CHAPTER IX.

_A tragical Resolution._

Damon and his friend spent the evening together in the chambers of our

hero. They now discussed a variety of those subjects, which naturally

arise between friends who have been for any time separated. Damon threw

aside that reserve which the consciousness of a fault had hitherto

involuntarily imposed upon him, and related more explicitly who the lady

was of whom he was so much enamoured, and in what manner he had first seen

her. Recollecting that the baronet was just returned from the environs of

Southampton, he eagerly enquired into the health and situation of his

mistress.

Sir William related to him the adventure of Mr. Prettyman, as we have

already stated it to our readers, and deeply lamented the persecution to

which Delia was subjected from the haughty victor. "And is there," cried

Damon eagerly, "no prospect of his lordship's success?" "I believe,"

answered sir William, "that he is of all men her mortal aversion." "And is

there no happy lover in all her train, that she regards with a partial

eye?" "None," replied the baronet, "she is chaste as snow, and firm as

mountain oaks." "Propitious coldness!" exclaimed Damon, "for that may

heaven send down a thousand blessings on her head!"

"But you talked," added he, "of some occasion of your journey which you

deferred relating to me." "The occasion," answered sir William, determined

to preserve inviolate the secret of Delia, "is already fulfilled. I heard

from young Eustace of the appearance and addresses of Osborne, and

suspecting the rest, I determined to deliver you from the clutches of a

girl whom I always thought unworthy of you. And now" added he cheerfully,

"free as the winds, we can pursue uncontrolled the devices of our own

hearts."

The next morning the two friends proceeded to the house of lord Thomas

Villiers, the father of Damon. He had already learned something of the

visits of lord Osborne at Beaufort Place. He was not therefore much

surprised to hear of the scene, which had passed between his son and the

lady of that mansion. But there was something more to be done, in order to

gain the approbation of the father to the new project, in the prosecution

of which both these friends were equally sanguine.

Lord Thomas Villiers was, as we have already said, avaricious. He was not

therefore much pleased with the proposal of a match with a lady, whose

fortune was not the half of that of Miss Frampton. He was tinctured with

the pride of family, and he could not patiently think for a moment, of

marrying his only son to the daughter of a tradesman. Sir William employed

all his eloquence, and accommodated himself with infinite dexterity to the

humours of the person with whom he had to deal. Damon indeed said but

little, but his looks expressed more, than the baronet, with all his

abilities, and all his friendship, was able to suggest. In spite of both,

the father continued inexorable.

The mind of Damon was impressed with the most exalted ideas upon the

subject of filial duty. Had his heart been pre-engaged, before the affair

of Miss Frampton was proposed to him, he might not perhaps have carried

his complaisance so far, as to have married the indifferent person, in

spite of all his views and all his prepossessions. But in his estimate,

the actual entering into a connection for life in opposition to the will

of a parent, was a mode of conduct very different from, and far more

exceptionable than the refusing to unite oneself with a person in whose

society one had not the smallest reason to look for happiness.

There was another inducement that had much weight with Damon, and even

with his more sanguine friend, sir William Twyford. The fortune neither of

Damon nor Delia was independent. Lord Thomas Villiers was filled with too

many prepossessions and too much pride, easily to retract an opinion he

had once adopted, or to forgive an opposition to his judgment. The narrow

education of a tradesman it was natural to suppose had rendered the mind

of Mr. Hartley still more tenacious, and unmanageable. And neither would

sir William have been willing to see his friend, nor would the lover

readily have involved his mistress in circumstances of pecuniary distress.

The resolution of Damon was therefore speedily taken. Every motive that

could have weight, served to counteract the bias of his inclination. He by

no means wanted either firmness or spirit. He resolved to struggle, nor to

cease his efforts till he had conquered. With this design he entreated,

and, after some difficulties, obtained of his father leave to enter

himself in the army, and to make a campaign in America.

The character of his heart seemed particularly formed for military

pursuits. He was grave and thoughtful, he was generous and humane. To a

mind contemplative and full of sensibility, he united a temper, frank,

open, and undisguised. He was usually mild, gentle and pliant. But in a

situation, that called for determination and spirit, it was impossible to

appear more bold and manly, more cool and decided,--Affectionate was the

farewel of his father, and still more affectionate that of his friend.

Damon, though he endeavoured to summon all his resolution, could not

restrain a sigh when he considered himself as about to sail for distant

climates, and recollected, that probably, before his return, his beloved

mistress, _dearer than life and all its joys_, would be united,

irrevocably united to another. But here we must take leave of our hero,

and return to his fair inamorata.

DAMON

AND

DELIA.

PART the SECOND.

DAMON

AND

DELIA.

PART the SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

_In which the Story begins over again_.

Sir William Twyford had taken care to inform Miss Fletcher, and by her

means Delia herself, of every circumstance as it occurred. Delia was

indeed flattered by the breach that had taken place with Miss Frampton,

and the perfect elucidation, which the story of this lady afforded to the

most enigmatical expressions of Damon, in the interesting scene that had

passed between them in the alcove. She no longer doubted of the reality of

his attachment. Her heart was soothed, and her pride secretly flattered,

in recollecting that she had not suffered herself to be caught by one who

was perfectly indifferent to her.

But the information that stifled all her hopes, and gave her the prospect

of so long, and, too probably, an eternal absence, sat heavy upon her

spirits, and preyed upon her delicate constitution. From the persecutions

of lord Martin she had no respite. Her eye grew languid, the colour faded

in her damask cheek, and her health visibly decayed.

At this time Miss Fletcher proposed a journey to Windsor and other places,

and intreated to have her friend to accompany her. Mr. Hartley, with all

his foibles, was much attached to his only child, and deeply afflicted

with the alteration he perceived in her. He readily therefore gave his

consent to the proposed jaunt. "When she returns, it will be time enough,"

said he to lord Martin, "to bring things to the conclusion, so much

desired by both of us. I will not put my darling into your hands, but with

that health and gaiety, which have so long been the solace of my old age,

and which cannot fail to make any man happy that deserves her."

Delia set out without any other inclination, than to escape from

intreaties that were become in the highest degree disagreeable to her. She

was addressed no longer upon a topic, of which she wished never to hear.

Her eye was no longer wounded with the sight of her insolent admirer. This

had an immediate and a favourable effect upon her. The conversation of

Miss Fletcher was lively and unflagging, and the simplicity of her remarks

proved an inexhaustible source of entertainment to our heroine.

They travelled leisurely and visited a variety of parks and seats of

noblemen which lay in their way. The taste of Delia was delicate and

refined. A continual succession of objects; gardens, architecture,

pictures and statues soothed her spirits, and gradually restored her to

that gaiety and easiness of temper, which had long rendered her the most

lovely and engaging of her sex.

At length they arrived at Windsor. The simple dignity of the castle, its

commanding situation, and the beautiful effects of the river from below,

rendered it infinitely the most charming spot our heroine had yet seen.

Her spirits were on the wing, she was all life and conversation, and the

most constant heart, that nature had ever produced, for a moment, forgot

her hopes, her fears, her inclinations, and her Damon.

She was now standing at a window that commanded the terrace. The evening

was beautiful, and the walk crouded. There were assembled persons of all

sexes and of different ranks. All appeared gaiety and splendour. The

supple courtier and the haughty country gentleman seemed equally at their

ease. There was thoughtless youth and narrative old age. The company

passed along, and object succeeded object without intermission.

One of the last that caught the eye of Delia, was that of two gentlemen

walking arm in arm, and seeming more grave than the rest of the company.

They were both tall and well shaped; but one of them had somewhat more

graceful and unembarrassed in his manner than the other. The latter was

dressed in black, the former in colours, with much propriety and elegance.

As they turned at the end of the walk the eye of Delia caught in the

latter the figure of Damon. She was inexpressibly astonished, she trembled

in every limb, and could scarcely support herself to a seat. Miss Fletcher

had caught the same object at the same moment, and, though she probably

might not otherwise have been clear in her recollection, the disorder of

Delia put her conjecture out of doubt. She therefore, before our heroine

had time to recollect herself, dispatched her brother, who had attended

them in their journey, to inform Damon that a lady in the castle was

desirous to speak with him.

In an instant our hero and his companion, escorted by young Fletcher,

entered the room. The astonishment of Damon, at being so suddenly

introduced to a person, whom he had never expected to see again, was

immeasurable. He rushed forward with a kind of rapture; he suddenly

recollected himself; but at length advanced with hesitation. There was no

one present beside those we have already named. The castle was probably

familiar to every person except Delia and her companions. Every one beside

was therefore assembled upon the terrace.

Our heroine now gradually recovered from the disorder into which the

unexpected sight of Damon had thrown her. She was much surprised at

looking up to find him in her presence. "How is this," cried she, "how

came you hither?" "The meeting," said our hero, "is equally unexpected to

us both. But, ah, my charmer, whence this disorder? Why did you tremble,

why look so pale?" "Oh goodness," cried Miss Fletcher, "what should it be?

Why it was nothing in all the world, but her seeing you just now from the

window." "And were you," cried Damon eagerly, "so kind as to summon me to

your presence?" "No, no, my good sir," said the lively lady, "you must

thank me for that". "How then at least," said the lover, "must I interpret

your disorder?"

Delia was inexpressibly confused at the inconsiderate language of her

companion. "I cannot tell," said she, "you must not ask me. You must

forget it." "And can I," cried Damon with transport, "ever forget a

disorder so propitious, so flattering? Can I hope that the heart of my

charmer is not indifferent to her Damon!" "Oh sir, be silent. Do not use a

language like this." "Alas," cried he, "too long has my passion been

suppressed. Too long have I been obliged to act a studied part, and employ

a language foreign to my heart." "I thought," answered Delia, with

hesitation, "that you were going to leave the kingdom." "And did my fair

one condescend to employ a thought upon me? Did she interest herself in my

concern and enquire after my welfare? And how so soon could she have

learned my intention?"

