With respect to that attachment of which you speak with so much just

severity, she has given me the strongest assurances that she will do

every thing in her power to conquer it. Absence, you know, is the first

and the most difficult step, and this she has taken. Her course of

reading displeases you: I cannot defend it: but I am persuaded that it

is not a proof of her taste being vitiated. Many people read ordinary

novels as others take snuff, merely from habit, from the want of petty

excitation; and not, as you suppose, from the want of exorbitant or

improper stimulus. Those who are unhappy have recourse to any trifling

amusement that can change the course of their thoughts. I do not justify

Olivia for having chosen such _comforters_ as certain novels, but I pity

her, and impute this choice to want of fortitude, not to depravity of

taste. Before she married, a strict injunction was laid upon her not to

read any book that was called a novel: this raised in her mind a sort

of perverse curiosity. By making any books or opinions contraband,

the desire to read and circulate them is increased; bad principles are

consequently smuggled into families, and being kept secret, can never

be subject to fair examination. I think it must be advantageous to the

right side of any question, that all which can be said against it should

be openly heard, that it may be answered. I do not

“Hate when vice can bolt her arguments;”

for I know that virtue has a tongue to answer her. The more vice repeats

her assertions, the better; because when familiarized, their boldness

will not astound the understanding, and the charm of novelty will not be

mistaken for the power of truth. We may observe, that the admiration

for the class of writers to whom you allude, though violent in its

commencement, has abated since they have been more known; and numbers,

who began with rapture, have ended with disgust. Persons of vivacious

imaginations, like Olivia, may be caught at first view by whatever has

the appearance of grandeur or sublimity; but if time be allowed for

examination, they will infallibly detect the disproportions, and these

will ever afterwards shock their taste: if you will not allow leisure

for comparison--if you say, do not look at such strange objects,

the obedient eyes may turn aside, but the rebel imagination pictures

something a thousand times more wonderful and charming than the reality.

I will venture to predict, that Olivia will soon be tired of the species

of novels which she now admires, and that, once surfeited with these

books, and convinced of their pernicious effects, she will never relapse

into the practice of novel reading.

As to her taste for metaphysical books--Dear mother, I am very daring to

differ with you in so many points; but permit me to say, that I do not

agree with you in detesting metaphysics. People may lose themselves in

that labyrinth; but why should they meet with vice in the midst of it?

The characters of a moralist, a practical moralist, and a metaphysician,

are not incompatible, as we may see in many amiable and illustrious

examples. To examine human motives, and the nature of the human mind,

is not to destroy the power of virtue, or to increase the influence

of vice. The chemist, after analyzing certain substances, and after

discovering their constituent parts, can lay aside all that is

heterogeneous, and recompound the substance in a purer state. From

analogy we might infer, that the motives of metaphysicians ought to

be purer than those of the vulgar and ignorant. To discover the art of

converting base into noble passions, or to obtain a universal remedy for

all mental diseases, is perhaps beyond the power of metaphysicians; but

in the pursuit, useful discoveries may be made.

As to Olivia’s letters--I am sorry I sent them to you; for I see that

they have lowered, instead of raising her in your opinion. But if you

criticise letters, written in openness and confidence of heart to a

private friend, as if they were set before the tribunal of the public,

you are--may I say it?--not only severe, but unjust; for you try and

condemn the subjects of one country by the laws of another.

Dearest mother, be half as indulgent to Olivia as you are to me: indeed

you are prejudiced against her; and because you see some faults, you

think her whole character vicious. But would you cut down a fine tree

because a leaf is withered, or because the canker-worm has eaten into

the bud? Even if a main branch were decayed, are there not remedies

which, skilfully applied, can save the tree from destruction, and

perhaps restore it to its pristine beauty?

And now, having exhausted all my allusions, all my arguments, and all my

little stock of eloquence, I must come to a plain matter of fact--

Before I received your letter I had invited Lady Olivia to spend some

time at L---- Castle. I fear that you will blame my precipitation, and

I reproach myself for it, because I know it will give you pain. However,

though you will think me imprudent, I am certain you would rather that

I were imprudent than unjust. I have defended Olivia from what I

believe to be unmerited censure; I have invited her to my house; she has

accepted my proffered kindness; to withdraw it afterwards would be doing

her irreparable injury: it would confirm all that the world can suspect:

it would be saying to the censorious--I am convinced that you are right,

and I deliver your victim up to you.

Thus I should betray the person whom I undertook to defend: her

confidence in me, her having but for a moment accepted my protection,

would be her ruin. I could not act in so base a manner.

Fear nothing for me, my best, but too anxious, friend. I may do Lady

Olivia some good; she can do me no harm. She may learn the principles

which you have taught me; I can never catch from her any tastes or

habits which you would disapprove. As to the rest, I hazard little

or nothing. The hereditary credit which I enjoy in my maternal right

enables me to assist others without injuring myself.

Your affectionate daughter,

LEONORA.

* * * * *

LETTER VIII.

THE DUCHESS OF ---- TO HER DAUGHTER.

MY DEAREST CHILD,

I hope that you are in the right, and that I am in the wrong.

Your affectionate mother, ----.

* * * * *

LETTER IX.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

Prepare yourself, my ever dear and charming Gabrielle, for all the

torments of jealousy. Know, that since I came to England I have formed

a new friendship with a woman who is interesting in the extreme, who has

charmed me by the simplicity of her manners and the generous sensibility

of her heart. Her character is certainly too reserved: yet even

this defect has perhaps increased her power over my imagination, and

consequently over my affections. I know not by what magic she has

obtained it, but she has already an ascendancy over me, which would

quite astonish _you_, who know my wayward fancies and independent

spirit.

Alas! I confess my heart is weak indeed; and I fear that all the

power of friendship and philosophy combined will never strengthen it

sufficiently. Oh, Gabrielle! how can I hope to obliterate from my soul

that attachment which has marked the colour of my destiny for years? Yet

such courage, such cruel courage is required of me, and of such I have

boasted myself capable. Lady Leonora L----, my new friend, has, by all

the English eloquence of virtue, obtained from me a promise, which,

I fear, I shall not have the fortitude to keep--but I must make

the attempt--Forbid R---- to write to me--Yes! I have written the

words--Forbid R---- to write to me--Forbid him to think of me--I will do

more--if possible I will forbid myself henceforward to think of him--to

think of love--Adieu, my Gabrielle--All the illusions of life are over,

and a dreary blank of future existence lies before me, terminated only

by the grave. To-morrow I go to L---- Castle, with feelings which I can

compare only to those of the unfortunate La Vallière when she renounced

her lover, and resolved to bury herself in a cloister.--Alas! why have

not I the resource of devotion?

Your unhappy

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER X.

GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.

Publish my travels!--Not I, my dear friend. The world shall never have

the pleasure of laughing at General B----‘s trip to Paris. Before a man

sets about to inform others, he should have seen, not only the surface

but the bottom of things; he should have had, not only a _vue d’oiseau_,

but (to use a celebrated naval commander’s expression) a _vue de

poisson_ of his subject. By this time you must have heard enough of the

Louvre and the Tuilleries, and Versailles, and le petit Trianon, and St.

Cloud--and you have had enough of pictures and statues; and you know all

that can be known of Bonaparté, by seeing him at a review or a levee;

and the fashionable beauties and _celebrated characters_ of the hour

have all passed and repassed through the magic lantern. A fresh showman

might make his figures a little more correct, or a little more in

laughable caricature, but he could produce nothing new. Alas! there

is nothing new under the sun. Nothing remains for the moderns, but to

practise the oldest follies the newest ways. Would you, for the sake

of your female friends, know the fashionable dress of a Parisian

_elegante_, see Seneca on the transparent vestments of the Roman ladies,

who, like these modern belles, were generous in the display of their

charms to the public. No doubt these French republicanists act upon the

true Spartan principle of modesty: they take the most efficacious method

to prevent their influence from being too great over the imaginations

of men, by renouncing all that insidious reserve which alone can render

even beauty permanently dangerous.

Of the cruelties of the revolution I can tell you nothing new. The

public have been steeped up to the lips in blood, and have surely had

their fill of horrors.

But, my dear friend, you say that I must be able to give a just view

of the present state of French society, and of the best parts of it,

because I have not, like some of my countrymen, hurried about Paris from

one _spectacle_ to another, seen the opera, and the play-houses, and the

masked balls, and the gaming-houses, and the women of the Palais

Royal, and the lions of all sorts; gone through the usual routine

of presentation and public dinners, drunk French wine, damned French

cookery, and “come home content.” I have certainly endeavoured to employ

my time better, and have had the good fortune to be admitted into the

best _private societies_ in Paris. These were composed of the remains

of the French nobility, of men of letters and science, and of families,

who, without interfering in politics, devote themselves to domestic

duties, to literary and social pleasures. The happy hours I have passed

in this society can never be forgotten, and the kindness I have received

has made its full impression upon an honest English heart. I will never

disgrace the confidence of my friends, by drawing their characters for

the public.

Cæsar in all his glory, and all his despotism, could not, with

impunity, force a Roman knight [1] to go upon the stage: but modern

anecdote-mongers, more cruel and insolent than Cæsar, force their

friends of all ages and sexes to appear, and speak, and act, for the

amusement or derision of the public.

[Footnote 1: Laberius.]

My dear friend, is not my resolution, never to favour the world with

my tour, well grounded? I hope that I have proved to your satisfaction,

that I could tell people nothing but what I do not understand, or what

is not worth telling them, or what has been told them a hundred times,

or what, as a gentleman, I am bound not to publish.

Yours truly,

J. B.

* * * * *

LETTER XI.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

L---- Castle.

Friendship, my amiable and interesting Gabrielle, is more an affair of

the heart than of the head, more the instinct of taste than the choice

of reason. With me the heart is no longer touched, when the imagination

ceases to be charmed. Explain to me this metaphysical phenomenon of my

nature, and, for your reward, I will quiet your jealousy, by confessing

without compunction what now weighs on my conscience terribly. I begin

to feel that I can never love this English friend as I ought. She is

_too English_--far too English for one who has known the charms

of French ease, vivacity, and sentiment; for one who has seen the

bewitching Gabrielle’s infinite variety.

