His extreme weakness having obliged him to creep towards a tree,

against the back of which he supported himself, I went nearer to him,

and having told him the condition in which I found him, and the orders

I had dispatched for assistance, requested him to acquaint me with his

name and quality, and the adventure which had brought him into that

condition.

My name, madam, answered he, is Ariamenes. My birth is noble enough.

I have spent some years in my travels, and was returning to my

native country, when passing through this forest I was seized with

an inclination to sleep. I had tied my horse to a tree, and retiring

some few paces off, stretched myself at the foot of a large oak whose

branches promised me an agreeable shade. I had not yet closed my eyes,

when the slumber I invited was dissipated by the sound of some voices

near me.

A curiosity, not natural to me, made me listen to the discourse of

these persons, whom by the tone of their voices, though I could not see

them, I knew to be men.

In short, madam, I was a witness to a most horrible scheme which they

concerted together. My weakness will not permit me to enter into an

exact detail of all I heard: the result of their conference was, to

seize the princess of this country, and carry her off.

Here, pursued Cynecia, I interrupted the stranger with a loud cry,

which giving him to understand who I was, he apologized in the most

graceful manner imaginable for the little respect he had hitherto paid

me.

I then entreated him to tell me, if he had any opportunity of hearing

the name of my designed ravisher; to which he replied, that he

understood it to be Taxander.

This man, madam, was one of my father's favourites, and had been long

secretly in love with me.

Ariamenes then informed me, that being enflamed with rage against these

impious villains, he rose from the ground, remounted his horse, and

defied the two traitors aloud, threatening them with death, unless they

abandoned their impious design.

Taxander made no answer, but rushed furiously upon him, and had the

baseness to suffer his wicked associate to assist him: but the valiant

Ariamenes, though he spoke modestly of his victory, yet gave me to

understand that he had made both the villains abandon their wicked

enterprise, with their lives; and that dismounting, in order to see if

they were quite dead, he found himself so faint with the wounds he had

received from them both, that he had not strength to remount his horse;

but crawling on, in hopes of meeting with some assistance, fainted away

at last through weariness and loss of blood.

While he was giving me this account, the chariot I had sent for

arrived, and having made him such acknowledgments as the obligation I

had received from him demanded, I caused him to get into the chariot;

and sending one with him to acquaint the prince my father with all that

had happened, and the merit of the valiant stranger, I returned the

same way I came with my women, my thoughts being wholly engrossed by

this unknown.

The service he had done me filled me with a gratitude and esteem for

him, which prepared my heart for those tender sentiments I afterwards

entertained, to the ruin of my repose.

I will not tire your patience, madam, with a minute detail of all the

succeeding passages of my story; it shall suffice to tell you, that

Ariamenes was received with extraordinary marks of esteem by my father;

that his cure was soon completed; and that having vowed himself to my

service, and declared an unalterable passion for me, I permitted him to

love me, and gave him that share in my heart, which I fear not all his

infidelities will ever deprive him of.

His attachment to me was soon suspected by Taxander's relations,

who having secretly vowed his ruin, endeavoured to discover if I

had admitted his addresses; and having made themselves masters of

our secrets, by means of the treachery of one of my women, procured

information to be given to my father of our mutual passion.

Alas! what mischiefs did not this fatal discovery produce! My father,

enraged to the last degree at this intelligence, confined me to my

apartment, and ordered Ariamenes to leave his dominions within three

days.

Spare me, madam, the repetition of what passed at our last sad

interview, which by large bribes to my guards he obtained.

His tears, his agonies, his vows of everlasting fidelity, so soothed

my melancholy at parting with him, and persuaded me of his constancy,

that I waited for several months with perfect tranquillity for

the performance of the promise he made me, to do my father such

considerable services in the war he was engaged in with one of his

neighbours, as should oblige him to give me to him for his reward.

But, alas! two years rolled on without bringing back the unfaithful

Ariamenes. My father died, and my brother, who succeeded him, being

about to force me to marry a prince whom I detested, I secretly quitted

the court, and attended only by this faithful confidante whom you

behold with me, and some few of my trusty domestics, I came hither in

search of Ariamenes; he having told me this country was the place of

his birth.

Polenor, the most prudent and faithful of my servants, undertook to

find out the ungrateful Ariamenes, whom yet I was willing to find

excuses for; but all his enquiries were to no effect; the name of

Ariamenes was not known in this part of the world.

Tired out with unsuccessful enquiries, I resolved to seek out some

obscure place, where I might in secret lament my misfortunes, and

expect the end of them in death. My attendants found me out such

a retreat as I wanted, in a neighbouring village, which they call

Twickenham, I think, from whence I often make excursions to this park,

attended only as you see; and here indulge myself in complaints upon

the cruelty of my destiny.

The sorrowful Cynecia here ended her story, to which in the course

of her relation she had given a great many interruptions through the

violence of her grief: and Arabella, after having said every thing she

could think on to alleviate her affliction, earnestly entreated her to

accept of an asylum at her house; where she should be treated with all

the respect due to her illustrious birth.

The afflicted lady, though she respectfully declined this offer, yet

expressed a great desire of commencing a strict amity with our fair

heroine, who, on her part, made her the most tender protestations of

friendship.

The evening being almost closed, they parted with great reluctancy on

both sides; mutually promising to meet in the same place the next day.

Cynecia having enjoined her new friend to absolute secrecy, Arabella

was under a necessity of keeping this adventure to herself. And though

she longed to tell Mr. Glanville, who came to visit her the next day,

that the countess was extremely mistaken, when she maintained there

were no more wandering princesses in the world, yet the engagement she

had submitted to kept her silent.

Chapter V.

_A very mysterious chapter._

Arabella, who impatiently longed for the hour of meeting the fair

princess, with whom she was extremely delighted, consulted her watch

so often, and discovered so much restlessness and anxiety, that Mr.

Glanville began to be surprised; and the more, as she peremptorily

commanded him not to attend her in her evening walk. This prohibition,

which, though he durst not dispute, he secretly resolved to disobey;

and as soon as she set out for the park with her usual attendants,

he slipped out by a back-door, and keeping her in his sight, himself

unseen, he ventured to watch her motions.

As he had expected to unravel some great mystery, he was agreeably

disappointed to find she continued her walk in the park with great

composure; and though she was soon joined by the imaginary princess,

yet conceiving her to be some young lady with whom she had commenced

an acquaintance at Richmond, his heart was at rest; and for fear of

displeasing her, he took a contrary path from that she was in, that he

might not meet her, yet resolved to stay till he thought she would be

inclined to return, and then show himself, and conduct her home;--a

solicitude for which he did not imagine she need be offended.

The two ladies being met, after reciprocal compliments, the princess

entreated Arabella to relate her adventures; who not being willing to

violate the laws of romance, which require an unbounded confidence upon

these occasions, began very succinctly to recount the history of her

life; which, as she managed it, contained events almost as romantic and

incredible as any in her romances; winding them up with a confession

that she did not hate Mr. Glanville, whom she acknowledged to be one of

the most faithful and zealous of lovers.

Cynecia, with a sigh, congratulated her upon the fidelity of a lover,

who by her description, was worthy the place he possessed in her

esteem; and expressing a wish that she could see, unobserved by him,

this gallant and generous person, Arabella, who that moment espied him

at a distance, yet advancing towards them, told her, with a blush that

overspread all her face, that her curiosity might be satisfied in the

manner she wished: for yonder, added she, is the person we have been

talking of.

Cynecia, at these words, looking towards the place where her fair

friend had directed; no sooner cast her eyes upon Mr. Glanville, than

giving a loud cry, she sunk into the arms of Arabella, who, astonished

and perplexed as she was, eagerly held them out to support her.

Finding her in a swoon, she dispatched Lucy, who was near her, to look

for some water to throw in her face; but that lady, breathing a deep

sigh, opened her languishing eyes, and fixing a melancholy look upon

Arabella--

Ah! madam, said she, wonder not at my affliction and surprise, since in

the person of your lover I behold the ungrateful Ariamenes.

Oh Heavens! my fair princess, replied Arabella, what is it you say? Is

it possible Glanville can be Ariamenes?

He, cried the afflicted princess with a disordered accent, he whom

I now behold, and whom you call Glanville, was once Ariamenes, the

perjured, the ungrateful Ariamenes! Adieu, madam, I cannot bear his

sight; I will hide myself from the world for ever; nor need you fear

a rival or an enemy in the unfortunate Cynecia, who, if possible,

will cease to love the unfaithful Ariamenes, and will never hate the

beautiful Arabella.

Saying this, without giving her time to answer, she took hold of her

confidante by the arm, and went away with so much swiftness, that

she was out of sight before Arabella was enough recovered from her

astonishment to be able to entreat her stay.