This question, joined with the preceding circumstances, completed the

confusion of Delia. She blushed, stammered, and was silent. Damon, during

this interval, gazed upon her with unmingled rapture. Every symptom she

betrayed of confusion, was to him a symptom of something inexpressibly

soothing. "Ah," whispered he to himself, "I am beloved, and can I then

leave the kingdom? Can I quit this inestimable treasure? Can I slight so

pure a friendship, and throw away the jewel upon which all my future

happiness depends?"

The conversation, from the peculiar circumstances of the lovers, had so

immediately become interesting, that the gentlemen had not had an

opportunity of quitting them. During the short silence that prevailed the

friend of Damon took young Fletcher by the hand, and led him into the

garden. The lovers were now under less restraint. Delia, perceiving that

she could no longer conceal her sentiments, confessed them with ingenuous

modesty. Damon on the other hand was ravished at so unexpected a

discovery, and in a few minutes had lived an age in love.

He now began to recollect himself. "Where," said he, "are all my

resolutions? What are become of all the plans I had formed, and the

designs in which I had embarked? What an unexpected revolution? No," said

he, addressing himself to Delia, "I will never quit you. Do thou but

smile, and let all the world beside abandon me. Can you forgive the

sacrilegious intention of deserting you, of flying from you to the

extremities of the globe? Oh, had I known a thought of Damon had harboured

in one corner of your heart, I would sooner have died." "And do you

think," cried Delia, "that I will tempt you to disobedience? No. Obey the

precepts of your father and your own better thoughts. Heaven designed us

not for each other. Neither your friends nor mine can ever be reconciled

to the union. Go then and forget me. Go and be happy. May your sails be

swelled with propitious gales! May victory and renown attend your steps!"

"Ah cruel Delia, and do you wish to banish me? Do you enjoin upon me the

impracticable talk, to forget all that my heart holds dear? And will my

Delia resign herself to the arms of a more favoured lover?" "Never," cried

she with warmth. "I will not disobey my father. I will not marry contrary

to his inclinations. But even the authority of a parent shall not drag me

to the altar with a man my soul detests." "Propitious sounds! Generous

engagements! Thus let me thank thee."--And he kissed her hand with

fervour. "Thus far," cried Delia, "I can advance. I employ no disguise. I

confess to you all my weakness. Perhaps I ought to blush. But never will I

have this reason to blush, for that my love has injured the object it

aspires to bless. Go in the path of fortune. Deserve success and happiness

by the exemplariness of your duty. And may heaven shower down blessings

without number!"

CHAPTER II.

_The History of Mr. Godfrey_.

In expostulations like these our lovers spent their time without coming to

any conclusion, till the evening and Miss Fletcher warned them that it was

time to depart. Damon was to proceed for London early the next morning. He

therefore intreated of Delia to permit his friend Mr. Godfrey, who was

obliged to continue in the place some days longer, to wait upon her with

his last commands. He informed himself of the time when she was to return

to Southampton, and he trusted to be there not long after her. In the mean

time, as his situation was at present very precarious, he prevailed upon

her to permit him to write to her from time to time, and to promise to

communicate to him in return any thing of consequence that might happen to

herself.

During the remainder of the evening Miss Fletcher made several ingenious

observations upon what had passed. Delia gently blamed her for having so

strangely occasioned the interview, though in reality she was by no means

displeased by the event it had produced. "Bless us, child, you are as

captious as any thing. Why I would not but have seen it for ever so much.

Well, he is a sweet dear man, and so kind, and so polite, for all the

world I think him just such another as Mr. Prattle. But then he is grave,

and makes such fine speeches, it does one's heart good to hear him. I vow

I wish I had such a lover. Sir William never says any thing half so

pretty. Bless us, my dear, _he_ talks about love, just as if he were

talking about any thing else."

The next morning after breakfast, Mr. Godfrey appeared. He brought from

Damon a thousand vows full of passion and constancy. He had parted, he

said, more determined not to leave England, more resolute to prosecute his

love than ever.

Having discharged his commission, he offered his service to escort the

ladies in any party they might propose for the present day. He said, that

being perfectly acquainted with Windsor and its environs, he flattered

himself he might be able to contribute to their entertainment. The very

gallant manner in which this offer was made, determined Miss Fletcher, as

something singular and interesting in the appearance of Mr. Godfrey did

our heroine, cheerfully to close with the proposal.

The person of Mr. Godfrey as we have already said was tall and genteel.

There was a diffidence in his manner, that seemed to prove that he had not

possessed the most extensive acquaintance with high life; but he had a

natural politeness that amply compensated for the polish and forms of

society. His air was serious and somewhat melancholy; but there was a fire

and animation in his eye that was in the highest degree striking.

Delia engaged him to talk of the character and qualities of Damon. Upon

this subject, Mr. Godfrey spoke with the warmth of an honest friendship.

He represented Damon as of a disposition perfectly singular and

unaccommodated to what he stiled "the debauched and unfeeling manners of

the age." He acknowledged with readiness and gratitude, that he owed to

him the most important obligations. By degrees Delia collected from him

several circumstances of a story, which she before apprehended to be

interesting. She observed, that, as he shook off the embarrassment of a

first introduction, his language became fluent, elegant, pointed, and even

sometimes poetical. Since however he related his own story imperfectly and

by piece meal, we shall beg leave to state it in our own manner. And we

the rather do it, as we apprehend it to be interesting in itself, and as

we foresee that he will make a second appearance in the course of this

narrative. We will not however deprive our readers of the reflections he

threw out upon the several situations in which he had been placed. We will

give them without pretending to decide how far they may be considered as

just and well-founded.

Mr. Godfrey was not born to affluent circumstances. At a proper age he had

been placed at the university of Oxford, and here it was that he commenced

his acquaintance with Damon. At Oxford his abilities had been universally

admired. His public exercises, though public exercises by their very

nature ought to be dull, had in them many of those sallies, by which his

disposition was characterised, and much of that superiority, which he

indisputably possessed above his contemporaries. But though admired, he

was not courted. In our public places of education, a wide distance is

studiously preserved between young men of fortune, and young men that have

none. But Mr. Godfrey had a stiffness and unpliableness of temper, that

did not easily bend to the submission that was expected of him. He could

neither flatter a blockhead, nor pimp for a peer. He loved his friend

indeed with unbounded warmth, and it was impossible to surpass him in

generousness and liberality. But he had a proud integrity, that whispered

him, with, a language not to be controled, that he was the inferior of no

man.

He was destined for the profession of a divine, and, having finished his

studies, retired upon a curacy of forty pounds a year. His ambition was

grievously mortified at the obscurity in which he was plunged; and his

great talents, in spite of real modesty, forcibly convinced him, that this

was not the station for which nature had formed him. But he had an

enthusiasm of virtue, that led him for a time to overlook these

disadvantages. "I am going," said he, "to dwell among scenes of unvitiated

nature. I will form the peasant to generosity and sentiment. I will teach

laborious industry to look without envy and without asperity upon those

above them. I will be the friend and the father of the meanest of my

flock. I will give sweetness and beauty to the most rugged scenes. The

man, that banishes envy and introduces contentment; the man, that converts

the little circle in which he dwells into a terrestrial paradise, that

renders men innocent here, and happy for ever, may be obscure, may be

despised by the superciliousness of luxury; but it shall never be said

that he has been a blank in creation. The Supreme Being will regard him

with a complacency, which he will deny to kings, that oppress, and

conquerors, that destroy the work of his hands."

Such were the suggestions of youthful imagination. But Mr. Godfrey

presently found the truth of that maxim, as paradoxical as it is

indisputable, that the heart of man is naturally hard and unamiable. He

conducted himself in his new situation with the most unexceptionable

propriety, and the most generous benevolence. But there were men in his

audience, men who loved better to criticise, than to be amended; and

women, who felt more complacency in scandal, than eulogium. He displeased

the one by disappointing them; it was impossible to disappoint the other.

He laboured unremittedly, but his labours returned to him void. "And is it

for this," said he, "that I have sacrificed ambition, and buried talents?

Is humility to be rewarded only with mortification? Is obscurity and

retirement the favourite scene of uneasiness, ingratitude, and

impertinence? They shall be no longer my torment. In no scene can I meet

with a more scanty success."

He now obtained a recommendation to be private tutor to the children of a

nobleman. This nobleman was celebrated for the politeness of his manners

and the elegance of his taste. It was his boast and his ambition to be

considered as the patron of men of letters. With his prospect therefore in

this connection, Mr. Godfrey was perfectly satisfied. "I shall no longer,"

said he, "be the slave of ignorance, and the victim of insensibility. My

talents perhaps point me a step higher than to the business of forming the

minds of youth. But, at least, the youth under my care are destined to

fill the most conspicuous stations in future life. If propitious fortune

might have raised me to the character of a statesman; depressed by

adversity, I may yet have the honour of moulding the mind, and infusing

generosity into the heart, of a future statesman. I have heard the second

son of my patron celebrated for the early promises of capacity. To unfold

the springing germs of genius, to direct them in the path of general

happiness, is an employment by no means unworthy of a philosopher."

In this situation Mr. Godfrey however once more looked for pleasure, and

found disappointment. The nobleman had more the affectation of a patron,

than any real enthusiasm in the cause of literature. The abilities of Mr.