Leonora has just the figure and face that you would picture to yourself

for _une belle Anglaise_; and if our Milton comes into your memory, you

might repeat, for the quotation is not too trite for a foreigner,

“Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye,

In every gesture dignity and love.”

But then it is grace which says nothing, a heaven only for a husband,

the dignity more of a matron than of a heroine, and love that might

have suited Eve before she had seen this world. Leonora is certainly

a beauty; but then a beauty who does not know her power, and who,

consequently, can make no one else feel its full extent. She is not

unlike your beautiful Polish Princess, but she has none of the charming

Anastasia’s irresistible transitions from soft, silent languor, to

brilliant, eloquent enthusiasm. All the gestures and attitudes of

Anastasia are those of taste and sentiment; Leonora’s are simply those

of nature. _La belle nature_, but not _le beau idéal_. With a figure

that would grace any court, or shine upon any stage, she usually enters

a room without producing, or thinking of producing, any sensation; she

moves often without seeming to have any other intention than to change

her place; and her fine eyes generally look as if they were made only to

see with. At times she certainly has a most expressive and intelligent

countenance. I have seen her face enlightened by the fire of genius, and

shaded by the exquisite touches of sensibility; but all this is merely

called forth by the occasion, and vanishes before it is noticed by

half the company. Indeed, the full radiance of her beauty or of her wit

seldom shines upon any one but her husband. The audience and spectators

are forgotten. Heavens! what a difference between the effect which

Leonora and Gabrielle produce! But, to do her justice, much of this

arises from the different _organization_ of French and English society.

In Paris the insipid details of domestic life are judiciously kept

behind the scenes, and women appear as heroines upon the stage with all

the advantages of decoration, to listen to the language of love, and to

receive the homage of public admiration. In England, gallantry is not

yet _systematized_, and our sex look more to their families than to

what is called _society_ for the happiness of existence. And yet the

affection of mothers for their children does not appear to be so strong

in the hearts of English as of French women. In England, ladies do not

talk of the _sentiment of maternity_ with that elegance and sensibility

with which you expatiate upon it continually in conversation. They

literally are _des bonnes mères de famille_, not from the impulse of

sentiment, but merely from an early instilled sense of duty, for which

they deserve little credit. However, they devote their lives to their

children, and those who have the misfortune to be their intimate friends

are doomed to see them half the day, or all day long, go through the

part of the good mother in all its diurnal monotony of lessons and

caresses. All this may be vastly right--it is a pity it is so tiresome.

For my part I cannot conceive how persons of superior taste and talents

can submit to it, unless it be to make themselves a reputation, and that

you know is done by writing and talking on the general principles, not

by submitting to the minute details of education. The great painter

sketches the outline, and touches the principal features, but leaves

the subordinate drudgery of filling up the parts, finishing the drapery,

&c., to inferior hands.

Upon recollection, in my favourite “Sorrows of Werter,” the heroine is

represented cutting bread and butter for a group of children: I admire

this simplicity in Goethe; ‘tis one of the secrets by which he touches

the heart. Simplicity is delightful by way of variety, but always

simplicity is worse than _toujours perdrix_. Children in a novel or a

drama are charming little creatures: but in real life they are often

insufferable plagues. What becomes of them in Paris I know not; but I am

sure that they are never in the way of one’s conversations or reveries;

and it would be a blessing to society if English children were as

inaudible and invisible. These things strike me sensibly upon my return

to England, after so long an absence. Surely, by means of the machinery

of masters, and governesses, and schools, the manufacture of education

might be carried on without incommoding those who desire to see only

the finished production. Here I find the daughter of an English duke, a

woman in the first bloom of youth, of the highest pretensions in point

of rank, beauty, fashion, accomplishments, and talents, devoting herself

to the education of two children, orphans, left to her care by an elder

sister. To take charge of orphans is a good and fine action; as such

it touches me sensibly; but then where is the necessity of sacrificing

one’s friends, and one’s pleasures, day after day, and hour after hour,

to mere children? Leonora can persevere only from a notion of duty.

Now, in my opinion, when generosity becomes duty it ceases to be virtue.

Virtue requires free-will: duty implies constraint. Virtue acts from the

impulse of the moment, and never tires or is tired; duty drudges on in

consequence of reflection, and, weary herself, wearies all beholders.

Duty, always laborious, never can be graceful; and what is not graceful

in woman cannot be amiable--can it, my amiable Gabrielle? But I reproach

myself for all I have written. Leonora is my friend--besides, I am

really obliged to her, and for the universe would I not hint a thought

to her disadvantage. Indeed she is a most excellent, a faultless

character, and it is the misfortune of your Olivia not to love

perfection as she ought.

My charming and interesting Gabrielle, I am more out of humour with

myself than you can conceive; for in spite of all that reason and

gratitude urge, I fear I cannot prefer the insipid virtues of Leonora to

the lively graces of Gabrielle.

As to the cold husband, Mr. L----, I neither know nor wish to know

any thing of him; but I live in hopes of an agreeable and interesting

accession to our society to-day, from the arrival of Leonora’s intimate

friend, a young widow, whose husband I understand was a man of a harsh

temper: she has gone through severe trials with surprising fortitude;

and though I do not know her history, I am persuaded it must be

interesting. Assuredly this husband could never have been the man of her

choice, and of course she must have had some secret unhappy attachment,

which doubtless preyed upon her spirits. Probably the object of her

affection, in despair at her marriage, plighted his faith unfortunately,

or possibly may have fallen a sacrifice to his constancy. I am all

impatience to see her. Her husband’s name was so ruggedly English, that

I am sure you would never be able to pronounce it, especially if you

only saw it written; therefore I shall always to you call her Helen,

a name which is more pleasing to the ear, and more promising to the

imagination. I have not been able to prevail upon Leonora to describe

her friend to me exactly; she says only, that she loves Helen too well

to overpraise her beforehand. My busy fancy has, however, bodied forth

her form, and painted her in the most amiable and enchanting colours.

Hark! she is just arrived. Adieu.

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XII.

FROM MRS. C---- TO MISS B----.

. . . Having now had the honour of spending nearly a week in the society

of the celebrated enchantress, Lady Olivia, you will naturally expect

that I should be much improved in the art of love: but before I come to

my improvements I must tell you, what will be rather more interesting,

that Leonora is perfectly well and happy, and that I have the dear

delight of exclaiming ten times an hour, “Ay, just as I thought it would

be!--Just such a wife, just such a mistress of a family I knew she would

make.”

“_Not to admire_,” is an art or a precept which I have not been able

to practise much since I came here. Some philosophers tell us that

admiration is not only a silly but a fatiguing state of mind; and I

suppose that nothing could have preserved my mind from being tired to

death, but the quantity of bodily exercise which I have taken. I could,

if I pleased, give you a plan and elevation of this castle. Nay, I doubt

not but I could stand an examination in the catalogue of the pictures,

or the inventory of the furniture.

You, Helen!--you who could not remember the colour of Lady N----‘s _new_

curtains after you had seen them at least a hundred times!

Lady N---- was indifferent to me, and how could I hang up her curtains

in my memory? By what could they hold? Do you not know, Margaret ... all

the fine things that I could say, and that quartos have said before me,

about the association of ideas and sensations, &c.? Those we love

impart to uninteresting objects the power of pleasing, as the magnet can

communicate to inert metal its attractive influence.

Till Mr. L---- was Leonora’s lover I never liked him much. I do not mean

to call him inert. I always knew that he had many excellent qualities;

but there was nothing in his temper peculiarly agreeable to me,

and there was something in his character that I did not thoroughly

understand; yet, since he is become Leonora’s husband, I find my

understanding much improved, and I dare say it will soon be so far

enlarged, that I shall comprehend him perfectly.

Leonora has almost persuaded me to like Lady Olivia. Not to laugh at

her would be impossible. I wish you could see the way in which we go

on together. Our first setting out would have diverted you. Enter Lady

Olivia breathless, with an air of theatric expectation--advances to

embrace Helen, who is laughing with Leonora--her back turned towards the

side of the stage at which Olivia enters--Olivia pauses suddenly, and

measures Helen _with a long look_. What passes in Lady Olivia’s mind

at this moment I do not know, but I guess that she was disappointed

woefully by my appearance. After some time she was recovered, by

Leonora’s assistance, from her reverie, and presently began to admire

my vivacity, and to find out that I was Clarissa’s Miss Howe--no, I was

Lady G.--no, I was Heloise’s Clara: but I, choosing to be myself, and

insisting upon being an _original_, sunk again visibly and rapidly

in Olivia’s opinion, till I was in imminent danger of being _nobody_,

Leonora again kindly interposed to save me from annihilation; and after

an interval of an hour or two dedicated to letter-writing, Lady Olivia

returned and seated herself beside me, resolved to decide what manner

of woman I was. Certain novels are the touchstones of feeling and

_intellect_ with certain ladies. Unluckily I was not well read in these;

and in the questions put to me from these sentimental statute-books,

I gave strange judgments, often for the husband or parents against the

heroine. I did not even admit the plea of destiny, irresistible passion,

or _entraînement_, as in all cases sufficient excuse for all errors and

crimes. Moreover, I excited astonishment by calling things by obsolete

names. I called a married woman’s having a lover _a crime_! Then I was

no judge of virtues, for I thought a wife’s making an intimate friend of

her husband’s mistress was scandalous and mean; but this I was told

is the height of delicacy and generosity. I could not perceive the

propriety of a man’s liking two women at the same time, or a woman’s

having a platonic attachment for half a dozen lovers: and I owned that

I did not wish divorce could be as easily obtained in England as in

France. All which proved that I have never been out of England--a great

misfortune! I dare say it will soon be discovered that women as well as

madeira cannot be good for any thing till they have crossed the line.

