever  he'd 
■come. 

Christy.  Jantlemen  all !  here's  the  king's  health,  and  confusion 
worse  confounded  to  his  enemies,  for  yees  ;  or  if  ye  like  it  better, 
here's  the  plaid  tartan  and  fillibeg  for  yees,  and  that's  a  compre- 
hensive toast — will  give  ye  an  appetite  for  your  dinners, 

[_They  drink  in  silence. 

Miss  G,  Did  ye  hear  me,  father? 


902  THE    ROSE, 

Christy    Ay,  ay. — Off  with  ye  ! 
Eont  Miss  Gallagher,  tossing  hack  her  head. — Christy  pourt 

out  a  glass  of  whiskey  for  himself,  and  with  appropriate  graces 

of  the   elbow  and  little  finger,   swallows   it,    making  faces  of 

delight. 

Christy.  Biddy  !  Biddy,  girl,  ye  ! — See  the  pig  putting  in  his 
nose — keep  him  out — can't  ye  ? 

Biddy.  Hurrush !  hurrush  !  (Shaking  her  apron.)  Then  that 
pig's  as  sinsible  as  any  Christian,  for  he'd  run  away  the  minute 
he'd  see  me. 

Christy.  That's  manners  o*  the  pig. — Put  down  a  power  more 
turf,  Biddy : — see  the  jantlemen's  gathering  round  the  fire,  and 
has  a  right  to  be  could  in  their  knees  this  St.  Patrick's  day  in  the 
morning — for  it's  March,  that  comes  in  like  a  lion. 

{_27ie  band  during  this  speech  appear  to  be  speaking  to  Biddy. — 
She  comes  forward  to  Christy. 

Christy.  What  is  it  they  are  whispering  and  conjuring,  Biddy  ? 

Biddy.  'Twas  only  axing  me,  they  were,  could  they  ail  get  beds 
the  night  in  :t. 

Christy.  Beds !  ay  can  yees,  and  for  a  dozen  more — only  the 
room  above  is  tinder  in  the  joists,  and  I  would  not  choose  to  put 
more  on  the  floor  than  two  beds,  and  one  shake-down,  which  will 
answer  for  five ;  for  it's,  a  folly  to  talk, — I'll  tell  you  the  truth, 
and  not  a  word  of  lie.  Wouldn't  it  be  idle  to  put  more  of  yees 
in  the  room  than  ii  could  hold,  and  to  have  the  floor  be  coming 
through  the  parlour  ceiling,  and  so  spoil  two  good  rooms  for  one 
night's  bad  rest,  jantlemen? — Well,  Biddy,  what  is  it  they're 
saying  ? 

Biddy.  They  say  they  don't  understand— can  they  have  beds 
or  not? 

Christy.  Why,  body  and  bones  !  No,  then,  since  nothing  else 
will  they  comprehend, — no, — only  five,  say, — five  can  sleep  in  it. 

\TJie  band  divide  into  two  parties. — Five  remain,  and  the  other* 
walk  off  in  silence. 

Biddy.  And  it's  into  the  room  you'd  best  walk  up,  had  not 
yees,  five  jantlemen,  that  sleep  ? 

[The five  walk  into  the  parlour — Christy  preparing  tofoUoWf 
carrying  whiskey  bottle  and  jug — turns  back,  and  says  to 
Biddy, 


TBISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  203 

Is  it  dumb  they  are  all  ?  or  innocents  ? 

Biddy.  Not  at  all  innocents,  no  more  than  myself  nor  yourself, 
Nov  dumb  neither,  only  that  the  Scotch  tongue  can't  spake 
English  as  we  do. 

Christy.  Oh!  if  that's  all,  after  dinner  the  whiskey  punch 
will  make  'em  spake,  I'll  engage.  \_Exit  Christy. 

Biddy.  'Tis  I  that  am  glad  they've  taken  themselves  awaj',  for 
there's  no  cooking  with  all  the  men  in  the  fire. 

Enter  Mr.  Andrew  Hope,  Drum-major. 

Mr.  H.  A  gude  day  to  you,  my  gude  lassy. 

Biddy.  The  same  to  you,  sir,  and  kindl)^  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  not  knowing — would  it  be  the  drum-major,  sir  ? 

Mr.  H.  No  offence,  my  gude  lass ;  I  am  Andrew  Hope,  and 
drum-major.  I  met  some  of  my  men  in  the  street  coming  down, 
and  they  told  me  they  could  not  have  beds  here. 

Biddy.  No,  sir,  plase  your  honour,  only  five  that's  in  the  room 
yonder :  if  you'd  be  plased  to  walk  up,  and  you'll  get  your 
dinner  immediately,  your  honoiu:,  as  fast  as  can  be  dished,  your 
honour. 

Mr.  H.  No  hurry,  my  gude  lass.  But  I  would  willingly  see 
the  beds  for  my  poor  fellows,  that  has  had  a  sair  march. 

Biddy.  Why  then,  if  your  honour  would  take  a  fool's  advice, 
you'd  not  be  looking  at  them  beds,  to  be  spoiling  your  dinner — 
«ince,  good  or  bad,  all  the  looking  at  'em  in  the  wide  world 
won't  mend  'em  one  feather,  sure. 

Mr.  H.  My  gude  girl,  that's  true.  Still  I'd  like  ever  to  face 
the  worst. 

Biddy.  Then  it's  up  that  ladder  you'll  go. 

Mr.  H.  No  stairs  ? 

Biddy,  Oh,  there  are  stairs — ^but  they  are  burnt  and  coming 
down,  and  you'll  find  the  ladder  safest  and  best;  only  mind  the 
•little  holes  in  the  floor,  if  you  plase,  your  honour. 

[Mr.  Hope  ascends  the  ladder  while  she  speaks^  and  goes 
into  the  bedchamber  above. 

Biddy,  sola. 
Well,  I'm  ashamed  of  my  life,  when  a  stranger  and  foreigner*s 
reviewing  our  house,  though  I'm  only  the  girl  in  it,  and  no  ways 

14 


204  THE    ROSE, 

answerable.  It  frets  me  for  my  coimtry  forenent  them  Scotcli 
and  English.  {Mr.  Hope  descends  the  ladder.)  Then  I'm  sorry 
it's  not  better  for  your  honour's  self,  and  men.  But  there's  a  new 
inn  to  be  opened  the  25th,  in  this  town  ;  and  if  you  return  this 
way,  I  hope  things  will  be  more  agreeable  and  proper.  Bufe 
you'll  have  no  bad  dinner,  your  honour,  any  way  ; — there's 
Scotch  broth,  and  Scotch  hash,  and  fried  eggs  and  bacon,  and  a 
turkey,  and  a  boiled  leg  of  mutton  and  turnips,  and  pratees  the 
best,  and  well  boiled  ;  and  I  hope,  your  honour,  that's  enough 
for  a  soldier's  dinner,  that's  not  nice. 

Mr.  H.  Enough  for  a  soldier's  dinner !  ay,  gude  truth,  my 
lass ;  and  more  than  enough  for  Andrew  Hope,  who  is  no  ways 
nice.  But,  tell  me,  have  you  no  one  to  help  you  here,  to  dress 
ftll  this  ? 

Biddy.  Sorrow  one,  to  do  a  hand's  turn  for  me  but  myself, 
plase  your  honour ;  for  the  daughter  of  the  house  is  too  fine  to 
put  her  hand  to  any  thing  in  life :  but  she's  in  the  room  there 
within,  beyond,  if  you  would  like  to  see  her — a  fine  lady  she  is ! 

Mr.  H.  A  fine  lady,  is  she  ?  Weel,  fine  or  coarse.  I  shall  like 
to  see  her, — and  weel  I  may  and  must,  for  I  had  a  brother  once 
I  luved  as  my  life ;  and  four  years  back  that  brother  fell  sick 
here,  on  his  road  to  the  north,  and  was  kindly  tended  here  at  the 
inn  at  Bannow  ;  and  he  charged  me,  puir  lad,  on  his  death-bed,  if 
ever  fate  should  quarter  me  in  Bannow,  to  inquire  for  his  gude 
friends  at  the  inn,  and  to  return  them  his  thanks ;  and  so  I'm 
fain  to  do,  and  will  not  sleep  till  I've  done  so. — But  tell  me  first, 
my  kind  lassy, — for  I  see  you  are  a  kind  lassy, — tell  me,  has  not 
this  house  had  a  change  of  fortune,  and  fallen  to  decay  of  late  ?  for 
the  inn  at  Bannow  was  pictured  to  me  as  a  bra'  neat  place. 

Biddy.  Ah !  that  was,  may-be,  the  time  the  Larkens  had  it  ? 

Mr.  H.  The  Larkens ! — that  was  the  very  name :  it  warms 
my  heart  to  hear  the  sound  of  it 

Biddy.  Ay,  and  quite  another  sort  of  an  inn  this  was,  I  hear 
talk,  in  their  time, — and  quite  another  guess  sort,  the  Larkens 
from  these  Gallaghers. 

Mr.  H.  And  what  has  become  of  the  Larkens,  I  pray  ? 

Biddy.  They  are  still  living  up  yonder,  by  the  bush  of  Ban- 
now,  in  a  snug  little  place  of  a  cabin — that  is,  the  Widow  Kelly* 

Mr.  H,  Kelly ! — but  I  am  looking  for  Larken. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAHEOCK.  205 

Biddy.  Oh,  Larken !  that's  Kelly :  'tis  all  one^— she  was  a 
Kelly  before  she  was  married,  and  in  this  country  we  stick  to: 
the  maiden's  name  throughout. 

Mr.  H.  The  same  in  our  country— often. 

Biddy.  Indeed  !  and  her  daughter's  name  is  Mabel,  after  the 
Kellys ;  for  you  might  have  noticed,  if  it  ever  happened  your 
honour  to  hear  it,  an  ould  song  of  Mabel  Kelly — Planxty  Kelly. 
Then  the  present  Mabel  is  as  sweet  a  cratur  as  ever  the  ould 

Mabel  Kelly  was but  I  must  mind  the  pratees.    {She  goes  to 

lift  a  pot  off  the  fire.) 

Mr.  H.  Hold  !  my  gude  girl,  let  me  do  that  for  you ;  mine  is 
a  strong  haund. 

Biddy.  I  thank  your  honour, — it's  too  much  trouble  entirely 
for  a  jantleman  like  you;  but  it's  always  the  best  jantleman  has 
the  Uiste  pride. — Tlien  them  Kellys  is  a  good  race,  ould  and 
young,  and  I  love  'em,  root  and  branch.  Besides  Mabel  the- 
daughter,  there's  Owen  the  son,  and  as  good  a  son  he  is — n». 
better !  He  got  an  edicatiou  in  the  beginning,  till  the  troubles 
came  across  his  family,  and  the  boy,  the  child,  for  it's  bare 
fifteen  he  is  this  minute,  give  up  all  his  hopes  and  prospects,  the 
cratur !  to  come  home  and  slave  for  his  mother. 

Mr.  H.  Ah,  that's  weel — that's  weel !  I  luve  the  lad  that 
makes  a  gude  son. — And  is  the  father  deed  ? 

Biddy.  Ay,  dead  and  deceased  he  is,  long  since,  and  was 
buried  just  upon  that  time  that  ould  Sir  Cormac,  father  of  the 
young  heiress  that  is  now  at  the  castle  above,  the  former  land- 
lord that  was  over  us,  died,  see  ! — Then  there  was  new  times 
and  new  takeSy  and  the  widow  was  turned  out  of  the  inn,  and 
these  Gallaghers  got  it,  and  all  wint  wrong  and  to  rack ;  for 
Mrs.  Gallagher,  that  was,  drank  herself  into  her  grave  un- 
knownst,  for  it  was  by  herself  in  private  she  took  it ;  and  Christy 
Gallagher,  the  present  man,  is  doing  the  same,  only  publicly, 
and  running  through  all,  and  the  house  is  tumbling  over  our 
ears :  but  he  hopes  to  get  the  new  inn ;  and  if  he  does,  why, 
he'll  be  lucky — and  that's  all  I  know,  for  the  dinner  is  done 
now,  and  I'm  going  in  with  it — and  won't  your  honour  walk  up 
to  the  room  now  ? 

Mr.  H.  {going  to  the  ladder)  Up  here  ? 


206  THE    ROSE, 

Biddy.  Ob,  it's  not  up  at  all,  your  honour,  sure !  but  down 
here — ^through  this  ways, 

Mr.  H.  One  word  more,  my  gude  lassy.  As  soon  as  we  shall 
have  all  dined,  and  you  shall  have  ta'en  your  ane  dinner,  I 
shall  beg  of  you,  if  you  be  not  then  too  much  tired,  to  show  me 
the  way  to  that  bush  of  Bannow,  whereat  this  Widow  Larken's 
cottage  is. 

Biddy.  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  if  I  had  not  a  fut  to 
stand  upon. 

\Exit  Mr.  Hope. — Biddy /o^/ot^;*  with  a  disk  smoking  hot, 

Biddy.  And  I  hope  you'll  find  it  an  iligaut  Scotch  hash,  and 
there's  innions  plinty — sure  the  best  I  had  I'd  give  you ;  for 
I'm  confident  now  he's  the  true  thing — and  tho'  he  is  Scotch,  he 
desarves  to  be  Irish,  every  inch  of  him.        [^Exit  Biddt  Doyle. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    I. 
jin  Irish  Cabin. — The  Kitchen, 

Widow  Larken.     On  one  side  of  her^  Mabel  at  needle-work  ;  on 

the  other  side^  Owek  her  son  enters^  bringing  in  a  spinning- 

wheelj  which  he  places  before  his  mother, 

Owen.  There,  mother,  is  your  wheel  mended  for  you. 

Mabel.  Oh,  as  good  as  new,  Owen  has  made  it  for  you. 

Widow.  Well,  whatever  troubles  come  upon  me  in  this  world, 
have  not  I  a  right  to  be  thankful,  that  has  such  good  childer 
left  me  ? — Still  it  grieves  me,  and  goes  to  the  quick  of  my  heart, 
Mabel,  dear,  that  your  brother  here  should  be  slaving  for  me,  a 
boy  that  is  qualified  for  better. 

Otoen.  And  what  better  can  I  be  than  working  for  my  mother 
— man  or  boy  ? 

Mabel.  And  if  he  thinks  it  no  slavery,  what  slavery  h  it, 
mother  ? 

Owen,  Mother,  to-day  is  the  day  to  propose  for  the  new  inn 
—I  saw  several  with  the  schoolmaster,  who  was  as  liusy  as  a 


THISTLE,    AND   SHAMROCK.  207 

bee,  penning  proposals  for  them,  according  as  they  dictated,  and 
framing  letters  and  petitions  for  Sir  William  Hamden  and  Miss 
O'Hara.     Will  you  go  up  to  the  castle  and  speak,  mother  ? 

Widow,  No,  no— I  can't  speak,  Owen. 

Owen.  Here's  the  pen  and  ink-horn,  and  I'll  sit  me  down,  if 
you'd  sooner  write  than  speak. 

Widow.  See,  Owen,  to  settle  your  mind,  I  would  not  wish  to 
get  that  inn. 

Owen.  Not  wish  to  get  it !  The  new  inn,  mother — but  if  you 
had  gone  over  it,  as  I  have.  'Tis  the  very  thing  for  you.  Neat 
'^d  compact  as  a  nutshell ;  not  one  of  them  grand  inns,  too 
great  or  the  place,  that  never  answers  no  more  than  the  hat 
that's  too  big  for  the  head,  and  that  always  blows  ofi. 

Widow.  No,  dear,  not  the  thing  for  me,  now  a  widow,  and 
J  our  sister  Mabel — tho*  'tis  not  for  me  to  say — such  a  likely, 
fine  girl.  I'd  not  be  happy  to  have  her  in  a  public-house — so 
many  of  all  sorts  that  would  be  in  it,  and  drinking,  may  be,  at 
fairs  and  funerals,  and  no  man  of  the  house,  nor  master,  nor 
father  for  her. 

Owen.  Sure,  mother,  I'm  next  to  a  father  for  her.  Amn't  I  a 
brother  ?  and  no  brother  ever  loved  a  sister  better,  or  was  more 
jealous  of  respect  for  her;  and  if  you'd  be  pleasing,  I  could  be 
man  and  master  enough. 

Widow,  {laughing)  You,  ye  dear  slip  of  a  boy  I 

Owen,  (proudlgj  and  raising  his  head  high)  Slip  of  a  boy  as  I 
am,  then,  and  little  as  you  think  of  me 

Widow.  Oh !  I  think  a  great  deal  of  you !  only  I  can't  think 
you  big  nor  old,  Owen,  can  I  ? 

Owen.  No— nor  any  need  to  be  big  or  old,  to  keep  people  of 
all  sorts  in  respect,  mother. 

Widow.  Then  he  looked  like  his  father— did  not  he,  Mabel  ? 

Mabel.  He  did — God  bless  him  ! 

Owen.  Now  hear  me,  mother,  for  I'm  going  to  speak  sense. 
Tou  need  not  listen,  Mabel. 

Mabel.  But  it's  what  I  like  to  listen  to  sense,  especially  yours, 
Owen. 

Oioen.  Then  I  can't  help  it. — You  must  hear,  even  if  yon 
blush  for  U. 

Mabel.  Why  would  I  blush? 


"208  THE    ROSE, 

Owen.  Because  you  won't  be  able  to  help  it,  when  I  say  Mr- 
Gilbert— See  ! 

Mabel.  Oh,  dear  Owen !  that's  not  fair.  {^She  falls  back  a 
little.) 

Owen.  Well,  mother,  it's  with  you  I'm  reasoning.  If  he  was 
your  son-in-law 

Widow.  Hush!  that  he'll  never  be.  Now,  Owen,  I'll  grow 
angry  if  you  put  nonsense  in  the  girl's  head. 

Owen.  But  if  it's  in  the  man's  head,  it's  not  a  bit  nonsense. 

Mabel.  Owen,  you  might  well  say  I  shouldn't  listen  to  you. 

[Exit  Mabel, 

Widow.  There  now,  you've  drove  your  sister  off. 

Owen.  Well,  Gilbert  will  bring  her  on  again,  may  be. 

Widow.  May  be — but  that  may  be  of  yours  might  lead  us  all 
wrong. 

[She  lays  her  hand  on  Owen's  arUi  and  speaks 
in  a  serious  tone. 

Widow.  Now,  dear,  don't  be  saying  one  word  more  to  her, 
lest  it  should  end  in  a  disappointment. 

Owen.  Still  it  is  my  notion,  'tis  Mabel  he  loves. 

Widow.  Oh !  what  should  you  know,  dear,  o'  the  matter  ? 

Owen.  Only  having  eyes  and  ears  like  another. 

Widow.  Then  what  hinders  him  to  speak  ? 

Owen.  It's  bashfulness  only,  mother.  Don't  you  know  what 
that  is? 

Widow.  I  do,  dear.  It's  a  woman  should  know  that  best. 
And  it  is  not  Mabel,  nor  a  daughter  of  mine,  nor  a  sister  of 
yours,  Owen,  should  be  more  forward  to  understand  than  the 
man  is  to  speak — was  the  man  a  prince. 

Owen.  Mother,  you  are  right ;  but  I'm  not  wrong  neither. 
And  since  I'm  to  say  no  more,  I'm  gone,  mother.    [Exit  Owen. 

Widow,  {alone)  Now  who  could  blame  that  boy,  whatever  he 
•does  or  says?  It's  all  heart  he  is,  and  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly, 
except  from  want  of4hought.  But,  stay  now,  I'm  thinking  of 
them  soldiers  that  is  in  town.  (Sighs)  Then  I  didn't  sleep 
since  ever  they  come;  but  whenever  I'd  be  sinking  to  rest, 
starting,  and  fancying  I  heard  the  drum  for  Owen  to  go.  (A 
^ep  groaning  sigh.)  Och!  and  then  the  apparition  of  Owen  in 
regimentals  was  afore  me  ! 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  200 

Enter  Owen,  dancing  and  singing^ 

**  Success  to  vnj  brains,  and  success  to  my  toDgue  I 
Success  to  myself,  that  never  was  wrong  !" 

Widow.  What  is  it?  What  ails  the  hoy  ?  Are  ye  mad,  Owen  ? 

Ckoen.  {capering^  and  snapping  his  fingers)  Ay,  mad  I  mad 
with  joy  I  am.  And  it's  joy  I  give  you,  and  joy  you'll  give  me, 
mother  darling.  The  new  inn's  yours,  and  no  other's,  and 
Gilbert  is  your  own  too,  and  no  other's — but  Mabel's  for  life. 
And  is  not  there  joy  enough  for  you,  mother  ? 

Widow,  Joy  ! — Oh,  too  much  !     {She  sinks  on  a  seat.) 

Owen.  I've  been  too  sudden  for  her ! 

Widow.  No,  dear — ^not  a  bit,  only  just  give  me  time — to  feel 
it.  And  is  it  true  ?  And  am  I  in  no  dream  now?  And  where's 
Mabel,  dear? 

Owen.  Gone  to  the  well,  and  Gilbert  with  her.  We  met  her, 
and  he  turned  off  with  her,  and  I  come  on  to  tell  you,  mother 
dear. 

Widow.  Make  me  clear  and  certain  ;  for  I'm  slow  and  weak, 
dear.  Who  told  you  all  this  good  ?  and  is  it  true  ? — And  my 
child  Mabel  mavoumeen  ! — Oh,  tell  me  again  it's  true. 

Owen.  True  as  life.  But  your  lips  is  pale  still,  and  you  all  in 
a  tremble.  So  lean  on  me,  mother  dear,  and  come  out  into 
God's  open  air,  till  I  see  your  spirit  come  back — and  here's  your 
bonnet,  and  we'll  meet  Mabel  and  Gilbert,  and  we'll  all  go  up 
to  the  castle  to  give  thanks  to  the  lady. 

Widow,  {looking  up  to  heaven)  Thanks !  Oh,  hav'n't  I  great 
reason  to  be  thankful,  if  ever  widow  had ! 

[Exeuntf  Widow  leaning  on  Owen. 


SCENE  II. 

An  Apartment  in  Bannow  Castle, 

Footmen  bringing  in  Baskets  of  Flowers, 

Miss  O'Hara  and  Sir  William  Hamden. 
Clara.  Now,  my  dear  uncle,  I  want  to  consult  you. 
Sir  W,  And  welcome,  my  child.     But  if  it  is  about  flovers. 
Comic  Dramas, 


210  THB    ROSE, 

you  could  not  consult  a  worse  person,  for  I  scarcely  know  a  rose 
from  a .     What  is  this  you  have  here — a  thistle? 

Clara.  Yes,  sir  ;  and  that  is  the  very  thing  I  want  your  opinion 
about. 

Sir  W.  Well,  my  dear,  all  I  know  about  thistles,  I  think,  is, 
that  asses  love  thistles — will  that  do  ? 

Clara.  Oh,  no,  sir — pray  be  serious,  for  I  am  in  the  greatest 
hurry  to  settle  hew  it  is  all  to  be.  You  know  it  is  St.  Patrick's 
day. 

Sir  W.  Yes,  and  here  is  plenty  of  shamrock,  I  see. 

Clara.  Yes,  here  is  the  shamrock — the  rose,  the  ever  blowing 
rose — and  the  thistle.  And  as  we  are  to  have  Scotch,  English, 
and  Irish  at  our  little  fete  champetre  this  evening,  don't  you 
think  it  would  be  pretty  to  have  the  tents  hung  with  the  rose, 
thistle,  and  shamrock  joined  ? 

Sir  W.  Very  pretty,  my  dear  :  and  I  am  glad  there  are  to  be 
tents,  otherwise  a  fete  champetre  in  the  month  of  March  would 
give  me  the  rheumatism  even  to  think  of. 

Clara.  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  not  at  all.  You  will  be  snug  and 
warm  in  the  green-house. 

Sir  W.  Well,  Clara,  dispose  of  me  as  you  please — I  am  entirely 
at  your  service  for  the  rest  of  my  days. 

Clara.  Thank  you,  sir — ^you  are  the  best  of  uncles,  guardians, 
and  friends. 

[Miss  O'Hara  goes  hack  and  appears  to  he  giving 
directions  to  the  servants. 

Sir  W.  Uncle,  nature  made  me — guardian,  your  father  made 
me — friend,  you  made  me  yourself,  Clara.  {Sir  William  comes 
forward,  and  speaks  as  if  in  a  reverie.)  And  ever  more  my 
friendship  for  her  shall  continue,  though  my  guardianship  is 
over.  I  am  glad  I  conquered  my  indolence,  and  came  to 
Ireland  with  her ;  for  a  cool  English  head  will  be  wanting  to 
guide  that  warm  Irish  heart. — And  here  I  stand  counsel  for 
prudence  against  generosity ! 

Clara,  {advancing  to  him  playfully)  A  silver  penny  for  your 
thoughts,  uncle. 

Sir  W.  Shall  I  never  teach  you  economy  ? — such  extravagance ! 
10  give  a  penny,  and  a  silver  penny,  for  what  you  may  have  for 
nothing. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  %\i 

Clara,  Nothing  can  come  of  nothing — speak  again. 

Sir  W.  I  was  thinking  of  you,  my — ward  no  longer. 

Clara.  Ward  always,  pray,  sir.  Whatever  I  may  be  in  tha 
eye  of  the  law,  I  am  not  anived  at  years  of  discretion  yet,  in  my 
own  opinion,  nor  in  yours,  I  suspect.  So  I  pray  you,  uncle,  let 
me  still  have  the  advantage  of  your  counsel  and  guidance. 

Sir  W,  You  ask  for  my  advice,  Clara.  Now  let  me  see  whether 
you  will  take  it. 

Clara.  I  am  all  attention. 

Sir  W.  You  know  you  must  allow  me  a  little  prosing.  You 
are  an  heiress,  Clara — a  rich  heiress — an  Irish  heiress.  You 
desire  to  do  good,  don't  you  ? 

Clara,  {with  eagerness)  With  all  my  heart! — With  all  my 
soul ! 

Sir  W.  That  is  not  enough,  Clara.  You  must  not  only  desire 
to  do  good,  you  must  know  how  to  do  it. 

Clara.  Since  you,  uncle,  know  that  so  well,  you  will  teach  it 
to  me. 

Sir  W.  Dear,  flattering  girl — ^but  you  shall  not  flatter  me  out 
of  the  piece  of  advice  I  have  ready  for  you.  Promise  me  two 
things. 

Clara.  And  first,  for  your  first. 

Sir  W.  Finish  whatever  you  begin. — Good  beginnings,  it  is 
said,  make  good  endings,  but  great  beginnings  often  make  little 
endings,  or,  in  this  country,  no  endings  at  all.  Finis  coronat  opus 
— and  that  crown  is  wanting  wherever  I  turn  my  eyes.  Of  the 
hundred  magnificent  things  your  munificent  father  began 

Clara,  {interrupting)  Oh,  sir,  spare  my  father ! — I  promise 
you  that  /  will  finish  whatever  I  begin.  What's  your  next 
command  ? 

Sir  W.  Promise  me  that  you  will  never  make  a  promise  to  a 
tenant,  nor  any  agreement  about  business,  but  in  writing — and 
empower  me  to  say  that  you  will  never  keep  any  verbal  promise 
about  business — then,  none  such  will  ever  be  claimed. 

Clara.  I  promise   you Stay  !  —  this  is  a  promise  about 

business ;  I  must  give  it  to  you  in  writing. 

[Miss  O'Hara  sits  down  to  a  ivriting-tahle,  and  writes. 

Sir  W.  {looking  out  of  the  window)  I  hope  I  have  been  early 
enough  in  giving  this  my  second  piece  of  advice,  worth  a  hundred 


"212  THE    ROSE, 

seqtiins — for  I  see  the  yard  is  crowded  with  gray-coated  suitors, 
and  the  table  here  is  already  covered  with  letters  and  pett 
tions. 

Clara.  Yes,  uncle,  but  I  have  not  read  half  of  them  yet. 

[^Presents  the  written  promise  to  Sir  William, 

Sir  W.  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  and  you  will  be  thankful  to  me 
for  this  when  I  am  dead  and  gone. 

Clara.  And  whilst  you  are  alive  and  here,  if  you  please, 
uncle.  Now,  sir,  since  you  are  so  kind  to  say  that  your  time  is 
at  my  disposal,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  come  with  me  to 
these  gray-coated  suitors,  and  let  us  give  answers  to  these  poor 
petitioners,  who,  "as  in  duty  bound,  will  ever  pray." 

\Take8  up  a  bundle  of  papers. 

Sir  W,  {talcing  a  letter  from  his  pocket)  First,  my  dear  niece, 
I  must  add  to  the  number.  I  have  a  little  business.  A  petition 
to  ])resent  from  a  protege  of  mine. 

Clara.  A  protege  of  yours ! — Then  it  is  granted,  whatever 
it  be. 

Sir  W.  {smiling)  Recollect  your  promise,  Clara. 

Clara.  Oh,  true — it  must  be  in  writing. 

[She  goes  hastily  to  the  toriting-table,  and  takes  up  a  pen. 

Sir  W.  Read  before  you  write,  my  dear — I  insist  upon  it. 

Clara.  Oh,  sir,  when  it  is  a  request  of  yours,  how  can  I  grant 
it  soon  enough  ?  But  it  shall  be  done  in  the  way  you  like  best 
— slowly — deliberately — {opening  the  letter) — in  minuet  time. 
And  I  will  look  before  I  leap — and  I'll  read  before  I  write. 
{She  reads  the  signature.)  Gilbert!  Honest  Gilbert,  how  glad  I 
shall  be  to  do  any  thing  for  you,  independently  of  your  master ! 
{Reads  on,  suddenly  lets  the  letter  drop,  and  clasps  her  hands.) 
Sir — Uncle,  my  dear  uncle,  how  unfprtunate  I  am  !  Why  did 
not  you  ask  me  an  hour  ago  ? — Within  this  hour  I  have  promised 
the  new  inn  to  another  person. 

Sir  W.  Indeed ! — that  is  unfortunate.  My  poor  Gilbert  will 
fee  sadly  disappointed. 

Clara.  How  vexed  I  am !  But  I  never  should  have  thought 
of  Gilbert  for  the  inn  :  I  fancied  he  disliked  Ireland  so  much  that 
he  would  never  have  settled  here. 

Sir  W.  So  thought  I  till  this  morning.  But  love,  my  dear—' 
love  is  lord  of  all.     Poor  Gilbert  ( 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK  213 

CUira.  Poor  Gilbert ! — I  am  so  sorry  I  did  not  know  this  sooner 
Of  ail  people,  I  should  for  my  own  part  have  preferred  Gilbert 
for  the  inn,  he  would  have  kept  it  so  well. 

Sir  W.  He  would  so.     {Sighs.) 

Clara.  I  do  so  blame  myself — I  have  been  so  precipitate,  so 
foolish,  so  wrong — without  consulting  you  even. 

Sir  W.  Nay,  my  dear,  I  have  been  as  wrong,  as  foolish,  as 
precipitate  as  you ;  for  before  I  consulted  you,  I  told  Gilbert 
that  I  could  aXmost  promise  that  he  should  have  the  inn  in  con- 
sequence of  my  recommendation.  And  upon  the  strength  of 
that  almost  he  is  gone  a  courting.  My  dear,  we  are  both  a 
couple  of  fools ;  but  I  am  an  old — ^you  are  a  young  one.  There 
is  a  wide  dijQTerence — let  that  comfort  you. 

Clara.  Oh,  sir,  nothing  comforts  me,  I  am  so  provoked  with 
myself;  and  you  will  be  so  provoked  with  me,  when  I  tell  you 
how  silly  I  have  been. 

Sir  W.  Pray  tell  me. 

Clara.  Would  you  believe  that  I  have  literally  given  it  for  a 
song?  A  man  sent  me  this  morning  a  copy  of  verses  to  the 
heiress  of  Bannow.  The  verses  struck  my  fancy — I  supposa 
because  they  flattered  me ;  and  with  the  verees  came  a  petition 
setting  forth  claims,  and  a  tenant's  right,  and  fair  promises,  and 
a  proposal  for  the  new  inn ;  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper  I 
rashly  wrote  these  words — "  The  poet's  petition  is  granted.'' 

Sir  W.  A  promise  in  writing,  too ! — My  dear  Clara,  I  cannot 
flatter  you — this  certainly  is  not  a  wise  transaction.  So,  to 
reward  a  poet,  you  made  him  an  innkeeper.  Well,  I  have  known 
wiser  heads,  to  reward  a  poet,  make  him  an  exciseman. 

Clara.  But,  sir,  I  am  not  quite  so  silly  as  they  were,  for  I  did 
not  make  the  poet  an  innkeeper — he  is  one  already. 

Sir  W.  An  innkeeper  already ! — Whom  do  you  mean  ? 

Clara.  A  man  with  a  strange  name — or  a  name  that  will 
sound  strange  to  your  English  ears — Christy  Gallagher. 

Sir  W,  A  rogue  and  a  drunken  dog,  1  understand :  but  he  is 
a  poet,  and  knows  how  to  flatter  the  heiress  of  Bannow. 

Clara,  (striking  her  forehead)  Silly,  silly  Clara! 

Sir  W.  {changing  his  tone  from  irony  to  kindness)  Come,  my 
dear  Clara,  I  will  not  torment  you  any  more.  You  deserve  to 
have  done  a  great  deal  of  mischief  by  your  precipitation ;  but  I 


114  THE    ROSE, 

believe  this  time  you  have  done  little  or  none,  at  least  none  that 
is  irremediable  ;  and  you  have  made  Gilbert  happy,  I  hope  and 
believe,  though  without  intending  it. 

Clara.  My  dear  uncle — you  set  my  heart  at  ea^e — out 
explain. 

Sir  W.  Then,  my  dear,  I  shrewdly  suspect  that  the  daughter 
of  this  Christy  What-do-yovrcall-him  is  the  lady  of  Gilbert's 
thoughts. 

Clara.  I  see  it  all  in  an  instant.  Tliat's  delightful !  We  can 
pension  off  the  dnmken  old  father,  and  Gilbert  and  the  daughter 
will  keep  the  inn.  Gilbert  is  in  the  green-house,  preparing  the 
coloured  lamps — ^let  us  go  and  speak  to  him  this  minute,  and 
settle  it  all. 

Sir  W.  Speak  to  him  of  his  loves  ?  Oh,  my  dear,  you'd  kill 
him  on  the  spot !     He  is  so  bashful,  he'd  blush  to  death. 

Clara.  Well,  sir,  do  you  go  alone,  and  I  will  keep  far,  far 
aloof.  [Exeunt  at  opposite  sides. 

SCENE  III. 

Parlour  of  the  Inn. 
Christy  and  Miss  Gallagher. 

Christy,  (to  Miss  Gallagher,  slappittg  her  on  her  back) 
Hould  up  your  head,  child;  there's  money  bid  for  you. 

Miss  G.  Lord,  father,  what  a  thump  on  the  back  to  salute  one 
with.  Well,  sir,  and  if  money  is  bid  for  me,  no  wonder :  I  sup- 
pose, it's  because  I  have  money. 

Christy.  That's  all  the  ra son — ^you've  hit  it,  Florry.  It's  money 
that  love  always  looks  for  now.  So  you  may  be  proud  to  lam  the 
news  I  have  for  you,  which  will  fix  Mr.  Gilbert,  your  bachelor, 
^or  life,  I'll  engage — and  make  him  speak  out,  you'll  see,  afore 
night-fall.  We  have  the  new  inn,  dear! — I've  got  the  promise 
here  under  her  own  hand-writing. 

Miss  G.  Indeed ! — Well,  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  out 
of  this  hole,  which  is  not  fit  for  a  rat  or  a  Christian  to  live  in— 
and  I'll  have  my  music  and  my  piano  in  the  back  parlour, 
genteel. 

Christy,  Oh  I  Ferrinafad,  are  you  there  ?  It's  your  husband 
must  go  to  that  expinse,  my  precious,  if  he  chooses,  twinkling. 
and  tweedlinff,  instead  of  the  puddings  and  apple  pies — that  you'll. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  215 

settle  betwix  yees ;  and  in  the  honey  moon,  no  doubt,  you've 
cunning  enough  to  compass  that,  and  more. 

MUs  G.  To  be  sure,  sir,  and  before  I  come  to  the  honey- 
moon, I  promise  you  ;  for  I  won't  become  part  or  parcel  of  any 
man  that  ever  wore  a  head,  except  he's  music  in  his  soul  enough 
to  allow  me  my  piano  in  the  back  parlour. 

Christy.  Asy !  asy !  Ferrinafad — don't  be  talking  about  the 
piano-forte,  till  you  are  married.  Don't  be  showing  the  halter 
too  soon  to  the  shy  horse — it's  with  the  sieve  of  oats  you'll 
catch  him  ;  and  his  head  once  in  the  sieve,  you  have  the  halter 
on  him  clane.  Pray,  after  all,  tell  me,  Florry,  the  truth — did 
Mr.  Gilbert  ever  ax  you  ? 

Miss  G.  La,  sir,  what  a  coarse  question.  His  eyes  have  said 
as  much  a  million  of  times. 

Christy.  That's  good — but  not  in  law,  dear.  For,  see,  you 
could  Mot  shue  a  man  in  the  four  courts  for  a  breach  of  promise 
made  only  with  the  eyes,  jewel.  It  must  be  with  the  tongue 
afore  witness,  mind,  or  under  the  hand,  sale,  or  mark — look  to 
that. 

Miss  G.  But,  dear  sir,  Mr.  Gilbert  is  so  tongue-tied  with  that 
English  bashfulness. 

Christy.  Then  Irish  impudence  must  cut  the  string  of  that 
tongue,  Florry.     Lave  that  to  me,  unless  you'd  rather  yourself. 

Miss  G.  Lord,  sir — what  a  rout  about  one  man,  when,  if  I 
please,  I  might  have  a  dozen  lovers. 

Christy.  Be  the  same  more  or  less.  But  one  rich  bachelor's 
worth  a  dozen  poor,  that  is,  for  the  article  of  a  husband. 

Miss  G.  And  I  dare  say  the  drum-major  is  rich  enough,  sir— 
for  all  Scotchmen,  they  say,  is  fond  of  money  and  aconomie  ;  and 
I'd  rather  after  all  be  the  lady  of  a  military  man.  (Sings,) 

*'  ril  live  no  more  at  nome, 
But  ril  follow  with  the  drum, 
And  ril  be  the  captain^s  lady,  oh  !'* 

Christy.  Florry !  Florry !  mind  you  would  not  fall  between 
two  stools,  and  nobody  to  pity  you. 

Enter  Biddt. 
Miss  G.  Well,  what  is  it? 
Biddy,  The  bed.     I  was  seeing  was  the  room  empty,  that  I 


216  THE    ROBCj 

might  make  it ;  for  it's  only  turned  up  it  is,  when  I  -was  called 
off  to  send  in  dinner.  So  I  believe  I'd  best  make  it  now,  for  the 
room  will  be  wanting  for  the  tea-drinking,  and  what  not. 

Miss  G.  Ay,  make  the  bed  do,  sure  it's  asy,  and  no  more 
about  it; — you've  talked  enough  about  it  to  make  twinty  beds, 
one  harder  nor  the  other, — if  talk  would  do.  (Biddy  goes  to 
make  the  bed.)  And  I'm  sure  there's  not  a  girl  in  the  parish 
does  less  in  the  day,  for  all  the  talk  you  keep.  Now  I'll  just  tell 
all  you  didn't  do,  that  you  ought  this  day,  Biddy. 

[While  Miss  Gallagher  is  speaking  to  Biddy,  Mr.  Gallagher 
opens  a  press,  pours  out,  and  swallows  a  dram. 

Christy.  Oh,  that  would  be  too  long  telling,  Florry,  and  that'll 
keep  cool.  Lave  her  now,  and  you  may  take  your  scould  out 
another  time.  I  want  to  spake  to  you.  What's  this  I  wanted  to 
say  ?  My  memory's  confusing  itself.  Oh,  this  was  it — I  didn't 
till  you  how  I  got  this  promise  of  the  inn  :  I  did  it  uatel)- — I  got 
it  for  a  song. 

Miss  G.  You're  joking, — and  I  believe,  sir,  you're  not  over 
and  above  sober.  There's  a  terrible  strong  smell  of  the  whiskey. 

Christy.  No,  the  whiskey's  not  strong,  dear,  at-all-at-all ! — 
You  may  keep  smelling  what  way  you  plase,  but  I'm  as  sober  as 
a  judge,  still, — and,  drunk  or  sober,  always  knows  and  knewed 
on  which  side  my  bread  was  buttered  ; — got  it  for  a  song,  I  tell 
you — a  bit  of  a  complimentary,  adulatory  scroll,  that  the  young 
lady  fancied — and  she,  slap-dash.  Lord  love  her,  and  keep  her 
always  so  !  writes  at  the  bottom,  granted  the  poet' s  petition. 

Miss  G.  And  where  on  earth,  then,  did  you  get  that  song? 

Christy.  Where  but  in  my  brains  should  I  get  it  ?  I  could  do 
that  much  any  way,  I  suppose,  though  it  was  not  my  luck  to  be 
edicated  at  Ferrinafad. 

\_Miss  Gallagher  looks  hack,  and  sees  Biddv  behind  her. — Miss 
Gallagher  gives  her  a  box  on  the  ear. 

Miss  G.  Manners  !  that's  to  teach  ye. 

Biddy.  Manners! — Where  would  1  larn  them — when  I  was 
only  waiting  the  right  time  to  ax  you  what  I'd  do  for  a  clane 
pillow-case? 

Miss  G.  Why,  turn  that  you  have  inside  out,  and  no  more 
about  it. 

Christy.  And  turn  yourself  out  of  this,  if  you  plase.     {He 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  217 

turns  BiDDT  out  hy  the  shoulders.)  Let  me  hear  you  singing 
Baltiorum  in  the  kitchen,  for  security  that  you're  not  hearing  my 
sacrets.  There,  she's  singing  it  now,  and  we're  snug ; — tell  me 
when  she  stops,  and  I'll  stop  myself. 

Miss  G.  Then  there's  the  girl  has  ceased  singing.  There's 
somebody's  come  in,  into  the  kitchen  ;  may  be  it's  the  drum- 
major.     I'll  go  and  see.  [^Exit  Miss  Gallagher. 

Christy,  solus. 
There  she's  off  now  !  .  And  I  must  after  her,  else  she'll  spoil 
her  market,  and  my  own.  But  look  ye,  now — if  I  shouldn't  find 
her  agreeable  to  marry  this  Mr.  Gilbert,  the  man  I've  laid  out 
for  her,  why  here's  a  good  stick  that  will  bring  her  to  rason  in 
the  last  resort;  for  there's  no  other  way  of  i-asoning  with 
Ferrinafad.  [^Exit  Christy. 

SCENE  IV. 
2'he  Garden  of  the  Widow  Larken's  Cottage. 

Owen  and  Mabel. 

Owen.  How  does  my  mother  bear  the  disappointment,  Mabel 
about  the  inn  ? 

Mabel.  Then  to  outward  appearance  she  did  not  take  it  so 
much  to  heart  as  I  expected  she  would.  But  I'm  sure  she  frets 
inwardly — because  she  had  been  in  such  hopes,  and  in  such 
spirits,  and  so  proud  to  think  how  well  her  children  would  all 
be  settled. 

Owen.  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  I  told  her  in  that  hurry  the  good 
news  I  heard,  and  all  to  disappoint  her  afterwards,  and  break 
her  heart  with  it ! 

Mabel.  No,  she  has  too  good  a  heart  to  break  for  the  likes. 
She'll  hold  up  again  after  the  first  disappointment — she'll  struggle 
on  for  our  sakes,  Owen. 

Owen.  She  will :  but  Mabel  dearest,  what  do  you  think  of 
Gilbert? 

Mabel,  (turning  away)  I  strive  not  to  think  of  him  at  all. 

Owen.  But  sure  I  was  not  wrong  there — he  told  me  as  much 
as  that  he  loved  you. 

Mabel.  Then  he  never  told  me  that  much 


218  THE    ROSE, 

Owen.  No!  What,  not  when  he  walked  with  you  to  the 
weU? 

Mabel.  No.     What  made  you  think  he  did  ? 

Owen.  Why,  the  words  he  said  ahout  you  when  he  met  me, 
was — where 's  your  sister  Mabel  ?  Gone  to  the  well,  Gilbert, 
says  I.  And  do  you  think  a  man  that  has  a  question  to  ask  her 
might  make  bold  to  step  after  her?  says  he.  Such  a  man  as 
you — why  not?  says  I.  Then  he  stood  still,  and  twirled  a  rose 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  he  said  nothing,  and  I  no  more,  till  he 
stooped  down,  and  from  the  grass  where  we  stood  pulled  a 
sprig  of  clover.  Is  not  this  what  i/ou  call  shamrock  ?  says  he. 
It  is,  says  I.  Then  he  puts  the  shamrock  along  with  the  rose — 
How  would  that  do  ?  says  he. 

Mabel.  Did  he  say  that,  Owen  ? 

Owen.  Yes,  or  how  would  they  look  together  ?  or,  would  they 
do  together?  or  some  words  that  way;  I  can't  be  particular  to 
the  word — ^you  know,  he  speaks  different  from  us ;  but  that 
surely  was  the  sense  ;  and  I  minded  too,  he  blushed  up  to  the 
roots,  and  I  pitied  him,  and  answered 

Mabel.  Oh,  what  did  you  answer  ? 

Owen,  I  answered  and  said,  I  thought  they'd  do  very  well 
together ;  and  that  it  was  good  when  the  Irish  shamrock  and  the 
English  rose  was  united. 

Mabel,  (hiding  her  face  with  her  hands)  Oh,  Owen,  that  was 
too  plain. 

Owen.  Plain  !  Not  at  all — ^it  was  not.  It's  only  your  tender- 
ness makes  you  feel  it  too  plain — for,  listen  to  me,  Mabel. 
(Taking  her  hand  from  her  face.)  Sure,  if  it  had  any  meaning 
particular,  it's  as  strong  for  Miss  Gallagher  as  for  auy  body  e'se. 

Mabel.  That's  true  : — and  may  be  it  was  that  way  he  took  it 
—and  may  be  it  was  her  he  was  thinking  of 

Owen.  When  he  asked  me  for  you  ?  But  I'll  not  mislead  you 
— I'll  say  nothing ;  for  it  was  a  shame  he  did  not  speak  out, 
after  all  the  encouragement  he  got  from  me. 

Mabel.  Then  did  he  get  encouragement  from  you  ? 

Owen.  That  is — (smiling) — taking  it  the  other  way,  he  might 
understand  it  so,  if  he  had  any  conscience.  Come  now,  Mabel, 
when  he  went  to  the  well,  what  did  he  say  to  you?  for  I  am  sure 
he  said  something. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  219 

Mabel.  Then  he  said  nothing — but  just  put  the  rose  and 
Bhamrock  into  my  hand. 

Owen.  Oh  I  did  he  ? — And  what  did  you  say  ? 

Mabel.  I  said  nothing. — What  could  I  say  ? 

Owen.  I  wish  I'd  been  with  you,  Mabel. 

Mabel.  I'm  glad  you  were  not,  Owen. 

Owen.  Well,  what  did  he  say  next  ? 

Mabel.  1  tell  you  he  said  nothing,  but  cleared  his  throat  and 
hemmed,  as  he  does  often. 

Owen.  What,  all  the  way  to  the  well  and  back,  nothing  but 
hem,  and  clear  his  throat  ? 

Mabel.  Nothing  in  life. 

Owen.  Why,  then,  the  man's  a  fool  or  a  rogue. 

Mabel.  Oh,  don't  say  that,  any  way.  But  there's  my  mother 
coming  in  from  the  field.  How  weak  she  walks  I  I  must  go  in 
to  bear  her  company  spinning. 

Owen.  And  I'll  be  in  by  the  time  I've  settled  all  here. 

[Exit  Mabel. 
Owen,    olus. 

Oh !  I  know  how  keenly  Mabel  feels  all,  tho'  she  speaks  so 
mild.  Then  I'm  cut  to  the  heart  by  this  behaviour  of  Gilbert's ; 
— sure  he  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  be  jesting  with  her ! — he's  an 
Englishman,  and  may  be  he  thinks  no  harm  to  jilt  an  Irish- 
woman,    But  I'll  show  him but  then  if  he  never  asked  her 

the  question,  how  can  we  say  any  thing? — Oh!  the  thing  is, 
he's  a  snug  man,  and  money's  at  the  bottom  of  all, — ^and  since 
Christy's  to  have  the  new  inn,  and  Miss  Gallagher  has  the 
money ! — Well,  it's  all  over,  and  I  don't  know  what  will  become 

of  me. 

Enter  Mr.  Andrew  Hope. 

Mr.  H.  My  gude  lad,  may  your  name  be  Larken  ? 

Owen.  It  is,  sir — Owen  Larken,  at  your  service — the  son  of 
the  widow  Larken. 

Mrs.  H.  Then  I  have  to  thank  your  family  for  their  goodness 
to  my  puir  brother,  years  ago.  And  for  yourself,  your  friend, 
Mr.  Christy  Gallagher,  has  been  telling  me  you  can  play  the 
bugle  ? 

Owen.  I  can,  sir. 

Mr.  H,  And  we  want  a  bugle,  and  the  pay'$  fifteen  guineas ; 

15 


220  THE    ROSE, 

and  I'd  sooner  give  it  to  you  than  tnree  others  that  has  applied, 
if  you'll  list. 

Owen.  Fifteen  guineas !  Oh !  if  I  could  send  that  money 
borne  to  my  mother!  but  I  must  ask  her  consint.  Sir,  she 
lives  convanient,  just  in  this  cabin  here — would  you  be  pleased 
to  step  in  with  me,  and  I'll  ask  her  consint. 

Mr.  H.  That's  right, — lead  on,  my  douce  lad — you  ken  the 
way.  \_ExeunU 

SCENE  V. 
Kitchen  of  the  Widow  Lauren's  Cottage. 

A  Door  is  seen  open,  into  an  inner  Room. 

Mabel,  alone, 
{Sitting  near  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  spinning  and  singing  ^) 

Sleep,  mother,  sleep  !  in  slumber  blest. 

It  joys  my  heart  to  see  thee  rest. 
Unfelt  in  sleep  thy  load  of  sorrow  ; 
Breathe  free  and  thoughtless  of  to-morrow ; 
And  long,  and  light,  thy  slumbers  last, 
In  happy  dreams  forget  the  past. 

Sleep,  mother,  sleep !  thy  slumber^s  ble«t , 

It  joys  my  heart  to  see  thee  rest. 

Many's  the  night  she  wak'd  for  me. 
To  nurse  my  helpless  infancy : 
While  cradled  on  her  patient  arm. 
She  hushM  me  with  a  mother's  charm. 

Sleep,  mother,  sleep !  thy  slumber*s  bleat  *, 

It  joys  my  heart  to  see  thee  rest. 

And  be  it  mine  to  soothe  thy  age, 
With  tender  care  thy  grief  assuage, 
This  hope  is  left  to  poorest  poor. 
And  richest  child  can  do  no  more. 

Sleep,  mother,  sleep !  thy  slumber*s  blest ; 

It  joys  my  heart  to  see  thee  re«t. 

While  Mabel  is  singing  the  second  stanza,  Owen  and  Andrew 
HoPK  enter.    Mr.  Hope  stops  short,  and  listens  ;  he  makes 

^  This  Bong  is  set  to  music  by  Mr.  Webbe. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  221 

«  sign  to  Owen  to  stand  still,  and  not  to  interrupt  Mabel— 
while  Owen  approaches  her  on  tiptoe. 

Mr.  H.  (aside)  She  taks  my  fancy  back  to  dear  Scotland,  tn 
my  ain  hame,  and  my  ain  mither,  and  my  ain  Kate. 

Owen.  So  Mabel !  I  tliought  you  never  sung  for  strangers? 
[Mabel  turns  and  sees  Mr.  Hope — She  rises  and  curtsies, 

Mr.  H.  {advancing  softly)  I  fear  to  disturb  the  mother,  whoss 
slumbers  are  so  blest,  and  I'd  fain  hear  that  lullaby  again.  If 
the  voice  stop,  the  mother  may  miss  it,  and  wake. 

Mabel,  {looking  into  the  room  in  which  her  mother  sleeps,  then 
closing  the  door  gently)  No,  sir, — she'll  not  miss  my  voice  now, 
I  thank  you — she  is  quite  sound  asleep. 

Owen.  This  is  Mr.  Andrew  Hope,  Mabel—you  might  re- 
member one  of  his  name,  a  Seijeant  Hope. 

Mabel.  Ah !  I  mind — he  that  was  sick  with  us,  some  time 
back. 

Mr.  H.  Ay,  my  brother  that's  dead,  and  that  yoitr  gude 
mither  was  so  tender  of,  when  sick,  chai-ged  me  to  thank  you 
all,  and  so  from  my  soul  I  do. 

Mabel.  'Twas  little  my  poor  mother  could  do,  nor  any  of  us 
for  him,  even  then,  though  we  could  do  more  then  than  we 
could  now,  and  I'm  glad  he  chanced  to  be  with  us  in  our  bett)?r 
days. 

Mr.  Hi  And  I'm  sorry  you  ever  fell  upon  worse  days,  fo? 
you  deserve  the  best ;  and  will  have  such  again,  I  trust.  All  . 
«an  say  is  this — that  gif  your  brother  here  gangs  with  me,  h.'s 
shall  find  a  brother's  care  through  life  fra'  me. 

Owen.  I  wouldn't  doubt  you;  and  that  you  know,  Mabel^ 
would  be  a  great  point,  to  have  a  friend  secure  in  the  regiment^ 
if  I  thought  of  going. 

Mabel.  If! — Oh !  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Owen  ?  What 
is  it  you're  talking  of  going  ?  {Turning  towards  the  door  }f  her 
mother's  room  suddenly.)  Take  care,  but  she'd  wake  aiiT  hear 
you,  and  she'd  never  sleep  easy  again. 

Owen.  And  do  you  think  so  ? 

Mabel.  Do  I  think  so?    Am  not  I  sure  of  it?  and  you  too 
Owen,  if  you'd  take  time  to  think  and  feel. 

Owen.  Why  there's  no  doubt  but  it's  hard,  when  the  motbet 
has  reared  the  son,  for  him  to  quit  her  as  soon  as  he  can  gc 


222  THK    ROSE, 

alone ;  but  it  is  what  I  was  thinking :  it  is  only  the  militia,  you 
know,  and  I'd  not  be  gohig  out  of  the  three  kingdoms  ever  at 
all ;  and  I  could  be  sending  money  home  to  my  mother,  like 
Johnny  Reel  did  to  his. 

Mabel.  Money  is  it?  Then  there's  no  money  you  coidd  send 
her — not  the  full  of  Lough  Erne  itself,  in  golden  guineas,  could 
make  her  amends  for  the  loss  of  yourself,  Owen,  and  you  know- 
that. 

Mr.  H.  And  I  am  not  the  man  that  would  entice  you  to  list,, 
or  gang  with  me,  in  contradiction  to  your  duty  at  home,  or  your 
interest  abroad :  so  {turning  to  Mabel)  do  not  look  on  me  as  tlie 
tempter  to  evil,  nor  with  distrust,  as  you  do,  kind  sister  as  you 
are,  and  like  my  own  Kate ;  but  hear  me  coolly,  and  without 
prejudice,  for  it  is  his  gude  I  wish. 

Mabel.  I  am  listening  then,  and  I  ask  your  pardon  if  I  looked 
a  doubt. 

Mr.  H.  The  gude  mother  must  wish,  above  all  things  here 
below,  the  weal  and  advancement  and  the  honour  of  her  bairns  ; 
and  she  would  not  let  the  son  be  tied  to  her  apron-strings,  for 
any  use  or  profit  to  herself,  but  ever  wish  him  to  do  the  best  in 
life  for  his  sel'.     Is  not  this  truth,  gude  friends — plain  truth  ? 

Mabel.  It  is  then — I  own  that :  truth  and  sense  too. 

Owen.  Now  see  there,  Mabel. 

Mr.  H.  And  better  for  him  to  do  something  abroad  than 
digging  at  home  ;  and  in  the  army  he  might  get  on, — and  here's 
the  bugle-boy's  pay. 

Mabel.  Is  it  a  bugle-boy  you  are  thinking  of  making  him  ? 

Mr.  H.  That's  the  only  thing  I  could  make  him.  I  wish  I 
could  offer  better. 

Mabel.  Then,  I  thank  you,  sir,  and  I  wouldn't  doubt  ye — and 
it  would  be  very  well  for  a  common  boy  that  could  only  dig  r 
but  my  brother's  no  common  boy,  sir. 

Owen.  Oh,  Mabel ! 

Mabel.  Hush,  Owen !  for  it's  the  truth  I'm  telling,  and  if  to 
}  our  face  I  can't  help  it.  You  may  hide  the  face,  but  I  won't 
hide  the  truth. 

Mr.  H.  Then  speak  on,  my  warm-hearted  lassy,  speak  on. 

Mabel.  Then,  sir,  he  got  an  edication  while  ever  my  poor 
father  lived,  and  no  better  scholar,  they  said,  for  the  teaching  ha 


THISTLi:,    AND    SHAMROCK.  223 

got : — tut  all  was  given  over  when  the  father  died,  and  the 
troubles  came,  and  Owen,  as  he  ought,  give  himself  up  intirely 
for  my  mother,  to  help  her,  a  widow.  But  it's  not  digging  and 
slaving  he  is  to  be  always : — it's  with  the  head,  as  my  father 
used  to  say,  he'll  make  more  than  the  hands ;  and  we  hope  to 
get  a  clerk's  place  for  him  sometime,  or  there  will  be  a  school- 
master wanting  in  this  town,  and  that  will  be  what  he  would  be 

fit  for ;  and  not but  it's  not  civil,  before  you,  a  soldier,  sir, 

to  say  the  rest. 

Mr.  H.  Fear  not,  you  will  not  give  offence. 

Mabel.  And  not  to  be  spending  his  breath  blowing  through  a 
horn  all  his  days,  for  the  sake  of  wearing  a  fine  red  coat.  I  beg 
your  pardon  again,  sir,  if  I  say  too  much — but  it's  to  save  my 
brother  and  my  mother. 

Mr.  H,  I  like  you  the  better  for  all  you've  said  for  both. 

Owen.  And  I'm  off  entirely  : — I'll  not  list,  I  thank  you,  sir. 
[Mabel  clasps  her  hands  joyfuUyy  then  embraces  her  brother. 

Mr.  H.  And  I'll  not  ask  jou  to  list — and  I  would  not  have 
asked  it  at  all,  but  that  a  friend  of  yours  told  me  it  would  be  the 
greatest  service  I  could  do  you,  and  that  it  was  the  thing  of  all 
others  you  wished. 

Owen.  That  friend  was  Christy  Gallagher :  but  he  was  mis- 
taken— that's  all. 

Mabel.  I  hope  that's  all.  But  I've  no  dependance  on  him 
for  a  friend,  nor  has  my  mother. 

Owen.  Why,  he  was  saying  to  me,  and  I  could  not  say  against 
it,  that  he  had  a  right  to  propose  for  the  inn  if  he  could,  though 
Gilbert  and  we  wanted  to  get  it. 

Mabel.  Then  I  wonder  why  Christy  should  be  preferred  rather 
than  my  mother. 

Owen.  Then  that's  a  wonder — and  I  can't  understand  how 
that  was. 

Mr.  H.  I  have  one  more  thing  to  say,  or  to  do,  which  I  should 
like  better,  if  you'll  give  me  leave.  If  there's  a  difiiculty  aboot 
the  rent  of  this  new  inn  that  you  are  talking  of,  I  have  a  little 
«})are  money,  and  you're  welcome  to  it : — I  consider  it  as  a  debt 
of  my  brother's,  which  I  am  bound  to  pay ;  yo  no  obligation  in 
life — tell  me  how  much  will  do.  [Takes  out  his  purse, 

Owen  and  Mabel.  You  are  very  kind — ^you  are  very  good. 


224  THE    ROSE, 

Mr.  H.  No,  I  am  not — I  am  only  just.  Say  only  how  mucis 
will  do. 

Owen.  Alas  !  money  won't  do  now,  sir.  It's  all  settled,  and 
Christy  says  he  has  a  promise  of  it  in  writing  from  the  lady. 

Mr.  H.  May  be  this  Christy  might  sell  his  interest,  and  we 
will  see — I  will  not  say  till  I  find  I  can  do.  Fare  ye  weel  till 
we  meet,  as  I  hope  we  shall,  at  the  dance  that's  to  be  at  the^ 
castle.  The  band  is  to  be  there,  and  I  with  them,  and  I  shall 
hope  for  this  lassy's  hand  in  the  dance. 

Mabel,  (aside)  And  Gilbert  that  never  asked  me !  (Aloud)  I 
thank  you  kindly,  sir,  I  sha'n't  go  to  the  dance  at-all-at-all,  I 
believe— my  mother  had  better  take  her  rest,  and  I  must  stay 
with  her — a  good  night  to  you  kindly. 

[Exit  Mabel  into  her  mother's  room, 

Mr.  H.  This  sister  of  yours  would  leave  me  no  heart  to  carry 
back  to  Scotland,  I  fear,  but  that  I'm  a  married  man  already^ 
and  have  my  own  luve — a  Kate  of  my  own,  that's  as  fair  as  she, 
and  as  gude,  and  that's  saying  much. 

Owen,  (aside)  Much  more  than  Florinda  Gallagher  will  like 
to  hear. 

Mr,  H.  I  shall  thank  you  if  you  will  teach  me,  for  my  Kate, 
the  words  of  that  song  your  sister  was  singing  when  we  came  in, 

Owen.  I  believe  it's  to  flatter  me  you  say  this,  for  that  song  is 
my  writing. 

Mr.H.  Yours? 

Owen.  Mine,  such  as  it  is. 

Mr.  H.  Sic  a  ane  as  you  are  then,  I'm  glad  you  are  not  to 
be  a  bugle-boy :  your  sister  is  right. 

Owen.  I'll  leacVi  you  the  words  as  we  go  along. 

Mr.  H.  Do  so ; — but  mind  now  this  song-writing  do  not  lead 
you  to  idleness.  We  must  see  to  turn  your  edicstion  to  good 
account.  (Aside)  Oh,  I  will  never  rest  till  I  pay  mj  brother** 
debt,  jBome  way  or  other,  to  this  gude  family.  EstnuL. 


THISTLE,    ANU    SHAMROCK.  225 


ACT    III. 

SCENE    I. 

Christy  alone. 

So  this  Scotchman  could  not  list  Owen.  Couldn't  nor  tvo-uldn'tf 
that's  what  he  says ;  and  the  Scotchman  looked  very  hard  at  me 
as  he  spoke  :  moreover,  I  seen  Mr.  Gilbert  and  him  with  their 
two  heads  close  together,  and  that's  a  wonder,  for  I  know 
Gilbert's  not  nat'rally  fond  of  any  sort  of  Scotchman.  There's 
something  brewing  : — I  must  have  my  wits  about  me,  and  see 
and  keep  sober  this  night,  if  I  can,  any  way.  From  the  first  I 
suspicted  Mr.  Gilbert  had  his  heart  on  Mabel,  (Biddy  Doyle 
puts  her  head  in)  Biddy  Doyle  !  what  the  mischief  does  that 
head  of  yours  do  there  ? 

Biddy.  Nothing  in  life,  sir :  only  just  to  see  who  was  in  it, 
along  with  yourself,  because  I  thought  I  hard  talking  enough 
for  two. 

Christy.  You,  girl,  have  curiosity  enough  for  two,  and  two 
dozen,  and  too  much !  So  plase  take  your  head  and  yourself 
out  of  that,  and  don't  be  overharing  my  private  thoughts ;  for 
that  was  all  the  talking  ye  hard,  and  my  thoughts  can't  abide 
listeners. 

Biddy.  I'm  no  listener — I  ax  your  pardon,  sir :  I  scorn  to 
listen  to  your  thoughts,  or  your  words  even.  [Exit  Biddy. 

Christy.  That  girl  has  set  me  topsy-turvy.  Where  was  I  ? — 
Oh !  this  was  it.  Suppose  even,  I  say,  suppose  this  Gilbert's 
fancy  should  stick  to  Mabel,  I  might  manage  him,  nevertheless. 
I've  a  great  advantage  and  prerogative  over  this  Englishman, 
in  his  having  never  been  dipped  in  the  Shannon.  He  is  so  under 
cow  with  bashfulness  now,  that  I  don't  doubt  but  what  in  one  of 
his  confusions  I  could  asy  bring  him  to  say  Yes  in  the  wrong 
place  ;  and  sooner  than  come  to  a  perplexing  refusal  of  a  young 
Iad\%  he  might,  I'll  engage,  be  brought  about  to  marry  the  girl  he 

didn't  like,  in  lieu  of  the  girl  he  did.     We  shall  see but  hark  I 

I  hear  Ferrinafad's  voice,  singing,  and  I  must  join,  and  see  how 
tlie  thing's  going  on,  or  going  off.  [Exit% 

Comic  Dramas. 


226  THE    ROSE, 

SCENE  II. 

Miss  Gallagher  and  Gilbert  at  a  Tea-  Table. 

Gilb.  {aside)  Now  would  I  give  five  golden  guineas  this 
minute  that  her  father,  or  any  mortal  man,  woman,  or  child  in 
the  varsal  world,  would  come  in  and  say  something ;  for  'tis  so 
awk'ard  for  I  to  be  sitting  here,  and  I  nothing  to  say  to  she. 

Miss  G.  (aside)  When  will  the  man  pay  me  the  compliment 
to  speak,  I  wonder?  Wouldn't  any  body  think  he'd  no  tongue 
in  that  mouth  of  his,  screwed  up,  and  blushing  from  ear  to  ear? 

Enter  Christy. 

Christy.  Hoo  !  hoo  !  hoo ! — How's  this — ^both  of  yees  mute  as 
fishes  the  moment  I  come  in?  Why  I  hard  you  just  now, 
when  my  back  was  turned,  singing  like  turtle-doves— didn't  I, 
Florry? 

Miss  G.  Indeed,  sir,  as  to  turtle-doves,  I'm  not  sinsible ;  but 
Mr.  Gilbert  requisted  of  me  to  be  favouring  him  with  a  song, 
which  I  v/as  complying  with,  though  I'm  not  used  to  be  singing 
without  my  piano. 

Christy,  {oxide)  Sorrow  take  your  piano!  you're  not  come 
there  yet. 

Miss  G.  I  wonder  the  drum-major  isn't  come  yet.     Does  he 
expect  tea  can  be  keeping  hot  for  him  to  the  end  of  time? 
He'll  have  nothing  but  slop-dash,  though  he's  a  very  genteel 
man.     I'm  partial  to  the  military  school,  I  own,  and  a  High 
lander  too  is  always  my  white-headed  boy. 

GiJh.  {astonished)  Her  white-headed  boy  ! — Now,  if  I  was  to 
be  hanged  for  it,  I  don't  know  what  that  means. 

Miss  G.  Now  where  can  you  have  lived,  Mr.  Gilbert,  not  to 
know  that  ? 

Christy,  (aside)  By  the  mass,  he's  such  a  matter-o'-fact-man, 
I  can't  get  round  him  with  all  my  wit. 

Miss  G.  Here's  the  drum-major!  Scarlet's  asy  seen  at  a 
distance,  that's  one  comfort ! 

Enter  Mr.  Hope. 
Mr.  H.  I'm  late,  Miss  Florinda,  I  fear,  for  the  tea-table ;  bat 


TUIaTLE.    AND    SHAMROCK.  227 

I  had  a  wee-wee  bit  of  business  to  do  for  a  young  friend,  that 
ikept  me. 

Miss  G.  No  matter,  major,  my  tapot  defies  you.  Take  a  cup 
a  tea.     Are  you  fond  of  music,  major? 

Mr.  H.  Very  fond  of  music,  ma'am — do  you  sing  or  play  ? 

Miss  G.  1  do  play — I  plead  guilty  to  that  I  own.  But  in  this 
hole  that  we  are  in,  there's  no  room  fitting  for  my  piano.  How- 
ever, in  the  new  inn  which  we  have  got  now,  I'll  fix  my  piano 
iligant  in  the  back-parlour. 

Mr.  H,  In  the  mean  time.  Miss  Florinda,  will  you  favour  i»a 
with  a  song  ? 

Christy.  And  I'll  be  making  the  punch,  for  I'm  no  songstress 
Biddy  !  Biddy  Doyle !  hot  water  in  a  jerry. 

Miss  G.  Indeed  I'm  not  used  to  sing  without  my  piano ;  but, 
to  oblige  the  major,  I'll  sing  by  note. 

Miss  Gallagher  sings. 

Softly  breathing  tlirougli  the  heart, 

When  lovers  meet  no  more  to  part; 
That  purity  of  soul  be  mine. 

Which  speaks  in  music's  sound  divine. 

*Midst  trees  and  streams  of  constant  love. 

That's  whispered  by  the  turtle-dove ; 
Sweet  cooing  cushat  all  my  pray'r, 

Is  love  in  elegance  to  share. 

Mr.  H.  That's  what  I  call  fine,  now !     Very  fine  that. 

[Gilbert  nods. 

Miss  G.  (aside)  Look  at  that  Englishman,  now,  that  hasn't  a 
word  of  compliment  to  throw  to  a  dog,  but  only  a  nod.  (Aloud) 
'Tis  the  military  that  has  always  the  souls  for  music,  and  for  the 
ladies — and  I  think,  gentlemen,  I  may  step  for'ard,  and  say  I'm 
entitled  to  call  upon  you  now  ; — Mr.  Gilbert,  if  you've  ever  a 
love-song  in  your  composition. 

Gilb.  Love-song  I  can't  say,  ma'am ;  but  such  as  I  have— 
I'm  n  great  hand  at  composition — ^but  I  have  one  song — they 
call  it,  My  choice  of  a  toife. 

Miss  G.  Pray  let's  have  it,  sir. 

Christy.  Now  for  it,  by  Jabus. 

Mr.  H.  Give  it  us,  Mr.  Gilbert 


32S  THE    KCS£f 

Enter  Biddy  with  hot  water j  and  exit, 

Gilbert  sitigs. 

There's  none  but  a  fool  will  wed  on  a  «udden, 
Or  take  a  fine  miss  that  can't  make  a  pudding ; 
If  he  get  8uch  a  wife,  what  would  a  man  gain,  0  ! 
But  a  few  ballad-tunes  on  a  wretched  piano  ? 

Some  ladies  than  peacocks  are  twenty  times  prouder, 
Some  ladies  than  thunder  are  twenty  times  louder; 
But  I'll  have  a  wife  that's  obliging  and  civil — 
For  me,  your  fine  ladies  may  go  to  the  devil ! 

Miss  G,  (rising)  Sir,  I  comprehend  your  song,  coarse  as  it  is,, 
and  its  moral  to  boot,  and  I  humbly  thank  ye,  sir.  (She  curtsies 
low.)  And  if  I  live  a  hundred  year,  and  ninety-nine  to  the  back 
of  that,  sir,  I  will  remember  it  to  you,  sir. 

Christy,  (leaving  the  punch  which  he  had  been  making,  comes 
forward  with  a  lemon  in  his  hand)  Wheugh  !  wheugh !  wheugh  ! 
Ferrjnafad ! 

Gilb.  (aside)  Ferrinafad ! — the  man's  mad  ! 

Miss  G.  Father,  go  your  ways  back  to  your  punch.  Here 
stands  the  only  raal  gentleman  in  company  (pointing  to  the 
drum-major),  if  I'm  to  make  the  election. 

Christy,  Major,  you  can't  but  drink  her  health  for  that 
compliment.  [He  presents  a  glass  of  punch  to  Mr.  Hope. 

Mr.  If.  Miss  Gallagher's  health,  and  a  gude  husband  to  her, 
and  soon. 

Miss  G.  And  soon  ! — ^No  hurry  for  them  that  has  choice. 

Christy.  That  has  money,  you  mane,  jewel.  Mr.  Gilbert,  you. 
did  not  give  us  your  toast. 

GiU).  Your  good  health,  ma'am — your  good  health,  sir, — Mr. 
Hope,  your  good  health,  and  your  fireside  in  Scotland,  and  in 
pa'tic'lar  your  good  wife. 

Miss  G.  (starting)  Your  wife,  sir!  Why,  sir,  is't  possible 
you're  a  married  man,  after  all  ? 

Mr.  H.  Very  possible,  ma'am — thank  Heaven  and  my  gude 
Kate. 

Miss  G.  His  gude  Kate  ! — Well,  I  hate  the  Scotch  accent  of 
all  languages  under  the  sun. 

Christy.  In  a  married  man,  I  suppose  you  mane,  Florry  i 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  229 

M:ss  G.  This  is  the  way  with  officers  continually — passing 
themselves  for  bachelors. 

Christy.  Then,  Florry,  we'd  best  recommend  it  to  the  urum- 
major  the  next  town  he'd  go  into,  to  put  up  an  advertisement  in 
capitals  on  his  cap,  warning  all  women  whom  it  may  consam, 
that  he  is  a  married  man. 

Miss  G.  'Tis  no  consam  of  mine,  I'll  assure  you,  sir,  at  any 
rate;  for  I  should  scorn  to  think  of  a  Scotchman  any  way.  And 
what's  a  drum-major,  after  all  ?  [Exitj  in  a  passion. 

Christy.  Bo  boo !  bo  boo  !  bo  boo  !  there's  a  tantarara  nov/  ; 
but  never  mind  her,  she  takes  them  tantarums  by  turns.  Now 
depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Gilbert,  it's  love  that's  at  the  bottom  of  it 
all,  clane  and  clear. 

GUb.  It's  very  like,  sir — I  can't  say. 

Christy.  Oh,  but  I  can  say — I  know  her,  egg  and  bird.  The 
thing  is,  she's  mad  with  you,  and  that  has  set  her  all  through 
other. — But  we'll  finish  our  tumbler  of  punch. 

[Draws  forwards  the  table,  and  sets  chairs. 

Gilb.  (aside)  Egg  and  bird! — mad!  AU  through  other! — 
Confound  me  if  I  understand  one  word  the  man  is  saying ;  but  I 
will  make  him  understand  me,  if  he  can  understand  plain 
English. 

Mr.  H.  (aside)  I'll  stand  by  and  see  fair  play.  I  have  my 
own  thought. 

Gilb.  Now,  Mr. ,  to  be  plain  with  you  at  once — here's 

fifty  guineas  in  gold,  and  if  you  will  take  them,  and  give  me  up 
the  promise  you  have  got  of  the  new  inn,  you  shall  be  welcome. 
That's  all  I  have  to  say,  if  I  was  to  talk  till  Christmas — and 
fewest  words  is  best  in  matters  of  business. 

Christy.  Fifty  guineas  in  gold! — Don't  part  with  a  guinea  of 
them,  man,  put  'em  up  again.  You  shall  have  the  new  inn 
without  a  word  more,  and  into  the  bargain  my  good-will  and  my 
daughter — and  you're  a  jantleman,  and  can't  say  no  to  that,  any 
way. 

Gilb.  Yes,  but  I  can  though :  since  you  drive  me  to  the  wall, 
I  must  say  no,  and  I  do  say  no.  And,  dang  it,  I  would  have 
been  hanged  almost  as  soon  as  say  so  much  to  a  father.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir,  but  my  heart  is  given  to  another.  Good  evening 
to  you. 


"230  THE    ROSE, 

Christy.  (hoMf^  him  as  he  attempts  to  go)  Take  it  coolly,  and 
listen  to  me,  and  tell  me — was  you  ever  married  before,  Mr. 
Gilbert  ? 

Gilb.  Never. 

Chruty.  Tben  I  was — and  I  can  tell  you  that  I  found  to  mj 
cost,  love  was  all  in  all  with  me  before  I  was  married,  and  after 
■i  bad  been  married  a  twel'-month,  money  was  all  in  all  with  me; 
for  I  had  the  wife,  and  I  had  not  the  money,  and  without  the 
money,  the  wife  must  have  starved. 

GiU).  But  I  can  work,  sir,  and  will,  head,  hands,  and  heart,  for 
the  woman  I  love. 

Christy.  Asy  said — ^hard  done.  Mabel  Larken  is  a  very  pretty 
girl.  But  wait  till  I  tell  you  what  Kit  Monaghan  said  to  me 
yesterday.  I'm  going  to  be  married,  sir,  says  he  to  me.  Ay, 
so  you  mintioned  to  me  a  fortnight  ago.  Kit,  says  I — to  Rose 
Dermod,  isn't  it?  says  I.  Not  at  all,  sir,  says  he — ^it  is  to  Peggy 
M'Grath,  this  time.  And  what  quarrel  had  you  to  Rose 
Dermod  ?  says  I.  None  in  life,  sir,  says  he ;  but  Peggy  M'Grath 
had  two  cows,  and  Rose  Dermod  had  but  the  one,  and  in  my 
mind  there  is  not  the  differ  of  a  cow  betwix'  one  woman  and 
another.     Do  you  understand  me  now,  Mr.  Gilbert  ? 

Gilb.  Sir,  we  shall  never  understand  one  another — pray  let 
-me  go,  before  I  get  into  a  passion. 

[^Breaks  from  Christy,  and  exit. 

Christy.  Hollo !  Hollo !  Mr.  Gilbert !  (Gilbert  returns.) 
One  word  more  about  the  new  inn.  I've  done  about  Florry  ; 
and,  upon  my  conscience,  I  believe  you're  right  enough — only 
■that  I'm  her  father,  and  in  duty  bound  to  push  her  as  well  as  I 
can. 

GUb.  Well,  sir,  about  the  inn  :  be  at  a  word  with  me ;  for  I'm 
not  in  a  humour  to  be  trifled  with. 

Mr.  H.  (aside)  Fire  beneath  snow  !  who'd  ha*  thought  it? 

Christy.  Then,  if  it  was  sixty  guineas  instead  of  fifty,  I'd  take 
it,  and  you  should  have  my  bargain  of  the  inn. 

Mr.  H.  (aside)  I'll  not  say  my  word  until  I  see  what  the 
bottom  of  the  men  are. 

Gilb.  (aside)  Why,  to  make  up  sixty,  I  must  sell  my  watch 
even  ;  but  I'll  do  it — any  thing  to  please  Mabel.  (Aloud)  Well, 
sixty  guineas,  if  you  won't  give  it  for  less. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  231^ 

Christy,  Done!  {Eagerly.) 

Mr.  H.  Stay,  stay,  Mr.  Gilbert !  Have  a  care,  Mr.  Gallagher  l 
— the  lady  might  not  be  well  pleased  at  your  handing  over  her 
written  promise,  Mr.  Gallagher — wait  a  wee  bit.  Don't  conclude 
this  bargain  till  you  are  before  the  lady  at  the  castle. 

Crilb.  So  best — no  doubt. 

Christy.  All  one  to  me — so  I  pocket  the  sixty. 

Mr.  H.  {aside  to  Gilbert)  Come  off. 

Gilh.  We  shall  meet  then  at  the  castle  to-night :  till  then,  a 
good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Gallagher. 

[Exeunt  Gilbert  and  Mr.  Hope. 

Christy.  Good  night  to  ye  kindly,  gentlemen.  There's  a  fool 
to  love  for  you  now !  If  I'd  ax'd  a  hundred,  I'd  ha'  got  it 
But  still  there's  only  one  thing.  Ferrinafad  will  go  mad 
when  she  learns  I  have  sold  the  new  inn,  and  she  to  live  on  in 
this  hole,  and  no  place  for  the  piano.  I  hope  Biddy  did  not  hear  a 
sentence  of  it.  {Calls)  Biddy!  Biddy  Doyle!  Biddy,  can't  ye? 

Enter  Biddy. 

Biddy.  What  is  it? 

Christy.  Did  you  hear  any  thing  ?  Oh,  I  see  ye  did  by  your 
eyes.  Now,  hark'ee,  my  good  girl :  don't  mention  a  sentence 
to  Ferrinafad  of  my  settling  the  new  inn,  till  the  bargain's  com- 
plate,  and  money  in  both  pockets — you  hear. 

Biddy.  I  do,  sir.     But  I  did  not  hear  afore. 

Christy.  Becaase,  she,  though  she's  my  daughter,  she's  ciuss — 
I'll  empty  my  mind  to  you,  Biddy. 

Biddy,  {aside)  He  has  taken  enough  to  like  to  be  talking  to 
poor  Biddy. 

Christy.  Afore  Florry  was  set  up  on  her  high  horse  by  that 
little  independency  her  doting  grandmother  left  her,  and  until  she 
got  her  head  turned  with  that  Ferrinafad  edication,  this  Florry 
was  a  good  girl  enough.  But  now  what  is  she? — Given  over  to 
vanities  of  all  sorts,  and  no  comfort  in  life  to  me,  or  nse  at  all — 
not  like  a  daughter  at  all,  nor  mistress  of  the  house  neither,  nor 
likely  to  be  well  married  neither,  or  a  credit  to  me  that  way  ! 
And  saucy  to  me  on  account  of  that  money  of  hers  I  liquidated 
imknown'st. 

Biddy.  True  for  ye,  sir. 


232  THE    ROSE, 

Christy,  Then  it  all  comes  from  the  little  finger  getting  to  be 
^he  master  of  me ;  for  I'm  confident  that  when  sober,  I  was  not 
boni  to  be  a  rogue  nat'rally.  Was  not  I  honest  Christy  once  ? 
{ready  to  cry.)  Oh,  I'm  a  great  penitent !  But  there's  no  help 
for  it  now. 

Biddy.  True  for  you,  sir. 

Christy.  I'm  an  unfortunate  cratur,  and  all  the  neighbours 
know  it. — So,  Biddy  dear,  I've  nothing  for  it  but  to  take  another 
glass. 

Biddy.  Oh !  no,  sir,  not  when  you'll  be  going  up  to  the  castle 
to  the  lady — you'll  be  in  no  condition. 

Christy.  Tut,  girl — 'twill  give  me  heart.  Let's  be  merry  any 
-way.  [ExUf  singing, 

*■*  They  say  it  was  care  killed  the  cat. 

That  starved  her,  and  caused  her  to  die ; 
But  rU  be  much  wiser  than  that. 
For  the  devil  a  care  will  care  I.^* 

SCENE  III. 
Widow  Larken's  Cottage. 

Widow  Larken,  Mabel,  and  Gilbert. 

CtW).  And  could  you  doubt  me,  Mabel,  after  I  told  you  I 
loved  you  ? 

Mabel.  Never  would  nor  could  have  doubted,  had  you  once 
told  me  as  much,  Mr.  Gilbert 

Widow.  Tliere  was  the  thing,  Mr.  Gilbert — ^you  know  it  was 
you  that  was  to  speak,  if  you  thought  of  her. 

GUb.  Do  not  you  remember  the  rose  and  the  shamrock  ? 

Widow.  Oh !  she  does  well  enough ;  and  that's  what  her  heart 
was  living  upon,  till  I  killed  the  hope. 

GUb.  You ! — killed  the  hope  ! — I  thought  you  were  my  friend. 

Widoto.  And  so  I  am,  and  was — but  when  you  did  not  speak. 

GUb.  If  I  had  not  loved  her  so  well,  I  might  have  been  able, 
perhaps,  to  have  said  more. 

Widow.  Then  that's  enough.  Mabel  mavoumeen,  wear  the 
rose  he  give  you  now — I'll  let  you — and  see  it's  fresh  enough. 
She  put  it  in  water — oh !  she  had  hope  still ! 

Mabel.  And  was  not  I  right  to  trust  him,  mother? 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  233 

Gilb.  Mabel,  if  I  don't  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy  all  my 

days,  I  deserve  to  be that's  all !     But  I'm  going  to  tell  you 

about  the  new  inn  :  that's  what  I  have  been  about  ever  since, 
and  I'm  to  have  it  for  sixty  guineas. 

Enter  Owen,  nibbing  his  hands. 

Owen.  You  see,  mother,  I  was  right  about  Gilbert  and  Mabel. 
But  Mr.  Hope  and  the  band  is  gone  up  lo  the  castle.  Come, 
come ! — time  to  be  off! — no  delay  ! — Gilbert !  Mabel,  off  with 
you!  {He  pushes  them  off.)  And  glad  enough  ye  are  to  go 
together.  Mother  dear,  here's  your  bonnet  and  the  cloak, — here 
round  ye  throw — that's  it — take  my  arm.  (  Widow  stumbles  as  he 
pulls  her  on.)     Oh,  I'm  putting  you  past  your  speed,  mother. 

Widow.  No,  no. — No  fear  in  life  for  the  mother  that  has  the 
support  of  such  a  son. 

SCENE  IV. 

ui  large  Apartment  in  Bannow  Castle,  ornamented  with  the  Rose, 
Thistle,  and  Shamrock. — The  hall  opens  into  a  lawii,  where  the 
country-people  are  seen  dancing. 

Enter  Clara,  Sir  William  Hamden,  and  a  train  of  dancers. 
Clara.  Now,  sir,  as  we  have  here  English,  Scotch,  and  Iiish 
dancers,  we  can  have   the  English  country-dance,  the  Scotch 
reel,  and  the  Irish  jig. 

Sir  W.  Then  to  begin  with  the  Irish  jig,  which  I  have  never 
seen. 

Clara.  You  shall  see  it  in  perfection. 

\^An  Irish  jig  is  danced,  a  Scotch  reel  follows,  and  an  English 
country-dance.      When  Clara  Jias  danced  down  the  country- 
dance,  she  goes  with  Iter  partner  to  Sir  William  Hamden. 
Clara.  We  are  going  out  to  look  at  the  dancers  on  the  lawn. 
Sir  W.  Take   me   with   you,  for  I  wish  to  see  those  merry 
dancers — I  hear  them  laughing.     I  love  to  hear  the  country- 
tpeople  laugh  :  theirs  is  always  the  heart's  laugh. 

[Exeunt  Sir  William  and  Clara. 
[The  dancers  recommence,  and  after  dancing  for  a  few  minutes, 
they  go  off  just  as  Sir  William  and  Clara  return,  entering 
from  the  hall  door. 


334  THE    ROSE, 

Clara.  My  dear  uncle,  thank  you  for  going  out  among  these 
poor  people,  and  for  speaking  so  kindly  to  them.  One  would 
think  that  you  had  lived  in  Ireland  all  your  life,  you  know  so 
well  how  to  go  straight  to  Irish  heads  and  Irish  hearts  by  kind 
ness,  and  by  what  they  love  almost  as  well,  humour^  and  good- 
humour.     Thank  you  again  and  again. 

Sir  W.  My  dear  niece,  you  need  not  thank  me ;  for  if  you  had 
nothing  to  do  with  these  people — if  you  had  never  been  bom — I 
should  have  loved  the  Irish  for  their  own  sakes.  How  easy  it  i* 
to  please  them !  How  easy  to  make  them  happy ;  and  how 
grateful  they  are,  even  for  a  few  words  of  kindness. 

Clara.  Yes.  This  I  may  say  without  partiality — whatever 
other  faults  my  countrymen  have,  they  certainly  are  a  grateful 
people.  My  father,  who  knew  them  well,  taught  me  from  my 
childhood,  to  trust  to  Irish  gratitude. 

Sir  W.  {changing  his  tone)  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  my 
duty  to  watch  over  your  Irish  generosity,  Clara.  Have  you 
made  any  more  promises,  my  dear,  since  morning  ? 

Clara.  Oh!  no,  sir;  and  I  have  heartily  repented  of  tliaf 
which  I  made  this  morning :  for  I  find  that  this  man  to  whom  I 
have  promised  the  new  inn  is  a  sad  drunken,  good-for-nothing 
person  ;  and  as  for  his  daughter,  whom  I  have  never  yet 
seen  — — 

Sir  W.  {looking  towards  the  entrance  from  the  laum) 

"  But  who  is  this  ?    What  thing  of  sea  or  land  ? 
Femalb  of  sex  it  seems — 
That  so  bedecked,  ornate  and  gay, 
Comes  this  way  sailing." 

Enter  Miss  Gallagher. 
Miss  G.  Sir,  I  beg  pardon.  But  I  was  told  Miss  O'Haia 
would  wish  to  speak  with  Christy  Gallagher,  and  I'm  his  daughter 
— he  not  being  very  well  to-night.  He  will  be  up  with  miss  in 
the  morning — ^but  is  confined  to.  his  bed  with  a  pain  about  his 
heart,  he  took,  just  when  I  was  coming  away. 

[Christy's  voice  heard,  singing,  to  the  tune  of  ♦'  St  Patrick  t 
day  in  the  morning." 

"  Full  bumpers  of  whiskc)-, 
Will  make  us  all  frisky. 
On  Patrick's  day  in  the  morning," 


THISTLC,    AND   SHAMROCK.  2Sd 

Miss  G.  {aside)  Oh  \  King  of  glory,  if  he  is  not  come  up  after 

«II! 

Clara,  "  What  noise  is  that,  unlike  the  former  sound  ?" 

Sir  W.  Only  some  man,  singing  in  honour  of  St.  Patrick,  I 

■suppose. 

Enter  Christy  Gallagher,  Biddy  trying  to  hold  him  hack. 

Christy.  Tut !    let  me  in  :  I  know  the  lady  is  here,  and  1 
•must  thank  her  as  becoming  - 
[Clara  puts  her  hand  before  her  face  and  retires  as  he  advances 

Miss  G.  Oh  !  father,  keep  out — you're  not  in  a  condition. 

Sir  W.  John  !  Thomas !  carry  this  man  oflf. 

Christy.  Ah,  now,  just  let  me  remark  to  his  honour — did  he 
ever  hear  this  song  in  England  ?  {He  struggles  and  sings,  while 
they  are  carrying  him  off,) 

**  O'Rourke's  noble  feast  shall  ne'er  be  forgot, 
By  those  who  were  there,  or  by  those  who  were  not."* 

But  it  was  not  O'Rourke's  noble  feast  at  all,  it  was  O'Hara  a 
noble  feast,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge — I'll  take  my  affidavit ; 
and  am  not  I  here,  on  the  spot,  ready  and  proud  to  fight  any 
one  that  denies  the  contrary?  Let  me  alone,  Florry,  for  I'm  no 
babby  to  be  taken  out  of  the  room.  Ready  and  proud,  I  say  I 
am,  to  fight  any  tin  men  in  the  county,  or  the  kingdom  itself,  or 
the  three  kingdoms  entirely,  that  would  go  for  to  dare  for  to  ofier 
to  articulate  the  contrary.  So  it's  Miss  O'Hara  for  ever,  huzza  I 
a !  a !  a !  a ! 

Sir  W.  Carry  him  off  this  instant.     Begone  ! 

\The  servants  carry  Oj^ Christy  Gallagher,  while  he  sings, 
to  the  tune  of"  One  bottle  more," 

"  Ob,  give  me  but  whiskey,  continted  I'll  sing, 
Hibemia  for  ever,  and  God  save  the  king  f 

[_Miss  Gallagher  directs  and  expedites  her  father's  retreat 

•Clara.  Shame !  shame !     Is  this  the  tenant  I  have  chosen  ? 

Miss  G.    Indeed,  and  indeed,  then.  Miss   O'Hara,    I   often 

t>reach  to  him,  but  there's  no  use  in  life  preaching  to  him — as 

good  preaching  to  the  winds !  for,  drunk  or  s«ber,  he  has  ar 

•answer  ready  at  all  points.     It  is  not  wit  he  wants,  sir. 

Sir  W.  And  he  is  happy  in  having  a  daughter,  who  knowa 

16 


336  THE    ROSE, 

How  to  make  the  best  of  his  faults,  I  see.     What  an    excellef  ; 
landlord  he  will  be  for  this  new  inn  ! 

Miss  G.  Oh,  certainly,  sir — only  it's  being  St,  Patrick's  night 
he  would  be  more  inexcusable ;  and  as  to  the  new  inn,  plase 
Heaven !  he  shall  get  no  pace  on  earth  till  he  takes  an  oath 
afore  the  priest  against  spirits,  good  or  bad,  for  a  twil'month  to 
come,  before  ever  I  trust  a  foot  of  his  in  the  new  inn. 