Godfrey were universally acknowledged. And so long as the novelty

remained, he was caressed, honoured, and distinguished. In a short time

however, he was completely forgotten by the patron, in the hurry of

dissipation, and the pursuits of an unbounded ambition. His eldest care

was universally confessed stupid and impracticable. And in the younger he

found nothing but the prating forwardness of a boy who had been flattered,

without sentiment, and without meaning. Her ladyship treated Mr. Godfrey

with superciliousness, as an intruder at her lord's table. The servants

caught the example, and showed him a distinction of neglect, which the

exquisiteness of his sensibility would not permit him to despise.

Mortified, irritated, depressed, he now quitted his task half finished and

threw himself upon the world. "The present age," said he, "is not an age

in which talents are overlooked, and genius depressed." He had heard much

of the affluence of writers, a Churchil, a Smollet, and a Goldsmith, who

had depended upon that only for their support. He saw the celebrated Dr.

Johnson caressed by all parties, and acknowledged to be second to no man,

whatever were his rank, however conspicuous his station. Full of these

ideas, he soon completed a production, fraught with the fire and

originality of genius, pointed in its remarks, and elegant in its style.

He had now to experience vexations, of which he had before entertained no

idea. He carried his work from bookseller to bookseller, and was every

where refused. His performance was not seasoned to the times, he was a

person that nobody knew, and he had no man of rank, by his importunities

and eloquence, to force him into the ranks of fashion. At length he found

a bookseller foolish enough to undertake it. But he presently perceived

that the gentlemen at the head of that profession were wiser than he. All

the motives they had mentioned, and one more, operated against him. The

monarchs of the critic realm scouted him with one voice, because his work,

was not written in the same cold, phlegmatic insupportable manner as their

own.

He had now advanced however too far to retreat. He had too much spirit to

resume either of those professions, which for reasons so cogent in his

opinion, he had already quitted. He wrote essays, squibs, and pamphlets

for an extemporary support. But though these were finished with infinite

rapidity, he found that they constituted a very precarious means of

subsistence. The time of dinner often came, before the production that was

to purchase it was completed; and when completed, it was frequently

several days before it could find a purchaser. And his copy money and his

taylor's bill were too little proportioned to one another.

He now recollected, what in the gaiety of hope he had forgotten, that

_many a flower_ only blows, with its sweetness to refresh the _air

of a desert_. He recollected many instances of works, raised by the

breath of fashion to the very pinnacle of reputation, that sunk as soon

again. He recollected instances scarcely fewer, of works, exquisite in

their composition, pregnant with beauties almost divine, that had passed

from the press without notice. Many had been revived by the cooler and

more deliberate judgment of a future age; and more had been lost for ever.

The instance of Chatterton, as a proof that the universal patronage of

genius was by no means the virtue of his contemporaries, flashed in his

face. And he looked forward to the same fate at no great distance, as his

own.

To Mr. Godfrey however, fortune was in one degree more propitious. Damon

was among the few whose judgment was not guided by the dictate of fashion.

Having met accidentally with the performance we have mentioned, he was

struck with its beauties. As he had heard nothing of it in the politest

circles, he concluded, with his usual penetration, that the author of it

was in obscure and narrow circumstances. _Open as day to sweet

humanity_, interested warmly in the fortune of the writer of so amiable

a performance, he flew to his bookseller's with the usual enquiries. The

bookseller stared, and had it not been for the splendour of his dress, and

his gilded chariot, would have been tempted to smile at so unfashionable

and absurd a question. He soon however obtained the information he

desired. And his eagerness was increased, when the name of Godfrey, and

the recollection of the talents by which he had been so eminently

distinguished, led him to apprehend that he was one, to whose abilities

and character he had been greatly attached.

He found some difficulty to obtain admission. But this was quickly

removed, as, from the dignity of his appearance, it was not probable that

he was a person, from whom Mr. Godfrey had any thing to apprehend. He

found him in a wretched apartment, his hair dishevelled and his dress

threadbare and neglected. Mr. Godfrey was unspeakably surprised at his

appearance. And it was with much difficulty that Damon prevailed upon him

to accept of an assistance, that he assured him should be but temporary,

if it were in the power of him, or any of his connections, to render him

respectable and independent, in such a situation as himself should chuse.

Disappointment and misfortune are calculated to inspire asperity into the

gentlest heart. Mr. Godfrey inveighed with warmth, and sometimes with

partiality, against the coldness and narrowness of the age. He said, "that

men of genius, in conspicuous stations, had no feeling for those whom

nature had made their brothers; and that those who had risen from

obscurity themselves, forgot the mortifications of their earlier life, and

did not imitate the generous justice which had enabled them to fulfil the

destination of nature." But though misfortune had taught him asperity upon

certain subjects, it had not corrupted his manners, debauched his

integrity, or narrowed his heart. He had still the same warmth in the

cause of virtue, as in days of the most unexperienced simplicity. He still

dreaded an oath, and reverenced the divinity of innocence. He still

believed in a God, and was sincerely attached to his honour, though he had

often been told, that this was a prejudice, unworthy of his comprehension

of thinking upon all other subjects.

CHAPTER III.

_A Misanthrope._

Such was the story, in its most essential circumstances, that Mr. Godfrey

related. Delia was exceedingly interested in the gaiety of his

imagination, the cruelty of his disappointments, and the acuteness, and

goodness of heart that appeared in his reflections. Miss Fletcher listened

to the whole with gaping wonder. But as soon as he was gone, she began

with her usual observations. "Well," said she, "I never saw an author

before. I could not have thought that he could have looked like a

gentleman. Why, I vow, I could sometimes have taken him for a beau. Ay,

but then he talked for all the world as if it had been written in a book.

Well, by my troth, it was a mighty pretty story. But I should have liked

it better, if there had been a sighing nymph, or a duel or two in it. But

do you think it was all of his own making?"

We will not trouble the reader to accompany our ladies from stage to stage

during the remainder of their journey. Nothing more remarkable happened,

and in ten days they arrived again at Southampton.

Damon met Mr. Moreland in London, and, with that simplicity and candour by

which he was distinguished, related to him every circumstance of his

story. Mr. Moreland had no predilection in favour of lord Thomas Villiers.

His sister, whom he esteemed in all respects an amiable woman, had by no

means lived happily with her husband. Avarice and pride of rank were the

farthest in the world from being the foibles of Mr. Moreland, and the

sensibility of his disposition did not permit him to treat the faults, to

which himself was a stranger, with much indulgence. He therefore

encouraged Damon to persevere in the pursuit of his inclination, and

invited him to return with him into the country. He promised himself to

propose the match to Mr. Hartley, and assured his nephew, that he should

never feel any narrowness in his circumstances, in case of his father's

displeasure, while it was in his power to render them affluent.

In pursuit of this plan, Damon, Mr. Moreland, and sir William Twyford,

whom they found in London, and whose goodness of humour led him heartily

to approve of the alteration in the plan of his friend, arrived, almost as

soon as our travellers, in the neighbourhood of Southampton. Sir William

and Damon, soon waited upon their respective mistresses, and in company so

mutually acceptable, time sped with a greater velocity than was usual to

him, and days appeared no more than hours.

It was impossible that such a connexion should pass long unnoticed. It

must be confessed however that it met with no interruption from lord

Martin. Perhaps it might have escaped his notice, though it escaped that

of no other person. Perhaps he was satiated with the glory he had

acquired, and having conquered one beau, would not, like Alexander, have

sighed, if there had remained no other beau to conquer. Perhaps the

countenance of Mr. Hartley, of which he considered himself as securer than

ever, led him, like a wise general, to reflect, that in staking his life

against that of a lover, whose chance of success was almost wholly

precluded, he mould make a very unfair and unequal combat.

Be this as it will, Mr. Hartley had no such motives to overlook this new

occurrence. Just however as he had begun to take it into his mature

consideration, he received the compliments of Mr. Moreland, with an

intimation of his design to make him a visit that very afternoon.

At this message Mr. Hartley was a good deal surprised. Mr. Moreland he had

never but once seen, and in that visit, he thought he had had reason to be

offended with him. If that gentleman treated the company of Mr. Prattle

and lord Martin, persons universally admired, as not good enough for him,

it seemed unaccountable that he should have recourse to him. He was

neither distinguished by the elegance of his accomplishments, nor did he

much pride himself in the attainments of literature. After many

conjectures, he at length determined with infinite sagacity, to suspend

his judgement, till Mr. Moreland mould solve the enigma.

This determination was scarcely made before his visitor arrived. That

gentleman, who, though full of sensibility and benevolence, was not a man

of empty ceremony, immediately opened his business. Mr. Hartley, drew

himself up in his chair, and, with the dignity of a citizen of London, who

thinks that the first character in the world, cried, "Well, sir, and who

is this nephew of yours? I think I never heard of him." "He is the son,"

answered Mr. Moreland, "of lord Thomas Villiers." "Lord Thomas Villiers!

Then I suppose he is a great man. And pray now, sir, if this great man has

a mind that his son should marry my daughter, why does he not come and

tell me so himself?" "Why in truth," said the other, "lord Thomas Villiers

has no mind. But my nephew is his only son, and therefore cannot be

deprived of the principal part of his estate after his death. In the mean

time, I will take care that he shall have an income perfectly equal to the

fortune of Miss Hartley." "You will sir! And so in the first place, this

young spark would have me encourage him in disobedience, which is the

greatest crime upon God's earth, and in the second, he thinks that I, Bob

Hartley, as I sit here, will marry my daughter into any family that is too

proud to own us." "As to that, sir," said Moreland, "you must judge for

yourself. The young gentleman is an unexceptionable match, and I, sir,

whose fortune and character I flatter myself are not inferior to that of

any gentleman in the county, shall always be proud to own and receive the

young lady." "Why as to that, to be sure, you may be in the right for

_auft_ that I know. But _howsomdever_, my daughter, do you see,

is already engaged to lord Martin." "I should have thought," replied

Moreland, "that objection might have been stated in the first instance,

without any reflexions upon the conduct and family of the young gentleman.