But besides the obloquy of having lived only in the best company in

England, I was further disgraced by the discovery, that I am deplorably

ignorant of metaphysics, and have never been enlightened by any

philanthropic transcendental foreign professor of humanity. Profoundly

humiliated, and not having yet taken the first step towards knowledge,

the knowing that I was ignorant, I was pondering upon my sad fate, when

Lady Olivia, putting her hand upon my shoulder, summoned me into the

court of love, there in my own proper person to answer such questions as

it should please her ladyship to ask. For instance:--“Were you ever in

love?--How often?--When?--Where?--And with whom?”

Never having stood a cross-examination in public upon these points, I

was not quite prepared to reply; and I was accused of giving evasive

answers, and convicted of blushing. Mr. L----, who was present at this

examination, enjoyed, in his grave way, my astonishment and confusion,

but said not one word. I rallied my spirits and my wits, and gave some

answers which gained the smile of the court on my side.

From these specimens you may guess, my dear Margaret, how well this lady

and I are likely to agree. I shall divert myself with her absurdities

without scruple. Yet notwithstanding the flagrancy of these, Leonora

persuades me to think well of Olivia; indeed I am so happy here, that it

would be a difficult matter at present to make me think ill of any body.

The good qualities, which Leonora sees in her, are not yet visible to my

eyes; but Leonora’s visual orb is so cleared with charity and love, that

she can discern what is not revealed to vulgar sight. Even in the very

germ, she discovers the minute form of the perfect flower. _The Olivia_

will, I hope, in time, blow out in full perfection.

Yours affectionately,

HELEN C----.

* * * * *

LETTER XIII.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

Monday.

O my Gabrielle! this Helen is not precisely the person that I expected.

Instead of being a dejected beauty, she is all life and gaiety.

I own I should like her better if she were a little more pensive; a

tinge of melancholy would, in her situation, be so becoming and natural.

My imagination was quite disappointed when I beheld the quickness of her

eyes and frequency of her smiles. Even her mode of showing affection

to Leonora was not such as could please me. This is the first visit, I

understand, that she has paid Leonora since her marriage: these friends

have been separated for many months.--I was not present at their

meeting; but I came into the room a few minutes after _Helen_‘s arrival,

and I should have thought that they had seen one another but yesterday.

This _dear Helen_ was quite at ease and at home in a few moments, and

seemed as if she had been living with us for years. I make allowance for

the ease of well-bred people. Helen has lived much in the world, and has

polished manners. But the heart--the heart is superior to politeness;

and even ease, in some situations, shows a want of the delicate

_tact_ of sentiment. In a similar situation I should have been silent,

entranced, absorbed in my sensations--overcome by them, perhaps

dissolved in tears. But in Helen there appeared no symptoms of

real sensibility--nothing characteristic--nothing profound--nothing

concentrated: it was all superficial, and evaporated in the common way.

I was provoked to see Leonora satisfied. She assures me that Helen has

uncommonly strong affections, and that her character rather exceeds than

is deficient in enthusiasm. Possibly; but I am certain that Helen is in

no danger of becoming romantic. Far from being abstracted, I never

saw any one seem more interested and eager about every present

occurrence--pleased, even to childishness, with every passing trifle.

I confess that she is too much of this world for me. But I will if

possible suspend my judgment, and study her a few hours longer, before I

give you my definitive opinion.

Thursday.

Well, my Gabrielle, my _definitive opinion_ is that I can never love

this friend of Leonora. I said that she had lived much in the world--but

only in the English world: she has never seen any other; therefore,

though quite in a different style from Leonora, she shocks me with the

same nationality. All her ideas are exclusively English: she has what is

called English good sense, and English humour, and English prejudices of

_all sorts_, both masculine and feminine. She takes fire in defence of

her country and of her sex; nay, sometimes blushes even to awkwardness,

which one would not expect in the midst of her good breeding and

vivacity. What a difference between her vivacity and that of my charming

Gabrielle! as great as between the enlargement of your mind and the

limited nature of her understanding. I tried her on various subjects,

but found her intrenched in her own contracted notions. All new, or

liberal, or sublime ideas in morality or metaphysics she either cannot

seize, or seizes only to place in a ridiculous point of view: a certain

sign of mediocrity. Adieu, my Gabrielle. I must send you the pictures,

whether engaging or forbidding, of those with whom your Olivia is

destined to pass her time. When I have no events to relate, still I must

write to convey to you my sentiments. Alas! how imperfectly!--for I have

interdicted myself the expression of those most interesting to my heart.

Leonora, calmly prudent, coolly virtuous, knows not what it costs me

to be faithful to this cruel promise. Write to me, my sympathizing, my

tender friend!

Your ever unhappy

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XIV.

MRS. C---- TO MISS B----.

July 10th.

Some very good people, like some very fine pictures, are best at a

distance. But Leonora is not one of these: the nearer you approach, the

better you like her; as in arabesque-work you may admire the beauty of

the design even at a distance, but you cannot appreciate the delicacy of

the execution till you examine it closely, and discover that every line

is formed of grains of gold, almost imperceptibly fine. I am glad that

the “small sweet courtesies of life” have been hailed by one sentimental

writer at least. The minor virtues are not to be despised, even in

comparison with the most exalted. The common rose, I have often thought,

need not be ashamed of itself even in company with the finest exotics

in a hothouse; and I remember, that your brother, in one of his letters,

observed, that the common cock makes a very respectable figure, even in

the grand Parisian assembly of all the stuffed birds and beasts in the

universe. It is a glorious thing to have a friend who will jump into a

river, or down a precipice, to save one’s life: but as I do not intend

to tumble down precipices, or to throw myself into the water above half

a dozen times, I would rather have for my friends persons who would not

reserve their kindness wholly for these grand occasions, but who could

condescend to make me happy every day, and all day long, even by actions

not sufficiently sublime to be recorded in history or romance.

Do not infer from this that I think Leonora would hesitate to make

_great_ sacrifices. I have had sufficient experience of her fortitude

and active courage of mind in the most trying circumstances, whilst many

who talked more stoutly, shrunk from _committing_ themselves by actions.

Some maxim-maker says, that past misfortunes are good for nothing but

to be forgotten. I am not of his opinion: I think that they are good to

make us know our winter from our summer friends, and to make us feel

for those who have sustained us in adversity, that most pleasurable

sensation of the human mind--gratitude.

But I am straying unawares into the province of sentiment, where I am

such a stranger that I shall inevitably lose my way, especially as I am

too proud to take a guide. Lady Olivia ---- may perhaps be very fond

of Leonora: and as she has every possible cause to be so, it is but

reasonable and charitable to suppose that she is: but I should never

guess it by her manner. She speaks of her friendship sometimes in the

most romantic style, but often makes observations upon _the enviable

coolness and imperturbability of Leonora’s disposition_, which convinces

me that she does not understand it in the least. Those who do not really

feel, always pitch their expressions too high or too low, as deaf people

bellow, or speak in a whisper. But I may be mistaken in my suspicions of

Olivia; for _to do the lady justice_, as Mrs. Candour would say, she is

so affected, that it is difficult to know what she really feels. Those

who put on rouge occasionally, are suspected of wearing it constantly,

and never have any credit for their natural colour; presently they

become so accustomed to common rouge, that, mistaking scarlet for

pale pink, they persist in laying on more and more, till they are like

nothing human.

Yours affectionately,

HELEN C----.

* * * * *

LETTER XV.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

I have found it! I have found it! dear Gabrielle, rejoice with me! I

have solved the metaphysical problem, which perplexed me so cruelly, and

now I am once more at peace with myself. I have discovered the reason

why I cannot love Leonora as she merits to be loved--she has obliged me;

and the nature of obligation is such, that it supposes superiority on

one side, and consequently destroys the equality, the freedom, the ease,

the charm of friendship. Gratitude weighs upon one’s heart in proportion

to the delicacy of its feelings. To minds of an ordinary sort it may be

pleasurable, for with them it is sufficiently feeble to be calm; but in

souls of a superior cast, it is a poignant, painful sensation, because

it is too strong ever to be tranquil. In short,

“‘Tis bliss but to a certain bound--

Beyond, ‘tis agony.”

For my own part, the very dread that I shall not be thought to express

enough, deprives me of the power to speak or even to feel. Fear, you

know, extinguishes affection; and of all fears, the dread of not being

sufficiently grateful, operates the most powerfully. Thus sensibility

destroys itself.--Gracious Heaven! teach me to moderate mine.

In the nature of the obligation with which Leonora has oppressed my

heart, there is something peculiarly humiliating. Upon my return to this

country, I found the malignant genius of scandal bent upon destroying my

reputation. You have no idea of the miserable force of prejudice which

still prevails here. There are some women who emancipate themselves, but

then unluckily they are not in sufficient numbers to keep each other

in countenance in public. One would not choose to be confined to the

society of people who cannot go to court, though sometimes they take the

lead elsewhere. We are full half a century behind you in civilization;

and your revolution has, I find, afforded all our stiffened moralists

_incontrovertible_ arguments against liberty of opinion or conduct in

either sex.

I was thunderstruck when I saw the grave and repulsive faces of all my

female acquaintance. At first I attributed every thing that was

strange and disagreeable to English reserve, of which I had retained a

sufficiently formidable idea: but I presently found that there was some

other cause which kept all these nice consciences at a distance from my

atmosphere.

Would you believe it? I saw myself upon the point of being quite

excluded from good society. Leonora saved me from this imminent danger.

Voluntarily, and I must say nobly, if not gracefully, Leonora came

forward in my defence. Vanquishing her natural English timidity, she

braved the eyes, and tongues, and advice of all the prudes and old

dowagers my enemies, amongst whom I may count the superannuated Duchess

her mother, the proudest dowager now living. When I appeared in public

with a personage of Leonora’s unblemished reputation, scandal, much

against her will, was forced to be silent, and it was to be taken for

granted that I was, in the language of prudery, perfectly innocent.