Clara.  But,  ma'am,  from  your  own  appearance,  I  should 
apprehend  that  you  would  not  be  suited  to  the  business  yoursel*"* 
I  should  suppose  you  would  think  it  beneath  you  to  keep  an  inn. 

2^s  G,  Why,  ma'am — why,  sir — you  know  when  it  is  called 
an  hotel,  it's  another  thing;  and  I'm  sure  I've  a  great  regard 
for  the  family,  and  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  oblige  Miss 
O'Hara. 

Clara.  Miss  Gallagher,  let  me  beg  that  if  you  wish  to  oblic:a 

me 

Enter  Gilbert. 

Sir  W.  Well,  Gilbert? 

GiW.  Only,  sir,  if  you  and  Miss  O'Hara  were  at  leisure,  sir, 
one  Mr.  Andrew  Hope,  the  master  of  the  band,  would  wish  to 
be  allowed  to  come  in  to  sing  a  sort  of  a  welcome  home  they 
have  set  to  music,  sir,  for  Miss  O'Hara. 

Clara.  I  do  believe  this  is  the  very  song  which  that  drunken 
man  gave  me  this  morning,  and  for  which  I  gave  him  the 
promise  of  the  inn.     I  shall  be  ashamed  to  hear  the  song. 

Sir  W.  Let  me  hear  it,  at  all  events.  Desire  Mr.  Andrew 
Hope,  and  his  meiT5'-men-all,  to  walk  in.  \_Exit  Gilbert. 

Enter  Mr.  Hope  and  hand. — Some  of  the  country-people  peep  in, 
as  if  wishing  to  enter. 

Sir  W.  Come  in,  my  good  friends. 

[Enter,  among  others,  the  Widow  Larken,  and  Mabel,  and 
Owen. — Biddy  follows  timidly. — Miss  Gallagher  takes 
a  conspicuous  place. — Sir  William  and  Clara  continue 
speaking. 

Sir  W.  Did  Gilbert  introduce  his  bride  elect  to  you,  Clara? 

Clara,  Yes,  Mabel  Larken,  that  girl  with  the  sweet  modest 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK,  23'7 

countenance — -and  her  mother,  that  respectable-looking  woman  ; 
and  her  brother,  I  see,  is  here,  that  boy  with  the  quick,  intelli- 
gent eyes.  I  know  all  the  family— know  them  all  to  be  gsofod ; 
and  these  were  the  people  I  might  have  served !    Oh,  fool ! '  fbol} 

Sir  W.  Well,  well,  well,  'tis  over  now,  my  dear  Clara — yoiL 
•will  be  wiser  another  time.  Come,  Mi.  Hope,  give  us  a  little 
flattery,  to  put  us  in  good-humour  with  ourselves. 

[7%e  band  prelude  ;  but  just  as  they  begins  Sir  William  sees 
Christy,  who  is  coming  in  softly^  holding  back  the  skirts  of 
his  coat. — Sir  William  in  a  loud  voice  exclaims. 

Turn  out  that  man  !  How  dare  you  return  to  interrupt  us, 
sir?     Turn  out  that  man  ! 

Christy,  (falling  on  his  knees)  Oh  \  plase  yom*  honour,  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  one  minute  :  only  just  give  me  liave  to  insense 
your  honour's  honour.     I'm  not  the  same  man  at  all. 

Sir  W.  Stand  up,  stand  up — an  Englishman  cannot  bear  to 
see  a  man  kneel  to  him.     Stand  up,  pray,  if  you  can. 

Christy.  Then  I  can,  plase  your  honour  {rises)  ^  since  I  got  a 
shock. 

Clara.  What  shock  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Christy.  Qh,  nothing  in  life,  miss,  that  need  consam  you — 
only  a  fall  I  got  from  my  horse,  which  the  child  they  set  to  lead 
me  would  put  me  up  upon,  and  it  come  down  and  kilt  me ;  for  it 
wasn't  a  proper  horse  for  an  unfortunate  man  like  me,  that  was 
overtaken,  as  I  was  then ;  and  it's  well  but  I  got  a  kick  of  the 
baast. 

Sir  W.  Do  you  say  you  were  kicked  by  a  horse  ? 

Christy.  Not  at  all,  plase  your  honour — I  say  it  was  wetlbut  I 
got  a  kick  of  the  baast.  But  it's  all  for  the  best  now  ;  for  see, 
I'm  now  as  sober  as  a  jidge,  and  quite  as  any  lamb  ;  and  if  I'd 
get  lave  only  just  to  keep  in  this  here  corner,  I  would  be  no  let 
or  hinderance  to  any.  Oh  !  dear  miss  !  spake  for  me  !  I'm  an 
ould  man,  miss,  that  your  father's  honour  was  partial  to  always^ 
and  called  me  honest  Christy,  which  I  was  once,  and  till  hi» 
death  too. 

Sir  W.  What  a  strange  mixture  is  this  man  ! 

Clara.  Pray  let  him  stay,  uncle — he's  sober  now. 

Sir  W.  Say  not  one  word  more,  then  ;  stand  still  there  in 
your  corner. 


238  THB    ROSE, 

Christy.  And  not  a  word  for  my  life — not  breathe,  even — U 
plase  you!  becaase  I've  a  little  business  to  mintion  to  the  lady. 
Sixty  guineas  to  resave  from  Mr.  Gilbert,  yonder.  Long  life  tc 
}  ou,  miss  !  But  Til  say  no  more  till  this  Scotchman  has  done 
with  his  fiddle  and  his  musics. 

Sir  W.  I  thought,  sir,  }ou  were  not  to  have  spoken  another 
syllable. 

[Christy  puts  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  bows  fOiJir  William 
atid  to  Clara. 

Sir  W.  Now,  Mr.  Hope. 

Mr.  Hope  sings,  and  the  Band  Join  in  chorus. 

Though  Bannow's  heiress,  fair  and  young. 
Hears  polishM  praise  from  ev'ry  tongue ; 
Yet  good  and  kind,  sheMl  not  disdain 
The  tribute  of  the  lowly  swain. 

The  heart's  warm  welcome,  Clara,  meets  thee ; 

Thy  native  land,  dear  lady,  greets  tiiee. 

That  open  brow,  that  courteous  grace, 
Bespeaks  tliee  of  thy  generous  race ; 
Thy  father's  soul  is  in  thy  smile- 
Thrice  blest  his  name  in  EIrin's  isle. 

The  heart's  warm  welcome,  Clara,  meets  thee ; 

Thy  native  land,  dear  lady,  gi-eets  thee. 

Tlie  brig'it  stir  shining  on  the  night. 
Betokening  good,  spreads  quick  delight ; 
But  quicker  far,  more  glad  surprise. 
Wakes  the  kind  radiance  of  her  eyes. 

The  heart's  warm  welcome,  Clara,  meets  thee ; 

Tliy  native  land,  dear  lady,  greets  thee^. 

Christy.  Then  I'm  not  ashamed,  any  way,  of  that  song  ol 
taxne. 

Sir  W,  Of  yours? — Is  it  possible  that  it  is  yours? 

Clara.  It  is  indeed.  These  are  the  very  lines  he  gave  me  this 
coming. 

Christy.  And  I  humbly  thank  you,  madam  or  miss,  for  having 
get  them  set  to  the  musics. 

1  Set  to  music  by  Mr.  Welibc. 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  239* 

Clara.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  We  must  thank  Mr. 
Hope  for  this  agreeable  surprise. 

Christy.  Why,  then,  I  thank  you,  Mi.  Drum. 

Mr.  H.  You  owe  me  no  thanks,  sir.  I  will  take  none  from 
you. 

Christy.  No — for  I  didn't  remember  giving  you  the  copy.  I 
6uj)pose  Florry  did. 

Miss  G.  Not  I,  sir. 

Christy.  Or  the  schoolmaster's  foul  copy  may  be,  for  it  was  he 
was  putting  the  song  down  for  me  on  paper.  My  own  hand- 
writmg  shaking  so  bad,  I  could  not  make  a  fair  copy  lit  for  the 
lady. 

Mr.  H.  Mr.  Gallagher,  don't  plunge  farther  in  falsehood — 
you  know  the  truth  is,  that  song's  not  yours. 

Christy.  Why,  then,  by  all 

Mr.  H.  Stop,  stop,  Mr.  Gallagher — stop,  I  advise  you. 

Christy.  Why,  then,  1  won't  stop  at  any  thing — for  the  song's 
my  own. 

Mr.  H,  In  one  sense  of  the  word,  may  be,  it  may  be  called 
your  own,  sir  ;  for  you  bought  it,  I. know. 

Christy.  I  bought  it  ?  Oh,  who  put  that  in  your  Scotch  brains  ? 
Whoever  it  was,  was  a  big  liar. 

Biddy.  No  liar  at  all,  sir — I  ax  your  pardon — 'twas  I. 

Christy.  And  you  overheard  my  thoughts,  then,  talking  to 
myself — ye  traitor ! 

Biddy.  No,  sir — again  I  ax  your  pardon  ;  no  listener  Biddy 
Doyle.  But  I  was  at  the  schoolmaster's,  to  get  him  pen  a 
letter  for  me  to  my  poor  father,  and  there  with  him,  I  heard  how 
Christy  bought  the  song,  and  seen  the  first  copy — and  the  child 
of  the  house  told  me  all  about  it,  and  how  it  was  lift  there  by  Mr. 
Owen  Larken. 

Sir  W.  and  Clara  ijoyfuUy),  Owen  Larken  ! — you? 

Christy.  All  lies !  Asy  talk  ! — asy  talk^-asy  to  belie  a  poor 
man. 

Mr,  H.  If  you  tell  the  truth,  you  can  tell  us  the  next  verse, 
for  there's  another  which  we  did  not  yet  sing. 

Christy.  Not  in  my  copy,  which  is  the  original. 

Sir  W.  If  vou  have  another  verse,  let  us  hear  it — and  that  will 
decide  the  business. 


346  THC    ROSE, 

Ckrixfy.  Oh,  the  devil  another  line,  hut.  what's  lame  IT! 
engage,  and  forged,  as  you'll  see. 

Mr.  Hope  sings. 

Quick  spring  tlie  feelings  of  the  heart, 
"When  touch'd  by  Clara's  gen'rous  an ; 
Quick  as  the  grateful  sliamrock  springs, 
In  the  good  fairies'  favour'd  rings. 

Clara.  What  does  Christy  say  now  ? 

Christy.  Why,  miss,  I  say  that's  well  said  for  the  shamrock 
any  way.  And  all  that's  in  it  for  me  is  this — the  schoolmaster 
was  a  rogue  that  did  not  give  me  that  verse  in  for  my  money. 

Sir  W,  Then  you  acknowledge  you  bought  it? 

Christy.  What  harm,  plase  your  honour  ?  And  would  not  I 
have  a  right  to  buy  what  pleases  me — and  when  bought  and  ped 
for  isn't  it  mine  in  law  and  right?  But  I  am  mighty  unlucky 
this  night.  So,  come  along,  Florry — we  are  worsted  see  I  No 
use  to  be  standing  here  longer,  the  laughing-stock  of  all  that's  in 
it — Ferrinafad. 

Miss  G.  Murder !  Father,  then  here's  all  you  done  for  me, 
by  your  lies  and  your  whiskey  !  I'll  go  straight  from  ye,  and 
lodge  with  Mrs.  Mulrooney.  Biddy,  what's  that  youjre  grinning 
at?     Plase  to  walk  home  out  of  that. 

Biddy.  Miss  Florinda,  I  am  partly  engaged  to  dance ;  but  I 
won't  be  laving  you  in  your  downfall :  so  here's  your  cloak— and 
lane  on  me. 

Widow.  Why,  then,  Biddy,  we'll  never  forget  you  in  our 
prosperity. 

Mabel  and  Owen.  Never,  never.     You're  a  good  girl,  Biddy. 
[Exeunt  Miss  Gallagher,  Biddt,  and  Christy. 

Clara.  I  am  glad  the}*^  are  gone. 

Sir  W.  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear  niece,  upon  having  got 
rid  of  tenants  who  would  have  disgraced  your  choice; 

Clara,  These  (turning  ^oOwen,  Mabel,  and  her  mother,)  these 
will  do  honour  to  it.  My  written  promise  -wAstogra/it  the  poet' $> 
petition,     Owen,  you  are  the  poet — what  is  your  pedtimi  ? 

Owen.  May  I  speak? — ^May  I  say  all  I  wish  ? 

Clara  and  Sir  W,  Yes,  speak — say  all  you  wish.. 

Owen,  I  am  but  a  young  boy,  and  not  able  to  keep  the  mwi 


THISTLE,    AND    SHAMROCK.  241 

inn  ;  but  Mr.  Gilbert  and  Mabel,  with  my  mother's  help,  would 
keep  it  well,  I  think ;  and  it's  they  I  should  wish  to  have  it, 
ma'am,  if  it  were  pleasing  to  you. 

Sir  W.  And  what  would  become  of  yourself,  my  good  lad  ? 

Owen.  Time  enough,  sir,  to  think  of  myself,  when  I've  seen 
my  mother  and  sister  settled. 

Sir  W.  Then  as  you  won't  think  of  yourself,  I  must  think  for 
you.  Your  education,  I  find,  has  been  well  begun,  and  I  will 
take  care  it  shall  not  be  left  half  done. 

Widow,  Oh,  I'm  too  happy  this  minute !  But  great  joy  can 
say  little. 

Mabel,  (aside)  And  great  love  the  same. 

Mr.  H.  This  day  is  the  happiest  I  have  seen  since  I  left  the 
land  of  cakes. 

GiJb.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Hope.  And  when  I  say  thank  you, 
'why,  I  feel  it,     'Twas  you  helped  us  at  the  dead  lift. 

Sir  W.  You  see  I  was  right,  Gilbert ;  the  Scotch  make  good 
friends.  (Gilbert  hows.)  And  now,  Clara,  my  love,  what  shall 
■we  call  the  new  inn — ^for  it  must  have  a  name  ?  Since  English, 
Scotch,  and  Irish,  have  united  to  obtain  it,  let  the  sign  be  th« 
Rose,  Thistle,  and  Shamrock. 


END    OF    COMIC    ORAMAtf. 


'Comic  Dramas, 


LEONORA. 


LETTER  I. 


LADY   OLIVIA    TO    LADT    LEONORA    L- 


What  a  misfortune  it  is  to  be  bom  a  woman !  In  vain,  dear 
Leonora,  would  you  reconcile  me  to  my  doom.  Condemned  to 
incessant  hypocrisy,  or  everlasting  misery,  woman  is  the  slave  or 
the  outcast  of  society.  Confidence  in  our  fellow-creatures,  or  in 
ourselves,  alike  forbidden  us,  to  what  purpose  have  we  under- 
standings, which  we  may  not  use  ?  hearts,  which  we  may  not 
trust?  To  our  unhappy  sex,  genius  and  sensibility  are  the  mo«t 
treacherous  gifts  of  heaven.  Why  should  we  cultivate  talents 
merely  to  gratify  the  caprice  of  tyrants  ?  Why  seek  for  know- 
ledge, which  can  prove  only. that  our  wretchedness  is  irre- 
mediable ?  If  a  ray  of  light  break  in  upon  us,  it  is  but  to  make 
darkness  more  visible ;  to  show  us  the  narrow  limits,  the  Gothic 
structure,  the  impenetrable  barriers  of  our  prison.  Forgive  me 
if  on  this  subject  I  cannot  speak — if  I  cannot  think — with 
patience.  Is  it  not  fabled,  that  the  gods,  to  punish  some  refrac- 
tory mortal  of  the  male  kind,  doomed  his  soul  to  inhabit  upon 
earth  a  female  form  ?  A  punishment  more  degrading,  or  more 
difficult  to  endure,  could  scarcely  be  devised  by  cruelty  omni- 
potent. What  dangers,  what  sorrows,  what  persecutions,  what 
nameless  evils  await  the  woman  who  dares  to  rise  above  the 
prejudices  of  her  sex ! 

"  Ah !  happy  they,  the  happiest  of  their  kind!" 

who,  without  a  struggle,  submit  their  reason  to  be  swathed  by 
all  the  absurd  bandages  of  custom.  What,  though  they  cripple 
or  distort  their  minds;  are  not  these  deformities  beauties  in  t^*e 


244  LEONORA. 

eyes  of  fashion  ?  and  are  not  these  people  the  favoured  nui-se- 
lings  of  the  World,  secure  of  her  smiles,  her  caresses,  her 
fostering  praise,  her  partial  protection,  through  all  the  dangers 
of  youth  and  all  the  dotage  of  age  ? 

"  Ah  !  happy  they,  tlie  happiest  of  their  kind  !" 

who  learn  to  speak,  and  think,  and  act  hy  rote ;  who  have  a 
phrase,  or  a  maxim,  or  a  formula  ready  for  every  occasion  ;  who 
follow — 

"  All  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have  taught." 

And  is  it  possible  that  Olivia  can  envy  these  tideless-hlooded 
souls  their  happiness — their  apathy  ?  Is  her  high  spirit  so  broken 
by  adversity?  Not  sv\ch  the  promise  of  her  early  years,  not 
6uch  the  language  of  her  unsophisticated  heart !  Alas  !  I  scarcely 
know,  I  scarcely  recollect,  that  proud  self,  which  was  wont  to 
defy  the  voice  of  opinion,  and  to  set  at  nought  the  decrees  of 
prejudice.  The  events  of  my  life  shall  be  related,  or  rather  the 
history  of  my  sensations ;  for  in  a  life  like  mine,  sensations 
become  events— a  metamorphosis  which  you  will  see  in  every 
page  of  my  history.  I  feel  an  irresistible  impulse  to  open  my 
whole  heart  to  you,  my  dear  Leonora.  I  ought  to  be  awed  by 
the  superiority  of  your  understanding  and  of  your  character ; 
yet  there  is  an  indulgence  in  your  nature,  a  softness  in  your 
temper,  that  dissipates  fear,  and  irresistibly  attracts  confidence. 

You  have  generously  refused  to  be  prejudiced  against  me  by 
busy,  malignant  rumour;  you  have  resolved  to  judge  of  me  for 
yourself.  Nothing,  then,  shall  be  concealed.  In  such  circum- 
stances I  cannot  seek  to  extenuate  any  of  my  faults  or  follies.  I 
am  ready  to  acknowledge  them  all  with  self-humiliation  more 
poignant  than  the  sarcasms  of  my  bitterest  enemies.  But  I  must 
pause  till  I  have  summoned  courage  for  my  confession.  Dear 
Leonora,  adieu! 

Olivia. 


LEONORA.  245 

LETTER  11. 

OLIVIA    TO    LEONORA. 

Full  of  life  and  spirits,  with  a  heart  formed  for  ell  the  enthu- 
siasm, for  all  the  delicacy  of  love,  I  married  early,  in  the  fond 
expectation  of  meeting  a  heart  suited  to  my  own.  Cruelly  dis- 
appointed, I  found — merely  a  husband.  My  heart  recoiled  upon 
itself;  true  to  my  own  principles  of  virtue,  I  scorned  dissimula- 
lion.  I  candidly  confessed  to  my  husband,  that  my  love  was 
extinguished.  I  proved  to  him,  alas  !  too  clearly,  that  we  were 
not  born  for  each  other.  The  attractive  moment  of  illusion  was 
past — ^never  more  to  return  ;  the  repulsive  reality  remained. 
The  living  was  chained  to  the  dead,  and,  by  the  inexorable 
tyranny  of  English  laws,  that  chain,  eternally  galling  to  inno- 
cence, can  be  severed  only  by  the  desperation  of  vice.  Divorce, 
according  to  our  barbarous  institutions,  cannot  be  obtained  with- 
out guilt.  Appalled  at  the  thought,  I  saw  no  hope  but  in  sub- 
mission. Yet  to  submit  to  live  with  the  man  I  could  not  love 
was,  to  a  mind  like  mine,  impossible.  My  principles  and  my 
feelings  equally  revolted  from  this  legal  prostitution.  We  se- 
parated. I  sought  for  balm  to  my  wounded  heart  in  foreign 
climes. 

To  the  beauties  of  nature  I  was  ever  feelingly  alive.  Amidst 
the  sublime  scenes  of  Switzerland,  and  on  the  consecrated 
borders  of  her  classic  lakes,  I  sometimes  forgot  myself  to  happi- 
ness. Felicity,  how  transient  I — transient  as  the  day-dreams 
that  played  upon  my  fancy  in  the  bright  morning  of  love.  Alas ! 
not  all  creation's  charms  could  soothe  me  to  repose.  I  wandered 
in  search  of  that  which  change  of  place  cannot  afford.  There 
was  an  aching  void  in  my  heart — an  indescribable  sadness  over 
my  spirits.  Sometimes  I  had  recourse  to  books ;  but  how  few 
were  in  unison  with  my  feelings,  or  touched  the  trembling  chords 
of  my  disordered  mind !  Commonplace  morality  I  could  not 
endure.  History  presented  nothing  but  a  mass  of  crimes.  Meta- 
physics promised  some  relief,  and  I  bewildered  myself  in  their 
not  inelegant  labyrinth.  But  to  the  bold  genius  and  exquisite 
pathos  of  some  German  novelists  I  hold  myself  indebted  for  my 
largest  portion  of  ideal   bliss:  for  those  rapt  moments,  whea 


246  LEONORA. 

sympathy  with  khidred  souls  transported  me  into  better  worlds^ 
and  consigned  vulgar  realities  to  oblivion. 

I  am  well  aware,  my  Leonora,  that  you  approve  not  of  these 
my  favourite  writers :  but  yours  is  the  morality  of  one  who  has 
never  known  sorrow.  I  also  would  interdict  such  cordials  to 
the  happy.  But  would  you  forbid  those  to  taste  felicity  in  dreams 
who  feel  only  misery  when  awake?  Would  you  dash  the  cup 
of  Lethe  from  lips  to  which  no  other  beverage  is  salubrious  or 
sweet? 

By  the  use  of  these  opiates  my  soul  gradually  settled  into  a 
sort  of  pleasing  pensive  melancholy.  Has  it  not  been  said,  that 
melancholy  is  a  characteristic  of  genius  ?  I  make  no  pretensions 
to  genius  :  but  I  am  persuaded  that  melancholy  is  the  habitual, 
perhaps  the  natural  state  of  those  who  have  the  misfortune  to  feel 
with  delicacy. 

You,  my  dear  Leonora,  will  class  this  notion  amongst  what 
you  once  called  my  refined  errors.  Indeed  I  must  confess,  that 
I  see  in  you  an  exception  so  striking  as  almost  to  compel  me  to 
relinquish  my  theory.  But  again  let  me  remind  you,  that  your 
lot  in  life  has  been  different  from  mine.  Alas !  how  different ! 
Why  had  not  I  such  a  friend,  such  a  mother  as  yours,  early  to- 
direct  my  uncertain  steps,  and  to  educate  me  to  happiness  ?     I 

might  have  been But  no  matter  what  I  might  have  been 

— — — .     I  must  tell  you  what  I  have  been. 

Separated  from  my  husband,  without  a  guide,  without  a  friend 
at  the  most  perilous  period  of  my  life,  I  was  left  to  that  most 
insidious  of  counsellors — my  own  heart — my  own  weak  heart. 
When  I  was  least  prepared  to  resist  the  impression,  it  was  my 
misfortune  to  meet  with  a  man  of  a  soul  congenial  with  my  own^ 
Before  I  felt  my  danger,  I  was  entangled  beyond  the  possibility 
of  escape.  The  net  was  thrown  over  my  heart ;  its  struggle* 
were  to  no  purpose  but  to  exhaust  my  strength.  Virtue  com- 
manded me  to  be  miserable — and  I  was  miserable.  But  do  I 
dare  to  expect  your  pity,  Leonora,  for  such  an  attachment  f  It 
excites  your  indignation,  perhaps  your  horror.  Blame,  despise, 
detest  me  ;  all  this  would  I  rather  bear,  than  deceive  you  into 
fancying  me  better  than  I  really  am. 

Do  not,  however,  think  me  worse.     If  my  views  had  been  les« 
pure,  if  I  had  felt  less  reliance  on  the  firmness  of  my  c  wa 


LEOHORA.  347 

|)rinciples,  and  less  repugnance  to  artifice,  I  might  easily  have 
avoided  some  appearances,  which  have  injured  me  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  With  real  contrition  I  confess,  that  a  fatal  mixture 
of  masculine  independence  of  spirit,  and  of  female  tenderness  of 
•heart,  has  betrayed  me  into  many  imprudences  ;  but  of  vice,  and 
of  that  meanest  species  of  vice,  hypocrisy,  I  thank  Heaven,  my 
conscience  can  acquit  me.  All  I  have  now  to  hope  is,  that  you, 
my  indulgent,  my  generous  Leonora,  will  not  utterly  condemn  me. 
Truth  and  gratitude  are  my  only  claims  to  your  friendship — 
-to  a  friendship,  which  would  be  to  me  the  first  of  earthly  blessings, 
which  might  make  me  amends  for  all  I  have  lost.  Consider  this 
before,  unworthy  as  I  am,  you  reject  me  from  your  esteem. 
•Counsel,  guide,  save  me!  Without  vanity,  but  with  confidence  I 
say  it,  I  have  a  heart  that  will  repay  you  for  affection.  You  will 
find  me  easily  moved,  easily  governed  by  kindness.  Yours  has 
already  sunk  deep  into  my  soul,  and  your  power  is  unlimited 
■over  the  affections  and  over  the  understanding  of 

Your  obliged 

Olivia. 


LErrER  III. 


TROU    LADY    LEONORA    L TO    HER    MOTHER,    THE     DUCHESS 

OF    — — ,    ENCLOSING    THE    PRECEDING    LETTERS. 

I  AM  permitted  to  send  you,  my  dear  mother,  the  enclosed  letters. 
Mixed  with  what  you  may  not  approve,  you  will,  I  think,  find  in 
ihem  proofs  of  an  affectionate  heart  and  superior  abilities.  Lady 
Olivia  is  just  returned  to  Encrland.  Scandal,  imported  from  the 
continent,  has  had  such  an  effect  in  prejudicing  many  of  I  ei 
former  friends  and  acquaintance  against  her,  that  she  is  in 
danger  of  being  excluded  from  that  society  of  which  she  was 
once  the  ornament  and  the  favourite;  but  I  am  determined  to 
support  her  cause,  and  to  do  every  thing  in  my  power  to  coun- 
.teract  the  effects  of  malignity.  I  cannot  suflficiently  express  the 
indignation  that  I  feel  against  the  mischievous  spirit  of  scandal, 
which  destroys  happiness  at  every  breath,  and  which  delights  in 
sthe  meanest  of  all  malignant  feelings — the   triumph  over  the 


218  I.EONORA. 

errors  of  superior  characters.     Olivia  has  been  mucli  hktm^dx 
because  she  has  been  much  envied. 

Indeed,  my  dear  mother,  you  have  been  prejudiced  against 
her  by  false  repoi-ts.  Do  not  imagine  that  her  fascinating 
manners  have  blinded  my  judgment :  I  assure  you  that  I  have 
discerned,  or  rather  that  she  has  levealed  to  me,  «11  her  laiilts : 
and  ought  not  this  candour  to  make  a  strong  impression  upon 
my  mind  in  her  favour?  Consider  how  young,  how  beautiful 
she  was  at  her  first  entrance  into  fashionable  life ;  how  much 
exposed  to  temptation,  surrounded  by  flatterers,  and  without  a 
single  friend.  I  am  persuaded  that  she  would  have  escaped  all 
censure,  and  would  have  avoided  all  the  errors  with  which  she 
now  reproaches  herself,  if  she  had  been  blessed  with  a  mother 
such  as  mine. 

Leonora  L 


LETTER   IV. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  TO  HER  DAUGHTER. 

H7  DEAREST  CHILD, 

I  MUST  answer  your  last  before  I  sleep — before  I  can  sleep  in 
peace.  I  have  just  finished  reading  the  rhapsody  which  it 
enclosed ;  and  whilst  my  mind  is  full  and  warm  upon  the  subject, 
let  me  write,  for  I  can  write  to  my  own  satisfaction  at  no  other 
time.  I  admire  and  love  you,  my  child,  for  the  generous 
indignation  you  express  against  those  who  trample  upon  the 
fallen,  or  who  meanly  triumph  over  the  errors  of  superior  genius; 
and  if  I  seem  more  cold,  or  more  severe,  than  you  wish  me  to 
be,  attribute  this  to  my  anxiety  for  your  liappiness.  and  to  that 
caution  which  is  perhaps  the  infirmity  of  age. 

In  the  course  of  my  long  life  I  have,  alas !  seen  vice  and  folly 
dressed  in  so  many  different  fashions,  that  I  can  find  no  difficulty 
in  detecting  them  under  any  disguise  ;  but  your  unpractised 
eyes  are  almost  as  easily  deceived  as  when  you  were  five  years 
old,  and  when  you  could  not  believe  that  your  pasteboard  nun 
was  the  same  person  in  her  various  changes  of  attire. 

Nothing  would  tempt  you  to  associate  with  those  who  have 
avowed  themselves  regardless  of  right  and  wrong ;  but  I  mu3t 


LEONORA.  249 

warn  you. against  another,  and  a  far  more  dangerous  class,  wlio 
professing  the  most  refined  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  boastinj? 
of  invulnerable  virtue,  exhibit  themselres  in  the  most  impropei 
and  hazardous  situations ;  and  who,  because  they  are  with  out 
fear,  expect  to  be  deemed  free  from  reproach.  Kitlier  froui 
miraculous  good  fortune,  or  from  a  singularity  of  temper,  these 
adventurous  heroines  may  possibly  escape  witli  what  they  call 
perfect  innocence.  S»  much  the  worse  for  society.  Their 
example  tempts  others,  who  fall  a  sacrifice  to  their  weakness 
and  folly.  I  would  punish  the  tempters  in  this  case  more  than 
the  victims,  and  for  them  the  most  effectual  species  of  punish- 
ment is  contempt.  Neglect  is  death  to  these  female  lovers  of 
notoriety.  The  moment  they  are  out  of  fashion  their  power  to 
work  mischief  ceases.  Those  who  from  their  character  and  rank 
have  influence  over  public  opinion  are  bound  to  consider  these 
things  in  the  choica  of  their  associates.  This  is  peculiarly 
necessary  in  days  when  attempts  are  made  to  level  all  distinctions. 
You  have  sometimes  hinted  to  me,  my  dear  daughter,  with  all 
proper  delicacy,  that  I  am  too  strict  in  my  notions,  and  that, 
unknown  to  myself,  my  pride  mixes  with  morality.  Be  it  so  : 
the  pride  of  family,  and  the  pride  of  virtue,  should  reciprocally 
support  each  other.  Were  I  asked  what  I  think  the  best  guard 
to  a  nobility  in  this  or  in  any  other  country,  I  should  answer, 
VIRTUE.  I  admire  that  simple  epitaph  in  Westminster  Abbey  on 
the  Duchess  of  Newcastle  :— "  Her  name  was  Margaret  Lucas, 
youngest  sister  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester; — a  noble 
family,  for  all  the  brothers  were  valiant  and  all  the  sisters 
virtuous." 

I  look  to  the  temper  of  the  times  in  forming  rules  for  conduct. 
Of  late  years  we  have  seen  wonderful  changes  in  female  manners. 
I  may  be  like  the  old  marquis  in  Gil  Bias,  who  contended  that 
even  the  peaches  of  modern  days  had  deteriorated ;  but  I  fear 
that  my  complaints  of  the  degeneracy  of  human  kind  are  better 
founded,  than  his  fears  for  the  vegetable  creation.  A  taste  for 
the  elegant  profligacy  of  French  gallantry  was,  I  remember, 
introduced  into  this  country  before  the  destruction  of  the  French 
monarchy.  Since  that  time,  some  sentimental  writers  and 
pretended  philosophers  of  our  own  and  foreign  countries,  have 
endeavoured  to  confound  all  our  ideas  of  morality.     To  every 


250  LEONORA. 

rule  of  right  they  have  found  exceptions,  and  on  tliese  thej 
have  fixed  the  public  attention  by  adorning  them  with  all  the 
splendid  decorations  of  eloquence ;  so  that  the  rule  is  despised  or 
■forgotten,  and  the  exception  triumphantly  established  in  its  stead. 
These  orators  seem  as  if  they  had  been  employed  by  Satan  to 
plead  the  cause  of  vice ;  and,  as  if  possessed  by  the  evil  spirit, 
Ihey  speak  with  a  vehemence  which  carries  away  their  auditors, 
or  with  a  subtlety  which  deludes  their  better  judgment.  They 
put  extreme  cases,  in  which  virtue  may  become  vice,  or  vice 
virtue :  they  exhibit  criminal  passions  in  constant  connexion 
with  the  most  exalted,  the  most  amiable  vii-tues ;  thus  making 
use  of  the  best  feelings  of  human  nature  for  the  worst  purposes, 
they  engage  pity  or  admiration  perpetually  on  the  side  of  guilt. 
Eternally  talking  of  philosophy  or  philanthropy,  they  borrow  the 
terms  only  to  perplex  the  ignorant  and  seduce  the  imagination 
They  have  their  systems  and  their  theories,  and  in  theory 
they  pretend  that  the  general  good  of  society  is  their  sole  im- 
mutable rule  of  morality,  and  in  practice  they  make  the  variable 
feelings  of  each  individual  the  judges  of  this  general  good. 
Their  systems  disdaui  all  the  vulgar  virtues,  intent  upon  some 
beau  ideal  of  perfection  or  perfectibility.  They  set  common 
sense  and  common  honesty  at  defiance.  No  matter:  their 
doctrine,  so  convenient  to  the  passions  and  soporific  to  the 
conscience,  can  never  want  partisans ;  especially  by  weak  and 
enthusiastic  women  it  is  adopted  and  propagated  with  eager- 
ness ;  then  they  become  personages  of  importance,  and  zealots 
in  support  of  their  sublime  opinions ;  and  they  can  read, — and 
they  can  write, — and  they  can  talk, — and  they  can  effect  a 
revolution  in  public  opinion  !  I  am  afraid,  indeed,  that  they  can ; 
for  of  late  years  we  have  heard  more  of  sentiment  than  of 
principles;  more  of  the  rights  of  woman  than  of  her  duties. 
We  have  seen  talents  disgraced  by  the  conduct  of  their 
possessors,  and  perverted  in  the  vain  attempt  to  defend  what  is 
unjustifiable. 

Where  must  all  this  end?  Where  the  abuse  of  reason 
inevitably  ends — in  the  idtimate  law  of  force.  If,  in  this  age 
of  reason,  women  make  a  bad  use  of  that  power  which  they  have 
obtained  by  the  cultivation  of  their  understanding,  they  will 
degrade  and  enslave  themselves  beyond  redemption ;  they  will 


LEONORA.  251 

reduce  their  sex  to  a  situation  worse  than  it  ever  experienced 
even  in  the  ages  of  ignorance  and  superstition.  If  men  find 
that  the  virtue  of  women  diminishes  in  proportion  as  intellectual 
cultivation  increases,  they  will  connect,  fatally  for  the  freedom  and 
liuppiness  of  our  sex,  the  ideas  of  female  ignorance  and  female 
innocence ;  they  will  decide  that  one  is  the  effect  of  the  other. 
They  will  not  pause  to  distinguish  between  the  use  and  the  abuse 
of  reason ;  they  will  not  stand  by  to  see  further  experiments  tried 
at  their  expense,but  they  will  prohibit  knowledge  altogether  as  a 
peniicious  commodity,  and  will  exert  the  superior  power  which 
nature  and  society  place  in  their  hands,  to  enforce  their  decrees. 
Opinion  obtained  freedom  for  women ;  by  opinion  they  may 
be  again  enslaved.  It  is  therefore  the  interest  of  the  female 
world,  and  of  society,  that  women  should  be  deterred  by  the 
dread  of  shame  from  passing  the  bounds  of  discretion.  No  false 
lenity,  no  partiality  in  favour  of  amusing  talents  or  agreeable 
manners,  should  admit  of  exceptions  which  become  dangerous 
examples  of  impunity.  The  rank  and  superior  understanding  of 
a  delinquent  ought  not  to  be  considered  in  mitigation,  but  as. 
aggravating  circumstances.  Rank  makes  ill  conduct  more 
conspicuous :  talents  make  it  more  dangerous.  Women  of 
abilities,  if  they  err,  usuaUy  employ  all  their  powers  to  justify 
rather  than  to  amend  their  faults. 

I  am  afraid,  my  dear  daughter,  that  my  general  arguments 
are  closing  round  your  Olivia ;  but  I  must  bid  you  a  good  night,, 
for  my  poor  eyes  will  serve  me  no  longer.  God  bless  you,  my 
•dear  child. 


LETTER  V. 


I EONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 


I  AGREE  with  you,  my  dear  mother,  that  in  these  times  especially 
it  is  incumbent  upon  all  persons,  whose  rank  or  reputation  may 
influence  public  opinion,  to  be  particularly  careful  to  support  the 
cause  of  female  honour,  of  virtue,  and  religion.  With  the  same 
object  in  view,  we  may  however  differ  in  the  choice  of  meant 
fur  its  attainment.     Pleasure  as  well  as  pain  acts  upon  human 

17 


252  LEONORA. 

creatures;  and  therefore,  in  governing  them,  may  not  reward 
be  full  as  efficacious  as  punishment?  Our  sex  are  sufficiently 
apprised  of  the  fatal  consequences  of  ill  conduct ;  the  advan- 
tages of  well-earned  reputation  should  be  at  least  as  gi'eat,  as 
certain,  and  as  permanent. 

In  former  times,  a  single  finger  pointed  at  the  scutcheon  of  a 
knight  challenged  him  to  defend  his  fame  ;  but  the  defiance  was 
open,  the  defence  was  public  ;  and  if  the  charge  proved  ground- 
less, it  injured  none  but  the  malicious  accuser.  In  our  days, 
female  reputation,  which  is  of  a  nature  more  delicate  than  the 
honour  of  any  knight,  may  be  destroyed  by  the  finger  of  private 
malice.  The  whisper  of  secret  scandal,  which  admits  of  no  fair 
or  public  answer,  is  too  often  sufficient  to  dishonour  a  life  of 
spotless  fame.  This  is  the  height,  not  only  of  injustice,  but  of 
impolicy.  Women  will  become  indifierent  to  reputation,  which 
it  is  so  difficult,  even  by  the  prudence  of  years,  to  acquire,  and 
which  it  is  so  easy  to  lose  in  a  moment,  by  the  malice  or 
thouglitlessness  of  those,  who  invent,  or  who  repeat  scandal. 
Those  who  call  themselves  the  world,  often  judge  without  listen- 
ing to  evidence,  and  proceed  upon  suspicion  with  as  much 
promptitude  and  severity,  as  if  they  had  the  most  convincing 
proofs.  But  because  Caesar,  nearly  two  thousand  yeai-s  ago, 
said  that  his  wife  ought  not  even  to  be  suspected,  and  divorced 
her  upon  the  strength  of  this  sentiment,  shall  we  make  it  a 
general  maxim  that  suspicion  justifies  punishment?  We  might 
as  well  applaud  those,  who  when  their  friends  are  barely  sus- 
pected to  be  tainted  with  the  plague,  drive  them  from  all  human 
comfort  and  assistance. 

Even  where  women,  from  the  thoughtless  gaiety  of  youth,  or 
the  impulse  of  inexperienced  enthusiasm,  may  have  given  some 
slight  cause  for  censure,  I  would  not  have  virtue  put  on  all  her 
gorgon  terrors,  nor  appear  circled  by  the  vengeful  band  of 
prudes  ;  her  chastening  hand  will  be  more  beneficially  felt  if  she 
wear  her  more  benign  form.  To  place  the  imprudent  in  the 
same  class  with  the  vicious,  is  injustice  and  impolicy ;  were  the 
same  punishment  and  the  same  disgrace  to  be  affixed  to  small 
and  to  great  offences,  the  number  of  capital  offenders  would 
tertainly  increase.  Those  who  were  disposed  to  yield  to  their 
passions  would,  when  they  had  once  failed  in  exact  decorum,  see 


LEONORA.  253 

no  motive,  no  fear  to  restrain  them ;  and  tliere  would  be  no  pause, 
no  interval  between  error  and  profligacy.  Amongst  females  who 
have  been  imprudent,  there  are  many  things  to  be  considered 
which  ought  to  recommend  them  to  mercy.  The  judge,  when 
he  is  obliged  to  pronounce  the  immutable  sentence  of  the  law, 
often,  with  tears,  wislies  that  it  were  in  his  power  to  mitigate 
the  punishment :  the  decisions  of  opinion  may  and  must  vary 
with  circumstances,  else  the  degree  of  reprobation  which  they 
inflict  cannot  be  proportioned  to  the  offence,  or  calculated  for 
the  good  of  society.  Among  the  mitigating  circumstances,  I 
should  be  inclined  to  name  even  those  which  you  bring  in 
aggravation.  Talents,  and  what  is  called  genius,  in  our  sex  are 
often  connected  with  a  warmth  of  heart,  an  enthusiasm  of 
temper,  which  expose  to  dangers,  from  which  the  coldness  of 
mediocritj'^  is  safe.  In  the  illuminated  palace  of  ice,  the  lights 
which  render  the  spectacle  splendid,  and  which  raise  the  admi- 
ration of  the  beholders,  endanger  the  fabric  and  tend  to  its 
destruction. 

But  you  will  tell  me,  dear  mother,  that  allusion  is  not  argu- 
ment— and  I  am  almost  afraid  to  proceed,  lest  you  should  think 
me  an  advocate  for  vice.  I  would  not  shut  the  gates  of  mercy, 
inexorably  and  indiscriminately,  upon  all  those  of  my  own  sex, 
•who  have  even  been  more  than  imprudent. 

"  He  taught  them  shame,  the  sudden  sense  of  ill — 
Shame,  Nature's  hasty  conscience,  which  forbids 
Weak  inclination  ere  it  grows  to  will, 
Or  stays  i-ash  will  before  it  grows  to  deeds." 

Wliilst  a  woman  is  alive  to  shame  she  cannot  be  dead  to 
Yirtue.  But  by  injudicious  or  incessant  reproach,  this  principle, 
even  where  it  is  most  exquisite,  may  be  most  easily  destroyed. 
The  mimosa,  when  too  long  exposed  to  each  rude  touch,  loses  its 
retractile  sensibility.  It  ought  surely  to  be  the  care  of  the  wise 
and  benevolent  to  cherish  that  principle,  implanted  in  our 
nature  as  the  guard  of  virtue,  that  principle,  upon  which  legis- 
lators rest  the  force  of  punishment,  and  all  the  grand  interests 
of  society. 

My  dear  mother,  perhaps  you  will  be  surprised  at  the  style  in 
vhich  I  have  been  writing,  and  you  will  smile  at  hearing  your 


251  LEONORA. 

Leonora  discuss  the  duties  of  legislators  and  the  grand  interests 
of  society.  She  hjis  not  done  so  from  presumption,  or  from  affec« 
tation.  She  was  alarmed  by  your  supposing  that  her  judgment 
was  deluded  by  fascinating  manners,  and  she  determined  to  pro- 
duce general  arguments,  to  convince  you  that  she  is  not  actuated 
by  particular  prepossession.  You  see  that  I  have  at  least  some 
show  of  reason  on  my  side.  I  have  forborne  to  mention  Olivia's 
name :  but  now  that  I  have  obviated,  I  hope  by  reasoning,  the 
imputation  of  partiality,  I  may  observe  that  all  my  arguments 
are  strongly  in  her  favour.  She  had  been  attacked  by  slander ; 
the  world  has  condemned  her  upon  suspicion  merely.  She  has 
been  imprudent ;  but  I  repeat,  in  the  strongest  terms,  that  I  am 
convinced  of  her  innocence  ;  and  that  I  should  bitterly  regret 
that  a  woman  with  such  an  affectionate  heart,  such  uncommon 
candour,  and  such  superior  abilities,  should  be  lost  to  society. 

Tell  me,  my  dear  mother,  that  you  are  no  longer  in  anxiety 
about  the  consequences  of  my  attachment  to  Olivia. 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

Leonora. 


LETTER  VL 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  TO  HER  DAUGHTER. 

You  lament,  my  dear  child,  that  such  an  affectionate  heart,  such 
great  abilities  as  Olivia's,  should  be  lost  to  society.  Before  I 
sympathize  in  your  pity,  my  judgment  must  be  convinced  that 
it  is  reasonable. 

What  proofe  has  Lady  Oli\da  given  of  her  affectionate  heart  ? 
She  is  at  variance  with  both  her  parents  ;  she  is  separated  from 
her  husband  ;  and  she  leaves  her  child  in  a  foreign  country,  to^ 
be  educated  by  strangers.  Am  I  to  understand,  that  her  lady- 
ship's neglecting  to  perform  the  duties  of  a  daughter,  a  wife,  and 
a  mother,  are  proofs  of  an  affectionate  heart  ?  As  to  her  superior 
talents,  do  they  contribute  to  her  own  happiness,  or  to  the 
happiness  of  others  ?  Evidently  not  to  her  own ;  for  by  her 
account  of  herself,  she  is  one  of  the  most  miserable  wretche* 
alive  !  She  tells  you  that  **she  went  to  foreign  climes  in  search 
nfbcUmf'jr  a  wounded  heart,  and  wandered  from  place  to  place. 


LEONORA.  tiiS 

(nol  ing  for  what  no  place  could  afford.''     She  talks  of  *^  indeicrib- 
ubld  sadness — an  aching  void — an  impenetrable  prison — darkness 
tfisible — dead  bodies  chained  to  living  ones  ;"  and  she  exhibits  all 
the  disordered  furniture  of  a  "diseased  mind."     But  you  say, 
that  though  her  powers  are  thus  insufficient  to  make  herself 
happy,  they  may  amuse  or  instruct  the  world ;  and  of  this  I  am 
to  judge  by  the  letters  which  you  have  sent  me.     You  admire 
fine  writing ;  so  do  I,     I  class  eloquence  high  amongst  the  fine 
arts.     But  by  eloquence  I  mean  something  more  than  Dr.  John- 
son  defines  it  to  be,   "  the  art  of  speaking  with  fluency  and 
elegance."     This  is  an  art  which  is  now  possessed  to  a  certahi 
degree  by  every  boarding-school  miss.     Every  scribbling  young 
lady  can  now  string  sentences  and  sentiments  together,  and  can 
turn   a  period  harmoniously.      Upon   the   strength    of   these 
accomplishments  they  commence  heroines,  and  claim  the  privi- 
leges of  the  order;  privileges  which  go  to   an   indefinite  and 
most  alarming  extent.     Every  heroine  may  have  her  own  code 
of  morality  for  her  private  use,  and  she  is  to  be  tried  by  no 
other ;  she  may  rail  as  loudly  as  she  pleases  "  at  the  barbarous 
institutions  of  society,"  and  may  deplore  "  the  inexorable  tyranny 
of  the  English  laws,"     If  she  find  herself  involved  in  delicate 
entanglements  of  crossing  duties,  she  may  break  through  any 
one,  or  all  of  them,  to  extricate  herself  with  a  noble  contempt  of 
prejudice. 

I  have  promised  to  reason  calmly ;  but  I  cannot  repress  the 
terror  which  I  feel  at  the  idea  of  my  daughter's  becoming  the 
friend  of  one  of  these  women.  Olivia's  letters  are,  I  think,  in 
the  true  heroine  style  ;  and  they  might  make  a  brilliant  figure 
in  a  certain  class  of  novels.  She  begins  with  a  bold  exclamation 
on  "  the  misfortune  of  being  bom  a  woman  ! — tJie  slave  or  the 
outcast  €f  society f  condemned  to  incessant  hypocrisy  F*  Does  she 
mean  modesty  ?  Her  manly  soul  feels  it  "  the  most  degrading 
punishment  that  omnipotent  c^tielty  could  devise,  to  be  imprisoned 
in  a  female  form."  From  such  a  masculine  spirit  some  fortitude 
and  magnanimity  might  be  expected ;  but  presently  she  begs  to 
be  pitied,  for  a  broken  spirit,  and  more  than  female  tenderness 
of  heart.  I  have  observed  that  the  ladies  who  wish  to  be  men, 
are  usually  those  who  have  not  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  be 
women. 


256  LEONORA. 

Olivia  proceeds  in  an  ironical  strain  to  envy,  as  "  the  happieii 
of  their  sex,  those  who  svhmit  to  be  swathed  by  custom."     These 
persons  she  stigmatizes  with  the  epithet  of  tideless-hlooded.     It 
is  the  common  trick  of  unprincipled  women  to  affect  to  despise 
those  who  conduct  themselves  with  propriety.     Prudence  they 
term  coldness;  fortitude,  insensibility;  and  regard  to  the  rights 
of  others,  prejudice.     By  this  perversion  of  terms  they  would 
laugh  or  sneer  virtue  out  of  countenance ;  and,  by  robbing  her 
of  all  praise,  they  would  deprive  her  of  all  immediate  motive. 
Conscious  of  their   own  degradation,  they  would  lower  every 
thing,  and  every  body,  to  their  own  standard  :  they  would  make 
you  believe,  that  those  who   have  not  yielded  to  their  passions 
are  destitute  of  sensibility ;  that  the  love  which  is  not  blazoned 
forth  in  glaring  colours  is  not  entitled  to  our  sympathy.     The 
sacrifice  of  the  strongest  feelings  of  the  human  heart  to  a  sense 
of  duty  is  to  be  called  mean,  or  absurd  ;  but  the  shameless 
frenzy  of  passion,  exposing  itself  to  public  gaze,  is  to  be  an 
object  of  admiration.     These  heroines  talk  of  strength  of  mind  ; 
but  they  forget  that  strength  of  mind  is  to  be  shown  in  resisting 
their    passions,    not    in   yielding    to    them.      Without    being 
absolutely  of  an  opinion,  which  I  have  heard  maintained,  that 
all  virtue  is  sacrifice,  I  am  convinced  that  the  essential  charac- 
teristic of  virtue  is  to  bear  and  forbear.     These  sentimentalists 
can  do  neither.     They  talk  of  sacrifices  and  generosity;  but 
they  are  the  veriest  egotists — the  most  selfish  creatures  alive. 

Open  your  e}  es,  my  dear  Leonora,  and  see  things  as  they 
really  are.  Lady  Olivia  thinks  it  a  sufficient  excuse  for  aban- 
doning her  husband,  to  say,  that  she  found  "  his  soul  was  not  in 
unison  with  hers."  She  thinks  it  an  adequate  apology  for  a 
criminal  attachment,  to  tell  you  that  "  the  net  was  thrown  over 
her  heart  before  she  felt  her  danger  :  that  all  its  struggles  were  to^ 
no  purpose,  but  to  exhaust  her  strength." 

If  she  did  not  feel  her  danger,  she  prepared  it  The  course  of 
reading  which  her  ladyship  followed  was  the  certain  preparation 
for  her  subsequent  conduct.  She  tells  us  that  she  could  not 
endure  ^*the  common-place  of  morality,  but  metaphysics  pronused 
her  some  relief,"  In  these  days  a  heroine  need  not  be  a  moralist,, 
but  she  must  be  a  metaphysician.  She  must  *'  wander  in  the  not 
inelegant  labyrinth  ;"  and  if  in  the  midst  of  it  she  comes  unawaret 


LEONORA.  257 

tipon  the  monster  vice,  she  must  not  start,  though  she  have  no 
^lue  to  secure  her  retreat. 

From  metaphysics  Lady  Olivia  went  on  to  German  novels. 
**  For  her  largest  portions  of  bliss,  for  those  rapt  moments,  which 
consigned  vulgar  realities  to  oblivion,"  she  owns  herself  indebted 
to  those  writers,  who  promise  an  ideal  world  of  pleasure,  which, 
like  the  mirage  in  the  desert,  bewilders  the  feverish  imagination. 
I  always  suspected  the  imagination  of  these  women  of  feeling  to 
be  more  susceptible  than  their  hearts.  They  want  excitation  for 
their  morbid  sensibility,  and  they  care  not  at  what  expense  it  is 
procured.  If  they  could  make  all  the  pleasures  of  life  into  one 
cordial,  they  would  swallow  it  at  a  draught  in  a  fit  of  sentimental 
spleen.  The  mental  intemperance  that  they  indulge  in  promis- 
cuous novel-reading  destroys  all  vigour  and  clearness  of  judg- 
ment ;  every  thing  dances  in  the  varying  medium  of  their  imagi- 
nation. Sophistry  passes  for  reasoning  ;  nothing  appears  pro- 
found but  what  is  obscure  ;  nothing  sublime  but  what  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  mortal  comprehension.  To  their  vitiated  taste  the 
simple  pathos,  which  o'ersteps  not  the  modesty  of  nature,  appears 
cold,  tame,  and  insipid ;  they  must  have  scenes  and  a  coup  de 
theatre ;  andranting,  and  raving,  and  stabbing,  and  drowning, 
and  poisoning ;  for  with  them  there  is  no  love  without  murder. 
Love,  in  their  representations,  is  indeed  a  distorted,  ridiculous, 
horrid  monster,  from  whom  common  sense,  taste,  decency,  and 
nature  recoil. 

But  I  will  be  calm. — You  say,  my  dear  Leonora,  that  your 
judgment  has  not  been  blinded  by  Lady  Olivia's  fascinating 
manners ;  but  that  you  are  strongly  influenced  in  her  favour  by 
that  candour,  with  which  she  has  revealed  to  you  all  her  faults. 
The  value  of  candour  in  individuals  should  be  measured  by  their 
sensibility  to  shame.  When  a  woman  throws  off  all  restraint, 
and  then  desires  me  to  admire  her  candour,  I  am  astonished  only 
at  her  assurance.  Do  not  be  the  dupe  of  such  candour.  Lady 
Olivia  avows  a  criminal  passion,  yet  you  say  that  you  have  no 
doubt  of  her  innocence.  The  persuasion  of  your  unsuspecting 
heart  is  no  argument :  when  you  give  me  any  proofs  in  her 
favour,  I  shall  pay  them  all  due  attention.  In  the  mean  time  I 
have  given  you  my  opinion  of  those  ladies  who  place  themselve* 

Le(mwa. 


258  LEONORA. 

in  tlie  most  perilous  situations,  and  then  expect  jou  to  believe 
them  safe. 

Olivia's  professions  of  regard  for  you  are  indeed  enthusiastic. 
She  tells  you,  that  "  your  power  is  unlimited  over  her  heart  and 
understanding;  that  your  friendship  would  be  to  her  one  of  the 
greatest  of  earthly  blessings"  May  be  so — but  I  cannot  wish  you 
to  be  her  friend.  With  whatever  confidance  she  makes  the 
assertion,  do  not  believe  that  she  has  a  heart  capable  of  feeling 
the  value  of  yours.  These  sentimental,  unprincipled  women 
make  the  worst  friends  in  the  world.  We  are  often  told  that, 
"  poor  creatures !  they  do  nobody  any  harm  but  themselves;" 
but  in  society  it  is  scarcely  possible  for  a  woman  to  do  harm  to 
herself,  without  doing  harm  to  others  ;  all  her  connexions  must 
be  involved  in  the  consequences  of  her  imprudence.  Besides, 
what  confidence  can  you  repose  in  them  ?  If  you  should  happen 
to  be  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  any  of  their  fancies,  do  you  think 
that  they  will  respect  you  or  your  interest,  when  they  have  not 
scrupled  to  sacrifice  their  own  to  the  gratification  of  their  pas- 
sions ?  Do  you  think  that  the  gossamer  of  sentiment  will  restrain 
those  whom  the  strong  chains  of  prudence  could  not  hold  ? 

Oh !  my  dearest  child,  forcibly  as  these  arguments  carry  con- 
viction to  my  mind,  I  dread  lest  your  compassionate,  generous 
temper,  should  prevent  their  reaching  your  understanding.  Then 
lee  me  conjure  you,  by  all  the  respect  which  you  have  ever  shown 
for  your  mother's  opinions,  by  all  that  you  hold  dear  or  sacred, 
beware  of  forming  an  intimacy  with  an  unprincipled  woman. 
Believe  me  to  be 

Your  tnily  affectionate  mother, 


LETTER  VII. 


LBONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 


No  daughter  ever  felt  more  respect  for  the  opinions  of  a  parent 
than  I  do  for  yours,  my  dearest  mother ;  but  you  have  never, 
even  from  childhood,  required  from  me  a  blind  submission — you 


LEONORA.  259 

have  always  encouraged  me  to  desire  conviction.  And  now, 
when  the  happiness  of  another  is  at  stake,  you  will  forgive  me  if 
I  am  less  disposed  to  yield  than  I  should  be,  I  hope,  if  ray  own 
interest  or  taste  were  alone  concerned. 

You  ask  me  what  proofs  I  have  of  Lady  Olivia's  innocence. 
Believe  me,  I  have  such  as  are  convincing  to  my  unbiassed 
judgment,  and  such  as  would  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  all  your 
doubts,  were  I  at  liberty  to  lay  the  whole  truth  before  you.  But 
even  to  exculpate  herself,  Olivia  will  not  ruin  in  your  opinion 
her  husband,  of  whom  you  imagine  that  she  has  no  reason  to  com- 
plain. I,  who  know  how  anxious  she  is  to  obtain  your  esteem, 
can  appreciate  the  sacrifice  that  she  makes  ;  and  in  this  instance, 
as  in  many  others,  I  admire  her  magnanimity ;  it  is  equal  to  her 
candour,  for  which  she  is  entitled  to  praise  even  by  your  own 
principles,  dear  mother :  since,  far  from  having  thrown  off  all 
restraint,  she  is  exquisitely  susceptible  of  shame. 

As  to  her  understanding — have  no  persons  of  great  talents  ever 
been  unfortunate  ?  Frequently  we  see  that  they  have  not  been 
able,  by  all  their  efforts  and  all  their  powers,  to  remedy  the 
defects  in  the  characters  and  tempers  of  those  with  whom  they 
have  unhappily  been  connected.  Olivia  married  very  young, 
and  was  unfortunately  mistaken  in  her  choice  of  a  husband  :  on 
that  subject  I  can  only  deplore  her  error  and  its  consequences  ; 
but  as  to  her  disagreements  with  her  own  family,  I  do  not  think 
her  to  blame.  For  the  mistakes  we  make  in  the  choice  of  lovers 
or  friends  we  may  be  answerable,  but  we  cannot  be  responsible 
for  the  faults  of  the  relations  who  are  given  to  us  by  nature.  If 
we  do  not  please  them,  it  may  be  our  misfortune ;  it  is  not 
necessarily  our  fault.  I  cannot  be  more  explicit,  without 
betraying  Lady  Olivia's  confidence,  and  implicating  others  in 
defending  her. 

With  respect  to  that  attachment  of  which  you  speak  with  so 
much  just  severity,  she  has  given  me  the  strongest  assurances 
that  she  will  do  every  thing  in  her  power  to  conquer  it.  Absence, 
you  know,  is  the  first  and  the  most  difficult  step,  and  this  she  has 
taken.  Her  course  of  reading  displeases  you  :  I  cannot  defend 
it:  but  I  am  persuaded  that  it  is  not  a  proof  of  her  taste  being 
vitiated.  Many  people  read  ordinary  novels  as  others  take  snuff, 
merely  from  habit,  from  the  want  of  petty  excitation ;  and  not^ 


260  LEONORA* 

aft  you  suppose,  from  the  want  of  exorbitant  or  improper  stimnlusi 
Those  wlio  are  unhappy  have  recourse  to  any  trifling  amusement 
that  can  change  the  course  of  their  thoughts.  I  do  not  justify 
Olivia  for  having  chosen  such  comforters  as  certain  novels,  but  I 
pity  her,  and  impute  this  choice  to  want  of  fortitude,  not  to  de- 
pravity of  taste.  Before  she  married,  a  strict  injunction  wa» 
laid  upon  her  not  to  read  any  book  that  was  called  a  novel :  this 
raised  in  her  mind  a  sort  of  perverse  curiosity.  By  making  any 
books  or  opinions  contraband,  the  desire  to  read  and  circulate 
them  is  increased ;  bad  principles  are  consequently  smuggled 
into  families,  and  being  kept  secret,  can  never  be  subject  to  fair 
examination.  I  think  it  must  be  advantageous  to  the  right  side 
of  any  question,  that  all  which  can  be  said  against  it  should  be 
openly  heard,  that  it  may  be  answered.     I  do  not 

"  Hate  when  vice  can  bolt  her  arguments  ;'* 

for  I  know  that  virtue  has  a  tongue  to  answer  her.  The  more 
vice  repeats  her  assertions,  the  better ;  because  when  familiarized, 
their  boldness  will  not  astound  the  understanding,  and  the  charm- 
of  novelty  will  not  be  mistaken  for  the  power  of  truth.  We  may 
observe,  that  the  admiration  for  the  class  of  writers  to  whom  you 
allude,  though  violent  in  its  commencement,  has  abated  since 
they  have  been  more  known;  and  numbers,  who  began  with 
rapture,  have  ended  with  disgust.  Persons  of  vivacious  imagi- 
nations, like  Olivia,  may  be  caught  at  first  view  by  whatever 
has  the  appearance  of  grandeur  or  sublimity ;  but  if  time  be 
allowed  for  examination,  they  will  infallibly  detect  the  dispro- 
portions, and  these  will  ever  afterwards  shock  their  taste  :  if  you 
will  not  allow  leisure  for  comparison — ^if  you  say,  do  not  look  at 
such  strange  objects,  the  obedient  eyes  may  turn  aside,  but  the 
rebel  imagination  pictures  something  a  thousand  times  more 
wonderful  and  charming  than  the  reality.  I  will  venture  to 
predict,  that  Olivia  will  soon  be  tired  of  tlie  species  of  novels 
which  she  now  admires,  and  that,  once  surfeited  with  these 
books,  and  convinced  of  their  pernicious  effects,  she  will  never 
relapse  into  the  practice  of  novel  reading. 

As  to  her  taste  for  metaphysical  books— —Dear  mother,  I  am 
very  daring  to  differ  with  you  in  so  many  points;  but  permit  me 
to  8ay,  that  I  do  not  agree  with  you  in  detesting  metaphysics* 


LEONORA.  261 

People  may  lose  themselves  in  that  labyrinth  ;  but  why  should 
they  meet  with  vice  in  the  midst  of  it  ?  The  characters  of  a 
moralist,  a  practical  moralist,  and  a  metaphysician,  are  not 
incompatible,  as  we  may  see  in  many  amiable  and  illustrious 
examples.  To  examine  human  motives,  and  the  nature  of  the 
human  mind,  is  not  to  destroy  the  power  of  virtue,  or  to  increase 
the  influence  of  vice.  The  chemist,  after  analyzing  certain 
substances,  and  after  discovering  their  constituent  parts,  can  lay 
aside  all  that  is  heterogeneous,  and  recompound  the  substance 
in  a  purer  state.  From  analogy  we  might  infer,  that  the  motives 
of  metaphysicians  ought  to  be  purer  than  those  of  the  vulgar 
and  ignorant.  To  discover  the  art  of  converting  base  into  noble 
passions,  or  to  obtain  a  universal  remedy  for  all  mental  diseases, 
is  perhaps  beyond  the  power  of  metaphysicians;  but  in  the 
pursuit,  useful  discoveries  may  be  made. 

As  to  Olivia's  letters — I  am  sorry  T  sent  them  to  you ;  for  I 
see  that  they  have  lowered,  instead  of  raising  her  in  your  opinion. 
But  if  you  criticise  letters,  written  in  openness  and  confidence  of 
heart  to  a  private  friend,  as  if  they  were  set  before  the  tribunal 
of  the  public,  you  are — may  I  say  it? — not  only  severe,  but 
unjust ;  for  you  try  and  condemn  the  subjects  of  one  country  by 
the  laws  of  another. 

Dearest  mother,  be  half  as  indulgent  to  Olivia  as  you  are  to 
me :  indeed  you  are  prejudiced  against  her ;  and  because  you 
see  some  faults,  you  think  her  whole  character  vicious.  But 
would  you  cut  down  a  fine  tree  because  a  leaf  is  withered,  or 
because  the  canker-worm  has  eaten  into  the  bud  ?  Even  if  a 
main  branch  were  decayed,  are  there  not  remedies  which,  skil- 
fully applied,  can  save  the  tree  from  destruction,  and  perhaps 
restore  it  to  its  pristine  beauty? 

And  now,  having  exhausted  all  my  allusions,  all  my  arguments, 
and  all  my  little  stock  of  eloquence,  I  must  come  to  a  plain 
matter  of  fact — 

Before  I  received  your  letter  I  had  invited  Lady  Olivia  to 

spend  some  time  at  L Castle.     I  fear  that  you  will  blame 

my  precipitation,  and  I  reproach  myself  for  it,  because  I  know 
it  will  give  you  pain.  However,  though  you  will  think  me 
imprudent,  I  am  certain  you  would  rather  that  I  were  imprudent 
than  un'ust.     I  have  defended  Olivia  from  what  I  believe  to  be 


262  LEOHORA. 

unmerited  censure ;  I  have  invited  her  to  my  house ;  she  has 
accepted  my  proffered  kindness ;  to  withdraw  it  afterwards 
would  be  doing  her  irreparable  injury :  it  would  confirm  all  that 
the  world  can  suspect :  it  would  be  saying  to  the  censorious — I 
am  convinced  that  you  are  right,  and  I  deliver  your  victim  up 
to  you. 

'riius  I  should  betray  the  person  whom  I  undertook  to  defend : 
her  confidence  in  me,  her  having  but  for  a  moment  accepted 
my  protection,  would  he  her  ruin.  I  could  not  act  in  so  base 
a  manner. 

Fear  nothing  for  me,  my  best,  but  too  anxious,  friend.  I  may 
do  Lady  Olivia  some  good ;  she  can  do  me  no  harm.  Slie  may 
learn  the  principles  which  you  have  taught  me ;  I  can  never 
catch  from  her  any  tastes  or  habits  which  you  would  disapprove. 
As  to  the  restj  I  hazard  little  or  nothing.  The  hereditary  credit 
which  I  enjoy  in  my  maternal  right  enables  me  to  assist  others 
without  injuring  myself. 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

Leonora. 


LETTER  VIIL 

THE    DUCHESS    OF  ■    TO    HER    DAUGHTER. 

MY  DEAREST  CHILD, 

I  HOPE  that  you  are  in  the  right,  and  that  I  am  in  the  wrong. 

Your  affectionate  mother. 


LETTER  IX. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DB    P- 


pREPARE  yourself,  my  ever  dear  and  charming  Gabrielle,  for  at 
the  torments  of  jealousy.  Know,  that  since  I  came  to  England 
i  have  formed  a  new  friendship  with  a  woman  who  is  interesting 
in  the  extreme,  who  has  charmed  me  by  the  simplicity  of  her 


LEONORA.  2G3 

manners  and  the  generous  sensibility  of  her  heart.  Her  character 
is  certainly  too  reserved :  yet  even  this  defect  has  periiaps 
increased  her  power  over  my  imagination,  and  consequently 
over  my  affections.  I  know  not  by  what  magic  she  has  obtained- 
it,  but  she  has  already  an  ascendancy  over  me,  which  woul 
quite  astonish  yow,  who  know  my  wayward  fancies  and  indi 
pendent  spirit. 

Alas  !  I  confess  my  heart  is  weak  indeed  ;  and  I  fear  that  all 
the  power  of  friendship  and  philosophy  combined  will  never 
strengthen  it  sufficiently.  Oh,  Gabrielle !  how  can  I  hope  to 
obliterate  from  my  soul  that  attachment  which  has  marked  the 
colour  of  my  destiny  for  years?  Yet  such  courage,  such  cruel 
courage  is  required  of  me,  and  of  such  I  have  boasted  myself 

capable.     Lady  Leonora  L ,  my  new  friend,  has,  by  all  the 

English  eloquence  of  virtue,  obtained  from  me  a  promise,  which, 
I  fear,  I  shall  not  have  the  fortitude  to  keep — ^but  I  must  make 

the  attempt Forbid  R  *  *  *  to  write  to  me Yes !  I  have 

written  the  words Forbid  R  *  *  *  to  write  to  me Forbid 

him  to  think  of  me 1  will  do  more — if  possible  I  will  forbid 

myself  henceforward  to  think  of  him— to  think  of  love — Adieu, 

my  Gabrielle All  the  illusions  of  life  are  over,  and  9,  dreary 

blank  of  future  existence  lies  before  me,  terminated  only  by  the 

grave.     To-morrow  I  go  to  L Castle,  with  feelings  which  I 

can  compare  only  to  those  of  the  unfortunate  La  Valliere  when 
she  renounced  her  lover,  and  resolved  to  bury  herself  in  a 
cloister. — Alas  !  why  have  not  I  the  resource  of  devotion  ? 

Your  unhappy 

Olivia. 


LETTER  X. 


GENERAL    B  TO    MR.  L- 


Publish  my  travels  ! — Not  I,  my  dear  friend.     The  world  shall 
never  have  the  pleasure  of  laughing  at  General  B— — 's  trip  ta' 
Paris.     Before  a  man  sets  about  to  inform  others,  he  should^ 
have  seen,  not  only  the  surface  but  the  bottom  of  things ;  he 
should  have  had,  not  only  a  vue  d'oiseau,  but  (to  use  a  celebrated 


264  LEONORA. 

naval  commander's  expression)  a  vue  (^  jjowson  of  his  subject. 
By  this  time  you  must  have  heard  enough  of  the  Louvre  and 
the  Tuilleries,  and  Versailles,  and  le  petit  Trianon,  and  St. 
Cloud — and  you  have  had  enough  of  pictures  and  statues  ;  and 
you  know  all  that  can  be  known  of  Bonaparte,  by  seeing  him  at 
H  review  or  a  levee  ;  and  the  fashionable  beauties  and  celebrated 
characters  of  the  hour  have  all  passed  and  repassed  through  the 
magic  lantern.  Afresh  showman  might  make  his  figures  a  little 
more  correct,  or  a  little  more  in  laughable  caricat\ue,  but  he 
could  produce  nothing  new.  Alas  !  there  is  nothing  new  under 
the  sun.  Nothing  remains  for  the  modems,  but  to  practise  the 
oldest  follies  the  newest  ways.  Would  you,  for  the  sake  of  your 
female  friends,  know  the  fashionable  dress  of  a  Parisian  elegante, 
see  Seneca  on  the  transparent  vestments  of  the  Roman  ladies, 
who,  like  these  modern  belles,  were  generous  in  the  display  of 
their  charms  to  the  public.  No  doubt  these  French  republicanists 
act  upon  the  true  Spartan  principle  of  modesty  :  they  take  tlie 
most  efficacious  method  to  prevent  their  influence  from  being  too 
great  over  the  imaginations  of  men,  by  renouncing  all  that 
insidious  reserve  which  alone  can  render  even  beauty  perma- 
nently dangerous. 

Of  the  cruelties  of  the  revolution  I  can  tell  you  nothing  new. 
The  public  have  been  steeped  up  to  the  lips  in  blood,  and  have 
surely  had  their  fill  of  horrors. 

But,  my  dear  friend,  you  say  that  I  must  be  able  to  give  a 
just  view  of  the  present  state  of  French  society,  and  of  the 
best  parts  of  it,  because  I  have  not,  like  some  of  my  countrymen, 
hurried  about  Paris  from  one  spectacle  to  another,  seen  the 
opera,  and  the  play-houses,  and  the  masked  balls,  and  the 
gaming-houses,  and  the  women  of  the  Palais  Royal,  and  the 
lions  of  all  sorts;  gone  through  the  usual  routine  of  presentation 
and  public  dinners,  drunk  French  wine,  damned  French 
cookery,  and  "  come  home  content."  I  have  certainly  endea- 
voured to  employ  my  time  better,  and  have  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  admitted  into  the  best  private  societies  in  Paris. 
These  were  composed  of  the  remains  of  the  French  nobility,  of 
men  of  letters  and  science,  and  of  families,  who,  without  inter* 
fering  in  politics,  devote  themselves  to  domestic  duties,  to 
literary  and  social  pleasures.     The  hr.ppy  hours  T  have  passed 


LEONORA.  265 

in  this  society  can  never  be  forgotten,  an,d  the  kindness  I  have 
received  has  made  its  full  impression  lipon  an  honest  English 
heart.  I  will  never  disgrace  the  confidence  of  my  friends,  by 
drawing  their  characters  for  the  public. 

Caesar  in  all  his  glory,  and  all  his  despotism,  could  not,  with 
impunity,  force  a  Roman  knight  ^  to  go  upon  the  stage :  but 
modei'n  anecdote-mongers,  more  cruel  and  insolent  than  Caesar, 
force  their  friends  of  all  ages  and  sexes  to  appear,  and  speak, 
and  act,  for  the  amusement  or  derision  of  the  public. 

My  dear  friend,  is  not  my  resolution,  never  to  favour  the 
world  with  my  tour,  well  grounded?  I  hope  that  I  have  proved 
to  your  satisfaction,  that  I  could  tell  people  nothing  but  what  I 
do  not  understand,  or  what  is  not  worth  telling  them,  or  what 
has  been  told  them  a  hundred  times,  or  what,  as  a  gentleman,  I 
am  bound  not  to  publish. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XI. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


Castle. 


Friendship,  my  amiable  and  interesting  Gabrielle,  is  more  an 
afiair  of  the  heart  than  of  the  head,  more  the  instinct  of  taste 
than  the  choice  of  reason.  With  me  the  heart  is  no  longer 
touched,  when  the  imagination  ceases  to  be  charmed.  Explain 
to  me  this  metaphysical  phenomenon  of  my  nature,  and,  for 
your  reward,  I  will  quiet  your  jealousy,  by  confessing  without 
compunction  what  now  weighs  on  my  conscience  tembly.  I 
begin  to  feel  that  I  can  never  love  this  English  friend  as  I  ought. 
She  is  too  English — far  too  English  for  one  who  has  known  the 
charms  of  French  ease,  vivacity,  aud  sentiment ;  for  one  who 
has  seen  the  bewitching  Gabrielle's  infinite  variety. 

Leonora  has  just  the  figure  and  face  that  you  would  picture 
to  yourself  for  une  belle  Anglaise  ;  and  if  our  Milton  comes  into 

^  Laberius. 


2C6  LEONOUA. 

your  raemory,  you  might  repeat,  for  the  quotation  is  not  toe 
trite  for  a  foreigner, 

**  Grace  is  in  all  her  steps,  heaven  in  ber  eye, 
lu  every  gesture  dignity  and  love." 

But  then  it  is  grace  which  says  nothing,  a  heaven  only  for  » 
husband,  the  dignity  more  of  a  matron  than  of  a  heroine,  and' 
love  that  might  have  suited  Eve  before  she  had  seen  this  world. 
Leonora  is  certainly  a  beauty  ;  but  then  a  beauty  who  does  not 
know  her  power,  and  who,  consequently,  can  make  no  one  else 
feel  its  full  extent.  She  is  not  unlike  your  beautiful  Polish 
Princess,  but  she  has  none  of  the  charming  Anastasia's  irresistible 
transitions  from  soft,  silent  languor,  to  brilliant,  eloquent  en- 
thusiasm. All  the  gestures  and  attitudes  of  Anastasia  are  those  of 
taste  and  sentiment;  Leonora's  are  simply  those  of  nature.  La 
belle  natursj  but  not  le  beau  ideal.  With  a  figure  that  would 
grace  any  court,  or  shine  upon  any  stage,  she  usually  enters  a 
room  without  producing,  or  thinking  of  producing,  any  sensation  ; 
she  moves  often  without  seeming  to  have  any  other  intention 
til  an  to  change  her  place ;  and  her  fine  eyes  generally  look  as  if 
they  were  made  only  to  see  with.  At  times  she  certainly  has  a 
most  expressive  and  intelligent  countenance.  I  have  seen  her 
face  enlightened  by  the  fire  of  genius,  and  shaded  by  the  ex- 
quisite touches  of  sensibility ;  but  all  this  is  merely  called  forth 
by  the  occasion,  and  vanishes  before  it  is  noticed' by  half  the 
company.  Indeed,  the  full  radiance  of  her  beauty  or  of  her 
wit  seldom  shines  upon  any  one  but  her  husband.  The  audience 
and  spectators  are  forgotten.  Heavens!  what  a  difference 
between  the  effect  which  Leonora  and  Gabrielle  produce !  But, 
to  do  her  justice,  much  of  this  arises  from  the  different  organi- 
zation of  French  and  English  society.  In  Paris  the  insipid- 
details  of  domestic  life  are  judiciously  kept  behind  the  scenes, 
and  women  appear  as  heroines  upon  the  stage  with  all  the 
advantages  of  decoration,  to  listen  to  the  language  of  love,  and 
to  receive  the  homage  of  public  admiration.  In  England, 
gallantry  is  not  yet  systematized^  and  our  sex  look  more  to  their 
families  than  to  what  is  called  society  for  the  happiness  of 
existence.  And  yet  the  affection  of  mothers  for  their  children 
does  not  appear  to  be  so  strong  in  ttie  hearts  of  English  as  of 


LEONORA.  2C7 

French  women.  In  England,  ladies  do  not  talk  of  the  sentiment 
•of  maternity  with  that  elegance  and  sensibility  with  which  you 
expatiate  upon  it  continually  in  conversation.  They  literally 
are  des  bonnes  meres  defamille,  not  from  the  impulse  of  sentiment, 
but  merely  from  an  early  instilled  sense  of  duty,  for  which  they 
deserve  little  credit.  However,  they  devote  their  lives  to  their 
<;hildren,  and  those  who  have  the  misfortune  to  be  their  intimate 
friends  are  doomed  to  see  them  half  the  day,  or  all  day  long,  go 
through  the  part  of  the  good  mother  in  all  its  diurnal  monotony 
of  lessons  and  caresses.  All  this  may  be  vastly  right — it  is  a 
pity  it  is  so  tiresome.  For  my  part  I  cannot  conceive  how 
persons  of  superior  taste  and  talents  can  submit  to  it,  unless  it 
be  to  make  themselves  a  reputation,  and  that  you  know  is  done 
by  writing  and  talking  on  the  general  principles,  not  by  sub- 
mitting to  the  minute  details  of  education.  The  ^reat  painter 
sketches  the  outline,  and  touches  the  principal  fe<i  tares,  but 
leaves  the  subordinate  drudgery  of  filling  up  the  parts,  finishing 
the  drapery,  &c.,  to  inferior  hands. 

Upon  recollection,  in  my  favourite  "  Sorrows  of  Werter,"  the 
heroine  is  represented  cutting  bread  and  butter  for  a  group  of 
children  ;  I  admire  this  simplicity  in  Goethe ;  'tis  one  of  the 
secrets  by  which  he  touches  the  heart.  Simplicity  is  delightfid 
by  way  of  variety,  but  always  simplicity  is  worse  than  toujours 
perdrix.  Children  in  a  novel  or  a  drama  are  charming  little 
creatures :  but  in  real  life  they  are  often  insufferable  plagues. 
What  becomes  of  them  in  Paris  I  know  not ;  but  I  am  sure  that 
they  are  never  in  the  way  of  one's  conversations  or  reveries; 
and  it  would  be  a  blessing  to  society  if  English  children  were  as 
inaudible  and  invisible.  These  things  strike  me  sensibly  upon 
my  return  to  England,  after  so  long  an  absence.  Surely,  by 
means  of  the  machinery  of  masters,  and  governesses,  and  schools, 
the  manufacture  of  education  might  be  carried  on  without 
■incommoding  those  who  desire  to  see  only  the  finished  produc- 
tion. Here  I  find  the  daughter  of  an  English  duke,  a  woman  in 
the  first  bloom  of  youth,  of  the  highest  pretensions  in  point  of 
rank,  beauty,  fashion,  accomplishments,  and  talents,  devoting 
herself  to  the  education  of  two  children,  orphans,  left  to  her 
care  by  an  elder  sister.  To  take  charge  of  orphans  is  a  good 
flmd  fine  action  ;  as  such  it  touches  me  sensiblv  ;  but  then  wher« 

18 


268  LEONORA. 

is  the  necessity  of  sacrificing  one's  friends,  and  one's  pleasures^ 
day  after  day,  and  hour  after  hour,  to  mere  children  ?  Leonora 
can  persevere  only  from  a  notion  of  duty.  Now,  in  my  opinion, 
when  generosity  becomes  duty  it  ceases  to  be  virtue.  Virtue 
requires  free-will :  duty  implies  constraint.  Virtue  acts  from 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  never  tires  or  is  tired;  duty 
drudges  on  in  consequence  of  reflection,  and,  weary  herself, 
wearies  all  beholders.  Duty,  always  laborious,  never  can  be 
graceful ;  and  what  is  not  graceful  in  woman  cannot  be  amiable 
— can  it,  my  amiable  Gabrielle  ?  But  I  reproach  myself  for  all 
I  have  written.  Leonora  is  my  friend — besides,  I  am  really 
obliged  to  her,  and  for  the  universe  would  I  not  hint  a  thought 
to  her  disadvantage.  Indeed  she  is  a  most  excellent,  a  faultless 
character,  and  it  is  the  misfortune  of  your  Olivia  not  to  love 
perfection  as  she  ought. 

My  charming  and  interesting  Gabrielle,  I  am  more  out  of 
humour  with  myself  than  you  can  conceive;  for  in  spite  of  all 
that  reason  and  gratitude  urge,  I  fear  I  cannot  prefer  the  insipid 
virtues  of  Leonora  to  the  lively  graces  of  Gabrielle. 

As  to  the  cold  husband,  Mr.  L ,  I  neither  know  nor  wish 

to  know  any  thing  of  him  ;  but  I  live  in  hopes  of  an  agreeable 
and  interesting  accession  to  our  society  to-day,  from  the  arrival 
of  Leonora's  intimate  friend,  a  young  widow,  whose  husband  I 
understand  was  a  man  of  a  harsh  temper  :  she  has  gone  through 
severe  trials  with  surprising  fortitude ;  and  though  I  do  not 
know  her  history,  I  am  persuaded  it  must  be  interesting.  As- 
suredly this  husband  could  never  have  been  the  man  of  her 
choice,  and  of  course  she  must  have  had  some  secret  unhappy 
attachment,  which  doubtless  preyed  upon  her  spirits.  Probably 
the  object  of  her  affection,  in  despair  at  her  marriage,  plighted 
his  faith  unfortunately,  or  possibly  may  have  fallen  a  sacrifice  to 
his  constancy.  I  am  all  impatience  to  see  her.  Her  husband's 
name  was  so  ruggedly  English,  that  I  am  sure  you  would  never 
be  able  to  pronounce  it,  especially  if  you  only  saw  it  written ; 
therefore  I  shall  always  to  you  call  her  Helen,  a  name  which  is 
more  pleasing  to  the  ear,  and  more  promising  to  the  imagination. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  prevail  upon  Leonora  to  describe  her 
friend  to  me  exactly  ;  she  says  only,  that  she  loves  Helen  too 
well  to  overpraise  her  beforehand.     My  busy  fancy  has,  hoW"- 


LEONORA.  269 


ivpr.  bodied  forth  her  form,  and  painted  her  in  the  most  amD» 
able,  and  enchanting  colours.    Hark!  she  is  just  arrived.  Adieus 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XII. 


FROM    MRS.  C TO    MISS    B- 


Having  now  had  the  honour  of  spending  nearly  a  week  in  the 
society  of  the  celebrated  enchantress,  Lady  Olivia,  you  will 
naturally  expect  that  I  should  be  much  improved  in  the  art  of 
love :  but  before  I  come  to  my  improvements  I  must  tell  you, 
what  will  be  rather  more  interesting,  that  Leonora  is  perfectly 
well  and  happy,  and  that  I  have  the  dear  delight  of  exclaiming 
ten  times  an  hour,  "Ay,  just  as  I  thought  it  would  be! — Just 
such  a  wife,  just  such  a  mistress  of  a  family  I  knew  she  would 
make." 

"  Not  to  admire,"  is  an  art  or  a  precept  which  I  have  not  been 
able  to  practise  much  since  I  came  here.  Some  philosophers  tell 
us  that  admiration  is  not  only  a  silly  but  a  fatiguing  state  of 
mind ;  and  I  suppose  that  nothing  could  have  preserved  my 
mind  from  being  tired  to  death,  but  the  quantity  of  bodily  exer- 
cise which  I  have  taken.  I  could,  if  I  pleased,  give  you  a  plan 
and  elevation  of  this  castle.  Nay,  I  doubt  not  but  I  could  sstand 
an  examination  in  the  catalogue  of  the  pictures,  or  the  inventory 
of  the  furniture. 

You,  Helen  ! — you  who  could  not  remember  the  colour  of  Lady 

N 's  new  curtains  after  you  had  seen  them  at  least  a  hundred 

times ! 

Lady  N— —  was  indifferent  to  me,  and  how  could  I  hang  up 
her  curtains  in  my  memory  ?  By  what  could  they  hold  ?  Do 
you  not  know,  Margaret  ....  all  the  fine  things  that  I  could 
say,  and  that  quartos  have  said  before  me,  about  the  association 
of  ideas  and  sensations,  &c.  ?  Those  we  love  impart  to  uninte- 
resting objects  the  power  of  pleasing,  as  the  magnet  can  commu- 
nicate to  inert  metal  its  attractive  influence. 

Till  Mr.  L was  Leonora's  lover  I  never  liked  him  n.iolw 


270  LEONORA. 

I  do  not  mean  to  call  him  inert.  I  always  knew  that  he  had 
many  excellent  qualities ;  but  there  was  nothing  in  his  tempei 
peculiarly  agreeable  to  me,  and  there  was  something  in  his  cha- 
racter that  I  did  not  thoroughly  understand ;  yet,  since  he  is 
become  Leonora's  husband,  I  find  my  understanding  much  im- 
proved, and  I  dare  say  it  will  soon  be  so  far  enlarged,  that  I  shall 
comprehend  him  perfectly. 

Leonora  has  almost  persuaded  me  to  like  Lady  Olivia.  Not 
to  laugh  at  her  would  be  impossible.  I  wish  you  could  see  the 
way  in  which  we  go  on  together.  Our  first  setting  out  would 
have  diverted  you.  Enter  Lady  Olivia  breathless,  with  an  air  of 
theatric  expectation — advances  to  embrace  Helen,  who  is 
laughing  with  Leonora — her  back  turned  towards  the  side  of  the 
stage  at  which  Olivia  enters — Olivia  pauses  suddenly,  and 
measures  Helen  with  a  long  look.  What  passes  in  Lady  Olivia's 
mind  at  this  moment  I  do  not  know,  but  I  guess  that  she  was 
disappointed  woefully  by  my  appearance.  After  some  time  she 
was  recovered,  by  Leonora's  assistance,  from  her  reverie,  and 
presently  began  to  admire  my  vivacity,  and  to  find  out  that  I 
was  Clarissa's  Miss  Howe — no,  I  was  Lady  G. — no,  I  was 
Heloise's  Clara :  but  I,  choosing  to  be  myself,  and  insisting 
upon  being  an  original,  sunk  again  visibly  and  rapidly  in  Olivia's 
opinion,  till  I  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being  nobody.  Leo* 
nora  again  kindly  interposed  to  save  me  from  annihilation  ;  and 
after  an  interval  of  an  hour  or  two  dedicated  to  letter-writing. 
Lady  Olivia  returned  and  seated  herself  beside  me,  resolved  to 
decide  what  manner  of  woman  I  was.  Certain  novels  are  the 
touchstones  of  feeling  and  intellect  with  certain  ladies.  Un- 
luckily I  was  not  well  read  in  these ;  and  in  the  questions  put  to 
me  from  these  sentimental  statute-books,  I  gave  strange  judg- 
ments, often  for  the  husband  or  parents  against  the  heroine.  I 
did  not  even  admit  the  plea  of  destiny,  irresistible  passion,  or 
entrainementj  as  in  all  cases  sufficient  excuse  for  all  errors  and 
crimes.  Moreover,  I  excited  astonishment  by  calling  things  by 
obsolete  names.  I  called  a  married  woman's  having  a  lover  a 
crime  !  Then  I  was  no  judge  of  virtues,  for  I  thought  a  wife's 
making  an  intimate  friend  of  her  husband's  mistress  was  scanda- 
lous and  mean  ;  but  this  I  was  told  is  the  height  of  delicacy  and 
generosity.      1   could   not  perceive  the  propriety   of  a   man's 


LEONORA.  271 

liking  two  women  at  the  same  time,  or  a  woman's  having  a 
platonic  attachment  for  half  a  dozen  lovers :  and  I  owned  that  I 
did  not  wish  divorce  could  be  as  easily  obtained  in  England  as  in 
France.  All  which  proved  that  I  have  never  been  out  of 
England — a  great  misfortune  !  I  dare  say  it  will  soon  be  dis- 
covered that  women  as  well  as  madeira  cannot  be  good  for  any 
thing  till  they  have  crossed  the  line.  But  besides  the  obloquy  of 
having  lived  only  in  the  best  company  in  England,  I  was  further 
disgraced  by  the  discovery,  that  I  am  deplorably  ignorant  of 
metaphysics,  and  have  never  been  enlightened  by  any  philan- 
thropic transcendental  foreign  professor  of  humanity.  Pro- 
foundly humiliated,  and  not  having  yet  taken  the  first  step 
towards  knowledge,  the  knowing  that  I  was  ignorant,  I  was 
pondering  upon  my  sad  fate,  when  Lady  Olivia,  putting  her  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  summoned  me  into  the  court  of  love,  there  in 
my  own  proper  person  to  answer  such  questions  as  it  should 
please  her  ladyship  to  ask.  For  instance : — "  Were  you  ever  in 
love  ? — How  often  ? — When  ? — Where  ? — And  with  whom  ?" 

Never  having  stood  a  cross-examination  in  public  upon  these 
points,  I  was  not  quite  prepared  to  reply ;  and  I  was  accused  of 

giving  evasive  answers,  and  convicted  of  blushing.     Mr.  L , 

who  was  present  at  this  examination,  enjoyed,  in  his  grave  way, 
my  astonishment  and  confusion,  but  said  not  one  word.  I  rallied 
my  spirits  and  my  wits,  and  gave  some  answers  which  gained  the 
smile  of  the  court  on  my  side. 

From  these  specimens  you  may  guess,  my  dear  Margaret,  how 
well  this  lady  and  I  are  likely  to  agree.  I  shall  divert  myself 
with  her  absurdities  without  scruple.  Yet  notwithstanding 
the  flagrancy  of  these,  Leonora  persuades  me  to  think  well  of 
Olivia ;  indeed  I  am  so  happy  here,  that  it  would  be  a  difficult 
matter  at  present  to  make  me  think  ill  of  any  body.  The  good 
qualities,  which  Leonora  sees  in  her,  are  not  yet  visible  to  my 
eyes ;  but  Leonora's  visual  orb  is  so  cleared  with  charity  and 
love,  that  she  can  discern  what  is  not  revealed  to  vulgar  sight. 
Even  in  the  very  germ,  she  discovers  the  minute  form  of  the  per- 
fect flower.  The  Olivia  will,  I  hope,  in  time,  blow  out  in  full 
perfection. 

Yours  afiectionately, 

H£L£N   C • 


272  LEONORA. 

LETTER  XIII. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P— — . 

Monday. 
O  MY  Gabrielle  !  this  Helen  is  not  precisely  the  person  that  1 
expected.     Instead  of  being  a  dejected  beauty,  she  is  all  life 
and  gaiety. 