Our charming heroine, ignorant till now of the true state of her heart,

was surprised to find it assaulted at once by all the passions which

attend disappointed love. Grief, rage, jealousy, and despair made so

cruel a war in her gentle bosom, that, unable either to express or to

conceal the strong emotions with which she was agitated, she gave way

to a violent burst of tears, leaning her head upon Lucy's shoulder,

who wept as heartily as her lady, though ignorant of the cause of her

affliction.

Mr. Glanville, who was now near enough to take notice of her posture,

came running with eager haste to see what was the matter; when

Arabella, roused from her ecstasy of grief by the sound of his steps,

lifted up her head, and seeing him approach--

Lucy, cried she, trembling with the violence of her resentment, tell

that traitor to keep out of my sight. Tell him, I forbid him ever to

appear before me again. And, tell him, added she, with a sigh that

shook her whole tender frame, all the blood in his body is too little

to wash away his guilt, or to pacify my indignation.

Then hastily turning away, she ran towards her other attendants, who

were at some distance; and joining her women, proceeded directly home.

Mr. Glanville, amazed at this action, was making after her as fast as

he could, when Lucy, crossing in his way, cried out to him to stop.

My lady, said she, bid me tell you, traitor----

Hey-day! interrupted Glanville, what the devil does the girl mean?

Pray, sir, said she, let me deliver my message: I shall forget, if you

speak to me till I have said it all--Stay, let me see, what comes next?

No more traitor, I hope, said Glanville.

No, sir, said Lucy; but there was something about washing in blood, and

you must keep out of her sight, and not appear before the nation----Oh

dear! I have forgot it half: my lady was in such a piteous taking, I

forgot it, I believe, as soon as she said it. What shall I do?----

No matter, said Glanville, I'll overtake her, and ask----

No, no, sir, said Lucy, pray don't do that, sir, my lady will be very

angry: I'll venture to ask her to tell me over again, and come back and

let you know it.

But tell me, replied Glanville, was any thing the matter with your

lady? She was in a piteous taking, you say?

Oh dear! yes, sir, said Lucy; but I was not bid to say any thing about

that. To be sure, my lady did cry sadly, and sighed as if her heart

would break; but I don't know what was the matter with her.

Well, said Glanville, excessively shocked at this intelligence, go to

your lady: I am going home--You may bring me her message to my own

apartment.

Lucy did as she was desired; and Mr. Glanville, impatient as he was

to unravel the mystery, yet dreading lest his presence should make

Arabella be guilty of some extravagance before the servants who were

with her, he followed slowly after her, resolving, if possible, to

procure a private interview with the lovely visionary, for whose

sorrow, though he suspected it was owing to some ridiculous cause, he

could not help being affected.

Chapter VI.

_Not much plainer than the former._

Arabella, who had walked as fast as her legs would carry her, got home

before Lucy could overtake her, and retiring to her chamber, gave way

to a fresh burst of grief, and bewailed the infidelity of Glanville in

terms befitting a Clelia or Mandana.

As soon as she saw Lucy enter, she started from her chair with great

emotion.

Thou comest, said she, I know, to intercede for that ungrateful man,

whose infidelity I am weak enough to lament; but open not thy mouth, I

charge thee, in his defence.

No, indeed, madam, said Lucy.

Nor bring me any account of his tears, his desperation, or his despair,

said Arabella, since questionless he will feign them all to deceive me.

Here Glanville, who had watched Lucy's coming, and had followed her

into Arabella's apartment, appeared at the door.

Oh Heavens! cried Arabella, lifting up her fine eyes, can it be that

this disloyal man, unawed by the discovery of his guilt, again presumes

to approach me!----

Dearest cousin, said Glanville, what is the meaning of all this?--How

have I disobliged you?--What is my offence? I beseech you, tell me.

Ask the inconstant Ariamenes[1], replied Arabella, the offence of the

ungrateful Glanville. The betrayer of Cynecia can best answer that

question to the deceiver of Arabella; and the guilt of the one can only

be compared to the crimes of the other.

Good God! interrupted Mr. Glanville, fretting excessively, what am I to

understand by all this? On my soul, madam, I don't know the meaning of

one word you say.

Oh dissembler! said Arabella, is it thus that thou wouldest impose upon

my credulity? Does not the name of Ariamenes make thee tremble then?

And canst thou hear that of Cynecia without confusion?

Dear Lady Bella, said Glanville smiling, what are these names to me?

False man, interrupted Arabella, dost thou presume to sport with

thy crimes then? Are not the treacheries of Ariamenes the crimes of

Glanville? Could Ariamenes be false to the princess of Gaul, and can

Glanville be innocent towards Arabella?

Mr. Glanville, who had never heard her, in his opinion, talk so

ridiculously before, was so amazed at the incomprehensible stuff she

uttered with so much emotion, that he began to fear her intellects were

really touched. This thought gave him a concern that spread itself in

a moment over his countenance. He gazed on her with a fixed attention,

dreading, yet wishing she would speak again; equally divided between

his hopes that her next speech would remove his suspicion, and his

fears, that it might more confirm it.

Arabella, taking notice of his pensive posture, turned away her head,

lest, by beholding him, she should relent, and treat him with less

severity than she had intended; making at the same time a sign to him

to be gone.

Indeed, Lady Bella, said Glanville, who understood her perfectly well,

I cannot leave you in this temper. I must know how I have been so

unfortunate as to offend you.

Arabella, no longer able to contain herself, burst into tears at this

question: with one hand she made repeated signs to him to be gone, with

the other she held her handkerchief to her eyes, vexed and ashamed of

her weakness.

But Mr. Glanville, excessively shocked at this sight, instead of

leaving her, threw himself on his knees before her, and taking her

hand, which he tenderly pressed to his lips--

Good God! my dearest cousin, said he, how you distract me by this

behaviour! Sure something extraordinary must be the matter. What can it

be that thus afflicts you?--Am I the cause of these tears?--Can I have

offended you so much?--Speak, dear madam--Let me know my crime. Yet may

I perish if I am conscious of any towards you----

Disloyal man, said Arabella, disengaging her hand from his, does then

the crime of Ariamenes seem so light in thy apprehension, that thou

canst hope to be thought innocent by Arabella? No, no, ungrateful man,

the unfortunate Cynecia shall have no cause to say that I will triumph

in her spoils. I myself will be the minister of her revenge; and

Glanville shall suffer for the crime of Ariamenes.

Who the devil is this Ariamenes? cried Glanville, rising in a passion.

And why am I to suffer for his crime, pray? For Heaven's sake, dear

cousin, don't let your imagination wander thus. Upon my soul, I don't

believe there is any such person as Ariamenes in the world.

Vile equivocator, said Arabella; Ariamenes, though dead to Cynecia, is

alive to the deluded Arabella. The crimes of Ariamenes are the guilt

of Glanville: and if the one has made himself unworthy of the princess

of Gaul, by his perfidy and ingratitude, the other by his baseness and

deceit, merits nothing but contempt and detestation from Arabella.

Frenzy, by my soul, cried Glanville mutteringly between his teeth: this

is downright frenzy. What shall I do?----

Hence, from my presence, resumed Arabella, false and ungrateful

man; persecute me no more with the hateful offers of thy love. From

this moment I banish thee from my thoughts for ever; and neither as

Glanville or as Ariamenes will I ever behold thee more.

Stay, dear cousin, said Glanville holding her (for she was endeavouring

to rush by him, unwilling he should see the tears that had overspread

her face as she pronounced those words): hear me, I beg you, but one

word. Who is it you mean by Ariamenes?--Is it me?--Tell me, madam, I

beseech you--This is some horrid mistake--You have been imposed upon by

some villainous artifice--Speak, dear Lady Bella--Is it me you mean by

Ariamenes? For so your last words seemed to hint.----

Arabella, without regarding what he said, struggled violently to force

her hand from his: and finding him still earnest to detain her, told

him with an enraged voice, that she would call for help, if he did not

unhand her directly.

Poor Glanville, at this menace, submissively dropped her hand; and the

moment she was free, she flew out of the room, and locking herself up

in her closet, sent her commands to him by one of her women, whom she

called to her, to leave her apartment immediately.

[1] This enigmatical way of speaking upon such occasions, is of great

use in the voluminous French romances; since the doubt and confusion it

is the cause of, both to the accused and accuser, gives rise to a great

number of succeeding mistakes, and consequently adventures.

Chapter VII.

_Containing indeed no great matters, but being a prelude to greater._

Mr. Glanville, who stood fixed like a statue in the place where

Arabella had left him, was roused by this message, which though

palliated a little by the girl that delivered it, who was not quite

so punctual as Lucy, nevertheless filled him with extreme confusion.

He obeyed however immediately, and retiring to his own apartment,

endeavoured to recall to his memory all Lady Bella had said.