Leonora, to be consistent in goodness, or to complete her triumph in the

face of the world, invited me to accompany her to the country.--I have

now been some weeks at this superb castle. Heaven is my witness that

I came with a heart overflowing with affection; but the painful, the

agonizing sense of humiliation mixed with my tenderest sentiments, and

all became bitterness insufferable. Oh, Gabrielle! you, and perhaps you

alone upon earth, can understand my feelings. Adieu!--pity me--I must

not ask you a single question about--I must not write the name for ever

dear--What am I saying? where are my promises?--Adieu!--Adieu!

Your unhappy

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XVI.

MRS. C---- TO MISS B----.

July 16th.

As I have never thought it my duty in this mortal life to mourn for the

absurdities of my fellow-creatures, I should now enjoy the pleasure of

laughing at Lady Olivia, if my propensity were not checked by a serious

apprehension that she will injure Leonora’s happiness. From the most

generous motives, dear Leonora is continually anxious to soothe her

mind, to persuade and reason her into common sense, to re-establish her

in public opinion, and to make her happy. But I am convinced that Lady

Olivia never will have common sense, and consequently never can be

happy. Twenty times a day I wish her at the antipodes, for I dread lest

Leonora should be implicated in her affairs, and involved in her misery.

Last night this foolish woman, who unluckily is graced with all the

power of words, poured forth a fine declamation in favour of divorce. In

vain Leonora reasoned, expostulated, blushed. Lady Olivia cannot blush

for herself; and though both Mr. L---- and I were present, she persisted

with that vehemence which betrays personal interest in an argument. I

suspect that she is going to try to obtain a divorce from her husband,

that she may marry her lover. Consider the consequences of this for

Leonora.--Leonora to be the friend of a woman who will risk the infamy

of a trial at Doctors’ Commons! But Leonora says I am mistaken, and that

all this is only Olivia’s way of talking. I wish then, that, if she does

not intend to act like a fool, she would not talk like one. I agree

with the gentleman who said that a woman who begins by playing the fool,

always ends by playing the devil. Even before me, though I certainly

never solicit her confidence, Lady Olivia talks with the most imprudent

openness of her love affairs; not, I think, from ingenuousness, but

from inability to restrain herself. Begin what subject of conversation I

will, as far from Cupid as possible, she will bring me back again to

him before I know where I am. She has no ideas but on this one subject.

Leonora, dear, kind-hearted Leonora, attributes this to the temporary

influence of a violent passion, which she assures me Olivia will

conquer, and that then all her great and good qualities will, as

if freed from enchantment, re-assume their natural vigour.

_Natural!_--there is nothing natural about this sophisticated lady. I

wish Leonora would think more of herself, and less of other people. As

to Lady Olivia’s excessive sensibility, I have no faith in it. I do not

think either the lover or the passion so much to be feared for her, as

the want of a lover and the habit of thinking that it is necessary to be

in love. . . .

Yours affectionately,

HELEN C----.

* * * * *

LETTER XVII.

GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.

MY DEAR L----, Paris, Hôtel de Courlande,

When you ask a countryman in England the way to the next town, he

replies, “Where do you come from, master?” and till you have answered

this question, no information can you obtain from him. You ask me what I

know of Lady Olivia ----. What is your reason for asking? Till you have

answered this question, hope for no information from me. Seriously, Lady

Olivia had left Paris before I arrived, therefore you cannot have my

judgment of her ladyship, which I presume is all you could depend

upon. If you will take hearsay evidence, and if you wish me to speak to

general character, I can readily satisfy you. Common reputed, loud and

unanimous in favour of her talents, beauty, and fashion: there is no

resisting, I am told, the fascination of her manners and conversation;

_but_ her opinions are fashionably liberal, and her practice as liberal

as her theories. Since her separation from her husband, her lover

is publicly named. Some English friends plead in her favour platonic

attachment: this, like benefit of clergy, is claimed of course for

a first offence: but Lady Olivia’s Parisian acquaintance are not so

scrupulous or so old-fashioned as to think it an offence; they call it

an _arrangement_, and to this there can be no objection. As a French

gentleman said to me the other day, with an unanswerable shrug, “Tout le

monde sait que R---- est son amant; d’ailleurs, c’est la femme la plus

aimable du monde.”

As to Lady Olivia’s friend, Mad. de P----, she sees a great deal of

company: her house is the resort of people of various descriptions;

ministers, foreigners, coquettes, and generals; in short, of all those

who wish, without scandal or suspicion, to intrigue either in love

or politics. Her assemblies are also frequented by a few of _l’ancien

régime_, who wish to be in favour with the present government. Mad.

de P----, of a noble family herself, and formerly much at court, has

managed matters so as to have regained all her husband’s confiscated

property, and to have acquired much influence with some of the leading

men of the day. In her manners and conversation there is an odd mixture

of frivolity and address, of the airs of coquetry and the jargon of

sentiment. She has the politeness of a French Countess, with _exquisite_

knowledge of the world and of _les convenances_, joined to that freedom

of opinion which marks the present times. In the midst of all these

inconsistencies, it is difficult to guess what her real character may

be. At first sight I should pronounce her to be a silly woman, governed

by vanity and the whim of the moment: but those who know her better than

I do, believe her to be a woman of considerable talents, inordinately

fond of power, and uniformly intent upon her own interest, using

coquetry only as a means to govern our sex, and frivolity as a mask

for her ambition. In short, Mad. de P---- is a perfect specimen of the

combination of an _intrigante_ and an _élégante_, a combination often

found in Paris. Here women mingle politics and gallantry--men mix

politics and epicurism--which is the better mixture?

I have business of importance to my country to transact to-day,

_therefore_ I am going to dine with the modern Apicius. Excuse me, my

dear friend, if I cannot stay at present to answer your questions about

divorce. I must be punctual. What sort of a negotiator can he make who

is too late at a minister’s dinner? Five minutes might change the face

of Europe.

Yours truly,

J. B.

* * * * *

LETTER XVIII.

MADAME DE P---- TO OLIVIA.

Paris.

My incomparable Olivia! your letters are absolutely divine. I am

_maussade_, I _vegetate_. I cannot be said to live the days when I do

not hear from you. Last Thursday I was disappointed of one of these dear

letters, and _Brave-et-tendre_ told me frankly, that I was so little

amiable he should not have known me.--As to the rest, pardon me for

not writing punctually: I have been really in a chaos of business and

pleasure, and I do not know which fatigues most. But I am obliged to

attend the ministers every day, for the sake of my friends.

A thousand and a thousand thanks for your pictures of your English

friends: sketches by a masterly hand must be valuable, whatever the

subject. I would rather have the pictures than the realities. Your Helen

and your Lady Leonora are too good for me, and I pity you from my soul

for being shut up in that old castle. I suppose it is like an old

castle in Dauphiny, where I once spent a week, and where I was nearly

frightened to death by the flapping of the old tapestry behind my bed,

and by the bats which flew in through the broken windows. They say,

however, that our _châteaux_ and yours are something different. Of this

I have no clear conception.

I send you three comforters in your prison--a billet-doux, a new novel,

and a pattern of my sandal: a billet-doux from R---- says every thing

for itself; but I must say something for the new novel. Zenobie, which

I now send you, is the declared rival of Seraphin. Parties have run high

on both sides, and applications were made and inuendoes discovered, and

wit and sentiment came to close combat; and, as usual, people talked

till they did not understand themselves. For a fortnight, wherever

one went, the first words to be heard on entering every _salon_

were Seraphine and Zenobie.--Peace or war.--Mlle. Georges and Mlle.

Duchesnois were nothing to Seraphine and Zenobie. For Heaven’s sake tell

me which you prefer! But I fear they will be no more talked of before I

have your answer. To say the truth, I am tired of both heroines, for a

fortnight is too long to talk or think of any one thing.

I flatter myself you will like my sandals: they are my own invention,

and my foot really shows them to advantage. You know I might say, as

Du P----said of himself, “J’ai un pied dont la petitesse échappe à la

vitesse de la pensée.” I thought my poor friend Mad. Dumarais would

have died with envy, the other day, when I appeared in them at her ball,

which, by-the-bye, was in all its decorations as absurd and in as bad

taste as usual. For the most part these _nouveaux riches_ lavish money,

but can never purchase taste or a sense of propriety. All is gold: but

that is not enough; or rather that is too much. In spite of all that

both the Indies, China, Arabia, Egypt, and even Paris can do for them,

they will be ever out of place, in the midst of their magnificence: they

will never even know how to ruin themselves nobly. They must live and

die as they were born, ridiculous. Now I would rather not exist than

feel myself ridiculous. But I believe no one living, not even le petit

d’Heronville, knows himself to be an object of ridicule. There are no

looking-glasses for the mind, and I question whether we should use them

if there were. D’Heronville is just as you left him, and as much my

amusement as he used to be yours. He goes on with an eternal galimatias

of patriotism, with such a self-sufficient air and decided tone! never

suspecting that he says only what other people make him say, and that he

is listened to, only to find out what _some people_ think. Many will

say before fools, what they would not hazard before wise men; not

considering that fools can repeat as well as parrots. I once heard a

great man remark, that the only spies fit to be trusted are those who do

not know themselves to be such; who have no salary but what their vanity

pays them, and who are employed without being accredited.

But trève de politique!--My charming Olivia, I know, abhors politics, as

much as I detest metaphysics, from all lips or pens but hers. Now I must

tell you something of your friends here.

O---- talks nonsense as agreeably as ever, and dances as divinely. ‘Tis

a pity he cannot always dance, for then he would not ruin himself at

play. He wants me to get him a regiment--as if I had any power!--or

as if I would use it for this purpose, when I knew that my interesting

friend Mad. Q----would break her poor little heart if he were to quit

her.