But are you sure that lord Martin is the man of your daughter's choice?"

"I cannot say that I ever _axed_ her, for I do not see what that has

to do with the matter. Lord Martin, do you see, is a fine young man, and a

fine fortune. And Delia is my own daughter, and if she should boggle about

having him, I would cut her off with a shilling." "Sir," answered

Moreland, with much indignation, "that is a conduct that would deserve to

be execrated. My nephew, without any sinister means, is master of your

daughter's affection; and lord Martin, I have authority to tell you, is

her aversion." "Oh, ho! is it so. Well then, sir, I will tell you what I

shall do. Your nephew shall never have my daughter, though she had but a

rag to her tail. And as for her affections and her aversion, I will lock

her up, and keep her upon bread and water, till she knows, that she ought

to have neither, before her own father has told her _what is what_."

Mr. Moreland, all of whose nerves were irritated into a fever by so much

vulgarity, and such brutal insensibility, could retain his seat no longer.

He started up, and regarding his entertainer with a look of ineffable

indignation, flung the door in his face, and retreated to his chariot.

CHAPTER IV.

_Much ado about nothing_.

Damon was inexpressibly afflicted at the success of his uncle's embassy.

When Mr. Moreland related to him the particulars of his visit, Damon

recollected the opposite tempers of the two gentlemen, and blamed himself

for not having foreseen the event. Mr. Hartley was infinitely exasperated

at the cavalierness with which he had been treated. He now discovered the

true cause of his daughter's pertinacity, and proceeded with more vigour

than ever.

"And so," cried he, "you have dared to engage your affections without my

privity, have you? A pretty story truly. And you would disgrace me for

ever, by marrying into the family of a lord, that despises us, and an old

fellow, that for half a word would knock your father's brains out."

"Indeed sir," replied Delia, "I never thought of marrying without your

consent. I only gave the young gentleman leave to ask it of you." "You

gave him leave! And pray who are you? And so you was in league with him to

send this fellow to abuse me?" "Upon my word, I was not. And I am very

sorry if Mr. Moreland has behaved improperly." "_If_ Mr. Moreland!

and so you pretend to doubt of it! But, let me tell you, I have provided

you a husband, worth fifty of this young prig, and I will make you think

so." "Indeed sir, I can never think so." "You cannot. And pray who told

you to object, before I have named the man. Why, child, lord Martin has

ten thousand pounds a year, and is a peer, and is not ashamed of us one

bit in all the world." "Alas, sir, I can never have lord Martin. Do not

mention him. I am in no hurry. I will live single as long as you please."

"Yes, and when you have persuaded me to that, you will jump out at window

the next day to this ungracious rascal." "Oh pray sir do not speak so. He

is good and gentle." "Why, hussey, am I not master in my own house? I

shall have a fine time of it indeed, if I must give you an account of my

words." "Sir," said Delia, "I will never marry without your consent."

"That is a good girl, no more you shall. And I will lock you up upon bread

and water, if you do not consent to marry who I please."

The despotic temper of Mr. Hartley led him to treat his daughter with

considerable severity. He suffered her to go very little abroad, and

employed every precaution in his power, to prevent any interview between

her and her lover. He tried every instrument in turn, threats, promises,

intreaties, blustering, to bend her to his will. And when he found that by

all these means he made no progress; as his last resource, he fixed a day

at no great distance, when he assured her he would be disappointed no

longer, and she should either voluntarily or by force yield her hand to

lord Martin.

During these transactions, the communication between Delia and her lover

was, with no great difficulty, kept open by the instrumentality of their

two friends. They scarcely dared indeed to think of seeing each other, as

in case this were discovered, Delia would be subject to still greater

restraint, and the intercourse, between her and Miss Fletcher, be rendered

more difficult. In one instance however, this lady ventured to procure the

interview so ardently desired by both parties.

Damon made use of this opportunity to persuade his mistress to an

elopement. "You have already carried," said he, "your obedience to the

utmost exremity. You have tried every means to bend the inflexible will of

your father. If not for my sake then, at least for your own, avoid the

crisis that is preparing for you. You detect the husband that your father

designs you. If united to him, you confess you must be miserable. But who

can tell, in the midst of persons inflexibly bent upon your ruin, no

friend at hand to support you, your Damon banished and at a distance, what

may be the event? You will hesitate and tremble, your father will

endeavour to terrify you into submission, the odious peer will force from

you your hand. If, in that moment, your heart should misgive you, if one

faultering accent belie the sentiments you have so generously avowed for

me, what, ah, what! may be the consequence? No, my fair one, fly,

instantly fly. No duty forbids. You have done all that the most rigid

moralist could demand of you. Put yourself into my protection. I will not

betray your confidence. You shall be as much mistress as ever of all your

actions. If you distrust me, at least chuse our common friends sir William

Twyford. Chuse any protector among the numerous friends, that your beauty

and your worth have raised you. I had rather sacrifice my own prospects of

felicity forever, than see the smallest chance that you should be

unhappy."

Such were the arguments, which, with all the eloquence of a friend, and

all the ardour of a lover, our hero urged upon his mistress. But the

gentleness of Delia was not yet sufficiently roused by the injuries she

had received, to induce her, to cast off all the ties which education and

custom had imposed upon her, and determine upon so decisive a step.

"Surely," said she, "there is some secret reward, some unexpected

deliverance in reserve, for filial simplicity. Oh, how harsh, how bold,

how questionable a step, is that to which you would persuade me!

Circumstanced in this manner, the fairest reputation might provoke the

tongue of scandal, and the most spotless innocence open a door to the

blast of calumny. I will not say that such a step may not be sometimes

justifiable. I will not say to what I may myself be urged. But oh, how

unmingled the triumph, how sincere the joy if, by persevering in a

conduct, in which the path of duty is too palpable to be mistaken,

propitious fate may rather grant me the happiness after which I aspire,

than I be forced, as it were, myself to wrest it from the hands of

providence!"

Such was the result of this last and decisive interview. Delia could not

be moved from that line of conduct, upon which she had so virtuously

resolved. And Damon having in vain exerted all the rhetoric of which he

was master, now gave way to the gloomy suggestions of despair, and now

flattered himself with the gleams of hope. He sometimes thought, that

Delia might yet be induced to adopt the plan he had proposed; and

sometimes he gave way to the serene confidence she expressed, and indulged

the pleasing expectation, that virtue would not always remain without its

reward.

CHAPTER V.

_A Woman of Learning_.

We are now brought, in the course of our story, to the memorable scene at

Miss Cranley's. "Miss Cranley's!" exclaims one of our readers, in a tone

of admiration. "Miss Cranley's!" cries another, "and pray who is she?"

I distribute my readers into two classes, the indolent and the

supercilious, and shall accordingly address them upon the present

occasion. To the former I have nothing more to say, than to refer them

back to the latter part of Chapter I., Part I. where, my dear ladies, you

will find an accurate account of the character of two personages, who it

seems you have totally forgotten.

To the supercilious I have a very different story to tell. Most learned

sirs, I kiss your hands. I acknowledge my error, and throw myself upon

your clemency. You see however, gentlemen, that you were somewhat

mistaken, when you imagined that I, like my fair patrons, the indolent,

had quite lost these characters from my memory.

To speak ingenuously, I did indeed suppose, as far as I could calculate

the events of this important narrative beforehand, that the Miss Cranleys

would have come in earlier, and have made a more conspicuous figure, than

they now seem to have any chance of doing. Having thus settled accounts

with my readers; I take up again the thread of my story, and thus I

proceed.

Mr. Hartley being now, as he believed, upon the point of disposing of his

daughter in marriage, began seriously to consider that he should want a

female companion to manage, his family, to nurse his ailments, and to

repair the breaches, that the hand of wintry time had made in his spirits

and his constitution. The reader will be pleased to recollect, that he had

already laid siege to the heart of the gentle Sophia. He now prosecuted

his affair with more alacrity than ever.

Alas, my dear readers! while we have been junketting along from

Southampton to Oxford, from Oxford to Windsor, and from Windsor to

Southampton back again, such is the miserable fate of human kind! Miss

Amelia Wilhelmina Cranley, the most pious of her sex, the flower of Mr.

Whitfield's converts, the wonder and admiration of Roger the cobler, has

given up the ghost. You will please then, in what follows, to represent to

yourselves the charms of Sophia as decked and burnished with a suit of

sables. Her exterior indeed was sable and gloomy, but her heart was far

superior to the attacks of wayward fate. She sat aloft in the region of

philosophy. She steeled her heart with the dignity of republicanism; for

her to drop one tear of sorrow would have been an eternal disgrace.

About this time--it was perhaps in reality a manoeuvre to forward the

affair, to which she had no aversion at bottom, with the father of

Delia--that Miss Cranley gave a grand entertainment, at which were present

Mr. Hartley, Mr. Prattle, sir William Twyford, lord Martin, most of the

ladies we have already commemorated, and many others.

The repast was conducted with much solemnity. The masculine character of

the mind of Sophia had rendered her particularly attached to the grace of

action. When she drank the health of any of her guests, she accompanied it

with a most profound _congè_. When she invited them to partake of any

dish, she pointed towards it with her hand. This action might have served

to display a graceful arm, but, alas! upon hers the hand of time had been

making depredations, and it appeared somewhat coarse and discoloured.