I  own  I  should  like  her  better  if  she  were  a  little  more 
pensive ;  a  tinge  of  melancholy  would,  in  her  situation,  be  so 
becoming  and  natural.  My  imagination  was  quite  disappointed 
when  I  beheld  the  quickness  of  her  eyes  and  frequency  of  her 
smiles.  Even  her  mode  of  showing  affection  to  Leonora  was 
not  such  as  could  please  me.  This  is  the  first  visit,  I  under- 
stand, that  she  has  paid  Leonoia  since  her  marriage :  these 
friends  have  been  separated  for  many  months. — I  was  not  present 
at  their  meeting ;  but  I  came  into  the  room  a  few  minutes  after 
HelerCi  arrival,  and  I  should  have  thought  that  they  had  seen 
one  another  but  yesterday.  This  dear  Helen  was  quite  at  ease 
and  at  home  in  a  few  moments,  and  seemed  as  if  she  had  been 
living  with  us  for  years.  I  make  allowance  for  the  ease  of  well- 
bred  people.  Helen  has  lived  much  in  the  world,  and  has 
polished  manners.  But  the  heart — the  heart  is  superior  to 
politeness  ;  and  even  ease,  in  some  situations,  shows  a  want  of 
the  delicate  tact  of  sentiment.  In  a  similar  situation  I  should 
have  been  silent,  entranced,  absorbed  in  my  sensations — over- 
come by  them,  perhaps  dissolved  in  tears.  But  in  Helen  there 
appeared  no  symptoms  of  real  sensibility — ^nothing  characteristic 
— nothing  profound — nothing  concentrated :  it  was  all  super- 
ficial, and  evaporated  in  the  common  way.  I  was  provoked  to 
see  Leonora  satisfied.  She  assures  me  that  Helen  has  imcom- 
monly  strong  affections,  and  that  her  character  rather  exceeds 
than  is  deficient  in  enthusiasm.  Possibly ;  but  I  am  certain 
that  Helen  is  in  no  danger  of  becoming  romantic.  Far  from 
being  abstrccted,  I  never  saw  any  one  seem  more  interested  and 
eager  about  evei*y  present  occurrence — pleased,  even  to  childish- 
ness, with  every  passing  trifle.  I  confess  that  she  is  too  much 
of  this  world  for  me.  But  I  will  if  possible  suspend  my  judg- 
ment, and  study  her  a  few  hours  longer,  before  I  give  you  my 
definitive  opinion. 


LEONORA.  273 

Thursday. 
Well,  my  Gabrielle,  my  definitive  opinion  is  that  I  can  never  love 
this  friend  of  Leonora.  I  said  that  she  had  lived  much  in  the 
world — but  only  in  the  English  world :  she  has  never  seen  any 
other ;  therefore,  though  quite  in  a  different  style  from  Leonora, 
she  shocks  me  with  the  same  nationality.  All  her  ideas  are  exclu- 
sively English ;  she  has  what  is  called  English  good  sense,  and 
English  humour,  and  English  prejudices  of  all  sorts,  both  mascu- 
line and  feminine.  She  takes  fire  in  defence  of  her  country  and  of 
lier  sex;  nay,  sometimes  blushes  even  to  awkwardness,  which  one 
would  not  expect  in  the  midst  of  her  good  breeding  and  vivacity. 
What  a  difference  between  her  vivacity  and  that  of  my  charming 
Gabrielle  !  as  great  as  between  the  enlargement  of  your  mind 
and  the  limited  nature  of  her  undei-s  tan  ding.  I  tried  her  on 
various  subjects,  but  found  her  intrenched  in  her  own  contracted 
notions.  All  new,  or  liberal,  or  sublime  ideas  in  morality  or 
metaphysics  she  either  cannot  seize,  or  seizes  only  to  place  in  a 
iidiculous  point  of  view :  a  certain  sign  of  mediocrity.  Adieu, 
my  Gabrielle.  I  must  send  you  the  pictures,  whether  engaging  or 
forbidding,  of  those  with  whom  your  Olivia  is  destined  to  pass 
her  time.  When  I  have  no  events  to  relate,  still  I  must  write  to 
convey  to  you  my  sentiments.  Alas  !  how  imperfectly  ! — for  I 
have  interdicted  myself  the  expression  of  those  most  interesting 
to  my  heart.  Leonora,  calmly  prudent,  coolly  virtuous,  knows 
not  what  it  costs  me  to  be  faithful  to  this  cruel  promise.  Write 
to  me,  my  sympathizing,  my  tender  friend ! 

Your  ever  unhappy 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XIV. 

MRS.   C TO    MISS    B  ■  ■       . 

July  10th. 
Some  very  good  people,  like  some  very  fine  pictures,  are  best  at 
a  distance.  But  Leonora  is  not  one  of  these :  the  nearer  you 
approach,  the  better  you  like  her;  as  in  arabesque-work  you 
may  admire  the  beauty  of  the  design  even  at  a  distance,  but  you 
cannot  appreciate  the  delicacy  of  the  execution  till  you  examim 
Leonora. 


274  LEONORA, 

it  closely,  and  discover  that  every  line  is  formed  of  grains  of 
gold,  almost  imperceptibly  fine.  I  am. glad  that  the  "small  sweel 
courtesies  of  life"  have  been  hailed  by  one  sentimental  writer 
at  least.  The  minor  virtues  are  not  to  be  despised,  even  in  com- 
parison with  the  most  exalted.  The  common  rose,  I  have  often 
thought,  need  not  be  ashamed  of  itself  even  in  company  with 
the  finest  exotics  in  a  hothouse ;  and  I  remember,  that  your 
brother,  in  one  of  his  letters,  observed,  that  the  common  cock 
makes  a  very  respectable  figure,  even  in  the  grand  Parisian 
assembly  of  all  the  stufied  birds  and  beasts  in  the  universe.  It 
is  a  glorious  thing  to  have  a  friend  who  will  jump  into  a  river^ 
or  down  a  precipice,  to  save  one's  life :  but  as  I  do  not  intend 
to  tumble  down  precipices,  or  to  throw  myself  into  the  water 
above  half  a  dozen  times,  I  would  rather  have  for  my  friends 
persons  who  would  not  reserve  their  kindness  wholly  for  these 
grand  occasions,  but  who  could  condescend  to  make  me  happy 
every  day,  and  all  day  long,  even  by  actions  not  sufficiently 
sublime  to  be  recorded  in  history  or  romance. 

Do  not  infer  from  this  that  I  think  Leonora  would  hesitate  to 
make  great  sacrifices.  I  have  had  sufficient  experience  of 
her  fortitude  and  active  courage  of  mind  in  the  most  trying  cir- 
cumstances, whilst  many  who  talked  more  stoutly,  shrunk  from 
committing  themselves  by  actions. 

Some  maxim-maker  says,  that  past  misfortunes  are  good  fov 
nothing  but  to  be  forgotten.  I  am  not  of  his  opinion  :  I  think 
that  they  are  good  to  make  us  know  our  winter  from  our  summer 
friends,  and  to  make  us  feel  for  those  who  have  sustained  us  in 
adversity,  that  most  pleasurable  sensation  of  the  human  mind — 
gratitude. 

But  I  am  straying  unawares  into  the  province  of  sentiment, 
■where  I  am  such  a  stranger  that  I  shall  inevitably  lose  my  way 
especially  as  I  am  too  proud  to  take  a  guide.  Lady  Olivia  •** 
may  perhaps  be  very  fond  of  Leonora :  and  as  she  has  every 
possible  cause  to  be  so,  it  is  but  reasonable  and  charitable  to 
suppose  that  she  is :  but  I  should  never  guess  it  by  her  manner. 
She  speaks  of  her  friendship  sometimes  in  the  most  romantic 
style,  but  often  makes  observations  upon  the  enviable  coolness 
find  imperturbability  of  Leonora's  disposition,  which  convince! 
lite  that  she  does  not  understand  it  in  the  least.     Those  who  do 


LEONORA.  *27i 

not  really  feel,  always  pitch  their  expressions  too  high  or  too 
low,  as  deaf  people  bellow,  or  speak  in  a  whisper.  But  I  may  be 
mistaken  in  my  suspicions  of  Olivia  ;  for  to  do  the  lady  justice^ 
as  Mrs.  Candour  would  say,  she  is  so  affected,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  know  what  she  really  feels.  Those  who  put  on  rouge  occa- 
sionally, are  suspected  of  wearing  it  constantly,  and  never  li<;ve 
any  credit  for  their  natural  colour ;  presently  they  become  so 
accustomed  to  common  rouge,  that,  mistaking  scarlet  for  pale 
pink,  they  persist  in  laying  on  more  and  more,  till  they  are  like 
nothing  human. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Helen  C • 


LETTER  XV. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


I  HAVE  found  it!  I  have  found  it!  dear  Gabrielle,  rejoice  with 
me  I  I  have  solved  the  metaphysical  problem,  which  perplexed 
me  so  cruelly,  and  now  I  am  once  more  at  peace  with  myself. 
I  have  discovered  the  reason  why  I  cannot  love  Leonora  as  she 
merits  to  be  loved — she  has  obliged  me ;  and  the  nature  of 
obligation  is  such,  that  it  supposes  superiority  on  one  side,  and 
consequently  destroys  the  equality,  the  freedom,  the  ease,  the 
charm  of  friendship.  Gratitude  weighs  upon  one's  heart  in 
proportion  to  the  delicacy  of  its  feelings.  To  minds  of  an 
ordinary  sort  it  may  be  pleasurable,  for  with  them  it  is  suffi- 
ciently feeble  to  be  calm  ;  but  in  souls  of  a  superior  cast,  it  is  a 
poignant,  painful  sensation,  because  it  is  too  strong  ever  to  be 
tranquil.     In  short, 

**  'Tis  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bound- 
Beyond,  *ti8  agony.'* 

For  my  own  part,  the  very  dread  that  I  shall  not  be  thought 
to  express  enough,  deprives  me  of  the  power  to  speak  or  even 
to  feel.  Fear,  you  know,  extinguishes  affection ;  and  of  all  fears, 
the  dread  of  not  being  sufficiently  grateful,  operates  the  most 


276  LEONORA. 

powerfully.  Thus  sensibility  destroys  itself. — Gracious  Heaven  f 
teach  me  to  moderate  mine. 

In  the  nature  of  the  obligation  with  which  Leonora  has 
oppressed  my  heart,  there  is  something  peculiarly  humiliating. 
Upon  my  return  to  this  country,  I  found  the  malignant  genius  of 
scandal  bent  upon  destroying  my  reputation.  You  hare  no 
idea  of  the  miserable  force  of  prejudice  which  still  prevails  here. 
There  are  some  women  who  emancipate  themselves,  but  then 
unluckily  they  are  not  in  sufficient  numbers  to  keep  each  other 
in  countenance  in  public.  One  would  not  choose  to  be  confined 
to  the  society  of  people  who  cannot  go  to  coiirt,  though  sometimes 
they  take  the  lead  elsewhere.  We  are  full  half  a  century  behind 
you  in  civilization ;  and  your  revolution  has,  I  find,  afforded  all 
our  stiffened  moralists  incontrovertible  arguments  against  liberty 
of  opinion  or  conduct  in  either  sex. 

I  was  thunderstruck  when  I  saw  the  grave  and  repulsive  faces 
of  all  my  female  acquaintance.  At  first  I  attributed  every  thing 
that  was  strange  and  disagreeable  to  English  reserve,  of  which 
I  had  retained  a  sufficiently  formidable  idea  :  but  I  presently 
found  that  there  was  some  other  cause  which  kept  all  these  nice 
consciences  at  a  distance  from  my  atmosphere. 

Would  you  believe  it?  I  saw  myself  upon  the  point  of  being 
quite  excluded  from  good  society.  Leonora  saved  me  from  this 
imminent  danger.  Voluntarily,  and  I  must  say  nobly,  if  not 
gracefully,  Leonora  came  forward  in  my  defence.  Vanquishing 
her  natural  English  timidity,  she  braved  the  eyes,  and  tongues, 
and  advice  of  all  the  prudes  and  old  dowagers  my  enemies, 
amongst  whom  I  may  count  the  supei-annuated  Duchess  her 
mother,  the  proudest  dowager  now  living.  When  I  appeared  in 
public  with  a  personage  of  Leonora's  unblemished  reputation, 
scandal,  much  against  her  will,  was  forced  to  be  silent,  and  it 
was  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  I  was,  in  the  language  of 
prudery,  perfectly  innocentc  Leonora,  to  be  consistent  in  good- 
ness, or  to  complete  her  triumph  in  the  face  of  the  world,  invited 

me  to  accompany  her  to  the  country. 1  have  now  been  some 

weeks  at  this  superb  castle.  Heaven  is  my  witnessthat  I  came 
with  a  heart  overflowing  with  affection ;  but  the  painful,  the 
^onizing  sense  of  humiliation  mixed  with  my  tenderest  senti- 
ments, and  all  became  bitterness  insufferable.     Oh,  Gabriellel 


LEONORA.  277 

^ou,  and  perhaps   you  alone  upon  earth,  can  understand  my 
feelings.      Adieu  ! — pity   me — I   must  not  ask  you  a   single 

qu^estion  about- 1  must  not  write  the  name  for  ever  dear— r 

What  am  I  saying  ?  where  are  my  promises  ? — Adieu  ! — Adieu 

Your  unhappy 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XVI. 

MRS.  C TO    MISS    B . 

July  16th. 
As  I  liave  never  thought  it  my  duty  in  this  mortal  life  to  mourn 
for  the  absurdities  of  my  fellow-creatures,  I  should  now  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  laughing  at  Lady  Olivia,  if  my  propensity  were 
not  checked  by  a  serious  apprehension  that  she  will  injure 
Leonora's  happiness.  From  the  most  generous  motives,  dear 
Leonora  is  continually  anxious  to  soothe  her  mind,  to  persuade 
and  rea^^on  her  into  common  sense,  to  re-establish  her  in  public 
opinion,  and  to  make  her  happy.  But  I  am  convinced  that 
Lady  Olivia  never  will  have  common  sense,  and  consequently 
never  can  be  happy.  Twenty  times  a  day  I  wish  her  at  the 
antipodes,  for  I  dread  lest  Leonora  should  be  implicated  in  her 
affairs,  and  involved  in  her  miserj'. 

Last  night  this  foolish  woman,  who  unluckily  is  graced  with 
all  the  power  of  words,  poured  forth  a  fine  declamation  in  favour 
of  divorce.  In  vain  Leonora  reasoned,  expostulated,  blushed. 
Lady  Olivia  cannot  blush  for  herself;  and  though  both  Mr. 
L — —  and  I  were  present,  she  persisted  with  that  vehemence 
which  betrays  personal  interest  in  an  argument  I  suspect  that 
she  is  going  to  try  to  obtain  a  divorce  from  her  husband,  that 
she  may  marry  her  lover.  Consider  the  consequences  of  this 
for  Leonora. — Leonora  to  be  the  friend  of  a  woman  who  will  risk 
the  infamy  of  a  trial  at  Doctors'  Commons  !  But  Leonora  says 
I  am  mistaken,  and  that  all  this  is  only  Olivia's  way  of  talkingi 
I  wish  then,  that,  if  she  does  not  intend  to  act  like  a  fool,  she 
would  not  talk  like  one.  I  agree  with  the  gentleman  who  said 
that  a  woman  who  begins  by  playing  the  fool,  always  ends  by 
playing  the  devil.     Even  before  me,  though  I  certainly  never 


278  LEONORA. 

•elicit  her  confidence,  Lady  Olivia  talks  with  the  most  imprudent 
openness  of  her  love  affairs ;  not,  I  think,  from  ingenuousness, 
but  from  inability  to  restrain  herself.     Begin  what  subject  of 
conversation  I  will,  as  far  from  Cupid  as  possible,  she  will  bring 
me  back  again  to  him  before  I  know  where  1  am.     She  has  no 
ideas  but  on  this  one  subject.      Leonora,   dear,   kind-hearted 
Leonora,  attributes  this  to  the  temporary  influence  of  a  violent 
passion,  which  she  assures  me  Olivia  will  conquer,  and  that  then 
all  her  great  and  good  qualities  will,  as  if  freed  from  enchant- 
ment,  re-assume   their    natural   vigour.      Natural! — there    is 
nothing  natural  about  this  sophisticated  lady.     I  wish  Leonora 
would  think  more  of  herself,  and  less  of  other  people.     As  to 
Lady  Olivia's  excessive  sensibility,  I  have  no  faith  in  it.     I  do 
not  think  either  the  lover  or  the  passion  so  much  to  be  feared 
for  her,  as  the  want  of  a  lover  and  the  habit  of  thinking  that  it 
is  necessary  to  be  in  love.     ***••••••••••♦*• 

Yours  affectionately, 
Helen  C 


LETTER  XVn. 

GENERAL    B— —    TO    MR.  L . 

MT  DEAR  L ,  P&ris,  H6tel  de  Courlaude. 

When  you  ask  a  countryman  in  England  the  way  to  the  next 
town,  he  replies,  "Where  do  you  come  from,  master?"  and  till 
you  have  answered  this  question,  no  information  can  you  obtain 

from  him.     You  ask  me  what  I  know  of  Lady   Olivia  . 

What  is  your  reason  for  asking  ?  Till  you  have  answered  this 
question,  hope  for  no  information  from  me.  Seriously,  Lady 
Olivia  had  left  Paris  before  I  arrived,  therefore  you  cannot  have 
my  judgment  of  her  ladyship,  which  I  presume  is  all  you  could 
depend  upon.  If  you  will  take  hearsay  evidence,  and  if  you 
wish  me  to  speak  to  general  character,  I  can  readily  satisfy  you. 
Common  repute  is  loud  and  unanimous  in  favour  of  her  talents, 
beauty,  and  fashion  :  there  is  no  resisting,  I  am  told,  the  fasci- 
nation of  her  manners  and  conversation ;  hut  her  opinions  are 
fashionably  liberal,  and  her  practice  as  liberal  as  her  theories. 


LEONORA.  279 

■Since  liar  separation  from  her  husband,  her  lover  is  publicly 
i\auied.  Some  English  friends  plead  in  her  favour  platonic 
attachment :  this,  like  benefit  of  clergy,  is  claimed  of  course  for 
a  first  offence :  but  Lady  Olivia's  Parisian  acquaintance  are  not 
■to  scrupulous  or  so  old-fashioned  as  to  think  it  an  offence  ;  the} 
call  it  an  arrangement^  and  to  this  there  can  be  no  objection. 
As  a  French  gentleman  said  to  me  the  other  day,  with  an 
unanswerable  shrug,  "  Tout  le  monde  sait  que  R  •  *  *  est  son 
amant;  d'ailleurs,  c'est  la  femme  la  plus  aimable  du  monde." 

As  to  Lady  Olivia's  friend,  Mad.  de  P ,  she  sees  a  great 

deal  of  company ;  her  house  is  the  resort  of  people  of  various 
descriptions;  ministers,  foreigners,  coquettes,  and  generals;  in 
short,  of  all  those  who  wish,  without  scandal  or  suspicion,  to 
intrigue  either  in  love  or  politics.  Her  assemblies  are  also 
frequented  by  a  few  of  Pancien  regime,  who  wish  to  be  in  favour 

with  the  present  government.     Mad.  de  P ,  of  a  noble  family 

herself,  and  formerly  much  at  court,  has  managed  matters  so  as 
to  have  regained  all  her  husband's  confiscated  property,  and  to 
•have  acquired  much  influence  with  some  of  the  leading  men  of 
the  day.  In  her  manners  and  conversation  there  is  an  odd 
mixture  of  frivolity  and  address,  of  the  airs  of  coquetry  and  the 
jargon  of  sentiment.  She  has  the  politeness  of  a  French 
Countess,  with  exquisite  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  les 
convenances,  joined  to  that  freedom  of  opinion  which  marks  the 
present  times.  In  the  midst  of  all  these  inconsistencies,  it  is 
difficult  to  guess  what  her  real  character  may  be.  At  first  sight 
I  should  pronounce  her  to  be  a  silly  woman,  governed  by  vanity 
and  the  whim  of  the  moment :  but  those  who  know  her  better 
than  I  do,  believe  her  to  be  a  woman  of  considerable  talents, 
inordinately  fond  of  power,  and  uniformly  intent  upon  her  own 
interest,  using  coquetry  only  as  a  means  to  govern  our  sex,  and 

frivolity  as  a  mask  for  her  ambition.     In  short,  Mad.  de   P 

IS  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  combination  of  an  intrigante  and  an 
elegantCj  a  combination  often  found  in  Paris.  Here  women 
mingle  politics  and  gallantry — men  mix  politics  and  epicurism 
• — which  is  the  better  mixture  ? 

I  have  business  of  importance  to  my  country  to  transact  to-day, 
therefore  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the  modern  Apicius.  Excuse 
me,  my  dear  friend,  if  I  cannot  stay  at  present  to  answer  youi 


280  LEONOEA. 

questions  about  divorce.  I  must  be  punctual.  What  sort  of  a 
negotiator  can  he  make  who  is  too  late  at  a  minister's  dinner  t 
Five  minutes  might  change  the  face  of  Europe. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

MADAME    DE    P TO    OLIVIA. 

Paris. 

My  incomparable  Olivia  !  your  letters  are  absolutely  divine.  I 
am  maussade,  I  vegetate.  I  cannot  be  said  to  live  the  days  whe.tt 
I  do  not  hear  from  you.  Last  Thursday  I  was  disappointed  of 
one  of  these  dear  letters,  and  Brave-et-tendre  told  me  frankly, 
that  I  was  so  little  amiable  he  should  not  have  known  me. — As 
to  the  rest,  pardon  me  for  not  writing  punctually :  I  have  been 
really  in  a  chaos  of  business  and  pleasui*e,  and  I  do  not  know 
which  fatigues  most.  But  I  am  obliged  to  attend  the  ministers 
every  day,  tor  the  sake  of  my  friends. 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  thanks  for  your  pictures  of  your 
English  friends  :  sketches  by  a  masterly  hand  must  be  valuable, 
whatever  the  subject.  I  would  rather  have  the  pictures  than  the 
realities.  Your  Helen  and  your  Lady  Leonora  are  too  good  for 
me,  and  I  pity  you  from  my  soul  for  being  shut  up  in  that  old 
castle.  I  suppose  it  is  like  an  old  castle  in  Dauphiny,  where  1 
once  spent  a  week,  and  where  I  was  nearly  frightened  to  death 
by  the  flapping  of  the  old  tapestry  behind  my  bed,  and  by  the 
bats  which  flew  in  through  the  broken  windows.  They  say, 
however,  that  our  chdteaux  and  yours  are  something  different. 
Of  this  I  have  no  clear  conception. 

I  send  you  three  comforters  in  your  prison — a  billet-doux, 
a  new  novel,  and  a  pattern  of  my  sandal :  a  billet-doux  from 
R*»*  says  every  thing  for  itself ;  but  I  must  say  something  for 
the  new  novel.  Zenobie,  which  I  now  send  you,  is  the  declared 
rival  of  Seraphine.  Parties  have  run  high  on  both  sides,  and 
apnlications  were  made  and  inuendoes  discovered,  and  wit  and 
sentiment  came  to  close  combat;  and,  as  usual, people  talked  till 
they  did  not  understand  themselves.     For  a  fortnight,  wherever 


LEOVORA.  281 

one  went,  the  first  words  to  be  heard  on  entering  every  salon  were 
Seraphine  and  Zenobie. — Peace  or  war. — Mile.  Georges  and 
Mile.  Duchesnois  were  nothing  to  Seraphine  and  Zenobie.  For 
Heaven's  sake  tell  me  which  you  prefer  !  But  I  fear  they  will 
be  no  more  talked  of  before  I  have  your  answer.  To  say  the 
truth,  I  am  tired  of  both  heroines,  for  a  fortnight  is  too  long  to 
talk  or  think  of  any  one  thing. 

I  flatter  myself  you  will  like  my  sandals  :  they  are  my  own 
invention,  and  my  foot  really  shows  them  to  advantage.  You 
Know  I  might  say,  as  Du  P**»  said  of  himself,  **  J'ai  im  pied 
dont  la  petitesse  echappe  a  la  vitesse  de  la  pens^e."  I  thought 
my  poor  friend  Mad.  Dumarais  would  have  died  with  envy,  the 
other  day,  when  I  appeared  in  them  at  her  ball,  which,  by-the- 
bye,  was  in  all  its  decorations  as  absurd  and  in  as  bad  taste 
as  usual.  For  the  most  part  these  nouveaux  riches  lavish  money, 
but  can  never  purchase  taste  or  a  sense  of  propriety.  All  is  gold  : 
but  that  is  not  enough  ;  or  rather  that  is  too  much.  In  spite  of 
all  that  both  the  Indies,  China,  Arabia,  Egypt,  and  even  Paris 
can  do  for  them,  they  will  be  ever  out  of  place,  in  the  midst  of 
their  magnificence  :  they  will  never  even  know  how  to  ruin 
tliemselves  nobly.  They  must  live  and  die  as  they  were  bom, 
ridiculous.  Now  I  would  rather  not  exist  than  feel  myself  ridi- 
culous. But  I  believe  no  one  living,  not  even  le  petit  d'Heron- 
ville,  knows  himself  to  be  an  object  of  ridicule.  There  are  no 
looking-glasses  for  the  mind,  and  I  question  whether  we  should 
use  them  if  there  were.  D'Heronville  is  just  as  you  left  him,  and 
as  much  my  amusement  as  he  used  to  be  yours.  He  goes  on 
■with  an  eternal  galimatias  of  patriotism,  with  such  a  self-suffi- 
cient air  and  decided  tone !  never  suspecting  that  he  says  only 
what  other  people  make  him  say,  and  that  he  is  listened  to, 
only  to  find  out  what  some  people  think.  Many  will  say  before 
fools,  what  they  would  not  hazard  before  wise  men ;  not  consi- 
dering that  fools  can  repeat  as  well  as  parrots.  I  once  heard  a 
great  man  remark,  that  the  only  spies  fit  to  be  trusted  are  those 
■who  do  not  know  themselves  to  be  such  ;  who  have  no  salary  but 
what  their  vaiiity  pays  them,  and  who  are  employed  without 
being  accredited. 

But  treve  de  politique ! — My  charming  Olivia,  I  know,  abhor* 
politics,  as  much  as  I  detest  metaphysics,  from  all  lips  or  pent 


282  LEONORA. 

♦>ut  lieis.  Now  I  must  tell  you  something  of  your  friends 
nere. 

O  talks  nonsense  as  agreeably  as  ever,  and  dances  a« 

divinely.  'Tis  a  pity  he  cannot  always  dance,  for  then  he  would 
not  ruin  himself  at  play.  He  wants  me  to  get  him  a  regiment — 
us  if  I  had  any  power ! — or  as  if  I  would  use  it  for  this  purpose, 

when   I  knew  that  my  interesting  friend  Mad.    Q would 

break  her  poor  little  heart  if  he  were  to  quit  her. 

Mon  Cceur  is  as  pretty  as  ever ;  but  she  is  now  in  affliction. 
She  has  lost  her  dear  little  dog  Corisonde.  He  died  suddenly ; 
almost  in  her  arms !  She  will  erect  a  monument  to  him  in  her 
xharming ^'arc^m  Anglois.  This  will  occupy  her,  and  then  "  Time, 
the  comforter" — Inimitable  Voltaire  ! 

Our  dear  BriUante  has  just  had  a  superb  hommage  from  her 
iover  the  commissary — a  necklace  and  bracelets  of  the  finest 
pearls  :  but  she  cannot  wear  them  yet :  her  brother  having  died 
last  week,  she  is  in  deep  mourning.  This  brother  was  not  upon 
good  terms  with  her.  He  never  forgave  the  divorce.  He 
thought  it  a  disgrace  to  have  a  sister  une  divorcee  ;  but  he  was 
full  of  prejudice,  poor  man,  and  he  is  dead,  and  we  need  think 
no  more  of  him  or  of  his  faults. 

Our  ci-devant  chanoine,  who  married  that  little  Meudon, 
is  as  miserable  as  possible,  and  as  ridiculous :  for  he  is 
jealous  of  his  young  wife,  and  she  is  a  franche-coquette. 
The  poor  man  looks  as  if  he  repented  sincerely  of  his  errors. 
What  a  penitent  a  coquette  can  make  of  a  husband  !  Bourdaloue 
and  Massillon  would  have  tried  their  powers  on  this  man's  heart 
in  vain. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  Mad.  G is  a  second  time  divorced? 

But  this  time  it  is  her  husband's  doing,  not  hers.  This  hand- 
some husband  has  spent  all  the  immense  fortune  she  brought 
him,  and  now  procures  a  divorce  for  incompatibility  of  temper, 
and  is  going  to  marry  another  lady,  richer  than  Mad.  G  ■, 
and  as  great  a  fool.  This  system  of  divorce,  though  convenient, 
is  not  always  advantageous  to  women.  However,  in  one  point 
of  view,  I  wonder  that  the  rigid  moralists  do  not  defend  it,  as 
the  only  means  of  making  a  man  in  love  with  his  own  wife.  A 
man  divorces ;  the  law  does  not  permit  him  to  marry  the  same 
woman  afterwards ;  of  course  this  prohibition  makes  him  fall  ia 


LSONORA.  283 

love  with  her.  Of  this  we  have  many  edifying  examples  besides 
Fanchette,  who,  though  she  was  so  beautiful,  and  a  tolerable 
actress,  would  never  have  drawn  all  Paris  to  the  Vaudeville  if 
she  had  not  been  a  divorcee,  and  if  it  had  not  been  known  that 
her  husband,  who  played  the  lover  of  the  piece,  was  dying  to 
marry  her  again.  Apropos,  Mad.  St.  Germain  is  acting  one  of 
her  own  romances,  in  the  high  sublime  style,  and  threatens  to 
poison  herself  for  love  of  her  perjured  inconstant — but  it  will 
not  do. 

Madame  la  Grande  was  near  having  a  sad  accident  the  other 
night:  in  crossing  the  Pont-neuf  her  horses  took  fright;  for 
there  was  a  crowd  and  embarras,  a  man  having  just  drowned 
himself — not  for  love,  but  for  hunger.  How  many  men,  women, 
and  children,  do  you  think  drowned  themselves  in  the  Seine  last 
year  ?  Upwards  of  two  hundred.  This  is  really  shocking,  and 
a  stop  should  be  put  to  it  by  authority.  It  absolutely  makes 
me  shudder  and  reflect ;  but  apres  nous  le  deluge  was  La  Pom- 
padour's maxim,  and  should  be  ours. 

Mad.  Folard  se  coiffe  en  chevetix,  and  Mad.  Rocroix  crowns 
herself  with  roses,  whilst  all  the  world  knows  that  either  of  them 
is  old  enough  to  be  my  mother.  In  former  days  a  woman  could 
not  wear  flowers  after  thirty,  and  was  bel  esprit  or  d4vote  at 
forty,  for  it  was  thought  bad  taste  to  do  otherwise.  But  now 
every  body  may  be  as  young  as  they  please,  or  as  ridiculous.. 
Women  have  certainly  gained  by  the  new  order  of  things. 

Our  poor  friend  Vermeille  se  meurt  de  la  poitrine — a  victim 
to  tea  and  late  hours.  She  is  an  interesting  creature,  and  my 
heart  bleeds  for  her  :  she  will  never  last  till  winter. 

Do  you  know,  it  is  said,  we  shall  soon  have  no  wood  to  burn. 
What  can  have  become  of  all  our  forests?  People  should 
inquire  after  them.  The  Venus  de  Medici  has  at  last  found  her 
way  down  the  Seine.  It  is  not  determined  yet  where  to  place 
her :  but  she  is  at  Paris,  and  that  is  a  great  point  gained  for  her. 
You  complained  that  the  Apollo  stands  with  his  back  so  neartlie 
wall,  that  there  is  no  seeing  half  the  beauties  of  his  shoulders. 
If  I  have  any  influence,  Venus  shall  not  be  so  served.  I  have 
been  to  see  her.  She  is  certainly  divine — but  not  French.  I  do 
not  despair  of  seeing  her  surpassed  by  our  artists. 

Adieu,  my  adorable  Olivia.     I  should  have  finished  my  lettef 

19 


284  LEONORA. 

yesterday ;  but  when  I  came  home  in  the  morning,  expecting  to 
have  a  moment  sacred  to  you  and  friendship,  whom  should  I  find 
established  in  an  arm-chair  in  my  cabinet  but  our  old  Countesa 
Cidevant.  There  was  no  retreat  for  me.  In  the  midst  of  my 
concentrated  rage,  I  was  obliged  to  advance  and  embrace  her, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  happiness  for  tlie  day.  Tlie  pitiless 
woman  kept  me  till  it  was  even  too  late  to  dress,  talking  over 
her  family  misfortunes ;  as  if  they  were  any  thing  to  me.  She 
wants  to  get  her  son  employed,  but  her  pride  will  not  let  her  pay 
her  court  properly,  and  she  wants  me  to  do  it  for  her.  Not  I, 
truly.  I  should  shut  my  doors  against  her  but  for  the  sake  of 
her  nephew  le  rove,  who  is  really  a  pretty  young  man.  My 
angel,  I  embrace  you  tenderly. 

Gabrielle  de  P 


LETTER  XIX. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P— — . 

How  melancholy  to  a  feeling  heart  is  the  moment  when  illusion 
vanishes,  whether  that  illusion  has  been  created  by  the  magic  of 
love  or  of  friendship !  How  many  such  moments,  Gabrielle, 
has  your  unfortunate  friend  been  doomed  to  endure !  Alas  f 
when  will  treacherous  fancy  cease  to  throw  a  deceitful  brilliancy 
upon  each  new  object ! 

Perhaps  I  am  too  delicate — but  R***'s  note,  enclosed  in 
your  last,  my  Gabrielle,  was  unlike  his  former  letters.  It  was 
not  passionate,  it  was  only  reasonable.  A  man  who  can  reason 
is  no  longer  in  love.  The  manner  in  which  he  speaks  of  divorce 
shocked  me  beyond  expression.  Is  it  for  him  to  talk  of  scruples 
when  upon  this  subject  I  have  none  ?  I  own  to  you  that  my 
pride  and  my  tenderness  are  sensibly  wounded.  Is  it  for  him  to 
convince  me  that  I  am  in  the  wrong?  I  shall  not  be  at  ease  till 
I  hear  from  you  again,  my  amiable  friend :  for  my  residence 
here  becomes  insupportable.  But  a  few  short  weeks  are  past 
since  I  fancied  Leonora  an  angel,  and  now  she  falls  below  the 
ordinary  standard  of  mortals.  But  a  few  short  weeks  are  past 
since,  in  the  full  confidence  of  finding  in  Leonora  a  second  self, 
a  second  Gabrielle,  I  eagerly  developed  to  her  my  inmost  soul ; 
yet  now  my  heart  closes,  I  fear  never  more  to  open.    The  sad 


LEONORA.  285 

conviction,  that  we  have  but  few  ideas,  and  no  feelings  in 
common,  stops  my  tongue  when  I  attempt  to  speak,  chills  my 
heart  when  I  begin  to  listen. 

Do  you  know,  my  Gabrielle,  I  have  discovered  that  Leonora 
is  inordinately  selfish?  For  all  other  faults  1  have  charity; 
but  selfishness,  which  has  none  to  give,  must  expect  none.  O 
divine  sensibility,  defend  me  from  this  isolation  of  the  heart: 
All  thy  nameless  sorrows,  all  thy  heart-rending  tortures,  would 
I  a  thousand  times  rather  endure.  Leonora's  selfishness  breaks 
•out  perpetually ;  and,  alas !  it  is  of  the  most  inveterate,  incurable 
kind  :  every  thing  that  is  immediately  or  remotely  connected 
with  self  she  loves,  and  loves  with  the  most  provoking  pertinacity. 
Her  mother,  her  husband,  she  adores,  because  they  are  her  own  ; 
and  even  her  sister's  children,  because  she  considers  them,  she 
says,  as  her  own.  All  and  every  possible  portion  of  self  she 
cherishes  with  the  most  sordid  partiality.  All  that  touches  these 
relations  touches  her;  and  every  thing  whicli  is  theirs,  or,  in 
other  words,  which  is  hers,  she  deems  excellent  and  sacred. 
Last  night  I  just  hazarded  a  word  of  ridicule  upon  some  of  the 
obsolete  prejudices  of  that  august  personage,  that  Duchess  of  old 
tapestry,  her  still  living  ancestor.  I  wish,  Gabrielle,  you  had 
seen  Leonora's  countenance.  Her  colour  rose  up  to  her  temples, 
her  eyes  lightened  with  indignation,  and  her  whole  person 
assumed  a  dignity,  which  might  have  killed  a  presumptuous 
lover,  or  better  fur,  might  have  enslaved  him  for  life.  What 
folly  to  waste  all  this  upon  such  an  occasion  !  But  selfishness  is 
ever  blind  to  its  real  interests.  Leonora  is  so  bigoted  to  this 
old  woman,  that  she  is  already  in  mind  an  old  woman  herself. 
She  fancies  that  she  traces  a  resemblance  to  her  mother,  and  of 
course  to  dear  self  in  her  infant,  and  she  looks  upon  it  with  such 
doting  eyes,  and  talks  to  it  with  such  exquisite  tones  of  fondnesS; 
as  are  to  me,  who  know  the  source  from  which  they  proceed,  quite 
ridiculous  and  disgusting.  An  infant,  who  has  no  imaginable 
merit,  and,  to  impartial  eyes,  no  charms,  she  can  love  to  this 
excess  from  no  motive  but  pure  egotism.  Then  her  husband — 
but  this  subject  I  must  reserve  for  another  letter.  I  am 
jummoned  to  walk  with  him  this  moment. 

Adieu,  charming  Gabrielle, 

Olivia« 


4f£Nt  UM>NORJk. 


LETTER  XX. 


GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L- 


liY  DEAR  L ,  Paris,  180—. 

Enclosed  I  send  you,  according  to  your  earnest  desire,  Cam<i^ 
bac^res'  reflections  upon  the  intended  new  law  of  divorce.  Give 
me  leave  to  ask  why  you  are  so  violently  interested  upon  this 
occasion  ?     Do  you  envy  France  this  blessing  ?     Do  you  wish 
tkat  English  husbands  and  wives  should  have   the   power  of 
divorcing  each  other  at  pleasure  for  incompatibility  of  temper  f 
And  have  you  calculated  the  admirable  eftect  this  would  produce 
upon  the  temper  both  of  the  weaker  and  the  stronger  sex  ?     To 
bear  and  forbear  would  then  be  no  longer  necessary.  Every  happy 
pair  might  quarrel  and  part  at  a  moment's  notice — at  a  year's 
notice  at  most.     And  their  children  ?     The  wisdom  of  Solomon 
would  be  necessary  to  settle  the  just  division  of  the  children.     I 
havf  this  morning  been  attending  a  court  of  law  to  hear  a  famous 
trial  between  two  husbands :  the  abdicated  lord  a  ci-devant  noble, 
and  tlie  reigning  husband  a  ci-devant  grand-vicaire,  who  has 
refwmed.     Each  party  claimed  a  right  to  the  children  by  the 
first  marriage,  for   the  children  were  minors  entitled  to  large 
fortunes.     The  reformed  grand-vicaire  pleaded  his  own  cause 
with  astonishing  assurance,  amidst  the  discountenancing  looks, 
munnurs,  and  almost  amidst  the  groans  of  disapprobation  from 
the  majority  of  the  auditors.    His  powers  of  impudence,  however, 
failed  him  at  last.     I  sat  on   the  bench  behind  him,  and  saw 
that  Ills  ears  had  the  grace  to  blush.     After  another  hearings 
this  cause,  which  had  lasted  four  years,  was  decided ;  and  the 
first  husband  and  real  father  was  permitted  to  have  the  guar- 
dianship of  his  own  children.     During  the  four  years'  litigation, 
the  friends  of  the  parties,  from  the  grandmother  downwards, 
were   all  at   irreconcileable   variance.      What  became   of  the 
children  all  this  time  ?     Their  mother  was  represented  during 
the  trial  as  she  deserved  to  be,  as  a  wretch  void  of  shame  and 
gratitude.     The  father  was  universally  pitied,  though  his  rival 
painted  him  us  a  coward,  who  during  the  revolution  had  left  hia 
children  to  save  himself  by  flight ;  and  as  a  fool,  who  had  left 


LEONORA.  2ii7 

iiis  wife  to  the  care  of  a  profligate  grand-vicaire.  Divorce  is 
not  countenanced  by  opinion  in  Paris,  though  permitted  by  law. 
With  a  few  exceptions  in  extraordinary  cases,  I  have  observed 
that  les  divorcees  are  not  received  into  good  society. 

To  satiate  your  curiosity,  I  send  you  all  the  papers  that  have 
been  written  lately  on  this  subject,  of  which  you  will  find  that 
of  Cambac^res  the  best.  The  wits  say  that  he  is  an  impartial 
judge.  I  presume  you  want  these  pamphlets  for  some  foolish 
friend ;  for  yourself  you  can  never  want  them,  blessed  as  you  are 

with  such  a  wife  as  Lady  Leonora  L .     I  am  not  surprised 

that  profligate  men  should  wish  for  freedom  of  divorce,  because  it 
would  save  them  damages  in  Doctors'  Commons :  but  you  rather 
astonish  me — ^if  a  wise  man  should  be  astonished  at  any  thing  in 
these  days — by  assuring  me  that  you  have  lately  heard  this 
system  eloquently  defended  by  a  female  philosopher.  What 
can  women  expect  from  it  but  contempt  ?  Next  to  polygamy, 
it  would  prove  the  most  certain  method  of  destroying  the 
domestic  happiness  of  the  sex,  as  well  as  their  influence  and 
respectability  in  society.  But  some  of  the  dear  creatures  love 
to  talk  of  what  they  do  not  understand,  and  usually  show  their 
eloquence  to  the  greatest  advantage,  by  taking  the  wrong  side 
of  a  question. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XXI. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P 

L Castle. 

From  selfishness  to  jealousy  there  is  but  one  step,  or  rather  there 
is  none ;  for  jealousy  of  a  certain  sort  is  but  selfishness  in  another 
form.  How  difierent  this  passion  as  I  have  felt  it,  and  as  I  see 
k  shown !  In  some  characters  it  is  the  symptom  of  amiable  and 
exquisite  sensibility;  in  others  of  odious  coldness  and  contraction 
of  heart.  In  some  of  our  sex  it  is,  you  know,  my  Gabrielle, 
a  delicate  fear,  a  tender  anxiety,  a  proof  of  ardent  passion ;  in 
others  it  is  a  mere  love  of  power,  a  disgusting  struggle  for  the 
property  of  a  heart,  an  absurd  assertion  of  rights  and  prerogatives. 


288  LEONORA. 

Surely  no  prejudice  of  education  or  institution  can  be  more  bar- 
barous tban  that  which  teaches  a  wife  that«'iie  has  an  indefeasible 
and  exclusive  right  both  to  the  affections  and  the  fidelity  of  her 
husband.  I  am  astonished  to  hear  it  avowed  by  any  woman 
who  has  the  slightest  pretensions  to  delicacy  of  sentiment,  or 
liberality  of  mind.  I  should  expect  to  find  this  vulgar  preju- 
dice only  among  the  downright  dames,  who  talk  oi  my goodman^ 
and  lay  a  particular  emphasis  on  the  possessive  pronoun  my ;, 
■who  understand  literally,  and  expect  that  their  spouses  should 
adhere  punctually  to  every  coarse  article  of  our  strange  marriage 
vow. 

In  certain  points  of  view,  my  Gabrielle,  jealousy  is  undoubtedly 
the  strongest  proof  of  an  indelicate  mind.  Yet,  if  I  mistake  not,, 
the  delicate,  the  divine  Leonora,  is  liable  to  this  terrestrial  passion* 
Yesterday  evening,  as  I  was  returning  from  a  stroU  in  the  park. 

with  Mr.  L ,  we  met  Leonora;  and  methought  she  looked 

embarrassed  at  meeting  us.  Heaven  knows  there  was  not  the 
slightest  occasion  for  embarrassment,  and  I  could  not  avoid 
being  surprised  at  such  weakness,  I  had  almost  said  folly,  in  a 
woman  of  Leonora's  sense,  especially  as  she  knows  how  my 
heart  is  attached.  In  the  first  moments  of  our  intimacy  my 
confidence  was  unbounded,  as  it  ever  is  in  those  I  love.  Aware 
as  I  was  of  the  light  in  which  the  prejudices  of  her  education 
and  her  country  make  her  view^uch  connexions,  yet  I  scrupled 
not,  with  the  utmost  candour,  to  confess  the  imfortunate  attach- 
ment which  had  ruled  my  destiny.  After  this  confidence,  do 
not  suspicion  and  jealousy  on  her  part  appear  strange?     Were 

Mr.  L and  I  shut  up  for  life  in  the  same  prison,  were  we 

left  together  upon  a  desert  island,  were  we  alone  in  the  universe,  I 
could  never  think  of  him.  And  Leonora  does  not  see  this  ! 
How  the  passions  obscure  and  degrade  the  finest  understand- 
ings !  But  perhaps  I  do  her  injustice,  and  she  felt  nothing  of 
what  her  countenance  expressed.  It  is  certain,  however,  that 
she  was  silent  for  some  moments  after  she  joined  us,  from  what 

cause   she   knows   beat — so  was   Mr.  L ,    I   suppose   from 

English  awkardness — so  was  I,  from  pure  astonishment.  At 
length,  in  pity  of  Leonora,  I  broke  the  silence.  I  had  recourse 
to  the  beauties  of  nature. 

"What   a  heavenly   evening!"   said   I.      "We  have   beeik 


LEONORA.  280 

listening  to  the  songs  of  the  birds,  enjoying  this  fresh  breeze 
of  nature's  perfumes."  Leonora  said  something  ab«ut  the 
superiority  of  nature's  perfumes  to  those  of  art ;  and  observed, 
**  how  much  more  agreeable  the  smell  of  flowers  appears  in  the 
open  air  than  in  confined  rooms !"  Whilst  she  spoke  she  looked 
at  her  husband,  as  she  continually  does  for  assent  and  approba- 
tion. He  assented,  but  apparently  without  knowing  what  he 
•was  saying ;  and  only  by  one  of  his  English  monosyllables.  I 
alone  was  at  ease. 

"  Can  any  thing  be  more  beautiful,"  continued  I,  looking 
back,  "  than  the  soft  mellow  foliage  of  those  woods,  and  the 
exquisite  tints  of  their  rich  colouring  ?  What  delicious  melan- 
choly such  an  evening  spreads  over  the  heart ! — what  reflections  f 
— what  recollections  ! — Oh,  Leonora,  look  at  the  lights  upon 
that  mountain,  and  the  deep  shadows  upon  the  lake  below. 
Just  such  scenes  have  I  admired,  by  such  have  I  been  entranced 
in  Switzerland." 

Leonora  put  her  arm  within  mine — she  seemed  to  have  no 
objection  to  my  thoughts  going  back  to  Switzerland — I  sighed — 
she  pressed  my  hand  affectionately — I  wiped  the  starting  tear 

from  my  eye.     Mr.  L looked  at  me  with  something  like 

surprise  whilst  I  repeated  involuntarily, 

"  I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you, 
For  room  is  approacbing  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fi-agrance,  and  glitt'ring  with  dew." 

I  paused,  recollecting  myself,  struck  with  the  ridicule  of 
repeating  verses,  and  of  indulging  feelings  in  which  no  one 
perhaps  sympathized. 

"Those  are  beautiful  lines,"  said  Leonora:  "that  poem  has 
always  been  a  favourite  of  mine." 

"  And  of  mine,  also,"  said  Mr.  L . 

"  I  prefer  Beattie's  Hermit  to  all  other  hermits,"  said  Leonora. 

I  was  not  in  a  mood  calmly  to  discuss  with  her  a  point  of 
criticism — I  walked  on  in  reverie :  but  in  this  I  was  not  allowed 
to  indulge.  Mr.  L— —  asked  if  I  could  not  recollect  some 
more  of  the  Hermit — I  pleaded  the  worst  memory  i^'the  world 
—a  memory  that  can  never  recollect  any  poem  perfectly  by 
rote,  only  the  touches  of  genius  or  sensibility  that  strike  me — 
and  those  are  so  few ! 

Leonora. 


200  LEONORA. 

"  But  in  this  poem  there  are  so  many,"  said  Leonora.  I  am 
sure  she  insisted  only  to  please  her  husband,  and  pleaded  against 
her  real  feelings,  purposely  to  conceal  them.  He  persisted  in  his 
request,  with  more  warmth  than  usual.  I  was  compelled  to 
rouse  myself  from  my  reverie,  and  to  call  back  my  distant 
thoughts.  I  repeated  all  that  I  could  recollect  of  the  poem. 
Mr.  L paid  me  a  profusion  of  compliments  upon  the  sweet- 
ness of  my  voice,  and  my  taste  in  reciting.  He  was  pleased  to 
find  that  my  manner  and  tones  gave  an  Italian  expression  to 
.  English  poetry,  which  to  him  was  a  peculiar  charm.  It  reminded 
him  of  some  Signora,  whom  he  had  known  at  Florence.  This  was 
the  first  time  I  had  learned  that  he  had  been  abroad.  I  was  going 
to  explore  the  foreign  field  of  conversation  which  he  thus  openod; 
but  just  at  that  moment  Leonora  withdrew  her  arm  from  mine, 
and  I  fancied  that  she  coloured.  This  might  be  only  my  fancy, 
or  the  natural  effect  of  her  stooping  to  gather  a  flower.  We 
were  now  within  sight  of  the  castle.  I  pointed  to  one  of  the 
turrets  over  a  Gothic  window,  upon  which  the  gleams  of  the 
setting  sun  produced  a  picturesque  effect ;  my  glove  happened 
to  be  off,  and  Leonora  unluckily  saw  that  her  husband's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  my  arm,  instead  of  the  turret  to  which  I  was 
pointing.  'Twas  a  trifle  which  I  never  should  have  noticed, 
had  she  not  forced  it  upon  my  attention.  She  actually  turned 
pale.     I  had  the  presence  of  mind  not  to  put  on  my  glove. 

I  must  observe  more  accurately ;  I  must  decide  whether  this 
angelic  Leonora  is,  or  is  not  susceptible  of  the  mortal  passion 
ycleped  jealousy.     I  confess  my  curiosity  is  awakened. 

Adieu,  my  ever  amiable  Gabrielle.  Olivia. 


LETTER  XXII. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


When  the  passions  are  asleep  we  are  apt  to  fancy  they  are 
dead.  I  verily  thought  that  curiosity  was  dead  within  me,  it 
had  lain  so  long  dormant,  while  stronger  and  tenderer  sentiments 
waked  in  full  activity ;  but  now  that  absence  and  distance  from 


LEONORA.  291 

their  object  lull  them  to  temporary  repose,  the  vulgar  subor- 
dinate passions  are  roused,  and  take  their  turn  to  reign.  My 
curiosity  was  so  strongly  excited  upon  the  subject  of  Leonora's 
jealousy,  that  I  could  not  rest,  without  attempting  to  obtain 
satisfaction.  Blame  me  not,  dearest  Gabrielle,  for  in  my 
situation  you  would  inevitably  have  done  the  same,  only  that 
you  would  have  done  it  with  more  address ;  with  that  peculiar, 
inimitable  address,  which  I  envy  above  all  your  accomplish- 
ments. But  address  is  a  delicate  native  of  France,  and  though 
it  may  now  and  then  exist  as  a  stranger,  I  doubt  whether  it  can 
ever  be  naturalized  in  our  rude  climate.  All  the  attempts  I 
have  made  are,  however,  encouraging  enough — you  shall  judge. 
My  object  was,  to  ascertain  the  existence  or  non-existence  of 
Leonora's  jealousy.  I  set  about  it  with  a  tolerably  careless 
assurance,  and  followed  up  the  hint  which  accident  had  thrown 
out  for  my  ingenuity  to  work  upon.  You  remember,  or  at  least 
I  remember,  that  Leonora  withdrew  her  arm  from  mine,  and 
•stooped  to  gather  a  flower  at  the  moment  when  her  husband 
mentioned  Florence,  and  the  resemblance  of  my  voice  to  that  of 
some  Italian  charmer.  The  next  day  I  happened  to  play  some 
of  my  sweetest  Italian  airs,  and  to  accompany  them  with  my 
voice.  The  music-room  opens  into  the  great  hall :  Leonora  and 
her  husband  were  in  the  hall,  talking  to  some  visitors.  The 
voices  were  soon  hushed,  as  I  expected,  by  the  magic  sounds, 
but,  what  I  did  not  expect,  Leonora  was  the  first  who  led  the 
way  into  the  music-room.  Was  this  affectation  ?  These  simple 
characters  sometimes  baffle  all  the  art  of  the  decipherer.  I 
should  have  been  clear  that  it  was  affectation,  had  Leonora  been 
prodigal  of  compliments  on  my  performance ;  but  she  seemed 

only  to  listen  for  her  own  pleasure,  and  left  it  to  Mr.  L to 

applaud.  Whilst  I  was  preparing  to  play  over  again  the  air 
which  pleased  him  most,  the  two  little  nephews  came  running 
to  beg  Leonora  would  follow  them  to  look  at  some  trifle,  some 
<;oloured  shadow,  upon  the  garden-wall,  I  think  they  said :  she  let 
them  lead  her  off,  leaving  us  together.  This  did  not  seem  like 
jealousy.  I  was  more  at  a  loss  than  ever,  and  determined  to 
make  fresh  and  more  decisive  experiments.  Curiosity,  you 
know,  is  heightened  by  doubt.  To  cure  myself  of  curiosity,  it  is 
uecessar}'  therefore  to  put  mv  mind  out  of  doubt.     Admire  the 


292  LEONORA. 

practical  application  of  metaphysics !     But  metaphysics  alwayt 
make  you  yawn.     Adieu  for  to-day. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

MRS.  C TO    MISS    B- 


Castle. 


Dear  Margaret,  an  uncle  of  mine,  who,  ever  since  I  can 
remember,  seemed  to  me  cut  out  for  an  old  bachelor,  writes  me 
word  that  he  is  just  going  to  be  married,  and  that  I  must  grace 
his  nuptials.  I  cannot  refuse,  for  he  has  always  been  very  kind 
to  me,  and  we  have  no  right  to  cut  people  out  for  old  bachelors. 
That  I  am  sorry  to  leave  Leonora,  it  is  superfluous  to  tell  you  ; 
but  this  is  the  melancholy  part  of  the  business,  on  which  I  make 
it  a  principle  to  dwell  as  little  as  possible. 

Lady  Olivia  must  be  heartily  glad  that  I  am  going,  for  I  have 
been  terribly  troublesome  to  her  by  my  gaiety  and  my  simplicity, 
I  shall  lose  all  the  pleasure  I  had  promised  myself  in  seeing  the 
denouement  of  the  comedy  of  The  Sentimental  Coquette  ;  or,  The 
Heroine  unmasked. 

I  made  Leonora  almost  angry  with  me  this  morning,  by  a 
hint  or  two  I  gave  upon  this  subject.  She  looked  so  very  grave^ 
that  I  was  afraid  of  my  own  thoughts,  and  I  dared  not  explain 
myself  farther.  Intimate  as  I  am  with  her,  there  are  points  on 
which  I  am  sure  that  she  would  never  make  me  her  confidante* 
I  think  that  she  has  not  been  in  her  usual  good  spirits  lately ; 
and  though  she  treats  Olivia  with  uniform  kindness,  and  betrays 
not,  even  to  my  watchful  eyes,  the  slightest  symptom  of  jealousy, 
yet  I  suspect  that  she  sees  what  is  going  forward,  and  she  suffers 
in  secret.     Now,  if  she  would  let  me  explain  myself,  I  could  set 

her  heart  at  ease,  by  the  assurance  that  Mr.  L is  only  acting 

a  part.  If  her  affection  for  her  husband  did  not  almost  blind 
her,  she  would  have  as  much  penetration  as  I  have — which  you 
will  allow,  my  dear  Margaret,  is  saying  a  great  deal. 

Yours  affectionately, 
Helen  C 


&EOKORA.  298= 


LETTER  XXIV. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    D£    P 

L—  Castle. 
Congratulate  me,  my  charming  Gabrielle,  upon  being  de- 
livered from  the  unfeeling  gaiety  of  that  friend  of  Leonora,  that 
Helen  of  whom  I  formerly  sent  you  a  too  flattering  portrait. 
Her  departure  relieves  me  from  many  painful  sensations. 
Dissonance  to  a  musical  ear  is  not  more  horrid,  than  want  of 
harmony  between  characters,  to  the  soul  of  sensibility.  Between 
Helen  and  me  there  was  a  perpetual  discord  of  ideas  and  senti- 
ments, which  fatigued  me  inexpressibly.  Besides,  I  began  to 
consider  her  as  a  spy  upon  my  actions.  But  there,  I  believe,  I 
did  her  injustice,  for  she  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  own 
trifling  thoughts  to  have  any  alarming  powers  of  observation. 

Since  her  departure  we  have  been  very  gay.  Yesterday  we 
had  a  large  company  at  dinner;  some  of  the  neighbouring 
families,  whom  I  expected  to  find  mere  country  visitors,  that 
were  come  a  dozen  miles  to  show  their  antediluvian  finery, 
retire  half  an  hour  after  dinner,  spoil  coffee  with  cream,  say 
nothing,  but  at  their  appointed  hours  rise,  ring  for  their  superb 
carriages,  and  go  home  by  moonlight.  However,  to  my  astonish- 
ment, I  found  myself  in  a  society  of  well-bred,  well-informed 
persons ;  the  women  ready  to  converse,  and  the  men,  even  after 
dinner,  not  impatient  to  get  rid  of  them.  Two  or  three  of  the 
company  had  travelled,  and  I  was  glad  to  talk  to  them  of  Italy„ 

Switzerland,  and  France.     Mr.  L I  knew  would  join  in  this 

conversation.  I  discovered  that  he  came  to  Florence  just  as  I 
was  leaving  it.  I  was  to  have  been  at  our  ambassador's  one 
evening  when  he  was  there ;  but  a  headache  prevented  me. 
These  little  coincidences,  you  know,  my  Gabrielle,  draw  people 

closer  together.     I  remember  to  have  heard  of  a  Mr.  L at 

Florence,  who  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  our  sex.     He  was 
then  unmarried.     I  little  thought  that  this  was  the  same  person. 
Beneath   a   cold   exterior   these    Englishmen   often    conceal   a 
vondrous    quantity   of    enthusiasm  —  volcanoes    under    snow 
furiosity,  dear  indefatigable   curiosity,   supported  me  through 


294  LEONORA. 

the  labour  of  clearing  away  the  snow,  and  I  came  to  indubitable 
traces    of  unextinguished     and     unextinguishable    fire.      The 

character  of  L is  quite  different  from  what  I  had  imagined 

it  to  be.  It  is  an  excellent  study.  We  had  a  long  and  interesting 
conversation  upon  national  manners,  especially  upon  those  of 
the  females  of  all  nations.  He  concluded  by  quoting  the  word? 
of  your  friend  M.  le  Vicomte  de  Segur,  "  If  I  were  permitted  to 
choose,  I  should  prefer  a  French  woman  for  my  friend,  an 
English  woman  for  my  wife,  and  a  Polish  lady  for  my  mistress." 
From  this,  it  seems,  that  I  am  mistaken  about  the  Italian  sig- 

nora,  or  else  Mr.  L has  an  enlarged  charity  for  the  graces 

of  all  nations. — More  subject  for  curiosity. 

In  the  evening,  before  the  company  separated,  we  were 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  great  hall,  looking  at  a  fine  effect  of 
moonlight,  and  I  pointed  out  the  shadow  of  the  arches  of  a  bridge. 
From  moonlight  we  went  on  to  lamplight,  and  many  pretty  things 
were  sjdd  about  art  and  nature.  A  gentleman,  who  had  just 
returned  from  Paris,  talked  of  the  reflection  of  the  lamps  in  the 
Seine,  which  one  sees  in  crossing  the  Pont-Royal,  and  which,  as 
he  said,  appear  like  a  colonnade  of  fire.     As  soon  as  he  had 

finished  prosing  about  his  colonnade,  I  turned  to  Mr.  L ,  and 

asked  if  he  remembered  the  account  which  Coxe  the  traveller 
gives  of  the  Polish  princess  Czartoryski's  charming /<?<«  cAam- 
'petre  and  the  illuminated  rustic  bridge  of  one  arch,  the  reflection 
of  which  in  the  water  was  so  strong  as  to  deceive  the  eye,  and  to 
give  the  whole  the  appearance  of  a  brilliant  circle  suspended  in 

the  air.    Mr.  L seemed  enchanted  with  my  description,  and 

eagerly  said  that  he  would  some  night  have  a  bridge  in  his  im- 
provements, illuminated,  that  toe  (half-gallant  Englishman!) 
might  see  the  effect.  I  carelessly  replied,  that  probably  it  would 
have  a  good  effect :  I  would  then  have  talked  on  other  subjects 
to  the  lady  next  me  :  but  an  Englishman  cannot  suddenly  change 

the  course  of  his  conversation.     Mr.   L still  persisted  in 

asking  a  variety  of  questions  about  this  Polish  fete.  I  excused 
myself;  for  if  you  satisfy  curiosity  you  are  no  longer  sublime; 
besides  it  is  so  pedantic  to  remember  accurately  any  thing  one 
meets  with  in  books.  I  assured  him  that  I  had  forgotten  the 
particulars. 

My  countrymen  are  wondrous  persevering,  when  once  roused. 


LEONORA.  29^ 

This  morning,  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  I  found  Mr.  L 

with  a  volume  of  Coxe's  travels  in  his  hand.  He  read  aloud  to« 
Leonora  the  whole  description  of  the  illuminated  gardens, 
and  of  a  Turkish  tent  of  curious  workmanship,  and  of 
a  pavilion,  supported  by  pillars,  ornamented  with  wreaths  of 
flowers.  Leonora's  birthday  is  some  tfme  in  the  next  month  ;  and. 
her  husband,  probably  to  prevent  any  disagreeable  little  feelings^ 
proposed  that  the  fete  champetre,  he  designed  to  give,  should  be 
on  that  day.  She  seemed  rather  to  discourage  the  thing.  Now 
to  what  should  this  indifference  be  attributed  ?  To  jealousy  I 
should  positively  decide,  but  that  two  reasons  oppose  this  idea, 
and  keep  me  in  doubt.  She  was  not  within  hearing  at  the  moon- 
light conference,  and  knew  nothing  of  my  having  mentioned  the 
Polish  fete,  or  of  her  husband's  having  proposed  to  illuminate 
the  bridge  for  me.  Besides,  I  remember,  the  other  day  when  she 
was  reading  the  new  French  novel  you  sent  me,  she  expressed 
great  dislike  to  the  sentimental  fetes,  which  the  lover  prepares  for 
his  mistress.  I  would  give  more  than  I  dare  tell  you,  my  dear 
Gabrielle,  to  be  able  to  decide  whether  she  is  jealous  of  me  or 

not.    But  where  was  I  ?   Mr.  L ,  who  had  set  his  heart  upon 

the  fete  champetre,  persisted,  and  com  batted  her  antipathy  by 
reason.  Foolish  man  !  he  should  have  tried  compliments,  or 
caresses — if  I  had  not  been  present. 

'•  My  dear  Leonora,"  said  he,  '•  I  think  you  carry  your  dislike 
to  these  things  too  far.  They  are  more  according  to  the  Frencb 
than  to  the  English  taste,  I  know ;  but  we  should  not  be  in- 
fluenced by  national  prejudice.  I  detest  the  ostentation  and  the 
affectation  of  sentiment  as  much  as  you  can  ;  but  where  the  real 
feeling  exists,  every  mode  of  showing  kindness  is  agreeable. 
You  must  let  us  have  this  little  fete  on  your  birthday.  Besides 
the  pleasure  it  will  give  me,  I  really  think  it  is  useful  to  mix  ideas 
of  affection  with  amusement." 

She  smiled  most  graciously,  and  replied,  that  she  would  with 
pleasure  accept  of  kindness  in  any  form  from  him.  In  short,  she 
was  willing  to  have  the  fete,  when  it  was  clearly  explained  that 
she  was  to  be  the  object  of  it.  Is  not  this  proof  positive  of  jea- 
lousy? And  yet  my  curiosity  is  not  thoroughly  satisfied.  I  must 
go  on  ;  for  Leonora's  sake  I  must  go  on.  When  I  have  been 
assured  of  the  truth,  I  shall  know  how  to  conduct  myself;  and 


29G  LEONORA. 

you,  who  know  my  heart,  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe,  that 
when  I  am  convinced  of  my  friend's  weakness,  I  sh^l  spare  it 
with  the  most  delicate  caution  :  but  till  I  am  convinced,  I  am  in 
perpetual  danger  of  blundering  by  my  careless,  inadvertent  inno- 
cence. You  smile,  Gabrielle  ;  dear  malicious  Gabrielle,  even  in 
your  malice  you  are  charming !  Adieu !  Pray  for  the  speedy 
extinction  of  my  curiosity. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXV. 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 


You  say,  my  dearest  mother,  that  of  late,  my  letters  have  been 
more  constrained  and  less  cheerful  than  usual,  and  you  conjure 
me  not  to  conceal  from  you  any  thing  which  may  concern  my 
happiness.  I  have  ever  found  you  my  best  and  most  indulgent 
friend,  and  there  is  not  a  thought  or  feeling  of  my  mind,  how- 
ever weak  or  foolish,  that  I  desire  to  conceal  from  you.  No  one 
in  this  world  is  more — is  so  much  interested  in  my  happiness ; 
and,  in  every  doubtful  situation,  I  have  always  been  accustomed 
to  apply  to  yoiu'  unerring  judgment  for  assistance.  Your  strength 
of  mind,  your  enlightened  affection,  would  support  and  direct 
me,  would  at  once  show  me  how  I  ought  to  act,  and  inspire  me 
with  courage  and  fortitude  sufficient  to  be  worthy  of  your  esteem 
and  of  my  own.  At  no  period  of  my  life,  not  even  when  my 
heart  first  felt  the  confused  sensations  of  a  passion  that  was  new  to 
it,  did  I  ever  want  or  wish  for  a  friend  so  much  as  at  this  instant : 
and  yet  I  hesitate  whether  I  ought  to  ask  even  your  advice, 
whether  I  ought  to  indulge  myself  in  speaking  of  my  feelings  even 
to  my  mother.  I  refrained  from  giving  the  slightest  intimation  of 
them  to  my  dear  Helen,  though  she  often  led  to  this  subject,  and 
seemed  vexed  by  my  reserve.  I  thought  it  not  right  to  accept 
of  her  s)nnnpathy.  From  her  kindness  I  had  every  consolation 
to  expect,  but  no  assistance  from  her  counsels,  because  she  does 
not  understand  Mr.  L 's  character,  and  I  could  plainly  per- 
ceive that  she  had  an  erroneous  idea  so  fixed  in  her  fancy,  as 
•to  prevent  her  seeing  things  in  their  true  light.     I  am  afraid  of 


LEONORA.  297 

imputing  blame  where  I  most  wish  to  avoid  it :  I  fear  to  excite 
•unjust  suspicions ;  I  dread  that  if  I  say  the  whole,  you  will 
imagine  that  I  mean  much  more  than  I  say. 

I  have  not  been  quite  well  lately,  and  my  mind  probably  is 
more  apt  to  be  alarmed  than  it  would  be,  if  my  health  were 
•stronger.  All  that  I  apprehend,  may  exist  merely  in  my  own 
distempered  imagination.  Do  not  then  suppose  others  are  to 
blame,  when  perhaps  I  only  am  in  fault.  I  have  for  some  time 
past  been  dissatisfied  with  myself,  and  have  had  reason  to  be  so: 
I  do  not  say  this  from  any  false  humility  ;  I  despise  that  affec- 
tation ;  but  I  say  it  with  a  sincere  desire  that  you  may  assist  me 
to  cure  myself  of  a  weakness,  which,  if  it  were  to  grow  upon  my 
mind,  must  render  me  miserable,  and  might  destroy  the  happi- 
ness of  the  person  I  love  best  upon  earth.  You  know  that  I  am 
not  naturally  or  habitually  of  a  suspicious  temper,  but  I  am  con- 
scious of  having  lately  felt  a  disposition  to  jealousy.  I  have 
been  spoiled  by  the  excessive  attention,  which  my  husband  paid 
to  me  in  the  first  year  of  our  marriage. 

You  warned  me  not  to  fancy  that  he  could  continue  always  a 
lover.  I  did  not,  at  least  I  tried  not  to  expect  such  an  impos- 
sibility. I  was  prepared  for  the  change,  at  least  I  thought  I 
was  :  yet  now  the  time,  the  inevitable  time  is  come,  and  I  have 
not  the  fortitude  to  bear  it  as  I  ought.  If  I  had  never  known 
what  it  was  to  possess  his  love,  I  might  perhaps  be  content  with 
his  friendship.  If  I  could  feel  only  friendship  for  him,  I  should 
now,  possibly,  be  happy.  I  know  that  I  have  the  first  place  in 
his  esteem :  I  do  believe — I  should  be  miserable  indeed  if  I  did 
not  believe — that  I  have  the  first  place  in  his  affection.  But 
this  affection  is  certainly  different  from  what  it  once  was.  I 
wish  I  coidd  forget  the  difference.  No  :  I  retract  that  wish ; 
however  painful  the  comparison,  the  recollection  of  times  that 
are  past  is  delightful  to  my  heart.  Yet,  my  dear  mother,  if  such 
times  are  never  to  return,  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  forget 
that  they  have  ever  been.  It  would  be  wiser  not  to  let  my  imagi- 
nation recur  to  the  past,  which  could  then  tend  only  to  render  me 
discontented  with  the  present  and  with  the  future.  The  future  ! 
how  melancholy  that  word  sounds  to  me !  What  a  dreary  length 
of  prospect  it  brings  to  my  view  !  How  young  I  am,  how  many 
years  may  I  have  to  live,  and  how  little  motive  have  I  left  iu 


29b  LEONORA. 

life  !  Those  which  used  to  act  most  forcibly  upon  me,  have  now 
scarcely  power  to  move  my  mind.  The  sense  of  duty,  it  is  true^ 
raises  me  to  some  degree  of  exertion ;  I  hope  that  I  do  not 
neglect  the  education  of  the  two  children  whom  my  poor  sister 
bequeathed  to  my  care.  When  my  mind  was  at  ease  they  were 
my  delight;  but  now  I  feel  that  I  am  rather  interrupted  than 
interested  by  their  childish  gaiety  and  amusements. 

I  am  afraid  that  I  am  growing  selfish,  and  I  am  sure  that  I 
have  become  shamefully  indolent.  I  go  on  with  certain  occupa- 
tions every  day  from  habit,  not  from  choice  ;  my  mind  is  not  in 
them.  I  used  to  flatter  myself  that  I  did  many  things,  from 
a  sense  of  duty  and  of  general  benevolence,  which  I  am  con- 
vinced were  done  merely  from  a  particular  wish  to  please,  and  to. 
make  myself  more  and  more  beloved  by  the  object  of  my  fondest 
affection.  Disappointed  in  this  hope,  I  sink  into  indolence,  from 
which  the  desire  to  entertain  my  friends  is  not  sufficient  to 
rouse  me.  Helen  has  been  summoned  away ;  but  I  believe  I 
told  you  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  F**,  whose  company  is  peculiarly 
agreeable  to  my  taste,  and  Lady  M*****  and  her  amiable  daugh- 
ters, and  your  witty  friend  •**•♦,  are  with  us.  In  such  society  1 
am  ashamed  of  being  stupid ;  yet  I  cannot  contribute  to  the 
amusement  of  the  company,  and  I  feel  surprised  at  their  anima- 
tion and  sprightUness.  It  seems  as  if  I  was  looking  on  at  dances, 
without  hearing  any  music.  Sometimes  I  fear  that  my  silence 
should  be  observed,  and  then  I  begin  to  talk,  without  well  know- 
ing what  I  am  saying.  I  confine  myself  to  the  most  common- 
place subjects,  and  hesitate,  from  the  dread  of  saying  somethmg 

quite  foreign  to  the  purpose.     What  must  Mr.  L think  of 

my  stupidity  ?  But  he  does  not,  I  believe,  perceive  it :  he  is  so 
much  occupied  with — with  other  objects.  I  am  glad  that  he  does 
not  see  all  that  passes  in  my  mind,  for  he  might  despise  me  if  he 
knew  that  1  am  so  miserable.  I  did  not  mean  to  use  so  strong 
an  expression  ;  but  now  it  is  written,  I  will  not  blot  it  out,  lesi 
you  should  fancy  something  worse  than  the  reality.  I  am  not, 
however,  yet  so  weak  as  to  be  seriously  miserable  when  I  have 

no  real  cause  to  be  so.     The  truth  is .     Now  you 

know  this  phrase  is  a  tacit  confession  that  all  that  has  been  said 

before  is  false.     The  real  truth  is .     By  my  prefacing 

so  long  you  maybe  sure  that  I  have  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  this. 


LEOK011&.  2V9 

real  truth's  coming  out.     The  real  truth  is,  that  I  have  been  so 

long  accustomed  to  he  the  first  and  enly  object  of  Mr.  L 'a 

thoughts,  that  I  cannot  bear  to  see  him  think  of  any  thing  else. 
Yes,  things  I  can  bear ;  but  not  persons — ^female  persons ;  and 
there  is  one  person  here,  who  is  so  much  more  agreeable  and 
entertaining  than  I  am,  that  she  engrosses  very  naturally  almost 
all  his  attention.  I  am  not  envious,  I  am  sure ;  for  I  could  once 
admire  all  Lady  Olivia's  talents  and  accomplishments,  and  no 
one  could  be  more  charmed  than  I  was,  with  her  fascinating 
manners  and  irresistible  powers  of  pleasing ;  but  when  those 
irresistible  powers  may  rob  me  of  the  heart  of  my  beloved  hus- 
band— of  the  whole  happiness  of  my  life — how  can  I  admire 
them  ?  All  I  can  promise  is  to  preserve  my  mind  from  the 
meanness  of  suspicion.  I  can  do  my  rival  jastice.  I  can  believe, 
and  entreat  you  to  believe,  that  she  does  not  wish  to  be  my  rival : 
that  she  is  perfectly  innocent  of  all  design  to  injure  me,  and  that 
«he  is  not  aware  of  the  impression  she  has  made.     I,  who  know 

every  change  of  Mr.  L 's  countenance,  every  inflexion  of  his 

voice,  every  turn  of  his  mind,  can  see  too  plainly  what  she 
cannot  discern.  I  should  indeed  have  thought,  that  no  woman, 
whom  he  distinguished  or  preferred  in  any  degree,  could  avoid 
perceiving  it,  his  manner  is  so  expressive,  so  flattering;  but 
perhaps  this  appears  so  only  to  me—a  woman,  who  does  not  love 
him,  may  see  things  very  difTerently.  Lady  Olivia  can  be  in  no 
•danger,  because  her  heart,  fortunately  for  me,  is  prepossessed  in 
favour  of  another ;  and  a  woman  whose  heart  is  occupied  by  one 
object  is  absolutely  blind,  as  I  well  know,  to  all  others.  With 
this  security  I  ought  to  be  satisfied ;  for  I  believe  no  one  inspires 
a  lasting  passion,  without  sharing  it. 

I  am  summoned  to  give  my  opinion  about  certain  illumina- 
tions and  decorations  for  a  fete  champetre  which  Mr.  L is 

so  kind  as  to  give  in  honour  of  my  birthday — just  at  the  time  I 
«i))  complaining  of  his  neglect !  No,  dear  mother,  I  hope  I 
liave  not  complained  of  Aim,  but  of  myself: — and  it  is  your 
jjiusiness  to  teach  your  daughter  to  be  more  reasonable.  Write 
«oon  and  fully  to 

Your  afiectionate 

LbONOSA. 

20 


too  LEONORA. 


LETTER  XXVI. 

OUyiA    TO    MADAMB    PE    P- . 

This  ^nefete  champetre  is  over. — Expect  no  description  of  it 
from  me,  Gabrielle,  for  I  am  horribly  out  of  humour.  The  whole 
pleasure  of  the  evening  was  destroyed  by  the  most  foolish  cir- 
cumstance imaginable.  Leonora's  jealousy  is  now  evident  to  more 
e)'es  than  mine.  No  farther  doubt  upon  the  subject  can  remain. 
My  curiosity  is  satisfied ;  but  I  am  now  left  to  reproach  myself,, 
for  having  gone  so  far  to  ascertain  what  I  ought  to  have  taken 
for  granted.  All  these  good  English  wives  are  jealous ;  sa 
jealous,  that  no  ojie,  who  has  any  pretensions  to  beauty,  wit,  or 
amiability,  can  live  with  them.  They  can  have  no  society  in 
our  sense  of  the  word ;  of  course  they  must  live  shut  up  in  their 
own  dismal  houses,  with  their  own  stupid  families,  the  faithful 
husband  and  wife  sitting  opposite  to  each  other  in  their  own 
chimney  comers,  yawning  models  of  constancy.  And  this  they 
call  virtue  !  How  the  meanest  vices  usurp  the  name  of  virtue ! 
Leonora's  is  a  jealousy  of  the  most  illiberal  and  degrading 
species  ;  a  jealousy  of  the  temper,  not  of  the  heart.  She  is  too 
cold  to  feel  the  passion  of  love. — She  never  could  be  in  love ;  of 
that  I  am  certain.  She  is  too  reasonable,  too  prudish.  Besides, 
to  imagine  that  she  could  be  in  love  with  her  own  husband,  and 
after  eighteen  months'  marriage — the  thing  is  absurd !  the 
thing  is  impossible !  No,  she  deceives  herself  or  him,  or  both, 
if  she  pretends  that  her  jealousy  arises  from  love,  from  what 
you  and  I,  Gabrielle,  understand  by  the  word.  Passion,  and 
passion  only,  can  plead  a  just  excuse  of  its  own  excesses.  Were 
Leonora  in  love,  I  could  pardon  her  jealousy.  But  now  I 
despise  it.  Yes,  with  all  her  high  reputation,  and  imposing 
qualities,  I  must  think  of  her  with  contempt.  And  now  that  I 
have  given  vent  to  my  feelings,  with  that  freedom  in  which  I 
ever  indulge  myself  in  writing  to  you,  my  amiable  Gabrielle, 
chosen  friend  of  my  heart,  I  will  compose  myself,  and  give  you 
a  rational  account  of  things. 

You  know  that  I  am  said  to  have  some  taste.     Leonora  make: 
BO  pretensions  to  any.     Wishing,  I  suppose,  that  her  fete  should 


I^ONORA.  301 

be  as  elegant  as  possible,  she  consulted  me  about  &il  tke  arrange^ 
mcnts  and  decorations.  It  waa  I  that  did  every  thing.  My.  skill 
and  taste  were  admired  by  the  whole  company,  and  especially 
by  Mr.  L— — .  He  wag  in  remarkably  good  spirits  at  the 
eommeneement  of  the  evening ;  quite  gay  and  gallant :  he 
certainly  paid  me  a  great  deal  of  attention,  and  it  was  natural 
he  should;  for  besides  being  his  guest,  I  was  undoubtedly 
the  most  elegant  woman  present.  My  fame  had  gone  abroad  ; 
I  found  that  I  was  the  object  of  general  attention.  To  this  I 
have  been  tolerably  well  accustomed  all  my  life  ;.  enough  at  least 
to  prevent  me  from  giving  any  visible  sign  of  being  moved  by 
admiration  in  whatever  form  it  comes ;  whetlier  iu  the  polite 
foreign  glance,  or  the  broad  English  stare.  The  starers  enjoyed 
their  pleasure,  and  I  mine  :  I  moved  and  talked,  I  smiled  or  was 
pensive,  as  though  I  saw  them  not;  nevertheless  the  homage 
of  their  gaze  was  not  lost  upon  me.  You  know,  my  charm- 
ing Gabrielle,  one  likes  to  observe  the  sensation'  one  produces 
amongst  new  people.  The  incense  that  I  perceived  iu  the 
surrounding  atmosphere  was  just  powerful  enough  to  affect  my 
nerves  agreeably :  that  languor  which  you  have  so  ofter* 
reproached  me  for  indulging  in  the  company  of  what  we  call 
indifferents  gradually  dissipated  ;  and,  as  poor  R***  used  to  say 
of  me,  I  came  from  behind  my  cloud  like  the  sun  in  all  its  glory. 
I  was  such  as  you  have  seen  me,  Gabrielle,  in  my  best  days,  in 
my  best  moments,  in  my  very  best  style.     I  wonder  what  would 

excite  me  to  such  a  waste  of  powers.     L seemed  inspired 

too :  he  really  was  quite  agreeable,  and  showed  me  off  almost 
as  well  as  R***  himself  could  have  done.  I  had  no  idea  that  he- 
had  this  species  of  talent.  You  will  never  know  of  what  my 
countrymen  are  capable,  for  you  are  out  of  patience  with  the 
statues  the  first  half  hour :  now  it  takes  an  amazing  time  to 
animate  them ;  but  they  can  be  waked  into  life,  and  I  have  a 
pride  in  conquering  difficulties. — ^There  were  more  men  this 
night,  in  proportion  to  the  women,  than  one  usually  sees  in 
English  company,  consequently  it  was  more  agreeable.  I  was 
surrounded  by  an  admiring  audience,  and  my  conversation  of 
course  was  sufficiently  general  to  please  all,  and  sufficiently 
particular  to  distinguish  the  man  whom  I  wished  to  animate.  Ii> 
all  this  you  will  say  there  was  nothing  to  put  one  out  of  humour 


302  LEONORA. 

feothing  very  mortifying  : — but  stay,  my  fair  philosopher,  do  not 
judge  of  the  day  till  you  see  its  end. — Leonora  was  so  hid  from 
my  view  by  the  crowd  of  adorers,  that  I  really  did  not  discern 
her,  or  suspect  her  jealousy.  1  was  quite  natural ;  I  thought 
only  of  myself;  I  declined  all  invitations  to  dance,  declaring 
that  it  was  so  long  since  I  had  tried  an  English  country  dance, 
that  I  dared  not  expose  my  awkwardness.  French  country 
dances  were  mentioned,  but  I  preferred  conversation.  At  last 
-L-"  persecuted  me  to  try  a  Polish  dance  with  him — a  multi- 
tude of  voices  overpowered  me.  I  have  not  the  talent  which 
some  of  my  coim try  women  possess  in  such  perfection,  of  being 
obstinate  about  trifles.  When  I  can  refuse  with  grace,  'tis  well ; 
but  when  that  is  no  longer  possible,  it  is  my  principle,  or  my 

weakness,  to  yield.     I  was  surprised  to  find  that  L danced 

■admirably.  I  became  animated.  You  know  how  dancing 
animates  me,  when  I  have  a  partner  who  can  dance — a  thing 
not  very  common  in  this  country.  We  ended  by  toaltzing,  first 
in  the  Polish,  and  afterwards  in  the  Parisian  manner.  I 
certainly  surpassed  myself — I  flew,  I  was  borne  upon  the  wings 
of  the  wind,  I  floated  on  the  notes  of  the  music.  Animated  or 
languid  in  every  gradation  of  grace  and  sentiment,  I  abandoned 
myself  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment ;  I  was  all  soul,  and  the 
spectators  were  all  admiration.  To  you,  my  Gabrielle,  I  may 
speak  thus  of  myself  without  vanity :  you  know  the  sensation  I 
"Was  accustomed  to  produce  at  Paris  ;  you  may  guess  then  what 
the  effect  must  be  here,  where  such  a  style  of  dancing  has  all 
the  captivation  of  novelty.  Had  I  doubted  that  my  success  was 
complete,  I  should  have  been  assured  of  it  by  the  faces  of  some 
pi-udes  amongst  the  matrons,  who  affected  to  think  that  the  waltz 

was  too  much.     As  L was  leading,  or  rather  supporting  me 

to  my  seat,  for  I  was  quite  exhausted,  I  overheard  a  gentleman, 
who  was  at  no  great  distance  from  the  place  where  Leonora  was 
standing,  whisper  to  his  neighbour,  "  Le  Valse  extreme  est  la 
volupt^  permise,"  I  fancy  Leonora  ovei-heard  these  words,  as 
well  as  myself,  for  my  eyes  met  hers  at  this  instant,  and  she 

coloured,    and   directly   looked   another   way.     L neither 

heard  nor  saw  any  thing  of  all  this :  he  was  intent  upon  pro- 
curing me  a  seat ;  and  an  Englishman  can  never  see  or  think  of 
two  thhigs  at  a  time.     A  few  minutes  afterwards,  whilst  be  was 


tEONORA.  303 

fanning  me,  a  young  awkward  peasant  girl,  quite  a  stranger  in 
this  country,  came  up  to  me,  and  dropping  her  novice  curtsy, 
said,  "  Here's  a  ring,  my  lady,  I  found  on  the  grass;  they  tell 
me  it  is  yours,  my  lady !" 

"  No,  my  good  girl,  it  is  not  mine,"  said  I. 

"  It  is  Lady  Leonora's,"  said  Mr.  L . 

At  the  sound  of  her  name  Leonora  came  forward. 

The  girl  looked  alternately  at  us. 

'*  Can  you  doubt,"  cried  Colonel   A         ,   "  which  of  these 
ladies  is  Mr.  L 's  wife  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir;  this  is  she,  tobe  sure,"  said  the  girl,  pointing  to 
me. 

What  there  was  in  the  girl's  accent,  or  in  L 's  look,  when 

she  pronounced  the  words,  or  in  mine,  or  in  all  three  together, 
I  cannot  exactly  describe ;  but  Leonora  felt  it.  She  turned  as 
pale  as  death.  I  looked  as  unconscious  as  I  could.  L 
went  on  fanning  me,  without  seeing  his  wife's  change  of  counte>- 
nance.  Leonora — would  you  believe  it? — sank  upon  a  bench 
behind  us,  and  fainted.  How  her  husband  started,  when  he 
felt  her  catch  by  his  arm  as  she  fell !  He  threw  down  the  fan, 
left  me,  ran  for  water — **  Oh,  Lady  Leonora  !  Lady  Leonora  is 
ill  I"  exclaimed  every  voice.  The  consternation  was  wondeiful. 
They  carried  her  ladyship  to  a  spot  where  she  could  have  free 
air.  I  was  absolutely  in  an  instant  left  alone,  and  seemingly  as 
much  forgotten  as  if  I  had  never  existed!  I  was  indeed  so 
much  astonished,  that  I  could  not  stir  from  the  place  where  I 
stood ;  till,  recollecting  myself,  I  pushed  my  way  through  the 
crowd,  and  came  in  view  of  Leonora  just  as  she  opened  her 
eyes.  As  soon  as  she  came  to  herself,  she  made  an  effort  to 
stand,  saying  that  she  was  quite  well  again,  but  that  she  would 
go  into  the  house  and  repose  herself  for  a  few  minutes.  As  she 
rose,  a  hundred  arms  were  offered  at  once  to  her  assistance. 
She  stepped  forward  ;  and,  to  my  surprise,  and  I  believe  to  the 
surprise  of  every  body  else,  took  mine,  made  a  sign  to  her 
husband  not  to  follow  us,  and  walked  quickly  towards  the  house. 
Her  woman,  with  a  face  of  terror,  met  us,  as  we  were  going  into 
Lady  Leonora's  apartment,  with  salts  and  hartshorn,  and  I 
Icnow  not  what  in  her  hands. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  quite  well  again ;  I  do  not  want  any  thing ; 


ISOl  LEONORA. 

I  do  not  want  any  thing.  I  do  not  want  you,  Mason,"  said 
Leonora.  "  Lady  Olivia  is  so  good  as  to  assist  me.  I  am  come 
in  only  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes." 

The  woman  gave  me  an  evil  look,  and  left  the  room.  Never 
did  I  wish  any  thing  more  than  that  she  should  have 
stayed.  I  was  absolutely  so  embarrassed,  so  distressed,  when  I 
found  myself  alone  with  Leonora,  that  I  knew  not  what  to  say. 
I  believe  I  began  with  a  sentence  about  the  night  air,  that  was 
very  little  to  the  purpose.  The  sight  of  some  baby-linen  which 
the  maid  had  been  making  suggested  to  me  something  which  I 
tliought  more  appropriate. 

"  My  dear  creature  !"  said  T,  "  why  will  you  fatigue  yourself 
•0  terribly,  and  stand  so  much  and  so  long  in  your  situation  ?" 

Leonora  neither  accepted  nor  rejected  my  interpretation  of 
what  had  passed.  She  made  no  reply ;  but  fixed  ber  eyes  upon 
me  as  if  she  would  have  read  my  very  soul.  Never  did  I  see  or 
feel  eyes  so  expressive  or  so  powerful  as  hers  were  at  this 
moment.  Mine  absolutely  fell  beneath  them.  What  deprived 
me  of  presence  of  mind  I  know  not ;  but  I  was  utterly  without 
common  sense.  I  am  sure  I  changed  colour,  and  Leonora  must 
have  seen  it  through  my  rouge,  for  I  had  only  the  slightest 
tinge  upon  my  cheeks.  The  consciousness  that  she  saw  me 
blush  disconcerted  me  beyond  recovery ;  it  is  really  quite 
unaccountable :  I  trembled  all  over  as  I  stood  before  her  ;  I  was 
forced  to  have  recourse  to  the  hartshorn  and  water,  which  stood 
upon  the  table.  Leonora  rose,  and  threw  open  the  window  to 
give  me  fresh  air.  She  pressed  my  hand,  but  rather  with  an  air 
of  forgiveness  than  of  affection ;  I  was  mortified  and  vexed ;  but 
my  pride  revived  me. 

**  We  had  better  return  to  the  company  as  soon  as  possible,  I 
believe,"  said  she,  looking  down^  at  the  moving  crowd  below. 

"  I  am  ready  to  attend  you,  my  dear,"  said  I,  coldly,  "  when- 
ever you  feel  yourself  sufficiently  rested  and  composed." 

She  left  the  room,  and  I  followed.  You  have  no  idea  of  the 
solicitude  with  which  the  people  hoped  she  was  better — and  well 
— and  quite  well,  &c.  What  amazing  importance  a  fainting  fit 
can  sometimes  bestow !  Her  husband  seemed  no  longer  to  have 
any  eyes  or  soul  but  for  her.  At  supper,  and  during  the  rest  of 
the  night,   she   occupied   the   whole  attention   of  every  bodjT 


LEONORA.  305 


present.    Can  you  conceive  any  thing  so  provoking  ?    But  L 

must  be  an  absolute  fool ! — Did  he  never  see  a  woman  faint 
before  ? — He  cannot  pretend  to  be  in  love  with  his  wife — I  do 
not  understand  it»— But  this  I  know,  that  he  has  been  totally 
different  in  his  manner  towards  me  these  three  days  past. 

And  now  that  my  curiosity  is  satisfied  about  Leonora's 
jealousy,  I  shall  absolutely  perish  with  ennui  in  this  stupid 
place.  Adieu,  dearest  Gabrielle !  How  I  envy  you !  The 
void  of  my  heart  is  insupportable.  I  must  have  some  passion  to 
keep  me  alive.  Forward  any  letters  from  poor  R***,  if  he 
has  written  under  cover  to  you. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXVIL 

THE  DUCHESS  OF      ■  TO  HER  DAUGHTER. 

Take  courage,  my  beloved  daughter;  take  courage.  Have  a 
just  confidence  in  yourself  and  in  your  husband.  For  a  moment 
he  may  be  fascinated  by  the  arts  of  an  unprincipled  woman  ;  for 
a  moment  she  may  triumph  over  his  senses,  and  his  imagi- 
nation ;  but  of  his  esteem,  his  affection,  his  heart,  she  cannot  rob 
you.  These  have  been,  ought  to  be,  will  be  yours.  Trust  to 
your  mother's  prophecy,  my  child.  You  may  trust  to  it  secui-ely  : 
for,  well  as  she  loves  you — and  no  mother  ever  loved  a  daughter 
better — she  does  not  soothe  you  with  mere  words  of  doting  fond- 
ness ;  she  speaks  to  you  the  language  of  reason  and  of  truth. 

I  know  what  such  a  man  as  Mr.  L must  esteem  and 

iove  ;  I  know  of  what  such  a  woman  as  my  daughter  is  capable, 
when  her  whole  happiness,  and  the  happiness  of  all  that  is  dear 
to  her,  are  at  stake.  The  loss  of  temporary  admiration  and 
power,  the  transient  preference  shown  to  a  despicable  rival,  will 
not  provoke  you  to  imprudent  reproach,  nor  sink  you  to  helpless 
despair.  The  arts  of  an  Olivia  might  continue  to  deceive  your 
husband,  if  he  were  a  fool ;  or  to  please  him,  if  he  were  a 
libertine  :  but  he  has  a  heart  formed  for  love,  he  cannot  therefore 
be  a  libertine :  he  is  a  man  of  superior  abilities,  and  knows 
•women  too  well  to  be  a  dupe.     With  a  penetrating  and  discrimi- 

Leonora. 