The ambiguity of her style, which had led him into a suspicion he had

never entertained before, her last words had partly explained, if, as

he understood she did, she meant him by Ariamenes. Taking this for

granted, he easily conceived some plot grounded on her romantic notions

had been laid, to prepossess her against him.

Sir George's behaviour to her rushed that moment into his thoughts: he

instantly recollected all his fooleries, his history, his letter, his

conversation, all apparently copied from those books she was so fond

of, and probably done with a view to some other design upon her.

These reflections, joined to his new-awakened suspicions that he was

in love with her, convinced him he was the author of their present

misunderstanding; and that he had imposed some new fallacy upon

Arabella, in order to promote a quarrel between them.

Fired almost to madness at this thought, he stamped about his room,

vowing revenge upon Sir George, execrating romances, and cursing his

own stupidity, for not discovering Sir George was his rival, and,

knowing his plotting talent, not providing against his artifices.

His first resolutions were, to set out immediately for Sir George's

seat, and force him to confess the part he had acted against him: but

a moment's consideration convinced him, that was not the most probable

place to find him in, since it was much more likely he was waiting the

success of his schemes in London, or perhaps at Richmond.

Next to satiating his vengeance, the pleasure of detecting him in such

a manner, that he could not possibly deny or palliate his guilt, was

next his heart.

He resolved therefore to give it out that he was gone to London, to

make Lady Bella believe it was in obedience to her commands that he

had left her, with a purpose not to return till he had cleared his

innocence; but, in reality, to conceal himself in his own apartment,

and see what effects his reputed absence would produce.

Having thus taken his resolution, he sent for Mr. Roberts, his father's

steward, to whose care he had entrusted Lady Bella in her retirement,

and acquainting him with part of his apprehensions with regard to Sir

George's attempts upon his cousin; he imparted to him his design of

staying concealed there, in order to discover more effectually those

attempts, and to preserve Lady Bella from any consequence of them.

Mr. Roberts approved of his design; and assured him of his vigilance

and care, both in concealing his stay, and also in giving him notice of

every thing that passed.

Mr. Glanville then wrote a short billet to Arabella, expressing his

grief for her displeasure, his departure in obedience to her orders,

and his resolution not to appear in her presence till he could give her

convincing proofs of his innocence.

This letter he sent by Roberts, which Arabella condescended to read,

but would return no answer.

Mr. Glanville then mounting his horse, which Roberts had ordered to be

got ready, rode away, and leaving him at a house he sometimes put up

at, returned on foot, and was let in by Mr. Roberts at the garden-door,

and conducted unseen to his chamber.

While he passed that night, and great part of the next day, meditating

on the treachery of Sir George, and soothing his uneasiness with the

hopes of revenge; Arabella, no less disquieted, mused on the infidelity

of her lover, the despair of Cynecia, and the impossibility of her ever

being happy. Then ransacking her memory for instances in her romances

of ladies equally unfortunate with herself, she would sometimes compare

herself to one lady, sometimes to another, adapting their sentiments,

and making use of their language in her complaints.

Great part of the day being spent in this manner, the uneasy

restlessness of her mind made her wish to see Cynecia again. She longed

to ask her a hundred questions about the unfaithful Ariamenes, which

the suddenness of her departure, and her own astonishment prevented her

from doing, when she made that fatal discovery, which had cost her so

much uneasiness.

Sometimes a faint hope would arise in her mind that Cynecia might be

mistaken, through the great resemblance that possibly was between

Ariamenes and Glanville.

She remembered that Mandana had been deceived by the likeness of Cyrus

to Spitridates; and concluded that illustrious prince inconstant,

because Spitridates, whom she took for Cyrus, saw her carried away

without offering to rescue her.

Dwelling with eagerness upon this thought, because it afforded her a

temporary relief from others more tormenting, she resolved to go to

the park, though she had but little hopes of finding Cynecia there;

supposing it but too probable that the disturbance which the sight, or

fancied sight, of Ariamenes had given her, would confine her for some

days to her chamber. Yet however small the probability was of meeting

with her, she could not resist the impatient desire she felt of going

to seek her.

Dispensing therefore with the attendance of any other servant but Lucy,

she left her apartment, with a design of resuming her usual walk, when

she was met, at her stepping out of the door, by Lady L----'s three

daughters (who had visited her during her residence at Richmond) and

another young lady.

These ladies, who to vary the scene of their rural diversions, were

going to cross over to Twickenham, and walk there, pressed Lady Bella

to accompany them. Our melancholy heroine refused them at first; but

upon their repeated importunity, recollecting that the princess of Gaul

had informed her she resided there, she consented to go, in hopes some

favourable chance might bring her in their way, or discover the place

of her retreat, when she could easily find some excuse for leaving her

companions, and going to her.

Mr. Roberts, who according to his instructions, narrowly watched

Arabella's motions, finding she did not command his attendance as

usual, resolved however to be privately of this party. He had but just

time to run up and acquaint Mr. Glanville, and then followed the ladies

at a distance, who taking boat, passed over to Twickenham, which he

also did as soon as he saw them landed.

Chapter VIII.

_Which acquaints the reader with two very extraordinary accidents._

Mr. Glanville, who did not doubt but Roberts would bring him some

intelligence, sat waiting with anxious impatience for his return. The

evening drew on apace, he numbered the hours, and began to grow uneasy

at Arabella's long stay. His chamber-window looking into the garden,

he thought he saw his cousin, covered with her veil as usual, hasten

down one of the walks. His heart leaped at this transient view: he

threw up the sash, and looking out, saw her very plainly strike into a

cross-walk, and a moment after saw Sir George, who came out of a little

summer-house, at her feet. Transported with rage at this sight, he

snatched up his sword, flew down the stairs into the garden, and came

running like a madman up the walk in which the lovers were. The lady

observing him first, for Sir George's back was towards him, shrieked

aloud, and not knowing what she did, ran towards the house, crying for

help, and came back as fast, yet not time enough to prevent mischief:

for Mr. Glanville, actuated by an irresistible fury, cried out to Sir

George to defend himself, who had but just time to draw his sword and

make an ineffectual pass at Mr. Glanville, when he received his into

his body, and fell to the ground.

Mr. Glanville losing his resentment insensibly, at the sight of his

rival's blood, threw down his sword, and endeavoured to support him;

while the lady, who had lost her veil in her running, and to the great

astonishment of Mr. Glanville, proved to be his sister, came up to

them, with tears and exclamations, blaming herself for all that had

happened. Mr. Glanville, with a heart throbbing with remorse for what

he had done, gazed on his sister with an accusing look, as she hung

over the wounded baronet with streaming eyes, sometimes wringing her

hands, then clasping them together in an agony of grief.

Sir George having strength enough left to observe her disorder, and the

generous concern of Glanville, who, holding him in his arms, entreated

his sister to send for proper assistance, Dear Charles, said he, you

are too kind, I have used you very ill, I have deserved my death from

your hand--You know not what I have been base enough to practise

against you----If I can but live to clear your innocence to Lady

Bella, and free you from the consequences of this action, I shall die

satisfied--

His strength failing him at these words, he fainted away in Mr.

Glanville's arms; who though now convinced of his treachery, was

extremely shocked at the condition he saw him in.

Miss Glanville renewing her tears and exclamations at this sight, he

was obliged to lay Sir George gently upon the ground, and ran to find

out somebody to send for a surgeon, and to help him to convey him into

the house.

In his way he was met by Mr. Roberts, who was coming to seek him; and

with a look of terror and confusion told him, Lady Bella was brought

home extremely ill--that her life had been in danger, and that she was

but just recovered from a terrible fainting fit.

Mr. Glanville, though greatly alarmed at this news, forgot not to take

all possible care of Sir George; directing Roberts to get some person

to carry him into the house, and giving him orders to procure proper

assistance, flew to Lady Bella's apartment.

Her women had just put her to bed, raving as in a strong delirium.

Mr. Glanville approached her, and finding she was in a violent fever,

dispatched a man and horse immediately to town, to get physicians, and

to acquaint his father with what had happened.

Mr. Roberts, upon the surgeon's report that Sir George was not mortally

wounded, came to inform him of this good news; but he found him

incapable of listening to him, and in agonies not to be expressed. It

was with difficulty they forced him out of Arabella's chamber into his

own; where throwing himself upon his bed, he refused to see or speak to

any body, till he was told Sir Charles and the physicians were arrived.

He then ran eagerly to hear their opinions of his beloved cousin, which

he soon discovered, by their significant gestures and half-pronounced

words, to be very bad. They comforted him however, with hopes that she

might recover; and insisting upon her being kept very quiet, obliged

him to quit the room. While all the necessary methods were taken to

abate the violence of the disease, Sir Charles, who had been informed

by his steward of his son's duel with Sir George, was amazed to the

last degree at two such terrible accidents.