After dinner, the lady of the house, as usual, turned the conversation

upon the subject of politics. She inveighed with much warmth against the

effeminacy and depravity of the modern times. We were slaves, and we

deserved to be so. In almost every country there now appeared a king, that

puppet pageant, that monster in creation, miserable itself, a combination

of every vice, and invented for the curse of human kind. "Where now," she

asked, "was the sternness and inflexibility of ancient story? Where was

that Junius, that stood and gazed in triumph upon the execution of his

sons? Where that Fabricius, that turned up his nose under the snout of an

elephant? Where was that Marcus Brutus, who sent his dagger to the heart

of Cæsar? For her part, she believed, and she would not give the snap of

her fingers for him if it were otherwise, that he was in reality, as sage

historians have reported, the son of Julius."

In the very paroxysm of her oratory she chanced to cast her eyes upon Mr.

Prattle. With the character of Mr. Prattle, the reader is already partly

acquainted. But he does not yet know, for it was not necessary for our

story he should do so, that the honourable Mr. Prattle was a commoner and

a placeman. Good God, sir, represent to yourself with what a flame of

indignation our amazon surveyed him! She rose from her seat, and, taking

him by the hand, very familiarly turned him round in the middle of the

company. "This," said she, "is one of our Fabiuses, one of our Decii.

Good God, my friend, what would you do, if a brother officer shook a cane

over your shoulders as he did over those of the divine Themistocles? What

would you do, if the brutal lull of an Appius ravished from your arms an

only daughter? But I beg your pardon, sir. You are a placeman, mutually

disgracing and disgraced. You sell your constituents to the vilest

ministers, that ever came forward the champions of despotism. And those

ministers show us what is their insignificance, their impotence, their

want of discernment, in giving such a thing as you are, places of so great

importance, offices of so high emolument."

Mr. Prattle, unused to be treated so cavalierly, and arraigned before so

large a company, trembled in every limb: "My dear madam, my sweet Miss

Sophia, pray do not pinch quite so hard;" and the water stood in his eyes.

Unable however to elude her grasp he fell down upon his knees. "For God's

sake! Oh dear! Oh lack a daisy! Why, Miss, sure you are mad." Miss

Cranley, unheedful of his exclamations, was however just going to begin

with more vehemence than ever, when a sudden accident put a stop to the

torrent of her oratory. But this event cannot be properly related without

going back a little in our narrative, and acquainting the reader with some

of those circumstances by which it was produced.

CHAPTER VI.

_A Catastrophe_.

Sir William Twyford had gained great credit with lord Martin by his

conduct in the affair of Mr. Prettyman. He now imagined that he saw an

opening for the exercise of his humour, which he was never able to refill.

He communicated his plan to lord Martin. By his assistance he procured

that implement, which school-boys have denominated a cracker. This his

lordship found an opportunity of attaching to the skirt of Miss Cranley's

sack. At the moment we have described, when she was again going to enter

into the stream of her rhetoric, which, great as it naturally was, was now

somewhat improved with copious draughts of claret, the cracker was set on

fire.

Poor Sophia now started in great agitation. "Bounce, bounce," went the

cracker. Sophia skipped and danced from one end of the room to the other.

"Great gods of Rome," exclaimed she, "Jupiter, Minerva, and all the

celestial and infernal deities!" The force of the cracker was now somewhat

spent. "Ye boys of Britain, that bear not one mark of manhood about you!

Would Leonidas have fastened a squib to the robe of the Spartan mother?

Would Cimber have so unworthily used Portia, the wife of Brutus? Would

Corbulo thus have interrupted the heroic fortitude of Arria, the spouse of

Thrasea Paetus?"

"My dear madam," exclaimed lord Martin, his eyes glistening with triumph,

"with all submission, Corbulo I believe had been assassinated, before

Arria so gloriously put an end to her existence." "Thou thing," cried Miss

Cranky, "and hast thou escaped the torrent of my invective! Thou eternal

blot to the list, in which are inserted the names of a Faulkland, a

Shaftesbury, a Somers, and above all, that Leicester, who so bravely threw

the lie in the face of his sovereign!" "He! he!" cried lord Martin, who

could no longer refrain from boasting of his great atchievement. If I have

escaped your vengeance, let me tell you, madam, you have not escaped

"mine." "And was it thee, thou nincompoop? Hence, thou wretch! Avaunt!

Begone, or thou shalt feel my fury!" Saying this, she clenched her fist,

and closed her teeth, with so threatening an aspect, that the little peer

was very much terrified. He flew back several paces. "My dear Miss

Griskin," said he, "protect me! This barbarous woman does not understand

wit,"--and he precipitately burst out of the room. The lady too was so

much discomposed, that she thought proper to retire, assuring the company

that she would attend them again in a moment.

"Well," cried Miss Griskin, as soon as she had disappeared, "this was the

nicest fun!" "I was afraid," said Miss Prim, "it would have discomposed

Miss Cranley's petticoats." "Law, my dear!" said Miss Gawky, "by my

so, I like the music of a cracker, better than all the concerts in the

varsal world." We need not inform our readers, that Miss Languish, in the

very height and altitude of the confusion, had been obliged to retire.

Lord Martin, in the midst of his triumph and exultation, had not leisure

to recollect, nor perhaps penetration to perceive, the effect that this

little sally might have upon his interests. Despotic and boorish as was

the genius of Mr. Hartley, it cowred under that of Sophia with the most

abject servility. And that lady now vowed eternal war against the heroical

peer.

"Mr. Hartley," said she, in their next _tête a tête_, "let me tell

you, lord Martin, must never have Miss Delia." "My dearest life," said the

old gentleman, "consider, the day is fixed, my word is passed, and it is

too late to revoke now. Beside, lord Martin has ten thousand pounds a

year." "Ten thousand figs," said she, "do not tell me, it is never too

late to be wife. Lord Martin is a venal senator, and a little sniveling

fellow." "My dear," said Hartley, "I never differed from you before: do

let me have my mind now." "Have your mind, sir! Men should have no minds.

Tyrants that they are! And now I think of it, Miss Delia does not like

lord Martin." "Pooh," said Mr. Hartley, recovering spirit at such an

objection, "that is all stuff and nonsense." "Nonsense! Let me tell you,

sir, women are not _born to be controled_. They are queens of the

creation, and if they had their way, and the government of the world was

in their hands, things would go much better than they do." "I know they

would," replied her admirer, "if they were all as wise as you." "Child,"

returned Sophia, turning up her nose, "that is neither here nor there. The

matter in short is this. Damon loves Delia, and Delia loves Damon. And if

your daughter be not Mrs. Villiers, I will never be Mrs. Hartley."

From a decision like this there could be no appeal. Mr. Hartley told lord

Martin, the next time he came to his house to pay his devoirs to his

mistress, that he had altered his mind. His lordship was too much

surprised at this manoeuvre to make any immediate answer; so turned upon

his heel, and decamped.

The happy revolution, by the intervention of Miss Fletcher, was soon made

known to sir William and his friend. Damon now paid his addresses in form.

A reconciliation took place between Mr. Moreland and the father of our

heroine. The marriage was publicly talked of, the day was fixed, and every

thing prepared for the nuptials.

It is impossible to describe the happiness of our lovers, when they saw

every obstacle thus unexpectedly removed. Damon was beside himself with

surprise and congratulation. Delia, at intervals, rubbed her eyes, and

could scarcely be persuaded that it was not a dream. They saw each other

at least once every day. Together they wandered along the margin of the

ocean, and together they sought that delicious alcove, which now appeared

ten times more beautiful, from the recollection it suggested of the

sufferings they had passed.

Lord Martin was in the mean time most grievously disappointed. "The devil

damn the fellow!" said he, "he crosses me like my evil genius. I have a

month's mind to send him a challenge. He is a tall, big looking fellow to

be sure. But then if I could contrive to kill him. Ah, me! but fortune

does not always favour the brave. My reputation is established. I do not

want a duel for that. And for any other purpose, it is all a lottery. Fire

and furies, death and destruction! something must be done. Let me

think--_About my brain_."

But lord Martin was not the only one whose hopes were disappointed, by the

expected marriage of Delia. He loved her not, he felt not one flutter of

complacency about his heart. It was vanity that first prompted him to

address her. It was disappointed pride that now stung him. Even Mr.

Prattle viewed her with a more generous affection. His genius was not

indeed a daring one, but it was active and indefatigable. Squire Savage

did not feel the less, though he did not spend many words about it. He was

a blustering hector. He had the reputation of fearing nothing, and caring

for nothing, that stood in his way. There were also other lovers beside

these, _whom the muse knows not, nor desires to know_.

In this manner gins and snares seemed, on every side, to surround our

happy and heedless lovers. They sported on the brink. They sighed, and

smiled, and sang, and talked again. At length the eve of the day, from

which their future happiness was to be dated, arrived. They had but one

drawback, the continued averseness of lord Thomas Villiers. Damon was

however now obliged, together with Mr. Hartley, to attend the lawyers at

Mr. Moreland's, in order to complete the previous formalities.

CHAPTER VII.

_Containing what will terrify the reader._

At such a moment as this, a mind of delicacy and sensibility is fond of

solitude. Delia told Mrs. Bridget, that she would take her usual walk, and

be home time enough to superintend the oeconomy of supper, at which the

company of Damon and sir William Twyford was expected.

They accordingly arrived before nine o'clock. Mrs. Bridget expected her

mistress every moment. Damon and his friend would have gone out to meet

her, but they were not willing to leave Mr. Hartley alone. The clock

however struck ten, and no Delia appeared. Every one now began to be

seriously uneasy. Damon and sir William went in both her most favourite

walks to find her, but in vain. Messengers were dispatched twenty

different ways. The lover repaired to the mansion of Lord Martin. The

baronet immediately set out for the house of Mr. Savage.