^O  LEONORA. 

native  judgment  of  character,  he  is  a  nice  observer  of  fenwiie 
manners;  his  taste  is  delicate  even  to  excess;  under  a  colU 
exterior  he  has  a  vivid  imagination  and  strong  sensibility ;  he 
has  little  vanity,  but  a  superabundance  of  pride ;  he  wishes  to 
be  ardently  loved,  but  this  he  conceals ;  it  is  diflBcult  to  convince 
him  that  he  is  beloved,  and  scarcely  possible  to  satisfy  him  by 
any   common   proofs  of  attachment.      A   coquette   will   never 

attach  Mr.  L .     The  admiration  which  others  might  express 

for  her  charms  and  accomplishments,  would  never  pique  him  to 
competition  :  far  from  seeking  "  to  win  her  praise  whom  all 
admire,"  he  would  disdain  to  enter  the  lists  with  the  vulgar 
multitude  :  a  heart,  in  which  he  had  a  probability  of  holding 
only  divided  empire,  would  not  appear  to  him  worth  the  winninj^. 
As  a  coquette,  whatever  may  be  her  talents,  graces,  accomplish- 
ments, and  address,  you  have  nothing  seriously  to  fear  from 
Lady  Olivia. 

But,  my  dear,  Mr.  L *s  mind  may  be  in  a  situation  to 

require  amusement.  That  species  of  apathy  which  succeeds  to 
passion  is  not,  as  the  inexperienced  imagine,  the  death  of  love, 
but  the  necessary  and  salutary  repose  from  which  it  awakens 

refreshed  and  revived.     Mr.  L 's  passion  for  you  has  been 

not  only  tender,  but  violent,  and  the  calm,  which  inevitably 
succeeds,  shoidd  not  alarm  you. 

When  a  man  feels  that  his  fondness  for  a  wife  is  suspended, 
he  is  uneasy  in  her  ^jompany,  not  only  from  the  sense  of  decreased 
pleasure,  but  from  the  fear  of  her  observation  and  detection.  If 
she  reproach  him,  affairs  become  worse ;  he  blames  himself,  he 
fears  to  give  pain  whenever  he  is  in  her  presence :  if  he  attempt 
to  conoeal  his  feelings,  and  to  appear  what  he  is  no  longer,  a 
lover,  his  attempts  are  awkward ;  he  becomes  more  and  more 
dissatisfied  with  himself;  and  the  person  who  compels  him  to 
this  hypocrisy,  who  thus  degrades  him  in  his  own  eyes,  must 
certainty  be  in  danger  of  becoming  an  object  of  aversion.  A 
wife,  who  has  sense  enough  to  abstain  from  all  reproaches,  direct 
or  indirect,  by  word  or  look,  may  reclaim  her  husband's  affec- 
tions :  the  bird  escapes  from  his  cage,  but  returns  to  his  nest. 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  agreeable  company  at  your  house ; 

they  will  amuse  Mr.  L ,  and  relieve  you  from  the  necessity 

of  taking  a  share  in  any  conversation  that  vou  dislike.     Oxxx 


LEONORA.  307 

witt)'  friend  *♦•••  will  supply  your  share  of  conversation ;  and 
as  to  your  silence,  remember  that  witty  people  are  always  content 
with  those  who  act  audience, 

I  rejoice  that  you  persist  in  your  daily  occupations.  To  a 
mind  like  yours,  the  sense  of  performing  your  duty  will,  next  to 
religion,  be  the  firmest  support  upon  which  you  can  rely. 

Perhaps,  my  dear,  even  when  you  read  this,  you  will  still  be 
inclined  to  justify  Lady  Olivia,  and  to  conceal  from  your  heart 
the  suspicions  which  her  conduct  excites.  I  am  not  surprised, 
that  you  should  find  it  diflicult  to  believe,  that  one  to  whom  you 
have  behaved  so  generously,  should  treat  you  with  treachery,  and 
ingratitude.  I  am  not  surprised,  that  you  who  feel  what  it  is  to 
love,  should  think,  that  a  woman  whose  heart  is  occupied  by 
attachment  to  one  object,  must  be  incapable  of  thinking  of  any 
other.  But  love  in  such  a  heart  as  yours  is  totally  different 
from  what  it  is  in  the  fancy  of  these  heroines.  In  their  imagi- 
nation, the  objects  are  as  fleeting  as  the  pictures  in  the  clouds 
chased  by  the  wind. 

From  Lady  Olivia  expect  nothing :  depend  only  on  yourself. 
When  you  become,  as  you  soon  must,  completely  convinced 
that  the  woman,  in  whom  your  unsuspecting  soul  confided,  is 
utterly  unworthy  of  your  esteem,  refrain  from  all  imprudent 
expressions  of  indignation,  I  despise — you  will  soon  hate — ^your 
rival ;  but  in  the  moment  of  detection  think  of  what  is  due  to 
yourself,  and  act  as  calmly  as  if  you  had  never  loved  her.  She 
will  suffer  no  pain  from  the  loss  of  your  friendship :  she  has  not 
a  heart  that  can  value  it.  Probably  she  is  envious  of  you.  All 
these  women  desire  to  mortify  those  whom  they  cannot  degrade 
to  their  own  level :  and  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that  this 
malevolent  feeling,  joined  to  the  want  of  occupation,  may  be  the 
cause  of  her  present  conduct.  Her  manoeuvres  will  not  ultimately 

succeed.     She  will  be  deserted  by  Mr.  L ,  disappointed  and 

disgraced,  and  your  husband  will  be  more  yours  than  ever. 
When  this  happy  moment  comes,  my  Leonora;  when  your 
husband  returns,  preferring  yours  to  all  other  society,  then  will 
be  the  time  to  exert  all  your  talents,  all  your  charms,  to  prove 
your  superiority  in  every  thing,  but  most  in  love.  The  soothings 
of  female  tenderness,  in  certain  situations,  have  power  not  only  to 
calm  the  feelings  of  self-reproach,  but  to  diffuse  delight  over  the 


308  LEONORA. 

soul  of  man.  The  oil,  which  the  skilful  mariner  throws  upon  the 
sea,  not  only  smooths  the  waves  in  the  storm,  but  when  the  sun 
shines,  spreads  the  most  beautiful  colours  over  the  surface  of  the 
waters. 

My  dear  daughter,  though  your  mother  writes  seemingly  at  her 
ease,  you  must  not  fancy  that  she  does  not  feel  for  you.  Do  not 
imagine,  that  in  the  coldness  of  extinguished  passions,  and  in  the 
pride  of  coimselling  age,  your  mother  expects  to  charm  agony  with 
words.  No,  my  child,  I  am  not  so  absurd,  so  cruel.  Your  letter 
forced  tears  from  eyes,  which  are  not  used  like  sentimental  eyes 
to  weep  upon  every  trifling  occasion.  My  first  wish  was  to  set 
out  immediately  to  see  you  ;  but  whatever  consolation  or  pleasure 
my  company  might  afford,  I  believe  it  might  be  disadvantageous 
to  you  in  your  present  circumstances.  I  could  not  be  an  hour  in 
the  room  with  this  Lady  Olivia,  without  showing  some  portion 
of  the  indignation  and  contempt  that  I  feel  for  her  conduct. 
This  warmth  of  mine  might  injure  you  in  your  husband's  opinion. 
Though  you  would  have  too  strong  a  sense  of  propriety,  and  too 
much  dignity  of  mind,  to  make  complaints  of  your  husband  to 
me,  or  to  any  one  living ;  yet  it  might  be  supposed  that  your 
mother  was  your  confidante  in  secret,  and  your  partisan  in 
public  :  this  might  destroy  your  domestic  happiness.  No 
husband  can  or  ought  to  endure  the  idea  of  his  wife's  caballing 
against  him.     I  admire  and  shall  respect  your  dignified  silence. 

And  now  fare  you  well,  my  dearest  child.  May  God  bless 
you !  If  a  mother's  prayers  could  avails  you  would  be  the 
happiest  of  human  beings.  I  do,  without  partiality,  believe  you 
to  be  cne  of  the  best  and  most  amiable  of  women. 


LETTER  XXVIIL 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 


Had  your  letter,  my  dearest  mother,  reached  me  a  few  hours 
sooner,  I  should  not  have  exposed  myself  as  I  have  done. 

Yesterday,    at   our  fete    champ€trey_yo\\   would   have   been 
ashamed  of  me.     I  am  ashamed  of  myself.     I  did   the  very 


LEONORA.  309 

reverse  of  what  I  ought,  of  what  I  would  have  done,  if  I  had 
been  fortified  by  your  counsel.  Instead  of  being  calm  and 
dignified,  I  was  agitated  beyond  all  power  of  control.  I  lost  all 
presence  of  mind,  all  common  sense,  all  recollection. 

I  know  your  contempt  for  swooning  heroines.  What  will  you 
say,  when  you  hear  that  your  daughter  fainted — fainted  in 
public  ?  1  believe,  however,  that,  as  soon  as  I  recovered,  I  had 
sufficient  command  over  myself  to  prevent  the  accident  from 
being  attributed  to  the  real  cause,  and  I  hope  that  the  very 
moment  I  came  to  my  recollection,  my  manner  towards  Lady 
Olivia  was  such  as  to  preclude  all  possibility  of  her  being  blamed 
•or  even  suspected.  From  living  much  abroad,  she  has  acquired 
a  certain  freedom  of  manner,  and  latitude  of  thinking,  which 
expose  her  to  suspicion;  but  of  all  serious  intention  to  injure 
me,  or  to  pass  the  bounds  of  propriety,  I  totally  acquit  her.  She 
is  not  to  blame  for  the  admiration  she  excites,  nor  is  she  to  be 
the  sufferer  for  my  weakness  of  mind  or  of  health. 

Great  and  unreasonable  folly  I  am  sure  I  showed — but  I  shall 
do  so  no  more. 

The  particular  circumstances  I  need  not  explain  :  you  may  be 
Assured,  that  wherever  I  think  it  right  to  be  silent,  nothing  shall 
tempt  me  to  speak  :  but  I  understood,  by  the  conclusion  of  your 
letter,  that  you  expect  me  to  preserve  an  absolute  silence  upon 
this  subject  ^w  future :  this  I  will  not  promise.  I  cannot  con- 
ceive that  I,  who  do  not  mean  to  injure  any  human  being, 
•ought,  because  I  am  unhappy,  and  when  I  am  most  in  want  of 
a  friend,  to  be  precluded  from  the  indulgence  of  speaking  of 
what  is  nearest  my  heart  to  that  dear,  safe,  most  enlightened, 
and  honourable  of  friends,  who  has  loved,  guided,  instructed, 
and  encouraged  me  in  every  thing  that  is  right  from  my  infancy. 
Why  should  I  be  refused  all  claim  to  sympathy  ?  why  must  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  be  shut  up  in  my  own  breast?  and  why 
must  I  be  a  solitary  being,  proscribed  from  commerce  with  my 
own  family,  with  my  beloved  mother,  to  whom  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  tell  every  feeling  and  idea  as  they  arose?  No;  to 
all  that  is  honourable  I  will  strictly  conform;  but,  by  the  super- 
stition of  prudence,  I  do  not  hold  myself  bound. 

Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  my  husband's  conduct  to  me 
4he  evening  after  I  was   taken  ill.     He  left  home  early  this 


;3I0  LEONORA. 

morning ;  he  is  gone  to  meet  his  friend,  General  B ,  who^ 

has  just  returned  from  abroad.     I  hope  that  Mr.  L will  be 

absent  only  a  few  days  ;  for  it  would  be  fatal  to  my  happiness 
if  he  should  find  amusement  at  a  distance  from  home.  Hia 
home,  at  all  events,  shall  never  be  made  a  cage  to  him  ;  when  he 
returns,  I  will  exert  myself  to  the.utmost  to  make  it  agreeable. 
This  I  hope  can  be  done  without  obtruding  my  company  upon  him, 
or  putting  myself  in  competition  with  any  person.  I  could  wish 
that  some  fortunate  accident  might  induce  Lady  Olivia  to  leave 

us  before  Mr.  L *s  return.     Had  I  the  same  high  opinion  of 

her  generosity  that  I  once  formed,  had  I  the  same  perfect  conr 
fidence  in  her  integrity  and  in  her  friendship  for  me,  I  would 
go  this  moment  and  tell  her  all  that  passes  in  my  heart :  no 
humiliation  of  my  vanity  would  cost  me  any  thing  if  it  could 
serve  the  interests  of  my  love ;  no  mean  pride  could  stand  in 
my  mind  against  the  force  of  affection.  But  there  is  a  species 
of  pride  which  I  cannot,  will  not  renounce — ^believing,  as  I  do, 
that  it  it  the  companion,  the  friend,  the  support  of  virtue.  This 
pride,  I  trust,  will  never  desert  me :  it  has  grown  with  my 
growth ;  it  was  implanted  in  my  character  by  the  education 
which  my  dear  mother  gave  me ;  and  cow,  even  by  her,  it 
cannot  be  eradicated.  Surely  I  have,  misunderstood  one  passage 
in  your  letter :  you  cannot  advise  your  daughter  to  restrain  just 
indignation  against  vice  from  any  motive  of  policy  or  personal 
interest.  You  say  to  me,  "  In  the  moment  of  detection  think  of 
what  is  due  to  yourself,  and  act  as  calmly  as  if  you  had  never 
loved  her."  If  1  could,  I  would  not  do  this.  Contempt  shown 
by  virtue  is  the  just  punishment  of  vice,  a  punishment  which  no 
selfish  consideration  should  mitigate.  If  I  were  convinced  that 
Lady  Olivia  were  guilty,  would  you  have  me  behave  to  her  as 
if  I  believed  her  to  be  innocent?  My  countenance,  my  voice^ 
my  principles,  would  revolt  from  such  mean  and  pernicious 
hypocrisy,  degrading  to  the  individual,  and  destructive  to 
society. 

May  I  never  more  see  the  smile  of  love  on  the  lips  of  my 
husband,  nor  its  expression  in  his  eyes,  if  I  do  so  degi-ade  mysel* 
in  my  own  opinion  and  in  his  !  Yes,  in  his  ;  for  would  not  he, 
would  not  any  man  of  sense  or  delicacy,  recur  to  that  idea  sO' 
common  with  his  sex,  and  so  just,  that  if  a  woman  will  sacrifice 


LEONORA.  3)1 

'her  sense  of  honour  to  her  passions  in  one  instance,  she  may 
in  another?  Would  he  not  argue,  "  If  she  will  do  this  for  me 
because  she  is  in  love  with  me,  why  not  for  a  new  favourite,  if 
time  or  accident  should  make  me  less  an  object  of  passion  ?" 
No ;  I  may  lose  his  love — this  would  be  my  misfortune  :  but  to 
forfeit  his  esteem  would  be  my  fault ;  and,  under  the  remorse 
which  I  should  then  have  to  endure,  I  am  persuaded  that  no 
power  of  art  or  nature  could  sustain  my  existence. 

So  much  for  myself.  As  to  the  general  good  of  society,  that, 
I  confess,  is  not  at  this  moment  the  uppermost  consideration  in 
my  mind ;  but  I  will  add  a  few  words  on  that  subject,  lest  you 
should  imagine  me  to  be  hurried  away  by  my  own  feelings. 
Public  justice  and  reason  are,  I  think,  on  my  side.  What  would 
become  of  the  good  order  of  society  or  the  decency  of  families, 
if  every  politic  wife  were  to  receive  or  invite,  or  permit  her  hus- 
band's mistress  to  reside  in  her  house  ?  What  would  become  of 
<;onjugal  virtue  in  either  sex,  if  the  wife  were  in  this  manner  not 
only  to  connive  at  the  infidelity  of  her  husband,  but  to  encou- 
rage and  provide  for  his  inconsistency  ?  If  she  enters  into  bonds 
of  amity  and  articles  of  partnership  with  her  rival,  with  that 
person  by  whom  she  has  been  most  injured,  instead  of  being  the 
dignified  sufferer,  she  becomes  an  object  of  contempt. 

My  dearest  mother,  my  most  respected  friend,  my  sentiments 
on  this  subject  cannot  essentially  diflTer  from  yours.  I  must 
have  mistaken  your  meaning.  Pray  write  quickly,  and  tell  me 
so;  and  forgive,  if  you  cannot  approve  of,  the  warmth  with 
which  I  have  spoken. 

I  am  your  truly  affectionate 

And  grateful  daughter, 
Leonora  L 


LETTER  XXIX. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    P- 


'My  amiable  Gabrielle,  I  must  be  laithful  to  my  promise  of 
writing  to  you  every  week,  though  this  place  affords  nothing 

new  either  in  events  or  sentiment.     Mr.  L 's  absence  made 

this  castle  insupportably  dull.     A  few  days  ago  he  returned 


312  LEONORA. 

lioHie,  and  met  me  with  an  easy  kind  of  indifference,  provoking 
enough  to  a  woman  wlio  has  been  accustomed  to  excite  some 
sensation.  However,  I  was  rejoiced  at  this  upon  Leonora's  ac- 
count She  was  evidently  delighted,  and  her  spirits  and  affec- 
tions seemed  to  overflow  involuntarily  ui)on  all  ai-ound  her ;. 
even  to  me  her  manner  became  quite  frank  and  cordial,  almost 
caressing.  She  is  really  handsome  when  she  is  animated,  and 
her  conversation  this  evening  quite  surprised  me.  1  saw  some- 
tliing  of  that  playfulness,  those  light  touches,  that  versatility  of 
expression,  those  woi'ds  that  mean  more  than  meet  the  ear; 
every  thing,  in  short,  that  could  charm  in  the  most  polished 
foreign  society.  Leonora  seemed  to  be  inspired  with  all  the  art 
of  conversation,  by  the  simple  instinct  of  affection.  What  asto- 
nished me  most  was  the  grace  with  which  she  introduced  some 
profound   philosophical   remarks.      "Such    pearls,"    said   Mr^ 

L ,  "  come  from  the  deep." 

With  all  these  talents,  what  might  not  Leonora  be  in  proper 
hands !  But  now  she  is  nothing  except  to  her  husband,  and  a 
few  intimate  friends.  However,  this  is  not  my  affair.  Let  me 
go  on  to  what  concerns  myself.  You  may  believe,  my  dear 
Gabrielle,  that  I  piqued  myself  upon  showing  at  least  as  much 
easy  indifference  as  was  shown  to  me :  freedom  encourages 
freedom.  As  there  was  no  danger  of  my  being  too  amiable, 
I  did  not  think  myself  bound  in  honour  or  sentiment  to  keep 
myself  in  the  shade ;  but  I  could  not  be  as  brilliant  as  you  have 
seen  me  at  your  soirees :  the  magic  circle  of  adorers,  the  in- 
spiring power  of  numbers,  the  eclat  of  public  representation^ 
were  wanting.  I  retired  to  my  own  apartment  at  night,  quite 
out  of  humour  with  myself;  and  Josephine,  as  she  undressed 
me,  put  me  still  further  out  of  patience,  by  an  ill-timed  history 
of  a  dispute  she  has  had  with  Leonora's  Swiss  servant.  The 
Swiss  and  Josephine,  it  seems,  came  to  high  words  in  defence  of 
tiieir  mistresses'  charms.  Josephine  provoked  the  Swiss  by  say- 
ing, that  his  lady  might  possibly  he  handsome  if  she  were 
dressed  in  the  French  taste ;  mais  qu'elle  etoit  hien  Angloise,  and 
would  be  quite  another  thing  if  she  had  been  at  Paris.  The 
Swiss  retorted  by  observhig,  that  Josephine's  lady  had  indeed 
learnt  in  perfection  at  Paris  the  art  of  making  herself  up,  which 
was  quite  necessary  to  a  beauty  un  peu  passee.     The  words  wen 


LEONORA.  313 

not  more  agreeable  to  me  than  they  had  been  to  Josephine.  I 
wonder  at  her  assurance  in  repeating  them — "  Un  pen  passee  !" 
Many  a  woman  in  England,  ten,  fifteen  years  older  than  I  am, 
has  inspired  a  violent  passion ;  and  it  has  been  observed,  that 
power  is  retained  by  these  mature  charmers,  longer  than  con- 
quest can  be  preserved  by  inexperienced  beauties.  There  an 
women  who  have  learnt  to  combine,  for  their  own  advantage, 
and  for  that  of  their  captives,  all  the  pleasure  and  conveniences 
of  society,  all  that  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  world  can  give 
—women  who  have  a  sufficient  attention  to  appearances,  joined 
to  a  real  contempt  of  all  prejudices,  especially  that  of  constancy 
— women  who  possess  that  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  whicli 
well  compensates  transient  bloom ;  who  add  the  expression  of 
sentiment  to  beautiful  features,  and  who  employ 

*'  Gay  smiles  to  comfort,  April  showers  to  move, 
And  all  the  nature,  all  the  art  of  Love." 

— "  Un  peu  passee!"  The  Swiss  is  impertinent,  and  knows 
nothing  of  the  matter.  His  master  knows  but  little  more.  He 
would,  however,  know  infinitely  more  if  I  could  take  the  trouble 
to  instruct  him  ;  to  which  I  am  almost  tempted  for  want  of 
something  better  to  do.  Adieu,  my  Gabrielle.  R  *  *  *  *s 
silence  is  perfectly  incompr«»hensible. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXX. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    F- 


So,  my  amiable  Gabrielle,  you  are  really  interested  in  my 
letters,  though  written  during  my  English  exile,  and  you  are 
curious  to  know  whether  any  of  my  potent  ^ells  can  wake  into 
life  this  man  of  marble.  I  candidly  confess  you  would  inspire 
me  with  an  ambition  to  raise  my  poor  countrymen  in  your 
opinion,  if  I  were  not  restrained  by  the  sacred  sentiment  of 
friendship,  which  forbids  me  to  rival  Leonora  even  in  a  husband's 
opinion. 

However,  Josephine,  who  feels  herself  a  party  concerned  ever 


214  LEONORA. 

•since  her  battle  with  the  Swiss,  has  piqued  herself  upon  dressing 
x\\e  with  exquisite  taste.  I  am  every  day  mise  a  ravir ! — and 
M-ith  such  perfection  of  art,  that  no  art  appears — all  is  negligent 
«implicity.  I  let  Josephine  please  herself;  for  you  know  I  am 
not  boimd  to  be  frightful,  because  I  have  a  friend  whose  husband 
may  chance  to  turn  his  eye  upon  my  figure,  when  he  is  tired  of 

Admiring  hers.     I  rallied  L the  other  day  upon  his  having 

no  eyes  or  ears  but  for  his  wife.  Be  assured  I  did  it  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  could  not  be  angry.  Then  I  went  on  to  a  com- 
parison between  ihefcKtlity  of  French  and  English  society.  Pie 
admitted  that  there  was  some  truth  and  more  wit  in  my  observa- 
tions. I  was  satisfied.  With  these  reasonable  men,  the  grand 
point  for  a  woman  is  to  amuse  them — they  can  have  logic  from 
their  own  sex.  But,  my  Gabrielle,  I  am  summoned  to  the  scdon^ 
and  must  finish  my  letter  another  day. 


Heaven !  can  it  be  a  fortnight  since  I  wrote  a  line  to  njy 
•Gabrielle ! — Where  was  1 1 — "  With  these  reasonable  men  the 
.grand  point  for  a  woman  is  to  amuse  them."     True — most  true ! 

•L ,  believing  himself  only  amused  with  my  lively  nonsense, 

indulged  himself  with  it  continually.  I  was  to  believe  only 
what  he  believed.  Presently  he  could  not  do  without  my  con- 
versation for  more  than  two  hours  together.  What  was  I  to  do, 
my  Gabrielle  ?  I  walked  out  to  avoid  him.  He  found  me  in 
the  woods — rallied  me  on  my  taste  for  solitude,  and  quoted 
Voltaire. 

This  led  to  a  metaphysical  conversation,  half  playful,  half 
serious : — the  distinction  which  a  man  sometimes  makes  to  his 
conscience  between  thinking  a  woman  entertaining,  and  feeling 
her  interesting,  vanishes  more  easily,  and  more  rapidly,  than  he 
is  aware  of — at  least  in  certain  situations.  This  was  not  an 
observation  I  could  make  to  my  companion  in  the  woods,  and  he 
certainly  did  not  make  it  for  himself.  It  would  have  been  vanity 
in  me  to  have  broken  off  our  conversation,  lest  he  should  fall  in 
love  with  me — it  would  have  been  blindness  not  to  have  seen 
that  he  was  in  some  danger.  I  thought  of  Leonora — and  sighed 
— and  did  all  that  was  in  my  power  to  put  him  upon  his  guard. 
By  way  of  preservative,  I  frankly  made  him  a  confession  of  m^ 


LEONORA.  315 

attachment  to  R***.  This  I  imagined  would  put  things  upon  a 
right  footing  for  ever ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  by  convincing  him 
of  my  innocence,  and  of  my  having  no  designs  on  his  heart,  this 
candour  has,  I  fear,  endangered  him  still  more ;  yet  I  know  not 
what  to  think — ^his  manner  is  so  variable  towards  me — I  must 
be  convinced  of  what  his  sentiments  are,  before  J  can  decide 
what  my  conduct  ought  to  be.  Adieu,  my  amiable  Gabrielle ; 
I  wait  for  something  decisive  with  an  inexpressible  degree  of 
anxiety — I  will  not  now  call  it  curiosity. — Apropos,  does  R*** 
wish  that  I  should  forget  that  he  exists  ?  What  is  this  business 
that  detains  him  ?    But  why  do  I  condescend  to  inquire  ? 

Olivia. 


LEITER  XXXI. 


GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L- 


MY  3>BAR  L ,  London. 

1  SEND  you  the  horse  to  which  you  took  a  fancy.  He  has  killed 
one  of  his  grooms,  and  lamed  two  ;  but  you  will  be  his  master, 
and  I  hope  he  will  know  it. 

I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you  on  a  more  serious  subject.  Pardon- 
nie  if  I  tell  you  that  I  think  you  are  a  happy  man,  and  excuse 
me  if  I  add,  that  if  you  do  not  keep  yourself  so  I  shall  not  think 
you  a  wise  one.  A  good  wife  is  better  than  a  good-for-notliing- 
•distress. — A  self-evident  proposition ! — A  stupid  truism !  Yes ; 
but  if  every  man  who  knows  a  self-evident  proposition  when  he 
sees  it  on  paper,  always  acted  as  if  he  knew  it,  this  would  be  a 
very  wise  and  a  very  happy  world ;  and  I  should  not  have  occa- 
sion to  write  this  letter. 

You  say  that  you  are  only  amusing  yourself  at  the  expense  of 
a  finished  coquette ;  take  care  that  she  does  not  presently  divert 

herself  at  yours. "  You  are  proof  affainst  French  coquetry  and 

German  sentiment." Granted — but  a  fine  woman  ? — and  your 

own  vanity? — But  you  have  no  vanity.- You  call  it  pride 

then,  I  suppose.    I  will  not  quarrel  with  you  for  a  name.    Pride, 
P.roperly  managed,  will  do  yoiu:  business  as  well  as  vanity.    And 

21 


3]6  LEONORA. 

no  doubt  Lady  Olivia  knows  this  as  well  as  I  do.     I  hope  jtm 
may  never  know  it  hetter. 

I  am,  my  dear  friend, 

Truly  yours, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XXXIL 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


L Castle. 

Advise  me,  dearest  Gabrielle ;  I  am  in  a  delicate  situation  ;  and 
on  your  judgment  and  purity  of  heart  I  have  the  most  perfect 
reliance.  Know,  then,  that  I  begin  to  believe  that  Leonora's 
jealousy  was  not  so  absolutely  absurd  as  T  at  first  supposed. 
She  understood  her  husband  better  than  I  did.  I  begin  to 
fear  that  I  have  made  a  serious  impression  whilst  I  meant  only 
to  amuse  myself.  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  simply  intended  to 
satisfy  my  curiosity,  and  that  once  gratified,  it  was  my  deter- 
mination to  respect  the  weakness  I  discovered.  To  love  Leonora, 
as  once  I  imagined  I  could,  is  out  of  my  power;  but  to  disturb 
her  peace,  to  destroy  her  happiness,  to  make  use  of  the  confi- 
dence she  has  reposed  in  me,  the  kindness  she  has  shown  by 
making  me  an  inmate  of  her  house — my  soul  shudders  at  these 
ideas.  No — if  her  husband  really  loves  me  I  will  fly.  Leonora 
shall  see  that  Olivia  is  incapable  of  treachery — that  Olivia  has  a 
soul  generous  and  delicate  as  her  own,  though  free  from  the 
prejudices  by  which  she  is  fettered.  To  Leonora  a  husband  is 
a  lover — I  shall  consider  him  as  such,  and  respect  her  property. 
You  are  so  little  used,  my  dear  Gabrielle,  to  consider  a  husband 
in  this  point  of  view,  that  you  will  scarcely  enter  into  my  feel- 
ings :  but  put  yourself  in  my  situation,  allow  for  nationality  of 
principle,  and  I  am  persuaded  you  would  act  as  I  shall.  Spare 
me  your  raillery ;  seriously,  if  Leonora's  husband  is  in  love  with 
me,  would  you  not  advise  me,  my  dearest  friend,  to  fly  him, 
*' far  as  pole  from  pole?"  Write  to  me,  I  conjure  you,  my 
-Gabrielle — write  instantly,  and  tell  me  whether  R***  is  now  at 


LEONORA.  317 

'Paris.  I  will  return  thither  immediately  if  you  advise  it  My 
mind  is  in  such  confusion,  I  have  no  power  to  decide ;  I  will  be 
guided  by  your  advice, 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXXIII. 

MADAME    DE    P TO    OMVIA. 

Paris. 
Advice!  my  charming  Olivia!  do  you  ask  me  for  advice?  I 
never  gave  or  took  advice  in  my  life,  except  for  les  vapeurs  noirs. 
And  your  understanding  is  so  far  superior  to  mine,  and  you 
comprehend  the  characters  of  these  English  so  much  better  than 
I  do,  that  I  cannot  pretend  to  counsel  you.  This  Lady  Leonora 
is  inconceivable  with  her  passion  for  her  own  husband;  but  how 
ridiculous  to  let  it  be  suspected  !  If  her  heart  is  so  tender, 
cannot  she,  with  all  her  charms,  find  a  lover  on  whom  to  bestow 

it,  without  tormenting  that  poor  Mr.  L ?     Evidently  he  is 

tired  of  her :  and  I  am  sure  I  should  be  worn  to  death  were  I  in 
his  place.  Nothing  so  tiresome  as  love  without  mystery,  and 
without  obstacles.  And  this  must  ever  be  the  case  with  conjugal 
love.  Eighteen  months  married,  I  think  you  say,  and  Lady 
Leonora  expects  her  husband  to  be  still  at  her  feet !  And  she 
wishes  it !  Truly  she  is  the  most  unreasonable  woman  upon 
earth — and  the  most  extraordinary  j  but  I  am  tired  of  thinking 
of  what  I  cannot  comprehend. 

Let  us  pass  on  to  Mr.  L .     By  your  last  letters,  I  should 

judge  that  he  might  be  an  agreeable  man,  if  his  wife  were  out  of 
the  question.  Matrimonial  jealousy  is  a  new  idea  to  me  ;  I  can 
judge  of  it  only  by  analogy.  In  affairs  of  gallantry,  I  have 
'V)metimes  seen  one  of  the  parties  continue  to  love  when  the 
other  has  become  indifferent,  and  then  they  go  on  tormenting 
one  another  and  being  miserable,  because  they  have  not  the 
sense  to  see  that  a  fire  cannot  be  made  of  ashes.  Sometimes  I 
have  found  romantic  young  people  persuade  themselves  that 
they  can  love  no  more  because  they  can  love  one  another  no 
longer ;  but  if  they  had  sufficient  courage  to  say — I  am  tired — ^ 
and  I  cannot  help  it — they  would  come  to  a  right  understanding 


318  L£ONORA. 

immediately,  and  part  on  the  best  terms  possible ;  each  eager  to 
make  a  new  choice,  and  to  be  again  in  love  and  happy.  All 
this  to  be  done  with  decency,  of  course.  And  if  there  be  no  scan- 
dal, where  is  the  harm  .'  Can  it  signify  to  the  universe  whether 
Mons.  Un  tel  likes  Madame  Une  telle  or  Madame  Une  autre? 
Provided  there  is  love  enough,  all  the  world  is  in  good  humour, 
and  that  is  the  essential  point;  for  without  good  humour,  what 
becomes  of  the  pleasures  of  society  ?  As  to  the  rest,  I  think  of 
inconstancy,  or  infidelity,  as  it  is  called,  much,  as  our  good  La 
Fontaine  did — "  Quand  on  le  sait,  c'est  peu  de  chose — quand  on 
1)8  le  sait  pas,  ce  n'est  rien." 

To  promise  to  love  one  person  eternally !  What  a  terrible 
engagement!  It  freezes  my  heart  even  to  think  of  it.  I  am* 
persuaded,  that  if  1  were  bound  to  love  him  for  life,  I  should 
detest  the  most  amiable  man  upon  earth  in  ten  minutes — a 
liusband  more  especially.  Good  heavens  !  how  I  should  abhor 
M.  de    P  if  I   saw  him  in  this  point  of  view !      On  the 

contrary,  now  I  love  him  infinitely — that  is  to  say,  as  one  loves 
a  husband.  I  have  his  interest  at  heart,  and  his  glory.  When 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  prison  I  was  in  despair.  I  was  at 
home  to  no  one  but  Brave-et-Tendre^  and  to  him  only  to  consult 
on  the  means  of  obtaining  my  husband's  pardon.  M.  de  P 
is  sensible  of  this,  and  on  my  part  I  have  no  reason  to  complain 
of  his  liberality.  We  are  perfectly  happy,  though  we  meet 
})erhaps  but  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  day ;  and  is  not  this  better 
than  tiring  one  another  for  four-and-twenty  hours?  When  I 
^vuw  old — if  ever  I  do^he  will  be  my  best  friend.  In  the  mean 
time  I  support  his  credit  with  all  my  influence.  This  very 
morning  I  concluded  an  affair  for  him,  which  never  could  have 
succeeded,  if  the  intimate  friend  of  the  minister  had  not  beea 
jilso  my  lover.     Now,  why  cannot  your  Lady  Leonora  and  her 

Mr.  L live   on    the  same  sort  of  terms  ?     But  if  English 

maimers  will  not  permit  of  this,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say. 
Above  all  things  a  woman  must  respect  opinion,  else  she  cannot 
be  well  received  in  the  world.  I  conclude  this  is  the  secret  of 
Lady  Leonora's  conduct.  But  then  jealousy  !— no  woman,  I 
Biippose,  is  bound,  even  in  England,  to  be  jealous  in  order  to 
show  her  love  for  her  husband.  I  lose  myself  again  in  trying  to 
understand  what  is  incomprehensible. 


LEONORA.  719 

As  lo  you,  my  dear  Olivia,  you  also  amaze  me  by  talking  of 
trimet  and  horror  ^  &nA  flying  from  pole  to  pole  to  avoid  a  man 
because  you  have  made  him  at  last  find  out  that  he  has  a  heart  ! 
You  have  done  him  the  greatest  possible  service  :  it  may  preserve 
him  perhaps  from  hanging  himself  next  November — thatmonth  in 
which,  according  to  Voltaire's  philosophical  calendar,  English- 
men always  hang  themselves,  because  the  atmosphere  is  so 
thick,  and  their  ennui  so  heavy.  Lady  Leonora,  if  she  really 
loves  her  husband,  ought  to  be  infinitely  obliged  to  you  for 
averting  this  danger.  As  to  the  rest,  your  heart  is  not  concerned, 
so  you  can  have  nothing  to  fear ;  and  as  for  a  platonic  attach- 
ment on  the  part  of  Mr.  L ,  his  wife,  even  according  to  her 

own  rigid  principles,  cannot  blame  you. 

Adieu,  my  charming  friend !  Instead  of  laughing  at  your  fit 
of  prudery,  I  ought  to  encourage  your  scruples,  that  I  might 
profit  by  them.  If  they  should  bring  you  to  Paris  immediately, 
with  what  joy  should  I  embrace  my  Olivia,  and  how  mucli 
gratitude  should  I  owe  to  the  jealousy  of  Lady  Leonora  L ! 

R***  is  not  yet  returned.  When  I  have  any  news  to  give  you 
of  him,  depend  upon  it  you  shall  hear  from  me  again.  Accept, 
my  interesting  Olivia,  the  vows  of  my  most  tender  and  eternal 
friendship. 

Gabrielle  de  P 


LETTER  XXXIV. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DB    P . 

L Castle,  Tuesday 

Your  charming  letter,  my  Gabrielle,  has  at  once  revived  my 
spirits  and  dissipated  all  my  scruples ;  you  mistake,  jowever,  in 
supposing  that  Leonora  is  in  love  with  her  husband  :  more  and 
more  reason  have  I  every  hour  to  be  convinced  that  Leonora 
has  never  known  the  passion  of  love ;  consequently  her  jealousy 
was,  as  I  at  first  pronounced  it  to  be,  the  selfish  jealousy  of 
matrimonial  power  and  property.  Else  why  does  it  subside,  why 
does  it  vanish,  when,  if  it  were  a  jealousy  of  the  heart,  it  has  now 
more  provocation,  infinitely  more  than  when  it  appeared  in  full 


320  LEONORA. 

force?  Leonora  could  see  that  her  husband  distinguished  me  at 
afete  champetre  ;  she  could  see  what  the  eyes  of  others  showed  her;, 
she  could  hear  what  envy  whispered,  or  what  scandal  hinted ;  she 
■was  mortified,  she  was  alarmed  even  to  fainting  by  a  public  prefer- 
ence, by  a  silly  country  girl's  mistaking  me  for  the  wife,  and  doing 
homage  to  me  as  to  the  lady  of  the  manor ;  but  Leonora  cannot  per- 
ceive in  the  object  of  her  affection  the  sj'mptoms  that  mark  the  rise 
and  progress  of  a  real  love.  Leonora  feels  not  the  little  strokes, 
whicii  would  be  fatal  blows  to  the  peace  of  a  truly  delicate  mind ; 
she  heeds  not  "  the  trifles  light  as  air"  which  would  be  confirma- 
tion strong  to  a  soul  of  genuine  sensibility.     My  influence  over 

the  mind  of  L increases  rapidly,  and  I  shall  let  it  rise  to  its 

acme  before  I  seem  to  notice  it.  Leonora,  re-assured,  I  suppose, 
by  a  few  flattering  words,  and  more,  perhaps,  by  an  exalted 
opinion  of  her  own  merit,  has  lately  appeared  quite  at  her  ease, 
and  blind  to  all  that  passes  before  her  eyes.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
dissipate  this  illusion  prematurely — it  is  not  for  me  to  weaken 
this  confidence  in  her  husband.  To  an  English  wife  this  would 
be  death.  Let  her  foolisl)  security  then  last  as  long  as  possible. 
After  all,  how  much  anguish  of  heart,  how  many  pangs  of  con- 
science, how  much  of  the  torture  of  pity,  am  I  spared  by  this 
callous  temper  in  my  friend !  I  may  indulge  in  a  little  harmless 
coquetry,  without  danger  to  her  peace,  and  without  scruple^ 
enjoy  the  dear  possession  of  power. 


"  Say,  for  you  know,"  charming  Gabrielle,  what  is  the  delight 
of  obtaining  power  over  the  human  heart?  Let  the  lords  of  the 
creation  boast  of  their  power  to  govern  all  things ;  to  charm  these 
governors  be  ours.  Let  the  logicians  of  the  earth  boast  their 
power  to  regulate  the  world  by  reason ;  be  it  ours,  Gabrielle,  to 
intoxicate  and  humble  proud  reason  to  the  dust  beneath  our  feet. 
•—And  who  shall  blame  in  us  this  ardour  for  universal  dominion  ? 
If  they  are  men,  I  call  them  tyiants — if  they  are  women,  I  call 
them  hypocrites — and  the  two  vices  which  I  most  detest  are 
tyranny  and  hypocrisy.  Frankly  I  confess,  that  I  feel  in  all  its 
restless  activity  the  passion  for  general  admiration.  1  cannot 
conceive — can  you,  Gabrielle,  a  pleasure  more  transporting  than 
the  perception   of  extended   and   extending   dominion?     The 


LEONORA.  321 


■truggle  of  the  rebel  heart  for  freedom  makes  the  war  mor« 
tempting,  the  victory  more  glorious,  the  trimnph  more  splendid. 
Secure  of  your  sympathy,  ma  belle  Gabrielle,  I  shall  not  fear  t« 
tire  you  by  my  commentaries. 


Male  coquetry  justifies  female  retaliation  to  any  imaginable 
•xtent.  Upon  this  principle,  on  which  I  have  seen  you  act  so 
often,  and  so  successfully,  I  shall  now  intrepidly  proceed.  This 
man  makes  a  show  of  resistance  ;  be  it  at  his  own  peril :  he  thinks 
that  he  is  gaining  power  over  my  heart,  whilst  I  am  preparing 
torments  for  his;  he  fancies  that  he  is  throwing  chains  round  me, 
■whilst  I  am  rivetting  fetters  from  which  he  will  in  vain  attempt 
to  escape.  He  is  proud,  and  has  the  insanity  of  desiring  to  be 
exclusively  beloved,  yet  affects  to  set  no  value  upon  the  pre- 
ference that;  is  shown  to  him  ;  appears  satisfied  with  his  own 
approbation,  and  stoically  all-sufficient  to  his  own  happiness. 
Leonora  does  not  know  how  to  manage  his  temper,  but  I  do. 
The  suspense,  however,  in  which  he  keeps  me  is  tantalizing  :  he 
shall  pay  for  it  hereafter  :  I  had  no  idea,  till  lately,  that  he  had 
so  much  self-command.  At  times  he  has  actually  made  me  doubt 
my  own  power.  At  certain  moments  I  have  been  half  tempted 
to  believe  that  I  had  made  no  serious  impression,  that  he  had 
been  only  amusing  himself  at  my  expense,  and  for  Leonora's 
gratification  :  but  upon  careful  and  cool  observation  I  am  con- 
vinced that  his  indifterence  is  affected,  that  all  his  stoicism  will 
prove  vain.  The  arrow  is  lodged  in  his  heart,  and  he  must  fall, 
whether  he  turn  upon  the  enemy  in  anger,  or  fly  in  dismay. 


My  pride  is  exasperated.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  such  ob- 
stinate resistance.  I  really  almost  hate  this  invincible  man,  and 
— strange  inconsistency  of  the  human  heart ! — almost  love  him* 
Heaven  and  pride  preserve  me  from  such  a  weakness !  But 
there  is  certainly  something  that  piques  and  stimulates  one's 

feelings  in  this  species  of  male  coquetry.    L understands  the 

business  better  than  I  thought  he  could.  One  moment  my  know-, 
ledge  of  the  arts  of  his  sex  puts  me  on  my  guard ;  the  next  my 
sensibility  exposes  me  in  the  most  terrible  manner.     Experience 

Leonora. 


322  LEONORA. 

ought  to  protect  me,  but  it  only  shows  me  the  peril  and  my  in- 
ability to  escape.  Ah  !  Gabrielle,  without  a  heart  how  safe  we 
should  be,  how  dangerous  to  our  lovers  !  But  cursed  with  sensi- 
bility, we  must,  alas  !  submit  to  our  fate.  The  ha})it  of  loving,  U 
besoin  cTaimer,  is  more  powerful  than  all  sense  of  the  folly  and 
the  danger.  Nor  is  the  tempest  of  the  passions  so  dreadful  as 
the  dead  calm  of  the  soul.  Why  did  R***  suffer  my  soul  to 
sink  into  this  ominous  calm  ?  The  fault  is  his  ;  let  him  abide  the 
consequences.  Why  did  he  not  follow  me  to  England  ?  why 
did  he  not  write  to  me  ?  or  when  he  did  write,  why  were  his 
letters  so  cold,  so  spiritless  ?  When  T  spoke  of  divorce,  why  did 
he  hesitate  ?  Why  did  he  reason  when  he  should  have  only  felt? 
Tell  him,  my  tender,  my  delicate  friend,  these  are  questions  which 
the  heart  asks,  and  which  the  heart  only  can  answer.  Adieu. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXXV. 

MADAME    DE    P TO    OLIVIA. 

Paris. 

Fb  suis  exced^e !  mon  coeur.  Alive,  and  but  just  alive,  after 
guch  a  day  of  fatigues !  All  morning  from  one  minister  to 
Another  !  then  home  to  my  toilette  !  then  a  great  dinner  with  a 
number  of  foreigners,  each  to  be  distinguished — then  au  Feydeau, 

^vhere  I  was  obh'ged  to  go  to  support  poor  S 's  play.     It 

would  be  really  insupportable,  if  it  were  not  for  the  finest  music 
in  the  world,  which,  after  all,  the  French  music  certainly  is. 

rhere  was  a  violent  party  against  the  piece ;  and  we  were  so  late, 
I  hat  it  was  just  on  the  point  of  perishing.  My  ears  have  not  yet 
recovered  from  the  horrid  noise.  In  the  midst  of  the  tumult  I 
happily,  by  a  master-stroke,  tiuned  the  fortune  of  the  night.  I 
«pied  the  shawl  of  an  English  woman  hanging  over  the  box. 
This,  you  know,  like  scarlet  to  the  bull,  is  sufficient  to  enrage 
the  Parisian  pit.  To  the  shawl  I  directed  the  fury  of  the  mob 
of  critics.  Luckily  for  us,  the  lady  was  attended  only  by  an 
Englishman,  who  of  course  chose  to  assert  his  right  not  to 
understand  the  customs  of  any  country,  or  submit  to  any  will 
but  his  own.     He  would  not  permit  the  shawl  to  be  stirred.     A 


LEONORA.  323 

iias  !  a  bas :  resounded  from  below.  The  uproar  was  incon- 
ceivable. You  would  have  thought  that  the  house  must  have 
come  down.  In  the  mean  time  the  piece  went  on,  and  the 
shawl  covered  all  its  defects.  Admire  my  generalship.  T 
tells  me  I  was  bom  for  a  general  j  yet  I  rather  think  my  forte 
is  negotiation. 

But  I  have  not  yet  come  to  your  affairs,  for  which  alone  I 
■could  undergo  the  fatigue  of  writing  at  this  moment.  Guess, 
my  Olivia,  what  apparition  I  met  at  the  door  of  my  box  to- 
.night.  But  the  enclosed  note  will  save  you  the  trouble  of 
guessing.  I  could  not  avoid  permitting  him  to  slide  his  billet- 
■doux  into  my  hand  as  he  put  on  my  shawl.  Adieu.  I  must 
refuse  myself  the  pleasure  of  conversing  longer  with  my  swee^ 
friend.  Fresh  toils  await  me.  Madame  la  Grande  will  never 
forgive  me  if  I  do  not  appear  for  a  moment  at  her  soiree  :  and 

la  petite  Q will  be  jealous  beyond  recovery,  if  I  do  not  give 

her  a  moment :  and  it  is  Madame  R 's  night.    There  I  must 

be;  for  all  the  ambassadors,  as  usual,  will  be  there;  and  as 
some  of  them,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  go  on  purpose  to  meet  me, 
I  cannot  disappoint  their  Excellencies,  My  friends  would  never 
forgive  it.  I  am  positively  quite  weary  of  this  life  of  eternal 
bustle ;  but  once  in  the  eddy,  one  is  carried  round  and  round  ; 
there  is  no  stopping.  Adieu,  adieu.  I  write  under  the  hands 
of  Victoire.  O  that  she  had  your  taste  to  g^ide  her,  and  to 
decide  my  too  vacillating  judgment !  we  should  then  have  no 
occasion   to    dread   even    the    elegant   simplicity   of  Madame 

R 's  toilette, 

Gabrielle  de  P . 


LETTER  XXXVI. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


My  Gabrielle,  I  have  read  R****s  note  enclosed  in  your 
charming  sprightly  letter.  What  a  contrast !  So  cold !  so 
formal !  A  thousand  times  rather  would  I  not  have  heard  from  him, 
than  have  received  a  letter  so  little  in  unison  with  my  feelings, 
ile  talks  to  me  of  business.     Business!     What  business  ought 


324  LEONORA. 

to  detain  a  man  a  moment  from  the  woman  he  loves  ?  Thr 
interests  of  his  ambition  are  nothing  to  me.  What  are  all  these 
to  love  ?  Is  he  so  mean  as  to  hesitate  between  them  ?  then  I 
despise  him  !  and  Olivia  can  never  love  the  being  she  despises . 
Does  R***  flatter  himself  that  his  power  over  my  heart  is 
omnipotent?  Does  he  imagine  that  Olivia  is  to  be  slighted  with 
impunity  ?  Does  R***  think  that  a  woman,  who  has  even 
nominally  the  honour  to  reign  over  his  heart,  cannot  meditate 
new  conquests?  Oh,  credulous  vanity  of  man!  He  fancies, 
perhaps,  that  he  is  secure  of  the  maturer  age  of  one,  who  fondly 
devoted  to  him  her  inexperienced  youth.  "  Security  is  the  curse 
of  fools."  Does  he  in  his  wisdom  deem  a  woman's  age  a  sufficient 
pledge  for  her  constancy  ?  He  might  every  day  see  examples 
enough  to  convince  him  of  his  error.  In  fact,  the  age  of 
women  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  number  of  their  years. 
Possibly,  however,  the  gallant  gentleman  may  be  of  opinion 
with  Leonora's  Swiss,  that  Lady  Olivia  is  un  pen  passee.  Adieu, 
my  dear  friend;  you,  who  always  understand  and  sympathize 
in  my  feelings,  you  will  express  them  for  me  in  the  best  manner 
possible.  I  shall  not  write  to  R***.  You  will  see  him  ;  and 
Olivia  commits  to  you  what  to  a  woman  of  delicacy  is  more  dear 
than  her  love — her  just  resentment. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXXVII. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P— 


Castle. 


Pity  me,  dearest  Gabrielle,  for  I  am  in  need  of  all  the  pity  which 
your  susceptible  heart  can  bestow.  Never  was  woman  in  such 
a  terrible  situation !  Yes,  Gabrielle,  this  provoking,  this  in- 
comprehensible, this  too  amiable  man,  has  entangled  your  poor 
friend  past  recovery.  Her  sentiments  and  sensations  must 
henceforward  be  in  eternal  opposition  to  each  other.  Friendship, 
gratitude,  honour,  virtue,  all  in  tremendous  array,  forbid  her  to 
think  of  love;  but  love,  imperious  love,  will  not  be  so  defied: 
he  seizes  upon  his  victim,  and  now,  as  in  all  the  past,  will  be 
the  ruler,  the  tyrant  of  Olivia's  destiny.     Never  was  confusioi*^ 


LEONORA.  325 

amazement,  terror,  remorse,  equal  to  mine,  Gabrielle,  when  I 
first  discovered  that  I  loved  him.     Who  could  have  foreseen,  who 
could  have  imagined  it?     I  meant  but  to  satisfy  an  innocent 
curiosity,   to  indulge  harmless  coquetry,  to  gratify  the  natural 
love  of  admiration,  and  to  enjoy  the  possession  of  powei*.     Alasj 
I  felt  not  that,  whilst  I  was  acquiring  ascendancy  over  the  heart 
of  another,  I  was  beguiled  of  all   command  over  my  own.     I 
flattered  myself  that,  when  honour  should  bid  me  stop,  1  could 
pause  without  hesitation,  without  effort :  I  promised  myself,  that 
the  moment  I  should  discover  that  I  was  loved  by  the  husband 
of  my  friend  I  should  fly  from  him  for  ever.     Alas !  it  is  no 
longer  time — to  fly  from  him  is  no  longer  in  my  power.     Oh, 
Gabrielle  !   I  love  him :  he  knows  that  I  love  him.     Never  did 
woman  suffer  more  than  I  have  done  since  I  wrote  to  you  last. 
The  conflict  was  too  violent  for  my  feeble  frame.     I  have  been 
ill — very  ill :  a  nervous  fever  brought  me  nearly  to  the  grave. 
Why  did  I  not  die  ?    I  should  have  escaped  the  deep  humiliation, 
the  endless  self-reproach  to  which  my  future  existence  is  doomed. 
—Leonora ! — Why  do  I  start   at   that  name  ?      Oh  !    there   is 
horror  in  the  sound  !     Even  now  perhaps  she  know  s  and  triumphs 
in  my  weakness.     Even  now,  perhaps,  her  calm  insensible  soul 
blesses  itself  for  not  being  made  like  mine.     Even  now  perhaps 
her  husband  doubts  whether  he  shall  accept  Olivia's  love,  or 
sacrifice  your  wretched  friend  to  Leonora's  pride.     Oh,  Gabrielle, 
no  words  can  describe  what  I  suffer]     But  I  must  be  calm,  and 
explain  the  progress  of  this  fatal  passion.     Explain — Heavens .' 
how  shall  I  explain  what  I  cannot  recollect  without  heart-rending 
anguish  and  confusion !     Oh,  Gabrielle  !  pity 

Your  distracted 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XXXVIIL 
Madame  de  p to  olivia. 


Monday. 
My  dear  romantic  Olivia  !  you  must  have  a  furious  passion  for 
tormenting  yourself,  when  you  can  find  matter  for  despair  in 
your  present  situation.     In  your  place  I  should  rejoice  to  find 


,126  LEONORA. 

that  in  the  moment  an  old  passion  had  consumed  itself,  a  new 
one,  fresh  and  vigorous,  springs  from  ivs  ashes.  My  charnung 
friend,  understand  your  own  interests,  and  do  not  be  the  dupe 
of  those  fine  phrases  that  we  are  obliged  to  employ  to  deceive 
others.  Rail  at  Cupid  as  much  as  you  please  to  the  men  in 
public,  par  fofon ;  but  always  remember  for  your  private  use, 
that  love  is  essential  to  our  existence  in  society.  What  is  a 
woman  when  she  neither  loves  nor  is  loved  ?  a  mere  personage 
muet  in  the  drama  of  life.  Is  it  not  from  our  lovers  that  we 
derive  our  consequence?  Even  a  beauty  without  lovers  is  but  a 
queen  without  subjects.  A  woman  who  renounces  love  is  an 
abdicated  sovereign,  always  longing  to  resume  her  empire  when 
•it  is  too  late;  continually  forgetting  herself,  like  the  pseudo- 
philosophic  Christina,  talking  and  acting  as  though  she  had  still 
the  power  of  life  and  death  in  her  hands;  a  tyrant  without 
guards  or  slaves;  a  most  awkward,  pitiable,  and  ridiculous 
personage.  No,  my  fair  Olivia,  let  us  never  abjure  love  j 
even  when  the  reign  of  beauty  passes  away,  that  of  grace  and 
sentiment  remains.  As  much  delicacy  as  you  please :  without 
delicacy  there  is  no  grace,  and  without  a  veil,  beauty  loses  her 
most  captivating  charms.  I  pity  you,  my  dear,  for  having  let 
-your  veil  be  blown  aside  malheureusement.  But  such  accidents 
-will  happen.  Who  can  control  the  passions  or  the  winds? 
After  all,  Verreur  d'un  moment  is  not  irretrievable,  and  you 
reproach  yourself  too  bitterly,  my  sweet  friend,  for  your  in- 
voluntary injustice  to  Lady  Leonora.     Assuredly  it  could  not  be 

your  intention  to  sacrifice   your  repose  to  Mr.  L .     You 

loved  him  against  your  will,  did  you  not  ?  And  it  is,  you  know, 
by  the  intention  that  we  must  judge  of  actions :  the  positive 
harm  done  to  the  world  in  general  is  in  all  cases  the  only  just 
measure  of  criminality.  Now  what  harm  is  done  to  the  universe, 
and  what  injury  can  accrue  to  any  individual,  provided  you  keep 
your  own  counsel?  As  long  as  your  friend  is  deceived,  she  is 
happy  ;  it  therefore  becomes  your  duty,  your  virtue,  to  dissemble. 
I  am  no  gr^at  casuist,  but  all  this  appears  to  me  self-evident ; 
and  these  I  always  thought  were  your  principles  of  philosophy. 
My  dear  Olivia,  I  have  drawn  otit  my  whole  store  of  metaphysics 
with  some  diflScuIty  for  your  service ;  I  flatter  myself  I  have  set 
your  poor  distracted  head  to  rights.     One  word  more — for  I  like 


LEOMUftA.  327 

to  go  to  the  bottom  of  a  subject,  when  I  can  do  so  in  two  minutes : 
virtue  is  desirable  because  it  makes  us  happy ;  consequently,  to 
make  ourselves  happy  is  to  be  truly  virtuous.  Methinks  tliis  is 
sound  logic. 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear  Olivia,  I  do  not  well  conceive 
how  you  have  contrived  to  fall  in  love  with  this  half-frozen 
Englishman.  'Tis  done,  however — there  is  no  arguing  against 
facts  ;  and  this  is  only  one  proof  moi'e  of  what  I  have  always 
maintained,  that  destiny  is  inevitable  and  love  irresistible. 
Voltaire's  charming  inscription  on  the  statue  of  Cupid  is  worth 
all  the  volumes  of  reasoning  and  morality  that  ever  were  or  ever 
Avill  be  written.  Banish  melancholy  thoughts,  my  dear  friend; 
they  serve  no  manner  of  purpose  but  to  increase  your  passion. 
Repentance  softens  the  heart ;  and  every  body  knows,  that  what 
softens  the  heart  disposes  it  more  to  love :  for  which  reason  I 
never  abandon  myself  to  this  dangerous  luxury  of  repentance. 
Mon  Dieu !  why  will  people  never  benefit  by  experience  ?  And 
to  what  purpose  do  they  read  history  ?  Was  not  La  Valliere  ever 
penitent,  and  ever  transgressing?  ever  in  transports  or  in  tears  ? 
You,  at  all  events,  my  Olivia,  can  never  become  a  Carmelite  or  a 
Magdalen.  You  have  emancipated  yourself  from  superstition  ; 
but  whilst  you  ridicule  all  religious  orders,  do  not  inflict  upon  your- 
self their  penances.  The  habit  of  some  of  the  orders  has  been 
thought  becoming.  The  modest  costume  of  a  nun  is  indeed 
one  of  the  prettiest  dresses  one  can  wear  at  a  masquerade  ball, 
and  it  might  even  be  worn  without  a  mask,  if  it  were  fashion- 
able :  but  nothing  that  is  not  fashionable  can  be  becoming. 

Adieu,  my  adorable  Olivia :  1  will  send  you,  by  the  first, 
opportunity,  your  Lyons  gown,  which  is  really  charming. 

Gabrielle  de  P . 


LETTER  XXXIX 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


Nov.  30th,  — 
Your  truly  philosophical  letter,  my  infinitely  various  Gabrielle, 
Infused  a  portion  of  its  charming  spirit  into  my  soul.     My  mind 


328  LEONORA. 

was  fortified  and  elevated  by  your  eloquence.  Who  could  tlimV 
hat  a  woman  of  such  a  lively  genius  could  be  so  profound?  and 
;rbo  could  expect  from  a  woman  who  has  passed  her  life  in  the 
world,  such  original  and  deep  reflections  ?  You  see  you  were 
mistaken  when  you  thought  that  you  had  no  genius  for  philoso- 
phic subjects. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  by  metaphysicians  about  the 
existence  and  seat  of  the  moral  sense,  I  think  I  can  solve  every 
difficulty  by  a  new  theory.  You  know  some  philosophers  sup- 
pose the  moral  sense  to  be  intuitive  and  inherent  in  man :  others 
who  deny  the  doctrine  of  innate  ideas,  treat  this  notion  of  innate 
sentiments  as  equally  absurd.  There  they  certainly  are  wrong, 
for  sentiments  are  widely  different  from  ideas,  and  I  have  that 
within  me  which  convmces  my  understanding  that  sentiments 
must  be  innate,  and  proportioned  to  the  delicacy  of  our  sensi- 
bility ;  no  person  of  common  sense  or  feeling  can  doubt  this. 
But  there  are  other  points  which  I  own  puzzled  me  till  yester- 
day :  some  metaphysicians  would  seat  the  moral  sense  inherently 
in  the  heart,  others  would  place  it  intuitively  in  the  brain,  all 
would  confine  it  to  the  soul ;  now  in  my  opinion  it  resides  pri- 
marily and  principally  in  the  nerves,  and  varies  with  their 
variations.  Hence  the  difficulty  of  making  the  moral  sense  a 
universal  guide  of  action,  since  it  not  only  differs  in  many  indi- 
viduals, but  in  the  same  persons  at  different  periods  of  their 
existence,  or  (as  1  have  often  experienced)  at  different  hours  of 
the  day.  All  this  must  depend  upon  the  mobility  of  the  nervous 
system :  upon  this  may  hinge  the  great  difficulties  which  have 
puzzled  metaphysicians  respecting  consciousness,  identity,  &c. 
If  they  had  attended  less  to  the  nature  of  the  soul,  and  more  to 
the  system  of  the  nerves,  they  would  have  avoided  innumerable 
errors,  and  probably  would  have  made  incalculably  important 
discoveries.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  some  great  German  genius 
to  bring  this  idea  of  a  moral  sense  in  the  nerves  into  fashion.  In- 
deed, if  our  friend  Mad.  ***  would  mention  it  in  the  notes  to 
her  new  novel,  it  would  introduce  it,  in  the  most  satisfactory 
manner  possible,  to  all  the  fashionable  world  abroad ;  and  we 
take  our  notions  in  this  country  implicitly  from  the  continent. 
As  for  you,  my  dear  Gabrielle,  I  know  you  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
at  once,  by  referring,  with  your  favourite  moralist,  every  prin- 


LEONORA.  329 

ciple  of  human  nature  to  self-love.  This  does  not  quite  accord 
vrith  my  ideas ;  there  is  something  harsh  in  it  that  is  repugnant 
to  my  sensibility ;  but  you  have  a  stronger  mind  than  I  hare, 
and  perhaps  your  theory  is  right. 

"You  tell  me  I  contradict  myself  continually,"  says  the  acute 
and  witty  Duke  de  la  Rochefoucault :  "No,  but  the  human 
heart,  of  which  I  treat,  is  in  perpetual  contradiction  to  itself." 
Permit  me  to  avail  myself  of  this  answer,  dear  Gabrielle,  if  you 
should  accuse  me  of  contradicting  in  this  letter  all  that  I  said  to 
you  in  my  last.  A  few  hours  after  I  had  despatched  it,  the  state 
of  my  nerves  changed  ;  I  saw  things  of  course  in  a  new  light, 
and  repented  having  exposed  myself  to  your  raillery  by  writing 
in  such  a  Magdalen  strain.  My  nerves  were  more  in  fault  than 
I.  When  one's  mind,  or  one's  nerves  grow  weak,  the  early 
associations  and  old  prejudices  of  the  nursery  recur,  and  tyran- 
nize over  one's  reason :  from  this  evil  your  liberal  education 
and  enviable  temperament  have  preserved  you ;  but  have  charity 
for  my  feminine  weakness  of  frame,  which  too  often  counteracts 
the  masculine  strength  of  my  soul.  Now  that  I  have  deprecated 
your  ridicule  for  my  last  nervous  nonsense,  I  will  go  on  in  a 
more  rational  manner.  However  my  better  judgment  might 
have  been  clouded  for  a  moment,  I  have  recovered  strength  of 
mind  enough  to  see  that  I  am  in  no  way  to  blame  for  any  thing 
that  has  happened.  If  a  man  is  amiable,  and  if  I  have  taste  and 
sensibility,  I  must  see  and  feel  it.  "To  love,"  as  I  remember 
your  friend  G******  once  finely  observed  to  you,  "  to  love,  is  a 
crime  only  in  the  eyes  of  demons,  or  of  priests,  who  resemble 
demons."  This  is  a  general  proposition,  to  which  none  but  the  pre- 
judiced can  refuse  their  assent :  and  what  is  true  in  general,  must 
be  true  in  particular.  The  accident,  I  use  the  term  philosophically, 
not  popularly,  the  accident  of  a  man's  being  married,  or,  in  other 
words,  having  entered  imprudently  into  a  barbarous  and  absurd 
civil  contract,  cannot  alter  the  nature  of  things.  The  essence  of 
truth  cannot  be  affected  by  the  variation  of  external  circumstances. 
Now  the  proper  application  of  metaphysics  frees  the  mind  from 
vulgar  prejudices,  and  dissipates  the  baby  terrors  of  an  ill- 
educated  conscience.  To  fall  in  love  with  a  married  man,  and 
the  husband  of  your  intimate  friend  !  How  dreadful  this  sounds 
to  some  ears !  even  mine  were  startled  at  first,  till  I  called  reason 


330  LEONORA. 

to  my  assistance.  Then  I  had  another  difficulty  to  combat — t<r 
own,  and  own  unasked,  a  passion  to  the  object  of  it,  would 
shock  the  false  delicacy  of  those  who  are  governed  by  common 
forms,  and  who  are  slaves  to  vulgar  prejudices :  but  a  little- 
philosophy  liberates  our  sex  from  the  tyranny  of  custom,  teaches 
us  to  disdain  hypocrisy,  and  to  glory  in  the  simplicity  of  truth. 

Josephine  had  been  perfuming  my  hair,  and  I  was  sitting 
reading  at  my  toilette ;  the  door  of  my  dressing-room  happened 
to  be  half  open ;  L  was  crossing  the  gallery,  and  as  he 

passed  I  suppose  his  eye  was  caught  by  my  hair,  or  perhaps  he 
paused  a  moment,  I  am  not  certain  how  it  was — my  eyes  were 
on  my  book. 

"  Ah !  vous  avez  raison,  monsieur,  c'est  la  plus  belle 
ehevelure !  Mais  entrez  done,  monsieur,"  cried  Josephine, 
whom  I  can  never  teach  to  comprehend  or  respect  English 
customs,  "  £h !  entrez,  entrez,  monsieur ;  madame  est  a  sa 
toilette." 

As  I  looked  up  I  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  the  extreme 
ease  and  decision  of  Josephine's  manner,  and  the  excessive 
doubt  and  anxiety  in  the  gentleman's  appearance.  My  smile, 
which,  Heaven  knows,  meant  no  encouragement,  decided  him  ; 
timidity  instantly  gave  way  to  joy ;  he  entered.  What  was  to 
be  done?  I  could  not  turn  him  out  again  ;  I  was  not  answer- 
able for  any  foolish  conclusions  he  might  draw,  from  what  he 
ought  in  politeness  to  have  considered  as  a  thing  of  course.  All 
I  could  do  was  to  blame  Josephine  for  being  a  French  woman. 
To  defend  her,  and  flatter  me,  was  the  gentleman's  part ;  and, 
for  an  Englishman,  he  really  acquitted  himself  with  tolerable 
grace.  Josephine  at  least  was  pleased,  and  she  found  such  a 
perpetual  employment  for  monsieur,  and  his  advice  was  so  neces- 
sary, that  there  was  no  chance  of  his  departure  :  so  we  talked  of 
French  toilettes,  &c.  &c.  in  French,  for  Josephine's  edification : 

L paid  me  some  compliments  upon  the  recovery  of  my  looks 

after  my  illness — I  thought  I  looked  terribly  languid — but  he 
assured  me  that  this  languor,  in  his  eyes,  was  an  additional 
grace ;  I  could  not  understand  this  :  he  fancied  that  must  be 
because  he  did  not  express  himself  well  in  French ;  he  explained 
himself  more  clearly  in  English,  which  Josephine,  you  know, 
does  not  understand,  so  that  she  was  now  forced  to  be  sUent,  and 


LEONORA.  331 

f  -was  compened  to  take  my  share  in  the  conversation.     L 

made  me  comprehend,  that  languor,  indicating  sensibility  of 
tieart,  was  to  him  the  most  touching  of  female  charms ;  I  sighed, 
and  took  up  the  book  I  had  been  reading ;  it  was  the  new  novel 
which  you  sent  me,  dear  Gabrielle ;  I  talked  of  it,  in  hopes  of 
changing  the  course  of  the  conversation  ;  alas !  this  led  to  one 
far  more  dangerous:  he  looked  at  the  passage  I  had  been 
reading.  This  brought  us  back  to  sensibility  again — to  senti- 
ments and  descriptions  so  terribly  apposite !  we  found  such  a 

similarity  in  our  tastes !     Yet  L spoke  only  in  general,  and 

he  preserved  a  command  over  himself,  which  provoked  me, 
though  I  knew  it  to  be  coquetry ;  I  saw  the  struggle  in  his 
mind,  and  was  determined  to  force  him  to  be  candid,  and  to 
enjoy  my  triumph.  With  these  views  I  went  farther  than  I  had 
intended.  The  charm  of  sensibility  he  had  told  me  was  to  him 
irresistible.  Alas !  I  let  him  perceive  all  the  weakness  of  my 
heart. — Sensibility  is  the  worst  time-keeper  in  the  world.  We 
were  neither  of  us  aware  of  its  progressive  motion.  The  Swiss 
— ^my  evil  genius — the  Swiss  knocked  at  the  door  to  let  me  know 
dinner  was  served.  Dinner!  on  what  vulgar  incidents  the 
happiness  of  life  depends !  Dinner  came  between  the  discovery 
of  my  sentiments  and  that  declaration  of  passion  which  I  now 
must  hear — or  die. 

"  Le  diner  !  mon  Dieu  !"  cried  Josephine.  "  Mais — finissons 
done — la  toilette  de  madame." 

I  heard  the  impertinent  Swiss  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery 
at  his  master's  door,  wondering  in  broken  English  where  his 
master  could  be,  and  conjecturing  forty  absurdities  about  his 
boots,  and  his  being  out  riding,  &c.  &c.  To  sally  forth  in 
conscious  innocence  upon  the  enemy's  spies,  and  to  terminate 
the  adventure  as  it  was  begun,  a  la  Frangoise^  was  my  resolution. 
L  and  Josephine  understood  me  perfectly. 

"  Eh  !  Monsieur  de  Vaud,"  said  Josephine  to  the  Swiss, 
whom  we  met  on  the  landing-place  of  the  stairs,  "  madame  n'est 
elle  pas  coeffee  a  ravir  aujourd'hui?  C'est  que  monsieur  vicnt 
d'assister  a  la  toilette  de  madame."  The  Swiss  bowed,  and  said 
nothing.  The  bow  was  to  his  master,  not  to  me,  and  it  was  a 
ibow  of  duty,  not  of  inclination.     I  ne\er  saw  a  man  look  90 


22 


332  LCONOUA. 

like  a  machine  ;  he  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes  upon  me  or  my 
cdeffure  as  we  passed. 

"Bah!"  cried  Josephine,  with  an  inexpressible  accent  of 
mingled  indignation  and  contempt.  She  ran  down  stairs, 
leaving  the  Swiss  to  his  stupidity.  I  was  more  afraid  of  his 
penetration.  But  I  entered  the  dining-room  as  if  nothing  extra- 
ordinary had  happened ;  and  after  all,  you  know,  my  dear 
Gabrielle,  nothing  extraordinary  had  befallen  us.  A  gentleman 
had  assisted  at  a  lady's  toilette.  Nothing  more  simple,  nothing 
more  proper  in  the  meridian  of  Paris ;  and  does  propriety 
change  with  meridians?     There  was  company  at  dinner,  and  the 

conversation  was  general  and  uninteresting ;  L endeavoured 

to  support  his  part  with  vivacity  ;  but  he  had  fits  of  absence  and 
silence,  which  might  have  alarmed  Leonora,  if  she  had  any 
suspicion.  But  she  is  now  perfectly  secure,  and  absolutely 
blind  :  therefore  you  see  there  can  be  no  danger  for  her  happi- 
ness in  my  remaining  where  I  am.  For  no  earthly  consideration 
would  I  disturb  her  peace  of  mind ;  there  is  no  sacrifice  I  would 
hesitate  for  a  moment  to  make  to  friendship  or  virtue,  but  I  can- 
not surely  be  called  upon  to  plant  a  dagger  in  my  otan  neart  to 
destroy,  for  ever  to  destroy  my  own  felicity  without  advantage 
to  my  friend.  My  attachment  to  L— — ,  as  you  say,  is  involun- 
tary, and  my  love  as  pure  as  it  is  fervent.  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  his  sentiments  are  the  same  for  me ;  but  of  this  I 
am  not  yet  certain.  There  is  the  danger,  and  the  only  real 
danger  for  Leonora's  happiness ;  for  whilst  this  uncertainty  and 
his  consequent  fits  of  absence  and  imprudence  last,  there  is 

hazard  every  moment  of  her  being  alarmed.     But  when  L 

once  decides,  every  thing  arranges  itself,  you  know,  Gabrielle, 
and  prudence  becomes  a  duty  to  ourselves  and  to  Leonora.  No 
word,  or  look,  or  coquetry  could  then  escape  us ;  we  should  be 
unpardonable  if  we  did  not  conduct  ourselves  with  the  most 
scrupulous  delicacy  and  attention  to  her  feelings.     I  am  amazed 

*.hat  L J  who  has  really  a  good  understanding,  does  not  make 

;hese  reflections,  and  is  not  determined  by  this  calculation.  For 
his,  for  my  own,  but  most  for  Leonora's  sake,  I  wish  that  this 
cruel  suspense  were  at  an  end.  Adieu,  dear  and  amiable' 
Gabrielle. — These  things  are  managed  better  in  France. 

Olivia. 


LEONORA.  3«i3 

LETTER  XL. 

MRS.  C  TO    MISS    B 

DEAR  MARGARET,  L-    ■    ■  Costlev 

I  ARRIVED  here  late  yesterday  evening  in  high  spirits,  and  high 
hopes  of  surprising  and  delighting  all  the  world  by  my  unex-> 
pected  appearance  ;  but  ray  pride  was  checked,  and  my  tone 
changed  the  moment  I  saw  Leonora.  Never  was  any  human 
being  so  altered  in  her  looks  in  so  short  a  time.  I  had  just,  and 
but  just  presence  of  mind  enough  not  to  say  so.  I  am  astonished 

that  it  does  not  strike  Mr.  L .     As  soon  as  she  left  the  room, 

I  asked  him  if  Lady  Leonora  had  been  ill  ?  No;  perfectly  well! 
perfectly  well  I — Did  not  he  perceive  that  she  looked  exti-emely 
ill?     No;  she  might  be  paler  than  usual :  that  was  all  that  Mr. 

L had  observed.     Lady  Olivia,  after  a  pause,  added,  that 

Leonora  certainly  had  not  appeared  well  lately,  but  this  was 
nothing  extraordinary  in  her  situation.  Situation!  nonsense! 
Lady  Olivia  went  on  with  sentimental  hypocrisy  of  look  and 
tone,  saying  fine  things,  to  which  I  paid  little  attention.  Virtue 
in  words,  and  vice  in  actions!  thought  I.  People,  of  certain 
pretensions  in  the  court  of  sentiment,  think  that  they  can  pass 
false  virtues  upon  the  world  for  real,  as  some  ladies,  entitled  by 
their  rank  to  wear  jewels,  appear  in  false  stones,  believing  that 
it  will  be  taken  for  granted  they  would  wear  nothing  but  diamonds. 
Not  one  eye  in  a  hundred  detects  the  difference  at  first,  but  in 
time  tlie  hundredth  eye  comes,  and  then  they  must  for  ever  hide 
their  diminished  rays.     Beware !  Lady  Olivia,  beware  ! 

Leonora  is  ill,  or  unhappy,  or  both  ;  but  she  will  not  allow 
that  she  is  either.  On  one  subject  she  is  impenetrable :  a 
hundred,  a  thousand  different  ways  within  these  four-and-twenty 
hours  have  I  led  to  it,  with  all  the  ingenuity  and  all  the  deli- 
cacy of  which  I  am  mistress  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Neither  by 
provocation,  persuasion,  laughing,  teazing,  questioning,  cross,  or 
round  about,  pushing,  squeezing,  encompassing,  taking  for 
granted,  wondering,  or  blundering,  could  I  gain  my  point. 
Every  look  guarded — every  syllable  measured — yet  unequi- 
vocal— 

"  She  said  no  more  than  just  the  thing  she  ouglit/* 


834  LEONORA. 

Because  1  could  find  no  fault,  I  was  half  angry.  I  respect  the 
motive  of  this  reserve ;  but  towards  me  it  is  misplaced,  and  ill- 
judged,  and  it  must  not  exist  I  have  often  declared  that  I 
would  never  condescend  to  play  the  part  of  a  confidanij  to  any 
princess  or  heroine  upon  earth.  But  Leonora  is  neither  princesi 
nor  heroine,  and  I  woidd  be  her  confidante,  but  she  will  not  let 
me.  Now  I  am  punished  for  my  pride.  If  she  would  only 
trust  me,  if  she  would  only  tell  me  what  has  passed  since  I 
went,  and  all  that  now  weighs  upon  her  mind,  I  could  certainly 
be  of  some  use.  I  could  and  would  say  evei-y  thing  that  she 
might  scruple  to  hint  to  Lady  Olivia,  and  I  will  answer  for  it  I 
would  make  her  raise  the  siege.     But   I   cannot   believe  Mr. 

L to  be  such  a  madman  as  to  think  of  attaching  himself 

seriously  to  a  woman  like  Olivia,  when  he  has  such  a  wife  as 
Leonora.  That  he  was  amusing  himself  with  Olivia  I  saw,  or 
thought  I  saw,  some  time  ago,  and  I  rather  wondered  that 
Leonora  was  uneasy :  for  all  husbands  will  flirt,  and  all  wives 
must  bear  it,  thought  L  When  such  a  coquette  as  this  fell  in 
his  way,  and  made  advances,  he  would  have  been  more  than 
man  if  he  had  receded.  Of  course,  I  thought,  he  must  despise 
and  laugh  at  her  all  the  time  he  was  flattering  and  gallanting 
her  ladyship.  This  would  have  been  fair  play,  and  comic ;  but 
the  comedy  should  have  ended  by  this  time.  I  am  now  really 
afraid  it  will  turn  into  a  tragedy.  I,  even  I !  am  alarmed.  I 
must  prevail  upon  Leonora  to  speak  to  me  without  reserve.  I 
see  her  suffer,  and  I  must  share  her  grief.  Have  not  I  always 
done  so  from  the  time  we  were  children  ?  and  now,  when  she 
most  wants  a  friend,  am  not  I  worthy  to  share  her  confidence  ? 
Can  she  mistake  friendship  for  impertinent  curiosity  ?  Does 
not  she  know  that  I  would  not  be  burthened  with  the  secrets  of 
any  body  whom  I  did  not  love  ?  If  she  thinks  otherwise,  she 
does  me  injustice,  and  I  will  tell  her  so  before  I  sleep.  She  does 
not  know  how  well  I  love  her. 


My  dear  Margaret,  Leonora  and  I  have  had  a  quarrel — the 
first  serious  quarrel  we  ever  had  in  our  lives ;  and  the  end  of  it 
is,  that  she  is  an  angel,  and  I  am  a  fool.  Just  as  I  laid  dowu 
my  pen  after  writing  to  you,  though  it  was  long  past  midnight. 


LEONORA.  33i 

1  marched  into  Leonora's  apartment,  resolved  to  surprise  or  to 
force  her  confidence.  I  found  her  awake,  as  I  expected,  and 
up  and  dressed,  as  I  did  not  expect,  sitting  in  her  dressing- 
room,  her  head  leaning  upon  her  hand.     I  knew  what  she  was 

thinking  of ;  she  had  a  heap  of  Mr.  L 's  old  letters  heside 

her.  She  denied  that  she  was  in  tears,  and  I  will  not  swear  to  the 
tears,  hut  I  think  I  saw  signs  of  them  notwithstanding.  I  spoke 
out ; — ^but  in  vain — all  in  vain.  At  last  I  flew  into  a  passion, 
and  reproached  her  bitterly.  She  answered  me  with  that  air  of 
dignified  tenderness  which  is  peculiar  to  her — "  If  you  believe 
me  to  be  unhappy,  my  dear  Helen,  is  this  a  time  to  reproach 
me  unjustly  ?"  I  was  brought  to  reason  and  to  tears,  and  after 
asking  pardon,  like  a  foolish  naughty  child,  was  kissed  and 
forgiven,  upon  a  promise  never  to  do  so  any  more ;  a  promise 
which  I  hope  Heaven  will  grant  me  grace  and  strength  of  mind 
enough  to  keep.  I  was  certainly  wrong  to  attempt  to  force  her 
secret  from  her.  Leonora's  confidence  is  always  given,  never 
yielded  ;  and  in  her,  openness  is  a  virtue,  not  a  weakness.  But 
I  wish  she  would  not  contrive  to  be  always  in  the  right  In  all 
our  quarrels,  in  all  the  variations  of  my  humour,  I  am  obliged 
to  end  by  doing  homage  to  her  reason,  as  the  Chinese  mariners, 
in  every  change  of  weather,  biun  incense  before  the  needle. 

Your  affectionate 

Helen  C . 


LETTER  XLI. 


MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B- 


MT  DEAR  GENERAL,  L Castle,  Friday. 

I  HOPED  that  you  would  have  favoured  us  with  a  passing  visit  in 
your  way  from  town,  but  I  know  you  will  tell  me  that  friendship 
must  not  interfere  with  the  interests  of  the  service.  I  have 
reason  to  curse  those  interests;  they  are  for  ever  at  variance 
with  mine.  I  had  a  particular  desire  to  speak  to  you  upon  a 
subject,  on  which  it  is  not  agreeable  to  me  to  write.  Lady 
Leonora  also  wished  extremely,  and  disinterestedly,  for  your  com- 
pany.    She  does  not  know  how  much  she  is  obliged  to  you.  The 


"236  LEONORA. 

laconic  advice  you  gave  me,  some  time  ago,  influenced  my  con- 
duct longer,  than  counsel  which  is  in  opposition  to  our  passions 
usually  does,  and  it  has  haunted  my  imagination  pe^etually  : — 

*'  My  dear  L ,  do  not  end  by  being  the  dupe  of  a  Frenchified 

coquette." 

My  dear  friend,  of  that  there  is  no  danger.  No  man  upon 
«arth  despises  or  detests  coquettes  more  than  I  do,  be  they 
French  or  English.  I  think,  however,  that  a  foreign-born,  or 
foreign-bred  coquette,  has  more  of  the  ease  oi practice ^  and  less 
of  the  awkwardness  of  conscience,  than  a  home-bred  flirt,  and  is 
in  reality  less  blamable,  for  she  breaks  no  restraints  of  custom  or 
education  ;  she  does  only  what  she  has  seen  her  mother  do 
before  her,  and  what  is  authorized  by  the  example  of  most  of  the 
fashionable  ladies  of  her  acquaintance.  But  let  us  put  flirts  and 
coquettes  quite  out  of  the  question.  My  dear  general,  you  know 
that  I  am  used  to  women,  and  take  it  upon  my  word,  that  the 
lady  to  whom  I  allude  is  more  tender  and  passionate  than  vain. 
Every  woman  has,  or  has  had,  a  tincture  of  vanity ;  but  there 
are  a  few,  and  those  are  to  me  the  most  amiable  of  the  sex,  wha 

*'  Feel  every  vanity  in  fondness  lost.** 

You  know  that  I  am  delicate,  even  fastidious,  in  my  taste  for 
female  manners.  Nothing  can  in  my  opinion  make  amends  for 
any  offence  against  propriety,  except  it  be  sensibility — genuine, 
generous  sensibility.  This  can,  in  my  mind,  cover  a  multitude 
of  faults.  There  is  so  much  of  selfishness,  of  hypocrisy,  of  cold- 
ness, in  what  is  usually  called  female  virtue,  that  I  often  turn 
with  distaste  from  those  to  whom  I  am  compelled  to  do  homage, 
for  the  sake  of  the  general  good  of  society.  I  am  not  charlatan 
enough  to  pretend  upon  all  occasions  to  prefer  the  public  advan- 
tage to  my  own.  I  confess,  that  let  a  woman  be  ever  so  fair,  or 
£^ood,  or  wise : 

*'  Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  best. 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ?" 

And  I  will  further  acknowledge,  that  I  am  not  easily  satisfied 
with  the  manner  in  which  a  woman  is  kind  to  me  :  if  it  be  daty- 
work  kindness,  I  would  not  give  thanks  for  it :  it  is  done  for  her 


XEONORA.  337 

reputation,  not  for  me,  and  et  the  world  thank  her.  To  the  best 
ofioives,  I  should  make  the  worst  of  husbands.  No — I  should,  I 
hope,  pay  her  in  her  own  coin,  with  all  due  observances,  atten- 
tions, and  respect,  but  without  one  grain  of  love.  Love  is  only 
to  be  had  for  love  ;  and  without  it,  nothing  a  woman  can  give 
appears  to  me  worth  having.  I  do  not  desire  to  be  loved  well 
enough  to  satisfy  fathers  and  mothers,  and  uncles  and  aunts; 
well  enough  to  decide  a  woman  to  marry  me  rather  than  disoblige 
lier  friends,  or  run  the  chance  of  having  many  a  worse  offer,  and 
living  perhaps  to  be  an  old  maid.  I  do  not  desire  to  be  loved 
well  enough  to  keep  a  woman  true  and  faithful  to  me 
*^till  death  us  do  part:"  in  short,  1  do  not  desire  to  be  loved 
well  enough  for  a  husband  ;  I  desire  to  be  loved  suflSciently  for 
a  lover ;  not  only  above  all  other  persons,  but  above  all  other 
things,  all  other  considerations — to  be  the  first  and  last  object  in 
the  heart  of  the  woman  to  whom  I  am  attached  :  I  wish  to  feel 
that  I  sustain  and  fill  the  whole  of  her  heart.  I  must  be  certain 
that  I  am  every  thing  to  her,  as  she  is  every  thing  to  me ;  that 
there  is  no  imaginable  situation  in  which  she  would  not  live  with 
me,  in  which  she  would  not  be  happy  to  live  with  me ;  no  possi- 
ble sacrifice  that  she  would  not  make  for  me ;  or  rather,  that 
nothing  she  could  do  should  appear  a  sacrifice.  Are  these  exor- 
bitant expectations  ?  I  am  capable  of  all  this,  and  more,  for  a 
woman  I  love  ;  and  it  is  my  pride  or  my  misfortune  to  be  able  to 
love  upon  no  other  terms.  Such  proofs  of  attachment  it  may  be 
difficult  to  obtain,  and  even  to  give  ;  more  difficult,  I  am  sensi- 
ble, for  a  wife  than  for  a  mistress.  A  young  lady  who  is  married 
secundum  artem,  with  licence  and  consent  of  friends,  can  give  no 
extraordinary  instances  of  affection.  I  should  not  consider  it  as 
an  indisputable  proof  of  love,  that  she  does  me  the  honour  to  give 
me  her  hand  in  a  church,  or  that  she  condescends  to  bespeak  ray 
liveries,  or  to  be  handed  into  her  own  coach  with  all  the  blushing 
honours  of  a  bride  ;  all  the  paraphernalia  of  a  wife  secured,  all 
the  prudent  and  necessary  provision  made  both  for  matrimonial 
love  and  hatred,  dower,  pin-money,  and  separate  maintenance  on 
the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other,  lands,  tenements,  and  heredita- 
ments for  the  future  son  and  heir,  and  sums  without  end  for 
younger  children  to  the  tenth  and  twentieth  possibility,  as  the 
aase  may  be,  nothing  herein  contained  to  the  contrary  in  any  wise 
Leonora. 


83^  LEONORA. 

notwithstanding^  Such  a  jangon  Cupid  does  not  understand.  A 
woman  may  love  this  most  convenient  personage,  her  lawfu^ 
husband  ;  but  I  should  think  it  difficult  for  the  delicacy  of 
female  passion  to  survive  the  cool  preparations  for  hymenea? 
felicity.  At  all  events,  you  will  allow  the  lady  makes  m 
sacrifice,  she  shows  no  great  generosity,  and  she  may,  o 
she  may  not,  be  touched  at  the  altar  by  the  divine  flame.  My 
good  general,  when  you  are  a  husband  you  will  feel  these  things 
as  I  do  ;  till  then,  it  is  very  easy  to  talk  as  you  do,  and  to  admire 
other  men's  wives,  and  to  wish  Heaven  had  blessed  you  with 
such  a  treasure.  For  my  part,  the  single  idea,  that  a  woman 
thinks  it  her  duty  to  be  fond  of  me,  would  deprive  me  of  all* 
pleasure  in  her  love.     No  man  can  be  more  sensible  than  I  am 

of  the  amiable  and  estimable  qualities  of  Lady  Leonora  L ; 

I  should  be  a  brute  and  a  liar  if  I  hesitated  to  give  the  fullest 
testimony  in  her  praise  ;  but  such  is  the  infirmity  of  my  nature, 
that  I  could  pardon  some  faults  more  easily,  than  I  could  like 
some  virtues.  The  virtues  which  leave  me  in  doubt  of  a  woman's 
love,  I  can  esteem,  but  that  is  all.  Lady  Leonora  is  calm,  serene, 
perfectly  sweet-tempered,  without  jealousy  and  without  suspicion  ; 
in  one  word,  without  love.  If  she  loved  me,  she  never  could  have 
been  the  wife  she  has  been  for  some  months  past.  You  will  laugh  at 
my  being  angry  with  a  wife  for  not  being  jealous.  But  so  it  is. 
Certain  defects  of  temper  I  could  bear,  if  I  considered  them  as 
symptoms  of  strong  affection.  When  I  for  a  moment  believed  that 
Leonora  suffered,  when  I  attributed  her  fainting  at  our  fetecham- 
petre  to  jealousy,  I  was  so  much  alarmed  and  touched,  that  I  abso- 
lutely forgot  her  rival.  I  did  more ;  to  prevent  her  feeling  uneasi- 
ness, to  destroy  the  suspicions  which  I  imagined  had  been  awakened 
in  her  mind,  I  hesitated  not  to  sacrifice  all  the  pleasure  and  all 
tlie  vanity  which  a  man  of  my  age  might  reasonably  be  supposed 
to  feel  in  the  prospect  of  a  new  and  not  inglorious  conquest ;  I 
left  home  immediately,  and  went  to  meet  you,  my  dear  friend, 
on  your  return  from  abroad.  This  visit  I  do  not  set  down  to 
your  account,  but  to  that  of  honour — ^foolish,  unnecessary 
honour.  You  half-persuaded  me,  that  your  hearsay  Parisian  evi- 
dence was  more  to  be  trusted  than  my  own  judgment,  and  I 
returned  home  with  the  resolution  not  to  be  the  dupe  of  a 
coquette.     Leonora's  reception  of  me  was  delightful;   I  nevef 


leonoha.  ,33& 

saw  her  in  such  spirits,  or  so  amiable.  But  I  could  not  help 
wishing  to  ascertain  whether  I  had  attributed  her  fainting  to  the 
real  cause.  This  proof  I  tempted  to  my  cost.  Instead  of 
showing  any  tender  alarm  at  the  renewal  of  my  obvious  attentions 
to  her  rival,  she  was  perfectly  calm  and  collected,  went  on  with 
her  usual  occupations,  fulfilled  all  her  duties,  never  reproached 
me  by  word  or  look,  never  for  one  moment  betrayed  impatience* 
ill-humour,  suspicion,  or  jealousy  ;  in  short,  I  found  that  I  had 
been  fool  enough  to  attribute  to  excess  of  affection,  an  accident 
which  proceeded  merely  from  the  situation  of  her  health.  If 
anxiety  of  mind  had  been  the  cause  of  her  fainting  at  the  fiSte 
champetre,  she  would  since  have  felt  and  shown  agitation  on  a 
thousand  occasions,  where  she  has  been  perfectly  tranquil.    Her 

friend  Mrs.  C ,  who  returned  here  a  few  days  ago,  seems  to 

imagine  that  Leonora  looks  ill ;  but  I  shall  not  again  be  led  to 
mistake  bodily  indisposition  for  mental  suffering.  Leonora's  con- 
duct argues  great  insensibility  of  soul,  or  great  command  ;  great 
insensibility,  I  think :  for  I  cannot  imagine  such  command  uf 
temper  possible  to  any,  but  a  woman  who  feels  indifference  for 
the  offender.  Yet,  even  now  that  I  have  steeled  myself  with  this 
conviction,  I  am  scarcely  bold  enough  to  hazard  the  chance  of 
giving  her  pain.  Absurd  weakness !  It  has  been  clearly  proved 
to  my  understanding,  that  my  irresolution,  my  scruples  of  con- 
science, my  combats  between  love  and  esteem,  are  more  likely  to 
betray  the  real  state  of  my  mind  than  any  decision  that  I  could 
make.  I  decide,  then — I  determine  to  be  happy  with  a  woman 
who  has  a  soul  capable  of  feeling,  not  merely  what  is  called  con- 
jugal affection,  but  the  passion  of  love  ;  who  is  capable  of  sacri- 
ficing every  thing  to  love  ;  who  has  given  me  proofs  of  candour 
and  greatness  of  mind,  which  I  value  far  above  all  her  wit,  grace, 
and  beauty.  My  dear  general,  I  know  all  that  you  can  tell,  all 
chat  you  can  hint  concerning  her  history  abroad.  I  know  it  from 
her  own  lips.  It  was  told  to  me  in  a  manner  that  made  her  my 
admiration.  It  was  told  to  me  as  a  preservative  against  the- 
danger  of  loving  her.  It  was  told  to  me  with  the  generous  design 
of  protecting  Leonora's  happiness  ;  and  all  this  at  the  moment 
when  I  was  beloved,  tenderly  beloved.  She  is  above  dissimula- 
tion:  she  scorns  the  arts,  the  fears  of  her  sex.  She  knows  you 
are  her  enemy,  and  yet  she  esteems  you ;  she  urged  me  to  speak 


"940  LEONORA. 