Having seen his son to his chamber, and recommended him to be patient

and composed, he went to visit the young baronet; and was not a little

surprised to find his daughter sitting at his bed's head, with all the

appearance of a violent affliction.

Indeed Miss Glanville's cares were so wholly engrossed by Sir George,

that she hardly ever thought of her cousin Arabella, and had just

stepped into her chamber while the surgeons were dressing Sir George's

wound, and renewed her attendance upon him as soon as that was over.

Miss Glanville, however, thought proper to make some trifling excuses

to her father for her solicitude about Sir George. And the young

baronet, on whom the fear of death produced its usual effects, and

made him extremely concerned for the errors of his past life, and very

desirous of atoning for them, if possible, assured Sir Charles, that

if he lived he would offer himself to his acceptance for a son-in-law;

declaring that he had basely trifled with the esteem of his daughter,

but that she had wholly subdued him to herself by her forgiving

tenderness.

Sir Charles was very desirous of knowing the occasion of his quarrel

with his son, but Sir George was too weak to hold any further

conversation; upon which Sir Charles, after a short visit retired,

taking Miss Glanville along with him.

That the reader, whose imagination is no doubt upon the stretch to

conceive the meaning of these two extraordinary incidents, may be left

no longer in suspense, we think proper to explain them both in the

following chapter, that we may in the next pursue our history without

interruption.

Chapter IX.

_Which will be found to contain information absolutely necessary for

the right understanding of this history._

Our fair and afflicted heroine, accompanied by the ladies we have

mentioned, having crossed the river, pursued their walk upon its

winding banks, entertaining themselves with the usual topics of

conversation among young ladies, such as their winnings and losings at

brag, the prices of silks, the newest fashions, the best hair-cutter,

the scandal at the last assembly, &c.

Arabella was so disgusted with this (as she thought) insipid discourse,

which gave no relief to the anxiety of her mind, but added a kind of

fretfulness and impatience to her grief, that she resolved to quit

them, and with Lucy, go in quest of the princess of Gaul's retreat.

The ladies, however, insisted upon her not leaving them; and her excuse

that she was going in search of an unfortunate unknown, for whom she

had vowed a friendship, made them all immediately resolve to accompany

her, extremely diverted with the oddity of the design, and sacrificing

her to their mirth by sly leers, whispers, stifled laughs, and a

thousand little sprightly sallies, which the disconsolate Arabella took

no notice of, so deeply were her thoughts engaged.

Though she knew not which way to direct her steps, yet concluding

the melancholy Cynecia would certainly choose some very solitary

place for her residence, she rambled about among the least frequented

paths, followed by the young ladies, who ardently desired to see this

unfortunate unknown; though, at Arabella's earnest request, they

promised not to show themselves to the lady, who, she informed them,

for very urgent reasons, was obliged to keep herself concealed.

Fatiguing as this ramble was to the delicate spirits of Arabella's

companions, they were enabled to support it by the diversion her

behaviour afforded them.

Every peasant she met, she enquired if a beautiful lady disguised did

not dwell somewhere thereabout.

To some she gave a description of her person, to others an account

of the domestics that were with her; not forgetting her dress, her

melancholy, and the great care she took to keep herself concealed.

These strange enquiries, with the strange language in which they were

made, not a little surprised the good people to whom she addressed

herself; yet moved to respect by the majestic loveliness of her person,

they answered her in the negative, without any mixture of scoff and

impertinence.

How unfavourable is chance, said Arabella, fretting at the

disappointment, to persons who have any reliance upon it! This lady

that I have been in search of so long without success, may probably be

found by others who do not seek her, whose presence she may wish to

avoid, yet not be able.

The young ladies finding it grow late, expressed their apprehensions

at being without any attendants; and desired Arabella to give over

her search for that day. Arabella at this hint of danger, enquired

very earnestly, if they apprehended any attempts to carry them away?

And without staying for an answer, urged them to walk home as fast as

possible, apologizing for the danger into which she had so indiscreetly

drawn both them and herself; yet added her hopes, that, if any attempt

should be made upon their liberty, some generous cavalier would pass by

who would rescue them: a thing so common, that they had no reason to

despair of it.

Arabella, construing the silence with which her companions heard

these assurances into a doubt of their being so favoured by fortune,

proceeded to inform them of several instances wherein ladies met with

unexpected relief and deliverance from ravishers.

She mentioned particularly the rescue of Statira by her own brother,

whom she imagined for many years dead; that of the princess Berenice

by an absolute stranger; and many others, whose names, characters and

adventures she occasionally ran over; all which the young ladies heard

with inconceivable astonishment. And the detail had such an effect

upon Arabella's imagination, bewildered as it was in the follies of

romances, that espying three or four horsemen riding along the road

towards them, she immediately concluded they would be all seized and

carried off.

Possessed with this belief, she uttered a loud cry, and flew to the

water-side; which alarming the ladies, who could not imagine what was

the matter, they ran after her as fast as possible.

Arabella stopped when she came to the water-side, and looking round

about, and not perceiving any boat to waft them over to Richmond, a

thought suddenly darted into her mind, worthy those ingenious books

which gave it birth.

Turning therefore to the ladies, who all at once were enquiring the

cause of her fright--

It is now, my fair companions, said she, with a solemn accent, that the

Destinies have furnished you with an opportunity of displaying in a

manner truly heroic, the sublimity of your virtue, and the grandeur of

your courage to the world.

The action we have it in our power to perform will immortalize our

fame, and raise us to a pitch of glory equal to that of the renowned

Clelia herself.

Like her, we may expect statues erected to our honour; like her,

be proposed as patterns to heroines in ensuing ages; and like her,

perhaps, meet with sceptres and crowns for our reward.

What that beauteous Roman lady performed to preserve herself from

violation by the impious Sextus, let us imitate, to avoid the violence

our intended ravishers yonder come to offer us.

Fortune, which has thrown us into this exigence, presents us the means

of gloriously escaping; and the admiration and esteem of all ages to

come, will be the recompence of our noble daring.

Once more, my fair companions, if your honour be dear to you, if an

immortal glory be worth your seeking, follow the example I shall set

you, and equal with me the Roman Clelia.

Saying this, she plunged into the Thames, intending to swim over it, as

Clelia did the Tyber.

The young ladies, who had listened with silent astonishment at the

long speech she had made them, the purport of which not one of them

understood, screamed out aloud at this horrid spectacle, and wringing

their hands, ran backwards and forwards like distracted persons,

crying for help. Lucy tore her hair, and was in the utmost agony of

grief; when Mr. Roberts, who, as we have said before, kept them always

in sight, having observed Arabella running towards the water-side,

followed them as fast as he could, and came time enough up to see her

frantic action. Jumping into the river immediately after her, he caught

hold of her gown, and drew her after him to the shore. A boat that

instant appearing, he put her into it, senseless, and to all appearance

dead. He and Lucy supporting her, they were wafted over in a few

moments to the other side. Her house being near the river, Mr. Roberts

carried her in his arms to it; and as soon as he saw her show signs of

returning life, left her to the care of the women, who made haste to

put her into a warm bed, and ran to find out Mr. Glanville, as we have

related.

There remains now only to account for Sir George and Miss Glanville's

sudden appearance, which happened, gentle reader, exactly as follows.

Miss Glanville having set out pretty late in the afternoon, with a

design of staying all night at Richmond, as her chaise drove up Kew

Lane, saw one of her cousin's women, Deborah by name, talking to a

gentleman, whom, notwithstanding the disguise of a horseman's coat, and

a hat slouched over his face, she knew to be Sir George Bellmour.

This sight alarming her jealousy, and renewing all her former

suspicions that her cousin's charms rivalled hers in his heart, as soon

as she alighted, finding Arabella was not at home, she retired in great

anguish of mind to her chamber, revolving in her mind every particular

of Sir George's behaviour to her cousin in the country; and finding new

cause for suspicion in every thing she recollected, and reflecting upon

the disguise in which she saw him, and his conference with her woman,

she concluded herself had all along been the dupe of his artifice, and

her cousin the real object of his love.

This thought throwing her into an extremity of rage, all her tenderest

emotions were lost in the desire of revenge. She imagined to herself so

much pleasure from exposing his treachery, and putting it out of his

power to deny it, that she resolved, whatever it cost her, to have that

satisfaction.

Supposing therefore Deborah was now returned, she rung her bell, and

commanded her attendance on her in her chamber.

The stern brow with which she received her, frightened the girl,

conscious of her guilt, into a disposition to confess all, even before

she was taxed with any thing.

Miss Glanville saw her terror, and endeavoured to heighten it, by

entering at once into complaints and exclamations against her,

threatening to acquaint her father with her plots to betray her lady,

and assuring her of a very severe punishment for her treachery.

The girl, terrified extremely at these menaces, begged Miss Glanville,

with tears, to forgive her, and not to acquaint Sir Charles or her lady

with her fault; adding, that she would confess all, and never while she

lived, do such a thing again.