Mr. Hartley, who, with the external of a bear, and the heart of a miser,

was not destitute of the feelings of a parent, was now exceedingly

agitated. He strided up and down the room with incredible velocity. He bit

his fingers with anxiety, and threw his wig into the fire. "As I am a good

man," said he, "Mr. Prattle lives but almost next door, and I will go to

him." Mr. Prattle was at home, and having heard his story, condoled with

him upon it with much apparent sincerity.

Damon met with the same success. Lord Martin received him with perfect

serenity. "Bless us," cried he, "and is Miss Delia gone? I never was more

astonished in my life. I do not know what to do," and he took a pinch of

snuff. "Mr. Villiers," said he, with the utmost gravity, "I have all

possible respect for you. Blast me! if I am not willing to forget all our

former rivalship. Tell me, sir, can I do you any service?" Damon had every

reason to be satisfied with his behaviour, and flew out of the house in a

moment.

Sir William Twyford did not however meet with the person he went in quest

of. Miss Savage informed him, that her brother, not two hours ago, had

received a letter, and immediately, without informing her of his design,

which indeed he very seldom did, ordered his best hunter out of the

stable. She added, that she had imagined, that he had received a summons

to a fox-chace early the next morning.

Such was the account brought by sir William to the anxious and distracted

Damon. "Alas," cried he, "it is but too plain? She is by this time in the

hands of that insensible boor. Oh, who can bear to think of it! He is

perhaps, at this moment, tormenting her with his nauseous familiarities,

and griping her soft and tender limbs! Oh, why was I born! Why was I ever

cheated with the phantom of happiness! Wretch, wretch that I am!"

With these words he burst out of the house, and flew along with surprising

rapidity. Sir William, having hastily ordered everything to be prepared

for a pursuit, immediately followed him. He found him, wafted, spent, and

almost insensible, lying beside a little brook that crossed the road. The

baronet raised him in his arms, and, with the gentlest accents that

friendship ever poured into a mortal ear, recovered him to life and

perception.

"Where am I?" said the disconsolate lover. "Who are you? ah, my friend, my

best, my tried friend! I know you now. How came I here? Has any thing

unfortunate happened? Where is my Delia?" "Let us seek her, my Villiers,"

said the baronet. "Seek her! What! is she lost? Oh, yes, I recollect it

now; she is gone, snatched from my arms. Let us pursue her! Let us

overtake her Oh that it may not be too late."

He now leaned upon the shoulder of his friend, and returned with painful

and irregular steps. His disorder was so great, that sir William thought

it best to have him immediately conveyed to a chamber. He was so much

exhausted, that this was easily accomplished, without his being perfectly

sensible what was done. The baronet, with three servants mounted on

horseback, immediately pursued the road towards London.--Having thus

related the confusion and grief that were occasioned by her sudden

disappearance, we will now return to our heroine.

She had advanced, according to the intention she had hinted to her

servant, towards the grove, where she had so often wandered with her

beloved. She was wrapped up and lost in the contemplation of her

approaching felicity. "And is every difficulty surmounted, and shall at

last my fate be twined with Damon's? Sure, it is too much, it cannot be!

Fate does not deal so partially with mortals. To bestow so vast a

happiness on one, while thousands pine in helpless misery. But let me not

be incredulous. Let me not be ungrateful. No, since heaven has thus

accumulated its favours on me, my future days shall all be spent in

raising the oppressed, and cheering the disconsolate. I will remember that

I also have tasted the cup of woe, that I have looked forward to

disappointment and despair. _Taught by the hand that pities me,_ I

will learn to pity others."

She was thus musing with herself, she was thus full of piety and virtuous

resolution, when, on a sudden, a trampling of horses behind her, roused

her from her reverie. Two persons advanced. But before she had time to

examine their features, or even to remove out of the path, by which they

seemed to be coming, the foremost of them leaping hastily upon the ground,

seized her by the waist, arid, in spite of all her struggling, placed her

on the front of the saddle, and instantly mounted with the utmost agility.

Cries and tears were vain. They were in a solitary path, little beaten by

the careful husbandman, or the gay votaries of fashion. She was now

hurried along, and generally at full speed, through a thousand bye paths,

that seemed capable of puzzling the most assiduous pursuit.

They had scarcely advanced two little miles, ere they arrived at a large

and broad highway. Here they found a chariot ready waiting for them, into

which Delia was immediately thrust. She now for the first time lifted up

her eyes. The first object to which she attended was the faces of her

ravishers. Of him who had been the most active, she had not the smallest

recollection. The other who was in a livery, she imagined she had seen

somewhere, though, in the present confusion of her mind, she could not fix

upon the place. She next looked round her with wildness and eagerness, as

far as her eye could reach, to see if there were no protector, no

deliverance near. But she looked in vain. All was solitude and stilness.

The murmurs, the activity of the day were past. And now, the silver moon

in radiant majesty shed a solemn serenity ever the whole scene. Serenity,

alas! to the heart at ease, but nothing could bring serenity to the

troubled breast of Delia.

As her last resource, she appealed to those who by brutal force had

carried her away. "Oh, if you have any hearts, any thing human that dwells

about you, pity a poor, forlorn, and helpless maid! Alas, in what have I

injured you? What would you do to me?" "Oh, pray, Miss, do not be

frightened," said the first ravisher with an accent of familiar vulgarity,

"we will do you no harm, we mean nothing but your good. You will make your

fortune. You never had such luck in your life. You will have reason to

thank us the longest day you can ever know."

CHAPTER VIII.

_A Denouement_.

At this moment, Delia with infinite transport, heard the sound of horses

at a distance. Every thing was quiet. Our heroine listened with eager

expectation, and those who guarded her looked out to see who it was that

approached. Suspense was not long on either side. The horsemen were up

with them in a moment. "Oh, whoever you are," cried Delia, in an agony of

distress, "pity and relieve the most miserable woman'"----She received no

answer, but the horses stopped, and lord Martin was in a moment at the

door of the carriage. "Oh, my lord," cried Delia, "is it you? Thanks,

eternal thanks, for this fortunate incident. If you had not come, heaven

knows what would have become of me! Those brutes, those wretches--But

conduct me, my lord, to my father's house. Without doubt, they must by

this time be in a terrible fright."

"Do not be uneasy," cried his lordship, endeavouring to assume an

harmonious, but missing his point, he spoke in the shrillest and most

squeaking accent that can be imagined. "Do not be uneasy, my charmer. You

are in the hands of a man, that loves you, as never woman was loved

before. But I will be with you in a minute," said he. And withdrawing

behind the carriage, he beckoned to the person who had conducted the

business of the rape. "Why, you incorrigible blockhead," said lord Martin,

"you have neglected half your instructions. Why, her hands are at

liberty." "I beg your honour's pardon," replied the pimp, "I had indeed

forgotten, but it shall be remedied in a moment." And saying this, he

pulled a strong ribband out of his pocket, and getting into the chariot,

fastened the soft and lily hands of our heroine behind her. She screamed,

and invoked the name of his lordship a thousand times. Her hair became

disentangled from its ligaments, and flowed in waving ringlets about her

snowy, panting bosom. Exhausted with continual agitation, and particularly

with the last struggle, she seemed ready to faint, but was quickly

restored by the assiduity of these sordid grooms.

Before she had completely recovered her recollection, lord Martin had

seated himself in the carriage, and was drawing up some of the blinds.

"Drive on," said he to the coachman, who was by this time mounted into the

box, "Drive, as if the devil was behind you." The cavalcade accordingly

went forward. There was a servant on each side of the carriage, beside the

commander in chief, who occasionally advanced in the front, and

occasionally brought up the rear.

"And whither," said the affrighted Delia, "whither are we going? This

cannot be the way to Southampton. What do you mean? But ah, it is too

plain! Why else this impotence of insult?" endeavouring to disengage her

hands. And she turned from him in a rage of indignation. "Ah," cried his

lordship, "do not avert those brilliant eyes! Turn them towards me, and

they will outshine the lustre of the morn, and I shall perceive nothing of

the sun, even when he gains his meridian height." "And thou despicable

wretch, is this thy shallow plan? And what dost thou think to do with me?

Mountains shall sooner bend their lofty summits to the earth, than I will

ever waste a thought on thee." "Do with thee, my fairest!" cried the peer,

"why, marry thee. Dost thou think that the paltry Damon shall get the

better of my eagle genius? No. Fortune now unfurls my standard, and I

drive the _frighted fates_ before me." "Boastful, empty coward! Thou

darest not even brave a woman's rage. If my hands were at liberty, I would

tear out those insolent eyes." "_Go on_, thou gentlest of thy sex,

_and charm me with that angel voice_! For though thou dealest in

threats, abuse, and proud defiance, _it is heaven to hear thee_."

Such was the courtship that passed between our heroine and her triumphant

admirer. They had new proceeded twenty miles, and the midnight bell had

tolled near half an hour. They had passed through one turnpike, and Delia

had endeavoured by cries and prayers to obtain some assistance. But the

person who opened to them was alone, and though ever so desirous, could

not have resisted such a cavalcade. Beside this, the pimp told him a

plausible story of a wanton wife, and an injured husband, with the

particulars of which we do not think it necessary to trouble our readers.

They had also seen one foot passenger, and two horsemen. But they were

eluded and amused by a repetition of the same stratagem.

Delia, having exhausted her first rage and astonishment, had now remained

for some time silent. She revolved in her mind all the particulars of her

situation. She had at first considered her ravisher in no other light than

as hateful and despicable, but she was now compelled to regard this

venomous little animal, as the arbiter of her fate, and the master of her

fortunes. She reflected with horror, how much she was in his power, what

ill usage he might inflict, and to what extremities he might reduce her.