KO  you  with  the  utmost  openness  :  "  Let  me  never,"  said  she, 
'*  he  the  cause  of  your  feeling  less  confidence  or  less  affection  for 
the  hest  of  friends." 

R  *  •  ♦  is  sacrificed  to  me  ;  that  R  *  *  *,  with  whose  cursed 
name  you  tormented  me.  My  dear  friend,  she  will  force  your 
admiration,  as  she  has  won  my  love. 

Yours  sincerely, 
F.  L . 

LETTER  XLIL 

MRS.  C TO    MISS    B . 


L Castle. 

As  I  am  not  trusted  with  the  secret,  I  may,  my  dear  Margaret, 
use  my  own  eyes  and  ears  as  I  please  to  find  it  out;  and  I 
know  Leonora's  countenance  so  well,  that  1  see  every  thing  that 
passes  in  her  mind,  just  as  clearly  as  if  she  had  told  it  to  me  in 
words. 

It  grieves  me,  more  than  I  can  express,  to  see  her  suffering  as 
she  does.  I  am  now  convinced  that  she  has  reason  to  he  un- 
happy ;  and  what  is  worse,  I  do  not  see  what  course  she  can 
follow  to  recover  her  happiness.  All  her  forbearance,  all  her 
patience,  all  her  sweet  temper,  I  perceive,  are  useless,  or  worse 
than  useless,  injurious  to  her  in  her  strange  husband's  opinion. 
I  never  liked  him  thoroughly,  and  now  I  detest  him.  He  thinks 
her  cold,  insensible ]  She  insensible! — Brute!  Idiot!  Every 
thing  that  she  says  or  does  displeases  him.  The  merest  trifles 
excite  the  most  cruel  suspicions.  He  totally  misunderstands  her 
character,  and  sees  every  thing  about  her  in  a  false  light.  In 
short,  he  is  under  the  dominion  of  an  artful  fiend,  who  works  as 
she  pleases  upon  his  passions — upon  his  pride,  which  is  his 
ruling  passion. 

This  evening  Lady  Olivia  began  confessing  that  she  had  too 
much  sensibility,  that  she  was  of  an  excessively  susceptible 
temper,  and  that  she  should  be  terribly  jealous  of  the  affections 
•of  any  person  she  loved.     She  did  not  know  how  love  could 

exist  without  jealousy.     Mr.  L was  present,  and  listening 

eagerly       Leonora's  lips  were  silent;  not  so  her  countenance. 
"^  was  in  hopes  Mr.  L would  have  remarked  its  beautiful 


LEONORA.  311 

touching  expression ;  but  liis  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Olivia.     I 

could  have but  let  me  go  on.      Lady  Olivia  had  the 

malice  suddenly  to  appeal  to  Leonora,  and  asked  whether  she 
was  never  jealous  of  her  husband  ?  Leonora,  astonished  by  her 
assurance,  paused  for  an  instant,  and  tlien  replied,  "  It  would 
he  difficult  to  convince  me  that  I  had  any  reason  to  be  jealous  of 
Mr.  L ,  I  esteem  him  so  much." — "  I  wish  to  Heaven!"  ex- 
claimed Lady  Olivia,  her  eyes  turned  upwards  with  a  fine  St. 

Cecilia  expression,  whilst  Mr.  L 's  attention  was  fixed  upon 

her,  "  Would  to  Heaven  I  was  blessed  with  such  a  reasonable 
temper!" — "When  you  are  wishing  to  Heaven,  Lady  Olivia," 
said  I,  "  had  not  you  better  ask  for  all  you  want  at  once  ;  not 
only  such  a  reasonable  temper,  but  such  a  feeling  heart  ?" 

Some  of  the  company  smiled.     Lady  Olivia,  practised  as  she 

is,  looked  disconcerted ;  Mr.  L grave   and  impenetrable ; 

Leonora,  blushing,  turned  away  to  the  piano-forte.     Mr.  L 

remained  talking  with  Lady  Olivia,  and  he  neither  saw  nor  heard 
her.  If  Leonora  had  sung  like  an  angel,  it  would  have  made  no 
impression.  She  turned  over  the  leaves  of  her  music  quickly,  to 
a  lively  air,  and  played  it  immediately,  to  prevent  my  perceiving 
how  much  she  felt.  Poor  Leonora !  you  are  but  a  bad  dissembler, 
and  it  is  in  vain  to  try  to  conceal  yourself  from  me. 

I  was  so  sorry  for  her,  and  so  incensed  with  Olivia  this  night, 
that  I  could  not  restrain  myself,  and  I  made  matters  worse.  At 
supper  I  came  almost  to  open  war  with  her  ladyship.  I  cannot 
remember  exactly  what  I  said,  but  I  know  that  I  threw  out  the 
most  severe  inuendoes  which  politeness  could  permit :  and  what 

was  the  consequence?    Mr.  L pitied  Olivia  and  hated  me  ; 

Leonora  was  in  misery  the  whole  time;  and  her  husband 
probably  thought  that  she  was  the  instigator,  though  she  was 
perfectly  innocent.  My  dear  Margaret,  where  will  all  this  end  ? 
and  how  much  mbre  mischief  shall  I  do  with  the  best  intentions 
possible  ? 

Yours  affectionately, 

Helen  C , 


!42  LEONORA. 


LETTER  XLIII. 


GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L- 


YouR  letter  has  travelled  after  me  God  knows  where,  my  de8«. 

L ,  and  has  caught  me  at  last  with  my  foot  in  the  stirrup.     1 

have  just  had  time  to  look  it  over.  I  find,  in  short,  that  you  are 
in  love.  I  give  you  joy  !  But  be  in  love  like  a  madman,  not. 
like  a  fool.  Call  a  demirep  an  angel,  and  welcome  ;  but  remember, 
that  such  angels  are  to  be  had  any  day  in  the  year ;  and  such  a 
wife  as  yours  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  mines  of  Golconda.  Coin 
your  heart,  and  drop  your  blood  for  it,  and  you  will  never  be 
loved  by  any  other  woman  so  well  as  you  are  by  Lady  Leonora 


As  to  your  jealous  hypochondriacism,  more  of  that  when  I 
have  more  leisure.     In  the  mean  time  I  wish  it  well  cured. 

I  am,  my  dear  friend, 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XLIV. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P— — . 

L Castle. 

I  TRIUMPH  !  dear  Gabrielle,  give  me  joy !     Never  was  triumpk 

more  complete.     L loves  me !     That  I  knew  long  ago ;  but 

I  have  at  last  forced  from  his  proud  heart  the  avowal  of  his 
passion.  Love  and  Olivia  are  victorious  over  scruples,  pre- 
judice, pride,  and  superstition ! 

Leonora  feels  not — sees  not :  she  requires,  she  excites  n© 
pity.  Long  may  her  delusion  last!  But  even  were  it  this 
moment  to  dissipate,  what  cause  have  I  for  remorse  ?  "  Who  is 
most  to  blame,  he  who  ceases  to  love,  or  she  who  ceases  to 
please  ?"  Leonora  perhaps  thinks  that  she  loves  her  husband ; 
and  no  doubt  she  does  so  in  a  conjugal  sort  of  a  way :  he  ha* 
loved  his  wife ;  but  be  it  mine  to  prove  that  his  heart  is  suited 
to  far  other  raptures ;  and  if  Olivia  be  called  upon  for  sacrifices, 
Olivia  can  make  them. 


LEONORA.  ,';43 

**  Let  wealth,  let  honour  wait  the  wedded  dame, 
August  her  deed,  and  sacred  be  her  fame ; 
Before  true  passion,  all  those  views  remove. 
Fame,  wealth,  and  honour,  what  are  you  to  love?" 

These  lines,  though  quoted  perpetually  by  the  tender  and 
passionate,  can  never  become  stale  and  vulgar ;  they  will  always 
recur  in  certain  situations  to  persons  of  delicate  sensibility,  for 
they  at  once  express  all  that  can  be  said,  and  justify  all  that  can 
be  felt.  My  amiable  Gabrielle,  adieu.  Pardon  me  if  to-day  I 
tave  no  soul  even  for  friendship.     This  day  is  all  for  love. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  XLV. 


GENERAL    B  TO    MR.  L- 


What  the  devil  would  you  have  of  your  wife,  my  dear  L f 

You  would  be  loved  above  all  earthly  considerations ;  honour, 
duty,  virtue,  and  religion  inclusive,  would  you?  and  you  would 
have  a  wife  with  her  head  in  the  clouds,  would  you  ?  I  wish 
you  were  married  to  one  of  the  all-for-love  heroines,  who 
would  treat  you  with  bowl  and  dagger  every  day  of  your  life. 
In  your  opinion  sensibility  covers  a  multitude  of  faults — you 
would  have  said  sins :  so  it  had  need,  for  it  produces  a  multitude. 
Pray  what  brings  hundreds  and  thousands  of  women  to  the 
Piazzas  of  Covent  Garden  but  sensibility?  What  does  the 
colonel's,  and  the  captain's,  and  the  ensign's  mistress  talk  of 
but  sensibility  ?  And  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  to  be  duped  by 
this  hackneyed  word?  And  should  you  really  think  it  an  indis- 
putable proof  of  a  lady's  love,  that  she  would  jump  out  of  a  two 
pair  of  stairs  window  into  your  arms  ?  Now  I  should  think  my- 
self sure  of  such  a  woman's  love  only  just  whilst  I  held  her,  and 
•scarcely  then;  for  I,  who  in  my  own  way  am  jealous  as  well  as 
yourself,  should  in  this  case  be  jealous  of  wickedness,  and  should 
strongly  suspect  that  she  would  love  the  first  devil  that  she  saw 
better  than  me. 

You  are  always  raving  about  sacrifices.     Your  Cupid  must  be 
a  very  vindictive  little  god.     Mine  is  a  good-humoured,  rosy 


344  LEONORA. 

little  fellow,  who  desires  no  better  than  to  see  me  laugh  and  be 
happy.  But  to  every  man  his  own  Cupid.  If  you  cannot 
believe  in  love  without  sacrifices,  you  must  have  them,  to  be- 
sure.  And  now,  in  sober  sadness,  what  do  you  think  your 
heroine  would  sacrifice  for  you?  Her  reputation?  that,  pardon 
me,  is  out  of  her  power.  Her  virtue  ?  I  have  no  doubt  she 
would.  But  before  I  can  estimate  the  value  of  this  sacrifice, 
I  must  know  whether  she  makes  it  to  you  or  to  her  pleasure. 
Would  she  give  up  in  any  instance  her  pleasure  for  your  happi- 
ness ?  This  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  ascertain  with  respect  to  a 
mistress  :  but  your  wife  has  put  it  beyond  a  doubt,  that  she 
prefers  your  happiness  not  only  to  her  pleasure,  but  to  her  pride, 
and  to  every  thing  that  the  sex  usually  prefer  to  a  husband. 
You  have  been  wounded  by  a  poisoned  arrow ;  but  you  have  a 
faithful  wife  who  can  extract  the  poison.  Lady  Leonora's 
aflfection  is  not  a  mere  fit  of  goodness  and  generosity,  such  as  I 
have  seen  in  many  women,  but  it  is  a  steadiness  of  attachment 
ia  the  hour  of  trial,  which  I  have  seen  in  few.  For  several 
months  past  you  have,  by  your  own  account,  put  her  temper  and 
her  love  to  the  most  severe  tests,  yet  she  has  never  failed  for  one 
moment,  never  reproached  you  by  word  or  look. — But  may  be 
she  has  no  feeling. — No  feeling!  you  can  have  none,  if  you  say 
so  :  no  penetration,  if  you  think  so.  Would  not  you  think  me 
a  tyrant  if  I  put  a  poor  fellow  on  the  picket,  and  told  you,  when 
he  bore  it  without  a  groan,  that  it  was  because  he  could  not 
feel  ?  You  do  worse,  you  torture  the  soul  of  the  woman  who 
loves  you ;  she  endures,  she  is  calm,  she  smiles  upon  you  even 
in  agony ;  and  you  tell  me  she  cannot  feel !  she  cannot  feel  like 
an  Olivia !  No ;  and  so  much  the  better  for  her  husband,  for 
she  will  then  have  only  feeling  enough  for  him,  she  will  not 
extend  her  charity  to  all  his  sex.  But  Olivia  has  such  candour 
and  magnanimity,  that  I  must  admire  her !  I  humbly  thank 
her  for  offering  to  make  me  her  confidant,  for  offering  to  tell  me 
what  I  know  already,  and  what  she  is  certain  that  I  know. 
These  were  good  moves,  but  I  understand  the  game  as  well  as 
her  ladyship  does.     As  to  her  making  a  friend  of  me ;  if  she 

means  an  enemy  to  Lady  Leonora  L ,  I  would  sooner  see 

her — in  heaven  :  but  if  she  would  do  me  the  favour  to  think  no 
more  of  your  heart,  which  is  too  good  for  her,  and  to  accept  of 


LEONORA.  34^ 

my — my — what  shall  I  say  ? — my  devoirs,  I  am  at  her  com- 
mand. She  shall  drive  my  curricle,  &c.  &c.  She  would  suit 
me  vastly  well  for  a  month  or  two,  and  by  that  time  poor  R  *  *  * 
would  make  his  appearance,  or  somebody  in  his  stead :  at  the 
worst,  I  should  have  a  chance  of  some  blessed  metaphysical 
quirk,  which  would  prove  that  inconstancy  was  a  virtue,  or  that 
a  new  love  is  better  than  an  old  one.  When  it  came  to  that, 
I  should  make  my  best  bow,  put  on  my  most  disconsolate  face 
and  retire. 

You  will  read  all  this  in  a  veiy  different  spirit  from  that  in 
which  it  is  written.  If  you  are  angry — no  matter  :  I  am  cool. 
I  tell  3'ou  beforehand,  that  I  will  not  fight  you  for  any  thing  I 
have   said  in   this  letter,  or  that  I  ever  may  say  about  your 

Olivia.     Therefore,  my  dear  L ,  save  yourself  the  trouble  of 

challenging  me.  I  thank  God  1  have  reputation  enough  to  be 
able  to  dispense  with  the  glory  of  blowing  out  your  brains. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XLVI. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADIME    DE    F- 


We  have  been  very  gay  here  the  last  few  days :  the  gallant  and 

accomplished  Prince has  been  here.     H  *  *  *  *,  the  witty 

H  *  *  *  *,  who  is  his  favourite  companion,  introduced  him ;  and 
he  seems  so  much  charmed  with  the  old  castle,  its  towers  and 
battlements,  and  with  its  cynosure,  that  I  know  not  when  he  will 
be  able  to  prevail  upon  himself  to  depart.  To-monow,  he  says  \ 
but  so  he  has  said  these  ten  days  :  he  cannot  resist  the  entreaties 
of  his  kind  host  and  hostess  to  stay  another  day.  The  soft 
accent  of  the  beautiful  Leonora  will  certainly  detain  him  one 
day  more,  and  her  gracious  smile  will  bereave  him  of  rest  for 
months  to  come.  He  has  evidently  fallen  desperately  in  love 
with  her.     Now  we  shall  see  virtue  in  danger. 

I  have  always  been  of  opinion  with  St.  Evremond  and  Ninon 
de  I'Enclos,  that  no  female  virtue  can  stand  every  species  of 
test  J  fortunately  it  is  not  always  exposed  to  trial.     Reputation^ 


546 


LEONORA. 


may  be  preserved  by  certain  persons  in  certain  situations,  ipon 
very  easy  terms.  Leonora,  for  instance,  is  armed  so  strong  iu 
cliaracter,  that  no  common  mortal  will  venture  to  attack  her. 
It  would  be  presumption  little  short  of  high  treason  to  imagine 

tlie   fall   of  the    Lady    Leonora  L ,    the    daughter   of  the 

Duchess  of  *  •  *,  who,  with  a  long  line  of  immaculate  baron- 
esses in  their  own  right,  each  in  her  armour  of  stiff  stays,  stands 
frowning  defiance  upon  the  adventurous  knights.  More  alarming 
still  to  the  modern  seducer,  appears  a  judge  in  his  long  wig,  and 
a  jury  with  their  long  faces,  ready  to  bring  in  their  verdict,  and 
to  award  damages  proportionate  to  the  rank  and  fortune  of  the 
parties.  Then  the  former  reputation  of  the  lady  is  talked  of, 
and  the  irreparable  injury  sustained  by  the  disconsolate  husband 
from  the  loss  of  the  solace  and  affection  of  this  paragon  of  wives. 
And  it  is  proved  that  she  lived  in  the  most  perfect  harmony 
with  him,  till  the  vile  seducer  appeared ;  who,  in  aggravation  of 
damages,  was  a  confidential  friend  of  the  husband's,  &c.  &c. 
&c.  &c.  &c. 

Brave,  indeed,  and  desperately  in  love  must  be  the  man,  who 
could  dare  all  these  to  deserve  the  fair.  But  princes  are,  it  is 
said,  naturally  brave,  and  ambitious  of  conquering  difficulties. 

I  have  insinuated  these  reflections  in  a  general  way  to  L , 

who  applies  them  so  as  to  plague  himself  sufficiently.  Heaven 
is  my  witness,  that  I  mean  no  injury  to  Lady  Leonora ;  yet  I 
fear  that  there  are  moments,  when  my  respect  for  her  superiority, 
joined  to  the  consciousness  of  my  own  weakness,  overpowers 
me,  and  I  almost  envy  her  the  right  she  retains  to  the  esteem  of 
the  man  I  love.  This  is  a  blamable  weakness — I  know  it — I 
reproach    myself  bitteriy ;    but   all    I   can   do  is   to  confess  it 

candidly.     L sees  my  conflicts,  and  knows  how  to  value 

the  sensibility  of  my  fond  heart.  Adieu,  my  Gabrielle.  When 
shall  I  be  happy  ?  since  even  love  has  its  torments,  and  I  am 
thus  doomed  to  be  ever  a  victim  to  the  tenderness  of  my  soul. 

Olivia. 


LEONORA.  (V47^ 

LETTER  XLVII. 

MRS.  C  TO    MISS    B , 

I  DO  not  know  whether  I  pity,  love,  or  admire  Leonora  most 
Just  when  her  mind  was  deeply  wounded  by  her  husband's 
neglect,  and  when  her  jealousy  was  worked  to  the  highest  pitch 

by  his  passion  for  her  dangerous  rival,  the  Prince arrives 

here,  and  struck  by  Leonora's  charms  of  mind  and  person,  falls 
passionately  in  love  with  her.     Probably  his  highness's  friend 

H had  given  him  a  hint  of  the  existing  circumstances,  and 

he  thought  a  more  propitious  moment  could  scarcely  be  found 
for  making  an  impression  upon  a  female  mind.  He  judged  of 
Leonora  by  other  women.  And  I,  like  a  simpleton,  judged  of 
her  by  myself.  With  shame  I  confess  to  you,  my  dear  Margaret^ 
that  notwithstanding  all  my  past  experience,  I  did  expect  that 
she  would  have  done,  as  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  done  in  her 
situation.  I  think  that  I  could  not  have  resisted  the  temptation 
of  coquetting  a  little — a  very  little — just  to  revive  the  passion  of 
the  man  whom  I  really  loved.  This  expedient  succeeds  so  often 
with  that  wise  sex,  who  never  rightly  know  the  value  of  a  heart, 
except  when  they  have  just  won  it,  or  at  the  moment  when  they 
are  on  the  point  of  losing  it.  In  Leonora's  place  and  in  such  an 
emergency,  I  should  certainly  have  employed  that  frightfisi 
monster  jealousy  to  waken  sleeping  love  ;  since  he,  and  only  he*, 
can  do  it  expeditiously  and  effectually.  This  I  have  hinted  to 
Leonora,  talking  always  in  generals;  for,  since  my  total  over- 
throw, I  have  never  dared  to  come  to  particulars :  but  by 
putting  cases  and  confessing  myself  I  contrived  to  make  my 
thoughts  understood.  I  then  boasted  of  the  extreme  facility  of 
the  means  I  would  adopt  to  recover  a  heart.  Leonora  answered 
in  the  words  of  a  celebrated  great  man  : — **  C'est  facile  de  se 
servir  de  pareils  moyens ;  c'est  difficile  de  s'y  r^oudre." 

"  But  if  no  other  means  would  succeed,"  said  I,  '•  would  not 
you  sacrifice  your  pride  to  your  love  ?" 

"  My  pride,  willingly ;  but  not  my  sense  of  what  is  right,"" 
taid  she,  with  an  indescribable  mixture  of  tenderness  and  firm> 
ness  in  her  manner. 

"  Can  a  little  coquetry  in  a  good  cause  be  such  a  heiuouj> 

23 


348  LEOKOKA. 

offence  ?"  persisted  I.     I  knew  that  I  was  wrong  all  the  time; 
but  I  delighted  in  seeing  how  right  she  was. 

No — she  would  not  allow  her  mind  to  be  cheated  by  female 
sophistry ;  nor  yet  by  the  male  casuistry  of,  **  the  end  sanctifies 
the  means." 

"  If  you  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  the  affections  of  the  man 
you  love,  and  if  you  were  quite  certain  of  regaining  them  by 
following  my  recipe?"  said  I. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  look  with  which  Leonora  left  me, 
and  the  accent  with  which  she  said,  **  My  dear  Helen,  if  it  were 
ever  to  be  my  misfortune  to  lose  my  husband's  love,  I  would 
not,  even  if  I  were  certain  of  success,  attempt  to  regain  it  by 
any  imworthy  arts.  How  could  I  wish  to  regain  his  love  at  the 
hazard  of  losing  bis  esteem,  and  the  certainty  of  forfeiting  my 
own  !" 

I  said  no  more — I  had  nothing  more  to  say :  I  saw  that  I  had 
given  pain,  and  I  have  never  touched  upon  the  subject  since. 
But  her  practice  is  even  beyond  her  theory.  Never,  by  deed,  or 
look,  or  word,  or  thought  (for  I  see  all  her  thoughts  in  her 
€loquent  countenance),  has  she  swerved  from-  her  principles. 
No  prudery — ^no  coquetry — ^no  mock-humility — no  triumph. 
Never  for  an  instant  did  she,  by  a  proud  air,  say  to  her  husband 
— See  what  others  think  of  me !  Never  did  a  resentful  look  say 
to  him — Inconstant! — revenge  is  in  my  power!  Never  even 
did  a  reproachful  sigh  express — I  am  injured,  yet  I  do  not 
retaliate. 

Mr.  L is  blind;  he  is  infatuated;  he  is  absolutely  be- 
reaved of  judgment  by  a  perfidious,  ungrateful,  and  cruel  wretch. 
Let  me  vent  my  indignation  to  you,  dear  Margaret,  or  it  will 
explode,  perhaps,  when  it  may  do  Leonora  mischief. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Helen  C— — , 


f.EONOAA.  349 


LETTER  XLVIII. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P    ■■■■ 

L Castle. 

This  Lady  Leonora,  in  lier  simplicity,  never  dreamed  of  love 
till  the  prince's  passion  was  too  visible  and  audible  to  be  misun- 
derstood: and  then  she  changed  her  tone,  and  checked  her  sim- 
plicity, and  was  so  reserved,  and  so  dignified,  and  so  proper,  it 
was  quite  edifying,  especially  to  a  poor  sinner  of  a  coquette  like 
me;  nothing  piquante;  nothing  a</af ante ;  nothing  demi-voilee ; 
no  retiring  to  be  pursued ;  not  a  single  manoeuvre  of  coquetry 
did  she  practise.  This  convinces  me  that  she  cares  not  in  the  least 
for  her  husband ;  because,  if  she  really  loved  him,  and  wished 
to  reclaim  his  heart,  what  so  natural  or  so  simple  as  to  excite  his 
jealousy,  and  thus  revive  his  love?  After  neglecting  this  golden 
opportunity,  she  can  never  convince  me  that  she  is  really  anxious 

about  her  husband's  heart.     This  I  hinted  to  L ,  and  his 

own  susceptibility  had  hinted  it  to  him  efficaciously,  before  I 
spoke. 

Though  Leonora  has  been  so  correct  hitherto,  and  so  cold  to 
the  prince  in  her  husband's  presence,  I  have  my  suspicions  that, 
if  in  his  absence,  proper  means  were  taken,  if  her  pride  were 
roused  by  apt  suggestions,  if  it  were  delicately  pointed  out  to  her 
that  she  is  shamefully  neglected,  that  she  is  a  cipher  in  her  own 
house,  that  her  husband  presumes  too  much  upon  her  sweetness 
of  temper,  that  his  inconstancy  is  wondered  at  by  all  who  have 
eyes,  and  that  a  little  retaliation  might  become  her  ladyship,  I 
would  not  answer  for  her  forbearance,  that  is  to  say  if  all  this 
were  done  by  a  dexterous  man,  a  lover  and  a  prince  !  I  shall 
take  care  my  opinions  shall  be  known  ;  for  I  cannot  endure  to 
have  the  esteem  of  the  man  I  love  monopolized.  Exposed  to 
temptation,  as  I  have  been,  and  with  as  ardent  affections,  Leo- 
nora, or  I  am  much  mistaken,  would  not  have  been  more 
estimable.  Adieu,  my  dearest  Gabrielle.  Nous  verrons !  nous 
rerrons ! 

Olivia. 


.'idO  &BOMORA 

Sunday  evening. 

P.S.  I  open  my  letter  to  tell  you  that  the  prince  is  actually 
gone.     Doubtless  he  will  return  at  a  more  auspicious  moment. 

Lady  M and  all  the  troop  of  friends  are  to  depart  on 

Monday ;  all  but  the  bosom  friend,  Vamie  intime,  that  insupport< 
able  Helen,  who  is  ever  at  daggers-drawing  with  me.  So  much 
the   better!     L  sees  her  cabals  with  his  wife;    she  is  a 

partisan  without  the  art  to  be  so  to  any  purpose,  and  her 
mancEuvres  tend  only  to  increase  his  partiality  for  his  Olivia. 


LETTER  XLIX. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


•*•••♦  In    short, 

Leonora  has  discovered  all  that  she  miglit  have  seen  months 
ago  between  her  husband  and  me.  What  will  be  the  conse- 
quence ?  I  long,  yet  almost  fear,  to  meet  her  again.  She  iif 
now  in  her  own  apartment,  writing,  I  presume,  to  her  mother 
for  advice. 


LETTER  L. 


LEONORA    TO    OLIVIA. 

[Left  on  Lady  Olivia's  dressing-table.] 

0  Tou,  whom  no  kindness  can  touch,  whom  no  honour  can  bind, 
whom  no  faith  can  hold,  enjoy  the  torments  you  have  inflicted- 
on  me !  enjoy  the  triumph  of  having  betrayed  a  confiding  friend  f 
Friend  no  more— affect,  presume  no  longer  to  call  me  friend  f 

1  am  under  no  necessity  to  dissemble,  and  dissimulation  is  foreign 
to  my  habits,  and  abhorrent  to  my  nature  !  I  know  you  to  be. 
my  enemy,  and  I  say  so — my  most  cruel  enemy ;  one  who 
could,   without  reluctance  or  temptation,  rob  me  of  all  I  hold 


LEONORA.  351 

«nost  dear.  Yes,  without  temptation ;  for  you  do  not  love  my 
husband,  Olivia.  On  this  point  I  cannot  be  mistaken ;  I  know 
too  well  what  it  is  to  love  him.  Had  you  been  struck  by  his 
great  or  good  and  amiable  qualities,  charmed  by  his  engaging 
manners,  or  seduced  by  the  violence  of  his  passion  ;  and  had  I 
seen  you  honourably  endeavour  to  repress  that  passion ;  had  I 
seen  in  you  the  slightest  disposition  to  sacrifice  your  pleasure  or 
your  vanity  to  friendship  or  to  duty,  I  think  I  could  have  for- 
given, I  am  sure  I  should  have  pitied  you.  But  you  felt  no  pity 
for  me,  no  shame  for  yourself;  you  made  no  attempt  to  avoid, 

you  invited  the  danger.     Mr.  L was  not  the  deceiver,  but 

the  deceived.  By  every  art  and  every  charm  in  your  power — 
and  you  have  many — you  won  upon  his  senses  and  worked  upon 
his  imagination ;  you  saw,  and  made  it  your  pride  to  conquer 
the  scruples  of  that  affection  he  once  felt  for  his  wife,  and  that 
wife  was  your  friend.  By  passing  bounds,  which  he  could  not 
conceive  that  any  woman  could  pass,  except  in  the  delirium  of 
passion,  you  made  him  believe  that  your  love  for  him  exceeds 
all  that  I  feel.  How  he  will  find  himself  deceived  !  If  you  had 
loved  him  as  I  do,  you  coidd  not  so  easily  have  forfeited  all  claim 
to  his  esteem.  Had  you  loved  him  so  much,  you  would  have 
loved  honour  more. 

It  is  possible  that  Mr.  L may  taste  some  pleasure  with 

you  whilst  his  delusion  lasts,  whilst  his  imagination  paints  you, 
as  mine  once  did,  in  false  colours,  possessed  of  generous  virtues, 
and  the  victim  of  excessive  sensibility :  but  when  he  sees  you 
such  as  you  are,  he  will  recoil  from  you  with  aversion,  he  will 
reject  you  with  contempt. 

Knowing  my  opinion  of  you,  Lady  Olivia,  you  will  not  choose 
to  remain  in  this  house  ;  nor  can  I  desire  for  my  guest  one  whom 
I  can  no  longer,  in  private  or  in  public,  make  my  companion, 
ikdieu. 

Lbokoba  L 


952  LEONORA. 

LFTTER  LI. 

OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L — 


L-  >— ^  Castle,  Midnight. 
Farewell  for  ever  ! — It  must  be  so — Farewell  for  ever!    Would 
to  Heaven  I  had  summoned  courage  sooner  to  pronounce  these 
fatal,  necessary,  irrevocable  words  :  then  had  I  parted  from  you 
without  remorsCj  without  the  obloquy  to  which  I  am  now  exposed* 

Oh,  my  dearest  L !    Mine,  do  I  still  dare  to  call  you?    Yes,. 

mine  for  the  last  time,  I  must  call  you,  mine  I  must  fancy  yow^ 
though  for  the  impious  thought  the  Furies  themselves  were  to 

haunt  me  to  madness.     My  dearest  L ,  never  more  must  we 

meet  in  this  world!  Think  not  that  my  weak  voice  alone 
forbids  it :  no,  a  stronger  voice  than  mine  is  heard— an  injured 

wife  reclaims  you.     What  a  letter  have  I  just  received ! 

—  from Leonora !      She   tells  me   that  she  no  longer 

desires  for  her  guest  one  whom  she  cannot,  in  public  or  private, 
make  her  companion — Oh,  Leonora,  it  was  sufficient  to  banish 
me  from  your  heart !  She  tells  me  not  only  that  I  have  for  ever 
forfeited  her  confidence,  her  esteem,  her  affection  ;  but  that  I  shall 
soon  be  your  aversion  and  contempt.  Oh,  cruel,  cruel  words! 
But  I  submit — I  have  deserved  it  all — I  have  robbed  her  of  a 
heart  above  all  price.  Leonora,  why  did  you  not  reproach  me 
more  bitterly  ?  I  desire,  I  implore  to  be  crushed,  to  be  annihi- 
lated by  your  vengeance  !  Most  admirable,  most  virtuous,  most 
estimable  of  women,  best  of  wives,  I  have  with  sacrilegious  love 
profaned  a  soul  consecrated  to  you  and  conjugal  virtue.  I 
acknowledge  my  crime;  trample  upon  me  as  you  will,  I  am 
humbled  in  the  dust.  More  than  all  your  bitterest  reproaches, 
do  I  feel  the  remorse  of  having,  for  a  moment,  interrupted  sucb 
serenity  of  happmess. 

Oh,  why  did  you  persuade  me,  L ,  and  why  did  I  believe 

that  Leonora  was  calm  and  free  from  all  suspicion  ?     How  could 
I  believe  that  any  woman  whom  you  had  ever  loved,  couIJI 
remain  blind  to  your  inconstancy,  or  feel  secure  indifference 
Happy  woman  !  in  you  to  love  is  not  a  crime ;  you  may  glory  in 
your  passion,  whilst  I  must  hide  mine  from  every  human  eye,  drop 


LEONORA.  C5^ 

in  shameful  secrecy  the  burning  tear,  stifle  the  struggling  sigh^ 
blush  at  the  conflicts  of  virtue  and  sensibility,  and  carry  shame  and 
remorse  with  me  to  the  grave.  Happy  Leonora !  happy  even  when 
most  injured,  you  have  a  right  to  complain  to  hira  you  love ; — he 
is  yours — you  are  his  wife — ^his  fisteem,  his  affection  are  yours. 
On  Olivia  he  has  bestowed  but  a  transient  thought,  and  eternal 
ignominy  must  be  her  portion.  So  let  it  be — so  I  wish  it  to  be» 
Would  to  Heaven  I  may  thus  atone  for  the  past,  and  secure 

your  future  felicity !     Fly  to  her,  my  dearest  L ,  I  conjure 

you !  throw  yourself  at  her  feet,  entreat,  implore,  obtain  her  for- 
giveness. She  cannot  refuse  it  to  your  tears,  to  your  caresses. 
To  withstand  them  she  must  be  more  or  less  than  woman.  No, 
she  cannot  resist  your  voice  when  it  speaks  words  of  peace  and 
love  ;  she  will  press  you  with  transport  to  her  heart,  and  Olivia, 
poor  Olivia,  will  be  for  ever  forgotten  ;  yet  she  will  rejoice  in 
your  felicity ;  absolved  perhaps  in  the  eye  of  Heaven,  though 
banished  from  your  society,  she  will  die  content. 

Full  well  am  I  aware  of  the  consequences  of  quitting  thus 

precipitately  the  house  of  Lady  Leonora  L ;  but  nothing 

that  concerns  myself  alone  can,  for  a  moment,  make  me  hesitate 
to  do  that,  which  the  sentiment  of  virtue  dictates,  and  which  is 
yet  more  strongly  urged  by  regard  for  the  happiness  of  one,  who 
once  allowed  me  to  call  her  friend.  I  know  my  reputation  is 
irrecoverably  sacrificed  ;  but  it  is  to  one  for  whom  I  would  lay 
down  my  life.     Can   a  woman  who  feels  as  I  do   deem  any 

earthly  good  a  sacrifice  for  him  she  loves  ?     Dear  L ,  adiea 

for  ever ! 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LH. 

LEONORA    TO    THE    DUCHE3S    OF   — — . 
DEAREST  MOTHER, 

It  is  all  over — my  husband  is  gone — gone  perhaps  for  ever — all 
is  in  vain — all  is  lost ! 

Without  saying  more  to  you  than  I  ought,  1  may  tell  you,  that 
in  consequence  of  an  indignant  letter  which  I  wrote  last  night  to 
Lady  Olivia,  she  left  my  house  this  morning  early,  before  any  o£ 

Leonora. 


854  LEONORA. 

the  family  were  up.     Mr.  L  heard  of  her  departure  before 

I  did.  He  has,  I  will  not  say  followed  her,  for  of  that  I  am  not 
certain ;  but  he  has  quitted  home,  and  without  giving  me  one 
kind  look  at  parting,  without  even  noticing  a  letter  which  I  left 
last  night  upon  his  table.  At  what  slight  things  we  catch  to 
save  us  from  despair !  How  obstinate,  how  vain  is  hope !  I 
fondly  hoped,  even  to  the  last  moment^  that  this  letter,  th>s 
foolish  letter,  would  work  a  sudden  change  in  my  husband's 
•heart,  would  operate  miracles,  would  restore  me  to  happiness.  I 
fancied,  absurdly  fancied,  that  laying  open  my  whole  soul  to  him 
would  have  an  effect  upon  his  mind.  Alas !  has  not  my  whole 
soul  been  always  open  to  him  ?  Could  this  letter  tell  him  any 
thing  but  what  he  knows  already,  or  what  he  will  never  know — 
how  well  I  love  him  !  I  was  weak  to  expect  so  much  from  it ; 
yet  as  it  expressed  without  complaint  the  anguish  of  disappointed 
affection,  it  deserved  at  least  some  acknowledgment.  Could  not 
he  have  said,  "  My  dear  Leonora,  I  thank  you  for  your  letter  ?" 
—or  more  colder  still — "  Leonora,  I  have  received  your  letter?" 
Even  that  would  have  been  some  relief  to  me  :  but  now  all  is 
despair.  I  saw  him  just  when  he  was  going  away,  but  for  a  moment; 
till  the  last  instant  he  was  not  to  be  seen ;  then,  in  spite  of  all 
his  command  of  countenance,  I  discerned  strong  marks  of  agita- 
tion ;  but  towards  me  an  air  of  resentment,  more  than  any 
disposition  to  kinder  thoughts.  I  fancy  that  he  scarcely  knew 
what  he  said,  nor,  I  am  sure,  did  L  He  talked,  I  remember,  of 
having  immediate  business  in  town,  and  I  endeavoured  to  believe 
him.  Contrary  to  his  usual  composed  manner,  he  was  in  such 
haste  to  be  gone,  that  I  was  obliged  to  send  his  watch  and  purse 
after  him,  which  he  had  left  on  his  dressing-table.  How 
melancholy  his  room  looked  to  me !  His  clothes  just  as  he  had 
left  them — a  rose  which  Lady  Olivia  gave  him  yesterday  was  in 
water  on  his  table.  My  letter  was  not  there ;  so  he  has  it, 
probably  unread.  He  will  read  it  some  time  or  other,  perhaps 
— and  some  time  or  other,  perhaps,  when  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
he  will  believe  I  loved  him.  Could  he  have  known  what  I  felt 
at  the  moment  when  he  turned  from  me,  he  would  have  pitied 
me ;  for  his  nature,  his  character,  cannot  be  quite  altered  in  a 
few  months,  though  he  has  ceased  to  love  Leonora.  From  the 
vindow  of  his  own  room  I  watched  for  the  last  glimpse  of  him— 


LEONORA.  355 

heard  him  call  to  the  postilions,  and  bid  them  "drive  fast — 
faster."  This  was  the  last  sound  I  heard  of  his  voice.  When 
shall  I  hear  that  voice  again?  I  think  that  I  shall  certainly 
hear  from  him  the  day  after  to-morrow — and  1  wish  to-day  and 
to-morrow  were  gone. 

I  am  afraid  that  you  will  think  me  very  weak  ;  but,  my  dear 
mother,  I  have  no  motive  for  fortitude  now;  and  perhaps  it 
might  have  been  better  for  me,  if  I  had  not  exerted  so  much.  I 
begin  to  fear  that  all  my  fortitude  is  mistaken  for  indifference. 

Something  Mr.  L said  the  other  day,  about  sensibility  and 

sacrifices,  gave  me  this  idea.  Sensibility  ! — It  has  been  my  hard 
task  for  some  months  past  to  repress  mine,  that  it  might  not  give 
pain  or  disgust.  I  have  done  all  that  my  reason  and  my  dearest 
mother  counselled ;  surely  I  cannot  have  done  wrong.  How  apt 
we  are  to  mistake  the  opinion  or  the  taste  of  the  man  we  love 
for  the  rule  of  right !  Sacrifices  !  What  sacrifices  can  I  make  ? 
— All  that  I  have,  is  it  not  his? — My  whole  heart,  is  it  not  his  ? 
Myself,  all  that  I  am,  all  that  I  can  be  ?  Have  I  not  lived  with 
him  of  late,  without  recalling  to  his  mind  the  idea  that  I  suffer 
by  his  neglect?  Have  I  not  left  his  heart  at  liberty,  and 
can  I  make  a  greater  sacrifice  ?  I  really  do  not  understand 
what  he  means  by  sacrifices.  A  woman  who  loves  her  husband 
is  part  of  him  ;  whatever  she  does  for  him  is  for  herself.  I  wish 
he  would  explain  to  me  what  he  can  mean  by  sacrifices — but 
when  will  he  ever  again  explain  his  thoughts  and  feelings  to 
me? 

My  dearest  mother,  it  has  been  a  relief  to  my  mind  to  write 
all  this  to  you ;  if  there  is  no  sense  in  it,  you  will  forgive  and 
encourage  me  by  your  affection  and  strength  of  mind,  which,  in 
all   situations,  have   such   power  to  soothe   and  support  you 
daughter. 

The  prince  ,  who  spent  a  fortnight  here,  paid  me  pai 

ticular  attention. 

The  prince  talked  of  soon  paying  us  another  visit     If  he 

should,  I  will  not  receive  him  in  Mr,  L 's  absence.     This 

may  seem  like  vanity  or  prudery ;  but  no  matter  what  it  appears, 
if  it  be  right 

Well  might  you,  my  best  friend,  bid  me  beware  of  forming  an 
intimacy  with  an  unprincipled  woman.     I  have  suffered  severely 


356  LEONORA. 

for  Delecting  your  counsels  ;  how  much  I  have  still  to  endure  i» 
yet  to  be  tried  :  but  I  can  never  be  entirely  miserable  whilst  I 
possess,  and  whilst  I  hope  that  I  deserve,  the  aSection  of  such  » 
mother, 

Leanoaa  L.     ■  . 


LtETTER  LIII. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  ■      TO  HER  DAUGHTER. 

If  -my  approbation  and  affection  can  sustain  you  in  this  trying 
situation,  your  fortitude  will  not  forsake  you,  my  beloved 
daughter.  Great  minds  rise  in  adversity ;  they  are  always  equal 
to  the  trial,  and  superior  to  injustice :  betrayed  and  deserted, 
they  feel  their  own  force,  and  they  rely  upon  themselves.  Be 
yourself,  my  Leonora !  Persevere  as  you  have  begun,  and, 
trust  me,,  you  wjU  be  happy.  I  abide  by  my  first  opinion,  I 
repeat  my  prophecy — your  husband's  esteem,  aflfection,  love, 
will  be  permanently  yours.  Change  of  circumstances,  however 
alarming,  cannot  shake  the  fixed  judgment  of  my  understanding. 
Character,  as  you  justly  observe,  cannot  utterly  change  in  a  few 
months.  Your  husband  is  deceived,  he  is  now  as  one  in  the 
delirium  of  a  fever :  he  will  recover  his  senses,  and  see  Lady 
Olivia  and  you  such  as  you  are. 

You  do  not  explain,  and  I  take  it  for  granted  you  have  good 
reasons  for  not  explaining  to  me  more  fully,  the  immediate  cause 
of  your  letter  to  I^ady  Olivia.     I  am  sorry  that  any  cause  should 

have  thrown  her  upon  the  protection  of  Mr.  L' ;  for  a  man 

of  honour  and  generosity  feels  himself  bound  to  treat  with  ten- 
derness a  woman  who  appears  to  sacrifice  every  thing  for  his 
sake.  Consider  this  in  another  point  of  view,  and  it  will  afford 
you  subject  of  consolation  ;  for  it  is  always  a  consolation  to  good 
minds,  to  think  those  whom  they  love  less  to  blame  than  they 
appear  to  be.  You  w  11  be  more  calm  and  patient  when  you 
reflect  that  your  husband's  absence  may  be  prolonged  by  a  mis- 
taken senjse  of  honour.  From  the  nature  of  his  connexion  with 
Lady  Olivia  it  cannot  last  long.  Had  she  saved  appearances,  and 
engaged  him  in  a  sentimental  afiUir,  it  miglit  have  been  far  more* 
dangeroupto  your  happiness. 


LEONORA.  .'!i37 

I  entirely  approve  of  your  conduct  with  respect  to  the  prince  : 
it  is  worthy  of  my  child,  and  just  what  I  should  have  expected 
from  her.  The  artifices  of  coquettes,  and  all  the  art  of  love  is 
beneath  her ;  she  has  far  other  powers  and  resources,  and  need 
not  strive  to  maintain  her  dignity  by  vengeance.  I  admire  your 
magnanimity,  and  I  still  more  admire  your  good  sense ;  for  high 
spirit  is  more  common  in  our  sex  than  good  sense.  Few  know 
how,  and  when,  they  should  sacrifice  small  considerations  to  great 
ones.  You  say  that  you  will  not  receive  the  prince  in  your  hus- 
band's absence,  though  this  may  be  attributed  to  prudery  or 
vanity,  &c.  &c.  You  are  quite  right.  How  many  silly  women 
sacrifice  the  happiness  of  their  lives  to  the  idea  of  what  women 
or  men,  as  silly  as  themselves,  will  say  or  think  of  their  motives. 
How  many  absurd  heroines  of  romance,  and  of  those  who 
imitate  them  in  real  life,  do  we  see,  who  can  never  act  with  com- 
mon sense  or  presence  of  mind  :  if  a  man's  carriage  breaks  down, 
or  his  horse  is  tired  at  the  end  of  their  avenues,  or  for  some  such 
ridiculous  reason,  they  must  do  the  very  reverse  of  all  they  know 
to  be  prudent.  Perpetually  exposed,  by  a  fatal  concurrence  of 
circumstances,  to  excite  the  jealousy  of  their  lovers  and  husbands, 
they  create  the  necessity  to  which  they  fall  a  victim.  I  rejoice 
that  I  cannot  feel  any  apprehension  of  my  daughter's  conducting 
herself  like  one  of  these  novel-bred  ladies. 

I  am  sorry,  my  dear,  that  Lady  M and  your  friends  have 

left  you  :  yet  even  in  this  there  may  be  good.  Your  affairs  will 
be  made  less  public,  and  you  will  be  less  the  subject  of  imperti- 
nent curiosity.  I  advise  you,  however,  to  mix  as  much  as  usual 
with  your  neighbours  in  the  country :  your  presence,  and  the 
dignity  of  your  manners,  will  impose  silence  upon  idle  tongues. 
No  wife  of  real  spirit  solicits  the  world  for  compassion  :  she  who 
does  not  court  popularity  ensures  respect. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  child :  the  time  will  come  when  your 
husband  will  feel  the  full  merit  of  your  fortitude  ;  when  he  will 
know  how  to  distinguish  between  true  and  false  sensibility ; 
between  the  love  of  an  Olivia  and  of  a  Leonora. 


358  LEONORA* 


LETTER  LIV. 


MRS.  C TO    MISS    B" 


MY   DKAR   MARGARET,  Jan.  26. 

I  SHALL  never  forgive  myself.  I  fear  I  have  done  Leonora  irre« 
parable  injur}' ;  and,  dear  magnanimous  sufferer,  she  has  never 
reproached  me  !  In  a  fit  of  indignation  and  imprudent  zeal  I 
made  a  discovery,  which  has  produced  a  total  breach  between 
Leonora  and  Lady  Olivia,  and  in  consequence  of  this  Mr.  L  ■  ■ 
has  gone  off  with  her  ladyship  •  *  •  • 


•  •  *       "We  have   heard  nothing  from  Mr. 

L since  his  departure,  and  Leonora  is  more  unhappy  than 

ever,  and  my  imprudence  is  the  cause  of  this.  Yet  she  continues 
to  love  me.  She  is  an  angel !  I  have  promised  her  not  to  men- 
tion her  affairs  in  future  even  in  any  of  my  letters  to  you,  dear 
Margaret  Pray  quiet  any  reports  you  may  hear,  and  stop  idle 
tongues. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Helen  C— . 


LETTER  LV. 


MR.  L      ■         TO    GENERAL    B 

M7  DEAR  PRIBND,  Richmond. 

I  DO  not  think  I  could  have  home  with  temper,  from  any  othei 
man  breathing,  the  last  letter  which  I  received  from  you.  I  am 
sensible  that  it  was  written  with  the  best  intentions  for  my  hap« 
piness ;  but  I  must  now  inform  you,  that  the  lady  in  question 
has  accepted  of  my  protection,  and  consequently  no  man  who 
esteems  me  can  treat  her  with  disrespect. 

It  is  no  longer  a  question,  what  she  will  sacrifice  for  me ;  she 
has  shown  the  greatest  generosity  and  tenderness  of  soul ;  and  I 
should  despise  myself,  if  I  did  not  exert  every  power  to  make  h«i 


LEONORA.  3'.1&' 

happy. — We  are  at  Richmond  ;  but  if  you  write,  direct  to  me  at 
my  house  in  town. 

Yours  sincerely. 

F.  L . 


LErrER  LVI. 


GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L- 


Dream  your  dream  out,  my  dear  L .     Since  you  are  angry 

with  me,  as  Solander  was  with  Sir  Joseph  Banks  for  awakening 
him,  I  shall  not  take  the  liberty  of  shaking  you  any  more.  I 
believe  I  shook  you  rather  too  roughly :  but  I  assure  you  it  was 
for  your  good,  as  people  always  tell  their  friends  when  they  do 
the  most  disagreeable  things  imaginable.  Forgive  me,  and  I  will 
let  you  dream  in  peace.  You  will,  however,  allow  me  to  watch 
by  you,  whilst  you  sleep ;  and,  my  dear  somnambulist,  I  may  just 
take  care  that  you  do  not  knock  your  head  against  a  post,  or  fall 
into  a  well. 

I  hope  you  will  not  have  any  objection  to  my  paying  my 
respects  to  Lady  Olivia  when  I  come  to  town,  which,  I  flatter 
myself,  I  shall  be  able  to  do  shortly.  The  fortifications  here  are 
almost  completed. 

Yours  tpily, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  LVn. 


OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P- 


Richmond, 


Happy! — No,  my  dear  Gabrielle,  nor  shall  I  ever  be  happy, 
whilst  I  have  not  exclusive  possession  of  the  heart  of  the  man  I 
love.  I  have  sacrificed  every  thing  to  him  ;  I  have  a  right  to 
expect  that  he  should  sacrifice  at  least  a  wife  for  me — a  wife 
whom  he  only  esteems.  But  L— —  has  not  sufficient  strength 
of  raiiid  to  liberate  himself  from  the  cobwebs  which  restraiit 


3G0  LEONORA. 

those  \^ho  talk  if  conscience,  and  who,  in  fact,  are  only  super- 
stitious. I  see  with  indignation,  that  his  soul  is  continually 
struggling  between  passion  for  me  and  a  something,  I  know  net 
what  to  call  it,  that  he  feels  for  this  wife.  His  thoughts  are 
turning  towards  home.  I  believe  that  to  an  Englishman's  ears, 
there  is  some  magic  in  the  words  home  and  wife.  I  used  to 
think  foreignei-s  ridiculous  for  associating  the  ideas  of  Milord 
Anglois  with  roast  beef  and  pudding ;  but  I  begin  to  see  that 
they  are  quite  right,  and  that  an  Englishman  has  a  certain  set  of 
inveterate  homely  prejudices,  which  are  necessary  to  his  well- 
being,  and  almost  to  his  existence.  You  may  entice  him  into 
the  land  of  sentiment,  and  for  a  time  keep  him  there ;  but  refine 
and  polish  and  enlighten  him,  as  you  will,  he  recurs  to  his  own 
plain  sense,  as  he  terms  it,  on  the  first  convenient  opportunity. 
In  short,  it  is  lost  labour  to  civilize  him,  for  sooner  or  later  he 
will  hottentot  again.  Pray  introduce  that  term,  Gabrielle — you 
can  translate  it.  For  my  part,  I  can  introduce  nothing  here  ; 
my  maniere  d'etre  is  really  insupportable  ;  my  talents  are  lost ; 
I,  who  am  accustomed  to  shine  in  society,  see  nobody  ;  I  might, 
as  Josephine  every  day  observes,  as  well  be  buried  alive. 
Retirement  and  love  are  charming ;  but  then  it  must  be  perfect 

love — not  the  equivocating  sort  that  L feels  for  me,  which 

keeps  the  word  of  promise  only  to  the  ear.  I  bear  every  sort  of 
d^sagrement  for  him ;  I  make  myself  a  figure  for  the  finger  of 
scorn  to  point  at,  and  he  insults  me  with  esteem  for  a  wife.  Can 
you  conceive  this,  my  amiable  Gabrielle  ? — No,  there  are  ridicu- 
lous points  in  the  characters  of  my  countrymen  which  you  will 
never  be  able  to  comprehend.  And  what  is  still  more  incompre- 
hensible, it  is  my  fate  to  love  this  man  ;  yes,  passionately  to 
love  him  ! — But  he  must  give  me  proof  of  reciprocal  passion.  I 
have  too  much  spirit  to  sacrifice  every  thing  for  him,  who  will 
sacrifice  nothing  for  me.  Besides,  I  have  another  motive.  To 
you,  my  faithful  Gabrielle,  I  open  my  whole  heart. — Pride 
inspires  me  as  well  as  love.  I  am  resolved  that  Leonora,  the 
haughty  Leonora,  shall  live  to  repent  of  having  insulted  and 
exasperated  Olivia.  In  some  situations  contempt  can  be 
answered  only  by  vengeance  ;  and  when  the  malice  of  a  con- 
tracted and  illiberal  mind  provokes  it,  tevenge  is  virtue.  Leo- 
nora has  called  me  her  enemy,  and  consequently  has  made  me 


LiSOKOAA*  361 

such.     'Tis  she  hag  declared  the  war !  'tis  for  me  to  decide  the 
victory ! 

L— — i  I  know,  has  the  offer  of  an  embassy  to  Petersburg. — 
He  shall  accept  it. — I  will  accompany  him  thither.  Lady 
Leonora  may,  in  his  absence,  console  herself  with  her  august 
counsellor  and  mother : — that  proudest  of  earthly  paragons  is 
yet  to  be  taught  the  extent  of  Olivia's  power.  Adieu,  my 
charming  Gabrielle  !  I  will  carry  your  tenderest  remembrances 
to  our  brilliant  Russian  princess.  She  has  often  invited  me,  you 
know,  to  pay  her  a  visit,  and  this  will  be  the  ostensible  object  of 
my  journey.  A  horrible  journey,  to  be  sure  !  !  ! — But  what  will 
not  love  undertake  and  accomplish,  especially  when  goaded  by 
pride,  and  inspirited  by  great  revenge  ? 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LVIIL 


OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L- 


VicTiM  to  the  delusions  of  passion,  too  well  I  know  my  danger, 
and  now,  even  now,  foresee  my  miserable  fate.  Too  well  I 
know,  that  the  delicious  poison  which  spreads  through  my  frame 
exalts,  entrances,  but  to  destroy.  Too  well  I  know  that  the 
meteor  fire,  which  shines  so  bright  on  my  path,  entices  me 
forward  but  to  plunge  me  in  the  depths  of  infamy.  The  long 
warnings  of  recorded  time  teach  me,  that  perjured  man  triumphs, 
disdains,  and  abandons.  Too  well,  alas !  I  know  these  fatal 
truths ;  too  well  I  feel  my  approaching  doom.  Yet,  infatuated 
as  I  am,  prescience  avails  not ;  the  voice  of  prudence  warns,  the 
hand  of  Heaven  beckons  me  in  vain. 

My  friend !  my  more  than  friend,  my  lover !  beloved  beyond 
expression !  you  to  whom  I  immolate  myself,  you  for  whom  I 
sacrifice  more  than  life.  Oh,  whisper  words  of  peace  !  for  you, 
and  you  alone,  can  tranquillize  this  agitated  bosom.     Assure 

me,  L ,  if  with  truth  you  can  assure  me,  that  I  have  no  rival 

in  your  affections.  Oh,  tell  me  that  the  name  of  wife  does  not 
invalidate  the  claims  of  love !  Repeat  for  me,  a  thousand  times 
repeat,  that  I  am  sole  possessor  of  your  heart  I 


362  LEONORA. 

The  moment  you  quit  me  I  am  overpowered  with  melancholy 
forebodings.  Scarcely  are  you  out  of  my  sight,  before  I  dread' 
that  I  shall  never  see  you  more,  or  that  some  fatality  should 
deprive  me  of  your  love.  When  shall  the  sails  of  love  waft  us 
from  this  dangerous  shore  ?     Oh  !  when  shall  I  dare  to  call  you 

mine  ?     Heavens  !  how  many  things  may  intervene ! 

Let  nothing  detain  you  from  Richmond  this  evening  ;  but  come 
not  at  all— come  no  more,  unless  to  reassure  my  trembling  heart, 
and  to  convince  me  that  love  and  Olivia  have  banished  every 
other  image. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LIX. 


MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B- 


MY   DEAR  GENERAL, 

[  AM  come  to  a  resolution  to  accept  of  that  embassy  to  Russia 
which  I  lately  refused.  My  mind  has  been  in  such  constant 
anxiety  for  some  time  past,  that  my  health  has  suffered,  and 
change  of  air  and  place  are  necessary  to  me.  You  will  say,, 
that  the  climate  of  Russia  is  a  strange  choice  for  an  invalid  :  I 
could  indeed  have  wished  for  a  milder;  but  in  this  world  w& 
must  be  content  with  the  least  of  two  evils.  I  wish  to  have 
some  ostensible  reason  for  going  abroad,  and  this  embassy  i» 
the  only  one  that  presents  itself  in  an  unquestionable  shape. 
Any  thing  is  better  than  staying  where  I  am,  and  as  I  am.  My 
motives  are  not  so  entirely  personal  and  selfish  as  I  have  stated 
them.  A  man  who  has  a  grain  of  feeling  cannot  endure  to  see 
the  woman  whom  he  loves,  whose  only  failing  is  her  love,  living 
in  a  state  of  dereliction,  exposed  to  the  silent  scorn  of  her  equals 
and  inferiors,  if  not  to  open  insult.  All  her  fine  talents,  every 
advantage  of  nature  and  education  sacrificed,  and  her  sensibility 
to  shame  a  perpetual  source  of  niisery.  A  man  must  be  a  brute 
if  he  do  not  feel  for  a  woman,  whose  affection  for  him  has 
reduced  her  to  this  situation.  My  delicacy  as  to  female  manners,, 
and  the  high  value  I  set  upon  public  opinion  in  all  that  concerns 
the  sex,  make  me  peculiarly  susceptible  and  wretched  in  my 


LEONGRA.  3^3 

present  circumstances.  To  raise  the  drooping  spirits,  and 
support  the  self-approbation  of  a  woman,  who  is  conscious  that 
she  has  forfeited  her  claim  to  respect — to  make  love  supply  the 
place  of  all  she  has  sacrificed  to  love,  is  a  difficult  and  exquisitely 
painful  task.  My  feelings  render  hers  more  acute,  and  the  very 
precautions  which  I  take,  however  delicate,  alarm  and  wound 
her  pride,  by  reminding  her  of  all  she  wishes  to  forget.  In  this 
<:ountry,  no  woman,  who  is  not  lost  to  shame,  can  bear  to  live 

without    reputation. I    pass    over    a    great    many   inter- 

naediate  ideas,  my  dear  general;  your  sense  and  feeling  will 
supply  them.  You  see  the  expediency,  the  necessity  of  my 
accepting  this  embassy.  Olivia  urges,  how  can  I  refuse  it? 
She  wishes  to  accompany  me.  She  made  this  offer  with  such 
■decision  of  spirit,  with  such  passionate  tenderness,  as  touched 
me  to  the  very  soul.  A  woman  who  really  Inves,  absolutely 
devotes  herself,  and  becomes  insensible  to  every  difficulty  and 
danger ;  to  her  all  parts  of  the  world  are  alike  ;  all  she  fears  is 
to  be  separated  from  the  object  of  her  affections. 

But  the  very  excess  of  certain  passions  proves  them  to  be 
genuine.  Even  whilst  we  blame  the  rashness  of  those  who  act 
from  the  enthusiasm  of  their  natures,  whilst  we  foresee  all  the 
perils  to  which  they  seem  blind,  we  tremble  at  their  danger,  we 
grow  more  and  more  interested  for  them  every  moment,  we 
admire  iheir  courage,  we  long  to  snatch  them  from  their  fate, 
we  are  irresistibly  hurried  along  with  them  down  the  precipice. 

But  why  do  I  say  all  this  to  you,  my  dear  general  ?  To  no 
man  upon  earth  could  it  be  more  ineffectually  addressed.  Let 
me  see  you,  however,  before  we  leave  England.  It  would  be 
painful  to  me  to  quit  this  country  without  taking  leave  of  you, 
notwithstanding  all  that  you  have  lately  done  to  thwart  my 
inclinations,  and  notwithstanding  all  I  may  expect  you  to  say 
when  we  meet.  Probably  I  shall  be  detained  here  some  weeks, 
as  I  must  wait  for  instructions  from  our  court.  I  write  this  day 
to  Lady  Leonora,  to  inform  her  that  I  am  appointed  ambassador 
to  Russia.  She  shall  have  all  the  honours  of  war ;  she  shall  be 
treated  with  all  the  respect  to  which  she  is  so  well  entitled.  I 
suppose  she  will  wish  to  reside  with  her  mother  during  ray 
absence.  She  cannot  do  better :  she  will  then  be  in  the  most 
eligible  situation,  and  I  shall  be  relieved  from  all  anxiety  iipoQ 

21 


364  LEONORA,. 

her  account.  She  will  be  perfectly  happy  with  her  mother.  I 
have  often  thought  that  she  was  much  happier  before  slie  married 
me,  than  she  has  been  since  our  union. 

I  have  some  curiosity  to  know  whether  she  will  see  the  Prince- 
when  I  am  gone.  Do  not  mistake  me ;  I  am  not  jealous :  I 
have  too  little  love,  and  too  much  esteem  for  Leonora,  to  feel  the 
slightest  jealousy.  I  have  no  doubt,  that  if  I  were  to  stay  in 
Russia  for  ten  years,  and  if  all  the  princes  and  potentates  in 
Europe  were  to  be  at  her  feet,  my  wife  would  conduct  herself 
with  the  most  edifying  propriety  :  but  I  am  a  litile  curious  to 
know  how  far  vanity  or  pride  can  console  a  virtuous  woman  for 
the  absence  of  love. 

Yours  truly, 

F.  L. 


LETTER  LX. 

MADAME    DE    P TO    OLIVIA. 

Paris. 
You  are  really  decided  then  to  go  to  Russia,  my  amiable  friend, 
and  you  will  absolutely  undertake  this  horrible  voyage  !  And 
you  are  not  intimidated  by  the  idea  of  the  immense  distance 
between  Petersburg  and  Paris  !  Alas  !  I  had  hoped  soon  to  see 
you  again.  The  journey  from  my  convent  to  Paris  was  the 
longest  and  most  formidable  that  I  ever  undertook,  and  at  this 
moment  it  appears  to  me  terrible  ;  you  may  conceive  therefore 
my  admiration  of  your  courage  and  strength  of  mind,  my  dear 
Olivia,  who  are  going  to  brave  the  ocean,  turning  your  back  on 
Paris,  and  every  moment  receding  from  our  polished  centre  of 
attraction,  to  perish  perhaps  among  mountains  of  ice.  Mon 
Dieu !  it  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it.  But  if  it  please 
Heaven  that  you  should  once  arrive  at  Petersburg,  you  will 
crown  your  tresses  with  diamonds,  you  will  envelope  yourself 
with  those  superb  furs  of  the  north,  and  smiling  at  all  the 
dangers  you  have  passed,  you  will  be  yourself  a  thousand  times 
more  dangerous  than  they.  You,  who  have  lived  so  long  at 
Paris,  who  speak  our  language  in  all  its  shades  of  elegance  ;  you^ 


LEONORA.  365 

vho  have  divined  all  our  secrets  of  pleasing^  vrho  have  caught 
our  very  air, 

*'  Et  la  grace,  encore  plus  belle  que  la  beaut^;** 

you,  who  are  absolutely  a  French  woman,  and  a  Parisian,  what 
a  sensation  you  will  produce  at  Petersburg  I — Quels  succes  vous 
attendant ! — Quels  liommages ! 

You  will  have  the  goodness  to  offer  my  tenderest  sentimeats,  and 
the  assurances  of  my  perfect  respect,  to  our  dear  Princess ;  youi 
will  also  find  the  proper  moment  to  remind  her  of  the  promise 
she  made,  to  send  me  specimens  of  the  fine  ermines  and  sables  of 
her  country.  For  my  part,  I  used  to  be,  I  confess,  in  a  great 
error  with  respect  to  furs :  I  always  acknowledged  them  to  be 
rich,  but  avoided  them  as  heavy ;  I  considered  them  as  fitter  for 
the  stiff  magnificence  of  an  Empress  of  all  the  Russian  than  for 
the  light  elegance  of  a  Parisian  beauty ;  but  our  charming 
Princess  convinced  me  that  this  is  a  heresy  in  taste.  When  I 
beheld  the  grace  with  which  she  wore  her  ermine,  and  the  art 
with  which  she  knew  how  to  vary  its  serpent  folds  as  she  moved, 
or  as  she  spoke,  the  variety  it  gave  to  her  costume  and  attitudes ; 
the  development  it  afforded  to  a  fine  hand  and  arm,  the  resource 
in  the  pauses  of  conversation,  and  that  soft  and  attractive  air 
which  it  seemed  to  impart  even  to  the  play  of  her  wit,  I  could  no 
longer  refuse  my  homage  to  ermine.  Such  is  the  despotism  of 
beauty  over  all  the  objects  of  taste  and  fashion  ;  and  so  it  is,  that 
a  woman  of  sense,  address,  and  sentiment,  let  her  be  bor^  or 
thrown  by  fate  where  she  may,  will  always  know  how  to  avail 
herself  of  every  possible  advantage  of  nature  and  art.  Nothing 
will  be  too  trifling  or  too  vast  for  her  genius. 

I  must  make  you  understand  me,  my  dear  Olivia ;  your 
Gabrielle  is  not  so  frivolous  as  simpletons  imagine.  Frivolity  is 
an  excellent,  because  an  unsuspected  mask,  under  which  serious 
and  important  designs  may  be  safely  concealed.  I  would 
explain  myself  further,  but  must  now  go  to  the  opera  to  see  the 
new  ballet.  Let  me  know,  my  interesting,  my  sublime  Olivia, 
when  you  are  positively  determined  on  your  voyage  to  Peters- 
burg ;  and  then  you  shall  become  acquainted  with  your  friend 
as  a  politician.  Her  friendship  for  you  will  not  be  confined  to  a 
mere  intercourse  of  sentiment,  but  will,  if  you  have  courage  tc 


366  LEONORA. 

second  her  views,  give  you  a  secret  yec  decisive  weight  and 
•consequence,  of  which  you  have  hitherto  never  dreamed. — Adieu. 
— These  gentlemen  are  so  impatient,  I  must  go.  Burn  the  last 
page  of  this  letter,  and  the  whole  of  ray  next  as  soon  as  you  have 
read  it,  I  conjure  you,  my  dear. 

Gabriellb  de  P . 


LETTER  LXr. 

GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L- 


OBAR  L , 

I  HAVE  tin^e  but  to  write  one  line  to  satisfy  that  philosophical 
curiosity,  which,  according  to  your  injunctions,  I  will  not 
denominate  jealousy — except  when  I  talk  to  myself. 

You  have  a  philosophical  curiosity  to  know  whether  your  wife 
•Tvill  see  the  Prince  in  your  absence.  I  saw  his  favourite  yester- 
day, who  complained  to  me  that  his  highness  had  been  absolutely 
refused  admittance  at  your  castle,  notwithstanding  he  had  made 
many  ingenious,  and  some  bold  attempts,  to  see  Lady  Leonora 
L in  the  absence  of  her  faithless  husband. 

As  to  your  scheme  of  going  to  Russia,  you  will  be  obliged, 
luckily,  to  wait  for  some  time  for  instructions,  and  in  the 
interval,  it  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  recover  your  senses.  I  shall 
Bee  you  as  soon  as  possible. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  LXIL 

MADAME    DE    P TO    LADY    OLIVIA. 

Paris. 
J3\s  our  vanity  always  endeavours  to  establish  a  balance  between 
our  own  perfections  and  those  of  our  friends,  I  must  flatter 
aTiyself,  my  dear  Olivia,  that  in  compensation  for  that  Courage 
and  ardent  imagination  in  which  you  are  so  much  my  superior, 
I  possess  some  little  advantages  over  you  in  my  scientific, 
hereditary  knowledge  of  court  intrigue,  and  of  the  arts  of  re  pre- 


LEONORA.  367 

sentation ;  all  which  will  be  necessary  to  you  in  your  charactei 
of  ambassadress  :  you  will  in  fact  deserve  this  title,  for  of  course 
you  will  govern  the  English  ambassador,  whom  you  honour  witli 
your  love.  And  of  course  you  will  appear  with  splendour,  and 
you  will  be  particularly  careful  to  have  your  traineau  well 
appointed.  Pray  remember  that  one  of  your  horses  must  gallop, 
whilst  the  other  trots,  or  you  are  nobody.  It  will  also  be 
absolutely  necessary  to  have  a  numerous  retinue  of  servants, 
because  this  suits  the  Russian  idea  of  magnificence.  You  must 
have,  as  the  Russian  nobles  always  had  in  Paris,  four  servants 
constantly  to  attend  your  equipage ;  one  to  carry  the  flambeau, 
another  to  open  the  door,  and  a  couple  to  carry  you  into  and  out 
of  your  carriage.  I  beseech  you  to  bear  in  mind  perpetually, 
that  you  are  to  be  as  helpless  as  possible.  A  Frenchman  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  spent  nine  years  in  Russia,  told  me,  that  in 
his  first  setting  out  at  Petersburg,  he  was  put  on  his  guard  in 
this  particular  by  a  speech  of  his  Russian  valet-de-chambre  : — 
"Sir,  the  Englishman  you  visited  to-day  cannot  be  worthy  of 
your  acquaintance ;  he  cannot  be  a  gentleman.  Son  valet  me 
dit  qu'il  se  deshabille  seul ! ! !" 

I  suppose  you  take  Josephine  with  you;  she  will  be  an 
inestimable  treasure ;  and  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  send 
you  the  first  advices  of  Paris  fashions,  which  her  talents  will  not 
fail  to  comprehend  and  execute.  My  charming  Olivia !  you  will 
be  the  model  of  taste  and  elegance!  Do  not  suspect  that  dress 
is  carrying  me  away  from  politics.  I  assure  you  I  know  what  T 
am  about,  and  am  going  straight  to  my  object.  The  art  of  attend- 
ing to  trifles  is  the  art  of  governing  the  world,  as  all  historians 
know,  who  have  gone  to  the  bottom  of  affairs.  Was  not  the 
face  of  Europe  changed  by  a  cup  of  tea  thrown  on  Mrs. 
Masham's  gown,  as  Voltaire,  with  penetrating  genius,  remarks? 
Women,  without  a  doubt,  understand  the  importance  of  trifles 
better  than  men  do,  and  consequently  always  move  in  secret  the 
slight  springs  of  that  vast  machine,  the  civilized  world.  Is  not 
your  ambition  roused,  my  Olivia?  You  must,  however,  lay 
aside  a  little  of  your  romance,  and  not  approach  the  political 
machine  whilst  you  are  intoxicated  with  love,  else  you  will  blunder 
infallibly,  and  do  infinite  and  irrepapable  mischief  to  yourself 
and  your  friends. 


Z6S  LEONORA. 

Permit  me  to  tell  you,  that  you  have  been  a  little  spoiled  ly 
sentimental  novels,  which  are  good  only  to  talk  of  when  one  must 
show  sensibility,  but  destructive  as  rules  of  action.  By  the  false 
lights  which  these  writers,  who  know  nothing  of  the  world,  have 
tlirown  upon  objects,  you  have  been  deluded;  you  have  been  led 
to  mistake  the  means  for  the  end.  Love  has  been  with  you  the 
sole  end  of  love ;  whereas  it  ought  to  be  the  beginning  of  power. 
No  matter  for  the  past :  the  future  is  yours :  at  our  age  this 
future  must  be  dexterously  managed.  A  woman  of  spirit,  and, 
what  is  better,  of  sense,  must  always  take  care  that  in  her  heart, 
the  age  of  love  is  not  prolonged  beyond  the  age  of  being  beloved. 
In  these  times  a  woman  has  no  choice  at  a  certain  period  but 
politics,  or  bel  esprit;  for  devotion,  which  used  to  be  a  resource, 
is  no  longer  in  fashion.  We  must  all  take  a  part,  my  dear ;  I 
assure  you  I  have  taken  mine  decidedly,  and  I  predict  that  you 
'will  take  yours  with  brilliant  success.  How  often  must  one  cry 
ia  the  ears  of  lovers — Love  must  die  !  must  die  !  must  die  !  But 
you,  my  dear  Olivia,  will  not  be  deaf  to  the  warning  voice  of 
common  sense.  Your  own  experience  has  on  former  occasions 
convinced  you,  that  passion  cannot  be  eternal ;  and  at  present, 
if  I  mistake  not,  there  is  in  your  love  a  certain  mixture  of  other 
feelings,  a  certain  alloy,  which  will  make  it  happily  ductile  and 
manageable.  When  your  triumph  over  the  wife  is  complete, 
passion  for  the  husband  will  insensibly  decay ;  and  this  will  be 
fortunate  for  you,  because  assuredly  your  ambassador  would  not 
choose  to  remain  all  the  rest  of  his  days  in  love  and  in  exile  at 
Petersburg.  All  these  English  are  afflicted  with  the  maladie  du 
pays ;  and,  as  you  observe  so  well,  the  words  home  and  wife 
have  ridiculous  but  unconquerable  power  over  their  minds.  Wh.  t 

will  become  of  you,  my  friend,  when  this  Mr.  L chooses  to 

return  to  England  to  his  casile,  &c.  ?  You  could  not  accompany 
him.  You  must  provide  in  time  against  this  catastrophe,  or  you 
will  be  a  deserted,  disgraced,  imdone  woman,  my  dear  friend. 

No  one  should  begin  to  act  a  romance  who  has  not  well  con- 
sidered the  denouement.  It  is  a  charming  thing  to  mount  with 
a  friend  in  a  balloon,  amid  crowds  of  spectators,  who  admire  the 
fine  spectacle,  and  applaud  the  courage  of  the  aerostats:  the 
losing  sight  of  this  earth,  and  the  being  in  or  above  the  clouds, 
must  also  be  delightful :  but  the  moment  will  come  wUeu  tUa 


LEOKORA.  3C9 

travellers  descend,  and  then  begins  the  danger  ;  then  they  differ 
about  throwing  out  the  ballast,  the  balloon  is  rent  in  the  quarrel, 
it  sinks  with  frightful  rapidity,  and  they  run  the  hazard,  like  the 
poor  Marquis  D'Arlande,  of  being  spitted  upon  the  spire  of  the 
Invalides,  or  of  being  entangled  among  woods  and  briers — at  last, 
alighting  upon  the  earth,  our  adventurers,  fatigued  and  bruised 
and  disappointed,  come  out  of  their  shattered  triumphal  car, 
exposed  to  the  derision  of  the  changeable  multitude. 

Every  thing  in  this  world  is  judged  of  by  success.  Your 
voyage  to  Petersburg,  my  dear  Olivia,  must  not  be  a  mere 
adventure  of  romance  ;  as^a  party  of  pleasure  it  would  be  ridicu- 
lous ;  we  must  make  something  more  of  it.  Enclosed  is  a  letter 
to  a  Russian  nobleman,  an  old  lover  of  mine,  who,  I  understand, 
is  in  favour.  He  will  certainly  be  at  your  command.  He  is  a 
man  possessed  by  the  desire  of  having  reputation  among 
foreigners,  vain  of  the  preference  of  our  sex,  generous  even  to 
prodigality.  By  his  means  you  will  be  immediately  placed  on 
an  easy  footing  with  all  the  leading  persons  of  the  Russian  court. 
You  will  go  on  from  one  step  to  another,  till  you  are  at  the 
height  whic  i  I  have  in  view.  Now  for  my  grand  object.— No, 
not  now — for  I  have  forty  little  notes  about  nothings  to  write 
this  morning.  Great  things  hang  upon  these  nothings,  so  they 
should  not  be  neglected.  I  must  leave  you,  my  amiable  Olivia, 
and  defer  my  grand  object  till  to-morrow. 

G^BRIELLE  DE  P . 


LETTER  LXIII 

LEONORA    TO    THE    DUCHESS    Oir    . 

DEAR  MOTHER, 

This  moment  I  have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  L .     He  has 

accepted  of  an  embassy  to  Petersburg.  I  cannot  guess  by  the 
few  lines  he  has  written,  whether  or  not  he  wishes  that  I  should 
accompany  him.  Most  ardently  I  wish  it ;  but  if  my  offer 
should  be  refused,  or  if  it  should  be  accepted  only  because  it 
could  not  be  well  refused  ;  if  I  should  be  a  burthen,  a  restraint 
oipon  him,  I  should  wish  myself  dead. 
Leonora, 


370  L£ONORA. 

Perhaps  he  accepts  of  this  embassy  on  purpose  that  he  raajr 
leave  me  and  take  another  person  with  him :  or  perhaps,  dearest 
mother  (I  hardly  dare  to  hope  it) — perhaps  he  wishes  to  break  off 
thdt  connexion,  and  goes  to  Russia  to  leave  temptation  behind 
him.  I  know  that  this  embassy  was  offered  to  him  some  weeks 
ago,  and  he  had  then  no  thoughts  of  accepting  it. — Oh  that  1 
could  see  into  his  heart — that  heart  which  used  to  be  always 
open  to  me !  If  I  could  discover  what  his  wishes  are,  I 
should  know  wbat  mine  ought  to  be.  I  have  thoughts  of  going 
to  town  immediately  to  see  him ;  at  least  I  may  take  leave  of 
him.  Do  you  approve  of  it?  Write  the  moment  you  receive 
this ;  but  I  need  not  say  that,  for  I  am  sure  you  will  do  so. 
Dearest  mother,  you  have  prophesied  that  his  heart  will  leturii 
to  me,  and  on  this  hope  I  live. 

Your  ever  affectionate  daughter, 

Leonora  L . 


LETTER  LXIV. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  — —  TO  LEONORA. 

Yes,  my  dear,  I  advise  you  by  all  means  to  go  to  town,  and  to 
see  your  husband.  Your  desire  to  accompany  him  to  Russia 
he  will  know  before  you  see  him,  for  I  have  just  written  and 
despatched  an  express  to  him  with  your  last  letter,  and  with  all 
those  which   I  have   received  from   you  within  these  last  six 

months.     Leave  Mr.  L time  to  read  them  before  he  sees 

you ;  and  do  not  hurry  or  fatigue  yourself  unnecessarily.  You 
know  that  an  embassy  cannot  be  arranged  in  two  days ;  there- 
fore travel  by  easy  journeys  :  you  cannot  do  otherwise  without 
hazard.  Your  courage  in  offering  to  undertake  this  long 
voyage  with  your  husband  is  worthy  of  you,  my  beloved  daugh- 
ter. God  bless  and  preserve  you  !  If  you  go  to  Petersburg,  let 
me  know  in  time,  that  I  may  see  you  before  you  leave  England. 
i  will  be  at  any  moment  at  any  place  you  appoint. 

Your  affectionate  mother, 


LEONORA.  372 


LETTER  LXV. 

THE    DUCHESS    OF   TO    MR.  L . 

Perhaps  this  letter  may  find  you  at  the  feet  of  your  mistress. 
Spare  me,  sir,  a  few  moments  from  your  pleasures.  You  may 
perhaps  expect  reproaches  from  the  mother  of  your  wife ;  but  let 
me  assure  you,  that  you  have  none  to  apprehend.  For  my 
daughter's  sake,  if  not  for  yours,  I  would  forbear.  Never  was 
departing  love  recalled  by  the  voice  of  reproach ;  you  shall  not 
hear  it  from  me,  you  have  not  heard  it  from  Leonora.  But 
mistake  not  the  cause  of  her  forbearance  ;  let  it  not  be  attributed 
to  pusillanimity  of  temper,  or  insensibility  of  heart. 

Enclosed  I  send  you  all  the  letters  which  my  daughter  ha& 
written  to  me  from  the  first  day  of  her  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Olivia  to  this  hour.  From  these  you  will  be  enabled  to  judge 
of  what  she  has  felt  for  some  months  past,  and  of  the  actual 
state  of  her  heart ;  you  will  see  all  the  tenderness  and  all  the 
strength  of  her  soul. 

It  has  ever  been  my  fixed  opinion,  that  a  wile  who  loves  her 
husband,  and  who  has  possessed  his  affections,  may  reclaim 
them  from  the  lure  of  the  most  artful  of  her  sex,  by  persevering 
kindness,  temper,  and  good  sense,  unless  indeed  her  husband  be 
a  fool  or  a  libertine.  I  have  prophesied  that  my  daughter  will 
regain  your  heart ;  and  upon  this  prophecy,  to  use  her  own  ex- 
pression, she  lives.  And  even  now,  when  its  accomplishment  is 
far  removed,  I  am  so  steady  in  my  opinion  of  her  and  of  you ; 
so  convinced  of  the  uniform  result  of  certain  conduct  upon  the 
human  mind,  that  undismayed  I  repeat  my  prophecy. 

Were  you  to  remain  in  this  kingdom,  I  should  leave  things  to 
their  natural  course ;  I  should  not  interfere  so  far  even  as  to 
send  you  Leonora's  letters :  but  as  you  may  be  separated  for 
years,  I  think  it  necessary  now  to  put  into  your  hands  incontro- 
vertible proofs  of  what  she  is,  and  what  she  has  been.  Do  not 
imagine  that  I  am  so  weak  as  to  expect  that  the  perusal  of  these 
letters  will  work  a  sudden  change :  but  it  is  fit  that,  before  you 
leave  England,  you  should  know  that  Leonora  is  not  a  cold, 
sullen,  or  offended  wife ;  but  one  who  loves  you  most  tenderly^ 


372  Lti&uonM, 

most  generously  ;  who,  concealing  the  agony  of  her  heart,  vraits 
with  resignation  for  the  time  when  she  will  be  your  refuge,  and 
the  permanent  blessing  of  your  life. 


LETTER  LXVr. 

ttADAME    DE    P TO    OLIVIA. 

Paris. 
And  not*',  rriy  charming  Olivia,  raise  your  fine  eyes  as  high  as 
ambition  can  look,  and  you  will  perhaps  discover  my  grand 
object.  You  do  not  see  it  yet.  Look  again. — Do  you  not  see 
the  Emperor  of  Russia?  What  would  you  think  of  him  for  a 
lover  ?  If  it  were  only  for  novelty's  sake,  it  would  really  be 
pleasant  to  have  a  Gzar  at  one's  feet.  Reign  in  his  heart,  and 
you  in  fact  seat  yourself  invisibly  on  the  throne  of  all  the 
Russias  :  thence  what  a  commanding  prospect  you  have  of  the 
affairs  of  Europe !  and  how  we  should  govern  the  world  at  our 
ease  !  The  project  is  bold,  but  not  impracticable.  The  ancients 
represent  Cupid  riding  the  Numidian  lion  ;  and  why  should  he 
not  tame  the  Russian  bear?  It  would  make  a  pretty  design  for 
a  vignette.  I  can  engrave  as  well  as  La  Pompadour  could  at 
least,  and  anticipating  your  victory,  my  charming  Olivia,  I  will 
engrave  Cupid  leading  the  bear  in  a  chain  of  flowers.  This  shall 
be  my  seal.     Mon  cachet  de  faveur. 

Courage,  my  fair  politician  !  You  have  a  difficult  task  ;  but 
the  glory  h  in  proportion  to  the  labour  ;  and  those  who  value 
power  properly,  are  paid  by  its  acquisition,  for  all  possible  fatigue 
and  hardships.  With  your  knowledge  of  our  modes,  you  will 
be  at  Petersburg  the  arbitress  of  delights.  You  have  a  charming 
taste  and  invention  for  fetes  and  spectacles.  Teach  these  people 
to  vary  their  pleasures.  Their  monai-ch  must  adore  you,  if  you 
banish  from  his  presence  that  most  dreadful  enemy  of  kings,  and 
most  obstinate  resident  of  courts,  ennui.  Trust,  my  Olivia, 
neither  to  your  wit,  nor  your  beauty,  nor  your  accomplishments, 
but  employ  your  "various  arts  of  trifling  prettily,"  and,  taka 
my  word  for  it,  you  will  succeed. 


LEONORA.  373 

As  I  may  not  have  an  opportunity  of  siending  you  anothei 
private  letter,  and  as  lemon-juice,  goulard,  and  all  those 
sympathetic  inks,  are  subject  to  unlucky  accidents,  I  must  send 
you  all  my  secret  instructions  by  the  present  safe  conveyance. 

You  must  absolutely  sacrifice,  my  dear  child,  all  your  romantic 
notions,  and  all  your  taste  for  love,  to  the  grand  object.  The 
Czar  must  not  have  the  slightest  cause  for  jealousy.  These 
Czars  make  nothing,  you  know,  of  cutting  off  their  mistresses' 
pretty  heads  upon  the  bare  suspicion  of  an  intrigue.  But  you 
must  do  what  is  still  more  difficult  than  to  be  constant,  you  must 
yield  your  will,  and,  what  is  more,  you  must  never  let  this  Czar 
guess  that  his  will  is  not  always  your  pleasure.  Your  humo'.ir, 
your  tastes,  your  wishes,  must  be  incessantly  and  with  alacrity 
sacrificed  to  his.  You  must  submit  to  the  constraint  of  eteraal 
court  ceremony,  and  court  dissimulation.  You  must  bear  to  be 
surrounded  with  masks,  instead  of  the  human  face  divine  ;  and 
instead  of  fellow-creatures,  you  must  content  yourself  with 
puppets.  You  will  have  the  amusement  of  pulling  the  wires : 
but  remember  that  you  must  wear  a  mask  perpetually  as  well  as 
others,  and  never  attempt  to  speak,  and  never  expect  to  hear  the 
language  of  truth  or  of  the  heart.  You  must  not  be  the  dupe  of 
attachment  in  those  who  call  themselves  friends,  or  zealous  and 
affectionate  servants,  &c,  &c.  You  must  have  sufficient  strength 
of  character  to  bear  continually  in  mind  that  all  these  professions 
are  mere  words,  that  all  these  people  are  alike  false,  and  actuated 
but  by  one  motive,  self-interest.  To  secure  yourself  from  secret 
and  open  enemies,  you  must  farther  have  sufficient  courage  to 
Jive  without  a  friend  or  a  confidante,  for  such  persons  at  court 
Are  only  spies,  traitors  in  the  worst  forms.  All  this  is  melancholy 
and  provoking,  to  be  sure  ;  but  all  this  you  must  see  without 
feeling,  or  at  least  without  showing  a  spark  of  indignation.  A 
sentimental  misanthropist,  male  or  female,  is  quite  out  of  place 
at  court.  You  must  see  all  that  is  odious  and  despicable  in 
human  nature  in  a  comic  point  of  view  ;  and  you  must  consider 
your  fellow-creatures  as  objects  to  be  laughed  at,  not  to  be  hated. 
Laughter,  besides  being  good  for  the  health,  and  consequently 
for  tlie  complexion,  always  implies  superiority.  Without  this 
gratification  to  our  vanity,  tliere  would  be  no  possibility  of 
enduring  that  eternal  penance  of  hypocrisy,  and  that  solitary 


S'^4  LEONORA. 

State  of  suspicion,  to  which  the  ambitious  condemn  themselves 
I  fear,  my  romantic  Olivia,  that  you,  who  are  a  person  used  to 
yield  to  first  impressions,  and  not  quite  accustomed  to  subdue 
your  passions  to  your  interest,  will  think  that  politics  require 
too  much  from  you,  almost  as  much  as  constancy  or  religion. 
But  consider  the  difference!  fbr  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear, 
consider  the  greatness  of  our  object !  Would  to  God  that  I  had 
the  eloquence  of  Bossuet !  and  I  would  make  you  a  convert  from 
love  and  a  proselyte  to  glory.  Dare,  my  Olivia,  to  be  a  martyr 
to  ambition ! — See  !  already  high  in  air  she  holds  a  crown  over 
your  head — it  is  almost  within  your  grasp — stretch  out  your 
white  arm  and  seize  it — fear  not  the  thorns  ! — every  crown  has 
thorns — but  who  upon  that  account  ever  yet  refused  one?  My 
dear  empress,  I  have  the  honour  to  kiss  your  powerful  hands. 

Gabrielle  de  P » 


LETTER  LXVII. 


MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B- 


MY  DEAR   FRIEND, 

You  need  not  hurry  yourself  to  come  to  town  on  my  account, 
for  by  this  change  of  ministrymy  embassy  will  be  delayed  some 
weeks. 

A  few  days  ago  this  delay  would  have  been  a  terrible  dis> 
appointment  to  me  ;  yet  now  I  feel  it  a  respite.  A  respite  !  you 
will  exclaim.  Yes,  my  dear  friend — so  it  is.  Such  is  the  heart 
of  man ! — so  changeable,  so  contradictory,  so  much  at  variance 
with  itself  from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour.  I  believe,  from 
what  I  now  feel,  that  every  man  under  the  dominion  of  passion 
is  reduced  to  a  most  absurd  and  miserable  condition. — I  have 
just  been  reading  some  letters  from  Leonora,  which  have  wrung 
my  heart ;  letters  addressed  t j  her  mother,  laying  open  every 
feeling  of  her  mind  for  some  months.  My  dear  friend,  what 
injustice  have  I  done  to  this  admirable  woman !  With  what 
tenderness,  with  what  delicacy  has  she  loved  me!  while  I, 
mistaking  modesty  for  coldness,  fortitude  for  indifference,  have 
neglected,  injured,  and  abandoned  her !     With  what  sweetnessi 


LEONORA.  375 

of  temper,  with  what  persevering  goodness  has  she  borne  with 
lue,  while,  intoxicated  with  passion,  I  saw  every  thing  in  a  false 
point  of  view  I  How  often  have  I  satisfied  myself  with  the 
persuasion,  that  she  scarcely  observed  my  attachment  to  Olivia, 
or  beheld  it  unconcerned,  secure  by  the  absence  of  love  from  the 
pangs  of  jealousy  !  How  often  have  I  accused  her  of  insensi- 
bility, whilst  her  heart  was  in  tortures !  Olivia  was  deceived 
also,  and  confirmed  me  in  this  cruel  error.  And  all  that  time 
Leonora  was  defending  her  rival,  and  pleading  her  cause  !  With 
what  generosity,  with  what  magnanimity  she  speaks  of  Olivia 
in  those  letters !  Her  confidence  was  unbounded,  her  soul 
above  suspicion;  to  the  very  last  she  doubted  and  blamed 
herself — dear,  amiable  woman !  blamed  herself  for  our  faults, 
for  feeling  that  jealousy,  which  no  wife  who  loved  as  she  did 
could  possibly  subdue.  She  never  betrayed  it  by  a  single  word 
or  look  of  reproach.  Even  though  she  fainted  at  that  cursed 
fete  champ^tre,  yet  the  moment  she  came  to  her  senses,  she 
managed  so,  that  none  of  the  spectators  could  suspect  she 
thought  Olivia  was  her  rival.  My  dear  general,  you  will  forgive 
me — as  long  as  1  praise  Leonora  you  will  understand  me.  At 
last  you  will  acknowledge  that  I  do  justice  to  the  merits  of  my 
wife.  Justice !  no— I  am  unworthy  of  her.  I  have  no  heart 
like  hers  to  offer  in  return  for  such  love.  She  wishes  to  go  with 
me  to  Petersburg ;  she  has  forborne  to  make  this  offer  directly 
to  me  ;  but  I  know  it  from  her  last  letter  to  her  mother,  which 
now  lies  before  me.  How  can  I  refuse  ? — and  how  can  I  accept? 
My  soul  is  torn  with  violence  different  ways.  How  can  I  leave 
Leonora !  and  how  can  I  tear  myself  from  Olivia ! — even  if  her 
charms  had  no  power  over  my  heart,  how  could  I  with  honour 
desert  the  woman  who  has  sacrificed  every  thing  for  me !  I 
will  not  shield  myself  from  you,  my  friend,  behind  the  word 
honour.  See  me  as  you  have  always  seen  me,  without  disguise, 
and  now  without  defence.  I  respect,  I  love  Leonora — but,  alas ! 
I  am  in  love  with  Olivia ! 