_Mon Coeur_ is as pretty as ever; but she is now in affliction. She

has lost her dear little dog Corisonde. He died suddenly; almost in her

arms! She will erect a monument to him in her charming _jardin Anglois_.

This will occupy her, and then “Time, the comforter”--Inimitable

Voltaire!

Our dear _Brillante_ has just had a superb _hommage_ from her lover

the commissary--a necklace and bracelets of the finest; pearls: but she

cannot wear them yet: her brother having died last week, she is in

deep mourning. This brother was not upon good terms with her. He never

forgave the divorce. He thought it a disgrace to have a sister _une

divorcée_; but he was full of prejudice, poor man, and he is dead, and

we need think no more of him or of his faults.

Our ci-devant chanoine, who married that little Meudon, is as miserable

as possible, and as ridiculous: for he is jealous of his young wife,

and she is a _franche-coquette_. The poor man looks as if he repented

sincerely of his errors. What a penitent a coquette can make of a

husband! Bourdaloue and Massillon would have tried their powers on this

man’s heart in vain.

Did I tell you that Mad. G---- is a second time divorced? But this time

it is her husband’s doing, not hers. This handsome husband has spent

all the immense fortune she brought him, and now procures a divorce for

_incompatibility of temper_, and is going to marry another lady, richer

than Mad. G----, and as great a fool. This system of divorce, though

convenient, is not always advantageous to women. However, in one point

of view, I wonder that the rigid moralists do not defend it, as the only

means of making a man in love with his own wife. A man divorces; the law

does not permit him to marry the same woman afterwards; of course

this prohibition makes him fall in love with her. Of this we have many

edifying examples besides Fanchette, who, though she was so beautiful,

and a tolerable actress, would never have drawn all Paris to the

Vaudeville if she had not been a _divorcée_, and if it had not been

known that her husband, who played the lover of the piece, was dying

to marry her again. Apropos, Mad. St. Germain is acting one of her own

romances, in the high sublime style, and threatens to poison herself for

love of her perjured inconstant--but it will not do.

Madame _la Grande_ was near having a sad accident the other night: in

crossing the Pont-neuf her horses took fright; for there was a crowd

and _embarras_, a man having just drowned himself--not for love, but

for hunger. How many men, women, and children, do you think drowned

themselves in the Seine last year? Upwards of two hundred. This is

really shocking, and a stop should be put to it by authority. It

absolutely makes me shudder and reflect; but _après nous le déluge_ was

La Pompadour’s maxim, and should be ours.

Mad. Folard _se coiffe en cheveux_, and Mad. Rocroix crowns herself with

roses, whilst all the world knows that either of them is old enough

to be my mother. In former days a woman could not wear flowers after

thirty, and was _bel esprit_ or _dévote_ at forty, for it was thought

bad taste to do otherwise. But now every body may be as young as they

please, or as ridiculous. Women have certainly gained by the new order

of things.

Our poor friend _Vermeille_ se meurt de la poitrine--a victim to tea and

late hours. She is an interesting creature, and my heart bleeds for her:

she will never last till winter.

Do you know, it is said, we shall soon have no wood to burn. What can

have become of all our forests? People should inquire after them. The

Venus de Medici has at last found her way down the Seine. It is not

determined yet where to place her: but she is at Paris, and that is a

great point gained for her. You complained that the Apollo stands with

his back so near the wall, that there is no seeing half the beauties of

his shoulders. If I have any influence, Venus shall not be so served. I

have been to see her. She is certainly divine--but not French. I do not

despair of seeing her surpassed by our artists.

Adieu, my adorable Olivia. I should have finished my letter yesterday;

but when I came home in the morning, expecting to have a moment sacred

to you and friendship, whom should I find established in an arm-chair in

my cabinet but our old Countess _Cidevant_. There was no retreat for

me. In the midst of my concentrated rage, I was obliged to advance and

embrace her, and there was an end of happiness for the day. The pitiless

woman kept me till it was even too late to dress, talking over her

family misfortunes; as if they were any thing to me. She wants to get

her son employed, but her pride will not let her pay her court properly,

and she wants me to do it for her. Not I, truly. I should shut my doors

against her but for the sake of her nephew _le roué_, who is really a

pretty young man. My angel, I embrace you tenderly.

GABRIELLE DE P----.

* * * * *

LETTER XIX.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

How melancholy to a feeling heart is the moment when illusion vanishes,

whether that illusion has been created by the magic of love or of

friendship! How many such moments, Gabrielle, has your unfortunate

friend been doomed to endure! Alas! when will treacherous fancy cease to

throw a deceitful brilliancy upon each new object!

Perhaps I am too delicate--but R----‘s note, enclosed in your last, my

Gabrielle, was unlike his former letters. It was not passionate, it was

only reasonable. A man who can reason is no longer in love. The manner

in which he speaks of divorce shocked me beyond expression. Is it for

him to talk of scruples when upon this subject I have none? I own to you

that my pride and my tenderness are sensibly wounded. Is it for him to

convince me that I am in the wrong? I shall not be at ease till I

hear from you again, my amiable friend: for my residence here becomes

insupportable. But a few short weeks are past since I fancied Leonora an

angel, and now she falls below the ordinary standard of mortals. But

a few short weeks are past since, in the full confidence of finding in

Leonora a second self, a second Gabrielle, I eagerly developed to her my

inmost soul; yet now my heart closes, I fear never more to open. The sad

conviction, that we have but few ideas, and no feelings in common,

stops my tongue when I attempt to speak, chills my heart when I begin to

listen.

Do you know, my Gabrielle, I have discovered that Leonora is

inordinately selfish? For all other faults I have charity; but

selfishness, which has none to give, must expect none. O divine

sensibility, defend me from this isolation of the heart! All thy

nameless sorrows, all thy heart-rending tortures, would I a thousand

times rather endure. Leonora’s selfishness breaks out perpetually; and,

alas! it is of the most inveterate, incurable kind: every thing that is

immediately or remotely connected with self she loves, and loves with

the most provoking pertinacity. Her mother, her husband, she adores,

because they are her own; and even her sister’s children, because she

considers them, she says, as her own. All and every possible portion

of self she cherishes with the most sordid partiality. All that touches

these relations touches her; and every thing which is theirs, or, in

other words, which is hers, she deems excellent and sacred. Last night I

just hazarded a word of ridicule upon some of the obsolete prejudices

of that august personage, that Duchess of old tapestry, her still living

ancestor. I wish, Gabrielle, you had seen Leonora’s countenance. Her

colour rose up to her temples, her eyes lightened with indignation,

and her whole person assumed a dignity, which might have killed a

presumptuous lover, or better far, might have enslaved him for life.

What folly to waste all this upon such an occasion! But selfishness

is ever blind to its real interests. Leonora is so bigoted to this old

woman, that she is already in mind an old woman herself. She fancies

that she traces a resemblance to her mother, and of course to dear self

in her infant, and she looks upon it with such doting eyes, and talks

to it with such exquisite tones of fondness, as are to me, who know

the source from which they proceed, quite ridiculous and disgusting. An

infant, who has no imaginable merit, and, to impartial eyes, no charms,

she can love to this excess from no motive but pure _egotism_. Then

her husband--but this subject I must reserve for another letter. I am

summoned to walk with him this moment.

Adieu, charming Gabrielle,

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XX.

GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.

MY DEAR L----, Paris, 180--.

Enclosed I send you, according to your earnest desire, Cambacérès’

reflections upon the intended new law of divorce. Give me leave to ask

why you are so violently interested upon this occasion? Do you envy

France this blessing? Do you wish that English husbands and wives should

have the power of divorcing each other at pleasure for _incompatibility

of temper_? And have you calculated the admirable effect this would

produce upon the temper both of the weaker and the stronger sex? To bear

and forbear would then be no longer necessary. Every happy pair might

quarrel and part at a moment’s notice--at a year’s notice at most. And

their children? The wisdom of Solomon would be necessary to settle the

just division of the children. I have this morning been attending a

court of law to hear a famous trial between two husbands: the

abdicated lord a ci-devant noble, and the reigning husband a ci-devant

grand-vicaire, who has _reformed_. Each party claimed a right to the

children by the first marriage, for the children were minors entitled to

large fortunes. The _reformed_ grand-vicaire pleaded his own cause with

astonishing assurance, amidst the discountenancing looks, murmurs, and

almost amidst the groans of disapprobation from the majority of the

auditors. His powers of impudence, however, failed him at last. I sat

on the bench behind him, and saw that his ears had the grace to blush.

After another hearing, this cause, which had lasted four years, was

decided; and the first husband and real father was permitted to have the

guardianship of his own children. During the four years’ litigation,

the friends of the parties, from the grandmother downwards, were all

at irreconcileable variance. What became of the children all this time?

Their mother was represented during the trial as she deserved to be, as

a wretch void of shame and gratitude. The father was universally pitied,

though his rival painted him as a coward, who during the revolution had

left his children to save himself by flight; and as a fool, who had

left his wife to the care of a profligate grand-vicaire. Divorce is not

countenanced by opinion in Paris, though permitted by law. With a few

exceptions in extraordinary cases, I have observed that _les divorcées_

are not received into good society.

To satiate your curiosity, I send you all the papers that have

been written lately on this subject, of which you will find that of

Cambacérès the best. The wits say that he is an impartial judge. I

presume you want these pamphlets for some foolish friend; for yourself

you can never want them, blessed as you are with such a wife as Lady

Leonora L--. I am not surprised that profligate men should wish for

freedom of divorce, because it would save them damages in Doctors’

Commons: but you rather astonish me--if a wise man should be astonished

at any thing in these days--by assuring me that you have lately heard

this system eloquently defended by a female philosopher. What can women

expect from it but contempt? Next to polygamy, it would prove the most

certain method of destroying the domestic happiness of the sex, as well

as their influence and respectability in society. But some of the dear

creatures love to talk of what they do not understand, and usually show

their eloquence to the greatest advantage, by taking the wrong side of a

question.