Miss Glanville would make her no promises, but urged her to confess:

upon which Deborah, sobbing, owned, that for the sake of the presents

Sir George had made her, she consented to meet him privately from time

to time, and give him an account of every thing that passed with regard

to her lady; not thinking there was any harm in it. That according to

his desires, she had constantly acquainted him with all her lady's

motions, when, and where she went, how she and Mr. Glanville agreed,

and a hundred other things which he enquired about. That that day

in particular, he had entreated her to procure him the means of an

interview with her lady, if possible; and understanding Mr. Glanville

was not at Richmond, she had let him privately into the garden, where

she hoped to prevail upon her lady to go.

What! said Miss Glanville, surprised, is Sir George waiting for my

cousin in the garden then?

Yes, indeed, madam, said Deborah: but I'll go and tell him to wait no

longer; and never speak to him again, if your ladyship will but be

pleased to forgive me.

Miss Glanville having taken her resolution, not only promised Deborah

her pardon, but also a reward, provided she would contrive it so, that

she might meet Sir George instead of her cousin.

The girl, having the true chambermaid spirit of intrigue in her,

immediately proposed her putting on one of her lady's veils; which as

it was now the close of the evening, would disguise her sufficiently;

to which Miss Glanville, transported with the thoughts of thus having

an opportunity of convincing Sir George of his perfidy, and reproaching

him for it, consented, and bid her bring it without being observed into

her chamber.

Deborah informing her, that Sir George was concealed in the

summer-house, as soon as she had equipped herself with Arabella's veil,

she went into the walk that led to it; and Sir George, believing her

to be that lady, hastened to throw himself at her feet, and had scarce

got through half a speech he had studied for the purpose, when Mr.

Glanville gave a fatal interruption to his heroics, in the manner we

have already related.

Chapter X.

_A short chapter indeed, but full of matter._

Richmond was now a scene of the utmost confusion and distress.

Arabella's fever was risen to such a height, that she was given over

by the physicians; and Sir George's wounds, though not judged mortal

at first, yet by the great effusion of blood had left him in so weak a

condition, that he was thought to be in great danger.

Sir Charles, almost distracted with the fears of the consequences of

Sir George's death, entreated his son to quit the kingdom; but Mr.

Glanville, protesting he would rather die than leave Arabella in that

illness, he was obliged to give bail for his appearance, in case Sir

George died: this affair, notwithstanding all endeavours to prevent it,

having made a great noise.

Poor Sir Charles, oppressed as he was with the weight of all these

calamities, was yet obliged to labour incessantly to keep up the

spirits of his son and daughter. The settled despair of the one,

and the silent swelling grief of the other, cut him to the heart.

He omitted no arguments his paternal affection suggested to him, to

moderate their affliction. Mr. Glanville often endeavoured to assume

a composure he was very far from feeling, in order to satisfy his

father. But Miss Glanville, looking upon herself to be the cause of Sir

George's misfortune, declared she should be miserable all her life, if

he died.

Arabella in her lucid intervals, being sensible of her danger, prepared

for death, with great piety and constancy of mind, having solemnly

assured Mr. Glanville of her forgiveness, who would not at that time

enter into an explanation of the affair which had given her offence,

for fear of perplexing her. She permitted his presence often in her

chamber, and desired with great earnestness the assistance of some

worthy divine in her preparations for death. The pious and learned

doctor ----, at Sir Charles's intimation of his niece's desire, came

constantly twice a day to attend her. Her fever, by a favourable

crisis, and the great skill of her physicians, left her in a fortnight;

but this violent distemper had made such a ravage in her delicate

constitution, and reduced her so low, that there seemed very little

probability of her recovery. Doctor ----, in whom her unfeigned

piety, her uncommon firmness of mind, had created a great esteem and

tenderness for her, took all opportunities of comforting, exhorting,

and praying by her. The occasion of her illness being the subject of

every body's conversation at Richmond, he gently hinted it to her, and

urged her to explain her reasons for so extravagant an action.

In the divine frame Arabella was then in, this action appeared to

her rash and vain-glorious, and she acknowledged it to be so to her

pious monitor: yet she related the motives which induced her to

it, the danger she was in of being carried away, the parity of her

circumstances then with Clelia, and her emulous desire of doing as much

to preserve her honour as that renowned Roman lady did for hers.

The good doctor was extremely surprised at this discourse: he was

beginning to think her again delirious; but Arabella added to this

account such sensible reasoning on the nature of that fondness for

fame, which prompted her to so rash an undertaking, that the doctor

left her in strange embarrassment, not knowing how to account for a

mind at once so enlightened, and so ridiculous.

Mr. Glanville meeting him as he came out of her chamber, the doctor

took this opportunity to acknowledge the difficulties Arabella's

inconsistent discourse had thrown him into. Mr. Glanville taking

him into his own apartment, explained the nature of that seeming

inconsistency, and expatiated at large upon the disorders romances had

occasioned in her imagination; several instances of which he recounted,

and filled the doctor with the greatest astonishment and concern. He

lamented pathetically the ruin such a ridiculous study had brought on

so noble a mind; and assured Mr. Glanville he would spare no endeavours

to rescue it from so shocking a delusion.

Mr. Glanville thanked him for his good design, with a transport which

his fears of his cousin's danger almost mingled with tears; and the

doctor and he agreed to expect for some few days longer an alteration

for the better in the health of her body, before he attempted the cure

of her mind. Mr. Glanville's extreme anxiety had made him in appearance

neglect the repentant Sir George, contenting himself with constantly

sending twice a day to enquire after his health, but had not yet

visited him.

No sooner had the physicians declared that Arabella was no longer in

danger, than his mind being freed from that tormenting load of suspense

under which it had laboured while her recovery was yet doubtful, he

went to Sir George's chamber, who by reason of his weakness, though he

was also upon the recovery, still kept his bed.

Sir George, though he ardently wished to see him, yet conscious of

the injuries he had both done and designed him, could not receive his

visit without extreme confusion: but entering into the cause of their

quarrel, as soon as he was able to speak, he freely acknowledged his

fault, and all the steps he had taken to supplant him in Arabella's

affection.

Mr. Glanville understanding by this means, that he had bribed a young

actress to personate a princess forsaken by him; and had taught her

all that heap of absurdity with which she had imposed upon Arabella,

as has been related, desired only by way of reparation, that when

his cousin was in a condition to be spoken to upon that subject, he

would condescend to own the fraud to her; which Sir George faithfully

promising, an act of oblivion passed on Mr. Glanville's side for all

former injuries, and a solemn assurance from Sir George of inviolable

friendship for the future. An assurance, however, which Mr. Glanville

would willingly have dispensed with: for though not of a vindictive

temper, it was one of his maxims, that a man who had once betrayed him,

it would be an error in policy ever to trust again.

Chapter XI.

_Being, in the author's opinion, the best chapter in this history._

The good divine, who had the cure of Arabella's mind greatly at heart,

no sooner perceived that the health of her body was almost restored,

and that he might talk to her without the fear of any inconvenience,

than he introduced the subject of her throwing herself into the river,

which he had before lightly touched upon, and still declared himself

dissatisfied with.

Arabella, now more disposed to defend this point than when languishing

under the pressure of pain and dejection of mind, endeavoured by

arguments founded upon romantic heroism, to prove, that it was not

only reasonable and just, but also great and glorious, and exactly

conformable to the rules of heroic virtue.

The doctor listened to her with a mixed emotion, between pity,

reverence, and amazement: and though in the performance of his

office he had been accustomed to accommodate his notions to every

understanding, and had therefore accumulated a great variety of topics

and illustrations; yet he found himself now engaged in a controversy

for which he was not so well prepared as he imagined, and was at a loss

for some leading principle, by which he might introduce his reasonings,

and begin his confutation.

Though he saw much to praise in her discourse, he was afraid of

confirming her obstinacy by commendation: and though he also found much

to blame, he dreaded to give pain to a delicacy he revered.

Perceiving however, that Arabella was silent, as if expecting his

reply, he resolved not to bring upon himself the guilt of abandoning

her to her mistake, and the necessity of speaking forced him to find

something to say.

Though it is not easy, madam, said he, for any one that has the honour

of conversing with your ladyship to preserve his attention free to any

other idea than such as your discourse tends immediately to impress,

yet I have not been able while you was speaking, to refrain from some

very mortifying reflections on the imperfection of all human happiness,

and the uncertain consequences of all those advantages which we think

ourselves not only at liberty to desire, but obliged to cultivate.

Though I have known some dangers and distresses, replied Arabella

gravely, yet I did not imagine myself such a mirror of calamity as

could not be seen without concern. If my life has not been eminently

fortunate, it has yet escaped the great evils of persecution,

captivity, shipwrecks and dangers to which many ladies, far more

illustrious both by birth and merit than myself, have been exposed.