Yours  ever, 

F.  L . 


«i76  LPQN.OBA* 


LETTER  LXVIII. 


MR.  L  TO    OLIVIA. 


Triumphant  as  you  are  over  my  heart,  dear  enchanting  Olivia? 
you  cannot  make  me  false.  I  cannot,  even  to  appease  your 
anger,  deny  this  morning  what  I  said  last  night.  It  is  incon- 
sistent with  all  your  professions,  with  your  character,  with  your 
generous  disposition,  to  desire  me  to  ^^  abjure  Leonora  for  ever!" 
it  would  be  to  render  myself  for  ever  unworthy  of  Olivia.  I  am 
convinced  that  had  you  read  the  letters  of  which  I  spoke,  you 
would  have  been  touched,  you  would  have  been  struck  by  them 
as  I  was  :  instead  of  being  hurt  and  displeased  by  the  impression 
that  they  made  upon  me,  you  would  have  sympathized  in  my 
feelings,  you  would  have  been  indignant  if  I  had  not  admired, 
you  would  have  detested  and  despised  me  if  I  could  have  been  in- 
sensible to  "so  much  goodness  and  generosity.''  I  repeat  my  words  : 
I  will  not  "retract"  I  cannot  "repent  of  them."  My  dear 
Olivia !  when  you  reflect  upon  what  is  past,  I  am  persuaded 
you  will  acknowledge  that  your  sensibility  made  you  unjust. 
Indeed,  my  love,  you  did  not  show  your  usual  candour ;  I  had 
just  read  all  that  Leonora  had  written  of  you,  all  that  she  had 
urged  against  her  mother  in  your  defence  ;  even  when  she  had 
most  cause  to  be  irritated  against  us,  I  could  not  avoid  being 
shocked  by  the  different  manner  in  which  you  spoke  of  her. 
Perhaps  I  told  you  so  too  abi'uptly  :  if  I  had  loved  you  less,  I 
should  have  been  more  cautious  and  more  calm — if  I  had 
esteemed  you  less,  calmer  still.  I  could  then,  possibly,  have 
borne  to  hear  you  speak  in  a  manner  unbecoming  yourself. 
Forgive  me  the  pain  I  gave  you — the  pain  I  now  give  you,  my 
dearest  Olivia !  My  sincerity  is  the  best  security  you  can  have 
for  my  future  love.  Banish  therefore  this  unjust,  tbis  causeless 
jealousy  :  moderate  this  excessive  sensibility  for  both  our  sakes, 
and  depend  upon  the  power  you  have  over  my  heart.  You  can- 
not conceive  how  much  I  have  felt  from  this  misunderstanding 
— the  first  we  have  ever  had.  Let  it  be  the  last.  I  have  spent 
a  sleepless  night.  I  am  detained  in  town  by  provoking,  tiresome, 
but  necessary  busiv^sf.     Meet  me  in  the  evening  with  smiles, 


my  Olivia :  let  me  behold  in  those  fascinating  eyes  their  wonted 
expression,  and  hear  from  your  voice  its  usual,  its  natural  tone 
of  tenderness  and  love. 

Ever  devotedly  yours, 

F.  L . 


LETTER  LXIX. 


OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L- 


You  have  spoken  daggers  to  me !  Come  not  to  Richmond  this 
evening !  I  cannot — will  not  see  you !  Not  for  the  universe 
would  I  see  you  with  my  present  feelings  ! 

Write  to  me  more  lettets  like  that  which  I  have  just  received. 
Dip  your  pen  in  gall ;  find  words  more  bitter  than  those  which 
you  have  already  used.  Accuse  me  of  want  of  candour,  want  of 
generosity,  want  of  every  amiable,  every  estimable  quality. 
Upbraid  me  with  the  loss  of  all  of  which  you  have  bereft  me. 
Recollect  every  sacrifice  that  I  have  made,  and,  if  you  can, 
imagine  every  sacrifice  that  I  would  still  make  for  you — peace 
of  mind,  friends,  country,  fortune,  fame,  virtue ;  name  them  all, 
and  triumph — and  disdain  your  triumph !  Remind  me  how  low 
I  am  fallen — sink  me  lower  still — insult,  debase,  humble  me  to 
the  dust.  Exalt  my  rival,  unroll  to  my  aching  eyes  the  em- 
blazoned catalogue  of  her  merits,  her  claims  to  your  e  teem, 
your  affection  ;  number  them  over,  dwell  upon  those  that  I  have 
forfeited,  those  which  can  never  be  regained  ;  tell  me  that  such 
merits  are  above  all  price ;  assure  me  that  beyond  all  her  sex 
you  respect,  you  admire,  you  love  your  wife ;  say  it  with  en- 
thusiasm, with  fire  in  your  eyes,  with  all  the  energy  of  passion  ir 
your  voice ;  then  bid  me  sympathize  in  your  feelings — ^bid  me 
banish  jealousy — wonder  at  my  alarm — call  my  sorrow  anger — 
conjure  me  to  restrain  my  sensibility  !  Restrain  my  sensibility  ! 
Unhappy  Olivia !  he  is  tired  of  your  love.  Let  him  then  at 
once  tell  me  the  dreadful  truth,  and  I  will  bear  it.  Any  evil 
is  better  than  uncertainty,  than  lingering  hope.  Drive  all  hope 
from  my  mind.  Bid  me  despair  and  die — ^but  do  not  stretch  me 
on  the  rack  of  jealousy! — Yet  if  such  be  your  cruel  pleasure 


378  LEONOkA. 

enjoy  it. — Determine  how  much. I  can  endure  and  Kve.  Stop 
just  at  the  point  where  human  nature  sinks,  that  you  may  not 
lose  your  victim,  that  she  may  linger  on  from  day  to  day,  your 
sport  and  your  derision. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LXX. 


MR.  L TO    GENERAL 


MV  DEAR  GENERAL, 

Tou  will  rejoice  to  hear  that  Olivia  and  I  have  been  in  a  state 
of  warfare  for  some  days  past,  and  you  will  be  still  more  pleased 
when  you  learn  the  cause  of  our  quarrel.  On  the  day  that  I  had 
been  reading  Leonora's  letters  I  was  rather  later  at  Richmond 
than  usual.  Olivia,  offended,  insisted  upon  knowing  by  what  I 
could  possibly  have  been  detained.  Her  anger  knew  no  bounds 
wheir  she  heard  the  truth.  She  made  use  of  some  expressions, 
in  speaking  of  my  wife,  which  I  could  not,  I  hope,  have  borne  at 
any  time,  but  which  shocked  me  beyond  measure  at  that  moment. 
I  defended  Leonora  with  warmth.  Olivia,  in  a  scornful  tone, 
-talked  of  my  wife's  coldness  of  disposition,  and  bid  me  compare 
Lady  Leonora's  love  with  hers.  It  was  a  comparison  I  had  it 
more  in  my  power  to  make  than  Olivia  was  aware  of;  it  was  the 
most  disadvantageous  moment  for  her  in  which  that  comparison 
could  be  made.  She  saw  or  suspected  my  feelings,  and 
perceived  that  all  she  had  said  of  my  Leonora's  incapability  of 
loving  produced  an  effect  directly  contrary  to  her  expectations. 
Transported  by  jealousy,  she  then  threw  out  hints  respecting  the 
Prince.  I  spoke  as  I  felt,  indignantly.  I  know  not  precisely 
what  I  said,  but  Olivia  and  I  parted  in  anger.  I  have  since 
received  a  passionately  fond  note  from  her.  But  I  feel  unhappy. 
Dear  general,  when  will  you  come  to  town  ? 

Yours  truly. 


LEONORA.  379 


LETTER  LXXI. 


MRS.  C TO    THE    DUCHESS    OF    . 

KY   DEAR    MADAM, 

Your  grace's  cautions  and  entreaties  to  Lady  Leonora  not  to- 
over-exert  and  fatigue  herself  were,  alas  !  as  ineffectual  as  mine. 
From  the  time  she  heard  that  Mr.  L  had  accepted  this 

embassy  to  Petersburg,  she  was  so  eager  to  set  out  on  her  jour- 
ney to  town,  and  so  impatient  to  see  him,  that  neither  her  mind 
nor  her  body  had  one  moment's  tranquillity.  She  waited  with 
indescribable  anxiety  for  your  grace's  answer  to  her  letter ;  and 
tlie  instant  she  was  secure  of  your  approbation,  her  carriage  was 
ordered  to  the  door.  I  saw  that  she  was  ill ;  but  she  would  not 
listen  to  my  fears  ;  she  repeated  with  triumph,  that  her  mother 
made  no  objection  to  her  journey,  and  that  she  had  no  apprehen- 
sions for  herself.  However,  she  was  obliged  at  last  to  yield.  The 
carriage  was  actually  at  the  door,  when  she  was  forced  to  submit 
to  be  carried  to  her  bed.  For  several  hours  she  was  in  such 
danger,  that  I  never  expected  she  could  live  till  this  day.  Thank 
God  !  she  is  now  safe.    Her  infant,  to  her  great  delight,  is  a  boy  : 

she  was  extremely  anxious  to  have  a  son,  because  Mr.   L 

formerly  wished  for  one  so  much.     She  forbids  me  to  write  to 

Mr.  L ,  lest  I  should  communicate  the  account  of  her  sudden'- 

illness  too  abruptly. 

She  particularly  requests  that  your  grace  will  mention  to  him 
this  accident  in  the  least  alarming  manner  possible.     I  shall 
write  again  next  post.     Lady  Leonora  has  now  fallen  asleep,  and 
seems  to  sleep  quietly.      Who  should   sleep   in   peace   if  she 
cannot  ?     I  never  saw  her  equal, 
My  dear  madam, 
I  am, 
With  respect  and  attachment, 
Your  grace's 

Sincerely  affectionate, 
Helen  C 

Jt  is  with  extreme  concern  I  am  forced  to  add,  that  since  I 
wrote  this  letter  the  cliild  has  been  so  ill  that  I  have  fears  for  his- 
Jifo. — His  poor  mother! 

25 


^80  LEONORA. 


LETTER  LXXII. 

MR.  L TO  GENERAL  B— — . 

IfT  DBAR  general, 

All  is  upon  velvet  again.  Poor  Olivia  was  excessively  hurt  by 
my  letter  :  she  was  ill  for  two  days — seriously  ill.  Yesterday  I 
at  length  obtained  admittance.  Olivia  was  all  softness,  all 
candour :  she  acknowledged  that  she  had  been  wrong,  and  in  so 
sweet  a  voice !  She  blamed  herself  till  I  could  no  longer  think 
her  blamable.  She  seemed  so  much  humbled  and  depressed, 
such  a  tender  melancholy  appeared  in  her  bewitching  eyes,  that 
I  could  not  resist  the  fascination.  I  certainly  gave  her  some 
cause  for  displeasure  that  unfortunate  evening ;  for  as  Olivia 
has  strong  passions  and  exquisite  sensibility,  I  should  not  have 
been  so  abrupt.  A  fit  of  jealousy  may  seize  the  best  and  most 
generous  mind,  and  may  prompt  to  what  it  would  be  incapable  of 
saying  or  thinking  in  dispassionate  moments.  I  am  sure  that 
Olivia  has,  upon  reflection,  felt  more  pain  from  this  affair  than 
1  have.  My  Russian  embassy  is  still  in  abeyance.  Ministers 
seem  to  know  their  own  minds  as  little  as  I  know  mine.  Ambi- 
tion has  its  quarrels  and  follies  as  well  as  love.  At  all  events, 
I  shall  not  leave  England  till  next  month ;  and  I   shall  not  go 

down  to  L Castle  till  I  have  received  my  last  instructions 

from  our  court,  and  till  the  day  for  my  sailing  is  fixed.  The 
parting  with  Leonora  will  be  a  dreadful  difficulty.  I  cannot 
think  of  it  steadily.  But  as  she  herself  says,  "  is  it  not  better 
that  she  should  lose  a  year  of  my  affections  than  a  life  ?"  The 
Duchess  is  mistaken  in  imagining  it  possible  that  any  woman,  let 
her  influence  be  ever  so  great  over  my  heart,  could  prejudice  me 
against  my  amiable,  my  admirable  wife.  What  has  just  passed 
between  Olivia  and  me,  convinces  me  that  it  is  impossible.  She 
has  too  much  knowledge  of  my  character  to  hazard  in  future  a 
similar  attempt.  No,  my  dear  friend,  be  assured  I  would  not 
suffer  it.  I  have  not  yet  lost  all  title  to  your  esteem  or  to  my 
own.  This  enchantress  may  intoxicate  me  with  her  cup,  but 
shall  never  degrade  me ;  and  I  should  feel  myself  less  degraded 
even  by  losing  the  human  form  tiian  by  forfeiting  that  principle 


LEONORA.  liSl 

of  honour  and  virtue,  which  more  nobly  distinguishes  man  from 
brute. 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

F.  L . 


LETTER  LXXIII. 


GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L- 


MY  DEAR   FRIEND, 

It  is  well  that  I  did  not  answer  your  letter  of  Saturday  before  I 
received  that  of  Monday.  My  congratulations  upon  your 
<[uarrel  with  your  fair  one  might  have  come  just  as  you  were 
kissing  hands  upon  a  reconciliation. 

I  have  often  foimd  a  great  convenience  in  writing  a  bad  hand ; 
my  letters  are  so  little  like  what  they  are  intended  for,  and  have 
among  them  such  equality  of  unintelligibility,  that  each  seems 
either;  and  with  the  slightest  alteration,  each  will  stand  and 
serve  for  the  other.  My  m,  n,  and  Uj  are  convertible  letters ;  so 
are  the  terms  and  propositions  of  your  present  mode  of  reason- 
ing, my  dear  L ,  and  I  perceive  that  you  find  your  account 

in  it.  Upon  this  I  congratulate  you  ;  and  I  congratulate  Lady 
Leonora  upon  your  being  detained  some  weeks  longer  in  Eng- 
land. Those  who  have  a  just  cause  need  never  pray  for  victory ; 
they  need  only  ask  the  gods  for  time.  Time  always  brings  vic- 
tory to  truth,  and  shame  to  falsehood.  But  you  are  not  worthy 
of  such  fine  apophthegms.  At  present  "  you  are  not  fit  to  hear 
yourself  convinced."  I  will  wait  for  a  better  opportunity,  and 
have  patience  with  you,  if  I  can. 

You  seem  to  plume  yourself  mightily  upon  your  resolve  to  do 
justice  to  the  merits  of  your  wife,  and  upon  the  courage  you 
liave  shown  in  stufiing  cotton  into  your  ears  to  prevent  your 
listening  to  the  voice  of  the  siren  :  but  pray  take  the  cotton  out, 
and  hear  all  she  can  say  or  sing.  Lady  Leonora  cannot  be  hurt 
by  any  thing  Olivia  can  say,  but  her  own  malice  may  destroy 
herself. 

In  the  mean  time,  as  you  tell  me  that  you  are  upon  velvet 
again,  I  am  to  presume  that  you  are  perfectly  at  ease ;  and  I 
■should  be  obliged  to  you,  if,  as  often  as  you  can  find  leisure,  you 


382  LEONORA. 

would  sei.d  me  bulletins  of  your  happiness.  I  have  never  yet 
been  in  love  with  one  of  these  high-flown  heroines,  and  1  am 
really  curious  to  know  what  degree  of  felicity  they  can  bestow 
upon  a  man  of  common  sense.  I  should  be  glad  to  benefit  by  the 
experience  of  a  friend. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER   LXXIY. 

OLIVIA    TO    MADAME    DE    P . 

RichmoDd. 
Accept  my  sincere  thanks,  inimitable  Gabrielle!  for  having 
taken  off  my  hands  a  lover,  who  really  has  half-wearied  me  to 
death.  If  you  had  dealt  more  frankly  with  me,  I  could,  how- 
ever, have  saved  you  much  superfluous  trouble  and  artifice.  I 
now  perfectly  comprehend  the  cause  of  poor  R  *• ''s  strange 
silence  some  months  ago ;  he  was  then  under  the  influence  of 
your  charms,  and  it  was  your  pleasure  to  deceive  me  even  when 
there  was  no  necessity  for  dissimulation.     You  knew  the  secret 

of  my  growing  attachment  to  L ,   and  must  have  foreseen 

til  at  R  •  *  •  would  be  burthensome  to  me.  You  needed  there- 
fore only  to  have  treated  me  with  candour,  and  you  would  have 

gained  a  lover  without  losing  a  friend  :  but  Madame  de  P 

is  too  accomplished  a  politician  to  go  the  simple  straight  road  to 
her  object.  I  now  perfectly  comprehend  why  she  took  such 
pains  to  persuade  me  that  an  imperial  lover  was  alone  worthy  of 
my  charms.  She  was  alarmed  by  an  imaginary  danger.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  am  incapable  of  disputing  with  any  one  Us  resies  dim 
c<Bur. 

Permit  me  to  assure  you,  madam,  that  your  incomparable 
talents  for  explanation  will  be  utterly  thrown  away  on  me  in 
future.  I  am  in  possession  of  the  whole  truth,  from  a  person 
whose  information  I  cannot  doubt :  I  know  the  precise  date  of 
the  commencement  of  your  connexion  with  R  •  •  *,  so  that  you 
must  perceive  it  will  be  impracticable  to  make  me  believe  that 
you  liave  not  betrayed  my  easy  confidence. 

1   cannot,  however,  without  those  pangs  of  sentiment  whidb 


LEONORA.  383 

your  heart  will  never  experience,  reflect  upon  the  treachery,  the 
perfidy  of  one  who  has  been  my  bosom  friend. — Return  my 
letters,  Gabrielle. — With  this  you  will  receive  certain  souvenirs, 
-at  which  I  could  never  henceforward  look  without  sighing.  I 
return  you  that  ring  I  have  so  long  worn  with  delight,  the 
picture  of  that  treacherous  eye^,  which  you  know  so  well  how  to 
use. — Adieu,  Gabrielle. — The  illusion  is  over. — How  many  of 
•the  illusions  of  my  fond  heart  have  been  dispelled  by  time  and 
treachery  ! 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LXXV. 

MADAME    DE    P TO    MONSIEUR    R  *  *  *. 

Paris,  —  18,^. 
I  HAVE  just  received  the  most  extravagant  letter  imaginable 
from  your  Olivia.  Really  you  may  congratulate  yourself,  my 
dear  friend,  upon  having  recovered  your  liberty.  'Twere  better 
to  be  a  galley  slave  at  once  than  to  be  bound  to  please  a  woman 
for  life,  who  knows  not  what  she  would  have  either  in  love  or 
friendship.  Can  you  conceive  anything  so  absurd  as  her  up- 
braiding me  with  treachery,  because  I  know  the  value  of  a  heart, 
of  which  she  tells  me  she  was  more  than  half  tired  ?  as  if  I  were 

to  blame  for  her  falling  in  love  with  Mr.  L 1  and  as  if  I  did 

not  know  the  whole  progress  of  her- inconstancy.  Her  letters  to 
me  give  a  new  history  of  the  birth  and  education  of  Love.  Here 
we  see  Love  born  of  Envy,  nursed  by  Ennui,  and  dandled  in 
turn  by  all  the  Vices. 

And  this  Lady  Olivia  fancies  that  she  is  a  perfect  French 
woman !  There  is  nothing  we  Parisians  abhor  and  ridicule  so 
much  as  these  foreign,  and  always  awkward,  caricatures  of  our 
manners.  With  us  there  are  many  who,  according  to  a  delicate 
distinction,  lose  their  virtue  without  losing  their  taste  for  virtue ; 
but  I  flatter  myself  there  are  few  who  resemble  Olivia  entirely 
— who  have  neither  the  virtues  of  a  man  nor  of  a  woman.     One 

^  Certain  ladies  at  this  time  carried  pictures  of  the  eyes  of  their 
^Yonrites. 


384  LEONo-k*. 

eannot  even  say  that  "her  head  is  the  dupe  of  her  heart,"  since 
she  has  no  heart.  But  enough  of  such  a  tiresome  and  incom- 
prehensible subject. 

How  I  overvalued  that  head,  when  I  thought  it  could  ever  be 
fit  for  politics !  'Tis  well  we  did  not  commit  ourselves.  You 
see  how  prudent  I  am,  my  dear  R  *  *  *,  and  how  much  those 
are  mistaken  who  think  that  we  women  are  not  fit  to  be  trusted 
with  secrets  of  state.  Love  and  politics  make  the  best  mixture 
in  the  world.     Adieu.     Victoire  summons  me  to  my  toilette. 

Gabrielle  de  P' 


LETTER  LXXVL 

MADAME    DE    P TO    LADY    OLIVIA. 

Paris,  —  18,  — . 
Really,  my  dear  Olivia,  this  is  too  childish.  What !  make  a 
complaint  in  form  against  me  for  taking  a  lover  off  your  hands 
when  you  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  him  !  Do  you  quarrel 
in  England  every  time  you  change  partners  in  a  country  dance? 
But  I  must  be  serious ;  for  the  high-sounding  words  treachenf 
and  perfidy  are  surely  sufficient  to  make  any  body  grave. 
Seriously,  then,  if  you  are  resolved  to  be  tragical,  et  de  me  faire 
une  scene,  I  must  submit — console  myself,  and,  above  all  things,, 
take  care  not  to  be  ridiculous. 

Your  letters,  as  you  desire  it  so  earnestly,  and  with  so  much 
reason,  shall  be  returned  by  the  first  safe  conveyance ;  but 
excuse  me  if  I  forbear  to  restore  your  souvenirs.  With  us 
Parisians,  this  returning  of  keepsakes  has  been  out  of  fashion, 
since  the  days  of  Moli^re  and  Le  depit  amoureux. 

Adieu,  my  charming  Olivia !  I  embrace  you  tenderly,  I  waa 
going  to  say ;  but  I  believe,  according  to  your  English  etiquetta» 
I  must  now  conclude  with 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Madam, 
Your  most  obedient, 

Humble  servant, 
Gabrielle  de  P     ■■■■> 


LEONORA.  385 


LETTER  LXXVll. 

FROM    OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L 


Tuesday  morning. 
Come  not  to  Richmond  to-day ;  I  am  not  in  spirits  to  see  you, 

my   dearest   L .      Allow   me   to    indulge   my  melancholy 

retired  from  every  human  eye. 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LXXVIIL 

FROM    LADY    OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L- 


Tuesday  evening. 
**  Explain  to  you  the  cause  of  my  melancholy  " — Vain  request! 
—cruel  as  vain  !  Your  ignorance  of  the  cause  too  well  justifies 
my  sad  presentiments.  Were  our  feelings  in  unison,  as  once 
they  were,  would  not  every  chord  of  your  heart  vibrate  respon- 
sively  to  mine  ? 

With  me,  love  is  an  absorbing  vortex  of  the  soul,  into  which 
all  other  thoughts,  feelings,  and  ideas  are  irresistibly  impelled; 
with  you,  it  is  but  as  the  stranger  stream  that  crosses  the  peaceful 
lake,  and,  as  it  flows,  wakens  only  the  surface  of  the  slumbering 
waters,  communicating  to  them  but  a  temporary  agitation. 
With  you,  my  dear,  but  too  tranquil-minded  friend,  love  is  but 
one  amid  the  vulgar  crowd  of  pleasures;  it  concentrates  not 
your  ideas,  it  entrances  not  your  faculties ;  it  is  not,  as  in  my 
heart,  the  supreme  delight,  which  renders  all  others  tasteless, 
the  only  blessing  which  can  make  life  supportable ;  the  sole, 
sufficient  object  of  existence.  Alas !  how  cruelly  different  is  the 
feeble  attachment  that  I  have  inspired  from  that  all-powerful  sen- 
timent to  which  I  live  a  victim  !  Countless  symptoms,  by  you 
unheeded,  mark  to  my  love-watchful  eye  the  decline  of  passion. 
How  often  am  I  secretly  shocked  by  the  cold  carelessness  of 
your  words  and  manner !  How  often  does  the  sigh  burst  from 
my  bosom,  the  tear  fall  from  my  eye,  when  you  have  left  me  at 
leisure  to  recall,  by  memory's  torturing  power,  instances  of  your 
increasing  indifference !     Seek  not  to  calm  my  too  well-founded 

Leonora. 


386  LEONORA. 

fears.  Professions,  with  all  their  unmeaning,  inanimate  formality 
but  irritate  my  anguish.  Permit  me  to  indulge,  to  feed  upon 
my  grief  in  silence.  Ask  me  no  more  to  explain  to  you  the 
cause  of  my  melancholy.  Too  plainly,  alas !  I  feel  it  is  beyond 
my  utmost  power  to  endure  it.  Amiable  Werter — divine 
St.  Preux — you  would  sympathize  in  my  feelings !  Sublime 
Goethe — all-eloquent  Rousseau — you  alone  could  feel  as  I  do, 
and  you  alone  could  paint  my  anguish. 

The  miserable 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LXXIX. 


MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B- 


ExPECT  no  bulletin  of  happiness  from  me,  my  friend.  I  find  it 
impossible  to  make  Olivia  happy.  She  has  superior  talents, 
accomplishments,  beauty,  grace,  all  that  can  attract  and  fascinate 
the  human  heart — that  could  triumph  over  every  feeling,  every 
principle  that  opposed  her  power :  she  lives  with  the  man  she 
loves,  and  yet  she  is  miserable. 

Rousseau,  it  has  been  said,  never  really  loved  any  woman  but 
his  own  Julie ;  I  have  lately  been  tempted  to  think  that  Olivia 
never  really  loved  any  man  but  St.  Preux.  Werter,  perhaps, 
and  some  other  German  heroes,  might  dispute  her  heart  even 
with  St.  Preux ;  but  as  for  me,  I  begin  to  be  aware  that  I  am 
loved  only  as  a  feeble  resemblance  of  those  divine  originals  (to 
whom,  however,  my  character  bears  not  the  slightest  similarity), 
and  I  am  often  indirectly,  and  sometimes  directly,  reproached 
with  my  inferiority  to  imaginary  models.  But  how  can  a  plain 
Englishman  hope  to  reach 

"  The  high  sublime  of  deep  absnrd  ?** 

i  am  continually  reviled  for  not  using  a  romantic  language, 
which  I  have  never  learned  ;  and  which,  as  far  as  I  can  judge, 
is  foreign  to  all  natural  feeling.  I  wish  to  make  Olivia  happy. 
There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  satisfy  her  of  my  snicerity ; 
but  nothing  I  can  do  will  suffice.     She  has  a  sort  of  morbid 


LEONORA.  3S7 

sensibility,  which  is  more  alive  to  pain  than  pleasure,  moro 
susceptible  of  jealousy  than  of  love.  No  terms  are  sufficiently 
strong  to  convince  her  of  my  affection,  but  an  unguarded  word 
makes  her  miserable  for  hours.  She  requires  to  be  agitated  by 
violent  emotions,  though  they  exhaust  her  mind,  and  leave  her 
spiritless  and  discontented.  In  this  alternation  of  rapture  and 
despair  all  her  time  passes.  As  she  says  of  herself,  she  has  no 
soul  but  for  love :  she  seems  to  think  it  a  crime  against  senti- 
ment, to  admit  of  relief  from  common  occupations  or  indifferent 
subjects;  with  a  sort  of  superstitious  zeal,  she  excludes  all 
thoughts  but  those  which  relate  to  one  object,  and  in  this  spirit 
of  amorous  mysticism  she  actually  makes  a  penance  even  of 
love.  I  am  astonished  that  her  heart  can  endure  this  variety  of 
self-inflicted  torments.  What  will  become  of  Olivia  when  she 
ceases  to  love  and  be  loved?  And  what  passion  can  be  du- 
rable which  is  so  violent  as  hers,  and  to  which  no  respite  is 
allowed  ?  No  affection  can  sustain  these  hourly  trials  of  suspi- 
cion and  reproach. 

Jealousy  of  Leonora  has  taken  such  possession  of  Olivia's 
imagination,  that  she  misinterprets  all  my  words  and  actions. 
By  restraining  my  thoughts,  by  throwing  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
my   affection   for   my  wife,   she  stimulates   and   increases  it: 
she  forces  upon  me  continually  those  comparisons  which  she 
dreads.     Till  I  knew  Olivia  more  intimately  than  the  common 
forms  of  a  first  acquaintance,  or  the  illusions  of  a  treacherous 
passion  permitted,  her  defects  did  not  appear ;  but  now  that 
I  suffer,  and  that  I  see  her  suffer  daily,  I  deplore  them  bitterly 
Her  happiness  rests  and  weighs  heavily  on  my  honour.     I  feei 
myself  bound  to  consider  and  to  provide  for  the  happiness  of  tU 
woman  who  has  sacrificed  to  me   all   independent  means   ol 
felicity.    A  man  without  honour  or  humanity  may  perhaps  finish 
an  intngue  as  easily  as  he  can  begin  it,  but  this  is  not  exactly 
the  case  of  your  imprudent  friend, 


388  LEONORA. 


LETTER  LXXX 

GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L— — . 

Ay,  ay !  just  as  I  thought  it  would  be.  This  is  all  the  com- 
fort, my  dear  friend,  that  I  can  give  you;  all  the  comfort 
that  wise  people  usually  afford  their  friends  in  distress.  Pro- 
vided things  happen  just  as  they  predicfed,  they  care  but  little 
what  is  suffered  in  the  accomplishment  of  their  prophecies.    But 

seriously,  my  dear  L ,  I  am  not  sorry  that  you  are  in  a 

course  of  vexation.  The  more  you  see  of  your  charmer  the 
better.  She  will  allay  your  intoxication  by  gentle  degrees,  and 
send  you  sober  home.  Pray  keep  in  the  course  you  have  begun, 
and  preserve  your  patience  as  long  as  possible.  I  should  be 
sorry  that  you  and  Olivia  quarrelled  violently,  and  parted  in  a 
passion :  such  quarrels  of  lovers  are  proverbizilly  the  renewal  of 

love. 

"  II  faut  delier  ramitie,  il  faut  coiiper  Tamour." 

In  some  cases  this  maxim  may  be  just,  but  not  in  the  present 
instance.  I  would  rather  wait  till  the  knot  is  untied  than  cut 
it ;  for  when  once  you  see  the  art  with  which  it  was  woven,  a 
similar  knot  can  never  again  perplex  you. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  LXXXL 

FROM    OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L . 

Rithmond,  Saturday. 
You  presume  too  much  upon  your  power  over  my  heart,  and 
upon  the  softness  of  my  nature.  Know  that  I  have  spirit  as  well 
as  tenderness — a  spirit  that  will  neither  be  injured  nor  insulted 
with  impunity.  You  were  amazed,  you  say,  by  the  violence 
which  I  showed  yesterday.  Why  did  you  provoke  that  violenre 
by  opposing  the  warmest  wish  of  my  heart,  and  with  a  calm> 
ness  that  excited  my  tenfold  indignation  ?  Imagine  not  that  I 
am  a  tame,  subjugated  female,  to  be  treated  with  neglect  if  I 
remonstrate,  and  caressed  as  the  price  of  obedience.    Fancy  nol 


LEONORA.  389 

that  I  am  one  of  your  chimney-comer,  household  goddesses 
doomed  to  the  dull  uniformity  of  domestic  worship,  destined  to 
to  be  adored,  to  be  hung  with  garlands,  or  undeified  or  degraded 
with  indignity  !  I  have  been  accustomed  to  a  different  species 
of  worship ;  and  the  fondness  of  my  weak  heart  has  not  yet 
sunk  me  so  low,  and  rendered  me  so  abject,  that  I  cannot  assert 
my  rights.  You  tell  me  that  you  are  unconscious  of  giving  me 
any  just  cause  of  offence.  Just  cause  ! — How  I  hate  the  cold 
accuracy  of  your  words  !  Tliis  single  expression  is  sufficient 
offence  to  a  heart  like  mine.  You  entreat  me  to  be  reasonable. 
Reasonable  ! — did  ever  man  talk  of  reason  to  a  woman  he  loved? 
When  once  a  man  has  recourse  to  reason  and  precision,  there  is 
an  end  of  love.  No  just  cause  of  offence  ! — What,  have  I  no 
cause  to  be  indignant,  when  I  find  you  thus  trifle  with  my 
feelings,  postpone  from  week  to  week,  and  month  to  month,  our 
departure  from  this  hateful  country — 

"  Bid  me  hope  on  fiom  day  to  day, 
And  wish  and  wish  my  soul  away  !" 

Yes,  you  know  it  to  be  the  most  ardent  wish  of  my  soul  to  leave 
England ;  you  know  that  I  cannot  enjoy  a  moment's  peace  of 
mind  whilst  I  am  here ;  yet  in  this  racking  suspense  it  is  your 
pleasure  to  detain  me.  No,  it  shall  not  be — this  shall  not  go 
on !  It  is  in  vain  you  tell  me  that  the  delay  originates  not  with 
you,  that  you  must  wait  for  instructions,  and  I  know  not  what 
— paltry  diplomatic  excuses  • 

Olivia. 


LETTER  LXXXII. 

MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B . 

Richmond. 
Amcse  yourself,  my  good  general,  at  my  expense  ;  I  know  that 
you  are  seriously  interested  for  my  happiness ;  but  the  way  is  not 
quite  so  clear  before  me  as  you  imagine.  It  is  extremely  easy  to 
bs  philosophic  for  our  friends  ;  but  difficult  to  be  so  for  ourselves 
when  our  passions  are  concerned.  Indeed,  this  would  be  a 
contradiction  in  terms;  you  might  as  well  talk  of  a  cold  sun,  or 


390  LEONORA. 

of  hot  ice,  as  of  a  philosopher  falling  in  love,  or  of  a  man  in  love 
being  a  philosopher.  You  say  that  Olivia  will  wear  out  my 
passion,  and  that  her  defects  will  undo  the  work  of  her  charms. 
I  acknowledge  that  she  sometimes  ravels  the  web  she  has 
woven  ;  but  she  is  miraculously  expeditious  and  skilful  in  repair- 
ing the  mischief :  the  magical  tissue  again  appears  firm  as  ever, 
glowing  with  brighter  colours,  and  exhibiting  finer  forms. 

In  plain  prose,  my  dear  friend — for  as  you  are  not  in  love, 
3'ou  will  find  it  difficult  to  follow  my  poetic  flights — in  plain 
prose,  I  must  confess  that  Olivia  has  the  power  to  charm  and 
touch  my  heart,  even  after  she  has  provoked  me  to  the  utmost 
verge  of  human  patience.  She  knows  her  power,  and  I  am 
afraid  this  tempts  her  to  abuse  it.  Her  temper,  which  formerly 
appeared  to  me  all  feminine  gentleness,  is  now  irritable  and 
violent ;  but  I  am  persuaded  that  this  is  not  her  natural  disposi- 
tion ;  it  is  the  eflect  of  her  present  unhappy  state  of  mind. 
Tortured  by  remorse  and  jealousy,  if  in  the  height  of  their 
paroxysms,  Olivia  make  me  sufier  from  their  fury,  is  it  for  me  to 
complain  ?     I,  who  caused,  should  at  least  endure  the  evil. 

Every  thing  is  arranged  for  my  embassy,  and  the  day  is  fixed 

■for  our  leaving  England.      I  go  down  to  L Castle  next 

week. 

Your  faithful 


LETTER  LXXXIII. 

JOSEPHINE    TO    VICTOIRE,    MAD.  DE    P *8   WOMAN. 

Richmond. 
i  AM  in  despair,  dear  Victoire;  and  unless  your  genius  can 
issist  me,  absolutely  undone !  Here  is  this  romantic  lady  of 
mine  determined  upon  a  journey  to  Russia  with  her  new  English 
lover.  What  whims  ladies  take  into  their  heads,  and  how 
impossible  it  is  to  make  them  imderstand  reason  !  I  have  been 
labouring  in  vain  to  convince  my  Lady  Olivia  that  this  is  the 
most  absurd  scheme  imaginable  :  and  I  have  repeated  to  her  aH 

I  learnt  from  Lady  F 's  women,  who  are  just  returned  from 

Petersburg,  and   whom  I  met  at  a  party  last  night,  all  de* 


LEONORA.  39  P 

daring  they  would  rather  die  a  thousand-deaths,  than  go  through 
again  what  they  have  endured.  Such  seas  of  ice  !  such  going 
in  sledges !  such  barharians !  such  beds !  and  scarcely  a  looking- 
glass  !  And  nothing  fit  to  wear  but  what  one  carries  with  one, 
and  God  knows  how  long  we  may  stay.  At  Petersburg  the 
coachmen's  ears  are  frozen  off  every  night  on  their  boxes 
waiting  for  their  ladies.  And  there  are  bears  and  wild  beasts, 
I  am  told,  howling  with  their  mouths  wide  open  night  and  day 
in  the  forests  which  we  are  to  pass  through ;  and  even  in  the 
towns,  the  men,  I  hear,  are  little  better ;  for  it  is  the  law  of  the 
country  for  the  men  to  beat  their  wives,  and  many  wear  long. 

beards.     How  horrid! — My  Lady  F 's  woman,  who  is   a- 

Parisian  bom,  and  very  pretty,  if  her  eyes  were  not  so  small, 
and  better  dressed  than  her  lady  always,  except  diamonds, 
assures  me,  upon  her  honour,  she  never  had  a  civil  thing  said  tc 
her  whilst  slie  was  in  Russia,  except  by  one  or  two  Frenchmen 
in  the  suite  of  the  ambassadors. 

These  Russians  think  of  nothing  but  drinking  brandy,  and 
they  put  pepper  into  it !  Mon  Dieu,  what  savages !  Put  pepper 
into  brandy!  But  that  is  inconceivable!  Positively,  I  will 
never  go  to  Petersburg.  And  yet  if  my  lady  goes,  what  will 
become  of  me  ?  for  you  know  my  sentiments  for  Brunei,  and  he 
is  decided  to  accompany  my  lady,  so  I  cannot  stay  behind. 

But  absolutely  I  am  shocked  at  this  intrigue  with  Mr.  L  ,, 
and  my  conscience  reproaches  me  terribly  with  being  a  party 
concerned  in  it ;  for  in  this  country  an  affair  of  gallantry  between* 
married  people  is  not  so  light  a  thing  as  with  us.  Here  wires 
sometimes  love  their  husbands  seriously,  as  if  they  were  their 

lovers;  and  my  Lady  Leonora  L is  one  of  this  sort  of  wives.. 

She  is  very  unhappy,  I  am  told.     One  day  at  L Castle,  L 

assure  you  my  heart  quite  bled  for  her,  when  she  gave  me  a 
beautiful  gown  of  English  muslin,  little  suspecting  me  then  to 
be  her  enemy.  She  is  certainly  very  unsuspicious,  and  very 
amiable,  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  her  husband  would  think  as  I 
do,  and  take  her  with  him  to  Petersburg,  instead  of  carrying  oft 
my  Lady  Olivia  and  me !  Adieu,  mon  chou !  Embrace  every 
body  I  know,  tenderly,  for  me. 

Josephine. 


392  LEOMOHA. 

LETTER  LXXXIV. 

MRS.  C TO    THE    DUCHESS    OF   — — . 

MY   FEAR   MADAM, 

I  BELIEVE,  when  I  wrote  last  to  your  grace,  I  said  that  I  had  no 
hopes  of  the  child's  life.  From  the  moment  of  his  birth  there 
was  but  little  probability  of  his  being  any  thing  but  a  source  of 
misery  to  his  mother.  I  cannot,  on  her  account,  regret  that  the 
struggle  is  over.  He  expired  this  morning.  My  poor  friend 
had  hopes  to  the  last,  though  I  had  none ;  and  it  was  most 
painful  and  alarming  to  see  the  feverish  anxiety  with  which  she 

watched  over  her  little  boy,  frequently  repeating,  "  Mr.  L 

used  to  wish  so  much  for  a  son. — I  hope  the  boy  will  live  to  see 
his  father." 

Last  night,  partly  by  persuasion,  partly  by  compulsion,  1 
prevailed  with  her  to  let  the  child  be  taken  out  of  her  room. 
This  iiioruing,  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  I  heard  her  bell  ring  ;  the 
poor  little  thing  was  at  that  moment  in  convulsions;  and 
knowing  that  Lady  Leonora  rang  to  inquire  for  it,  I  went  to 
prepare  her  mind  for  what  I  knew  must  be  the  event.  The 
moment  I  came  into  the  room  she  looked  eagerly  in  my  face, 
but  did  not  ask  me  any  questions  about  the  child.  I  sat  down 
by  the  side  of  her  bed ;  but  without  listening  to  what  I  said 
about  her  own  health,  she  rang  her  bell  again  more  violently 
than  before.  Susan  came  in.  "  Susan  ! — without  my  child  !" 
— said  she,  starting  up.  Susan  hesitated,  but  I  saw  by  her 
countenance  that  it  was  all  over — so  did  Lady  Leonora.  She 
said  not  a  word,  but  drawing  her  curtain  suddenly,  she  lay 
down,  and  never  spoke  or  stirred  for  three  hours.  The  firit 
words  she  said  afterwards  were  to  me ; 

"  You  need  not  move  so  softly,  my  dear  Helen  ;  I  am  not 
asleep.  Have  you  my  mother's  last  letter?  I  think  my  mother 
says  that  she  will  be  here  to-morrow  ?  She  is  very  kind  to  come 
to  me.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  write  to  her  immediately,  and 
send  a  servant  with  your  letter  as  soon  as  you  can  to  meet  her 
on  the  voad,  that  she  may  not  be  surprised  when  she  arrives  ?" 

Lady  Leonora  is  now  more  composed  and  more  like  herself 
»than  she  has  been  for  some  time  past.     I  rejoice  that  your  Grac^ 


LEONORA,  393 

"will  SO  soon  be  here,  because  vou  will  be  her  best  Dossiblf^ 
•onsolation ;  and  I  d^o  not  know  any  other  person  in  the  world 
who  could  have  sufficient  influence  to  prevent  her  from  attempt- 
ing to  set  out  upon  a  journey  before  she  can  travel  with  safety. 
To  do  her  justice,  she  bas  not  hinted  that  such  were  her  inten- 
tions ;  but  still  I  know  her  mind  so  well,  that  I  am  certain  what 
her  thoughts  are,  and  what  her  actions  would  be.  Most  ladies 
talk  more  than  they  act,  but  Leonora  acts  more  decidedly  than 
she  talks. 

Believe,  me,  dear  madam. 
With  much  respect, 
Your  Grace's 

Sincerely  affectionate 

Helen  C—— , 


LETTER  LXXXV. 


MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B- 


I  THANK  you,  my  excellent  friend,  for  the  kindness  of  your  last 
letter^  which  came  to  me  at  the  time  I  wanted  it  most.  In  the 
whole  sourse  of  my  life,  I  never  felt  so  much  self-reproach,  as  I 
haye  done  since  I  heard  oi  the  illness  of  Leonora  and  the  loss  of 
my  son.  From  this  blow  my  mind  will  not  easily  recover.  Of 
all  torments  self-reproach  is  the  worsts  And  even  now  I  cannot 
foUow  the  dictates  of  my  own  heart,  and  of  my  better  judgment. 

In  Olivia's  company  I  am  compelled  to  repress  my  feelings  ; 
she  cannot  sympathize  in  them ;  they  offend  her :  she  is  dis- 
eatisfied  even  with  my  sUence,  and  complains  of  my  being  out  of 
spirits.  Out  of  spirits ! — -How  can  I  be  otherwise  at  present  ? 
Has  Olivia  no  touch  of  pity  for  a  woman  who  was  once  her 
friend,  who  always  treated  her  with  generous  kindness  ?  But 
perhaps  I  am  a  little  unreasonable,  and  expect  too  much  fiom 
female  nature. 

At  aU  events,  I  wish  that  Olivia  would  spare  me  at  this 
moment  her  sentimental   metaphysics.  She  is  for  ever  attempting 

>  This  ietier  does  not  appear. 


894  LEONOKA. 

to  prove  to  me  that  I  cannot  love  so  well  as  she  can.  1  admit 
*ha,t  I  cannot  talk  of  love  so  finely.  I  hope  all  this  will  not  go 
on  when  we  arrive  at  Petersburg. 

The  ministry   at  last  know  their   own  muids.     I  saw 

to-day,  and  every  thing  will  be  quickly  arranged;  therefore,  my 
dear  friend,  do  not  delay  coming  to  town,  to 

Your  obliged 

F.  L . 


LETTER  LXXXVI. 

GENERAL    B TO    MR.  L . 

Perhaps  you  are  a  little  unreasonable  !  Indeed,  my  dear  friend,, 
1  de  UQt  think  you  a  little  unreasonable,  but  very  nearly  stark 
mad.  What!  quarrel  with  yoiu:  mistress  because  she  is  not 
sorry  that  your  wife  is  ill,  and  because  she  cannot  sympathize  in 
your  grief  for  the  loss  of  your  son  !  Where,  except  perhaps  in 
absurd  novels,  did  you  ever  meet  with  these  paragons  of 
mistresses,  who  were  so  magnanimous  and  so  generous  as  to 
sacrifice  their  own  reputations,  and  then  be  satisfied  to  share 
the  only  possible  good  remaining  to  them  in  life,  the  heart  of 
their  lover,  with  a  rival  more  estimable,  more  amiable  than 
themselves,  and  who  has  the  advantage  of  being  a  wife  ?  This 
sharing  of  hearts,  this  union  of  souls,  with  this  opposition  of 
interests — this  metaphysical  gallantry  is  absolute  nonsense,  and 
all  who  try  it  in  real  life  will  find  it  so  to  their  cost.  Why 
should  you,  my  dear  L— — ,  expect  such  superlative  excellence 
from  your  Olivia  ?  Do  you  think  that  a  woman  by  losing  one 
virtue  increases  the  strength  of  those  that  remain,  as  it  is  said 
that  the  loss  of  one  of  our  senses  renders  all  the  others  more 
acute  ?  Do  you  think  that  a  lady,  by  yielding  to  love,  and  by 
proving  that  she  has  not  sufficient  resolution  or  forbearance  to 
preserve  the  honour  of  her  sex,  gives  the  best  possible  demon- 
stration of  her  having  sufficient  strength  of  character  to  rise 
superior  to  all  the  other  weaknesses  incident  to  human,  and 
more  especially  to  female  nature — envy  and  jealousy  foi 
instance? 


LEONORA.  395 

*No,  no,  my  good 'friend,  you  have  common  sense,  though  you 
lately  have  been  sparing  of  it  in  action.  You  had  a  wife,  and  a 
<good  wife,  and  you  had  some  chance  of  being  happy ;  but  with 
a  wife  and  a  mistress,  granting  them  to  be  both  the  best  of  their 
'kind,  the  probabilities  are  rather  against  you.  I  speak  only  as 
a  man  of  the  world :  morality,  you  know,  is  now  merely  an 
•affair  of  calculation.  According  to  the  most  approved  tables  of 
happiness,  you  have  made  a  bad  bargain.  But  be  just,  at  any 
rate,  and  do  not  blame  your  Olivia  for  the  inconveniences  and 
evils  inseparable  from  the  species  of  connexion  that  you  have 
been  pleased  to  form.  Do  you  expect  the  whole  course  of 
society  and  the  nature  of  the  human  heart  to  change  for  your 
special  accommodation  ?  Do  you  believe  in  truth  by  wholesale, 
and  yet  in  detail  expect  a  happy  exception  in  your  own  favour  ? 
— Seriously,  my  dear  friend,  you  must  either  break  off  this 
x;onnexion,  or  bear  it     I  shall  see  you  in  a  few  days. 

Toms  truly, 

J,  B. 


LETTER  LXXXVII. 

MRS.  C  TO    MISS    B     ■      . 

L Castle. 

JLeonora  has  recovered  her  strength  surprisingly.  She  was  so 
determined  to  be  well,  that  her  bcdy  dared  not  contradict  her 
mind.  Her  excellent  mother  has  been  of  the  greatest  possible 
service  to  us,  for  she  has  had  sufficient  influence  to  prevent  her 
.daughter  from  exerting  herself  too  much.     Her  Grace  had  a 

letter  from  Mr.  L to-day — very  short,  but  very  kind — at 

least  all  that  I  heard  read  of  it.  He  has  set  my  heart  somewhat 
<more  at  ease  by  the  comfortable  assurance,  that  he  will  not  leave 
JBngland  without  seeing  Lady  Leonora.  I  have  the  greatest 
hopes  from  this  interview !     I  have  not  felt  so  happy  for  many 

months — ^but  I  will  not  be  too  sanguine.     Mr.  L talks  of 

being  here  the  latter  end  of  this  month.  The  duchess,  with  her 
<4isual  prudence,  intends  to  leave  her  daughter  before  that  time, 
lest  Mr.  L  should  be  constrained  by  her  presence,  or  should 

26 


E.EONOEA. 

/iiiagiiie  that  Leonora  acts  from  any  impulse  but  that  of  het 
owu  heart.  I  also,  though  much  against  my  inclination,  shall 
decamp;  for  he  might  perhaps  consider  me  as  an  adviser, 
caballer,  ccjifidante,  or  at  least  a  troublesome  spectator.  All 
reconciliation  scenes  should  be  without  spectators.  Men  do 
not  like  to  be  seen  on  their  knees  :  they  are  at  a  loss,  like  Sir 
Walter  Ealeigh  in  "  The  Critic  ;"  they  cannot  get  off  gracefully. 
I  am,  dear  Margaret^ 

Yours  affectionately, 

Helen  C , 


LETTER  LXXXVIIL 

GENERAL    B-^ TO    MR.  L — 


aCY  DEAR  L ,  Friday. 

Ask  yourself,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  why  you  should  go 
to  Petersburg  with  this  sentimental  coquette,  this  romantic  ter- 
magant, of  whom  I  see  you  are  already  more  than  half  tired.  As 
to  your  being  bound  to  her  in  honour,  I  cannot  see  how.  Why 
should  you  make  honour,  justice,  humanity,  and  gratitude,  plead 
so  finely  all  on  one  side,  and  that  the  wrong  side  of  the  ques- 
tion ?  Have  none  of  these  one  word  to  whisper  in  favour  of  any 
body  in  this  world  but  of  a  worthless  mistress,  who  makes  you 
miserable  ?  I  think  you  have  learned  from  your  heroine  to  be  so 
expert  in  sentimental  logic,  that  you  can  change  virtues  into 
vices,  and  vices  into  virtues,  till  at  last  you  do  not  know  them 
asunder.  Else  why  should  you  make  it  a  point  of  conscience  to 
abandon  your  wife — just  at  the  moment,  too,  when  you  are  tho- 
roughly convinced  of  her  love  for  you,  when  you  are  touched  to 
the  soul  by  her  generous  conduct,  and  when  your  heart  longs  to 
return  to  her? 

Please  to  remember  that  this  Lady  Olivia's  reputation  was  not 
imimpeacbed  befcre  her  acquaintance  with  you,  and  do  not  take 
more  glory  or  more  blame  to  yourself  than  properly  falls  to  your 
share.  Do  not  forget  that  ^oor  R***  was  your  predecessor,  and 
do  not  let  this  delicate  lady  rest  all  the  weight  of  her  shame  upon 
you,  as  certain  Chinese  culprits  rest  their  portable  pillories  ort 
the  shoulders  of  their  friends. 


LEONORA.  397 

In  two  days  I  shall  follow  this  letter,  an<f  repeat  in  person  all 
♦he  interrogatories  I  have  just  put  to  you,  my  dear  friend. 
Prepare  yourself  to  answer  me  sincerely  such  questions  as  I  shall 
ask. 

Yours  truly, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  LXXXIX. 

FROM    OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L 


Monday,  12  o'cIdcIc, 
For  a  few  days  did  you  say  ?  To  bid  adieu  ?  Oh !  if  once 
more  you  return  to  that  fatal  castle,  that  enchanted  home,  Olivia 
for  ever  loses  all  power  over  your  heart.  Bid  her  die,  stab  lier 
to  the  heart,  and  she  will  call  it  mercy,  and  she  will  bless  you 
with  her  dying  lips ;  but  talk  not  of  leaving  your  Olivia  !  On 
her  knees  she  writes  this,  her  face  all  bathed  in  tears.  And  must 
she  in  her  turn  implore  and  supplicate  ?  Must  she  abase  herself 
even  to  the  dust?  Yes — love  like  hers  vanquishes  even  the 
stubborn  potency  of  female  pride. 

Your  too  fond 

Olivia.  . 

LETTER  XC. 


FROM    OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L- 


[Daced  a  few  hours  after  the  preceding.] 

Monday,  half-past  three. 
Oh  !  this  equivocating  answer  to  my  fond  heart !  Passion 
makes  and  admits  of  no  compromise.  Be  mine,  and  wholly 
mine — or  never,  never  will  I  survive  your  desertion!  I  can  be 
happy  only  whilst  I  love ;  I  can  love  only  whilst  I  am  beloved 
with  fervency  equal  to  my  own ;  and  when  I  cease  to  love,  I 
cease  to  exist !  No  coward  fears  restrain  my  souL  The  word 
suicide  shocks  not  my  ear,  appals  not  my  understanding. 
Death  I  consider  but  as  the  eternal  rest  of  the  wretched — the 
•weet  the  sole  refuge  of  despair. 

Your  resolute 

Olivia. 


J|t08  LEONORA. 

LETTER  XCI. 

FROIC    OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L . 

Tuesday. 
Return  !  return  !  on  the  wings  of  love  return  to  the  calm, 
the  prudent,  the  happy,  the  transcendently  happy  Leunora! 
Return — but  not  to  bid  her  adieu — return  to  be  hers  for  ever, 
and  only  hcs.  I  give  you  back  yoiu:  faith — I  give  you  back 
your  promises — you  have  taken  back  your  heart. 

But  if  you  should  desire  once  more  to  see  Olivia,  if  you  should 
have  any  lingering  wish  to  bid  her  a  last  adieu,  it  must  be  this 
evening.  To-morrow's  sun  rises  not  for  Olivia.  For  her  but  a 
few  short  hours  remain.  Love,  let  them  be  all  thy  own !  In- 
toxicate thy  victim,  mingle  pleasure  in  the  cup  of  death,  and  bid 
her  fearless  quaff  it  to  the  dregs  I 


LETTER  XCIL 

MR.  L TO    GENERAL    B . 

mv  DBAR  FRIEND,  Thursday. 

You  have  by  argument  and  raillery,  and  by  every  means  that 
kindness  and  goodness  could  devise,  endeavoured  to  expel  from 
my  mind  a  passion  which  you  justly  foresaw  would  be  destructive 
of  my  happiness,  and  of  the  peace  of  a  most  estimable  and  amiable 
woman.  With  all  the  skill  that  a  thorough  knowledge  of  human 
nature  in  general,  and  of  my  peculiar  character  and  foibles,  could 
lestow,  you  have  employed  those 

"  Words  and  spells  which  can  control, 

Between  the  fits,  the  fever  of  the  soul." 

Circumstances  have  operated  in  conjunction  with  your  skill  to 
**  medicine  me  to  repose."  The  fits  have  gradually  become 
weaker  and  weaker,  the  fever  is  now  gone,  but  I  am  still  to 
suffer  for  the  extravagances  committed  during  its  delirium.  I 
have  entered  into  engagements  which  must  be  fulfilled  ;  I  have 
involved  rnyself  in  difficulties  from  which  F  see  no  method  of 


LEONORA.  399 

extricating  myself  honourably.  Notwithstanding  all  the  latitude 
which  the  system  of  modern  gallantry  allows  to  the  conscience  o4 
our  sex,  and  in  spite  of  the  convenient  maxim,  which  maintains 
that  all  arts  are  allowable  in  love  and  war,  I  think  that  a  man 
cannot  break  a  promise,  whether  made  in  words  or  by  tacit 
implication,  on  the  faith  of  which  a  woman  sacrifices  her  reputa- 
tion and  happiness.  Lady  Olivia  has  thrown  herself  upon  my 
protection.  I  am  as  sensible  as  you  can  be,  my  dear  general, 
that  scandal  had  attacked  her  reputation  before  our  acquaintance 
commenced ;  but  though  the  world  had  suspicions,  they  had  no 
proofs :  now  there  can  be  no  longer  any  defence  made  for  her 
character,  there  is  no  possibility  of  her  returning  to  that  rank  in 
society  to  which  she  was  entitled  by  her  birth,  and  which  she 
adorned  with  all  the  brilliant  charms  of  wit  and  beauty  ;  no 
happiness,  no  chance  of  happiness  remains  for  her  but  from  my 
constancy.  Of  naturally  violent  passions,  unused  to  the  control 
of  authority,  habit,  reason,  or  religion,  and  at  this  time  impelled 
by  love  and  jealousy,  Olivia  is  on  the  brink  of  despair.  I  am 
not  apt  to  believe  that  women  die  in  modem  times  for  love,  nor 
am  I  easily  disposed  to  think  that  I  could  inspire  a  dangerous 
degree  of  enthusiasm ;  yet  I  am  persuaded  that  Olivia's  passion, 
compounded  as  it  is  of  various  sentiments  besides  love,  has  taken 
such  possession  of  her  imagination,  and  is,  as  she  fancies,  so 
necessary  to  her  existence,  that  if  I  were  to  abandon  her,  she 
would  destroy  that  life,  which  she  has  already  attempted,  I  thank 
God !  ineffectually.  What  a  spectacle  is  a  woman  in  a  paroxysm 
of  rage ! — a  woman  we  love,  or  whom  we  have  loved ! 


Excuse  me,  my  dear  friend,  if  I  wrote  incoherently,  for  I  have 
been  interrupted  many  times  since  I  began  this  letter.  I  am 
this  day  overwhelmed  by  a  multiplicity  of  affairs,  which,  in  con- 
sequence of  Olivia's  urgency  to  leave  England  immediately, 
must  be  settled  with  an  expedition  for  which  my  head  is  not  at 
present  well  qualified.  I  do  not  feel  well :  I  can  command  my 
attention  but  on  one  subject,  and  on  that  all  my  thoughts  are  to 
no  purpose.  "Whichever  way  I  now  act,  I  must  endure  and 
inflict  misery.  I  must  either  part  from  a  wife  who  has  given  m€ 
the  most  tender,  the  most  touching  proofs  of  affection — a  wift 


400  LEONORA. 

who  is  all  that  a  man  can  esteem,  admire,  and  love  ;  or  I  must 
abandon  a  mistress,  who  loves  me  with  all  the  desperation  of 
passion  to  which  she  woiud  fall  a  sacrifice.  But  wliy  do  I  talk 
as  if  I  were  still  a.b  liberty  to  make  a  choice? — My  head  is 
certainly  very  confused.  I  forgot  that  I  am  bound  by  a  solemn 
promise,  and  this  is  the  evil  which  distracts  me.  I  will  give  you, 
if  I  can,  a  clear  narrative. 

Last  night  I  had  a  terrible  scene  with  Olivia.     I  foresaw  that 

she  would  be  alarmed  by  my  intended  visit  to  L Castle, 

even  though  it  was  but  to  take  leave  of  my  Leonora.  I  abstained 
from  seeing  Olivia  to  avoid  altercation,  and  with  all  the  delicacy 
in  my  power  I  wrote  to  her,  assuring  her  that  my  resolution  was 
fixed.  Note  after  note  came  from  her,  with  pathetic  and 
passionate  appeals  to  my  heart ;  but  I  was  still  resolute.  At 
length,  the  day  before  that  on  which  I  was  to  set  out  for  L 
Castle,  she  wrote  to  warn  me,  that  if  I  wished  to  take  a  last 
farewell,  I  must  see  her  that  evening :  her  note  concluded  with, 
••  To-morrow's  sun  wiU  not  rise  for  Olivia."  This  threat,  and 
many  strange  hints  of  her  opinions  concerning  suicide,  I  at  the 
time  disregarded,  as  only  thrown  out  to  intimidate  a  lover. 
However,  knowing  the  violence  of  Olivia's  temper,  I  was 
punctual  to  the  appointed  hour,  fully  determined  by  my  firm- 
ness to  convince  her  that  these  female  wiles  were  vain. 

My  dear  friend,  I  would  not  advise  the  wisest  man  and  the 
mosc  courageous  upon  earth  to  risk  such  dangers,  confident  in 
his  strength.     Even  a  victory  may  cost  him  too  dear. 

I  found  Olivia  reclining  on  a  sofa,  her  beautiful  tresses  un- 
bound, her  dress  the  perfection  of  elegant  negligence.  I  half 
suspected  that  it  was  studied  negligence :  yet  I  could  not  help 
pausing,  as  I  entered,  to  contemplate  a  figure.  She  never  looked 
more  beautiful— more  fascinating.  Holding  out  her  hand  to  me, 
she  said,  with  her  languid  smile,  and  tender  expression  of  voice 
and  manner,  *'  You    are  come  then  to  bid  me  farewell.    I  doubted 

wj.etlier But  I  will  not  upbraid — mine  be  all  the 

jiain  of  this  last  adieu.       During  the  few  minutes  we  have  to  pass 
togctlier, 

" Between  us  two  let  there  be  peace.'" 

1  sat  down  beside  her,  rather  agitated,  i  confess,  but  com- 
iuauding  tnjself  so  that  my  emotion  could  not  be  visible.     In  a 


LEONORA.  401 

composed  tone  I  asked,  why  she  spoke  of  a  last  adieu?  and 
observed  that  we  should  meet  again  in  a  few  days. 

"  Never!"  replied  Olivia.  "Weak  woman  as  I  am,  love 
inspires  me  with  suflScient  force  to  make  and  to  keep  this  reso« 
lution." 

As  she  spoke,  she  took  from  her  bosom  a  rose,  and  presenting 
it  to  me  in  a  solemn  manner,  "Put  this  rose  into  water  to-night,' 
continued  she ;  "  to-morrow  it  will  be  alive !" 

Her  look,  her  expressive  eyes,  seemed  to  say,  this  flower  will 
be  alive,  hut  Olivia  will  be  dead.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that 
I  was  silent,  because  I  could  not  just  then  speak. 

"  I  have  used  some  precaution,"  resumed  Olivia,  "to  spare 
you,  my  dearest  L ,  unnecessary  pain. — Look  around  you." 

The  room,  I  now  for  the  first  time  observed,  was  ornamented 
with  flowers. 

"This  apartment,  I  hope,"  continued  she,  "has  not  the  air 
of  the  chamber  of  death.  I  have  endeavoured  to  give  it  a  festive 
appearance,  that  the  remembrance  of  your  last  interview  with 
your  once  loved  Olivia  may  be  at  least  unmixed  with  horror." 

At  this  instant,  my  dear  general,  a  confused  recollection  of 
Rousseau's  Heloise,  the  dying  scene,  and  her  room  ornamented 
with  flowers,  came  into  my  imagination,  and  destroying  the 
idea  of  reality,  changed  suddenly  the  whole  course  of  my 
feelings. 

In  a  tone  of  raillery  I  represented  to  Olivia  her  resemblance 
to  Julie,  and  observed  that  it  was  a  pity  she  had  not  a  lover 
whose  temper  was  more  similar  than  mine  to  that  of  the  divine 
St.  Preux.  Stung  to  the  heart  by  my  ill-timed  raillery,  Olivia 
started  up  from  the  sofa,  broke  from  my  arms  with  sudden 
force,  snatched  from  the  table  a  penknife,  and  phmged  it  into 
her  side. 

She  was  about  to  repeat  the  blow,  but  I  caught  her  arm — she 
struggled — "promise  me,  then,"  cried  she,  "that  you  will  never 
more  see  my  hated  rival." 

"I  cannot  make  such  a  promise,  Olivia,"  said  I,  holding  her 
uplifted  arm  forcibly.     "  I  will  not." 

The  words  "hated  rival,"  which  showed  me  that  Olivia  was 
actuated  more  by  the  spirit  of  hatred  than  love,  made  me  rej)ly 
in  as  decided  a  tone  as  even  you  could  have  spoken,  my  dear 

Leonora. 


402  LEONOKAv 

general.  But  I  was  shocked,  and  reproackeil  myself  wit)» 
cruelty,  when  I  saw  the  blood  flow  from  her  side:  she  was- 
terrified.  I  took  the  knife  from  her  powerless  hand,  and  she 
fainted  in  my  arms.  I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  reflect 
that  what  had  happened  should  he  kept  as  secret  as  possible ; 
therefore,  without  summoning  Josephine,  whose  attachment  to 
her  mistress  I  have  reason  to  suspect,  I  threw  open  the  windows^ 
gave  Olivia  air  and  water,  and  her  senses  returned  :  then  1 
despatched  my  Swiss  for  a  surgeon.  I  need  not  speak  of  my 
own  feelings — ^no  suspense  could  be  more  dreadful  than  that 
which  I  endured  between  the  sending  for  the  surgeon  and  the 
moment  when  he  gave  his  opinion.  He  relieved  me  at  once, 
by  pronouncing  it  to  be  a  slight  flesh  wound,  that  would  be  of 
no  manner  of  consequence.  Olivia,  however,  whether  from 
alarm  or  pain,  or  from  the  sight  of  the  blood,  fainted  three 
times  during  the  dressing  of  her  side  ;  and  though  the  surgeon 
assured  her  that  it  would  be  perfectly  well  in  a  few  days^ 
she  was  evidently  apprehensive  that  we  concealed  from  her  the 
real  danger.  At  the  idea  of  the  approach  of  death,  which  now 
took  possession  of  her  imagination,  all  courage  forsook  her,  and 
for  some  time  my  efforts  to  support  her  spirits  were  ineffectually 
She  could  not  dispense  with  the  services  of  Josephine ;  and  from 
the  moment  this  French,  woman  entered  the  room,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  heard  but  exclamations  the  most  violent  and 
noisy.  As  to  assistance,  she  could  give  none.  At  last  her 
exaggerated  demonstrations  of  horror  and  grief  ended  with, — 
**  Dieu  merci!  au  moins  nous  voila  delivr^  de  ce  voyage  affreux. 
Apparemment  qu'il  ne  sera  plus  question  de  ce  vilain  Petersburg 
pour  madame." 

A  new  train  of  thoughts  was  roused  by  these  words  in  OUvia'» 
mind ;  and  looking  at  me,  she  eagerly  inquired  why  the  journey 
to  Petersburg  was  to  be  given  up,  if  she  was  in  no  danger  ?  I 
assiured  her  that  Josephine  spoke  at  random,  that  my  intentions 
with  regard  to  the  embassy  to  Russia  were  unaltered. 

''Seulement  retarde  un  peu,"  said  Josephine,  who  was  intent 
only  upon  her  own  selfish  object — "Surement,  madame  ne 
voyagera  pas  dans  cet  etat !" 

01i\'ia  started  up,  and  looking  at  me  with  terrific  wildness  in 
iter  eyes,  "  Swear  to  me,"  said  she,  "  swear  that  you  will  not 


LEONORA.  40?- 

deceive  me,  or  I  will  this  instant  tear  open  this  wound,  and 
never  more  suffer  it  to  be  closed." 

*'  Deceive  you,  Olivia !"  cried  I,  "  what  deceit  can  you  fear 
from  me  ? — What  is  it  you  require  of  me  ?" 

"  I  require  from  you  a  promise,  a  solemn  promise,  that  you 
will  go  with  me  to  Russia!" 

"  1  solemnly  promise  that  I  will,"  said  I :  "now  be  tranquil,. 
Olivia,  I  beseech  you." 

The  surgeon  represented  the  necessity  of  keeping  herself  quiet, 
and  declared  that  he  would  not  answer  for  the  cure  of  his 
patient  on  any  other  terms.  Satisfied  by  the  solemnity  of  my 
promise,  Olivia  now  suffered  me  to  depart.  This  morning  she 
sends  me  word  that  in  a  few  days  she  shall  be  ready  to  leave 

Kngland,     Can  you  meet  me,  my  dear  friend,  at  L Castle  ? 

1  go  down  there  to-day,  to  bid  adieu  to  Leonora.  From  thence 
I  shall  proceed  to  Yarmouth,  and  embark  immediately.  Olivia 
will  follow  me. 

Your  obliged 

F.  L ; 


LETTER  XCIIL 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 
OKA  REST  MOTHER,  L Castle. 

My  husband  is  here !  at  home  with  me,  with  your  happy  Leo- 
nora— and  his  heart  is  with  her.  His  looks,  his  voice,  his 
manner  tell  me  so,  and  by  them  I  never  was  deceived.  No,  he 
is  incapable  of  deceit.  Whatever  have  been  his  errors,  he  never 
stooped  to  dissimulation.  He  is  again  my  own,  still  capable  of 
loving  me,  still  worthy  of  all  my  affection.  1  knew  that  the 
delusion  could  not  last  long,  or  rather  you  told  me  so,  my  best 
friend,  and  I  believed  you  ;  you  did  him  justice.  He  was  indeed 
deceived — who  might  not  have  been  deceived  by  Olivia  ?  His 
passions  were  under  the  power  of  an  enchantress ;  but  now  he 
has  triumphed  over  her  arts.  He  sees  her  such  as  she  is,  and 
her  influence  ceases. 

I  am  not  absolutely  certain  of  all  this ;  but  I  believe,  becaiise 
1  hope  it :  yet  he  is  evidently  embarrassed,  and  seems  imhappy : 


404 


LEONORA. 


what  can  be  tlie  meaning  of  this  f  Perhaps  he  does  not  yet  inow 
his  Leonora  sufficiently  to  be  seeui-e  ot  lier  forgiveness.  How 
I  long  to  set  his  heart  at  ease,  and  to  say  to  him,  let  the  past  be 
forgotten  for  ever !  How  easy  it  is  to  the  happy  to  forgive ! 
There  have  been  moments  when  I  could  not,  I  fear,  have  been 
just,  when  I  am  sure  that  I  could  not  have  been  generous.      I 

shall  immediately  offer  to  accompany  Mr.  L to  Ru-sia ;    I 

can  have  no  farther  hesitation,  for  I  see  that  he  wislies  it ;  incice  I 
just  now  he  almost  said  so.  His  baggage  is  already  embai-kccl 
at  Yarmouth — he  sails  in  a  few  days — and  in  a  few  hours  your 
daughter's  fate,  your  daughter's  happiness,  will  be  decided.  It 
is  decided,  for  I  am  sure  he  loves  me;  I  see,  I  hear,  I  feel  it. 
Dearest  mother,  I  write  to  you  in  the  first  moment  of  joy.— I 
hear  his  foot  upon  the  stairs. 

Your  happy 

Leonora  L  ■■■■■> 


LETTER  XCIV. 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 


MY  DEAR  MOTHER,  L Castlc. 

My  hopes  are  all  vain.  Your  prophecies  will  never  be  accom- 
plished.    We  have  both  been  mistaken  in  Mr.  L 's  character, 

and.  henceforward  your  daughter  must  not  depend  upon  him  for 
any  portion  of  her  happiness.  I  once  thought  it  impossible  thafc 
my  love  for  him  could  be  diminished :  he  has  changed  my 
opinion.  Mine  is  not  that  species  of  weak  or  abject  affection 
which  can  exist  under  the  sense  of  ill-treatment  and  injustice, 
much  less  can  my  love  survive  esteem  for  its  object. 

I  told  you,  my  dear  mother,  and  I  believed,  that  his  affections 
had  returned  to  me  ;  but  I  was  mistaken.  He  has  not  sufficient 
strength  or  generosity  of  soul  to  love  me,  or  to  do  justice  to  my 
love.  I  offered  to  go  with  him  to  Russia :  he  answered,  "  That 
is  impossible." — Impossible  ! — Is  it  then  impossible  for  him  to  do 
that  which  is  just  or  honourable ?  or  seeing  what  is  light,  umst 
he  follow  what  is  wrong  ?  or  can  his  heart  never  more  be  touched 
by  virtuous  affections  ?     Is  his  taste   so  changed,   so  depi-aved. 


LEONORA.  405 

•that  he  can  now  be  pleased  and  channed  only  by  what  is  despic- 
able and  profligate  in  our  sex  ?  Then  I  should  rejoice  that  we 
-are  to  be  separated — separated  for  ever.  May  years  and  years 
^ass  away  and  wear  out,  if  possible,  the  memory  of  all  he  has 
been  to  me  !  I  think  I  could  better,  much  better  bear  the  total 
loss,  the  death  of  him  I  have  loved,  than  endure  to  feel  that  he 
had  survived  both  my  affection  and  esteem  ;  to  see  the  person  the 
same,  but  the  soul  changed ;  to  feel  every  day,  every  hour,  that 
I  must  despise  what  I  have  so  admired  and  loved. 

Mr.  L is  gone  from  hence.     He  leaves  England  the    day 

after  to-morrow.  Lady  Olivia  is  to  follow  him.  I  am  glad  that 
public  decency  is  not  to  be  outraged  by  their  embarking  toge- 
ther. My  dearest  mother,  be  assured  that  at  this  moment  your 
daughter's  feelings  are  worthy  of  you.  Indignation  and  the 
pride  of  virtue  support  her  spirit. 

Leonora  L . 


LETTER  XCV. 


GENERAL  B TO  LADY  LEONORA  L . 

Yarmouth. 

Had  I  not  the  highest  confidence  in   Lady  Leonora  L 's 

fortitude,  I  should  not  venture  to  write  to  her  at  this  moment, 
knowing  as  I  do  that  she  is  but  just  recovered  from  a  dangeroui 
illness. 

Mr.  L had  requested  me  to  meet  him  at  L Castle 

previously  to  his  leaving  England,  but  it  was  out  of  my  power. 
I  met  him  however  on  the  road  to  Yarmouth,  and  as  we  travelled 
together  I  had  full  opportunity  of  seeing  the  state  of  his  mind. 
Permit  me — the  urgency  of  the  case  requires  it — to  speak  with- 
out reserve,  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  friend.  I  imagine  that 
your  ladyship  parted  from  Mr.  L with  feelings  of  indigna- 
tion, at  which  I  cannot  be  surprised :  but  if  you  had  seen  him  as 
I  saw  him,  indignation  would  have  given  way  to  pity.  Loving 
you,  madam,  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved,  most  ardently,  most 
tenderly;  touched  to  his  inmost  soul  by  the  proofs  of  aflTeciion  he 


406  LEONOEA. 

had  seen  in  your  letters,  in  your  whole  conduct,  even  to  the  last 
moment  of  parting;  my  unhappy  friend  felt  himself  bound  to 
resist  the  temptatioik  cf  staying  with  you,  or  of  accepting  your 
generous  offer  to  accompany  him  to  Petersburg,  He  thought 
himself  bound  in  honour  by  a  promise  extorted  from  him  to  save 
from  suicide  one  whom  he  thinks  he  has  injured,  one  who  has 
thrown  herself  upon  his  protection.  Of  the  conflict  in  his  mind 
at  parting  with  your  ladyship  I  can  judge  from  what  he  suffered 
afterwards.  I  met  Mr.  L with  feelings  of  extreme  indigna- 
tion, but  before  I  had  been  an  hour  in  his  company,  T  never 
pitied  any  man  so  much  in  my  life,  for  I  never  yet  saw  any  one 
so  truly  wr»fcched,  and  so  thoroughly  convinced  tliat  he  deserved 
to  be  so.  You  know  that  he  is  not  one  who  often  gives  way  to 
his  emotions,  not  one  who  expresses  them  much  in  words — but 
he  CO  aid  not  command  his  feelings. 

The  struggle  was  too  violent.  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  the 
real  cause  of  his  present  illness.  As  the  moment  approached 
when  he  was  to  leave  England,  he  became  more  and  more 
agitated.  Towards  evening  he  sunk  into  a  sort  of  apathy  and 
gloomy  silence,  from  which  he  suddenly  broke  into  delirious 
raving.  At  twelve  o'clock  last  night,  the  night  he  was  to  have 
sailed,  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  and  infectious  fever.  As  to> 
the  degree  of  immediate  danger,  the  physicians  here  cannot  yet 
pronounce.  I  have  sent  to  town  for  Dr.  •*•**.  Your  lady- 
ship may  be  certain  that  I  shall  not  quit  my  friend,  and  that  he 
shall  have  every  possible  assistance  and  attf>ndance. 
1  am,  with  the  truest  esteem, 

Your  ladyship's  faithful  servant, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XCVI. 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 
DKAR  MOTHER,  L— —  Castltt. 

This  moment  an  express  frpm  General  B .     Mr.  L i» 

dangerously  ill  at  Yarmouth — a  fever,  brought  on  by  the  agita- 
tion of  his  mind.     How  unjust  I  have  been  !     Forget  all  I  said 


LEONORA.  407 

in  my  last     I  write  in  the  utmost  haste — just  setting  out  for 
Yarmouth.     I  hope  to  be  there  to-morrow. 

Your  aiTectionate 
Leonora  L 

I  open  this  to  enclose  the  general's  letter,  which  will  explain 
every  thing. 


LETTER  XCVIL 

flENERAL    B TO    THE    DUCHE3S   OF  . 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,  YanUOUtb. 

Your   Grace,   I   find,   is  apprised  of   Lady  Leonora   L- 


joumey  hither :  I  fear  that  you  rely  upon  my  prudence  for 
preventing  her  exposing  herself  to  the  danger  of  catching  this 
dreadful  fever.  But  that  has  been  beyond  my  power.  Her 
ladyship  arrived  late  last  night.  I  had  foreseen  the  probability 
of  her  coming,  but  not  the  possibility  of  her  coming  so  soon.  I 
had  taken  no  precautions,  and  she  was  in  the  house  and  upon 
the  stairs  in  an  instant.     No  entreaties,  no  arguments  could  stop 

her ;  I  assured  her  that  Mr.  L 's  fever  was  pronounced  by 

all  the  physicians  to  be  of  the  most  infectious  kind.  Dr.  •  •  •  *  • 
joined  me  in  representing  that  she  would  expose  her  life  to 
almost  certain  danger  if  she  persisted  in  her  determination  to 
see  her  husband  ;  but  she  pressed  forward,  regardless  of  all  that 
could  be  said.     To  the  physicians  she  made  no  answer ;  to  me 

she  replied,   "  You  are  Mr.  L 's  friend,  but  I  am  his  wife : 

you  have  not  feared  to  hazard  your  life  for  him,  and  do  you 
think  I  can  hesitate  ?"  I  urged  that  there  was  no  necessity  for 
more  than  one  person's  running  this  hazard ;  and  that  since  it  had 
fallen  to  my  lot  to  be  with  my  friend  when  be  was  first  taken 
ill She  interrupted  me, — "  Is  not  this  taking  a  cruel  advan- 
tage of  me,  general  ?     You  know  that  I,  too,  would  have  been 

with  Mr.  L ,  if — if  it  had  been  possible."     Her  manner,  her 

pathetic  emphasis,  and  the  force  of  her  implied  meaning,  struck 
me  so  much,  that  I  was  silent,  and  suffered  her  to  pass  on ;  but 
again  the  idea  of  her  danger  rushing  upon  my  mind,  I  sprang 


403  LEONORA. 

before  h%v  to  the  door  of  Mr.  L 's  apartment,  and  opposed 

her  entrance.  "Then,  general,"  said  she,  calmly,  *' perhaps 
vou   mistake   me — perhaps   you    have    heard    repeated    some 

unguarded  words  of  mine  in  the  moment  of  indignation 

unjust .  ...  you  best  know  how  unjust  indignation  ! — and  you 
infer  from  these  tliat  my  affection  for  my  husband  is  extin- 
guished.    I  deserve  this — but  do  not  punish  me  too  severely." 

I  still  kept  my  hand  upon  the  lock  of  the  door,  expostulating 

with  Lady  Leonora  in  your  Grace's  name,  and  in  Mr.  L 's, 

assuring  her  that  if  he  were  conscious  of  what  w£is  passing,  and 
able  to  speak,  he  would  order  me  to  prevent  her  seeing  him  in 
his  present  situation. 

"And  you,  too,  general!"  said  she,  bursting  into  tears :  "  I 
thought  you  were  my  friend — woxild  you  prevent  me  from  seeing 
him?  And  is  not  he  conscious  of  what  is  passing?  And  is  not 
he  able  to  speak  ?  Sir,  I  must  be  admitted !  You  have  done 
your  duty — ^now  let  me  do  mine.  Consider,  my  right  is  superior 
to  yours.     No  power  on  earth  should  or  can  prevent  a  wife  from 

seeiiig  her  husband  when  he  is Dear,  dear  general!" 

said  she,  clasping  her  raised  hands,  and  falling  suddenly  at  my 
feet,  "  let  me  see  him  but  for  one  minute,  and  I  will  be  grateful 
to  you  for  ever!" 

I  could  resist  no  longer — I  tremb  e  for  the  consequences.  I 
know  your  Grace  sufficiently  to  be  aware  that  you  ought  to  be 
told  the  whole  truth.  I  have  but  little  hopes  of  my  poor  friend'» 
life. 

With  much  respect, 

Your  grace's  faithful  servant 

J.  B. 


LETTER  XCVIIL 

OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L . 


Richmond. 
A  UTST  hung  over  my  eyes,  and  "  my  ears  with  hollow  murmuni- 
rung,"  when  the  dreadful  tidings  of  your  alarming  illness  were 
announced  by  your  cruel  messenger.     My  dearest  L !  why 


I^EONOI^A.  409 

does  inexorable  destiny  doom  me  to  be  absent  from  you  at 
such  a  crisis?  Oh!  this  fatal  wound  of  mine!  It  would,  I 
fear,  certainly  open  again  if  I  were  to  travel.  So  this  corporeal 
being  must  be  imprisoned  here,  while  my  anxious  soul,  my 
viewless  spirit,  hovers  near  you,  longing  to  minister  each  tender 
consolation,  each  nameless  comfort  that  love  alone  can,  with 
fond  prescience  and  magic  speed,  summon  round  the  couch  of 
pain. 

"  O  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  I  might  fly  to  you!" 
Why  must  I  resign  the  sweetly-painful  task  of  soothing  you  in 
the  hour  of  sickness  ?     And  shall  others  with  officious  zeal, 

"  Guess  the  faint  wish,  explain  the  asking  eye?" 

Alas !  it  must  be  so — even  were  I  to  fly  to  him,  my  sensibility 
could  not  support  the  scene.  To  behold  him  stretched  on  the 
bed  of  disease — perhaps  of  death — would  be  agony  past  endur- 
ance. Let  firmer  nerves  than  Olivia's,  and  hearts  more  callous, 
assume  the  offices  from  which  they  shrink  not.  'Tis  the  fate, 
the  hard  fate  of  all  endued  with  exquisite  sensibility,  to  be 
palsiec*.  by  the  excess  of  their  feelings,  and  to  become  imbecile 
at  tlie  moment  their  exertions  are  most  necessary. 

Your  too  tenderly  sympathizing 

Olivia 


LETTER  XCIX. 

LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

Yarmouth. 
Mt  husband  is  alive,  and  that  is  all.  Never  did  I  see,  nor  could 
I  bave  conceived,  such  a  change,  and  in  so  short  a  time  !  When 
J  opened  the  door,  his  eyes  turned  upon  me  with  tmmeaning 
eagerness :  he  did  not  know  me.  The  good  general  thought  my 
voice  might  have  some  efiect.  I  spoke,  but  could  obtain  no 
answer,  no  sign  of  intelligence.  In  vain  I  called  upon  him  by 
every  name  that  used  to  reach  his  heart.  I  kneeled  beside  him, 
and  took  one  of  his  burning  hands  in  mine.  I  kissed  it,  and 
luddenly  he   started  up,    exclaiming,  "Olivia!  Olivia!"   with 


410  LEONORA. 

dreadful  vehemence.  In  his  delirium  he  raved  ahout  Olivia's 
stabbing  herself,  and  called  upon  us  to  hold  her  arm,  looking 
wildly  towards  the  foot  of  the  bed,  as  if  the  figure  were  actually 
before  him.  Then  he  simk  back,  as  if  quite  exhausted,  and 
gave  a  deep  sigh.  Some  of  my  tears  fell  upon  his  hand ;  he 
felt  them  before  I  perceived  that  they  had  fallen,  and  looked  so 
earnestly  in  my  face,  that  I  was  in  hopes  his  recollection  was 
returning ;  but  he  only  said,  "  Olivia,  I  believe  that  you  love 
me;"  then  sighed  more  deeply  than  before,  drew  his  hand  away 
from  me,  and,  as  well  as  I  could  distinguish,  said  something 
about  Leonora. 

But  why  should  I  give  you  the  pain  of  hearing  all  these 

circumstances,  my  dear  mother  ?     It  is  enough  to  say,   that  he 

passed  a  dreadful  night     This  morning  the  physicians  say,  that 

if  he  passes  this  night — if       -my  dear  mother,  what  a  terrible 

-suspense  ! 

Leonora  L . 


LETTER  C. 

LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

Yanuoutli. 
Morning  is  at  last  come,  and  my  husband  is  still  alive:  so  there 
is  yet  hope.  When  I  said  I  thought  I  could  bear  to  survive  hiui, 
how  little  I  knew  of  myself,  and  how  little,  how  very  little  I  ex- 
pected to  be  so  soon  tried !  All  evils  are  remediable  but  one, 
that  one  which  I  dare  not  name. 

The  physicians  assure  me  that  he  is  better.  His  friend,  to 
whose  judgment  I  trust  more,  thinks  as  they  do.  I  know  not 
what  to  believe.  I  dread  to  flatter  myself  and  to  be  disappointed, 
I  will  write  again,  dearest  mother,,  to-morrow. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Leonora  L— — .. 


LEONORA.  4111 

LETTER  CI. 

LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

Wednesday 
No  material  change  since  yesterday,  my  dear  mother.     This 
morning,  as  I  was  searching  for  some  medicine,   I  saw  on   the 

chimney-piece  a  note  from  Lady  Olivia  .     It  might  have 

been  there  yesterday,  and  ever  since  my  arrival,  but  I  did  not 
see  it.  At  any  other  time  it  would  have  excited  my  indignation, 
but  my  mind  is  now  too  much  weakened  by  sorrow.  My  feara 
for  my  husband's  life  absorb  all  other  feelings. 


LETTER  CII. 

OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L . 

Richmond. 
Words  cannot  express  what  I  have  suffered  since  I  wrote  last ! 
Oh  !  why  do  I  not  hear  that  the  danger  is  over ! — Long  since 
would  I  have  been  with  you,  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear,  could  I 
have  escaped  from  these  tyrants,  these  medical  despots,  who 
detain  me  by  absolute  force,  and  watch  over  me  with  unrelenting 
vigilance.  I  have  consulted  Dr.  ***,  who  assures  me  that  mv 
fears  of  my  wound  opening,  were  I  to  take  so  long  a  journey,  are 
too  well-founded  ;  that  in  the  present  feverish  state  of  my  mind 
he  would  not  answer  for  the  consequences.  I  heed  him  not — life 
I  value  not. — Most  joyfully  would  I  sacrifice  myself  for  the  man  I 
love.  But  even  could  I  escape  from  my  persecutors,  too  well  I  know 
that  to  see  you  would  be  a  vain  attempt — too  well  I  know  that  I 
should  not  be  admitted.  Your  love,  your  fears  for  Olivia  would 
barbarously  banish  her,  and  forbid  her  your  dear,  your  dangerous 
atmosphere.  Too  justly  would  you  urge  that  my  rashness  might 
prove  our  mutual  ruin — that  in  the  moment  of  crisis  or  of  conva- 
lescence, anxiety  for  me  might  defeat  the  kind  purpose  of  nature. 
And  even  were  I  secure  of  your  recovery,  the  delay,  I  speak  not 
of  the  danger  of  my  catching  the  disease,   would,  circumstanced 

27 


412  LEONORA. 

as  we  are,  be  deatli  to  our  hopes.  We  should  be  compelled  to 
part.  The  winds  would  waft  you  from  me.  The  waves  would 
bear  you  to  another  region,  far — oh !  far  from  your 

Oi.ivr*., 


LETTER  Clir. 


GENERAL    B TO    THE    DUCHESS    OF    , 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,  Yarmouth,  Thursday,  — . 

"Mr.  L has  had  a  relapse,  and  is  now  more  alarmingly  ill 

than  I  have  yet  seen  him :  he  does  not  know  his  situation,  for 
his  delirium  has  returned.     The  physicians  give  him  over.     Dr. 

H says  that  we  must  prepare  for  the  worst. 

I  have  but  one  word  of  comfort  for  your  Grace — that  your 
admirable  daughter's  health  ha«  not  yet  suffered. 

Your  Grace's  faithful  servant, 

J.  B. 


LETTER  CIV. 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

MY  DEAREST  MOTHER,  Yarmouth. 

The  delirium  has  subsided.  A  few  minutes  ago,  as  I  was  kneel- 
ing beside  him,  offering  up  an  almost  hopeless  prayer  for  his 
recovery,  his  eyes  opened,  and  I  perceived  that  he  knew  me. 
He  closed  his  eyes  again  without  speaking,  opened  them  once 
more,  and  then  looking  at  me  fixedly,  exclaimed :  "  It  is  not  a 
dream !     You  are  Leonora ! — my  Leonora !" 

What  exquisite  pleasure  I  felt  at  the  sound  of  these  words,  at 
the  tone  in  which  they  were  pronounced !  My  husband  folded 
me  in  his  arms ;  and,  till  I  felt  his  burning  lips,  I  forgot  that  he 
was  ill. 

When  he  came  thoroughly  to  his  recollection,  and  when  the 
idea  that  his  fever  might  be  infectious  occurred  to  him,  he 
endeavoured  to  prevail  upon  me  to  leave  the  room.  But  what 
danger  can  there  be  for  me  now  ?  My  whole  soul,  my  whole 
frame  is  inspired  with  new  life.  If  he  recover,  your  daughter 
may  still  be  happy. 


LEONOKA.  4.13 


LETTER    CV. 

GENERAL    B TO    THE     DUCHESS   OF . 

HY   DEAR  MADAM, 

A  FEW  liours  ago  my  fiiend  became  perfectly  iensible  ot  hia 
danger;,  and  calling  me  to  his  bedside,  told  me  that  he  was  eager 
to  maie  use  of  the  little  time  which  he  might  have  to  live.  He 
was  quite  calm  and  collected.  He  employed  me  to  write  his 
last  wishes  and  bequests ;  and  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to 
declare,  that  the  strongest  idea  and  feeling  in  his  mind  evidently 
was  the  desire  to  show  his  entire  confidence  in  his  wife,  and  to 
give  her,  in  his  last  moments,  proofs  of  his  esteem  and  affection. 
When  he  had  settled  his  affairs,  he  begged  to  be  left  alone  for 
some  time.  Between  twelve  and  one  his  bell  rang,  and  he 
desired  to  see  Lady  Leonora  and  me.  He  spoke  to  me  with  that 
warmth  of  friendship  which  he  has  ever  felt  from  our  childhood. 
Then  turning  to  his  wife,  his  voice  utterly  failed,  and  he  could 
only  press  to  his  lips  that  hand  which  was  held  out  to  him  in 
speechless  agony. 