Yours truly,

J. B.

* * * * *

LETTER XXI.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

L---- Castle.

From selfishness to jealousy there is but one step, or rather there is

none; for jealousy of a certain sort is but selfishness in another form.

How different this passion as I have felt it, and as I see it shown! In

some characters it is the symptom of amiable and exquisite sensibility;

in others of odious coldness and contraction of heart. In some of our

sex it is, you know, my Gabrielle, a delicate fear, a tender anxiety,

a proof of ardent passion; in others it is a mere love of power, a

disgusting struggle for the property of a heart, an absurd assertion of

rights and prerogatives. Surely no prejudice of education or institution

can be more barbarous than that which teaches a wife that she has an

indefeasible and exclusive right both to the affections and the fidelity

of her husband. I am astonished to hear it avowed by any woman who has

the slightest pretensions to delicacy of sentiment, or liberality of

mind. I should expect to find this vulgar prejudice only among the

downright dames, who talk of _my good man_, and lay a particular

emphasis on the possessive pronoun _my_; who understand literally,

and expect that their spouses should adhere punctually to every coarse

article of our strange marriage vow.

In certain points of view, my Gabrielle, jealousy is undoubtedly the

strongest proof of an indelicate mind. Yet, if I mistake not, the

delicate, the divine Leonora, is liable to this terrestrial passion.

Yesterday evening, as I was returning from a _stroll_ in the park with

Mr. L----, we met Leonora; and methought she looked embarrassed at

meeting us. Heaven knows there was not the slightest occasion for

embarrassment, and I could not avoid being surprised at such weakness, I

had almost said folly, in a woman of Leonora’s sense, especially as she

knows how my heart is attached. In the first moments of our intimacy my

confidence was unbounded, as it ever is in those I love. Aware as I was

of the light in which the prejudices of her education and her country

make her view such connexions, yet I scrupled not, with the utmost

candour, to confess the unfortunate attachment which had ruled my

destiny. After this confidence, do not suspicion and jealousy on her

part appear strange? Were Mr. L---- and I shut up for life in the same

prison, were we left together upon a desert island, were we alone in the

universe, I could never think of him. And Leonora does not see this! How

the passions obscure and degrade the finest understandings! But perhaps

I do her injustice, and she felt nothing of what her countenance

expressed. It is certain, however, that she was silent for some moments

after she joined us, from what cause she knows best--so was Mr. L----,

I suppose from English awkwardness--so was I, from pure astonishment. At

length, in pity of Leonora, I broke the silence. I had recourse to the

beauties of nature.

“What a heavenly evening!” said I. “We have been listening to the songs

of the birds, enjoying this fresh breeze of nature’s perfumes.” Leonora

said something about the superiority of nature’s perfumes to those of

art; and observed, “how much more agreeable the smell of flowers appears

in the open air than in confined rooms!” Whilst she spoke she looked

at her husband, as she continually does for assent and approbation. He

assented, but apparently without knowing what he was saying; and only by

one of his English monosyllables. I alone was at ease.

“Can any thing be more beautiful,” continued I, looking back, “than the

soft mellow foliage of those woods, and the exquisite tints of their

rich colouring? What delicious melancholy such an evening spreads over

the heart!--what reflections!--what recollections!--Oh, Leonora, look at

the lights upon that mountain, and the deep shadows upon the lake

below. Just such scenes have I admired, by such have I been entranced in

Switzerland.”

Leonora put her arm within mine--she seemed to have no objection to

my thoughts going back to Switzerland--I sighed--she pressed my hand

affectionately--I wiped the starting tear from my eye. Mr. L---- looked

at me with something like surprise whilst I repeated involuntarily,

“I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you,

For morn is approaching your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt’ring with dew.”

I paused, recollecting myself, struck with _the ridicule_ of repeating

verses, and of indulging feelings in which no one perhaps sympathized.

“Those are beautiful lines,” said Leonora: “that poem has always been a

favourite of mine.”

“And of mine, also,” said Mr. L----.

“I prefer Beattie’s Hermit to all other hermits,” said Leonora.

I was not in a mood calmly to discuss with her a point of criticism--I

walked on in reverie: but in this I was not allowed to indulge. Mr.

L----asked if I could not recollect some more of the Hermit--I pleaded

the worst memory in the world--a memory that can never recollect any

poem perfectly by rote, only the touches of genius or sensibility that

strike me--and those are so few!

“But in this poem there are so many,” said Leonora. I am sure she

insisted only to please her husband, and pleaded against her real

feelings, purposely to conceal them. He persisted in his request, with

more warmth than usual. I was compelled to rouse myself from my reverie,

and to call back my distant thoughts. I repeated all that I could

recollect of the poem. Mr. L---- paid me a profusion of compliments upon

the sweetness of my voice, and my taste in reciting. He was pleased

to find that my manner and tones gave an Italian expression to English

poetry, which to him was a peculiar charm. It reminded him of some

Signora, whom he had known at Florence. This was the first time I had

learned that he had been abroad. I was going to explore the foreign

field of conversation which he thus opened; but just at that moment

Leonora withdrew her arm from mine, and I fancied that she coloured.

This might be only my fancy, or the natural effect of her stooping to

gather a flower. We were now within sight of the castle. I pointed to

one of the turrets over a Gothic window, upon which the gleams of the

setting sun produced a picturesque effect; my glove happened to be off,

and Leonora unluckily saw that her husband’s eyes were fixed upon my

arm, instead of the turret to which I was pointing. ‘Twas a trifle which

I never should have noticed, had she not forced it upon my attention.

She actually turned pale. I had the presence of mind not to put on my

glove.

I must observe more accurately; I must decide whether this angelic

Leonora is, or is not susceptible of the mortal passion ycleped

jealousy. I confess my curiosity is awakened.

Adieu, my ever amiable Gabrielle. OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXII.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

When the passions are asleep we are apt to fancy they are dead. I verily

thought that curiosity was dead within me, it had lain so long dormant,

while stronger and tenderer sentiments waked in full activity; but

now that absence and distance from their object lull them to temporary

repose, the vulgar subordinate passions are roused, and take their

turn to reign. My curiosity was so strongly excited upon the subject of

Leonora’s jealousy, that I could not rest, without attempting to obtain

satisfaction. Blame me not, dearest Gabrielle, for in my situation you

would inevitably have done the same, only that you would have done it

with more address; with that peculiar, inimitable address, which I envy

above all your accomplishments. But address is a delicate native of

France, and though it may now and then exist as a stranger, I doubt

whether it can ever be naturalized in our rude climate. All the attempts

I have made are, however, encouraging enough--you shall judge. My object

was, to ascertain the existence or non-existence of Leonora’s jealousy.

I set about it with a tolerably careless assurance, and followed up the

hint which accident had thrown out for my ingenuity to work upon. You

remember, or at least I remember, that Leonora withdrew her arm from

mine, and stooped to gather a flower at the moment when her husband

mentioned Florence, and the resemblance of my voice to that of some

Italian charmer. The next day I happened to play some of my sweetest

Italian airs, and to accompany them with my voice. The music-room opens

into the great hall: Leonora and her husband were in the hall, talking

to some visitors. The voices were soon hushed, as I expected, by the

magic sounds, but, what I did not expect, Leonora was the first who

led the way into the music-room. Was this affectation? These _simple_

characters sometimes baffle all the art of the decipherer. I should

have been clear that it was affectation, had Leonora been prodigal of

compliments on my performance; but she seemed only to listen for her own

pleasure, and left it to Mr. L---- to applaud. Whilst I was preparing to

play over again the air which pleased him most, the two little nephews

came running to beg Leonora would follow them to look at some trifle,

some coloured shadow, upon the garden-wall, I think they said: she

let them lead her off, leaving _us_ together. This did not seem like

jealousy. I was more at a loss than ever, and determined to make fresh

and more decisive experiments. Curiosity, you know, is heightened by

doubt. To cure myself of curiosity, it is necessary therefore to put my

mind out of doubt. Admire the practical application of metaphysics! But

metaphysics always make you yawn. Adieu for to-day.

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXIII.

MRS. C---- TO MISS B----.

L---- Castle.

Dear Margaret, an uncle of mine, who, ever since I can remember, seemed

to me cut out for an old bachelor, writes me word that he is just going

to be married, and that I must grace his nuptials. I cannot refuse, for

he has always been very kind to me, and we have no right to cut

people out for old bachelors. That I am sorry to leave Leonora, it

is superfluous to tell you; but this is the melancholy part of the

business, on which I make it a principle to dwell as little as possible.

Lady Olivia must be heartily glad that I am going, for I have been

terribly troublesome to her by my gaiety and my _simplicity_. I shall

lose all the pleasure I had promised myself in seeing the _dénouement_

of the comedy of _The Sentimental Coquette_; or, _The Heroine unmasked_.

I made Leonora almost angry with me this morning, by a hint or two I

gave upon this subject. She looked so very grave, that I was afraid of

my own thoughts, and I dared not explain myself farther. Intimate as I

am with her, there are points on which I am sure that she would never

make me her confidante. I think that she has not been in her usual good

spirits lately; and though she treats Olivia with uniform kindness,

and betrays not, even to my watchful eyes, the slightest symptom of

jealousy, yet I suspect that she sees what is going forward, and she

suffers in secret. Now, if she would let me explain myself, I could

set her heart at ease, by the assurance that Mr. L---- is only acting

a part. If her affection for her husband did not almost blind her, she

would have as much penetration as I have--which you will allow, my dear

Margaret, is saying a great deal.

Yours affectionately,

HELEN C----.

* * * * *

LETTER XXIV.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

L---- Castle.

Congratulate me, my charming Gabrielle, upon being delivered from

the unfeeling gaiety of that friend of Leonora, that Helen of whom I

formerly sent you a too flattering portrait. Her departure relieves me

from many painful sensations. Dissonance to a musical ear is not

more horrid, than want of harmony between characters, to the soul of

sensibility. Between Helen and me there was a perpetual discord of ideas

and sentiments, which fatigued me inexpressibly. Besides, I began to

consider her as a spy upon my actions. But there, I believe, I did her

injustice, for she was too much occupied with her own trifling thoughts

to have any alarming powers of observation.