And indeed though I have sometimes raised envy, or possibly incurred

hatred, yet I have no reason to believe I was ever beheld with pity

before.

The doctor saw he had not introduced his discourse in the most

acceptable manner; but it was too late to repent.

Let me not, madam, said he, be censured before I have fully explained

my sentiments.

That you have been envied I can readily believe: for who that gives

way to natural passions has not reason to envy the Lady Arabella? But

that you have been hated, I am indeed less willing to think, though I

know how easily the greater part of mankind hate those by whom they are

excelled.

If the misery of my condition, replied Arabella, has been able to

excite that melancholy your first words seemed to imply, flattery will

contribute very little towards the improvement of it. Nor do I expect

from the severity of the sacerdotal character, any of those praises,

which I hear perhaps with too much pleasure, from the rest of the world.

Having been so lately on the brink of that state, in which all

distinctions but that of goodness are destroyed, I have not recovered

so much levity but that I would yet rather hear instructions than

compliments.

If therefore you have observed in me any dangerous tenets, corrupt

passions, or criminal desires, I conjure you discover me to myself.

Let no false civility restrain your admonitions. Let me know this evil

which can strike a good man with horror, and which I dread the more, as

I do not feel it.

I cannot suppose that a man of your order would be alarmed at any other

misery than guilt: nor will I think so meanly of him whose direction

I have entreated, as to imagine he can think virtue unhappy, however

overwhelmed by disasters or oppression.

Keep me therefore no longer in suspense: I expect you will exert the

authority of your function, and I promise you on my part, sincerity and

submission.

The good man was now completely embarrassed; he saw his meaning

mistaken, but was afraid to explain it, lest he should seem to pay

court by a cowardly retraction: he therefore paused a little, and

Arabella supposed he was studying for such expressions as might convey

censure without offence.

Sir, said she, if you are not yet satisfied of my willingness to hear

your reproofs, let me evince my docility, by entreating you to consider

yourself as dispensed from all ceremony upon this occasion.

Your imaginations, madam, replied the doctor, are too quick for

language; you conjecture too soon what you do not wait to hear, and

reason upon suppositions which cannot be allowed you.

When I mentioned my reflections upon human misery, I was far from

concluding your ladyship miserable, compared with the rest of mankind;

and though contemplating the abstracted idea of possible felicity, I

thought that even you might be produced as an instance that it is not

attainable in this world, I did not impute the imperfection of your

state to wickedness, but intended to observe, that though even virtue

be added to external advantages, there will yet be something wanting to

happiness.

Whoever sees you, madam, will immediately say, that nothing can hinder

you from being the happiest of mortals, but want of power to understand

your own advantages. And whoever is admitted to your conversation,

will be convinced that you enjoy all that intellectual excellence

can confer; yet I see you harassed with innumerable terrors and

perplexities, which never disturb the peace of poverty or ignorance.

I cannot discover, said Arabella, how poverty or ignorance can be

privileged from casualty or violence; from the ravisher, the robber,

or the enemy. I should hope rather that if wealth and knowledge can

give nothing else, they at least confer judgment to foresee danger, and

power to oppose it.

They are not indeed, returned the doctor, secured against real

misfortunes, but they are happily defended from wild imaginations: they

do not suspect what cannot happen, nor figure ravishers at a distance,

and leap into rivers to escape them.

Do you suppose then, said Arabella, that I was frighted without cause?

It is certain, madam, replied he, that no injury was intended you.

Disingenuity, sir, said Arabella, does not become a clergyman--I

think too well of your understanding to imagine your fallacy deceives

yourself: why then should you hope that it will deceive me?

The laws of conference require that the terms of the question and

answer be the same.

I ask, if I had not cause to be frighted? Why then am I answered, that

no injury was intended?

Human beings cannot penetrate intentions, nor regulate their conduct

but by exterior appearances. And surely there was sufficient appearance

of intended injury, and that the greatest which my sex can suffer.

Why, madam, said the doctor, should you still persist in so wild an

assertion?

A coarse epithet, said Arabella, is no confutation. It rests upon

you to show, that in giving way to my fears, even supposing them

groundless, I departed from the character of a reasonable person.

I am afraid, replied the doctor, of a dispute with your ladyship;

not because I think myself in danger of defeat, but because being

accustomed to speak to scholars with scholastic ruggedness, I may

perhaps depart, in the heat of argument, from that respect to which you

have so great a right, and give offence to a person I am really afraid

to displease.

But if you will promise to excuse my ardour, I will endeavour to prove

that you have been frighted without reason.

I should be content, replied Arabella, to obtain truth upon harder

terms, and therefore entreat you to begin.

The apprehension of any future evil, madam, said the divine, which is

called terror, when the danger is from natural causes, and suspicion,

when it proceeds from a moral agent, must always arise from comparison.

We can judge of the future only by the past, and have therefore only

reason to fear or suspect, when we see the same causes in motion which

have formerly produced mischief, or the same measures taken as have

before been preparatory to a crime.

Thus, when the sailor in certain latitudes sees the clouds rise,

experience bids him expect a storm. When any monarch levies armies, his

neighbours prepare to repel an invasion.

This power of prognostication, may, by reading and conversation, be

extended beyond our own knowledge: and the great use of books, is that

of participating, without labour or hazard, the experience of others.

But upon this principle how can you find any reason for your late

fright?

Has it ever been known that a lady of your rank was attacked with such

intentions, in a place so public, without any preparations made by the

violator for defence or escape?

Can it be imagined that any man would so rashly expose himself to

infamy by failure, and to the gibbet by success?

Does there in the records of the world appear a single instance of such

hopeless villainy?

It is now time, sir, said Arabella, to answer your questions, before

they are too many to be remembered.

The dignity of my birth can very little defend me against an insult

to which the heiresses of great and powerful empires, the daughters

of valiant princes, and the wives of renowned monarchs, have been a

thousand times exposed.

The danger which you think so great, would hardly repel a determined

mind; for in effect, who would have attempted my rescue, seeing that no

knight or valiant cavalier was within view?

What then should have hindered him from placing me in a chariot?

Driving it into the pathless desert? And immuring me in a castle, among

woods and mountains? Or hiding me perhaps in the caverns of a rock? Or

confining me in some island of an immense lake?

From all this, madam, interrupted the clergyman, he is hindered by

impossibility.

He cannot carry you to any of these dreadful places, because there is

no such castle, desert, cavern, or lake.

You will pardon me, sir, said Arabella, if I recur to your own

principles:

You allow that experience may be gained by books: and certainly there

is no part of knowledge in which we are obliged to trust them more than

in descriptive geography.

The most restless activity in the longest life can survey but a small

part of the habitable globe: and the rest can only be known from the

report of others.

Universal negatives are seldom safe, and are least to be allowed when

the disputes are about objects of sense; where one position cannot be

inferred from another.

That there is a castle, any man who has seen it may safely affirm.

But you cannot, with equal reason, maintain that there is no castle,

because you have not seen it.

Why should I imagine that the face of the earth is altered since the

time of those heroines, who experienced so many changes of uncouth

captivity?

Castles, indeed, are the works of art; and are therefore subject to

decay. But lakes, and caverns, and deserts, must always remain.

And why, since you call for instances, should I not dread the

misfortunes which happened to the divine Clelia, who was carried to one

of the isles of the Thrasymenian lake?

Or those which befell the beautiful Candace, queen of Ethiopia, whom

the pirate Zenodorus wandered with on the seas?

Or the accidents which embittered the life of the incomparable

Cleopatra?

Or the persecutions which made that of the fair Elisa miserable?

Or, in fine, the various distresses of many other fair and virtuous

princesses: such as those which happened to Olympia, Bellamira,

Parisatis, Berenice, Amalazontha, Agione, Albysinda, Placidia, Arsinoe,

Deidamia, and a thousand others I could mention.

To the names of many of these illustrious sufferers I am an absolute

stranger, replied the doctor.

The rest I faintly remember some mention of in those contemptible

volumes with which children are sometimes injudiciously suffered to

amuse their imaginations; but which I little expected to hear quoted by

your ladyship in a serious discourse.

And though I am very far from catching occasions of resentment, yet I

think myself at liberty to observe, that if I merited your censure for

one indelicate epithet, we have engaged on very unequal terms, if I may

not likewise complain of such contemptuous ridicule as you are pleased

to exercise upon my opinions by opposing them with the authority of

scribblers, not only of fictions, but of senseless fictions; which at

once vitiate the mind and pervert the understanding; and which if they

are at any time read with safety, owe their innocence only to their

absurdity.

From these books, sir, said Arabella, which you condemn with so much

ardour, though you acknowledge yourself little acquainted with them, I

have learnt not to recede from the conditions I have granted, and shall

not therefore censure the licence of your language, which glances from

the books upon the readers.