"  Excellent  woman!"  he  articulated  at  last;  then  collecting 
his  mind,  he  exclaimed,  "  My  beloved  Leonora,  I  will  not  die 
without  expressing  my  feelings  for  you ;  I  know  yours  ^er  me, 
I  do  not  ask  for  that  forgiveness  which  yoiu:  generous  heart 
granted  long  before  1  deserved  it.  Your  affection  for  me  has 
been  shown  by  actions,  at  the  hazard  of  your  life ;  I  can  only 
thank  you  with  weak  words.  You  possess  my  whole  heart,  my 
esteem,  my  admiration,  my  gratitude." 

Lady  Leonora,  at  the  word  gratitude,  made  an  effort  to  speak, 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  husband's  lips.  He  added,  in  a 
more  enthusiastic  tone,  "  You  have  my  undivided  love.  Believe 
in  the  truth  of  these  words — perhaps  they  are  the  last  I  may 
ever  speak." 

My  friend  sunk  back  exhausted,  and  I  carried  -Lady  Leonora 
out  of  the  room. 

1  returned  half  an  hour  ago,  and  found  every  thing  silent : 
Mr.  L is  lying  with  his  eyes  closed — quite  still— I  hope 


414  IrEONORA. 

asleep.     This  may  be  a  favourable  crisis.     I  cannot  delay  thb 
letter  longer. 

Your  Grace's  faithful  servant, 

J.  R 


LETTER  CVI. 

LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

DEARB8T  MOTHXR,  Yarmouth. 

He  has  slept  several  hours. — Dr.  H ,  the  most  skilful  of  all 

his  physicians,  says  that  we  may  now  expect  his  recovery. 
Adieu.  The  good  general  will  add  a  line  to  assure  you  that  I 
am  not  deceived,  nor  too  sanguine. 

Yours  most  affectionately, 

Leonora  L , 

PosUeript  hy  General  B . 

I  have  some  hopes — that  i»  all  I  eaa  venture  t&  say  to  youv 
graoe. 


LETTER  CVII. 


LEOTNORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

DRAKEST  MOTHER,  Yarmouth. 

Excellent  news  for  you  to-day ! — Mr.  L is  pronounced  out 

of  danger.  He  seems  excessively  touched  by  my  coming  here^ 
and  so  grateful  for  the  little  kindness  I  have  been  able  to  show 
him  during  his  illness !  But  alas !  that  fatal  promise !  the  recol- 
lection of  it  comes  across  my  mind  like  a  spectre.     Mr.  L 

has  never  touched  upon  this  subject, — I  do  all  in  my  power  t» 
divert  his  thoughts  to  indifferent  objects. 

This  morning  when  I  went  into  his  room,  I  found  him  tearing 
to  pieces  that  note  which  I  mentioned  to  you  a  few  days  ago. 

He  seemed  much  agitated,  and  desired  to  see  General  B . 

They  are  now  together,  and  were  talking  so  loud  in  the  next 
room  to  me,  that  I  was  oUlged  to  retire,  lest  I  should  overhear 


LEONORA.  415 

«ecret8.     Mr.  L this  moment  sends  for  me.     If  1  should 

<iot  have  time  to  add  more,  this  short  letter  will  satisfy  you  for 
to-day. 

Leonora  L 

I  open  my  letter  to  say,  that  I  am  not  so  happy  as  I  was  when 
I  hegan  it.  I  have  heard  all  the  circumstances  relative  to  this 
terrible  affair.  Mr.  L—  will  go  to  Russia.  I  am  as  far  from 
happiness  as  even 


LETTER  CVIIL 

OLIVIA   TO    MR.  L 

Richmond. 
**  Say,  is  not  absence  death  to  those  that  love  ?** 

How  just,  how  beautiful  a  sentiment !  yet  cold  and  callous  is 
that  heart  which  knows  not  that  there  is  a  pang  more  dreadful 
than  absence — ^far  as  the  death  of  lingering  torture  exceeds,  in 
corporeal  sufferance,  the  soft  slumber  of  expiring  nature. 
Suspense !  suspense !  compared  with  thy  racking  agony,  even 
absence  is  but  the  blessed  euthanasia  of  love. 

My  dearest  L ,  why  this  torturing  silence  ?  one  line,  one 

word,  I  beseech  you,  from  your  oum  hand;  say  but  /  live  and 
love  you,  my  Olivia.  Hour  after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  have 
I  waited  and  waited,  and  hoped,  and  feared  to  hear  from  3'ou. 
Oh,  this  intolerable  agonizing  suspense !  Tet  hope  clings  to  my 
fond  heart— hope !  sweet  treacherous  hope ! 

**  Non  80  si  la  Speranza 
Va  con  Tingann  >  unita ; 
So  che  mantiene  in  vita 
Qualche  infelici  almeo.** 

OUVIA. 


416  LEONORA 


LETTER  CIX. 


MR.   L TO    OLIVIA. 


MT  DEAE  OLIVIA,  Yarmouth. 

This  is  the  first  line  I  have  written  since  m}'  illness.  I  could 
not  sooner  relieve  you  from  suspense,  for  during  most  of  this 
time  I  have  been  delirious,  and  never  till  now  able  to  write* 
Mj  physicians  have  this  morning  pronoimced  me  out  of  danger; 
and  as  soon  as  my  strength  is  sufficient  to  bear  the  voyage,  I 
shall  sail,  according    to  my  promise. 

Yc  ur  prudence,  or  that  of  your  physician,  has  saved  me  much 
atziety — perhaps  saved  my  life  :  for  had  you  been  so  rash  as  to 
come  hither,  besides  my  fears  for  your  safety,  I  should  have  been 
exposed,  in  the  moment  of  my  returning  reason,  to  a  conflict  of 
passions  which  I  could  not  have  borne. 

Leonora  is  with  me  ;  she  arrived  the  night  after  I  was  taken 
ill,  and  forced  her  way  to  me,  when  my  fever  was  at  the  highest, 
and  while  I  was  in  a  state  of  delirium. 

Lady  Leonora  will  stay  with  me  till  the  moment  I  sail,  which 
I  expect  to  do  in  about  ten  days.  I  cannot  say  positively,  for  I 
am  still  very  weak,  and  may  not  be  able  to  keep  my  word  to 
a  day.  Adieu.  I  hope  your  mind  will  now  be  at  ease.  I  am 
glad  to  hear  from  the  surgeon  that  your  wound  is  quite  closed. 
I  will  write  again,  and  more  fully,  when  I  am  better  able. 
Believe  me  Olivia,  I  am  most  anxious  to  secure  your  happiness  : 
allow  me  to  believe  that  this  will  be  in  the  power  of 

Yours  sincerely, 

F.  L . 


LETTER  ex. 

OLIVIA    TO    MR.  L 


Richmond. 
Babbaeous  man !  with  what  cold  cruelty  you  plunge  a  dagger 
into  my  heart!     leonora  is  with  you  !— Leonora!     Then  I  am 
undone.     Yes,  she    will — she  has  resumed  all  her  power,  her 
rights,  her  habitual  empire  over  your  heart.     Wretched  Olivia ! 


LEONORA.  417 

—But  you  say  it  is  your  wish  to  secure  my  happiness,  you  bid 
me  allow  you  to  believe  it  is  in  your  power.  What  plirases  ! — 
You  will  sail,  according  to  your  promise. — Then  nothing  but  your 
honour  binds  you  to  Olivia.  And  even  now,  at  this  guilty 
instant,  in  your  secret  soul,  you  wish,  you  expect  from  my 
offended  pride,  from  my  disgusted  delicacy,  a  renunciation  of 
this  promise^  a  release  from  all  the  ties  that  bind  you  to  me. 
You  are  right :  this  is  what  I  ought  to  do ;  what  I  would  do, 
if  love  had  not  so  weakened  my  soul,  so  prostrated  my  spirit, 
rendered  me  so  abject  a  creature,  that  /  cannot  what  I  would. 

I  must  love  on — female  pride  and  resentment  call  upon  me  in 
vain,  I  cannot  hate  you.  Even  by  the  feeble  tie,  which  I  see 
you  long  to  break,  I  must  hold  rather  than  let  you  go  for  ever. 
I  will  not  renounce  your  promis3.  I  claim  it.  I  adjure  you  by 
all  which  a  man  of  honour  holds  most  sacred,  to  quit  England 
the  moment  your  health  will  allow  you  to  sail.  No  equivocating 
with  your   conscience  ! — I  hold    you  to  your  word.     Oh,    my 

dearest  L !  to  feel  myself  reduced  to  use  such  language  to 

you,  to  find  myself  clinging  to  that  last  resource  of  ship- wrecked 
love,  a  promise  !  It  is  with  unspeakable  agony  I  feel  all  this  ; 
lower  I  cannot  sink  in  misery.  Raise  me,  if  indeed  you  wish  my 
happiness — raise  me!  it  is  yet  in  your  power.  Tell  me,  that 
my  too  susceptible  heart  has  mistaken  phantoms  for  realities — 
tell  me,  that  your  last  was  not  colder  than  usual ;  yes,  I  am 
ready  to  be  deceived.  Tell  me  that  it  was  only  the  languor  of 
disease ;  assure  me  that  my  rival  forced  her  way  only  to  your 
presence,  that  she  has  not  won  her  easy  way  back  to  your  heart 
—assure  me  that  you  are  impatient  once  more  to  see  your  own 

Olivia. 


LETTER  CXI. 


LEONORA    TO    HER    MOTHER. 

MY  DEAREST  MOTHER,  Yarmouth. 

Can  you  believe  or  imagine  that  I  am  actually  unwilling  to  say 

or  to  think  that  Mr.  L is  quite  well?  yet  tliis  is  the  fact 

Such  is  the  inconsistency  and  weakness  of  our  natures— of  my 
Leonora. 


418  LEONORA. 

nature,  I  should  say.  But  a  short  time  ago  I  thought  that  no 
evil  could  be  so  great  as  bis  danger ;  now  that  danger  is  past,  I 
^read  to  hear  him  say  that  he  is  perfectly  recovered.  The 
moment  he  is  able  he  goes  to  Russia;  that  is  decided  irrevocably. 
The  promise  has  been  claimed  and  repeated.  A  solemn  promise 
cannot  be  broken  for  any  human  consideration.  I  should  despise 
him  if  he  broke  it;  but  can  I  love  him  for  keeping  it?  His 
mind  is  at  this  instant  agitated  as  much  as  mine  is — more  it 
cannot  be.  Yet  I  ought  to  be  better  able  to  part  with  him  now 
than  when  we  parted  before,  because  I  have  now  at  least  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  he  leaves  me  against  his  will — that 
Jiis  heart  will  not  go  from  me.  This  time  I  cannot  be  deceived; 
I  have  had  the  most  explicit  assurances  of  his  undivided  love. 
And  indeed  I  was  never  deceived.  All  the  appearances  of 
regret  at  parting  with  me  were  genuine.    The  general  witnessed 

the  consequent  struggle  in  Mr.  L 's  mind,  and  this  fever 

followed. 

I  wOl  endeavour  to  calm  and  content  myself  with  the  posses- 
sion of  his  love,  and  with  the  assurance  that  he  will  return  to 
me  as  soon  as  possible.  As  soon  as  possible !  but  what  a  vague 
hope !  He  sails  with  the  first  fair  wind.  What  a  dreadful  cer- 
tainty !  Perhaps  to-^morrow !  Oh,  my  dearest  mother,  perhaps 
to-night! 

Leonora  L— — . 


LETTER  CXn. 

GENERAL  B TO  THE  DUCHESS  OF  ' 

MV  DEAR  MADAU,  Yarmouth. 

To-day  Mr.  L ,  finding  himself  suflSciently  recovered,  gave 

orders  to  all  his  suite  to  embark,  and  the  wind  being  fair,  de- 
termined to  go  on  board  immediately.  In  the  midst  of  the 
bustle  of  the  preparations  for  his  departure,  Lady  Leonora, 
exhausted  by  her  former  activity,  and  unable  to  take  any  part 
in  what  was  passing,  sat  silent,  pale,  and  motionless,  opposite  to 
a  window,  which  looked  out  upon  the  sea ;  the  vessel  in  which 


LEONORA.  419 

her  husband  was  to  sail  lay  in  sight,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  streamers,  watching  their  motion  in  the  wind. 

Mr.  L was  in  his  own  apartment  writing  letters.     An 

■express  arrived ;  and  among  other  letters  for  the  English  ambas- 
sador to  Russia,  there  was  a  large  packet  directed  to  Lady  Leonora 

L .     Upon  opening  it,  the   crimson   colour  flew  into   her 

face,  and  she  exclaimed,  **  01i\'ia's  letters  ! — Lady  Olivia 's 

letters  to  Mad.  de  P .     Who  could  send  these  to  me?" 

"  I  give  you  joy  with  all  my  heart !"  cried  I ;  "no  matter  how 
they  come — they  come  in  the  most  fortunate  moment  possible. 
I  would  stake  my  life  upon  it  they  will  unmask  Olivia  at  once. 
Where  is  Mr.  L ?     He  mast  read  them  this  moment." 

I  was  hmrying  out  of  the  room  to  call  my  friend,  but  Lady 
Leonora  stopped  my  career,  and  checked  the  transport  of  my 
joy. 

"  You  do  not  think,  my  dear  general,"  said  she,  "  that  I  would 
for  any  consideration  do  so  dishonourable  an  action  as  to  read 
these  letters  ?" 

"  Only  let  Mr.  L read  them,"  interrupted  I,  "that  is  all 

I  ask  of  your  ladyship.  Give  them  to  me.  For  the  soul  of  me 
I  can  see  nothing  dishonourable  in  this.  Let  Lady  Olivia  be 
judged  by  her  own  words.  Your  ladyship  shall  not  be  troubled 
with  her  trash,  but  give  the  letters  to  me,  I  beseech  you." 

"No,  I  cannot,"  said  Lady  Leonora,  steadily.  "It  is  a  great 
temptation ;  but  I  ought  not  to  yield."  She  deliberately  folded 
them  up  in  a  blank  cover,  directed  them  to  Lady  Olivia,  and 
sealed  them ;  whilst  I,  half  in  admiration  and  half  in  anger, 
went  on  expostulating. 

"  Good  God !  this  is  being  too  generous  !  But,  my  dear  Lady 
Leonora,  why  will  you  sacrifice  yourself?    This  is  misplaced 

delicacy !     Show  those  letters,  and  I'll  lay  my  life  Mr.  L 

never  goes  to  Russia." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  she,  looking  up  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"  do  not  tempt  me  beyond  my  power  to  resist.     Say  no  more." 

At  this  instant  Mr,  L came   into   the  room ;   and  I  am 

■ashamed  to  confess  to  your  Grace,  I  really  was  so  little  master  of 
myself,  that  I  was  upon  the  point  of  seizing  Olivia's  letters,  and 
putting  them  into  his  hands.     "  L— ,"  said  I,  "  here  is  your 


420  LEONORA. 

admirable  wife  absurdly,  yes,  I  must  say  it,  absurdly  standing 
upon  a  point  of  honour  with  one  who  has  none  !  That  packet 
which  she  has  before  her " 

Lady  Leonora  imposed  silence  upon  me  by  one  of  those  looks 
which  no  man  can  resist. 

"My  dear  Leonora,  you  are  right,"  said  Mr.  L ;  "and 

you  are  almost  right,  my  dear  general :  I  know  what  that  packet 
contains  ;  and  without  doing  anything  dishonourable,  I  hold 
myself  absolved  from  my  promise ;  I  shall  not  go  to  Russia,  my 
dearest  wife!"  He  flew  into  her  arms — and  I  left  them.  I 
question  whether  they  either  of  them  felt  much  more  than  I 
did. 

For  some  minutes  I  was  content  with  knowing  that  these 

things  had  really  happened,  that  I  had  heard  Mr.  L say  he 

was  absolved  from  all  promises,  and  that  he  would  not  go  to 
Russia  ;  but  how  did  all  this  happen  so  suddenly  ? — How  did  he 
know  the  contents  of  Olivia's  letters,  and  without  doing  any 
thing  dishonourable  ?  There  are  some  people  who  cannot  be 
perfectly  happy  till  they  know  the  rationale  of  their  happiness. 
I  am  one  of  these.     I  did  not  feel  "  a  sober  certainty  of  waking 

bliss,"  till  I  read  a  letter  which  Mr.  L received   by  the 

same  express  that  brought  Olivia's  letters,  and  which  he  read 
while  we  were  debating.  I  beg  your  Grace's  pardon  if  I  am  too 
minute  in  explanation ;  but  I  do  as  I  would  be  done  by.  The 
letter  was  from  one  of  the  private  secretaries,  who  is,  I  under- 
stand, a  relation  and  friend  of  Lady  Leonora  L .     As  the 

original  goes  this  night  to  Lady  Olivia,  I  send  your  Grace  a 
copy.  You  will  give  me  credit  for  copying,  and  at  such  a  time 
as  this !     I  congratulate  your  Grace,  and 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c., 

J.  a 


liiSOMoaA.  42t 


LETTER  CXIII. 

TO    MR.  L . 

[Private.] 
MY  DEAR  SIR,  London,  St.  James's-street. 

In  the  same  moment  you  receive  this,  your  lady,  for  whom  I 
have   the   highest   regard,    will    receive    from   me   a   valuable 

present,  a  packet  of  Lady  Olivia  's  letters  to  one  of  her 

French  friends.  These  letters  were  lately  found  in  a  French 
frigate,  taken  by  one  of  our  cruisers ;  and,  as  intercepted  corre- 
spondence  is  the  order  of  the  day,  these,  with  all  the  despatches 
on  hoard,  were  transmitted  to  our  office  to  be  examined,  in 
hopes  of  making  reprisals  of  state  secrets.  Some  letters  about 
the  court  and  Emperor  of  Russia  led  us  to  suppose  that  we  should 
find  some  political  manoeuvres,  and  we  examined  farther.  The 
examination  fortunately  fell  to  my  lot,  as  private  secretary. 
After  looking  them  all  over,  however,  I  found  that  these  papers 
contain  only  family  secrets  :  I  obtained  permission  to  send  them 

to  Lady  Leonora  L ,  to  ensure  the  triumph  of  virtue  over 

vice — to  put  it  into  her  ladyship's  power  completely  to  unmask 
her  unworthy  rival.  These  letters  will  show  you  by  what  arts 
you  have  been  deceived.  You  will  find  yourself  ridiculed  as  a 
cold,  awkward  Englishman ;  one  who  will  hottentot  again,  what- 
ever pains  may  he  taken  to  civilize  him  ;  a  man  of  ice,  to  be  taken 
as  a  lover  ixom  pure  charity,  ov  pure  curiosity,  or  the  pure  hesoin 
d" aimer.  Here  are  many  pure  motives,  of  which  you  will,  my 
dear  sir,  take  your  choice.  You  will  farther  observe  in  one  of 
her  letters,  that  Lady  Olivia  premeditated  the  design  of  prevail- 
ing with  you  to  carry  her  to  Russia,  that  she  might  show  her 
power  to  that  proudest  of  earthly  prudes,  the  Duchess  of  *  *  *, 
and   that    she    might  gratify  her  great  revenge  against  Lady 

Leonora  L . 

Sincerely  hoping,  my  dear  sir,  that  these  letters  may  open 
your  eyes,  and  restore  you  and  my  amiable  relation  to  domestic 
happiness,  1  make  no  apology  for  the  liberty  I  take,  and  cannot 
regret  the  momentary  pain  I  may  inflict.  You  are  at  liberty  to 
make  what  use  you  think  proper  of  this  letter. 


<22  LEONORA. 

I  have  it  in  command  from  my  Lord  •  to  add,  that  if  your 
health,  or  any  other  circumstances,  should  render  this  embassy 
to  Russia  less  desirable  to  you  than  it  appeared  some  time  ago, 
other  arrangements  can  be  made,  and  another  friend  of  goveru- 
ment  is  ready  to  supply  your  place. 

I  am,  my  dear  sir, 

Yours,  &c. 

To  F.  L ,  Es^.  ^c. 


LETTER  CXIV. 

FftOM    LADY    LEONORA  ■  TO    THB    DUCHESS    OF   — — . 

Yarmouth. 
Joy,    dearest    mother !       Come    and    share    your    daughter'^ 
happiness ! 

Continued  by  General  B . 

»  •  •  •  • 

Lady  Olivia,  thus  unmasked  by  her  own  hand,  has  fled  to  the 

continent,  declaring  that  she  will  never  more  return  to  England. 

There  she  is  right — England  is  not  a  country  fit  for  such  women. 

— But  I  will  never  waste  another  word  or  thought  upon  her. 

Mr.  L'  has  given  up  the  Russian  embassy,  and  returns 

with  Lady  Leonora  to  L Castle  to-morrow.     He  has  invited 

me  to  accompany  them.     Lady  Leonora  is  now  the  happiest  of 
wives,  and  your  Grace  the  happiest  of  mothers. 

I  have  the  honour  and  the  pleasure  to  be 
Your  Grace's  sincerely  attached, 

J.  B . 


I.EONORA.  423 


LETTER  CXV. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  TO  LADY  LEONORA  L '—. 

My  beloved  daughter,  pride  and  delight  of  your  happy  mother's 
heart,  I  give  you  joy  !  Your  temper,  fortitude,  and  persevering 
affection,  have  now  their  just  reward.  Enjoy  your  happiness, 
heightened  as  it  must  be  by  the  sense  of  self-approbation,  and 
by  the  sympathy  of  all  who  know  you.  And  now  let  me  indulge 
the  vanity  of  a  mother ;  let  me  exidt  in  the  accomplishment  of 
my  prophecies,  and  let  me  be  listened  to  with  due  humility, 
when  I  prophesy  again.  With  as  much  certainty  as  I  foretold 
what  is  now  present,  I  foresee,  my  child,  your  future  destiny, 
and  I  predict  that  you  will  preserve  while  you  live  your 
husband's  fondest  affections.  Your  prudence  will  prevent  you 
from  indulging  too  far  your  taste  for  retirement,  or  for  the 
exclusive  society  of  your  intimate  friends.  Spend  your  winters 
in  London :  your  rank,  your  fortune,  and,  I  may  be  permitted 
to  add,  your  character,  manners,  and  abilities,  give  you  the 
power  of  drawing  round  you  persons  of  the  best  information  and 
of  the  highest  talents.  Your  husband  will  find,  in  such  society, 
every  thing  that  can  attach  him  to  his  home ;  and  in  you,  his 
most  rational  friend  and  his  most  charaiing  companion,  who  will 
excite  him  to  every  generous  and  noble  exertion. 

For  the  good  and  wise,  there  is  in  love,  a  power  unknown  to 
the  ignorant  and  the  vicious,  a  power  of  communicating  fresh 
energy  to  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul,  of  exalting  them  to  the 
highest  state  of  perfection.  The  friendship  which  in  later  life 
succeeds  to  such  love  is  perhaps  the  greatest,  and  certainly  the 
most  permanent  blessing  of  life. 

An  admirable  German  writer — you  see,  my  dear,  that  I  have 
no  prejudices  against  good  German  writers — an  admirable 
German  writer  says,  that  "  Love  is  like  the  morning  shadows, 
which  diminish  as  the  day  advances  ;  but  friendship  is  like  the 
shadows  of  the  evening,  which  increase  even  till  the  setting  ot 
the  sun." 


1805. 


LETTER 


FROM 


A  GENTLEMAN  TO  HIS  FRIEND, 


UPON  THB 


BIRTH  OF  A  DAUGHTER; 

WITH    THE    ANSW£>« 


LETTER 


FROM 


A  GENTLEMAN  TO  HIS  FRIEND, 


•  CONGRATULATE  yoii,  my  dear  sir,  upon  the  birth  of  yonr 
ilaughter ;  and  I  wish  that  some  of  the  fairies  of  ancient  time^ 
■were  at  hand  to  endow  the  damsel  with  health,  wealth,  wit,  and 

beauty.    Wit? 1  should  make  a  long  pause  before  I  accepted 

of  thig  gift  for  a  daughter — you  would  make  none. 

As  I  know  it  to  be  your  opinion  that  it  is  in  tlie  power  of  edu- 
cation, more  certainly  than  it  was  ever  believed  to  be  in  the 
power  of  fairies,  to  bestow  all  mental  gifts ;  and  as  I  have  heard 
you  say  that  education  should  begin  as  early  as  possible,  I  am 
'in  haste  to  offer  you  my  sentiments,  lest  my  advice  should  come 
too  late. 

Your  general  ideas  of  the  habits  and  virtues  essential  to  the 
perfection  of  the  female  character  nearly  ag^ee  with  mine ;  but 
we  differ  materially  as  to  the  cultivation  which  it  is  necessary  or 
expedient  to  bestow  upon  the  understandings  of  women.  You 
are  a  champion  for  the  rights  of  woman,  and  insist  upon  the 
equality  of  the  sexes :  but  since  the  days  of  chivalry  are  past, 
-and  since  modem  gallantry  permits  men  to  speak,  at  least  to  one 
-another,  in  less  sublime  language  of  the  fair ;  I  may  confess  to 
you  that  I  see  neither  from  experience  nor  analogy  much  reason 
to  believe  that,  in  the  human  species  alone,  there  are  no  marks  of 
inferiority  in  the  female : — curious  and  admirable  excepcions 
there  may  be,  but  many  such  have  not  fallen  within  my  onserv'a- 

23 


428  LETTER  FROM  A 

tion.  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  been  much  enraptured,  either  or> 
a  first  view  or  on  a  closer  inspection,  with  female  prodigies.  Pro- 
digies are  scarcely  less  offensive  to  my  taste  than  monsters : 
humanity  makes  us  refrain  from  expressing  disgust  at  the 
awkward  shame  of  the  one,  whilst  the  intemperate  vanity  of  the 
other  justly  provokes  ridicule  and  indignation.  I  have  always 
observed  in  the  understandings  of  women  who  have  been  too 
much  cultivated,  some  disproportion  between  the  different 
faculties  of  their  minds.  One  power  of  the  mind  undoubtedly 
may  be  cultivated  at  the  expense  of  the  rest ;  as  we  see  that  one 
muscle  or  limb  may  acquire  excessive  strength,  and  an  unnatural 
size,  at  the  expense  of  the  health  of  the  whole  body  :  I  cannot 
think  this  desirable,  either  for  the  individual  or  for  society. — The 
unfortunate  people  in  certain  mountains  of  Switzerland  are,  some 
of  them,  proud  of  the  excrescence  by  which  they  are  deformed.  I 
have  seen  women  vain  of  exhibiting  mental  deformities,  which  to 
me  appeared  no  less  disgusting.  In  the  course  of  my  life  it  hai> 
never  been  my  good  fortune  to  meet  with  a  female  whose  mind, 
in  strength,  just  proportion,  and  activity,  I  could  compare  to  that 
of  a  sensible  man. 

Allowing,  however,  that  women  are  equal  to  our  sex  in  natu- 
ral abilities;  from  their  situation  in  society,  from  their  domestic 
duties,  their  taste  for  dissipation,  their  love  of  romance,  poetry, 
and  all  the  lighter  parts  of  literature,  their  time  must  be  so  fully 
occupied,  that  they  could  never  have  leisure  for,  even  supposing 
that  they  were  capable  of,  that  severe  application  to  which  our 
sex  submit. — Between  persons  of  equal  genius  and  equal  in- 
dustry, time  becomes  the  only  measure  of  their  acquirements. 

Now  calculate  the  time  which  is  wasted  by  the  fair  sex,  and 

tell  me  how  much  the  start  of  us  they  ought  to  have  in  the 
beginning  of  the  race,  if  they  are  to  reach  the  goal  before  us  ? — 
I't  is  not  possible  that  women  should  ever  be  our  equals  in  know- 
ledge, unless  you  assert  that  they  are  far  our  superiors  in  natural 
capacity. — Not  only  time  but,  opportunity  must  be  wanting  to 
complete  female  studies : — we  mix  with  the  world  without 
restraint,  we  converse  freely  with  all  classes  of  people,  with  men 
of  wit,  of  science,  of  learning,  with  the  artist,  the  mechanic,  the 
labourer;  every  scene  of  life  is  open  to  our  view;  every  assist- 
ance that  foreign  or  domestic  ingenuity  can  invent,  to  encouragr 


GENTLEMAN    TO    HIS    FRIEND*  42^ 

literary  studies,  is  ours  almost  exclusively.  FromM academies, 
colleges,  public  libraries,  private  associations  of  literaryi  men, 
women  are  excluded,  if  not  by  law,  at  least  by  custom,.  <which 

cannot  easily  be  conquered. Whenever  women  appear,  tevien 

when  we  seem  to  admit  them  as  our  equals  in  understanding, 
every  thing  assumes  a  different  form ;  our  politeness,  delicacy, 
habits  towards  the  sex,  forbid  us  to  argue  or  to  converse  with 
them  as  we  do  with  one  another  : — we  see  things  as  they  are  ; 
but  women  must  always  see  things  through  a  veil,  or  cease  to  be 
women. — With  these  insuperable  difficulties  in  their  education 
and  in  their  passage  through  life,  it  seems  impossible  that  their 
minds  should  ever  acquire  that  vigour  and  efficiency,  which  accu- 
rate knowledge  and  various  experience  of  life  and  manners  can 
bestow. 

Much  attention  has  lately  been  paid  to  the  education  of  the 
female  sex ;  and  you  will  say  that  we  have  been  amply  repaid 
for  our  care, — that  ladies  have  lately  exhibited  such  brilliant 
proofs  of  genius,  as  must  dazzle  and  confound  their  critics.  I  do 
not  ask  for  proofs  of  genius,  I  ask  for  solid  proofs  of  utility.  In 
which  of  the  useful  arts,  in  which  of  the  exact  sciences,  have  we 
been  assisted  by  female  sagacity  or  penetration  ? — I  should  be 
glad  to  see  a  list  of  discoveries,  of  inventions,  of  observations, 
evincing  patient  research,  of  truths  established  upon  actual  expe- 
riment, or  deduced  by  just  reasoning  from  previous  principles  : — 
if  these,  or  any  of  these,  can  be  presented  by  a  female  champion 
for  her  sex,  I  shall  be  the  first  to  clear  the  wav  for  her  to  the 
temple  of  Fame. 

I  must  not  speak  of  my  contemporaries,  else  candour  might 
oblige  me  to  allow  that  there  are  some  few  instances  of  great 
talents  applied  to  useful  purposes  i — but,  except  these,  what 
have  been  the  literary  productions  of  women  !  In  poetry,  plays, 
and  romances,  in  the  art  of  imposing  upon  the  understanding  by 
means  of  the  imagination,  they  have  excelled ; — but  to  useful 
literature  they  have  scarcely  turned  their  thoughts.  I  have 
never  heard  of  any  female  proficients  in  science — ^few  have  pre- 
tended to  science  till  within  these  few  years. 

You  will  tell  me,  that  in  the  most  difficult  and  most  extensive 
science  of  politi  s  women  have  succeeded ; — you  will  cite  the 
names  of  some  illustrious  queens.     I  am  inclined  to  think,  witb^ 


•430  LETTER    FROM    A 

the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  that  "  queens  who  reigned  well  were 
governed  by  men,  and  kings  who  reigned  ill  were  governed  by 
women." 

The  isolated  examples  of  a  few  heroines  cannot  convince  me 
that  it  is  safe  or  expedient  to  trust  the  sex  with  power : — their 
power  v.7er  themselves  has  regularly  been  found  to  diminish,  in 
proportion  as  their  power  over  others  has  been  increased.  I 
should  not  refer  you  to  the  scandalous  chronicles  of  modern 
times,  to  volumes  of  private  anecdotes,  or  to  the  abominable 
secret  histories  of  courts,  where  female  influence  and  female 
depravity  are  synonymous  terms;  but  1  appeal  to  the  open 
equitable  page  of  history,  to  a  body  of  evidence  collected  from 
the  testimony  of  ages,  for  experiments  tried  upon  the  grandest 
scale  of  which  nature  admits,  registered  by  various  hands,  without 
the  possibility  of  collusion,  and  without  a  view  to  any  particular 
•system : — from  these  you  must  be  convinced,  that  similar  conse- 
quences have  uniformly  resulted  from  the  same  causes,  in  nations 
the  most  imlike,  and  at  periods  the  most  distant.  Trace  the 
history  of  female  nat\ire,  from  the  court  of  Augustus  to  the  court 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  and  tell  me  whether  you  can  hesitate 
to  acknowledge  that  the  influence,  the  liberty,  and  the  power  of 
v.omen  have  been  constant  concomitants  of  the  moral  and 
political  decline  of  empires; — I  say  the  concomitants:  where 
events  are  thus  invariably  connected,  I  might  be  justified  in 
eaying  that  they  were  causes — you  would  call  them  effects ;  but 
we  need  not  dispute  about  the  momentary  precedence  of  evils, 
which  are  found  to  be  inseparable  companions  : — they  may  be 
alternately  cause  and  effect, — the  reality  of  the  connexion  is 
established ;  it  may  be  difficult  to  ascertain  precisely  its  nature. 

You  will  assert,  that  the  fatal  consequences  which  have  resulted 
from  our  trusting  the  sex  with  liberty  and  power,  have  been 
originally  occasioned  by  the  subjection  and  ignorance  in  which 
they  had  previously  been  held,  and  of  our  subsequent  folly  and 
imprudence,  in  throwing  the  reins  of  dominion  into  hands  unpre- 
pared and  uneducated  to  guide  them.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive 
any  system  of  education  that  can  properly  prepare  women  for 
the  exercise  of  power.  Cultivate  their  understandings,  "  cleanse 
the  visual  orb  with  euphrasy  and  rue,"  till  they  can  with  one 
connprehensive   glance  take  in    "  one    half  at  least   of  round 


GENTLEMAN    TO    HIS    FRIEND  431 

eternity;'*  still  you  have  no  security  that  their  reason  will  govern 
their  conduct.  The  moral  character  seems,  even  amongst  men 
of  superior  strength  of  mind,  to  have  no  certain  dependence 
upon  the  reasoning  faculty ; — ^hahit,  prejudice,  taste,  example, 
and  the  different  strength  of  various  passions,  form  the  moral 
character.  We  are  impelled  to  action,  frequently  contrary  to 
the  belief  of  our  sober  reason ;  and  we  pursue  what  we  could,  in 
the  hour  of  deliberation,  demonstrate  to  be  inconsistent  with 
that  greatest  possible  share  of  happiness^  which  it  is  the  object  of 
every  rational  creature  to  secure.  We  frequently  "  think  with 
one  species  of  enthusiasm,  and  act  with  another :"  and  can  we 
expect  from  women  more  consistency  of  conduct,  if  they  are 

allowed  the  same  liberty? No  one  can  feel,  more  strongly 

than  you  do,  the  necessity  and  the  value  of  female  integrity ;  no 
one  can  more  clearly  perceive  how  much- in  society  depends  upon 
the  honour  of  women  ;  and  how  much  it  is  the  interest  of  every 
individual,  as  well  as  of  every  state,  to  guard  their  virtue,  and  to 
preserve  inviolate  the  purity  of  their  manners.  Allow  me,  then, 
to  warn  you  of  the  danger  of  talking  iu  loud  strains  to  the  sex, 
of  the  noble  contempt  of  prejudice.  You  would  look  with  horror 
at  one  who  should  go  to  sap  tiie  foundations  of  the  building ; 
beware  then  how  you  venture  to  tear  away  the  ivy  which  clings 
to  the  walls,  and  braces  the  loose  stones  together. 

I  am  by  no  means  disposed  to  indulge  in  the  fashionable  ridi- 
cule of  prejudice.  There  is  a  sentimental,  metaphysical  argu- 
ment, which,  independently  of  all  others,  has  lately  been  used, 
to  prevail  upon  us  to  relinquish  that  superiority  which  strength 
of  body  in  savage,  and  strength  of  mind  in  civilized  nations, 
secure  to  man.  We  are  told,  that  as  women  are  reasonable 
creatures,  they  should  be  governed  only  by  reason ;  and  that  we 
disgrace  ourselves,  and  enslave  them,  when  we  instil  even  the 
most  useful  truths  as  prejudices. — Morality  should,  we  are  told, 
be  founded  upon  demonstration,  not  upon  sentiment;  and  Tire 
should  not  require  human  beings  to  submit  to  any  laws  or  cus- 
toms, without  convincing  their  understandings  of  the  universal 
utility  of  these  political  conventions.  When  are  we  to  expect 
this  conviction  ?  We  cannot  expect  it  from  childhood,  scarcely 
from  youth  ;  but  from  the  maturity  of  the  imderstanding  we  are 
told  that  we  .nay  expect  it  with  certainty. — And  of  what  use  can 


132  i.ETTER    TROM    A 

it  then  be  to  us?  When  the  habits  are  fixed,  when  the  character 
is  decided,  when  the  manners  are  formed,  what  can  he  done  by 
the  bare  conviction  of  the  understanding  ?  What  could  we  ex- 
pect from  that  woman,  whose  moral  education  was  to  begin,  at  the 
moment  when  she  was  called  upon  to  act;  and  who,  without 
having  imbibed  in  her  early  years  any  of  the  salutary  prejudices 
of  her  sex,  or  without  having  been  educated  in  the  amiable  ac- 
<iuiescence  to  well  established  maxims  of  female  prudence,  should 
boldly  venture  to  conduct  herself  by  the  immediate  conviction  of 
her  understanding?  I  care  not  for  the  names  or  titles  of  my 
guides  ;  all  that  I  shall  inquire  is,  which  is  best  acquainted  with 
the  road.  Provided  women  be  conducted  quietly  to  their  good, 
it  is  scarcely  worth  their  while  to  dispute  about  tlie  pompous 
metaphysical  names,  or  precedency  of  their  motives.  Why  should 
they  deem  it  disgraceful  to  be  induced  to  pursue  their  interest  by 
what  some  philosophers  are  pleased  to  call  weak  motives  ?  Is  it 
not  much  less  disgraceful  to  be  peaceably  governed  by  weak  rea- 
sons, than  to  be  incapable  of  being  restrained  by  the  strongest  ? 
The  dignity  of  human  nature,  and  the  boasted  free-will  of  rational 
agents,  are  high-sounding  words,  likely  to  impose  upon  the 
vanity  of  the  fair  sex,  as  well  as  upon  the  pride  of  ours  ;  but  if 
we  analyze  the  ideas  annexed  to  these  terms,  to  what  shall  we 
reduce  them?  Reason  in  its  highest  perfection  seems  just  to 
arrive  at  the  certainty  of  instinct ;  and  truth  impressed  upon 
the  mind  in  early  youth  by  the  united  voice  of  affection  and 
authority,  gives  all  the  real  advantages  of  the  most  investigating 
spirit  of  philosophy.  If  the  result  of  the  thought,  experience, 
and  sufferings  of  one  race  of  beings  is,  (when  inculcated  upon 
the  belief  of  the  next,)  to  be  stigmatized- as  prejudice,  there  is  an 
end  to  all  the  benefits  of  his'tory  and  of  education.  The  mutual 
intercourse  of  individuals  and  of  nations  must  be  only  for  the 
traffic  or  amusement  of  the  day.  Every  age  must  repeat  the 
same  experiments ;  every  man  and  every  nation  must  make  the 
same  mistakes,  and  suffer  the  same  miseries,  whilst  the  civilization 
and  happiness  of  the  world,  if  not  retrograde  in  their  course,  must 
for  ever  be  stationary. 

Let  us  not  then  despise,  or  teach  the  other  sex  to  despise,  tht 
traditional  maxims  of  experience,  or  those  early  prepossessions, 
which  may  be  termed  prejudices,  but  which  in  reality  serve  as 


GENTLEMAN    TO    HIS    FRIEND.  433 

their  moral  instinct.  I  can  see  neither  tyranny  on  our  part,  nor 
slavery  on  theirs,  in  this  system  of  education.  This  sentimental 
or  metaphysical  appeal  to  our  candour  and  generosity  has  then 
no  real  force ;  and  every  other  argument  for  the  literary  and 
philosophical  education  of  women,  and  for  the  extraordinary- 
cultivation  of  their  understandings,  I  have  examined.    ■ 

You  probably  imagine  that,  by  the  superior  ingenuity  and 
care  you  may  bestow  on  your  daughter's  education,  you  shall 
make  her  an  exception  to  general  maxims ;  you  shall  give  her 
all  the  blessings  of  a  literary  cultivation,  and  at  the  same  time 
preserve  her  from  all  the  follies,  and  faults,  and  evils,  which  have 
been  found  to  attend  the  character  of  a  literary  lady. 

Svstems  produce  projects  ;  and  as  projects  in  education  are  of 
all  others  the  most  hazardous,  they  should  not  be  followed  till 
after  the  most  mature  deliberation.  Though  it  may  be  natural, 
is  it  wise  for  any  man  to  expect  extraordinary  success,  from  his 
efforts  or  his  precautions,  beyond  what  has  ever  been  the  share 
of  those  who  have  had  motives  as  strong  for  care  and  for  exer- 
tion, and  some  of  whom  were  possibly  his  equals  in  ability  ?  Is 
it  not  incumbent  upon  you,  as  a  parent  and  as  a  philosopher,  to 
calculate  accurately  what  you  have  to  fear,  as  well  as  what  you 
have  to  hope  ?  You  can  at  present,  with  a  sober  degree  or 
interest,  bear  to  hear  me  enumerate  the  evils,  and  ridicule  the 
foibles,  incident  to  literary  ladies  ;  but  if  your  daughter  were 
actually  in  this  class,  you  would  not  think  it  friendly  if  I  were  to 
attack  them.  In  this  favourable  moment,  then,  I  beg  you  to 
hear  me  with  temper;  and  as  I  touch  upon  every  danger  and 
every  fault,  consider  cautiously  whether  you  have  a  certain  pre- 
ventive or  a  specific  remedy  in  store  for  each  of  them. 

Women  of  literature  are  much  more  numerous  of  late  than 
they  were  a  few  years  ago.  They  make  a  class  in  society,  they 
fill  the  public  eye,  and  have  acquired  a  degree  of  consequence 
and  an  appropriate  character.  The  esteem  of  private  friends, 
and  the  admiration  of  the  public  for  their  talents,  are  circum- 
stances highly  flattering  to  their  vanity ;  and  as  such  I  will 
allow  them  to  be  substantial  pleasures.  I  am  also  ready  to 
acknowledge  that  a  taste  for  literature  adds  much  to  the  happi- 
ness of  life,  and  that  women  may  enjoy  to  a  certain  degree  this 
happiness  as  well  as  men.     But  with  literary  women  this  silent 

Letter  from  a  Gentlemaiif  8^c, 


434  LETTER    FROM    A 

happiness  seems  at  best  but  a  subordinate  consideration-,  it  is 
not  by  the  treasures  they  possess,  but  by  those  which  they  have 
an  opportunity  of  displaying,  that  they  estimate  their  wealth. 
To  obtain  public  applause,  they  are  betrayed  too  often  into  a 
miserable  ostentation  of  their  leaniing.  Coxe  tells  us,  that 
certain  Russian  ladies  split  their  pearls,  in  order  to  make  a 
greater  display  of  finery. 

The  pleasure  of  being  admired  for  wit  or  erudition,  I  cannot 
exactly  measure  in  a  female  mind  ;  but  state  it  to  be  as  delight- 
ful as  you  can  imagine  it  to  be,  there  are  evils  attendant  upon 
it,  which,  in  the   estimation   of  a  prudent  father,  may  over- 
balance the  good.     The  intoxicating  effect  of  wit  upon  the  brain 
has  been  well  remarked,  by  a  poet,  who  was  a  friend  to  the  fair 
sex :    and  too  many  ridiculous,   and  too  many  disgusting  ex- 
amples confirm  the  truth  of  the  observation.     The  deference 
that  is  paid  to  genius,  sometimes  makes  the  fair  sex  forget  that 
genius  will  be  respected  only  when  imited  with  discretion.  Those 
who  have  acquired  fame,  fancy  that  they  can  afford  to  sacrifice 
reputation.     I  will  suppose,  however,  that  their  heads  shall  be 
strong  enough  to  bear  inebriating  admiration,  and  that  their 
conduct  shall  be  essentially  irreproachable ;  yet  they  will  show 
in  their   manners  and  conversation  that   contempt  of  inferior 
minds,  and  that  neglect  of  common  forms  and  customs,  which 
will  provoke  the  indignation  of  fools,  and  which  cannot  escape 
the  censure  of  the  wise.     Even  whilst  we  are  secure  of  their 
innocence,  we  dislike  that  daring  spirit  in  the  female  sex,  which 
delights  to  oppose  the  common  opinions  of  society,  and  from 
apparent  trifles  we  draw  unfavourable  omens,  which  experience 
too  often  confirms.     You  will  ask  me  why  I  should  suppose  that 
wits  are  more  liable  to  be  spoiled  by  admiration  than  beauties, 
who  have  usually  a  larger  share  of  it,  and  who  are  not  more 
exempt  from  vanity  ?    Those  who  are  vain  of  trifling  accomplish- 
ments, of  rank,  of  riches,  or  of  beauty,  depend  upon  the  world 
for  their  immediate  gratification.      They  are  sensible  of  their 
dependence ;    they  listen  with   deference  to   the  maxims,  and 
attend  with  anxiety  to  the  opinions  of  those,  from  whom  they 
expect   their  reward   and   their   daily  amusements.     In   their 
subjection  consists  their  safety ;  whilst  women,  who  neither  feel 
Dependent  for  amusement  nor  for  self-approbation  upon  company 


GENTLEMAN    TO    HIS    FRIEND.  435r 

and  public  places,  are  apt  to  consider  this  subjection  as  humiliating, 
if  not  insupportable  :  perceiving  their  own  superiority,  they 
despise,  and  even  set  at  defiance,  the  opinions  of  their  acquaint- 
ance of  inferior  abilities :  contempt,  where  it  cannot  be  openly 
retorted,  produces  aversion,  not  the  less  to  be  dreaded  because 
constrained  to  silence:  envy,  considered  as  the  involuntary 
tribute  extorted  by  merit,  is  flattering  to  pride  :  and  I  know  that 
many  women  delight  to  excite  envy,  even  whilst  they  affect  to 
fear  its  consequences :  but  they,  who  imprudently  provoke  it,  are 
little  aware  of  the  torments  they  prepare  for  themselves. — "  Cover 
your  face  well  before  you  disturb  the  hornet's  nest,"  was  a  maxim 
of  the  experienced  Catherine  de  Medici 

Men  of  literature,  if  we  may  trust  to  the  bitter  expressions  of 
anguish  in  their  writings,  and  in  their  priv?ite  letters,  feel  acutely 
all  the  stings  of  envy.  Women,  who  have  more  susceptibility 
of  temper,  and  less  strength  of  mind,  and  who,  from  the  delicate 
nature  of  their  reputation,  are  more  exposed  to  attack,  are  also 
less  able  to  endure  it.  Malignant  critics,  when  they  cannot 
attack  an  author's  peace  in  his  writings,  frequently  scrutinize 
his  private  life ;  and  every  personal  anecdote  is  published  with- 
out regard  to  truth  or  propriety.  How  will  the  delicacy  of  the 
female  character  endure  this  treatment?  How  will  her  friends 
bear  to  see  her  pursued  even  in  domestic  retirement,  if  she 
should  be  wise  enough  to  make  that  retirement  her  choice  ?  How 
will  they  like  to  see  premature  memoirs,  and  spurious  collections 
of  familiar  letters,  published  by  needy  booksellers,  or  designing 
enemies?  Yet  to  all  these  things  men  of  letters  are  subject; 
and  such  must  literary  ladies  expect,  if  they  attain  to  any 
degree  of  eminence. — Judging,  then,  from  the  experience  of 
our  sex,  I  may  pronounce  envy  to  be  one  of  the  evils  which 
women  of  uncommon  genius  have  to  dread.  "Censure,"  says  a 
celebrated  writer,  "  is  a  tax  which  every  man  must  pay  to  the 
public,  who  seeks  to  be  eminent. "^  Women  must  expect  to  pay 
it  doubly. 

Your  daughter,  perhaps,  shall  be  above  scandal.  She  shall 
despise  the  idle  whisper,  and  the  common  tattle  of  her  sex ;  her 
soul  shall  be  raised  above  the  ignorant  and  the  frivolous;  she 
shall  have  a  relish  for  higher  conversation,  and  a  taste  for  higher 
80ci?t3' ;  but  where  is  she  to  find,  or  how  is  she  to  obtain  this- 


436  LETTER    FROM    A 

society  ?  You  make  her  incapable  of  friendship  with  her  own 
sex.  Where  is  she  to  look  for  friends,  for  companions,  for 
equals?  Amongst  men?  Amongst  what  class  of  men?  Not 
amongst  men  of  business,  or  men  of  gallantry,  but  amongst  men 
of  literature. 

Learned  men  have  usually  chosen  for  their  wives,  or  for  their 
companions,  women  who  were  rather  below  than  above  the 
standard  of  mediocrity  :  tliis  seems  to  me  natural  and  reasonable. 
Such  men,  probably,  feel  their  own  incapacity  for  the  daily 
business  of  life,  their  ignorance  of  the  world,  their  slovenly 
habits,  and  neglect  of  domestic  affaii's.  They  do  not  want  wives 
who  have  precisely  their  own  defects ;  they  rather  desire  to  find 
such  as  shall,  by  the  opposite  habits  and  virtues,  supply 
their  deficiencies.  I  do  not  see  why  two  books  should  marry, 
any  more  than  two  estates.  Some  few  exceptions  might  be 
quoted  against  Stewart's  observations.  I  have  just  seen,  under 
the  article  "A  Literary  Wife,"  in  D'Israeli's  Curiosities  of 
Literature,  an  account  of  Francis  Phidelphus,  a  great  scholar  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  who  was  so  desirous  of  acquiring  the 
Greek  language  in  perfection,  that  he  travelled  to  Constanti- 
nople in  search  of  a  Grecian  wife :  the  lady  proved  a  scold. 
"  But  to  do  justice  to  the  name  of  Theodora,"  as  this  author  adds, 
*'  she  has  been  honourably  mentioned  in  the  French  Academy  of 
Sciences."  I  hope  this  proved  an  adequate  compensation  to 
her  husband  for  his  domestic  broils. 

Happy  Mad.  Dacier!  you  found  a  husband  suited  to  your 
taste!  You  and  Mons.  Dacier,  if  D'Alembert  tells  the  story 
rightly,  once  cooked  a  dish  in  concert,  by  a  receipt  which  you 
found  in  Apicius  and  you  both  sat  down  and  ate  of  your  learned 
ragout  till  you  were  both  like  to  die. 

Were  I  sure,  my  dear  friend,  that  every  literary  lady  would 
be  equally  fortunate  in  finding  in  a  husband  a  man  who  would 
sympathize  in  her  tastes,  I  should  diminish  my  formidable 
catalogue  of  evils.  But,  alas!  M.  Dacier  is  no  more;  "and  we 
shall  never  live  to  see  his  fellow."  Literary  ladies  will,  I  am 
afraid,  be  losers  in  love,  as  well  as  in  friendship,  by  the  supe- 
riority.— Cupid  is  a  timid,  playful  child,  and  is  frightened  at 
the  helmet  of  Minerva.  It  has  been  observed,  that  gentlemen 
are  not  apt  to  admire  a  prodigious  quantity  of  learning  and 


aENTLEM4.N    TO    HIS    FRIEKD.  ^37 

masculine  acquirements  in  the  fair  sex ; — we  usualb'  <:onsider  a 
certain  degree  of  weakness,  both  of  mind  and  buoy,  as  friendly 
to  female  grace.  I  am  not  absolutely  of  this  opinion  ;  yet  I  do 
not  see  the  advantage  of  supernatural  force,  either  of  body  or 
mind,  to  female  excellence.  Hercules-Spinster  found  his  strength 
rather  an  incumbrance  than  an  advantage. 

Superiority  of  mind  must  be  united  with  great  temper  and 
generosity,  to  be  tolerated  by  those  who  are  forced  to  submit  to 
its  influence.  I  have  seen  witty  and  learned  ladies,  who  did 
not  seem  to  think  it  at  all  incumbent  upon  them  to  sacrifice  any 
thing  to  the  sense  of  propriety.  On  the  contrary,  they  seemed 
to  take  both  pride  and  pleasure  in  showing  the  utmost  stretch  of 
their  strength,  regardless  of  the  consequences,  panting  only  for 
victory.  Upon  such  occasions,  when  the  adversary  has  been  a 
husband  or  a  father,  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  have  felt  sensa- 
tions which  few  ladies  can  easily  believe  they  excite.  Airs  and 
graces  I  can  bear  as  well  as  another  ;  but  airs  without  graces  no 
man  thinks  himself  bound  to  bear,  and  learned  airs  least  of  all. 
Ladies  of  high  rank  in  the  court  of  Parnassus  are  apt,  sometimes, 
to  claim  precedency  out  of  their  own  dominions,  which  create* 
much  confusion,  and  generally  ends  in  their  being  affronted. 
That  knowledge  of  the  world  which  keeps  people  in  their  proper 
places  they  will  never  learn  from  the  Muses. 

Moliere  has  pointed  out,  with  all  the  force  of  comic  ridicule, 
in  the  Femmes  Savantes,  that  a  lady,  who  aspires  to  the  sublime 
delights  of  philosophy  and  poetry,  must  forego  the  simple 
pleasures,  and  will  despise  the  duties  of  domestic  life.  I  should 
not  expect  that  my  house  affairs  would  be  with  haste  despatched 
by  a  Desdemona,  weeping  over  some  unvarnished  tale,  or 
petrified  with  some  history  of  horrors,  at  the  very  time  when  she 
should  be  ordering  dinner,  or  paying  the  butcher's  bill. — I 
should  have  the  less  hope  of  rousing  her  attention  to  my 
culinarj'  concerns  and  domestic  grievances,  because  I  should 
probably  incur  her  contempt  for  hinting  at  these  sublunary 
matters,  and  her  indignation  for  supposing  that  she  ought  to  be 
employed  in  such  degrading  occupations.  I  have  heard,  that  if 
these  sublime  geniuses  are  awakened  from  their  reveries  by  the 
appulse  of  external  circumstances,  they  start,  and  exhibit  all  the 
perturbation  and  amazement  of  cataleptic  patients. 


438  LETTER    FROM    A 

Sir  Charles  Harrington,  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabethy 
addressed  a  copy  of  verses  to  his  wife,  "  On  Women's  Vertues:" 
— these  he  divides  into  "the  private,  civill,  and  heroyke;"  the- 
private  belong  to  the  country  housewife,  whom  it  concemeth 
chiefly — 

"  The  fruit,  malt,  hops,  to  tend,  to  dry,  to  utter. 

To  beat,  strip,  spin  the  wool,  the  hemp,  the  flax, 
Breed  poultry,  gather  honey,  try  the  wax. 

And  more  than  all,  to  have  good  cheese  and  butter. 

Then  next  a  step,  but  yet  a  large  step  higher, 
Came  civill  vertue  fitter  for  the  citty. 

With  modest  looks,  good  clothes,  and  answers  witty. 

These  baser  things  not  done,  but  guided  by  her." 

As  for  heroyke  vertue,  and  heroyke  dames,  honest  Sir  Charles 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  them. 

Allowing,  however,  that  you  could  combine  all  these  virtues 
— that  you  could  form  a  perfect  whole,  a  female  wonder  from 
every  creature's  best — dangers  still  threaten  you.  How  will 
you  preserve  your  daughter  from  that  desire  of  universal  admi- 
ration, which  will  ruin  all  your  work?  How  will  you,  along 
w^ith  all  the  pride  of  knowledge,  give  her  that  "retiring 
modesty,"  which  is  supposed  to  have  more  charms  for  our  sex. 
than  the  fullest  display  of  wit  and  beauty  ? 

The  fcur  Pauca  of  ThotUouse  was  so  called  because  she  was  so 
fair  that  no  one  could  live  either  with  or  without  beholding  hei 
— whenever  she  came  forth  from  her  own  mansion,  which, 
history  observes,  she  did  very  seldom,  such  impetuous  crowds 
rushed  to  obtain  a  sight  of  her,  that  limbs  were  broken  and  lives 
were  lost  wherever  she  appeared.  She  ventured  abroad  less 
frequently — the  evil  increased — till  at  length  the  magistrates  of 
the  city  issued  an  edict  commanding  the  fair  Pauca,  under  the 
pain  of  perpetual  imprisonment,  to  appear  in  broad  daylight  for 
one  hour,  every  week,  in  the  public  market-place. 

Modem  ladies,  by  frequenting  public  places  so  regularly, 
declare  their  approbation  of  the  wholesome  regulations  of  these 
prudent  magistrates.  Very  different  was  the  crafty  policy  of 
the  prophet  Mahomet,  who  forbad  his  worshippers  even  to  paint 
his  picture.  The  Turks  have  pictures  of  the  hand,  the  foot,  the 
features  of  Mahomet,  but  no  representation  of  the  whole  face  or 


GENTLEMAN    TO    HIS    FRIEND.  439 

person  is  allowed.  The  portraits  of  our  beauties,  in  our  exhi- 
hition-room,  show  a  proper  contempt  of  this  insidious  policy ; 
4ind  those  learned  and  ingenious  ladies  who  publish  their  private 
letters,  select  maxims,  secret  anecdotes,  and  family  memoirs, 
are  entitled  to  our  thanks,  for  thus  presenting  us  with  full- 
lengths  of  their  minds. 

Can  you  expect,  my  dear  sir,  that  your  daughter,  with  all  the 
genius  and  learning  which  you  intend  to  give  her,  should 
refrain  from  these  imprudent  exhibitions?  Will  she  "yield 
her  chirms  of  mind  with  sweet  delay?"  Will  she,  in  every 
moment  of  her  life,  recollect  that  the  fatal  desire  for  universal 
applause  always  defeats  its  own  purpose,  especially  if  the 
purpose  be  to  win  our  love  as  well  as  our  admiration  ?  It  is  i« 
vain  to  tell  me,  that  more  enlarged  ideas  in  our  sex  would  alter 
our  tastes,  and  alter  even  the  {associations  which  now  influence 
our  passions.  The  captive  who  has  numbered  the  Imks  of  his 
chains,  and  has  even  discovered  how  th<  se  chains  are  con- 
structed, is  not  therefore  nearer  to  the  recovery  of  his  liberty. 

Besides,  it  must  take  a  length  of  time  to  alter  associations  and 
opinions,  which,  if  not  just^  are  at  least  common  in  our  sex. 
You  cannot  expect  even  that  conviction  should  operate  imme- 
diately upon  the  public  taste.  You  will,  in  a  few  years,  have 
educated  your  daughter;  and  if  the  world  be  not  educated 
exactly  at  the  right  time  to  judge  of  her  perfections,  to  admire 
and  love  them,  you  will  have  wasted  your  labour,  and  you  will 
have  sacrificed  your  daughter's  happiness :  that  happiness, 
analyze  it  as  a  man  of  the  world  or  as  a  philosopher,  must 
depend  on  friendship,  love,  the  exercise  of  her  virtues,  the  just 
performance  of  all  the  duties  of  life,  and  the  self-approbation 
Ariiing  from  the  consciousness  of  good  conduct. 

I  am,  my  dear  friend, 

Yours  sincerely. 


ANSWER 

TO 

THE  PRECEDING   LETTER. 


I  HAVE  as  little  taste  for  Mad.  Dacier's  learned  ragout  as  yoQ 
can  have,  my  dear  sir;  and  I  pity  the  great  scholar,  who 
travelled  to  Constantinople  for  the  termagant  Theodora,  believ- 
ing, as  you  do,  that  the  honourable  mention  made  of  her  by  the- 
French  Academy  of  Sciences,  could  be  no  adequate  compen- 
sation to  her  husband  for  domestic  disquiet:  but  the  lady's 
learning  was  not  essential  to  his  misfortune ;  he  might  have  met 
with  a  scolding  dame,  though  he  had  not  married  a  Grecian.  A 
profusion  of  vulgar  aphorisms  in  the  dialects  of  all  the  counties 
in  England,  proverbs  in  "Welsh,  Scotish,  French,  Spanish, 
Italian,  and  Hebrew,  might  be  adduced  to  prove  that  scolds  are 
to  be  found  amongst  all  classes  of  women,  I  am,  however, 
willing  to  allow,  that  the  more  learning,  and  wit,  and  eloquence 
a  lady  possesses,  the  more  troublesome  and  the  more  dangerous 
she  may  become  as  a  wife  or  daugliter,  unless  she  is  also 
possessed  of  good  sense  and  good  temper.  Of  your  honest  Sir 
Charles  Harrington's  two  pattern  wives,  I  think  I  should  prefer 
the  country  housewife,  with  whom  I  could  be  sure  of  having 
good  cheese  and  butter,  to  the  cttty  dame  with  her  good  clothes 
and  answers  witty. — I  should  be  afraid  that  these  answers  witty 
might  be  turned  against  me,  and  might  prove  the  torment  of  my 
life. — You,  who  have  attended  to  female  disputants,  must  have 
remarked,  that,  learned  or  unlearned,  they  seldom  know  how  to 
reason ;  they  assert  and  declaim,  employ  wit,  and  eloquence^ 
and  sophistry,  to  confute,  persuade,  or  abash  their  adversaries  ; 
but  distinct  reasoning  they  neither  use  nor  comprehend. — Till 
women  learn  to  reason,  it  is  in  vain  that  they  acquire  learning. 


ANSWER  TO  THE  PRECEDING  LETTER.  441 

You  are  satisfied,  I  am  sure,  with  this  acknowledgment, 
will  go  farther,  and  at  once  give  up  to  you  all  the  learned  ladie 
that  exist,  or  that  ever  have  existed  :  but  when  I  use  the  term 
literary  ladies,  I  mean  women  who  have  cultivated  their  under- 
standings not  for  the  purposes  of  parade,  but  with  the  desire  to 
make  themselves  useful  and  agreeable.  I  estimate  the  value  of 
a  woman's  abilities  and  acquirements,  by  the  degree  in  which  they 
contribute  to  her  happiness. 

You  think  yourself  happy  because  you  are  wise,  said  a  philo- 
sopher to  a  pedant. — I  think  myself  wise  because  I  am  happy. 

You  tell  me,  that  even  supposing  I  could  educate  my  daughter 
so  as  to  raise  her  abave  the  common  faults  and  follies  of  her 
sex ;  even  supposing  I  could  give  her  an  enlarged  understanding, 
and  literature  free  from  pedantry,  she  would  be  in  danger  of 
becoming  unhappy,  because  she  would  not,  amongst  her  own  sex, 
find  friends  suited  to  her  taste,  nor  amongst  ours,  admirers  ade- 
quate to  her  expectations :  you  represent  her  as  in  the  situation 
of  the  poor  flying-fish,  exposed  to  dangerous  enemies  in  her  own 
element,  yet  certain,  if  she  tries  to  soar  above  them,  of  being 
pounced  upon  by  the  hawk-eyed  critics  of  the  higher  regions. 

You  allow,  however,  that  women  of  literature  are  much  more 
numerous  of  late  than  they  were  a  few  years  ago ;  that  they 
make  a  class  in  society,  and  have  acquired  a  considerable  degree 
of  consequence,  and  an  appropriate  character ;  how  can  you  then 
fear  that  a  woman  of  cultivated  understanding  should  be  driven 
from  the  society  of  her  own  sex  in  search  of  dangerous  companions 
amongst  ours?  In  the  female  world  she  will  be  neither  without 
an  equal  nor  without  a  judge ;  she  will  not  have  much  to  fear 
from  envy,  because  its  malignant  eye  will  not  fix  upon  one 
object  exclusively,  when  there  are  numbers  to  distract  its  atten- 
tion, and  share  the  stroke.  The  fragile  nature  of  female  friend- 
ships, the  petty  jealousies  which  break  out  at  the  ball  or  in  the 
drawing-room,  have  been  from  time  immemorial  the  jest  of 
mankind.  Trifles,  light  as  air,  will  necessarily  excite  not  only 
the  jealousy,  but  the  envy  of  those  who  think  only  of  trifieji. 
Give  them  more  employment  for  their  thoughts,  give  them  a 
nobler  spirit  of  emulation,  and  we  shall  hear  no  more  of  these 
paltry  feuds;  give  them  more  useful  and  more  interesting  subjects 


442  ANSWER    TO    THE 

of  conversation,  and  they  become  not  only  more  agreeable,  but 
safer  companions  for  each  other. 

Unmarried  women,  who  have  stored  their  minds  with  know- 
ledge, who  have  various  tastes  and  literary  occupations,  who  can 
amuse  and  be  amused  in  the  conversation  of  well-informed 
people,  are  in  no  danger  of  becoming  burthen  some  to  their  friends 
or  to  society:  though  they  may  not  be  seen  haunting  every 
place  of  amusement  or  of  public  resort,  they  are  not  isolated  or 
forlorn ;  by  a  variety  of  associations  they  are  connected  with  the 
world,  and  their  sympathy  is  expanded  and  supported  by  the 
cultivation  of  their  understandings ;  nor  can  it  sink,  settle,  and 
concentrate  upon  cats,  parrots,  and  monkeys.  How  far  the 
human  heart  may  be  contracted  by  ignorance  it  is  difficult  to 
determine;  but  I  am  little  inclined  to  envy  the  simple  plea- 
sures of  those  whose  understandings  are  totally  uncultivated. — 
Sir  William  Hamilton,  in  his  account  of  the  last  eruption  of 
Mount  Vesuvius,  gives  us  a  curious  picture  of  the  excessive 
ignorance  and  stupidity  of  some  nuns  in  a  convent  at  Torre  del 
Greco  :^-one  of  these  nuns  was  found  warming  herself  at  the 
red-hot  lava,  which  had  rolled  up  to  the  window  of  her  cell.  It 
was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  these  scarcely  rational  beings 
could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  nature  of  their  danger ;  and 
when  at  last  they  were  prevailed  upon  to  quit  the  convent,  and 
were  advised  to  carry  with  them  whatever  they  thought  most 
valuable,  they  loaded  themselves  with  sweetmeats. — Those  who 
wish  for  ignorant  wives,  may  find  them  in  other  parts  of  the 
world,  as  well  as  in  Italy. 

I  do  not  pretend,  that  even  by  cultivating  my  daughter's 
understanding  I  can  secure  for  her  a  husband  suited  to  her  taste ; 
it  will  therefore  be  prudent  to  make  her  felicity  in  some  degree 
independent  of  matrimony.  Many  parents  have  sufficient  kind- 
ness and  foresight  to  provide,  in  point  of  fortune,  for  their 
daughters ;  but  few  consider  that  if  a  single  life  should  be  their 
choice  or  their  doom,  something  more  is  necessary  to  secure 
respect  and  happiness  for  them  in  the  decline  of  life.  The  silent 
unreproved  pleasures  of  literature  are  the  sure  resource  of  tliose 
who  have  cultivated  minds  ;  those  who  have  not,  must  wpftr  out 
their  disconsolate  unoccupied  old  age  as  chance  directs. 


PRECEDINU    LETTER.  413: 

When  you  say  that  men  of  superior  understanding  dislike  the 
appearance  of  extraordinary  strength  of  mind  in  the  fair  sex,  you 
probably  mean  that  the  display  of  that  strength  is  disgusting, 
and  you  associate  with  the  idea  of  strength  of  mind,  masculine, 
arrogant,  or  pedantic  manners :  but  there  is  no  necessary  con- 
nexion between  these  things;  and  it  seems  probable  that  the 
faults  usually  ascribed  to  learned  ladies,  like  those  peculiar  to 
learned  men,  may  have  arisen  in  a  great  measure  from  circum- 
stances which  the  progress  of  civilization  in  society  has  much, 
altered. 

In  the  times  of  ignorance,  men  of  deep  science  were  consi- 
dered by  the  vulgar  as  a  class  of  necromancers,  and  they  were 
looked  upon  alternately  with  terror  and  admiration ;  and  learned 
men  imposed  upon  the  vulgar  by  assuming  strange  airs  of 
Diystery  and  self-importance,  wore  long  beards  and  solemn- 
looks  ;  they  spoke  and  wrote  in  a  phraseology  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, and  affected  to  consider  the  rest  of  mankind  as  beneath 
their  notice  :  but  since  knowledge  has  been  generally  diffused, 
all  this  affectation  has  been  laid  aside  ;  and  though  we  now  and 
then  hear  of  men  of  genius  who  indulge  themselves  in  pecu- 
liarities, yet  upon  the  whole  the  manners  of  literary  men  are  not 
strikingly  nor  wilfully  different  from  those*^  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  The  peculiarities  of  literary  won\€'n  will  also  disappear 
as  their  numbers  increase.  You  are  disgusted  by  their  ostenta- 
tion of  learning.  Have  patience  with  them,  my  dear  sir ;  their 
taste  will  become  more  simple  when  they  have  been  taught  by 
experience  that  this  parade  is  offensive  ;  even  the  bitter  expres- 
sion of  your  disgust  may  be  advantageous  to  those  whose  man- 
ners are  yet  to  be  formed  ;  they  will  at  least  learn  from  it  what 
to  avoid ;  and  your  letter  may  perhaps  hereafter  be  of  service  in 
my  daughter's  education. — It  is  scarcely  to  be  supposed,  that  a 
girl  of  good  understanding  would  deliberately  imitate  the  faults 
and  follies  which  she  hears  ridiculed  during  her  childhood,  by 
those  whom  she  esteems. 

As  to  your  dread  of  prodigies,  that  will  subside : — ^prodigiet> 
are  heard  of  most  frequently  during  the  ages  of  ignorance.  A 
woman  may  now  possess  a  considerable  stock  of  information 
without  being  gazed  upon  as  a  miracle  of  learning;  and  there 
is  not  nmch  danger  of  her  being  vain  of  accomplishments  whicL 

29 


444  ANSWER    TO    THE 

cease  to  be  astonishing.  Nor  will  her  peace  be  disturbed  by  the 
idle  remarks  of  the  ignorant  vulgar. — A  literary  lady  is  no 
longer  a  sight;  the  spectacle  is  now  too  common  to  attract 
curiosity ;  the  species  of  animal  is  teo  well  known  even  to 
admit  of  much  exaggeration  in  the  description  of  its  appearance. 
A  lady  riding  on  horseback  upon  a  side-saddle  is  not  thought  a 
wonderful  thing  by  the  common  people  in  England ;  but  when 
an  English  lady  rode  upon  a  side-saddle  in  an  Italian  city,  where 
the  sight  was  unusual,  she  was  universally  gazed  at  by  the 
populace  ;  to  some  she  appeared  an  object  of  astonishment,  to 
others  of  compassion:  —  "Ah!  poverina,"  they  exclaimed, 
"  n'ha  che  una  gamba !" 

The  same  objects  excite  different  emotions  in  different  situa- 
tions ;  and  to  judge  what  will  astonish  or  delight  any  given  set  of 
people  some  years  hence,  we  must  consider  not  merely  what  is  the 
fashion  of  to-day,  but  whither  the  current  of  opinion  runs,  and  what 
is  likely  to  be  the  fashion  of  hereafter. — You  must  have  observed 
that  public  opinion  is  at  present  more  favourable  to  the  cultivation 
of  the  understanding  of  the  female  sex  than  it  was  some  years  ago  ; 
more  attention  is  paid  to  the  education  of  women,  moi-e  know- 
ledge and  literature  are  expected  from  them  in  society.  From 
the  literary  lady  of  the  present  day  something  more  is  expected 
than  that  she  should  know  how  to  spell  and  to  write  better  than 
Swift's  celebrated  Stella,  whom  he  reproves  for  writing  villian 
and  daenger  : — perhaps  this  very  Stella  was  an  object  of  envy  in 
her  own  day  to  those  who  were  her  inferiors  in  literature.  No 
man  wishes  his  wife  to  be  obviously  less  cultivated  than  those  of 
her  own  rank ;  and  something  more  is  now  required,  even  from 
ordinary  talents,  than  what  distinguished  the  accomplished  lady 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  What  the  standard  of  excellence 
may  be  in  the  next  age  we  cannot  ascertain,  but  we  may  guess 
that  the  taste  for  literature  will  continue  to  be  progressive ; 
therefore,  even  if  you  assume  that  the  education  of  the  female 
sex  should  be  guided  by  the  taste  and  reigning  opinions  of  ours, 
and  that  it  should  be  the  object  of  their  lives  to  win  and  keep 
our  hearts,  you  must  admit  the  expediency  of  attending  to  that 
fashionable  demand  for  literature  and  the  fine  arts,  which  has 
arisen  in  society. 

No  woman  can  foresee  what  may  be  the  taste  of  the  man  with 


PRECEDING    LETTER.  445 

whom  she  may  be  united  ;  much  of  her  happiness,  however,  will 
depend  upon  her  being  able  to  conform  her  taste  to  his:  for 
this  reason  I  should  therefore,  in  female  education,  cultivate  the 
igeneral  powers  of  the  mind,  rather  than  any  particular  faculty. 
I  do  not  desire  to  make  my  daughter  merely  a  musician,  a 
painter,  or  a  poet ;  I  do  not  desire  to  make  her  merely  a  botanist, 
a  mathematician,  or  a  chemist ;  but  I  wish  to  give  her  early  the 
habit  of  industry  and  attention,  the  love  of  knowledge,  and  the 
power  of  reasoning :  these  will  enable  her  to  attend  to  excellence 
in  any  pursuit  to  which  she  may  direct  her  talents.  You  will 
observe,  that  many  things  which  formerly  were  thought  above 
the  comprehension  of  women,  or  unfit  for  their  sex,  are  now 
acknowledged  to  be  perfectly  within  the  compass  of  their  abilities, 
and  suited  to  their  situation. — Formerly  the  fair  sex  was  kept  in 
Turkish  ignorance ;  every  means  of  acquiring  knowledge  was 
discountenanced  by  fashion,  and  impracticable  even  to  those  who 
despised  fashion ; — our  books  of  science  were  full  of  unintelligible 
jargon,  and  mystery  veiled  pompous  ignorance  from  public 
contempt :  but  now  writers  must  offer  their  discoveries  to  the 
public  in  distinct  terms,  which  every  body  may  understand; 
technical  language  no  longer  supplies  the  place  of  knowledge, 
and  the  art  of  teaching  has  been  carried  to  such  perfection,  that 
a  degree  of  knowledge  may  now  with  ease  be  acquired  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years,  which  formerly  it  was  the  business  of  a 
life  to  attain.  All  this  is  much  in  favour  of  female  literature. 
Ladies  have  become  ambitious  to  superintend  the  education  of 
their  children,  and  hence  they  have  been  induced  to  instruct 
themselves,  that  they  may  be  able  to  direct  and  inform  their 
pupils.  The  mother,  who  now  aspires  to  be  the  esteemed  and 
beloved  instructress  of  her  children,  must  have  a  considerable 
portion  of  knowledge.  Science  has  of  late  "  been  enlisted  under 
the  banners  of  imagination,"  by  the  irresistible  charms  of  genius; 
by  the  same  power,  her  votaries  will  be  led  "from  the  looser 
analogies  which  dress  out  the  imagery  of  poetry  to  the  stricter 
ones  which  form  the  ratiocination  of  philosophy'^  " — Botany  has 
become  fashionable  ;  in  time  it  may  become  useful,  if  it  be  not 
80  already.     Chemistry  will  follow  botany.      Chemistry  is  a 

*  Vide  preface  to  Darwin's  Botanic  Gardem. 


4429^  AMSWfiR    TO    THB 

iicieuce  well  suited  to  the  talents  and  situation  of  women' ;  it  i» 
not  a  science  of  parade ;  it  affords  occupation  and  infinite  variety  • 
it  demands  no  bodily  strength ;  it  can  be  pursued  in  retirement 
\l  applies  immediately  to  useful  and  domestic  purposes :  and 
whilst  the  ingenuity  of  the  most  inventive  mind  may  in  this 
science  be  exercised,  there  is  no  danger  of  inflaming  the  imagi- 
nation, because  the  mind  is  intent  upon  realities,  the  knowledge 
that  is  acquired  is  exact,  and  the  pleasure  of  the  pursuit  is  a  suffi- 
cient reward  for  the  labour. 

A  clear  and  ready  knowledge  of  arithmetic  is  surely  no  use- 
less acquirement  for  those  who  are  to  regulate  the  expenses  of  a 
f.iraily.  Economy  is  not  the  mean  "penny  wise  and  pound 
fiiolish"  policy  which  some  suppose  it  to  be;  it  is  the  art  of 
calculation  joined  to  the  habit  of  order,  and  the  power  of  propor- 
tioning our  wishes  to  the  means  of  gratifying  them.  The  little 
pilfering  temper  of  a  wife  is  despicable  and  odious  to  every  man. 
of  sense  ;  but  there  is  a  judicious,  graceful  species  of  economy, 
which  has  no  connexion  with  an  avaricious  temper,  and  whicli, 
as  it  depends  xipon  the  understanding,  can  be  expected  only  from 
cultivated  minds.  Women  who  have  been  well  educated,  far 
from  despising  domestic  duties,  will  hold  them  in  high  respect ; 
because  they  will  see  that  the  whole  happiness  of  life  is  made  up 
of  the  happiness  of  each  particular  day  and  hour,  and  that  much 
of  the  enjoyment  of  these  must  depend  upon  the  punctual  prac- 
tice of  those  virtues  which  are  more  valuable  than  splendid. 

It  is  not,  I  hope,  your  opinion,  that  ignorance  is  the  best  secu- 
rity for  female  virtue.  If  this  connexion  between  virtue  and 
ignorance  could  once  be  clearly  proved,  we  ought  to  drown  our 
books  deeper  than  ever  plummet  sounded : — I  say  toe — for  the 
danger  extends  equally  to  both  sexes,  unless  you  assert  that  the 
duties  of  men  rest  upon  a  more  certain  foundation  than  the 
duties  of  the  other  sex :  if  our  virtues  can  be  demonstrated  to 
be  advantageous,  why  should  theirs  suffer  for  being  exposed  to  the 
light  of  reason  ? — All  social  virtue  conduces  to  our  own  happiness- 
or  that  of  our  fellow-creatures ;  can  it  weaken  the  sense  of  duty 
to  illustrate  this  truth  ? — Having  once  pointed  out  to  the  under- 
standing of  a  sensible  wom^n  the  necessary  connexion  between 
her  virtues  and  her  happiness,  must  not  those  virtues,  and  the 
means  of  preserving  them,  become  in  her  eyes  objects  of  the 


PRECCDINO    I/SO'TER.  447 

■most  interesting  importance  ?  But  you  fear,  thaterenif  their 
conduct  continued  to  be  irreproachable,  the  manners  of  women 
might  be  rendered  less  delicate  by  the  increase  of  their  know- 
ledge ;  you  dislike  in  the  female  sex  that  daring  spirit  which 
despises  the  common  forms  of  society,  and  which  breaks  through 
the  reserve  and  delicacy  of  female  manners  : — so  do  I : — and  the 
best  method  to  make  my  pupil  respect  these  things  is  to  show  her 
how  they  are  indispensably  connected  with  the  largest  interests 
of  society  :  surely  this  perception  of  the  utility  of  forms  appa- 
rently trifling,  must  be  a  strong  security  to  the  prudential 
reserve  of  the  sex,  and  far  superior  to  the  automatic  habits  of 
those  who  submit  to  the  conventions  of  the  world  without  consi- 
deration or  conviction.  Habit,  confirmed  by  reason,  assumes 
tlie  rank  of  virtue.  The  motives  that  restrain  from  vice  must 
be  increased  by  the  clear  conviction,  that  vice  and  wretchedness 
are  inseparably  united. 

Do  not,  however,  imagine,  my  dear  sir,  that  I  shall  attempt  to 
lay  moral  demonstration  before  a  child,  who  could  not  possibly 
comprehend  my  meaning ;  do  not  imagine  that  because  I  intend 
to  cultivate  my  daughter's  understanding,  I  shall  neglect  to  give 
her  those  early  habits  of  reserve  and  modesty  which  constitute 
the  female  character. — Believing,  as  I  do,  that  woman,  as  well 
as  man,  may  be  called  a  bundle  of  habits,  I  shall  be  peculiarly 
careful,  during  my  child's  early  education,  to  give  her  as  many 
good  habits  as  possible ;  by  degrees  as  her  understanding,  that 
is  to  say  as  her  knowledge  and  power  of  reasoning  shall  increase, 
I  can  explain  the  advantages  of  these  habits,  and  confirm  their 
power  by  the  voice  of  reason.  I  lose  no  time,  I  expose  myself 
to  no  danger,  by  this  system.  On  the  contrary,  those  who 
depend  entirely  upon  the  force  of  custom  and  prejudice  expose 
themselves  to  infinite  danger.  If  once  their  pupils  begin  to 
reflect  upon  their  own  hoodwinked  education,  they  will  pro- 
bably suspect  that  they  have  been  deceived  in  all  that  they 
have  been  taught,  and  they  will  burst  their  bonds  with  indig- 
nation.— Credulity  is  always  rash  in  the  moment  she  detects 
the  impositions  that  have  been  practised  upon  her  easy  temper. 
In  this  inquiring  age,  few  have  any  chance  of  passing  through 
life  without  being  excited  to  examine  the  motives  and  prin- 
ciples from   which   they  act:    is  it  not  therefore  pnident   to 


448  ANSWER    TO    THE 

cultivate  the  reasoning  faculty,  by  which  alone  this  examina- 
hon  can  be  made  with  safety  ?  A  false  argument,  a  repartee, 
the  charms  of  wit  or  eloquence,  the  voice  of  fashion,  of  folly, 
of  numbers,  might,  if  she  had  no  substantial  reasons  to  support 
her  cause,  put  virtue  not  only  out  of  countenance,  but  out  of 
humour. 

You  speak  of  moral  instinct.  As  far  as  I  understand  the  term, 
it  implies  certain  habits  early  acquired  from  education ;  lo  these 
I  would  add  the  power  of  reasoning,  and  then,  and  not  till  then, 
I  should  think  myself  safe  : — for  I  have  observed  that  the  pupils 
of  habit  are  utterly  confounded  when  they  are  placed  in  circum- 
stances different  from  those  to  which  they  have  been  accustomed. 
—It  has  been  remarked  by  travellers  and  naturalists,  that 
animals,  notwithstanding  their  boasted  instinctive  knowledge, 
sometimes  make  strange  and  fatal  mistakes  in  their  conduct, 
when  they  are  placed  in  new  situations : — destitute  of  the  rea- 
soning faculty,  and  deceived  by  resemblances,  they  mistake 
poison  for  food.  Thus  the  bull-frog  will  swallow  burning  char- 
coal, mistaking  it  for  lire-flies ;  and  the  European  hogs  and 
poultry  which  travelled  to  Surinam  poisoned  themselves  by 
eating  plants  that  were  unknown  to  them  ^ 

You  seem,  my  dear  sir,  to  be  afraid  that  truth  should  not  keep 
so  firm  a  hold  upon  the  mind  as  prejudice ;  and  you  produce  an 
allusion  to  justify  your  fears.  You  tell  us  that  civil  society  is 
like  a  building,  and  you  warn  me  not  to  tear  down  the  ivy  which 
clings  to  the  walls,  and  braces  the  loose  stones  together. — I 
believe  that  ivy,  in  some  situations,  tends  to  pull  down  the  walls 
to  which  it  clings. — You  think  it  is  not  worth  while  to  cultivate 
the  understandings  of  women,  because  you  say  that  you  have  no 
security  that  the  conviction  of  their  reason  will  have  any  per- 
manent good  effect  upon  their  conduct ;  and  to  persuade  me  of 
this,  you  bid  me  observe  that  men  who  are  superior  to  women 
in  strength  of  mind  and  judgment,  are  frequently  misled  by  their 
passions.  By  this  mode  of  argument,  you  may  conclude  that 
reason  is  totally  useless  to  the  whole  human  race ;  but  you 
cannot,  with  any  show  of  justice,  infer  that  it  ought  to  be  mono- 
polized by  one-half  of  mankind.     But  why  should  you  quarrel 

'  Vide  Stedmen*B  Voyage  to  Surinam,  vol.  ii.  p.  47. 


PRECEDING    LEITER.  449 

with  reason,  because  passion  sometimes  conquers  her? — You 
should  endeavour  to  strengthen  the  connexion  between  theory 
and  practice,  if  it  be  not  sufficiently  strong  already ;  but  you  can 
gain  nothmg  by  destroying  theory. — Happiness  is  your  aim ; 
but  your  unpractised  or  unsteady  hand  does  not  obey  your  will : 
you  do  not  at  the  first  trial  hit  the  mark  precisely. — Would 
you,  because  you  are  awkward,  insist  upon  being  blind  i 

The  strength  of  mind  which  enables  people  to  govern  themselves 
by  their  reason,  is  not  always  connected  with  abilities  even  in 
their  most  cultivated  state  :  I  deplore  the  instances  which  I  have 
seen  of  this  truth,  but  I  do  not  despair ;  on  the  contrary,  I  am 
excited  to  inquire  into  the  causes  of  this  phenomenon  ;  nor, 
because  I  see  some  evil,  would  I  sacrifice  the  good  upon  a  bare 
motive  of  suspicion.  It  is  a  contradiction  to  say,  that  giving 
the  power  to  discern  what  is  good  is  giving  a  disposition  to 
prefer  what  is  bad.  I  acknowledge  with  regret,  that  women 
who  have  been  but  half  instructed,  who  have  seen  only  super- 
ficially the  relations  of  moral  and  political  ideas,  and  who  have 
obtained  but  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  have 
conducted  themselves  so  as  to  disgrace  their  talents  and  their 
sex  ;  these  are  conspicuous  and  melancholy  examples,  which 
are  cited  often er  with  malice  than  with  pity.  But  I  appeeil  to 
examples  amongst  our  contemporaries,  to  which  every  man  of 
literature  will  immediately  advert,  to  prove,  that  where  the 
female  understanding  has  been  properl}'  cultivated,  women  ha^'e 
not  only  obtained  admiration  by  their  useful  abilities,  but  respect 
by  their  exemplary  conduct. 

I  apprehend  that  many  of  the  errors  into  which  women  of 
literature  have  fallen,  may  have  arisen  from  an  improper  choice 
of  books.  Those  who  read  chiefly  works  of  imagination,  receive 
from  them  false  ideas  of  life  and  of  the  human  heart.  Many  of 
these  productions  I  should  keep  as  I  would  deadly  poison  from 
my  child ;  I  should  rather  endeavour  to  turn  her  attention  to 
science  than  to  romance,  and  to  give  her  early  that  taste  for 
truth  and  utility,  which,  when  once  implanted,  can  scarcely  be 
jradicated.  There  is  a  wide  difference  between  innocence  and 
ignorance :  ignorant  women  may  have  minds  the  most  debased 
and  perverted,  whilst  the  most  cultivated  understanding  may  b« 
united  with  the  most  perfect  innocence  and  simplicity. 

Letter  from  a  Gentleman,  8^c. 


^oO  ANSWER    TO    THB 

Even  if  literature  were  of  no  other  use  to  the  fair  sex  than  to 
supply  them  with  employment,  I  should  think  the  time  dedi- 
cated to  the  cultivation  of  their  minds  well  bestowed :  they  are 
•surely  better  occupied  when  they  are  reading  or  writing  than 
when  coqueting  or  gaming,  losing  their  fortunes  or  their  cha- 
racters. You  despise  the  writings  of  women : — you  think  that 
they  might  have  made  a  better  use  of  the  pen,  than  to  write  plays, 
and  poetry,  and  romances.  Considering  that  the  pen  was  to 
women  a  new  instrument,  I  think  they  have  made  at  least  as 
good  a  use  of  it  as  learned  men  did  of  the  needle  some  centuries 
4igo,  when  they  set  themselves  to  determine  how  many  Spirits 
could  stand  upon  its  point,  and  were  ready  to  tear  one  another 
to  pieces  in  the  discussion  of  this  sublime  question.  Let  the 
sexes  mutually  forgive  each  other  their  follies ;  or,  what  is  much 
better,  let  them  combine  their  talents  for  their  general  advan- 
tage.  You  say,  that  the  experiments  we  have  made  do  not 

encourage  us  to  proceed — that  the  increased  care  and  pains 
which  have  been  of  late  years  bestowed  upon  female  education 
have  produced  no  adequate  returns  ;  but  you  in  the  same  breath 
allow  that  amongst  your  contemporaries,  whom  you  prudently 
forbear  to  mention,  there  are  some  instances  of  great  talents 
applied  to  useful  purposes.  Did  you  expect  that  the  fruits  of 
good  cultivation  should  appear  before  the  seed  was  sown  ?  You 
triumphantly  enumerate  the  disadvantages  to  which  women, 
from  the  laws  and  customs  of  society,  are  liable  : — they  cannot 
converse  freely  with  men  of  wit,  science,  and  learning,  nor  even 
with  the  artist,  or  artificers ;  they  are  excluded  from  academies, 
public  libraries,  &c.  Even  our  politeness  prevents  us,  you  say, 
from  ever  speaking  plain  truth  and  sense  to  the  fair  sex :— every 
mssistance  that  foreign  or  domestic  ingenuity  can  invent  to  en- 
courage literary  studies,  is,  as  you  boast,  almost  exclusively  ours : 
and  after  pointing  out  all  these  causes  for  the  inferiority  of 
women  in  knowledge,  you  ask  for  a  list  of  the  inventions  and 
discoveries  of  those  who,  by  your  own  statement  of  the  question, 
have  not  been  allowed  opportunities  for  observation.  With  the 
insulting  injustice  of  an  Egyptian  task-master,  you  demand  th« 
"work,  and  deny  the  necessary  materials. 

I  admit,  that  with  respect  to  the  opportunities  of  acquiring 
knowledge,  institutions  and  manners  are,  as  you  have  stated 


PRECEDING    LETTER.  451 

much  in  favour  of  our  sex ;  but  your  argument  concerning  time 
appears  to  me  to  be  unfounded. — Women  who  do  not  love 
-dissipation  must  have  more  time  for  the  cultivation  of  their 
understandings  than  men  can  have,  if  you  compute  the  whole 
of  life ; — whilst  the  knowledge  of  the  learned  languages  con- 
tinues to  form  an  indispensable  part  of  a  gentleman's  education, 
many  years  of  childhood  and  youth  must  be  devoted  to  their 
attainment. — During  these  studies,  the  general  cultivation  of 
the  understanding  is  in  some  degree  retarded.  All  the  inteU 
lectual  powers  are  cramped,  except  the  memory,  which  is 
sufficiently  exercised,  but  which  is  overloaded  with  words,  and 
with  words  that  are  not  always  understood. — ^The  genius  of 
living  and  of  dead  languages  differs  so  much,  that  the  pains 
which  are  taken  to  write  elegant  Latin  frequently  spoil  the 
£nglish  style. — Girls  usually  write  much  better  than  boys ;  they 
think  and  express  their  thoughts  clearly  at  an  age  when  young 
men  can  scarcely  write  an  easy  letter  upon  any  common 
occasion.  Women  do  not  read  the  good  authors  of  antiquity  as 
school-books,  but  they  can  have  excellent  translations  of  most  of 
them  when  they  are  capable  of  tasting  the  beauties  of  compo- 
tsition. — I  know  that  it  is  supposed  we  cannot  judge  of  the 
classics  by  translations,  and  I  am  sensible  that  much  of  the 
merit  of  the  originals  may  be  lost ;  but  I  think  the  difference  in 
pleasure  is  more  than  overbalanced  to  women  by  the  time  that  is 
saved,  and  by  the  labour  and  misapplication  of  abilities  which 
are  spared.  If  they  do  not  acquire  a  classical  taste,  neither  do 
they  imbibe  classic  prejudices;  nor  are  they  early  disgusted 
^th  literature  by  pedagogues,  lexicons,  grammars,  and  all  the 
melancholy  apparatus  of  learning. — Women  begin  to  taste  the 
pleasures  of  reading,  and  the  best  authors  in  the  English 
language  are  their  amusement,  just  at  the  age  when  young  men, 
disgusted  by  their  studies,  begin  to  be  ashamed  of  alluding  to 
literature  amongst  their  companions.  Travelling,  lounging, 
field  sports,  gaming,  and  what  is  called  pleasure  in  various 
shapes,  usually  fill  the  interval  between  quitting  the  university 
H!id  settling  for  life. — When  this  period  is  past,  business,  the 
necessity  of  pursuing  a  profession,  the  ambition  to  shine  in 
parliament,  or  to  rise  in  public  life,  occupy  a  large  portion  of  their 
lives. — In  many  professions  the  understanding  is  but  partially 


452  ANSWER    TO    THE 

cultivated  ;  and  g€neral  literature  must  be  neglected  by  those 
who  are  occupied  in  earning  bread  or  amassing  riches  for  theil 
family  : — ^men  of  genius  are  often  heard  to  complain,  that  in  the 
pursuit  of  a  profession,  they  are  obliged  to  contract  their  inquiries 
and  concentrate  their  powers ;  statesmen  lament  that  they  must 
often  pursue  the  expedient  even  when  they  discern  that  it  is  not 
ihe  right;  and  men  of  letters,  who  earn  their  bread  by  their 
writings,  inveigh  bitterly  against  the  tyranny  of  booksellers, 
who  degrade  them  to  the  state  of  "  literary  artisans." "  Lite- 
rary artisans,"  is  the  comprehensive  term  under  which  a 
celebrated  philosopher^  classes  all  those  who  cultivate  only 
particular  talents  or  powers  of  the  mind,  and  who  suffer  their 
other  faculties  to  lose  all  strength  and  vigour  for  want  of 
exercise.  The  other  sex  have  no  such  constraint  upon  their 
understandings  ;  neither  the  necessity  of  earning  their  bread, 
nor  the  ambition  to  shine  in  public  affairs,  hurry  or  prejudice 
their  minds:  in  domestic  life  tliey  have  leisure  to  be  wise. 