Since her departure we have been very gay. Yesterday we had a large

company at dinner; some of the neighbouring families, whom I expected to

find mere country visitors, that were come a dozen miles to show their

antediluvian finery, retire half an hour after dinner, spoil coffee with

cream, say nothing, but at their appointed hours rise, ring for their

superb carriages, and go home by moonlight. However, to my astonishment,

I found myself in a society of well-bred, well-informed persons; the

women ready to converse, and the men, even after dinner, not impatient

to get rid of them. Two or three of the company had travelled, and I was

glad to talk to them of Italy, Switzerland, and France. Mr. L---- I knew

would join in this conversation. I discovered that he came to Florence

just as I was leaving it. I was to have been at our ambassador’s one

evening when he was there; but a headache prevented me. These little

coincidences, you know, my Gabrielle, draw people closer together. I

remember to have heard of a Mr. L---- at Florence, who was a passionate

admirer of our sex. He was then unmarried. I little thought that this

was the same person. Beneath a cold exterior these Englishmen often

conceal a wondrous quantity of enthusiasm--volcanoes under snow.

Curiosity, dear indefatigable curiosity, supported me through the

labour of clearing away the snow, and I came to indubitable traces of

unextinguished and unextinguishable fire. The character of L---- is

quite different from what I had imagined it to be. It is an _excellent

study_. We had a long and interesting conversation upon national

manners, especially upon those of the females of all nations. He

concluded by quoting the words of your friend M. le Vicomte de Segur,

“If I were permitted to choose, I should prefer a French woman for

my friend, an English woman for my wife, and a Polish lady for my

mistress.”

From this, it seems, that I am mistaken about the Italian signora,

or else Mr. L---- has an enlarged charity for the graces of all

nations.--More subject for curiosity.

In the evening, before the company separated, we were standing on the

steps of the great hall, looking at a fine effect of moonlight, and I

pointed out the shadow of the arches of a bridge. From moonlight we went

on to lamplight, and many pretty things were said about art and nature.

A gentleman, who had just returned from Paris, talked of the reflection

of the lamps in the Seine, which one sees in crossing the Pont-Royal,

and which, as he said, appear like a colonnade of fire. As soon as he

had finished _prosing_ about his colonnade, I turned to Mr. L----, and

asked if he remembered the account which Coxe the traveller gives of

the Polish princess Czartoryski’s charming _fête champêtre_ and the

illuminated rustic bridge of one arch, the reflection of which in the

water was so strong as to deceive the eye, and to give the whole the

appearance of a brilliant circle suspended in the air. Mr. L---- seemed

enchanted with my description, and eagerly said that he would some night

have a bridge in his improvements, illuminated, that _we_ (half-gallant

Englishman!) might see the effect. I carelessly replied, that probably

it would have a good effect: I would then have talked on other subjects

to the lady next me: but an Englishman cannot suddenly change the course

of his conversation. Mr. L---- still persisted in asking a variety of

questions about this Polish fête. I excused myself; for if you satisfy

curiosity you are no longer sublime; besides it is so pedantic to

remember _accurately_ any thing one meets with in books. I assured him

that I had forgotten the particulars.

My countrymen are wondrous persevering, when once roused. This morning,

when I came down to breakfast, I found Mr. L---- with a volume of Coxe’s

travels in his hand. He read aloud to Leonora the whole description of

the illuminated gardens, and of a Turkish tent of curious workmanship,

and of a pavilion, supported by pillars, ornamented with wreaths of

flowers. Leonora’s birthday is some time in the next month; and her

husband, probably to prevent any disagreeable little feelings, proposed

that the _fête champêtre_, he designed to give, should be on that day.

She seemed rather to discourage the thing. Now to what should this

indifference be attributed? To jealousy I should positively decide, but

that two reasons oppose this idea, and keep me in doubt. She was not

within hearing at the moonlight conference, and knew nothing of my

having mentioned the Polish fête, or of her husband’s having proposed

to illuminate the bridge for me. Besides, I remember, the other day when

she was reading the new French novel you sent me, she expressed great

dislike to the sentimental fêtes, which the lover prepares for his

mistress. I would give more than I dare tell you, my dear Gabrielle, to

be able to decide whether she is jealous of me or not. But where was I?

Mr. L----, who had set his heart upon the _fête champêtre_, persisted,

and combatted her antipathy by reason. Foolish man! he should have tried

compliments, or caresses--if I had not been present.

“My dear Leonora,” said he, “I think you carry your dislike to these

things too far. They are more according to the French than to the

English taste, I know; but we should not be influenced by national

prejudice. I detest the ostentation and the affectation of sentiment

as much as you can; but where the real feeling exists, every mode of

showing kindness is agreeable. You must let us have this little fête on

your birthday. Besides the pleasure it will give me, I really think it

is useful to mix ideas of affection with amusement.”

She smiled most graciously, and replied, that she would with pleasure

accept of kindness in any form from him. In short, she was willing to

have the fête, when it was clearly explained that she was to be the

object of it. Is not this proof positive of jealousy? And yet my

curiosity is not thoroughly satisfied. I must go on; for Leonora’s sake

I must go on. When I have been assured of the truth, I shall know how

to conduct myself; and you, who know my heart, will do me the justice to

believe, that when I am convinced of my friend’s weakness, I shall spare

it with the most delicate caution: but till I am convinced, I am in

perpetual danger of blundering by my careless, inadvertent innocence.

You smile, Gabrielle; dear malicious Gabrielle, even in your malice you

are charming! Adieu! Pray for the speedy extinction of my curiosity.

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXV.

LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

You say, my dearest mother, that of late, my letters have been more

constrained and less cheerful than usual, and you conjure me not to

conceal from you any thing which may concern my happiness. I have ever

found you my best and most indulgent friend, and there is not a thought

or feeling of my mind, however weak or foolish, that I desire to conceal

from you. No one in this world is more--is so much interested in

my happiness; and, in every doubtful situation, I have always been

accustomed to apply to your unerring judgment for assistance. Your

strength of mind, your enlightened affection, would support and direct

me, would at once show me how I ought to act, and inspire me with

courage and fortitude sufficient to be worthy of your esteem and of

my own. At no period of my life, not even when my heart first felt the

confused sensations of a passion that was new to it, did I ever want or

wish for a friend so much as at this instant: and yet I hesitate whether

I ought to ask even your advice, whether I ought to indulge myself in

speaking of my feelings even to my mother. I refrained from giving the

slightest intimation of them to my dear Helen, though she often led to

this subject, and seemed vexed by my reserve. I thought it not right

to accept of her sympathy. From her kindness I had every consolation

to expect, but no assistance from her counsels, because she does not

understand Mr. L----‘s character, and I could plainly perceive that she

had an erroneous idea so fixed in her fancy, as to prevent her seeing

things in their true light. I am afraid of imputing blame where I most

wish to avoid it: I fear to excite unjust suspicions; I dread that if I

say the whole, you will imagine that I mean much more than I say.

I have not been quite well lately, and my mind probably is more apt

to be alarmed than it would be, if my health were stronger. All that I

apprehend, may exist merely in my own distempered imagination. Do not

then suppose others are to blame, when perhaps I only am in fault. I

have for some time past been dissatisfied with myself, and have had

reason to be so: I do not say this from any false humility; I despise

that affectation; but I say it with a sincere desire that you may assist

me to cure myself of a weakness, which, if it were to grow upon my mind,

must render me miserable, and might destroy the happiness of the person

I love best upon earth. You know that I am not naturally or habitually

of a suspicious temper, but I am conscious of having lately felt a

disposition to jealousy. I have been spoiled by the excessive attention,

which my husband paid to me in the first year of our marriage.

You warned me not to fancy that he could continue always a lover. I

did not, at least I tried not to expect such an impossibility. I was

prepared for the change, at least I thought I was: yet now the time, the

inevitable time is come, and I have not the fortitude to bear it as I

ought. If I had never known what it was to possess his love, I might

perhaps be content with his friendship. If I could feel only friendship

for him, I should now, possibly, be happy. I know that I have the first

place in his esteem: I do believe--I should be miserable indeed if I

did not believe--that I have the first place in his affection. But this

affection is certainly different from what it once was. I wish I could

forget the difference. No: I retract that wish; however painful the

comparison, the recollection of times that are past is delightful to my

heart. Yet, my dear mother, if such times are never to return, it would

be better for me to forget that they have ever been. It would be wiser

not to let my imagination recur to the past, which could then tend only

to render me discontented with the present and with the future. The

FUTURE! how melancholy that word sounds to me! What a dreary length of

prospect it brings to my view! How young I am, how many years may I have

to live, and how little motive have I left in life! Those which used to

act most forcibly upon me, have now scarcely power to move my mind. The

sense of duty, it is true, raises me to some degree of exertion; I hope

that I do not neglect the education of the two children whom my poor

sister bequeathed to my care. When my mind was at ease they were my

delight; but now I feel that I am rather interrupted than interested by

their childish gaiety and amusements.

I am afraid that I am growing selfish, and I am sure that I have become

shamefully indolent. I go on with certain occupations every day from

habit, not from choice; my mind is not in them. I used to flatter myself

that I did many things, from a sense of duty and of general benevolence,

which I am convinced were done merely from a particular wish to please,

and to make myself more and more beloved by the object of my fondest

affection. Disappointed in this hope, I sink into indolence, from which

the desire to entertain my friends is not sufficient to rouse me. Helen

has been summoned away; but I believe I told you that Mr. and Mrs.