She now seriously thought of exerting herself to melt him into pity, and

to persuade him, by every argument she could invent, to spare and to

release her. "Ah, where," thought she, "is my Damon? Why does not he

appear to succour me? Alas, what distresses, what agonies may he not even

now endure!"

Full of these, and a thousand other tormenting reflections, she burst into

a flood of tears. Lord Martin drew from his pocket a clean cambric

handkerchief, and, carefully unfolding it, wiped away the drops as they

fell. "Loveliest of creatures," said he, "by the murmuring of thy voice,

the heaving of thy bosom, the distraction of thy looks, and by these

tears, I should imagine thou wert uneasy." "Ah," cried Delia unheedful of

his words, "what shall I say to move him?" "Oh, talk for ever," replied

his lordship. "The winds shall forget to whistle, and the seas to roar.

Noisy mobs shall cease their huzzas, and the din of war be still; for

there is music in thy voice." "Oh," exclaimed our heroine, "let one touch

of compassion approach thy soul. Indeed, my lord, I can never have you.

Release me, and I will forgive what is past, and Damon shall never notice

it." "Zounds and fire!" cried the peer, "dost thou think to prevail with

me by the motives of a coward? But why dost thou talk of Damon? Look on

me. Behold this purple coat, and fine _toupèe_. Think on my estate,

and think on my title."

But at this moment the oratory of his lordship ceased to be heard. At a

small distance there appeared two persons, the one on foot, and whose air,

so far as it could be perceived by the imperfect light, was genteel, and

the other on horseback, engaged in earnest conference. As the carriage

drew towards them, Delia exclaimed, in a piercing, but pathetic voice,

"Help! help! for God's sake! Rape! Murder! Help!" The voice immediately

caught the young gentleman on foot, who approached the carriage.--But

before we proceed any farther we will inform our readers who these persons

were.

The gentleman on foot, was Mr. Godfrey. He was on a visit to a sister, who

lived very near the spot upon which he now stood. She was married to a

substantial yeoman, who rented an estate in this place, the property of

lord Thomas Villiers. The beautiful scenes of nature were particularly

congenial to the elegant said contemplative mind of Mr. Godfrey. And he

had now, as was frequently his custom, strolled out to enjoy the calm

serenity, and the splendid beauty, of a midnight scene. The man on

horse-back was a thief taker, who, just before the carriage had driven up,

had, without ceremony, accosted Mr. Godfrey with his enquiries, and a

description of the person of whom he was in pursuit.

CHAPTER IX.

_Which dismisses the Reader._

Mr. Godfrey, in a resolute tone, called out to the coachman to stop, and

not contented with a verbal mandate, he rushed before the horses, and

brandishing a club he held in his hand, bid the driver proceed at his

peril. "Drive on," said lord Martin, thrusting his head out at the

window--"Drive on, and be damned to you!" At this moment the pimp rode up.

"It is nothing," said he, "but a poor gentleman, who has just forced his

wife from the arms of a gallant." "Oh no!" cried Delia. "I am not his

wife. I am an innocent woman, whom he has forced from her father and her

lover."

The thief taker out of curiosity rode forward. "That," said he, fixing his

eye upon the pimp, "that is the very rascal I am in search of." The pimp,

who had only been borrowed by lord Martin of one of his more experienced

acquaintance, no sooner heard the sound, than, accounting for it with

infinite facility and readiness of mind, he turned about his horse, and

attempted to fly. One of the footmen, naturally a coward, and terrified at

these incidents, with the meaning of which he was unacquainted, imitated

his example. The other came forward to the assistance of his master, and

was laid prostrate upon the ground, by Mr. Godfrey with one blow. The

thief taker had the start of the pimp, and overtook him in a moment.

Mr. Godfrey now opened the door of the carriage. But the little peer was

prepared for this incident, and having his sword drawn, made a sudden pass

at our generous knight-errant. The latter, with infinite agility, leaped

aside, and lifting up his club, shivered the sword into a thousand pieces.

"Death and the devil! Pox confound you!" said lord Martin, and endeavoured

to draw a pistol from his pocket. But the unsuccessful pass he had made

had thrown him somewhat off his bias, and though he had employed more than

one effort, he had not been able to recover himself. At this instant, Mr.

Godfrey seized him by the collar, and with a sudden-whirl, threw him into

the middle of the road. "Fire and"--his lordship had not time to finish

his exclamation. The part of the road in which he fell was exceeding

dirty. The workmen had been employed the preceding day, in scraping the

mud together into a heap against the bank, and his lordship, unable to

overcome the velocity with which he trundled along, rolled into the midst

of it in an instant. He was entirely lost in this soft receptacle. The

colour of his purple coat, and his lily white _toupèe_, could no

longer be distinguished.

The coachman, perceiving the disaster of his lord, now leaped from the

box. Mr. Godfrey had scarcely had time to reduce this new antagonist to a

state of inactivity, before the footman, upon whom he had first displayed

his prowess, began to discover some signs of life. He might have been yet

overpowered in spite of all his valour and presence of mind, if the house

of his brother-in-law, had not fortunately been so near, that the shrieks

of Delia, and the altercation of her ravishers reached it. The honest

farmer was at the window in a moment, and perceiving that his brother was

engaged in the affray, he huddled on his clothes with all expedition, and

now appeared in the highway.

The victory was immediately decided. The footman perceiving this new

reinforcement, did not dare to act upon the offensive, and Mr. Godfrey

mounted into the chariot to assist our heroine. He now first perceived

that her hands were manacled. From this restraint however, he suddenly

disengaged her, and taking her in his arms out of the carriage, he

delivered her to his sister, who advanced at this moment.

The footman, assisted by the humanity of the farmer, was now employed in

raising his master. His lordship made the most pitiable figure that can be

imagined. His features, as well as his dress, wore an appearance perfectly

uniform. "Whither would you convey him?" said Mr. Godfrey, who was now

returned. "What shall we do with him?" "Oh, and please you, sir," said the

footman, "his lordship has a house about half a mile off." Lord Martin now

first discovered some marks of sensibility, and _shook his goary

locks_. "His lordship!" exclaimed the yeoman. "Sure it cannot be--yet

it is--by my soul I cannot tell whether it be lord Martin or no." The

coachman now rose from the ground, and began with a profound bow to his

master. "And please your honour," said he, "we have made a sad day's work

of it. Your worship makes but a pitiful figure. Faugh! I think as how, if

I dared say so much, begging your honour's pardon, that your lordship

stinks." "Put him into the carriage," cried Mr. Godfrey, "and drive him

home." Lord Martin, now first recovered his tongue, and wiping away the

mud from his eyes, "And so it was you, sir, I suppose," cried he, "to whom

I am obliged for this catastrophe. But pox take me, if you shall not hear

of it. Ten thousand curses on my wayward fate! The devil take it! Death

and damnation!" During this soliloquy, the servants were employed in

placing their lord in the chariot. The coachman mounted the box, and by

this time they were out of hearing.

Mr. Godfrey and his brother now entered the house. Delia was seated in a

chair, her hair dishevelled, her features disordered, and her dress in the

most bewitching confusion. But how much were both the deliverer and the

heroine surprised, when they mutually recognised each others features! Mr.

Godfrey made Delia a very polite compliment upon her escape, and

congratulated himself, in the warmest language, for having been the

fortunate instrument.

They now retired to rest. The next morning, Delia was much better

recovered from her terror and fatigue, than could have been expected. Mr.

Godfrey however had not thought it adviseable that she should be removed

that day, and had therefore set off early in the morning for Southampton,

that he might himself be the messenger of these happy tidings.

"I hope Miss," said Mrs. Wilson, who attended our heroine, "that you will

dress yourself as well as you can." "And why" cried Delia, "do you desire

that? I can see nobody, I can think of nothing, but my absent and anxious

Damon." "Let us hope," replied the other, "that he is very well. But,

Miss, we expect lord Thomas Villiers by dinner time." "Lord Thomas

Villiers!" exclaimed Delia, in the extremest surprise. "Yes," cried Mrs.

Wilson. "He is our landlord, and he always comes over once about this time

of the year." "Alas," said Delia, "I can see nobody. But I had rather meet

any person at this time, than lord Thomas Villiers." "Bless me, Miss! why

I am sure he is a very good sort of a gentleman." "I dare say he is,"

cried Delia. "But indeed, and indeed, Mrs. Wilson, I cannot see him. Pray

oblige me in this." "Law, well I cannot think what objection you can have!

There must be something very particular in it."

Such were the hints that Mrs. Wilson threw out for the satisfying of her

curiosity, but Delia was not disposed to be more communicative. The good

woman however, with the error of our heroine before her eyes, was

determined not to commit a similar fault. Lord Thomas was therefore

scarcely arrived, before she set open the flood gates of her eloquence, in

describing the rescue, and the unrivalled beauty of the lady under her

roof.

His lordship had long had a misunderstanding with lord Martin upon the

subject of their contiguous estates. As his temper was not the most

gentle, nor his memory upon these subjects the most treacherous, he

expressed his triumph in loud shouts, and repeated horse laughs, upon the

recent defeat of his antagonist. Nothing however would content him but a

sight of the lady. "That," said Mrs. Wilson, "my guess is too nice to

consent to. You must know, she has a particular dislike to your lordship."

"A dislike to me!" said the old gentleman, whose curiosity was now more

inflamed than even "Will you be contented," said his kind hostess, "with a

peep through the key hole!" and without waiting for an answer, she took

him by the hand, and led him up stairs. "By my foul!" said his lordship,

"she is the finest woman in the world. Devil take me, if I can contain

myself," and he burst into the room.