These books, sir, thus corrupt, thus absurd, thus dangerous alike to

the intellect and morals, I have read; and that I hope without injury

to my judgment, or my virtue.

The doctor, whose vehemence had hindered him from discovering all the

consequences of his position, now found himself entangled, and replied

in a submissive tone--

I confess, madam, my words imply an accusation very remote from my

intention.

It has always been the rule of my life, not to justify any words or

actions because they are mine.

I am ashamed of my negligence, I am sorry for my warmth, and entreat

your ladyship to pardon a fault which I hope never to repeat.

The reparation, sir, said Arabella smiling, over-balances the offence,

and by thus daring to own you have been in the wrong, you have raised

in me a much higher esteem for you.

Yet I will not pardon you, added she, without enjoining you a penance

for the fault you own you have committed; and this penance shall be to

prove--

First, that these histories you condemn are fictions.

Next, that they are absurd.

And lastly, that they are criminal.

The doctor was pleased to find a reconciliation offered upon so very

easy terms, with a person whom he beheld at once with reverence and

affection, and could not offend without extreme regret.

He therefore answered with a very cheerful composure:

To prove those narratives to be fictions, madam, is only difficult,

because the position is almost too evident for proof.

Your ladyship knows, I suppose, to what authors these writings are

ascribed?

To the French wits of the last century, said Arabella.

And at what distance, madam, are the facts related in them from the age

of the writer?

I was never exact in my computation, replied Arabella; but I think most

of the events happened about two thousand years ago.

How then, madam, resumed the doctor, could these events be so minutely

known to writers so far remote from the time in which they happened?

By records, monuments, memoirs, and histories, answered the lady.

But by what accident, then, said the doctor smiling, did it happen

these records and monuments were kept universally secret to mankind

till the last century?

What brought all the memoirs of the remotest nations and earliest ages

only to France?

Where were they hidden that none could consult them but a few obscure

authors?

And whither are they now vanished again that they can be found no more?

Arabella having sat silent a while, told him, that she found his

questions very difficult to be answered; and that though perhaps

the authors themselves could have told whence they borrowed their

materials, she should not at present require any other evidence of the

first assertion:

But allowed him to suppose them fictions, and required now that he

should show them to be absurd.

Your ladyship, returned he, has, I find, too much understanding to

struggle against demonstration, and too much veracity to deny your

convictions: therefore some of the arguments by which I intended to

show the falsehood of these narratives may be now used to prove their

absurdity.

You grant them, madam, to be fictions?

Sir, interrupted Arabella eagerly, you are again infringing the laws of

disputation.

You are not to confound a supposition of which I allow you only the

present use, with an unlimited and irrevocable concession.

I am too well acquainted with my own weakness to conclude an opinion

false, merely because I find myself unable to defend it.

But I am in haste to hear the proof of the other positions, not only

because they may perhaps supply what is deficient in your evidence

of the first, but because I think it of more importance to detect

corruption than fiction.

Though indeed falsehood is a species of corruption, and what falsehood

is more hateful than the falsehood of history?

Since you have drawn me back, madam, to the first question, returned

the doctor, let me know what arguments your ladyship can produce for

the veracity of these books.

That there are many objections against it, you yourself have allowed,

and the highest moral evidence of falsehood appears when there are many

arguments against an assertion, and none for it.

Sir, replied Arabella, I shall never think that any narrative, which is

not confuted by its own absurdity, is without one argument at least on

its side. There is a love of truth in the human mind, if not naturally

implanted, so easily obtained from reason and experience, that I should

expect it universally to prevail where there is no strong temptation to

deceit; we hate to be deceived, we therefore hate those that deceive

us; we desire not to be hated, and therefore know that we are not to

deceive. Show me an equal motive to falsehood, or confess that every

relation has some right to credit.

This may be allowed, madam, said the doctor, when we claim to be

credited; but that seems not to be the hope or intention of these

writers.

Surely, sir, replied Arabella, you must mistake their design; he

that writes without intention to be credited, must write to little

purpose; for what pleasure or advantage can arise from facts that never

happened? What examples can be afforded by the patience of those who

never suffered, or the chastity of those who were never solicited? The

great end of history is to show how much human nature can endure or

perform. When we hear a story in common life that raises our wonder or

compassion, the first confutation stills our emotions; and however we

were touched before, we then chase it from the memory with contempt as

a trifle, or with indignation as an imposture. Prove, therefore, that

the books which I have hitherto read as copies of life, and models of

conduct, are empty fictions, and from this hour I deliver them to moths

and mould; and from this time consider their authors as wretches who

cheated me of those hours I ought to have dedicated to application and

improvement, and betrayed me to a waste of those years in which I might

have laid up knowledge for my future life.

Shakespeare, said the doctor, calls just resentment the child of

integrity; and therefore I do not wonder, that what vehemence the

gentleness of your ladyship's temper allows should be exerted upon

this occasion. Yet though I cannot forgive these authors for having

destroyed so much valuable time, yet I cannot think them intentionally

culpable, because I cannot believe they expected to be credited.

Truth is not always injured by fiction. An admirable writer[1] of our

own time, has found the way to convey the most solid instructions,

the noblest sentiments, and the most exalted piety, in the pleasing

dress of a novel[2], and, to use the words of the greatest genius[3]

in the present age, "has taught the passions to move at the command

of virtue." The fables of Æsop, though never I suppose believed, yet

have been long considered as lectures of moral and domestic wisdom,

so well adapted to the faculties of man that they have been received

by all civilized nations; and the Arabs themselves have honoured his

translator with the appellation of Locman the Wise.

The fables of Æsop, said Arabella, are among those of which the

absurdity discovers itself, and the truth is comprised in the

application; but what can be said of those tales which are told with

the solemn air of historical truth, and if false convey no instruction?

That they cannot be defended, madam, said the doctor, it is my purpose

to prove; and if to evince their falsehood be sufficient to procure

their banishment from your ladyship's closet, their day of grace

is near an end. How is any oral, or written testimony, confuted or

confirmed?

By comparing it, says the lady, with the testimony of others, or with

the natural effects, and standing evidence of the facts related, and

sometimes by comparing it with itself.

If then your ladyship will abide by this last, returned he, and compare

these books with ancient histories, you will not only find innumerable

names, of which no mention was ever made before, but persons who lived

in different ages, engaged as the friends or rivals of each other.

You will perceive that your authors have parcelled out the world at

discretion, erected palaces, and established monarchies wherever the

conveniency of their narrative required them, and set kings and queens

over imaginary nations. Nor have they considered themselves as invested

with less authority over the works of nature, than the institutions

of men; for they have distributed mountains and deserts, gulphs and

rocks, wherever they wanted them; and whenever the course of their

story required an expedient, raised a gloomy forest, or overflowed the

regions with a rapid stream.

I suppose, said Arabella, you have no intention to deceive me; and

since, if what you have asserted be true, the cause is undefensible,

I shall trouble you no longer to argue on this topic, but desire now

to hear why, supposing them fictions, and intended to be received as

fictions, you censure them as absurd?

The only excellence of falsehood, answered he, is its resemblance to

truth; as therefore any narrative is more liable to be confuted by

its inconsistency with known facts, it is at a greater distance from

the perfection of fiction; for there can be no difficulty in framing

a tale, if we are left at liberty to invert all history and nature

for our own conveniency. When a crime is to be concealed, it is easy

to cover it with an imaginary wood. When virtue is to be rewarded, a

nation with a new name may, without any expense of invention, raise

her to the throne. When Ariosto was told of the magnificence of his

palaces, he answered, that the cost of poetical architecture was very

little; and still less is the cost of building without art, than

without materials. But their historical failures may be easily passed

over, when we consider their physical or philosophical absurdities; to

bring men together from different countries does not shock with every

inherent or demonstrable absurdity, and therefore when we read only

for amusement, such improprieties may be borne: but who can forbear to

throw away the story that gives to one man the strength of thousands;

that puts life or death in a smile or a frown; that recounts labours

and sufferings to which the powers of humanity are utterly unequal;

that disfigures the whole appearance of the world, and represents

every thing in a form different from that which experience has shown?

It is the fault of the best fictions, that they teach young minds

to expect strange adventures and sudden vicissitudes, and therefore

encourage them often to trust to chance. A long life may be passed

without a single occurrence that can cause much surprise, or produce

any unexpected consequence of great importance; the order of the world

is so established, that all human affairs proceed in a regular method,

and very little opportunity is left for sallies or hazards, for assault

or rescue; but the brave and the coward, the sprightly and the dull,

suffer themselves to be carried alike down the stream of custom.