Far  from  being  ashamed  tliat  so  little  has  been  done  by 
female  abilities  in  science  and  useful  literature,  I  am  surprised 
that  so  much  has  been  effected.  On  natural  history,  on  criticism, 
on  moral  philosophy,  on  education,  they  have  written  with 
elegance,  eloquence,  precision,  and  ingenuity.  Your  complaint 
that  women  do  not  turn  their  attention  to  useful  literature  is 
surely  ill-timed.  If  they  merely  increased  the  number  of  books 
in  circulation,  you  might  declaim  against  them  with  success; 
but  when  the}  add  to  the  general  fund  of  useful  and  enter- 
taining knowledge,  you  cannot  with  any  show  of  justice  prohibit 
their  labours :  there  can  be  no  danger  that  the  market  should 
ever  be  overstocked  with  produce  of  intrinsic  worth. 

The  despotic  monarchs  of  Spain  forbid  the  exploring  of  any 
new  gold  or  silver  mines  without  the  express  permission  of 
government,  and  they  have  ordered  several  rich  ones  to  be  shut 
up  as  not  equal  to  the  cost  of  working.  There  is  some  appear^ 
anje  of  reason  for  this  exertion  of  power :  it  may  prevent  the 
world  from  being  encumbered  by  nominal  wealth, — But  the 
Dutch  merchants,  who  bum  whole  cargoes  of  spice  lest  they 

•  Professor  Dugald  Stewart — History  of  tlic  Philosopliy  of  the  Human 
Ifiud. 


PRECEDING    LETTER.  453 

should  lower  the  price  of  the  oommodity  in  which  they  deal, 
show  a  mean  spirit  of  monopoly  which  can  plead  no  plausible 
excuse.— I  hope  you  feel  nothing  like  a  disposition  to  Spanish 
despotism  or  Dutch  jealousy,  when  you  would  exclude  female 
talents  from'  the  literary  market. 

You  observe,  that  since  censure  is  a  tax  which  every  man 
must  pay  who  aspires  to  eminence,  women  must  expect  to  pay 
it  doubly.  Why  the  t^x  should  not  be  equally  assessed,  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  conjecture  :  but  in  fact  it  does  not  fall  very  heavy 
upon  those  who  have  any  portion  of  philosophy ;  they  may,  with 
the  poet  ofreasouy  exclaim — 

"  Though  doubly  tax'd,  how  little  have  I  lost !" 

Your  idread  of  the  envy  attendant  upon  literary  excellence 
might  with  equal  justice  be  extended  to  every  species  of  merit, 
and  might  be  urged  against  all  that  is  good  in  art  or  nature.— 
Scandal  is  said  to  attack  always  the  fairest  characters,  as  the 
birds  always  peck  most  at  the  ripest  fruit;  but  would  you  for 
this  reason  have  no  fruit  ripen,  or  no  characters  aspire  to  excel- 
lence ? 

But  if  it  be  your  opinion  that  women  are  naturally  inferior  to 
us  in  capacity,  why  do  you  feel  so  much  apprehension  of  their 
becoming  eminent,  or  of  their  obtaining  power,  in  consequence 
of  the  cultivation  of  their  understandings  ? — These  expressions 
of  scorn  and  jealousy  neutralize  each  other.  If  your  contempt 
were  unmixed  and  genuine,  it  would  be  cool  and  tranquil, 
inclining  rather  to  pity  than  to  anger. 

You  say  that  in  all  animals  the  female  is  the  inferior ;  and 
you  have  never  seen  any  reason  to  believe  that  the  human 
species  affords  an  exception  to  this  observation. — Superiority 
amongst  brutes  depends  upon  force ;  superiority  amongst  the 
human  species  depends  upon  reason  :  that  men  are  naturally 
stronger  than  women. is  evident;  but  strength  of  mind  has  no 
necessary  conn<3xion  with  strength  of  body ;  and  intellectual 
ability  has  -ever  conquered  mere  physical  force,  from  the  times 
of  Ajax.  and  Ulysses  to  the  present  day.  In  civilized  nations, 
that  species  of  superiority  which  belongs  to  force  is  much 
reduced  in  value  amongst  the  higher  classes  of  society. — The 
baron  who  struck  his  sword  into  an  oak,  and  defied  any  one  to 


4M  ANSWER    TO    THB 

pull  out  the  weapon,  would  not  in  these  days  fill  the  hearts  of 
his  antagonists  with  terror ;  nor  would  the  twisting  of  a  horse- 
shoe be  deemed  a  feat  worthy  to  decide  a  nation  in  their  choice 
of  a  king. — The  days  of  chivalry  are  no  more :  the  knight  no 
longer  sallies  forth  in  ponderous  armour,  moimted  upon  "  a  steed 
as  invulnerable  as  himself*." — The  damsel  no  longer  depends 
upon  the  prowess  of  his  mighty  arm  to  maintain  the  glory  of  her 
charms,  or  the  purity  of  her  fame ;  grim  barons,  and  castles 
guarded  by  monsters  and  all-devouring  dragons,  are  no  more ; 
and  from  being  the  champions  and  masters  of  the  fair  sex,  we 
are  now  become  their  friends  and  companions.  We  have  not 
surely  been  losers  by  this  change ;  the  fading  glories  of  romance 
have  vanished,  but  the  real  permanent  pleasures  of  domestic  life 
remain  in  their  stead  ;  and  what  the  fair  have  lost  of  adulation 
they  have  gained  in  friendship. 

Do  not,  my  dear  sir,  call  me  a  champion  for  the  rights  of 
woman  ;  I  am  too  much  their  friend  to  be  their  partisan,  and  I 
am  more  anxious  for  their  happiness  than  intent  upon  a  meta- 
physical discussion  of  their  rights :  their  happiness  is  so  nearly 
connected  with  ours,  that  it  seems  to  me  absurd  to  manage 
any  argument  so  as  to  set  the  two  sexes  at  variance  by  vain 
contention  for  superiority.  It  ought  not  to  be  our  object  to 
make  an  invidious  division  of  privileges,  or  an  ostentatious 
declaration  of  rights,  but  to  determine  what  is  most  for  our 
general  advantage. 

You  fear  that  the  minds  of  women  should  be  enlarged  and 
cultivated,  lest  their  power  in  society  and  their  liberty  should 
4:onsequently  increase.  Observe  that  the  word  liberti/,  applied 
to  the  female  sex,  conveys  alarming  ideas  to  our  minds,  because 
we  do  not  stay  to  define  the  term  ;  we  have  a  confused  notion 
ihat  it  implies  want  of  reserve,  want  of  delicacy ;  boldness  of 
manners,  or  of  conduct ;  in  short,  liberty  to  do  wrong. — Surely 
this  is  a  species  of  liberty  which  knowledge  can  never  make 
desirable.  Those  who  understand  the  real  interests  of  society, 
who  clearly  see  the  connexion  between  virtue  and  happiness,  mud 
know  that  the  liberty  to  do  wrong  is  s3monymous  with  the  libertff 
to  make  themselves  miserable.     This  is  a  privilege  of  which  none 

*  Condorcet. — History  of  the  Pn^rress  of  the  Human  Mind, 


FRECEDINO    LETTER.  455 

would  choose  to  avail  themselves.  When  reason  defines  the 
term,  there  is  no  danger  of  its  heing  misunderstood  ;  but  imagi- 
wation  and  false  associations  often  make  this  word  liberty,  in  its 
perverted  sense,  sound  delightful  to  those  who  have  been  kept  in 
ignorance  and  slavery.  Girls  who  have  been  disciplined  under 
the  strict  high  hand  of  authority,  are  apt  to  fancy  that  to  escape 
from  habitual  restraint,  to  exercise  their  own  will,  no  matter 
how,  is  to  be  free  and  to  be  happy. — Hence  innumerable  error* 
in  their  conduct ;  hence  their  mistaken  notions  of  liberty,  and 
that  inordinate  ambition  to  acquire  power,  which  ignorant,  ill- 
educated  women  show  in  every  petty  struggle,  where  they  are 
permitted  to  act  in  private  life.  You  believe  this  temper  to  be 
inherent  in  the  sex ;  and  a  man,  who  has  just  published  a  book 
upon  the  Spanish  bull-fights,  declares  his  belief,  that  the  passion 
for  bull- fighting  is  innate  in  the  breast  of  every  Spaniard. — Do 
not,  my  friend,  assign  two  causes  for  an  effect  where  one  is  ob- 
viously adequate.  The  disposition  to  love  command  need  not  be 
attributed  to  any  innate  cause  in  the  minds  of  females,  whilst  it 
may  be  fairly  ascribed  to  their  erroneous  education. 

I  shall  early  cultivate  my  daughter's  judgment,  to  prevent  her 
from  being  wilful  or  positive ;  I  shall  leave  her  to  choose  for 
herself  m  all  those  trifles  upon  which  the  happiness  of  childhood 
depends ;  and  I  shall  gradually  teach  her  to  reflect  upon  the  con- 
sequences of  her  actions,  to  compare  and  judge  of  her  feelings, 

and  to  compute  the  morn  and  evening  to  her  day. 1  shall 

thus,  I  hope,  induce  her  to  reason  upon  all  subjects,  even  upon 
matters  of  taste,  where  many  women  think  it  sufficient  to  say,  I 
admire ;  or,  I  detest : — Oh,  charming !  or,  Oli,  horrible  I Peo- 
ple who  have  reasons  for  their  preferences  and  aversions,  are  never 
80  provokingly  zealous  in  the  support  of  their  own  tastes,  as 
those  usually  are  who  have  no  arguments  to  convince  themselves 
or  others  that  they  are  in  the  right. 

But  you  are  apprehensive  that  the  desire  to  govern,  which 
women  show  in  domestic  life,  should  obtain  a  larger  field  to  dis- 
play itself  in  public  affairs. — It  seems  to  me  impossible  that  they 
can  ever  acquire  the  species  of  direct  power  which  you  dread ; 
their  influence  must  be  private ;  it  is  therefore  of  the  utmost 
consequence  that  it  should  be  judicious. — It  was  not  Themistocles, 
but  his  wife  and  child|  who  governed  the  Athenians ;  it  was 


456  ANSWER    TO   THB 

therefore  of  some  consequence  that  the  boy  who  governed  the 
mother,  who  governed  her  husband,  should  not  be  a  spoiled 
child ;  and  consequently  that  the  mother  who  educated  this  child 
should  be  a  reasonable  woman.  Thus  are  human  affairs  chained 
together;  and  female  influence  is  a  necessary  and  important  link, 
which  you  cannot  break  without  destroying  the  whole. 

If  it  be  your  object,  my  dear  sir,  to  monopolize  power  for  our 
sex,  you  cannot  possibly  secure  it  better  from  the  wishes  of  the 
other,  than  by  enlightening  their  minds  and  enlarging  their 
views  :  they  will  then  be  convinced,  not  by  the  voice  of  the 
moralist,  who  puts  us  to  sleep  whilst  he  persuades  us  of  the 
vanity  of  all  sublunary  enjoyments,  but  by  their  own  awakened 
observation  :  they  will  be  convinced  that  power  is  generally  an 
evil  to  its  possessor ;  that  to  those  who  really  wish  for  the  good 
of  their  fellow-creatures,  it  is  at  best  but  a  painful  trust. — ^The 
mad  philosopher  in  Rasselas,  who  imagined  that  he  regulated 
the  weather  and  distributed  the  seasons,  could  never  enjoy  a 
moment's  repose,  lest  he  should  not  make  "  to  the  different 
nations  of  the  earth  an  impartial  dividend  of  rain  and  sunshine." 
— Those  who  are  entrusted  with  the  government  of  nations  must, 
if  they  have  an  acute  sense  of  justice,  experience  something  like 
the  anxiety  felt  by  this  unfoi-tunate  monarch  of  the  clouds. 

Lord  Kenyon  has  lately  decided  that  a  woman  may  be  an  over- 
seer of  a  parish  ;  but  you  are  not,  I  suppose,  apprehensive  that 
many  ladies  of  cultivated  understanding  should  become  ambi- 
tious of  this  honour. — One  step  farther  in  reasoning,  and  a  woman 
would  desire  as  little  to  be  a  queen  or  an  empress,  as  to  be  the 
overseer  of  a  parish. — You  may  perhaps  reply,  that  men,  even 
those  of  the  greatest  understanding,  have  been  ambitious,  and 
fond  even  to  excess  of  power.  That  ambition  is  the  glorious 
fault  of  heroes,  I  allow  ;  but  heroes  are  not  always  men  of  the 
most  enlarged  understandings — they  are  possessed  by  the  spirit 
of  military  adventure — an  infectious  spirit,  which  men  catch 
from  one  another  in  the  course  of  their  education  : — to  this  con- 
tagion the  fair  sex  are  not  exposed. 

At  all  events,  if  you  suppose  that  women  are  likely  to  acquire 
influence  in  the  state,  it  is  prudent  to  enlighten  their  under- 
standings, that  they  may  not  make  an  absurd  or  pernicious  use  of 
their  power.     You  appeal  to  history,  to  prove  that  great  calami* 


PRECEDING   LETTBE.  457 

ties  have  ensued  whenever  the  female  sex  has  ohtained  po\^er; 
yet  you  acknowledge  that  we  caivnot  with  certainty  determine 
whether  these  evils  have  been  the  effects  of  our  trusting  them 
with  liberty,  or  of  our  neglecting  previously  to  irtstinict  them  in 
the  use  of  it : — upon  the  decision  of  this  question  rests  your  whole 
argument.  In  a  most  awful  tone  of  declamation,  you  bid  me 
follow  the  history  of  female  nature,  from  the  court  of  Augustus 
to  that  of  Lewis  XlVth,  and  tell  you  whether  I  can  hesitate 
to  acknowledge,  that  the  liberty  and  influence  of  women  have 
always  been  the  greatest  during  the  decline  of  empires. — But 
you  have  not  proved  to  me  that  women  had  more  knowledge,  that 
they  were  better  educated,  at  the  court  of  Augustus,  or  during  the 
reign  of  Lewis  XlVth,  than  at  any  other  place,  or  during  any 
other  period  of  the  world ;  therefore  your  argument  gains  nothing 
by  the  admission  of  your  assertions  ;  and  unless  I  could  trace  the 
history  of  female  education,  it  is  vain  for  me  to  follow  what  you 
call  the  history  of  female  nature. 

It  is,  however,  remarkable,  that  the  means  by  which  the  sex 
have  hitherto  obtained  that  species  of  power  which  they  have 
abused,  have  arisen  chiefly  from  their  personal,  and  not  from 
their  mental  qualifications ;  from  their  skill  in  the  arts  of  per- 
suasion, and  from  their  accomplishments  ;  not  from  their  superior 
■powers  of  reasoning,  or  from  the  cultivation  of  their  understand- 
ing. The  most  refined  species  of  coquetry  can  undoubtedly  be 
practised  in  the  highest  perfection  by  women,  who  to  personal 
graces  unite  all  the  fascination  of  wit  and  eloquence.  There  is 
infinite  danger  in  permitting  such  women  to  obtain  power  with- 
out having  acquired  habits  of  reasoning.  Rousseau  admires  these 
sirens ;  but  the  system  of  Rousseau,  pursued  to  its  fullest  extent, 
would  overturn  the  world,  would  make  every  woman  a  Cleopatra, 
and  every  man  an  Antony ;  it  would  destroy  all  domestic  virtue, 
all  domestic  happiness,  all  the  pleasures  of  truth  and  love.— — 
In  the  midst  of  that  delirium  of  passion  to  which  Antony  gave 
the  name  of  love,  what  must  have  been  the  state  of  his  degraded, 
wretched  soul,  when  he  could  suspect  his  mistress  of  designs 
upon  his  life  ? — ^To  cure  him  of  these  suspicions,  she  at  a  banquet 
poisoned  the  flowers  of  his  garland,  waited  till  she  saw  him 
inflamed  with  wine,  then  persuaded  him  to  break  the  tops  of  his 
flowers  into  his  goblet,  and  just  stopped  him  when  the  cup  was 


45S  ANSWER    TO    TUB 

Jit  his  lips,  exclaiming — **  Those  flowers  are  poisoned  :  you  see- 
that  I  do  not  want  the  n^eans  of  destroying  you,  if  you  were- 

become  tiresome  to  me,  or  if  I  could  live  without  you." And 

this  is  the  happy  pair  who  instituted  the  orders  of  The  inimitable 
lovers  ! — and  The  companions  in  death  '  / 

These  are  the  circumstances  which  should  early  be  pointed 
out,  to  both  sexes,  with  all  the  energy  of  truth :  let  them  lean* 
that  the  most  exquisite  arts  of  the  most  consummate  coquette, 
could  not  obtain  the  confidence  «»f  him,  who  sacrificed  to  her 
charms,  the  empire  of  the  world  It  is  from  the  experience  of 
the  past  that  we  must  form  our  judgment  of  the  future.  How 
unjustly  you  accuse  me  of  desiring  to  destroy  the  memory  of 
past  experiments,  the  wisdom  collected  by  the  labour  of  ages  ! 
You  would  prohibit  this  treasure  of  knowledge  to  one-half  of  the 
human  species ;  and  /  on  the  contrary  would  lay  it  open  to  all 
my  fellow-creatures. — I  speak  as  if  it  were  actually  in  our  option 
to  retard  or  to  accelerate  the  intellectual  progress  of  the  sex ;  but 
in  fact  it  is  absolutely  out  of  our  power  to  drive  the  fair  sex 
back  tu  their  former  state  of  darkness :  the  art  of  printing  has^ 
totally  changed  their  situation ;  their  eyes  are  opened, — the 
classic  page  is  unrolled,  they  tvill  read : — all  we  can  do  is  to 
induce  them  to  read  with  judgment — to  enlarge  their  minds  ao 
that  they  may  take  a  full  view  of  their  interests  and  of  ours.  I 
have  no  fear  that  the  truth  upon  any  subject  should  injure  my 
daughter's  mind  ;  it  is  falsehood  that  I  dread.  I  dread  that  she 
should  acquire  preposterous  notions  of  love,  of  happiness,  from 
the  furtive*  perusal  of  vulgar  novels,  or  from  the  clandestine 
conversation  of  ignorant  waiting-maids : — I  dread  that  she  should 
acquire,  even  from  the  enchanting  eloquence  of  Rousseau,  the 
fatal  idea,  that  cunning  and  address  are  the  natural  resources  of 
her  sex ;  that  coquetry  is  necessary  to  attract,  and  dissimulation 
to  preserve  the  heart  of  man. 1  would  not,  however,  pro- 
scribe an  author,  because  I  believe  some  of  his  opinions  to  be 
fulse ;  I  would  have  my  daughter  read  and  compare  various 
books,  and  correct  her  judgment  of  books  by  listening  to  the 
conversation  of  persons  of  sense  and  experience.  Women  may 
learn  much  of  what  is  essential  to  their  happiness,  from  the  un- 

»  Vide  Plutarch. 


raCCEDINO    LETTER.  409 

prejudiced  tesdmony  of  a  father  or  a  brother ;  they  may  learn 
V)  distinguish  the  pictures  of  real  life  from  paintings  of  imaginary 
Planners  and  passions  which  never  had,  which  never  can  have, 
any  existence. — ^They  may  learn  that  it  is  not  the  reserve  of 
hypocrisy,  the  affected  demeanour  either  of  a  prude  or  a  coquette, 
that  we  admire  ;  but  it  is  the  simple,  graceful,  natural  modesty 
of  a  woman,  whose  mind  is  innocent.  With  this  belief  impressed 
upon  her  heart,  do  you  think,  my  dear  friend,  that  she  who  can 
reflect  and  reason  would  take  the  means  to  disgust  where  slve 
wishes  to  please  ?  or  that  she  would  incur  contempt,  when  she 

knows  how  lo  secure  esteem? Do  you  think  that  she  will 

employ  artifice  to  entangle  some  heedless  heart,  when  she  knows 
thatevery  heart  which  can  be  so  won  is  not  worth  the  winning? 
— She  will  not  look  upon  our  sex  either  as  dupes  or  tyrants ;  she 
nvill  be  aware  of  the  important  difference  between  evanescent 
passion,  and  that  affection  founded  upon  mutual  esteem,  which 
forms  the  permanent  happiness  of  life. 

I  am  not  apprehensive,  my  dear  sir,  that  Cupid  should  be 
scared  by  the  helmet  of  Minerva ;  he  has  conquered  his  idle 
fears,  and  has  been  familiarized  to  Minerva  and  the  Muses : 

**  And  now  of  power  his  darts  are  found, 
Twice  ten  thousand  times  to  wound®.** 

That  the  power  of  beauty  over  the  human  heart  is  infinitely 
.increased  by  the  associated  ideas  of  virtue  and  intellectual  ex- 
cellence  has  been  long  acknowledged. — A  set  of  features,  how> 
ever  regular,  inspire  but  little  admiration  or  enthusiasm,  unless 
they  be  irradiated  by  that  sunshine  of  the  soul  which  creates 
beauty.  The  expression  of  intelligent  benevolence  renders  eveu 
homely  features  and  cheeks  of  sorry  grain ^  agreeable;  and  it 
lias  been  observed,  that  the  most  lasting  attachments  have 
jiot  always  been  excited  by  the  most  beautiful  of  the  sex. 
As  men  have  become  more  cultivated,  they  have  attended 
jnore  to  the  expression  of  amiable  and  estimable  qualities  in  the 
female  countenance ;  and  in  all  probability  the  taste  for  this 

*  See  the  introduction  of  Cupid  to  the  Muses  and  Minerva,  in  a  charm- 
ing poem  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's — "  -T^fi  origin  of  song-toriting.*" — Would  it  not 
«jford  a  beautiful  subject  for  a  picture  ? 

'Jdilton. 

30 


460  ANSWER    TO    TBB 

species  of  beauty  will  increase  amongst  the   good  and  wise. 
When  agreeable  qualities  are  connected  with  the  view  of  any- 
particular  form,  we  learn  to  love  that  form,  tlwugh  it  may  have 
no  other  merit.     Women  who  have  no  pretensions  to   Grecian 
beauty  may,  if  their  countenances  are  expressive  of  good  temper 
and  good  sense,  have  some  chance  of  pleasing  men  of  cultivated 
minds. — In   an   excellent  Review®  of  Gillier's  Essays   on  the 
Causes  of  the  Perfection  of  Antique  Sculpture,  which  I  have  just 
seen,  it  is  observed,  that  our  exclusive  admiration  of  the  phy- 
siognomy of  the  Greeks  arises  from  prejudice,  since  the  Grecian 
countenance  cannot  be  necessarily  associated  with  any  of  the 
perfections  which  now  distinguish   accomplished   or   excellent 
men.     This  remark  in  a  popular  periodical  work  shows  that  the 
public  mind  is  not  bigoted  in  matters  of  taste,   and  that  the 
standard  is  no  longer  supposed  to  be  fixed   by   the  voice  of 
ancient  authority.     The  changes  that  are  made  in  the  opinions 
of  our  sex  as  to  female  beauty,  according  to  the  different  situa- 
tions in  which  women  are  placed,  and  the  different  qualities  on 
which  we  fix  the  idea   of  their   excellence,   are    curious   and 
striking.    Ask  a  northern  Indian,  says  a  traveller  who  has  lately 
visited  them,  ask  a  northern  Indian  what  is  beauty?  and  he  will 
answer,  a  broad  flat  face,  small  eyes,  high  cheek  bones,  three  or 
four  broad  black  lines  across  each  cheek,  a  low  forehead,  a  large 
broad  chin,  a  clumsy  hook  nose,  &c.    These  beauties  are  greatly 
heightened,  or  at  least  rendered  more  valuable,  when  the  pos- 
sessor is  capable  of  dressing  all  kinds  of  skins,  converting  them 
into  the  different  parts  of  their  clothing,  and  able  to  carry  eight 
or  ten   stone   in  summer,   or  haul  a  much   greater  weight  in 
winter. — Prince  Matanabbee,  adds  this  author,  prided  himself 
much  upon  the  height  and  strength  of  his  wives,  and  would  fre- 
quently say,  few  women  could  carry  or  haul  lieavier  loads.     If, 
some  years  ago,  you  had  asked  a  Frenchman  what  he  meant  by 
beauty,  he  would  have  talked  to  you  of  V air  piquant,  Voir  spi- 
rituel,  Vair  noble,  Vair  comme  ilfaut,  and  he  would  have  referred 
ultimately  to  that^e  ne  sgais  quoi,  for  which  Parisian  belles  were 
formerly  celebrated. — French  women  mixed  much  in  company, 
the  channs  of  what  they  called  esprit  were  admired  in  con* 

»  Appendix  to  Monthly  Review,  from  January  to  April  1798,  page  516. 


PRECEDING    LETTER.  4(3f 

Yersation,  and  the  petit  minois  denoting  liveij  wit  and  coquetry 
became  fashionable  in  France,  whilst  gallantry  and  a  taste  for 
the  pleasvtres  of  society  prevailed.  The  countenance  expressive 
of  sober  sense  and  modest  reserve  continues  to  be  the  taste  of 

the  English,  who  wisely  prefer  the  pleasures  of  domestic  life. 

Domestic  life  should,  however,  be  enlivened  and  embellished 
with  all  the  wit  and  vivacity  and  politeness  for  which  French 
women  were  once  admired,  without  admitting  any  of  their  vices 
or  follies.  The  more  men  of  literature  and  polished  manners 
desire  to  spend  their  time  in  their  own  families,  the  more  thev 
must  wish  that  their  wives  and  daughters  may  have  tastes  and 
habits  similar  to  their  own.  If  they  can  meet  with  conversation 
suited  to  their  taste  at  home,  they  will  not  be  driven  to  clubs  for 
companions;  they  will  invite  the  men  of  wit  and  science  of 
th2ir  acquaintance  to  their  own  houses,  instead  of  appointing 
some  place  of  meeting  from  which  ladies  are  to  be  excluded. 
This  mixture  of  the  talents  and  knowledge  of  both  sexes  must  be 
advantageous  to  the  interests  of  society,  by  increasing  domestic 
happiness. — Private  virtues  are  public  benefits :  if  each  bee  were 
content  in  his  cell,  there  could  be  no  grumbling  hive  ;  and  if 
each  cell  were  complete,  the  whole  fabric  must  be  perfect. 

When  you  asserted,  my  dear  sir,  that  learned  men  usually 
prefer  for  their  wives,  women  rather  below  than  above  the 
standard  of  mental  mediocrity,  you  forgot  many  instances 
strongly  in  contradiction  of  this  opinion. — Since  I  began  this 
letter,  I  met  with  the  following  pathetic  passage,  which  I  cannot 
forbear  transcribing : 

"  The  greatest  part  of  the  observations  contained  in  the  fore- 
going pages  were  derived  from  a  lady,  who  is  now  beyond 
the  reach  of  being  affected  by  any  thing  in  this  sublunary  world. 
Her  beneficence  of  disposition  induced  her  never  to  overlook 
any  fact  or  circumstance  that  fell  within  the  sphere  of  her 
observation,  which  promised  to  be  in  any  respect  beneficial  to 
her  fellow-creatures.  To  her  gentle  influence  the  public  are 
indebted,  if  they  be  indeed  indebted  at  all,  for  whatever 
useful  hints  may  at  any  time  have  dropped  from  my  pen.  A 
being,  she  thought,  who  must  depend  so  much  as  man  does  on 
the  assistance  of  others,  owes,  as  a  debt  to  his  fellow-creatures, 
the  communication  of  the  little  useful  knowledge  that  chance 


463  ANSWER    TO    THE    PRECEDIITO    LETTER. 

•nay  have  thrown  in  his  way.  Such  has  been  my  constant  aim  ; 
«uch  were  the  views  of  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  the  friend  of  my 
lieart,  who  supported  and  assisted  me  in  all  my  pursuits. — I  now 
feel  a  melancholy  satisfaction  in  contemplating  those  objects  she 
•once  delighted  to  elucidate*." 

Dr.  Gregory,  Haller,  and  Lord  Lyttleton,  have,  in  tha 
language  of  affection,  poetry,  and  truth,  described  the  pleasures 
which  men  of  science  and  literature  enjoy  in  an  union  with 
■women  who  can  sympathize  in  all  their  thoughts  and  feelings, 
who  can  converse  with  them  as  equals,  and  live  with  them  as 
friends ;  who  can  assist  them  in  the  important  and  delightful 
duty  of  educating  their  children ;  who  can  make  their  family 
their  most  agreeable  society,  and  their  home  the  attractive 
fentre  of  happiness. 

Can  women  of  uncultivated  understandings  make  such  wives 
«r  such  mothers  ? 

*  J.  .\ndeiMO— Eaaay  oa  the  Manaijement  of  a  Dairj 


LETTERS 


OP 


JULIA  AND  CAROLINE. 


No  penance  can  absolve  their  guiltj  &me, 

Nor  tears,  that  wash  out  guilt,  can  wash  out  shame. 

Prioiu 


LETTER  I. 


JULIA    TO   CAROLINE. 


In  vain,  dear  Caroline,  you  urge  me  to  think ;  I  profess  only  to 
feel. 

"Reflect  upon  my  own  feelings!  Analyze  my  notions  of 
happiness!  explain  to  you  my  system!" — My  system!  But  I 
have  no  system :  that  is  the  very  difference  between  us.  My 
notions  of  happiness  cannot  be  resolved  into  simple,  fixed  princi- 
ples. Nor  dare  I  even  attempt  to  analyze  them ;  the  subtle 
essence  would  escape  in  the  process :  just  pimbhment  to  the 
alchymist  in  morality ! 

You,  Caroline,  are  of  a  more  sedate,  contemplative  character. 
Philosophy  becomes  the  rigid  mistress  of  your  life,  enchanting 
enthusiasm  the  companion  of  mine.  Suppose  she  lead  me  now 
and  then  in  pursuit  of  a  meteor ;  am  not  I  happy  in  the  chase  ? 
When  one  illusion  vanishes,  another  shall  appear,  and,  still 
leading  me  forward  towards  an  horizon  that  retreats  as  I  ad- 
vance, the  happy  prospect  of  futurity  shall  vanish  only  with  my 
existence. 

*'  Reflect  upon  my  feelings  !" — ^Dear  Caroline,  is  it  not  enough 


464  LETTERS    OF 

that  I  do  feel  ? — All  tliat  I  dread  is  that  apathy  which  philoso- 
phers call  tranquillity.  You  tell  me  that  by  continually 
indulging,  I  shall  weaken  my  natural  sensibility  ; — are  not  all 
the  faculties  of  the  soul  improved,  refined  by  exercise  ?  and  why 
shall  this  be  excepted  from  the  general  law  ? 

But  I  must  not,  you  tell  me,  indulge  my  taste  for  romance 
and  poetry,  lest  I  waste  that  sympathy  on  fiction  which  reality 
so  much  better  deserves.  My  dear  friend,  let  us  cherish  the 
precious  propensity  to  pity !  no  matter  what  the  object; 
sympathy  with  fiction  or  reality  arises  from  the  same  disposition. 

When  the  sigh  of  compassion  rises  in  my  bosom,  when  the 
spontaneous  tear  starts  from  my  eye,  what  frigid  moralist  shall 
*'stop  the  genial  current  of  the  soul?"  shall  say  to  the  tide  of 
passion,  So  far  ahalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther  ? — Shall  man 
presume  to  circumscribe  that  which  Providence  has  left 
unbounded  ? 

But  oh,  Caroline !  if  our  feelings  as  well  as  our  days  are 
numbered ;  if,  by  the  immutable  law  of  nature,  apathy  be  the 
sleep  of  passion,  and  languor  the  necessary  consequence  of 
exertion  ;  if  indeed  the  pleasures  of  life  are  so  ill  proportioned 
to  its  duration,  oh,  may  that  duration  be  shortened  to  me  ! — 
Kind  Heaven,  let  not  my  soul  die  before  my  body  ! 

Yes,  if  at  this  instant  my  guardian  genius  were  to  appear 
before  me,  and  offering  me  the  choice  of  my  future  destiny ;  on 
the  one  hand,  the  even  temper,  the  poised  judgment,  the  stoical 
serenity  of  philosophy ;  on  the  other,  the  eager  genius,  the 
exquisite  sensibility  of  enthusiasm :  if  the  genius  said  to  me, 
*'  Choose  " — the  lot  of  the  one  is  great  pleasure,  and  great  pain 
— great  virtues,  and  great  defects — ardent  hope,  and  severe 
disappointment — ecstasy,  and  despair : — the  lot  of  the  other  is 
calm  happiness  unmixed  with  violent  grief — virtue  without 
heroism — respect  without  admiration — and  a  length  of  life,  in 
which  to  every  moment  is  allotted  its  proper  portion  of  felicity  : 
—Gracious  genius!  I  should  exclaim,  if  half  my  existence  must 
be  the  sacrifice,  take  it ;  enthusiasm  is  my  choice. 

Such,  my  dear  friend,  would  be  my  choice  were  I  a  man ;  at 
a  woman,  how  much  more  readily  should  I  determine ! 

What  has  woman  to  do  with  philosophy  ?  The  graces  flourish 
not  under  her  empire     a  woman's  part  in  life  is  to  please,  and 


JULIA    AND    CAROLINE.  46& 

Providence  has  assigned  to  her  success,  all  the  pride  and  pleasure 
of  her  being. 

Then  leave  us  our  weakness,  leave  us  our  follies  ;  they  are 
-our  best  arms  : — 

*'  Leave  us  to  trifle  with  more  grace  and  ease. 
Whom  folly  pleases  and  whose  follies  please  '* 

The  moment  grave  sense  and  solid  merit  appear,  adieu  thi 
bewitching  caprice,  the  *^  lively  nonsense,"  the  exquisite,  yet 
childish  susceptibility  which  charms,  interests,  captivates. — 
Believe  me,  our  amiable  defects  win  more  than  our  noblest 
virtues.  Love  requires  sympathy,  and  sympathy  is  seldom 
connected  with  a  sense  of  superiority.  I  envy  none  their  "pain- 
Jul  pre-eminence."  Alas !  whether  it  be  deformity  or  excellence 
which  makes  us  say  with  Richard  the  Third, 

"  I  atri  myself  alone  1'* 

it  comes  to  much   the   same   thing.     Then   let  us,    Caroline, 
content  ourselves  to  gain  in  love,  what  we  lose  in  esteem. 

Man  is  to  be  held  only  by  the  slightest  chains ;  with  the  idea 
that  he  can  break  them  at  pleasure,  he  submits  to  them  in 
sport;  but  his  pride  revolts  against  the  power  to  which  his 
reason  tells  him  he  ought  to  submit.  What  then  can  woman 
gain  by  reason?  Can  she  parove  by  argument  that  she  is 
amiable?  or  demonstrate  that  she  is  an  angel? 

Vain  was  the  industry  of  the  artist,  who,  to  produce  the 
image  of  perfect  beauty,  selected  from  the  fairest  faces  their 
most  fa<ultless  features.  Equally  vain  must  bd  the  efibrts  of  the 
philosopher,  who  would  excite  the  idea  of  mental  perfection,  by 
-combining  an  assemblage  of  party-coloured  virtuesi 

Such,  I  had  almost  said,  is-  my  system,  but  I  meaw  my  senii' 
ments.  I  am  not  accu^rate  enough  to  compose  a  system.  After 
all,  how  vain  are  systems,  and  theories,  and  reasonings ! 

We  may  declaim,  but  what  do  we  really  know  ?  All  is  uncer- 
tainty-—hum-an  prudence  does  nothing — fortune  every  thi^ng :  I 
leave  every  thing  therefore  to  fortune ;  yew  leave  nothing.  Such 
is  the  difference  between  us, — and  which  shall  be  the  happiest^ 
time  alone  can  decide. 

Letters  of  Julia,  8fc, 


46G  LETTERS    OP 

Farewell,  dear  Caroline  ;  I  love  you  better  than   I  thought  l 
could  love  a  philosopher. 

Your  ever  affectionate 

JULIA; 


LETTER  II. 


CAROLINE  S    ANSWER    TO    JULIA. 

At  the  hazard  of  ceasing  to  be  "charminff,"  "  interesthifff'* 
**  captivatin^f"  I  must,  dear  Julia,  venture  to  reason  with  you, 
to  examine  your  favourite  doctrine  of  "  amiable  defects,"  and,  if 
possible,  to  dissipate  that  unjust  dread  of  perfection  which  you 
seem  to  have  continually  before  your  eyes. 

It  is  the  sole  object  of  a  woman's  life,  you  say,  to  please.  Her 
amiable  defects  please  more  than  her  noblest  virtues,  her  follies 
more  than  her  wisdom,  her  caprice  more  than  her  temper,  and 
something,  a  nameless  something,  which  no  art  can  imitate  and 
no  science  can  teach,  more  than  all. 

Art,  you  say,  spoils  the  graces,  and  corrupts  the  heart  of 
woman ;  and  at  best  can  produce  only  a  cold  model  of  perfec- 
tion ;  which  though  perhaps  strictly  conformable  to  nde,  can 
never  touch  the  soul,  or  please  the  imprejudiced  taste,  like  one 
simple  stroke  of  genuine  nature. 

I  have  often  observed,  dear  Julia,  that  an  inaccurate  use  of 
words  produces  such  a  strange  confusion  in  all  reasoning,  that 
in  the  heat  of  debate,  the  combatants,  unable  to  distinguish  their 
friends  from  their  foes,  fall  promiscuously  on  both.  A  skilful 
disputant  knows  well  how  to  take  advantage  of  this  confusion, 
and  sometimes  endeavours  to  create  it  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  am  to  suspect  you  of  such  a  design ;  but  I  must  guard  against 
it 

You  have  with  great  address  availed  yourself  of  the  two  ideas 
connected  with  the  word  art :  first,  as  opposed  to  simplicity,  it 
implies  artifice ;  and  next,  as  opposed  to  ignorance,  it  compre- 
hends all  the  improvements  of  science,  which  leading  us  to 
search  for  general  causes,  icwards  us  with  a  dominion  over  their 


JULIA    AND    CAROLINE.  467 

dependent  effects : — that  which  instructs  how  to  pursue  the 
objects  which  we  may  have  in  view  with  the  greatest  probability 
of  success.  All  men  who  act  from  general  principles  are  so  far 
philosophers.  Their  objects  may  be,  when  attained,  insu£Scient 
\o  their  happiness,  or  they  may  not  previously  have  known  all 
he  necessary  means  to  obtain  them :  but  they  must  not  therefore 
complain,  if  they  do  not  meet  with  success  which  they  have  no 
reason  to  expect. 

Parrhasius,  in  collecting  the  most  admired  excellences  from 
various  models,  to  produce  perfection,  concluded,  from  general 
principles  that  mankind  would  b^  pleased  again  with  what  had 
once  excited  their  admiration. — So  far  he  was  a  philosopher : 
but  he  was  disappointed  of  success : — yes,  for  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  cause  necessary  to  produce  it.  The  separate  features 
might  be  perfect,  but  they  were  unsuited  to  each  other,  and  in 
their  forced  union  he  could  not  give  to  the  whole  countenance 
symmetry  and  an  appropriate  expression. 

There  was,  as  you  say,  a  something  wanting,  which  his  science 
had  not  taught  him.  He  should  then  have  set  himself  to  exa* 
mine  what  that  something  was,  and  how  it  was  to  be  obtained. 
His  want  of  success  arose  from  the  insufficiency,  not  the  fallacy, 
of  theory.  Your  object,  dear  Julia,  we  will  suppose  is  "to 
please."  If  general  observation  and  experience  have  taught 
you,  that  slight  accomplishments  and  a  trivial  character  succeed 
more  certainly  in  obtaining  this  end,  than  higher  worth  and 
sense,  you  act  from  principle  in  rejecting  the  one  and  aiming  at 
the  other.  You  have  discovered,  ox  think  you  have  discovered, 
the  secret  causes  which  produce  the  desired  effect,  and  you 
employ  them.  Do  not  call  this  instinct  or  nature;  this  also, 
though  you  scorn  it,  is  philosophy. 

But  when  you  come  soberly  to  reflect,  you  have  a  feeling  in 
your  mind,  that  reason  and  cool  judgment  disapprove  of  the  part 
you  are  acting. 

Let  us,  however,  distinguish  between  disapprobation  of  the 
objecty  and  the  means. 

Averse  as  enthusiasm  is  from  the  retrograde  motion  of  ana- 
lysis, let  me,  my  dear  friend,  lead  you  one  step  backward. 

Why  do  you  wish  to  please  ?  1  except  at  present  from  the- 
question,   the  desire  to  please,  arising  from  a  passion  which 


468  LETTERS    OF 

requires  a  reciprocal  return.  Confined  as  this  wish  must  be  in 
a  woman's  heart  to  one  object  alone,  when  you  say,  Julia,  thai 
ihe  admiration  of  others  will  be  absolutely  necessary  to  your 
happiness,  I  n^ost  suppose  you  mean  to  express  on]y  a.  ffeneral 
•desire  to  please  ? 

Then  under  this  limitation — ^let  me  ask  yon  again,  why  do 
you  wish  to  please  ? 

Do  not  let  a  word  stop  you.  The  word  vanity  conveys  to  us 
a  disagreeable  idea.  There  seems  something  selfish  in  the  senti- 
ment— that  all  the  pleasure  we  feel  in  pleasing  otlvers  arises 
from  the  gratification  it  affords  to  our  own  vanity^ 

We  refine,  and  explain,  and  never  can  bring  ourselves  fairly 
to  make  a  confession,  which  we  are  sensible  must  lower  us  in 
the  opinion  of  others,  and  consequently  mortify  the  very  vanitij 
we  would  conceal.  So  strangely  then  do  we  deceive  ourselves 
as  to  deny  the  existence  of  a  motive,  whi«h  at  the  instant 
prompts  the  denial.  But  let  us,  dear  Julia,  exchange  the  word 
vanity  for  a  less  odious  word,  self-complacency  ;  let  us  acknow- 
ledge that  we  wish  to  please,  because  the  success  raises  our  self- 
complacency.  If  you  ask  why  raising  our  self-approbation  gives 
us  pleasure,  I  must  answer,  that  I  do  not  know.  Yet  1  see  and 
feel  that  it  does  ;  I  observe  that  the  voice  of  numbers  is  capable 
of  raising  the  highest  transport  or  the  most  fatal  despair.  The 
eye  of  man  seems  to  possess  a  fascinating  power  over  his 
fellow-creatures,  to  raise  the  blush  of  sl*ame,  or  the  glow  of 
pride. 

I  look  around  me,  and  I  se.e  riches,  titles,  dignities,  pursued 
with  such  eagerness  by  thousands,  only  as  the  signs  of  distinc- 
tion. Nay,  are  not  all  these  things  sacrificed  the  moment  they 
cease  to  be  distinctions  ?  The  moment  the  prize  of  glory  is  to 
be  won  by  other  irieans*  do  not  millions  sacrifi«e  their  fortunes, 
their  peace,  th«ir  health,  theiT  lives,  iov  fame  ?  Tl««n  amongst 
the  highest  pleasures  of  human  beings  I  must  place  self-appro- 
bation. With  this-  belief,  let  u-s  endeavour  to  secuve  it  in  the 
greatest  extent,  and  to  the  longest  duration. 

Then  Julia,  the  wish  to  please  becomes*  only  a  secondary 
motive,  subordinate  to  the  desire  I  have  to  secure  my  own  self* 
complacency.^     We  will  examine  how  far  they  are  connected. 

In  reflecting  upon  my  own  mind,  I  observe  that  I  am  flattered 


JULIA    ANI>   CXIU)L1NE.  4C^ 

by  the  opinion  of  others,  in  proportion  to  the  opinion  I  have  pre- 
viously formed  of  their  judgmant;  or  I  perceive  thatth«  opinion 
of  numbers,  mierely  as  numbers,,  baa  power  to  give  me  great 
pleasure  oor  great  pain.  I  would  unite  both  these  pleasures  if 
I  could,  but  in  general  I  cannot — they  are  iftCompatibl«^  The 
opinion  of  the  vulgar  crowd  and  the  enlightened  individitalr  the 
applause  of  the  highest  and  the  lowest,  of  mankind,  cannot  be 
obtained  by  the  same  means. 

Another  question  then  arises,- — wlvom  shall  we  wisb  to- please? 
We  must  choose,  and  be  decided  in  the  choice. 

You  say  that  you  are  proud ;  I  am  prouder. — You  will  be  con- 
tent with  indiscriminate  admiration^ — nothing  will  content  me 
but  what  is  select.  As  long  as  I  have  the  use  of  my  reason — as 
long  as  my  heart  can  feel  the  delightful  sense  of  a  "  well-earned 
praise,"  I  will  fix  my  eye  on  the  highest  pitch  of  excellence,  and 
steadily  endeavour  to  attain  it> 

Conscious  of  her  worth,  and  daring  to  assert  it,  I  would  have  a 
woman  early  in  life  know  that  she  is  capable  of  filling  the  heart 
of  a  man  of  sense  and  merit;  that  she  is  worthy  to  be  his  compa- 
nion and  friend.  With  all  the  energy  of  her  soul,  with  all  the 
powers  of  her  understanding,  I  would  have  a  woman  endeavour 
to  please  those  whom  she  esteems  and  loves. 

She  runs  a  risk,  you  will  say,  of  never  meeting  her  equal. 
Hearts  and  understandings  of  a  superior  order  are  seldom  met 
with  in  the  world  ;  or  when  met  with,  it  may  not  be  a  parti- 
cular good  fortune  to  win  them. — True  ;  but  if  ever  she  wins,  she 
will  keep  them ;  and  the  prize  appears  to  me  well  worth  the  pains 
and  difiiculty  of  attaining. 

I,  Julia,  admire  and  feel  enth-Q^ia-sm ;  but  I  would  have  philo- 
sophy directed  to  the  highest  objects.  I  dread  apathy  as  much 
as  you  caa ;  aad  I  would  en<iea«o\w:  to  prevent  it,  not  by  sacri- 
ficing half  my  existence,  but  by  enjoying  the  whole  with  mode- 
ration. 

You  ask,  why  exercise  does  not  increase  sensibility,  and  why 
sympathy  with  imaginary  disti-ess  will  not  also  increase  the  dis- 
position to  syinpa>thiae  with  what  is  real  ? — Because  pity  should, 
I  think,  always  be  associated  with  the  active  desire  to  relieve.  If 
it  be  suffered  to  become  a  passive  sensation,  it  is  a  useless  weak' 
ness,  not  a  virtue.     The  species  of  reading  you  speak  of  must  ba 


470  LETTERS    OF 

hurtful,  even  in  this  respect,  to  the  mind,  as  it  indulges  all  t\  w 
luxury  of  woe  in  sympathy  with  fictitious  distress,  withour 
requiring  the  exertion  which  reality  demands :  besides,  universaV 
experience  proves  to  us  that  habit,  so  far  from  increasing  sensi- 
bility, absolutely  destroys  it,  by  familiarizing  it  with  objects  of 
compassion. 

Let  me,  my  dear  friend,  appeal  even  to  your  own  experience 
in  the  very  instance  you  mention.  Is  there  any  j/*thetic  writer 
in  the  world  who  could  move  you  as  much  at  <hc  "  twentieth 
reading  as  at  the  first  *  ?"  Speak  naturally,  and  at  the  third  or 
fourth  reading,  you  would  probably  say,  It  is  very  pathetic,  but 
I  have  read  it  before — I  liked  it  better  the  first  time  ;  that  is  ta 
say,  it  did  touch  me  once — I  know  H  ought  to  touch  me  now,  but 
It  does  not.  Beware  of  this  !  Do  u^t  let  life  become  as  tedious 
as  a  twice-told  tale. 

Farewell,  dear  Julia ;  this  is  tb«  answer  of  fact  against  elo- 
quence, philosophy  against  enthusiasm.  You  appeal  from  my 
understanding  to  my  heart — I  appea'  <Tom  the  heart  to  the  im- 
derstanding  of  my  judge ;  and  ten  years  hence  the  decision 
perhaps  will  be  in  my  favour. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Caroline. 


LETTER  III. 


CAROLINE    TO    JULIA 

t.)n  her  intended  marriage. 

Indeed,  my  dear  Julia,  I  hardly  know  how  to  venture  to  gi»  - 
you  my  advice  upon  a  subject  which  ought  to  depend  so  mucb 
upon  your  own  taste  and  feelings.  My  opinion  and  my  wishes  J 
could  readily  tell  you :  the  idea  of  seeing  you  united  and  attached 
to  my  brother  is  certainly  the  most  agreeable  to  me  ;  but  I  am  to 
divest  myself  of  the  partiality  of  a  sister,  and  to  consider  my 
brother  and  Lord  V as  equal  candidates  for  your  preference 


Hame  said,  that  Parneirs  poems  were  as  fresh  at  the  twentieth  reading, 
M  at  the  first. 


JDI.IA    AND    CAROLINE.  471 

— equal,  I  mean,  in  your  regard  ;  for  you  say  that  "  Your  heart 
is  not  yet  decided  in  its  choice. — If  that  oracle  would  declare 
itself  in  intelligible  terms,  you  would  not  hesitate  a  moment  to 
obey  its  dictates."  But,  my  dear  Julia,  is  there  not  another,  a 
safety  I  do  not  say  a  better  oracle,  to  be  consulted — ^your  reason  ? 
Whilst  the  "  doubtful  beam  still  nods  from  side  to  side,"  you 
may  with  a  steady  hand  weigh  your  own  motives,  and  determine 
what  things  will  be  essential  to  your  happiness,  and  what  prict 
you  ,will  pay  for  them  ;  for 

"  Each  pleasure  has  its  price ;  and  they  who  pay 
Too  much  of  pain,  but  squander  life  away.'* 

Do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  I  do  not  quote  these  lines  of 
Dryden  as  being  the  finest  poetry  he  ever  wrote  ;  for  poets,  you 
know,  as  Waller  wittily  observed,  never  succeed  so  well  in  truth 
as  in  fiction. 

Since  we  cannot  in  life  expect  to  realize  all  our  wishes,  we 
must  distinguish  those  which  claim  the  rank  of  wants.  We  must 
separate  the  fanciful  from  the  real,  or  at  least  make  the  one  sub- 
servient to  the  other. 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  you,  more  particularly,  to  take 
every  precaution  before  you  decide  for  life,  because  disappoint- 
ment and  restraint  afterwards  would  be  insupportable  to  your 
temper. 

You  have  often  declared  to  me,  my  dear  friend,  that  your  love 
of  poetry,  and  of  all  the  refinements  of  literary  and  romantic 
pursuits,  is  so  intimately  "interwoven  in  your  mind,  that 
nothing  could  separate  them,  without  destroying  the  whole 
fabric." 

Your  tastes,  you  say,  are  fixed ;  if  they  are  so,  you  must  be 
doubly  careful  to  ensure  their  gratification.  If  you  cannot  make 
them  subservient  to  external  circumstances,  you  should  certainly, 
if  it  be  in  your  power,  choose  a  situation  in  which  circumstances 
will  be  subservient  to  them.  If  you  are  convinced  that  you 
could  not  adopt  the  tastes  of  another,  it  will  be  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  your  happiness  to  live  with  one  whose  tastes  are  similar 
to  your  own. 

The  belief  in  that  sympathy  of  souls,  which  the  poets  suppose 
declares  itself  between  two  people  at  first  sight,  is  perhaps  aa 


472  LETTERS    OF 

absurd  as  the  late  fashionable  belief  in  animal  magnetism :  but 
there  is  a  sympathy  whicli,  if  it  be  not  the  fotmdation,  may  be 
called  the  cement  of  affection.  Two  people  could  not,  I  should 
think,  retain  any  lasting  affection  for  each  other,  without  a 
mutual  sympathy  in  taste  and  in  their  diurnal  occupations  and 
domestic  pleasures.  This,  you  will  allow,  my  dear  Julia,  even 
in  a  fuller  extent  than  I  do.  Now,  my  brother's  tastes,  charac- 
ter, and  habits  of  life,  are  so  very  different  from  Lord  V 's, 

that  I  scarcely  know  how  you  can  compare  them  ;  at  least  before 
you  can  decide  which  of  the  two  would  make  you  the  happiest 
in  life,  you  must  determine  what  kind  of  life  you  may  wish  to 
lead ;  for  my  brother,  though  he  might  make  you  very  happy  in 

domestic  life,  would  not  make  the  Countess  of  V happy ; 

nor  would   Lord  V make  Mrs.  Percy  happy.     They  must 

be  two  different  women,  with  different  habits,  and  different  wishes; 
so  that  you  must  divide  yourself,  my  dear  Julia,  like  Araspes,  into 
two  selves  ;  I  do  not  say  into  a  bad  and  a  good  self;  choose  some 
other  epithets  to  distinguish  them,  but  distinct  they  must  be  :  so 
let  them  now  declare  and  decide  their  pretensions ;  and  let  the 
victor  have  not  only  the  honours  of  a  triumph,  but  all  the  pre- 
rogatives of  victory.  Let  the  subdued  be  subdued  for  life — let 
the  victor  take  every  precaution  which  policy  can  dictate,  to 
prevent  the  possibility  of  future  contests  with  the  vanquished. 

But  without  talking  poetry  to  you,  my  dear  friend,  let  me 
seriously  recommend  it  to  you  to  examine  your  own  mind  care- 
fully ;  and  if  you  find  that  public  diversions  and  public  admira- 
tion, dissipation,  and  all  the  pleasures  of  riches  and  high  rank, 
are  really  and  truly  essential   to   your  happiness,  direct  your 

choice   accordingly.      Marry    Lord    V- :    he    has    a    large 

fortune,  extensive  connexions,  and  an  exalted  station ;  his  own 
taste  for  show  and  expense,  his  family  pride,  and  personal 
vanity,  will  all  tend  to  the  end  you  propose.  Your  house,  table, 
equipages,  may  be   all  in  the  highest   style  of  magnificence. 

Lord  V 's  easiness  of  temper,   and  fondness  for  you,  will 

readily  give  you  that  entire  ascendancy  over  his  pleasures, 
which  your  abilities  give  you  over  his  understanding.  He  will 
not  control  your  wishes ;  you  may  gratify  them  to  the  utmost 
bounds  of  his  fortune,  and  perhaps  beyond  those  bounds ;  you 
may  have  entire  command  at  home  and  abroad.     If  these  art 


JULI4    AND    CAROLINE.  47!^ 

your  objects,  Julia,  take  them  ;  they  are  in  your  power.  But 
remember,  you  must  take  them  with  their  necessary  concomi- 
tants— the  restraints  upon  your  time,  upon  the  choice  of  your 
friends  and  your  company,  which  high  life  imposes ;  the  ennui 
subsequent  to  dissipation ;  the  mortifications  of  rivalship  in 
beauty,  wit,  rank,  and  magnificence  ;  the  trouble  of  managing  a 
large  fortune,  and  the  chance  of  involving  your  affairs  and  your 
family  in  difficulty  and  distress ;  these  and  a  thousand  more 
evils  you  must  submit  to.  You  must  renounce  all  the  pleasures 
of  the  heart  and  of  the  imagination  ;  you  must  give  up  the  idea 
of  cultivating  literary  taste ;  you  must  not  expect  from  your 
husband  friendship  and  confidence,  or  any  of  the  delicacies  of 
affection  : — you  govei-u  him,  he  cannot  therefore  be  your  equal ; 
you  may  be  a  fond  mother,  but  you  cannot  educate  your 
children  ;  you  will  neither  have  the  time  nor  the  power  to  do  it; 
you  must  trust  them  to  a  governess.  In  the  selection  of  your 
friends,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  their  company  and  conversa- 
tion^ you  will  be  still  more  restrained  :  in  short,  you  must  give 
up  tne  pleasures  of  domestic  life  ;  for  that  is  not  in  this  case  the 
life  you  have  chosen.  But  you  will  exclaim  against  me  for 
supposing  you  capable  of  making  such  a  choice — such  sacrifices  I 
— I  am  sure,  next  to  my  brother,  I  am  the  last  person  in  the 
world  who  would  wish  you  to  make  them. 

You  have  another  choice,  my  dear  Julia :  domestic  life  is 
offered  to  you  by  one  who  has  every  wish  and  every  power  to 
make  it  agreeable  to  you ;  by  one  whose  tastes  resemble  your 
own ;  who  would  be  a  judge  and  a  fond  admirer  of  all  your 
perfections.  You  would  have  perpetual  motives  to  cultivate 
every  talent,  and  to  exert  every  power  of  pleasing  for  his  sake — 
for  his  sake,  whose  penetration  no  improvement  would  escape, 
and  whose  affection  would  be  susceptible  of  every  proof  of  yours. 
Am  I  drawing  too  flattering  a  picture  ? — A  sister's  hand  may 
draw  a  partial  likeness,  but  still  it  will  be  a  likeness.  At  all 
events,  my  dear  Julia,  you  would  be  certain  of  the  mode  of  life 
you  would  lead  with  my  brother.  The  regulation  of  your  time 
and  occupations  would  be  your  own.  In  the  education  of  yout 
family,  you  would  meet  with  no  interruptions  or  restraint.  You 
would  have  no  governess  to  counteract,  no  strangers  to  intrude ; 
you  might  follow  your  own  judgment,  or  yield  to  the  judgment 


474  LETTERS    OP 

of  one  who  would  never  require  you  to  submit  to  his  opinionf 
but  to  his  reasons. 

All  the  pleasures  of  friendship  you  would  enjoy  in  your  own 
family  in  the  highest  perfection,  and  you  woidd  have  for  your 
sister  the  friend  of  your  infancy, 

Caroline. 


LETTER  IV. 

CAROLINE    TO    LADY    V . 

Upon  her  intended  separation  from  her  husband. 

You  need  not  fear,  my  dear  LadyV ,  that  I  shoiUd  triumph 

in  the  accomplishment  of  my  prophecies;  or  that  I  should 
reproach  you  for  having  preferred  your  own  opinion  to  my 
advice.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Julia,  I  am  your  friend,  nor 
would  the  name  of  sister  have  increased  my  friendship. 

Five  years  have  made  then  so  great  a  change  in  your  feelings 
and  views  of  life,  that  a  few  days  ago,  when  my  letter  to  you  on 
your  marriage  accidentally  fell  into  your  hands,  '*  you  were  struck 
with  a  species  of  astonishment  at  your  choice j  and  you  burst  into 
tears  in  an  agony  of  despair ^  on  reading  the  wretched  doom  fore- 
told to  the  wife  of  Lord  V .     A  doom,"  you  add,  ^^ which  I 

feel  hourly  accomplishing,  and  which  I  see  no  possibility  of  avert- 
ing, but  by  a  separation  from  a  husband,  with  whom,  I  now  think, 
it  way  madness  to  unite  myself." ^  Your  opinion  I  must  already 
know  upon  this  subject,  **a«  the  same  arguments  which  should 
have  prevetited  me  from  making  such  a  choice,  ought  now  to 
determine  me  to  abjure  it." 

You  say,  dear  Julia,  that  my  letter  struck  you  with  despair. — 
Despair  is  either  madness  or  folly ;  it  obtains,  it  deserves  nothing 
from  mankind  but  pity ;  and  pity,  though  it  be  akin  to  love,  has 
yet  a  secret  affinity  to  contempt.  In  strong  minds,  despair  is  an 
acute  disease  ;  the  prelude  to  great  exertion.  In  weak  minds,  it 
is  a  chronic  distemper,  followed  by  incurable  indolence.  Let 
the  crisis  be  favourable,  and  resume  your  wonted  energy.  Instead 
of  suffering  the  imagination  to  dwell  with  unavailing  sorrow  on 
■the  past,  let  us  turn  our  attention  towards  the  future.     When  au 


lULIA    AND    CAROLINE.  475 

evil  is  irremediable,  let  us  acknowledge  it  to  be  such,  and  bear 
k: — there  is  no  power  to  which  we  submit  so  certainly  as  to 
necessity.  With  our  hopes,  our  wishes  cease.  Imagination  has 
a  contracting,  as  weU  as  an  expansive  faculty.  The  prisoner,  who, 
deprived  of  all  that  we  conceive  to  constitute  the  pleasures  of 
life,  could  interest  or  occupy  himself  with  the  labours  of  a  spider, 
was  certainly  a  philosopher.  He  enjoyed  all  the  means  of 
happiness  that  were  left  in  his  power. 

I  know,  my  dear  Lady  V ,  that  words  have  little  effect 

over  grief;  and  I  do  not,  I  assure  you,  mean  to  insult  you  with 
the  parade  of  stoic  philosophy.  But  consider,  your  error  is  not 
perhaps  so  great  as  you  imagine.  Certainly,  they  who  at  the 
beginning  of  life  can  with  a  steady  eye  look  through  the  long 
perspective  of  distant  years,  who  can  in  one  view  comprise  all 
the  different  objects  of  happiness  and  misery,  who  can  compare 
accurately,  and  justly  estimate  their  respective  degrees  of  im- 
portance ;  and  who,  after  having  formed  such  a  calculation,  are 
capable  of  acting  uniformly,  in  consequence  of  their  own  con- 
viction, are  the  loisesty  and,  as  far  as  prudence  can  influence  our 
fortune,  the  happiest  of  human  bemgs.  Next  to  this  favoured 
class  are  those  who  can  perceive  and  repair  their  own  errors ; 
who  can  stop  at  any  given  period  to  take  a  new  view  of  life.  If 
tmfortimate  circumstances  have  denied  you  a  place  in  the  first 
rank,  you  may,  dear  Julia,  secure  yourself  a  station  in  the 
second.  Is  not  the  conduct  of  a  woman,  after  her  marriage,  of 
infinitely  more  importance  than  her  previous  choice,  whatever  it 
may  have  been  ?    Then  now  consider  what  yours  should  be. 

You  say  that  it  is  easier  to  break  a  chain  than  to  stretch  it ;  but 
remember  that  when  broken,  your  part  of  the  chain,  Julia,  will 
utill  remain  with  you,  and  fetter  and  disgrace  you  through  life. 
Why  should  a  woman  be  so  circumspect  in  her  choice  ?  Is  it 
not  because  when  once  made  she  must  abide  by  it  ?  **  She  sets 
iier  life  upon  the  cast,  and  she  must  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die." 
From  domestic  uneasiness  a  man  has  a  thousand  resources :  in 
middling  life,  the  tavern,  in  high  life,  the  gaming-table,  suspends 
the  anxiety  of  thought.  Dissipation,  ambition,  business,  the 
occupation  of  a  profession,  change  of  place,  change  of  company, 
•fford  him  agreeable  and  honourable  relief  from  domestic  chagrin. 
If  his  home  become  tiresome,  he  leaves  it ,-  if  his  wife  become 

81 


476  LETTERS    or 

disagreeable  to  him,  he  leaves  her,  and  in  leaving  her  loses  oni^ 
a  wife.  But  what  resource  has  a  woman  ? — Precluded  from  all 
the  occupations  common  to  the  other  sex,  she  loses  even  those 
peculiar  to  her  own.  She  has  no  remedy,  from  the  company  of 
a  man  she  dislikes,  but  a  separation ;  and  this  remedy,  desperate 
as  it  is,  is  allowed  only  to  a  certain  class  of  women  in  society ; 
to  those  whose  fortune  affords  them  the  means  of  subsistence, 
and  whose  friends  have  secured  to  them  a  separate  maintenance* 
A  peeress  then,  probably,  can  leave  her  husband  if  she  wish  it ;  a 
peasant's  wife  cannot;  she  depends  upon  the  character  and 
privileges  of  a  wife  for  actual  subsistence.  Her  domestic  care,  if 
not  her  affection,  is  secured  to  her  husband  ;  and  it  is  just  that 
it  should.  He  sacrifices  his  liberty,  his  labour,  his  ingenuity, 
his  time,  for  the  support  and  protection  of  his  wife ;  and  in  pro- 
portion to  his  protection  is  his  power. 

In  higher  life,  where  the  sacrifices  of  both  parties  in  the 
original  union  are  more  equal,  the  evils  of  a  separation  are  more 
nearly  balanced.  But  even  here,  the  wife  who  has  hazarded  least, 
suffers  the  most  by  the  dissolution  of  the  partnership  ;  she  loses 
a  great  part  of  her  fortune,  and  of  the  conveniences  and  luxuries 
ef  life.  She  loses  her  home,  her  rank  in  society.  She  loses  both 
the  repellant  and  the  attractive  power  of  a  mistress  of  a  family. 
"  Her  occupation  is  gone."  She  becomes  a  wanderer.  Whilst 
her  youth  and  beauty  last,  she  may  enjoy  that  species  of  delirium, 
caused  by  public  admiration  ;  fortunate  if  habit  does  not  destroy 
the  power  of  this  charm,  before  the  season  of  its  duration  expire. 
It  was  said  to  be  the  wish  of  a  celebrated  modem  beauty,  "  that 
she  might  not  survive  her  nine-and-twentieth  birth-day."  I  have 
often  heard  this  wish  quoted  for  its  extravagance  ;  but  I  always 
admired  it  for  its  good  sense.  The  lady  foresaw  the  inevitable 
doom  of  her  declining  years.  Her  apprehensions  for  the  future 
embittered  even  her  enjoyment  of  the  present;  and  she  had 
resolution  enough  to  offer  to  take  "  a  bond  of  fate,"  to  sacrifice 
one-half  of  her  life,  to  secure  the  pleasure  of  the  other. 

But,  dear  Lady  V ,  probably  this  wish  was  made  at  some 

distance  from  the  destined  period  of  its  accomplishment.  On 
the  eve  of  her  nine-and-twentieth  birth-day,  the  lady  perhaps 
might  have  felt  inclined  to  retract  her  prayer.  At  least  we 
*hould  provide  for  the  cowardice  which  might  seize  the  female 


Julia  and  Caroline.  477 

mind  at  such  ah  instant.  Even  the  most  wretched  life  has 
power  to  attach  us ;  none  can  be  more  wretched  than  the  old 

age  of  a  dissipated  beauty : — unless,  Lady  V ,  it  be  that  of  a 

woman,  who,  to  all  her  evils  has  the  addition  of  remorse,  for 
having  abjured  her  duties  and  abandoned  her  family.  Such  ia 
the  situation  of  a  woman  who  separates  from  her  husband. 
Reduced  to  go  the  same  insipid  round  of  public  amusements,  yet 
more  restrained  than  an  unmarried  beauty  in  youth,  yet  more 
miserable  in  age,  the  superiority  of  her  genius  and  the  sensibility 
of  her  heart  become  her  greatest  evils.  She,  indeed,  must  pray 
for  indifference.  Avoided  by  all  ber  family  connexions,  hated 
and  despised  where  she  might  have  been  loved  and  respected, 
solitar}'  in  the  midst  of  society,  she  feels  herself  deserted  at  th« 
time  of  life  when  she  most  wants  social  comfort  and  assistance. 

Dear  Julia,  whilst  it  is  yet  in  your  power  secure  to  yourself  a 
happier  fate ;  retire  to  the  bosom  of  your  own  family  j  prepare 
for  yourself  a  new  society ;  perform  the  duties,  and  you  shall 
soon  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  domestic  life  ;  educate  your  children  ; 
whilst  they  are  young,  it  shall  be  your  occupation  ;  as  they  grow 
up,  it  shall  be  your  glory.  Let  me  anticipate  your  future  success, 
when  they  shall  appear  such  as  you  can  make  them  j  when  the 
world  shall  ask  "  who  educated  these  amiable  young  women  ? 
Who  formed  their  character  ?  Who  cultivated  the  talents  of  this 
promising  young  man  ?  Why  does  this  whole  family  live  toge- 
ther in  such  perfect  union  ?"  With  one  voice,  dear  Julia,  your 
children  shall  name  their  mother;  she  who  in  the  bloom  of 
youth  checked  herself  in  the  career  of  dissipation,  and  turned  all 
the  ability  and  energy  of  her  mind  to  their  education. 

Such  will  be  your  future  fame.  In  the  mean  time,  before  you 
have  formed  for  yourself  companions  in  your  own  family,  you  will 
want  a  society  suited  to  your  taste.  "  Disgusted  as  you  have 
been  with  frivolous  company,  you  say  that  you  wish  to  draw 
around  you  a  society  of  literary  and  estimable  friends,  whose  con- 
versation and  talents  shall  delight  you,  and  who  at  the  same  time 
that  they  are  excited  to  display  their  own  abilities,  shall  be  a 
judge  of  yours." 

But,  dear  Lady  V ,  the  possibility  of  your  forming  such  a 

society  must  depend  on  your  having  a  home  to  receive,  a  cha* 


478  LETTERS  or 

teeter  and  consequence  in  life  to  invite  and  attach  friends.  The 
opinion  of  numbers  is  necessary  to  excite  the  ambition  of  indivi- 
duals. To  be  a  female  Mecaenas  you  must  have  power  to  confer 
favours,  as  well  as  judgment  to  discern  merit. 

What  castles  in  the  air  are  built  by  the  synthetic  wand  of 
imagination,  which  vanish  when  exposed  to  the  analysis  of 
reason  ! 

Then,  Julia,  supposing  that  Lord  V ,  as  your  husband,  be- 
comes a  negative  quantity  as  to  your  happiness,  yet  he  will  acquire 
mother  species  of  value  as  the  master  of  your  family  and  the 
father  of  your  children  ;  as  a  person  who  supports  your  public 
consequence,  and  your  private  self  complacency.      Yes,   dear 

Lady  V ,  he  will  increase  your  self-complacency ;  for  do  you 

not  think,  that  when  your  husband  sees  his  children  prosper 
cinder  your  care,  his  family  united  under  your  management^ 
whilst  he  feels  your  merit  at  home,  and  hears  your  praises  abroad, 
do  you  not  think  he  will  himself  learn  to  respect  and  love  you  f 
You  say  that  "  Ae  m  not  a  judge  of  female  excellence  ;  that  he 
•has  no  real  taste  ;  that  vanity  is  his  ruling  passion.*'  Then  if  his 
judgment  be  dependent  on  the  opinions  of  others,  he  will  be  the 
more  easily  led  by  the  public  voice,  and  you  will  command  the 
suffrages  of  the  public.  If  he  has  not  taste  enough  to  approve, 
he  will  have  vanity  enough  to  be  proud  of  you ;  and  a  vain  man 
insensibly  begins  to  love  that  of  which  he  is  proud.  Why  does 
Lord  V  love  his  buildings,  his  paintings,  his  equipages  i    It 

is  not  for  their  intrinsic  value  ;  but  because  they  are  means  of 
distinction  to  him.  Let  his  wife  become  a  greater  distinction  to 
him,  and  on  the  same  principles  he  will  prefer  her.  Set  an 
example,  then,  dear  Lady  V  ,  of  domestic  virtue;  your 
talents  shall  make  it  admired,  your  rank  shall  make  it  conspi- 
cuous. You  are  ambitious,  Julia,  you  love  praise ;  you  have  been 
used  to  it ;  you  cannot  live  happily  without  it. 

Praise  is  a  mental  luxury,  which  becomes  from  habit  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  our  existence ;  and  in  purchasing  it  we  must 
pay  the  price  set  upon  it  by  society.  The  more  curious,  the  more 
avaricious  we  become  of  this  "  aerial  coin,"  the  more  it  is  our 
interest  to  preserve  its  currency  and  increase  its  value.  You,  my 
dear  Julia,  in  particular,  who  have  amassed  so  much  of  it,  should 


JULIA    AND   CAROLINE.  479 

not  cry  down  its  price,  for  your  own  sake  ! — Do  not  then  saj'  in 
a  fit  of  disgust,  that  "  you  are  grown  too  wise  now  to  value  ap- 
plause." 

If,  during  youth,  your  appetite  for  applause  was  indiscriminate, 
and  indulged  to  excess,  you  are  now  more  difficult  in  your  choice, 
and  are  become  an  epicure  in  your  taste  for  praise. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Julia ;  I  hope  still  to  see  you  as  happy  m 
domestic  life  as 

Your  ever  affectionate 

and  sincere  friend, 

Caroline. 


LETTER  V. 

CAROLINE    TO    LADY    V 

On  her  conduct  after  her  separation  from  her  husband, 

A  DELICACY,  of  which  I  now  begin  to  repent,  has  of  late  pre- 
vented me  from  writing  to  you.  1  am  afraid  I  shall  be  abrupt, 
but  it  is  necessary  to  be  explicit.  Your  conduct,  ever  since  youx 
separation  from  your  husband,  has  been  anxiously  watched  from 
a  variety  of  motives,  by  his  family  and  your  own ; — ^it  has  been 
blamed.  Reflect  upon  your  own  mind,  and  examine  with  what 
justice. 

Last  summer,  when  I  was  with  you,  I  observed  a  change  in 
your  conversation,  and  the  whole  turn  of  your  thoughts.  I  per- 
ceived an  unusual  impatience  of  restraint ;  a  confusion  in  your 
ideas  when  you  began  to  reason, — an  eloquence  in  your  lan- 
guage when  you  began  to  declaim,  which  convinced  me  that 
from  some  secret  cause  the  powers  of  your  reason  had  been  de- 
clining, and  those  of  your  imagination  rapidly  increasing ;  the 
boundaries  of  right  and  wrong  seemed  to  be  no  longer  marked  in 
/our  mind.  Neither  the  rational  hope  of  happiness,  nor  a  sense 
of  duty  governed  you ;  but  some  unknown,  wayward  power 
seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  your  understanding,  and  to 
have  thrown  every  thing  into  confusion.  You  appeared  pecu- 
liarly averse  to  philosophy :  let  me  recall  your  own  words  to  you ; 
you  asked  "  of  what  use  philosophy  could  be  to  beings  who  had 


480  LETTERS    OP 

no  fr«r  will,  and  how  the  ideas  of  just  punishment  and  invo* 
luntary  crime  could  be  reconciled  ?" 

Your  understanding  involved  itself  in  metaphysical  absurdity. 
In  conversing  upon  literary  subjects  one  evening,  in  speaking  of 
the  striking  difference  between  the  conduct  and  the  under- 
standing of  the  great  Lord  Bacon,  you  said,  that  "  It  by  no 
means  surprised  you ;  that  to  an  enlarged  mind,  accustomed  to 
consider  the  universe  as  one  vast  whole,  the  conduct  of  that  little 
animated  atom,  that  inconsiderable  part  self^  must  be  too  insig- 
nificant to  fix  or  merit  attention.  It  was  nothing,"  you  said, 
*'in  the  general  mass  of  vice  and  virtue,  happiness  and  misery." 
1  believe  I  answered,  "  that  it  might  be  nothing  compared  to  the 
great  whole,  but  it  was  everi/  thing  to  the  individual."  Such 
were  your  opinions  in  theory ;  you  must  know  enough  of  the 
human  heart  to  perceive  their  tendency  when  reduced  to  prac- 
tice. Speculative  opinions,  I  know,  have  little  influence  over 
the  practice  of  those  who  act  much  and  think  little ;  but  1 
«hould  conceive  their  power  to  be  considerable  over  the  conduct 
of  those  who  have  much  time  for  reflection  and  little  necessity 
for  action.  In  one  case  the  habit  of  action  governs  the  thoughts 
upon  any  sudden  emergency ;  in  the  other,  the  thoughts  govern 
the  actions.  The  truth  or  falsehood  then  of  speculative  opinions 
is  of  much  greater  consequence  to  our  sex  than  to  the  other ;  as 
we  live  a  life  of  reflection,  they  of  action. 

Retrace,  then,  dear  Julia,  in  your  mind  the  course  of  your 
thoughts  for  some  time  past ;  discover  the  cause  of  this  revolu- 
tion in  your  opinions;  judge  yourself ;  and  remember,  that  in 
the  mind  as  well  as  in  the  body,  the  highest  pitch  of  disease  is 
often  attended  with  an  unconsciousness  of  its  existence.  If,  then. 
Lady  V  •,  upon  receiving  my  letter,  you  should  feel  averse 
to  this  self-examination,  or  if  you  should  imagine  it  to  be  useless, 
I  no  longer  advise,  I  command  you  to  quit  your  present  abode  ; 
come  to  me  :  fly  from  the  danger,  and  be  safe. 

Dear  Julia,  I  must  assume  this  peremptory  tone  :  if  you  are 
angry,  I  must  disregard  your  anger ;  it  is  the  anger  of  disease, 
the  anger  of  one  who  is  roused  from  that  sleep  which  would  end 
in  death. 

I  respect  the  equality  of  friendship  ;  but  this  equality  permits, 
naj  requires,  the  temporary   ascendattcy  I   assume.     In  real 


JULIA    AND    C^ROLINK.  481 

friendship,  the  judgment,  the  genius,  the  prudence  of  each  party 
become  the  common  property  of  both.  Even  if  they  are  equals, 
ihey  may  not  be  so  always.  Those  transient  fits  of  passion,  to 
which  the  best  and  wisest  are  liable,  may  deprive  even  the 
superior  of  the  advantage  of  their  reason.  She'  then  has  still  in 
her  friend  an  impartial,  though  perhaps  an  inferior  judgment ; 
each  becomes  the  guardian  of  the  other,  as  their  mutual  safety 
may  require. 

Heaven  seems  to  have  granted  this  double  chance  of  virtue 
and  happiness,  as  the  peculiar  reward  of  friendship. 

Use  it,  then,  my  dear  friend ;  accept  the  assistance  you  could 
€0  well  return.  Obey  me  ;  I  shall  judge  of  you  by  your  resolu- 
tion  at  this  crisis ;  on  it  depends  your  fate,  and  my  friendship. 

Your  sincere 

and  affectionate 

Caroline. 


LETTER  VI. 

CAROLINE    TO    LADY    V . 

JuLst  before  she  went  to  France, 

The  time  is  now  come,  Lady  V  ,  when  I  must  bid  you  an 
eternal  adieu.  With  what  deep  regret,  I  need  not,  Julia,  I  can- 
not tell  you. 

I  burned  your  letter  the  moment  I  had  read  it.  Your  past 
confidence  I  never  will  betray ;  but  I  must  renounce  all  future 
intercourse  with  you,  I  am  a  sister,  a  wife,  a  mother ;  all  these 
connexions  forbid  me  to  be  longer  your  friend.  In  misfortune,  in 
sickness,  or  in  poverty,  I  never  would  have  forsaken  you ;  but 
infamy  I  cannot  share.  I  would  have  gone,  I  went,  to  the  brink 
of  the  precipice  to  save  you ;  with  all  my  force  I  held  you 
back ;  but  in  vain.  But  why  do  I  vindicate  my  conduct  to  you 
How  ?  Accustomed  as  I  have  always  been  to  think  your  appro- 
bation necessary  to  my  happiness,  I  forgot  that  henceforward 
your  opinion  is  to  be  nothing  to  me,  or  mine  to  you. 

Oh,  Julia !  the  idea,  the  certainty,  that  you  must,  if  you  live, 
be  in  a  few  years,  in  a  few  months,  perhaps,  reduced  to  absolute 

Letters  of  Julia,  8fc, 


482  LETTERS    OF 

want,  in  a  foreign  country — ^without  a  friend — a  protector,  the 
fate  of  women  who  have  fallen  from  a  state  as  high  as  yours,  the 

names  of  L ,  of  G ,  the  horror  I  feel  at  joining  youi 

name  to  theirs,  impels  me  to  make  one  more  attempt  to  save 
you. 

Companion  of  my  earliest  years !  friend  of  my  youth !  my. 
beloved  Julia  !  by  the  happy  innocent  hoiu^  we  have  spent 
together,  by  the  love  you  had  for  me,  by  the  respect  you  bear  to 
the  memory  of  your  mother,  by  the  agony  with  which  your 
father  will  hear  of  the  loss  of  his  daughter,  by  all  that  has 
power  to  touch  your  mind — I  conjure  you,  I  implore  you  to 
pause  I — Farewell ! 

Caroline. 


LETTER  VII. 


CAROLINE    TO    LORD    Y 

Written  a  few  months  after  the  date  of  the  preceding  letter. 

MY  LORD, 

Though  I  am  too  sensible  that  all  connexion  between  my 
unfortunate  friend  and  her  family  must  for  some  time  have  been 
dissolved,  I  venture  now  to  address  myself  to  your  lordship. 

On  Wednesday  last,  about  half  after  six  o'clock  in  the  event- 
ing, the  following  note  was  brought  to  me.  It  had  been  written 
with  such  a  trembling  hand  that  it  was  scarcely  legible  ;  but  I 
knew  the  writing  too  well. 

"  If  you  ever  loved  me,  Caroline,  read  this— do  not  tear  it  tl/ 
moment  you  see  the  name  of  Julia:  she  has  suffered — she  i_ 
humbled.  I  left  France  with  the  hope  of  seeing  you  once  more 
but  now  I  am  so  near  you,  my  courage  fails,  and  my  heart  sinks 
within  me.  I  have  no  friend  upon  earth — I  deserve  none  ;  yet 
I  cannot  help  wishing  to  see,  once  more  before  I  die,  the  friend 
of  my  youth,  to  thank  her  with  my  last  breath. 

"  But,  dear  Caroline,  if  I  must  not  see  you,  write  to  me,  if 
possible,  one  line  of  consolation. 

"  Tell  me,  is  my  father  living — do  you  know  any  thing  of  my 


JULIA    AND    CAROLINE.  483 

children  ? — I  dare  not  ask  for  my  husband.  Adieu  I  I  am  so 
ureak  that  I  can  scarcely  write — I  hope  I  shall  soon  be  no  more. 
Farewell ! 

«  Julia." 

I  immediately  determined  to  follow  the  bearer  of  this  lette 
Julia  was  waiting  for  my  answer  at  a  small  inn  in  a  neighs 
bouring  village,  at  a  few  miles'  distance.  It  was  night  when  I 
got  there  :  every  thing  was  silent — all  the  houses  were  shut  up, 
excepting  one,  in  which  we  saw  two  or  three  lights  glimmering 
through  the  window — this  was  the  inn :  as  your  lordship  may 
imagine,  it  was  a  very  miserable  place.  The  mistress  of  the 
house  seemed  to  be  touched  with  pity  for  the  stranger :  she 
opened  the  door  of  a  small  room,  where  she  said  the  poor  lady 
was  resting ;  and  retired  as  I  entered. 

Upon  a  low  matted  seat  beside  the  fire  sat  Lady  V ;  she 

was  in  black ;  her  knees  were  crossed,  and  her  white  but  ema- 
ciated arms  flung  on  one  side  over  her  lap;  her  hands  were 
clasped  together,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire  :  she  seemed 
neither  to  hear  nor  see  any  thing  round  her,  but,  totally 
absorbed  in  her  own  reflections,  to  have  sunk  into  insensibility. 
I  dreaded  to  rouse  her  from  this  state  of  torpor ;  and  I  believe  I 
stood  for  some  moments  motionless :  at  last  I  moved  softly 
towards  her — she  turned  her  head — started  up — a  scarlet  blush 
overspread  her  face — she  grew  livid  again  instantly,  gave  a 
faint  shriek,  and  sunk  senseless  into  my  arms. 

When  she  returned  to  herself,  and  found  her  head  lying  upon 
my  shoulder,  and  heard  my  voiee  soothing  her  with  all  the 
expressions  of  kindness  I  could  think  of,  she  smiled  with  a  look 
of  gratitude,  which  I  never  shall  forget.  Like  one  who  had  been 
long  unused  to  kindness,  she  seemed  ready  to  pour  forth  all  the 
fondness  of  her  heart :  but,  as  if  recollecting  herself  better,  she 
immediately  checked  her  feelings — withdrew  her  hand  from 
mine — thanked  me — said  she  was  quite  well  again — cast  down 
her  eyes,  and  her  manner  changed  from  tenderness  to  timidity. 
She  seemed  to  think  that  she  had  lost  all  right  to  sympathy,  and 
received  even  the  common  offices  of  humanity  with  surprise :  her 
high  spirit,  I  saw,  was  quite  broken. 

I  think  I  never  felt  such  sorrow  as  I  did  in  contemplating 


484  LETT£R3    OP 

Julia  at  this  instant :  she  who  stood  before  me,  sinking  under 
the  sense  of  inferiority,  I  knew  to  be  my  equal — my  superior ; 
yet  by  fatal  imprudence,  by  one  rash  step,  all  her  great,  and 
good,  and  amiable  qiialities  were  irretrievably  lost  to  the  world 
and  to  herself. 

When  I  thought  that  she  was  a  little  recovered,  I  begged  of 
her,  if  she  was  not  too  much  fatigued,  to  let  me  carry  her  home. 
At  these  words  she  looked  at  me  with  surprise.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears ;  but  without  making  any  other  reply,  she  suffered 
me  to  draw  her  arm  within  mine,  and  attempted  to  follow  me. 
I  did  not  know  how  feeble  she  was  till  she  began  to  walk ;  it 
was  with  the  utmost  difiiculty  I  supported  her  to  the  door ;  and 
by  the  assistance  of  the  people  of  the  house  she  was  lifted  into 
llie  carriage  :  we  went  very  slowly.  When  the  carriage  stopped 
she  was  seized  with  an  universal  tremor ;  she  started  when  the 
man  knocked  at  the  door,  and  seemed  to  dread  its  being  opened. 
The  appearance  of  light  and  the  sound  of  cheerful  voices  struck 
her  with  horror. 

I  could  not  myself  help  being  shocked  with  the  contrast 
between  the  dieadful  situation  of  my  friend,  and  the  happiness  of 
the  family  to  which  I  was  returning. 

"Oh!"  said  she,  "what  are  these  voices? — Whither  are  you 
taking  me  ?— For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  let  any  body  see  me  !" 

I  assured  her  that  she  should  go  directly  to  her  own  apart- 
ment, and  that  no  human  being  should  approach  her  without 
her  express  permission. 

Alas  !  it  happened  at  this  very  moment  that  all  my  children 
came  running  with  the  utmost  gaiety  into  the  hall  to  meet  us, 
§nd  the  very  circumstance  which  I  had  been  so  anxious  to  pre- 
rent  happened — little  Julia  was  amongst  them.  The  gaiety  of 
the  children  suddenly  ceased  the  moment  they  saw  Lady  V 
coming  up  the  steps — they  were  struck  with  her  melancholy 
air  and  countenance  :  she,  leaning  upon  my  arm,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ground,  let  me  lead  her  in,  and  sunk  upon  the 
first  chair  she  came  to.     I  made  a  sign  to  the  children  to  retire ; 

but  the  moment  they  began  to  move,  Lady  V looked  up— 

saw  her  daughter — and  now  for  the  first  time  burst  into  tears 
The  little  girl  did  not  recollect  her  poor  mother  till  she  heard 
the  sound  of  her  voice ;  and  then  she  threw  her  arms  round  her 


JVLIA    AND    CAROLINE.  4g5 

Deck,  crying,  "Is  it  you,  mamma?" — and  all  the  children 
immediately  crowded  round  and  asked,  "  if  this  was  the  sanK 
I^dy  V who  used  to  play  with  them  ?" 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  effect  these  simple  questions 
had  on  Julia :  a  variety  of  emotions  seemed  struggling  in  her 
countenance  ;  she  rose  and  made  an  attempt  to  break  from  the 
children,  but  could  not — she  had  not  strength  to  support  herself. 
We  carried  her  away  and  put  her  to  bed ;  she  took  no  notice  of 
any  body,  nor  did  she  even  seem  to  know  that  I  was  with  her : 
I  thought  she  was  insensible,  but  as  I  drew  the  curtains  I  heard 
her  give  a  deep  sigh. 

I  left  her,  and  carried  away  her  little  girl,  who  had  followed 
us  up  stairs  and  begged  to  stay  with  her  mother ;  but  I  was 
apprehensive  that  the  sight  of  her  might  renew  her  agitation. 

After  I  was  gone,  they  told  me  that  she  was  perfectly  still, 
with  her  eyes  closed ;  and  I  stayed  away  some  time  in  hopes 
that  she  might  sleep  :  however,  about  midnight  she  sent  to  beg 
to  speak  to  me :  she  was  very  ill — she  beckoned  to  me  to  sit 
down  by  her  bedside — every  one  left  the  room ;  and  when  Julia 
saw  herself  alone  with  me,  she  took  my  hand,  and  in  a  low  but 
calm  voice  she  said,  "  I  have  not  many  hours  to  live — my  heart 
is  broken — I  wished  to  see  you,  to  thank  you  whilst  it  was  yet  in 
my  power."  She  pressed  my  hand  to  her  trembling  lips : 
"Your  kindness,"  added  she,  "touches  me  more  than  all  the 
rest ;  but  how  ashamed  you  must  be  of  such  a  friend !  Oh, 
Caroline!  to  die  a  disgrace  to  all  who  ever  loved  me!" 

The  tears  trickled  down  her  face,  and  choked  her  utterance : 
she  wiped  them  away  hastily.  "But  it  is  not  now  a  time,"  said 
she,  "  to  think  of  myself — can  I  see  my  daughter?"  The  little 
girl  was  asleep :  she  was  awakened,  and  I  brought  her  to  her 
mother.  Julia  raised  herself  in  her  bed,  and  siunmoning  up  all 
her  strength,  "My  dearest  friend!"  said  she,  putting  her 
child's  hand  into  mine,  "  when  I  am  gone^  be  a  mother  to  this 
child — let  her  know  my  whole  history,  let  nothing  be  concealed 
from  her.  Poor  girl !  you  will  live  to  blush  at  your  mother's 
name."  She  paused  and  leaned  back  :  I  was  going  to  take  the 
child  away,  but  she  held  out  her  arms  again  for  her,  and  kissed 
her  several  times.  "Farewell!"  said  she;  "I  shall  never  see 
you  again."     The  little  girl  burst  into  tears.     Julia  wished  to 


486  LETTERS   OF   JULIA    AMD   CAn.us.rNE. 

say  something  more — she  raised  herself  again — at  last  sht? 
uttered  these  words  with  energy: — "My  love,  be  good  an^ 
happy  ;"  she  then  sunk  down  on  the  pillow  quite  exhausted — 
she  never  spoke  afterwards  :  I  took  her  hand — it  was  cold — her 
pulse  scarcely  beat — ^her  eyes  rolled  without  meaning — in  a  few 
moments  she  expired. 

Painful  as  it  has  been  to  me  to  recall  the  circumstances  of  hei* 
death  to  my  imagination,  I  have  given  your  lordship  this  exact 
and  detailed  account  of  my  unfortunate  friend's  behaviour  in  her 
last  moments.  Whatever  may  have  been  her  errors,  her  soul 
never  became  callous  from  vice.  The  sense  of  her  own  ill  con- 
duct, was  imdoubtedly  the  immediate  cause  of  her  illness,  and 
the  remorse  which  had  long  preyed  upon  her  mind,  at  length 
brought  her  to  the  grave — 


«  4i  a  •  •  •  » 

I  have  tue  honour  to  be, 

My  lord,  &c. 

Caroline.. 

Written  in  1787. 
^uhlished  in  1795. 


THE    END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  086  836   2