Lord Thomas advanced a few steps, and then stopping, clasped his hands;

"Why she is an angel of a woman! And did Martin, that dirty scoundrel,

think he could run away with you? Impudent, pot-bellied spider! Ah, if my

son had fallen in love with such a woman as you, I could forgive him any

thing." And seizing her hand he pressed it to his lips. "Forgive me,

charmer," cried he, "I am an old fellow. I will do you no harm."

Delia, though pleased with the behaviour of her intended father-in-law,

dared not yet discover herself to him. In the afternoon, Mr. Godfrey, and

Sir William Twyford, arrived. Damon, agitated as he was by the most

dreadful images that a troubled fancy could suggest, appeared in the

morning in a high fever. Instead of being able to hasten to the mistress

of his soul, he was confined to his bed, and attended by physicians.

"Ha," cried lord Thomas, as soon as he saw the baronet, "and who sent for

you? What do you want? I think, Sir, you are the gentleman to whom I am

obliged for telling my son, that duty to parents is a baby prejudice, that

obstinacy is a heroic virtue, and that fortune, fame, and friends, are all

to be sacrificed to the whining passion, which, I think, you call love."

"My lord," replied the baronet, "I have done nothing, of which I feel any

reason to be ashamed. But a subject more pressing calls for my immediate

attention." Then turning to Delia, "Give me leave to congratulate you,

madam, and heaven can tell how heartily I do it, upon the generous and

happy interposition of Mr. Godfrey." "And pray," interrupted lord Thomas,

"how came you acquainted with that lady?" "Oh, tell me," cried Delia, with

an impatience not to be restrained by modes and forms, "tell me, how does

my Damon? Why is he not here? Alas, I fear"--"Fear nothing," cried the

baronet. "He is safe. He is at your father's house, and impatient to see

you." "And is this the lady," cried lord Thomas, "of whom my son is

enamoured? But he shall not disobey me. I will never permit it. Sir, if

this be the lady, I will give her to him with my own hand. But where is

the ungracious rascal? Why does not he appear?" "Nothing, be assured,"

said the baronet, "but reasons of the last importance, could have kept him

back in so interesting a moment." "Alas, I fear," cried Delia, "since you

endeavour to conceal them from me, they are reasons of the most afflicting

nature." "It is in vain," replied Sir William, "to endeavour at

concealment." "Your son," turning to lord Thomas Villiers, "is confined to

his bed. The anxiety and fatigue that he suffered, in consequence of the

extraordinary step of lord Martin, have thrown him into a fever. But be

not uneasy, my Delia," taking her hand, "there is no danger. One sigh, one

look from you will restore him." "Ten thousand curses," exclaimed the

father, "upon the head of the contemptible, misbegotten ravisher! But let

us make haste. I am glad however that my rogue of a son is a little

punished for his impertinence. Let us make haste."

Saying this, he ordered the horses to his chariot, and the whole company

prepared to set out for Southampton immediately. The only business which

remained, was the dispatching a message, which was done by one of sir

William's servants, from Mr. Godfrey to lord Martin, announcing his name,

and informing his lordship, that he was to be met with any time in the

ensuing week at Mr. Moreland's.

Lord Martin was a good deal bruised and enfeebled with the adventure of

the preceding evening. He had been obliged to undergo a lustration of near

an hour, before he could be put to bed. He was just risen, when the

message was delivered. "Zounds!" cried the peer, "he is, is he? And so

this fellow, whom nobody knows, has the impudence to snub me! By my title,

and all the blood of my ancestors, he is not worthy of my sword. I will

have him assassinated. I will hire some blackguards to seize him, and bind

him in my presence, and I will bastinado him with my own hand. Furies and

curses! I do not know what to do. Oh, this confounded vanity! Not

contented with one disgrace, I have brought upon myself another, ten times

more mortifying than the first. By Tartarus, and all the infernal gods, I

believe I had better let it rest where it is! Wretch, wretch, that I am!"

And he threw himself on the bed in an agony of despair.

Damon had slept little the preceding night, and his slumbers had been

disturbed with a thousand horrible imaginations. The first person who

appeared in his chamber the next morning he addressed with "Where, where

is she? Where is my Delia? My life, my soul, the mistress of my fate? Ah,

why do you look so haggard, so unconsoling. You have heard nothing of her?

Give me my clothes. I will pursue her to the world's end. I will find her,

though she be hid deep as the centre." "Sir, be pacified," said the

servant, "she is safe." "Safe," cried our lover, "why then does she not

appear to comfort me? But haste, I will fly to her. I will clasp, I will

lock her, in my arms. No, nothing, not all the powers on earth, shall ever

part us more." "Sir, she is not in the house." "Not in the house," cried

Damon starting, "Ha! say. I will not be cheated. On thy life do not trifle

with my impatience."

At this moment Mr. Godfrey entered the room. "Who is there?" cried Damon,

starting at every whisper. "It is your friend," said Godfrey. "A friend

that owes you much, and would willingly pay you something back again." "I

do not understand you," replied our hero. "I can talk of nothing but my

Delia. Oh Delia! Delia! I will teach thy name to all the echoes. I will

send it with every wind to heaven. Ever, ever, shall it dwell upon my

lips." "Delia," replied the other, "is in safety. I have been so happy as

to rescue her." "Ha! sayest thou? let me look upon thee well. I am

somewhat disordered, but I think thy name is Godfrey. Thou shouldst not

deceive me. Thou art not old in falsehood." "I do not deceive thee. On my

life I do not!" exclaimed Godfrey, with emotion. "Compose thyself for a

few hours. Or ever thou shalt see the setting sun, I will put thy Delia

into thy arms again."

Damon was somewhat composed by these assurances. No voice like that of

Godfrey had power to sooth his mind to serenity. But though he sought to

restrain himself, he listened to every noise. He started at the sound of

every foot, and the rattle of a carriage in the street agitated his soul

almost to frenzy.

"Why does not she come? What can delay her? I have counted every moment.

I have waited whole ages. I see, I see, that every thing conspires to

cheat, and to distract me. Damon has not one friend left to whisper in his

ear--to whisper what? That Delia is no more? That all her beauties are

defaced, by some sacrilegious hand? That all her heaven of charms have

been rifled? Oh, no. I must not think of that. But hark! I thought I heard

a sound, but it is delirium all. Sure, sure it comes this way. I will

listen but this once."

The door of the chamber now flew open. But oh, what object caught the

raptured eye of Damon! He was just risen. "It is, it is my Delia!" and

they flew into each others arms. But having embraced for a moment, Damon

took hold of her hand, and held her from him. "Let me look at thee. And is

it Delia? And art thou safe, unhurt? I would not be mistaken." "Yes, I am

she, and ten times more my Damon's than ever." "It is enough. I am

contented. But hark! who comes there? Sure it is not the brutal ravisher?

No," cried he, in a voice of surprise, "it is my father."

Lord Thomas Villiers, who had been a witness of this scene, could restrain

himself no longer. "Come to my arms, thy father's arms," cried he, "and

let me bless thee." "Stay, stay," cried Damon. "Yes I know thee well. But

I will never be separated from her any more. I will laugh at the authority

of a parent. Tyranny and tortures shall not rend me from her." "The

authority of a parent," replied lord Thomas, "shall never more be employed

to counteract thy wishes. I myself will join your hands."

The constitution of Damon was so full of sensibility, that it was some

days before he was completely recovered. In the mean time, the amours of

Sir William Twyford, and Mr. Hartley, continually ripened, and it was

proposed, that the three parties should be united in the same day.

"And now," said Damon, "I have but one care more, one additional exertion,

to set my mind at ease. My Godfrey, I owe thee more than kingdoms can

repay. Tell me, instruct me, what can I do to serve you? Damon must be the

most contemptible of villains, if he could think his felicity complete,

when his Godfrey was unhappy."

"Think not of me," said Godfrey, "I am happy in the way that nature

intended, beyond even the power of Damon to make me. Since I saw you, a

favourable change has taken place in my circumstances. In spite of various

obstacles, I have brought a tragedy upon the stage, and it has met with

distinguished success. My former crosses and mortifications are all

forgotten. Philosophers may tell us, that reputation, and the immortality

of a name, are all but an airy shadow. Enough for me, that nature, from my

earliest infancy, led me to place my first delight in these. I envy not

kings their sceptres. I envy not statesmen their power. I envy not Damon

his love, and his Delia. Next to the pursuits of honour and truth, my soul

is conscious to but one wish, that of having my name enrolled, in however

inferior a rank, with a Homer, and a Horace, a Livy, and a Cicero."

The next day the proposed weddings took place. It is natural perhaps, at

the conclusion of such a narrative as this, to represent them all as

happy. But we are bound to adhere to nature and truth. Mr. Hartley and his

politician for some time struggled for superiority, but, in the end, the

eagle genius of Sophia soared aloft. Sir William, though he married a

woman, good natured, and destitute of vice, found something more insipid

in marriage, than he had previously apprehended. For Damon and his Delia,

they were amiable, and constant. Though their hearts were in the highest

degree susceptible and affectionate, the first ebullition of passion could

not last for ever. But it was succeeded by _the feast of reason, and the

flow of soul_. Their hours were sped with the calmness of tranquility.

When they saw each other no longer with transport, they saw each other

with complacency. And so long as they live, they will doubtless afford the

most striking demonstration, that marriage, when it unites two gentle

souls, and meaned by nature for each other, when it is blest of heaven,

and accompanied with reason and discretion, is the sweetest, and the

fairest of all the bands of society.

THE END.