Arabella, who had for some time listened with a wish to interrupt him,

now took advantage of a short pause. I cannot imagine, sir, said she,

that you intend to deceive me, and therefore I am inclined to believe

that you are yourself mistaken, and that your application to learning

has hindered you from that acquaintance with the world in which these

authors excelled. I have not long conversed in public, yet I have found

that life is subject to many accidents. Do you count my late escape for

nothing? Is it to be numbered among daily and cursory transactions,

that a woman flies from a ravisher into a rapid stream?

You must not, madam, said the doctor, urge as an argument the fact

which is at present the subject of dispute.

Arabella blushing at the absurdity she had been guilty of, and not

attempting any subterfuge or excuse, the doctor found himself at

liberty to proceed:

You must not imagine, madam, continued he, that I intend to arrogate

any superiority, when I observe that your ladyship must suffer me

to decide, in some measure authoritatively, whether life is truly

described in those books; the likeness of a picture can only be

determined by a knowledge of the original. You have yet had little

opportunity of knowing the ways of mankind, which cannot be learned

but from experience, and of which the highest understanding, and the

lowest, must enter the world in equal ignorance. I have lived long in

a public character, and have thought it my duty to study those whom

I have undertaken to admonish or instruct. I have never been so rich

as to affright men into disguise and concealment, nor so poor as to

be kept at a distance too great for accurate observation. I therefore

presume to tell your ladyship, with great confidence, that your

writers have instituted a world of their own, and that nothing is more

different from a human being, than heroes or heroines.

I am afraid, sir, said Arabella, that the difference is not in favour

of the present world.

That, madam, answered he, your own penetration will enable you to judge

when it shall have made you equally acquainted with both: I have no

desire to determine a question, the solution of which will give so

little pleasure to purity and benevolence.

The silence of a man who loves to praise is a censure sufficiently

severe, said the lady. May it never happen that you should be unwilling

to mention the name of Arabella. I hope wherever corruption prevails

in the world, to live in it with virtue; or, if I find myself too much

endangered, to retire from it with innocence. But if you can say so

little in commendation of mankind, how will you prove these histories

to be vicious, which, if they do not describe real life, give us an

idea of a better race of beings than now inhabit the world.

It is of little importance, madam, replied the doctor, to decide

whether in the real or fictitious life most wickedness is to be found.

Books ought to supply an antidote to example, and if we retire to a

contemplation of crimes, and continue in our closets to inflame our

passions, at what time must we rectify our words, or purify our hearts?

The immediate tendency of these books, which your ladyship must allow

me to mention with some severity, is to give new fire to the passions

of revenge and love; two passions which, even without such powerful

auxiliaries, it is one of the severest labours of reason and piety to

suppress, and which yet must be suppressed if we hope to be approved in

the sight of the only Being, whose approbation can make us happy. I am

afraid your ladyship will think me too serious.

I have already learned too much from you, said Arabella, to presume

to instruct you, yet suffer me to caution you never to dishonour your

sacred office by the lowliness of apologies.

Then let me again observe, resumed he, that these books soften the

heart to love, and harden it to murder. That they teach women to

exact vengeance, and men to execute it; teach women to expect not

only worship, but the dreadful worship of human sacrifices. Every

page of these volumes is filled with such extravagance of praise,

and expressions of obedience, as one human being ought not to hear

from another; or with accounts of battles, in which thousands are

slaughtered for no other purpose than to gain a smile from the haughty

beauty, who sits a calm spectatress of the ruin and desolation,

bloodshed and misery, incited by herself.

It is impossible to read these tales without lessening part of that

humility, which by preserving in us a sense of our alliance with all

human nature, keeps us awake to tenderness and sympathy, or without

impairing that compassion which is implanted in us as an incentive

to acts of kindness. If there be any preserved by natural softness,

or early education, from learning pride and cruelty, they are yet in

danger of being betrayed to the vanity of beauty, and taught the arts

of intrigue.

Love, madam, is, you know, the business, the sole business of ladies

in romances. Arabella's blushes now hindered him from proceeding as he

had intended. I perceive, continued he, that my arguments begin to be

less agreeable to your ladyship's delicacy: I shall therefore insist

no longer upon false tenderness of sentiment, but proceed to those

outrages of the violent passions which, though not more dangerous, are

more generally hateful.

It is not necessary, sir, interrupted Arabella, that you strengthen

by any new proof a position which when calmly considered cannot be

denied. My heart yields to the force of truth; and I now wonder how

the blaze of enthusiastic bravery could hinder me from remarking, with

abhorrence, the crime of deliberate unnecessary bloodshed.

I begin to perceive that I have hitherto at least trifled away my

time, and fear that I have already made some approaches to the crime

of encouraging violence and revenge. I hope, madam, said the good

man with horror in his looks, that no life was ever lost by your

incitement. Arabella seeing him thus moved, burst into tears, and could

not immediately answer. Is it possible, cried the doctor, that such

gentleness and elegance should be stained with blood? Be not too hasty

in your censure, said Arabella, recovering herself: I tremble indeed to

think how nearly I have approached the brink of murder, when I thought

myself only consulting my own glory; but whatever I suffer, I will

never more demand or instigate vengeance, nor consider my punctilios as

important enough to be balanced against life.

The doctor confirmed her in her new resolutions, and thinking solitude

was necessary to compose her spirits after the fatigue of so long a

conversation, he retired to acquaint Mr Glanville with his success;

who in the transport of his joy was almost ready to throw himself at

his feet, to thank him for the miracle, as he called it, that he had

performed.

[1] Richardson.

[2] Clarissa.

[3] The author of the Rambler.

Chapter XII.

_In which the history is concluded._

Mr. Glanville, who fancied to himself the most ravishing delight from

conversing with his lovely cousin, now recovered to the free use of all

her noble powers of reason, would have paid her a visit that afternoon,

had not a moment's reflection convinced him that now was the time, when

her mind was labouring under the force of conviction, to introduce the

repentant Sir George to her; who, by confessing the ridiculous farce

he had invented to deceive her, might restore him to her good opinion,

and add to the doctor's solid arguments the poignant sting of ridicule

which she would then perceive she had incurred.

Sir George being now able to leave his chamber, and Arabella well

enough recovered to admit a visit in hers, Mr. Glanville entreated his

father to wait on her, and get permission for Sir George to attend her

upon a business of some consequence. Sir Charles no sooner mentioned

this request, than Arabella after a little hesitation complied with

it. As she had been kept a stranger to all the particulars of Mr.

Glanville's quarrels with the young baronet, her thoughts were a little

perplexed concerning the occasion of this visit, and her embarrassment

was considerably increased by the confusion which she perceived in

the countenance of Sir George. It was not without some tokens of a

painfully suppressed reluctance that Sir George consented to perform

his promise, when Mr. Glanville claimed it; but the disadvantages

that would attend his breach of it, dejected and humbled as he now

was, presenting themselves in a forcible manner to his imagination,

confirmed his wavering resolutions. And since he found himself obliged

to be his own accuser, he endeavoured to do it with the best grace he

could. Acknowledging therefore to Lady Bella all the artifices her

deception by romances had given him encouragement to use upon her, and

explaining very explicitly the last with relation to the pretended

princess of Gaul, he submissively asked her pardon for the offence it

would now give her, as well as for the trouble it had formerly.

Arabella, struck with inconceivable confusion, having only bowed her

head to his apology, desired to be left alone, and continued for

near two hours afterwards wholly absorbed in the most disagreeable

reflections on the absurdity of her past behaviour, and the contempt

and ridicule to which she now saw plainly she had exposed herself. The

violence of these first emotions having at length subsided, she sent

for Sir Charles and Mr. Glanville; and having with a noble ingenuity

expatiated upon the follies her vitiated judgment had led her into, she

apologized to the first, for the frequent causes she had given him of

uneasiness; and, turning to Mr. Glanville, whom she beheld with a look

of mingled tenderness and modesty, To give you myself, said she, with

all my remaining imperfections, is making you but a poor present in

return for the obligations your generous affection has laid me under to

you; yet since I am so happy as to be desired for a partner for life

by a man of your sense and honour, I will endeavour to make myself as

worthy as I am able of such a favourable distinction.

Mr. Glanville kissed the hand she gave him with an emphatic silence;

while Sir Charles, in the most obliging manner imaginable, thanked her

for the honour she conferred both on himself and son by this alliance.

Sir George, entangled in his own artifices, saw himself under a

necessity of confirming the promises he had made to Miss Glanville

during his fit of penitence, and was accordingly married to that young

lady, at the same time that Mr. Glanville and Arabella were united.

We choose, reader, to express this circumstance, though the same, in

different words, as well to avoid repetition as to intimate that the

first-mentioned pair were indeed only married in the common acceptation

of the word: that is, they were privileged to join fortunes, equipages,

titles, and expense; while Mr. Glanville and Arabella were united, as

well in these, as in every virtue and laudable affection of the mind.

FINIS.