F----, whose company is peculiarly agreeable to my taste, and Lady M----

and her amiable daughters, and your witty friend ----, are with us. In

such society I am ashamed of being stupid; yet I cannot contribute to

the amusement of the company, and I feel surprised at their animation

and sprightliness. It seems as if I was looking on at dances, without

hearing any music. Sometimes I fear that my silence should be observed,

and then I begin to talk, without well knowing what I am saying. I

confine myself to the most common-place subjects, and hesitate, from the

dread of saying something quite foreign to the purpose. What must Mr.

L---- think of my stupidity? But he does not, I believe, perceive it: he

is so much occupied with--with other objects. I am glad that he does not

see all that passes in my mind, for he might despise me if he knew that

I am so miserable. I did not mean to use so strong an expression;

but now it is written, I will not blot it out, lest you should fancy

something worse than the reality. I am not, however, yet so weak as to

be seriously _miserable_ when I have no real cause to be so. The truth

is ----. Now you know this phrase is a tacit confession that all that

has been said before is false. The real truth is ----. By my prefacing

so long you may be sure that I have reason to be ashamed of this

real truth’s coming out. The real truth is, that I have been so long

accustomed to be the first and _only_ object of Mr. L----‘s thoughts,

that I cannot bear to see him think of any thing else. Yes, _things_

I can bear; but not _persons_--female persons; and there is one person

here, who is so much more agreeable and entertaining than I am, that she

engrosses very naturally almost all his attention. I am not _envious_,

I am sure; for I could once admire all Lady Olivia’s talents and

accomplishments, and no one could be more charmed than I was, with her

fascinating manners and irresistible powers of pleasing; but when those

irresistible powers may rob me of the heart of my beloved husband--of

the whole happiness of my life--how can I admire them? All I can promise

is to preserve my mind from the meanness of suspicion. I can do my rival

justice. I can believe, and entreat you to believe, that she does not

wish to be my rival: that she is perfectly innocent of all design to

injure me, and that she is not aware of the impression she has made. I,

who know every change of Mr. L----‘s countenance, every inflexion of

his voice, every turn of his mind, can see too plainly what she

cannot discern. I should indeed have thought, that no woman, whom he

distinguished or preferred in any degree, could avoid perceiving it, his

manner is so expressive, so flattering; but perhaps this appears so only

to me--a woman, who does not love him, may see things very differently.

Lady Olivia can be in no danger, because her heart, fortunately for

me, is prepossessed in favour of another; and a woman whose heart is

occupied by one object is absolutely blind, as I well know, to all

others. With this security I ought to be satisfied; for I believe no one

inspires a lasting passion, without sharing it.

I am summoned to give my opinion about certain illuminations and

decorations for a _fête champêtre_ which Mr. L---- is so kind as to

give in honour of my birthday--just at the time I am complaining of his

neglect!--No, dear mother, I hope I have not complained of _him_, but

of _myself_:--and it is your business to teach your daughter to be more

reasonable. Write soon and fully to

Your affectionate

LEONORA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXVI.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

This fine _fête champêtre_ is over.--Expect no description of it from

me, Gabrielle, for I am horribly out of humour. The whole pleasure of

the evening was destroyed by the most foolish circumstance imaginable.

Leonora’s jealousy is now evident to more eyes than mine. No farther

doubt upon the subject can remain. My curiosity is satisfied; but I am

now left to reproach myself, for having gone so far to ascertain what

I ought to have taken for granted. All these good English wives are

jealous; so jealous, that no one, who has any pretensions to beauty,

wit, or _amiability_, can live with them. They can have no _society_

in our sense of the word; of course they must live shut up in their own

dismal houses, with their own stupid families, the faithful husband

and wife sitting opposite to each other in their own chimney corners,

yawning models of constancy. And this they call virtue! How the meanest

vices usurp the name of virtue! Leonora’s is a jealousy of the most

illiberal and degrading species; a jealousy of the temper, not of the

heart. She is too cold to feel the passion of love.--She never could

be in love; of that I am certain. She is too reasonable, too prudish.

Besides, to imagine that she could be in love with her own husband,

and after eighteen months’ marriage--the thing is absurd! the thing is

impossible! No, she deceives herself or him, or both, if she pretends

that her jealousy arises from love, from what you and I, Gabrielle,

understand by the word. Passion, and passion only, can plead a just

excuse of its own excesses. Were Leonora in love, I could pardon her

jealousy. But now I despise it. Yes, with all her high reputation, and

_imposing_ qualities, I must think of her with contempt. And now that

I have given vent to my feelings, with that freedom in which I ever

indulge myself in writing to you, my amiable Gabrielle, chosen friend

of my heart, I will compose myself, and give you a rational account of

things.

You know that I am said to have some taste. Leonora makes no pretensions

to any. Wishing, I suppose, that her fête should be as elegant as

possible, she consulted me about all the arrangements and decorations.

It was I that did every thing. My skill and taste were admired by the

whole company, and especially by Mr. L----. He was in remarkably good

spirits at the commencement of the evening; quite gay and gallant:

he certainly paid me a great deal of attention, and it was natural he

should; for besides being his guest, I was undoubtedly the most elegant

woman present. My fame had gone abroad; I found that I was the object of

general attention. To this I have been tolerably well accustomed all

my life; enough at least to prevent me from giving any visible sign

of being moved by admiration in whatever form it comes; whether in the

polite foreign glance, or the broad English stare. The starers enjoyed

their pleasure, and I mine: I moved and talked, I smiled or was pensive,

as though I saw them not; nevertheless the homage of their gaze was not

lost upon me. You know, my charming Gabrielle, one likes to observe

the _sensation_ one produces amongst new people. The incense that I

perceived in the surrounding atmosphere was just powerful enough

to affect my nerves agreeably: that languor which you have so

often reproached me for indulging in the company of what we call

_indifferents_ gradually dissipated; and, as poor R---- used to say of

me, I came from behind my cloud like the sun in all its glory. I

was such as you have seen me, Gabrielle, in my best days, in my best

moments, in my very best style. I wonder what would excite me to such

a waste of powers. L---- seemed inspired too: he really was quite

agreeable, and showed me off almost as well as R---- himself could have

done. I had no idea that he had this species of talent. You will never

know of what my countrymen are capable, for you are out of patience with

the statues the first half hour: now it takes an amazing time to animate

them; but they can be waked into life, and I have a pride in conquering

difficulties.--There were more men this night, in proportion to the

women, than one usually sees in English company, consequently it

was more agreeable. I was surrounded by an admiring audience, and my

conversation of course was sufficiently general to please all, and

sufficiently particular to distinguish the man whom I wished to animate.

In all this you will say there was nothing to put one out of humour,

nothing very mortifying:--but stay, my fair philosopher, do not judge

of the day till you see its end.--Leonora was so hid from my view by

the crowd of adorers, that I really did not discern her, or suspect her

jealousy. I was quite natural; I thought only of myself; I declined all

invitations to dance, declaring that it was so long since I had tried

an English country dance, that I dared not expose my awkwardness. French

country dances were mentioned, but I preferred conversation. At last

L---- persecuted me to try a Polish dance with him--a multitude

of voices overpowered me. I have not the talent which some of my

countrywomen possess in such perfection, of being obstinate about

trifles. When I can refuse with grace, ‘tis well; but when that is no

longer possible, it is my principle, or my weakness, to yield. I was

surprised to find that L----danced admirably. I became animated. You

know how dancing animates me, when I have a partner who _can_ dance--a

thing not very common in this country. We ended by _waltzing_, first in

the Polish, and afterwards in the Parisian manner. I certainly surpassed

myself--I flew, I was borne upon the wings of the wind, I floated on the

notes of the music. Animated or languid in every gradation of grace and

sentiment, I abandoned myself to the inspiration of the moment; I was

all soul, and the spectators were all admiration. To you, my Gabrielle,

I may speak thus of myself without vanity: you know the sensation I was

accustomed to produce at Paris; you may guess then what the effect

must be here, where such a style of dancing has all the captivation of

novelty. Had I doubted that my _success_ was complete, I should have

been assured of it by the faces of some prudes amongst the matrons, who

affected to think that the waltz was _too much_. As L---- was leading,

or rather supporting me to my seat, for I was quite exhausted, I

overheard a gentleman, who was at no great distance from the place where

Leonora was standing, whisper to his neighbour, “Le Valse extrême est

la volupté permise.” I fancy Leonora overheard these words, as well

as myself, for my eyes met hers at this instant, and she coloured, and

directly looked another way. L---- neither heard nor saw any thing of

all this: he was intent upon procuring me a seat; and an Englishman can

never see or think of two things at a time. A few minutes afterwards,

whilst he was fanning me, a young awkward peasant girl, quite a stranger

in this country, came up to me, and dropping her novice curtsy, said,

“Here’s a ring, my lady, I found on the grass; they tell me it is yours,

my lady!”

“No, my good girl, it is not mine,” said I.

“It is Lady Leonora’s,” said Mr. L----.

At the sound of her name Leonora came forward.

The girl looked alternately at us.

“Can you doubt,” cried Colonel A----, “which of these ladies is Mr.

L----‘s wife?”

“Oh, no, sir; this is she, _to be sure_,” said the girl, pointing to me.

What there was in the girl’s accent, or in L----‘s look, when she

pronounced the words, or in mine, or in all three together, I cannot

exactly describe; but Leonora felt it. She turned as pale as death.

I looked as unconscious as I could. L---- went on fanning me, without

seeing his wife’s change of countenance. Leonora--would you believe

it?--sank upon a bench behind us, and fainted. How her husband started,

when he felt her catch by his arm as she fell! He threw down the

fan, left me, ran for water--“Oh, Lady Leonora! Lady Leonora is ill!”

exclaimed every voice. The consternation was wonderful. They carried her

ladyship to a spot where she could have free air. I was absolutely in

an instant left alone, and seemingly as much forgotten as if I had never

existed! I was indeed so much astonished, that I could not stir from the

place where I stood; till, recollecting myself, I pushed my way through

the crowd, and came in view of Leonora just as she opened her eyes. As

soon as she came to herself, she made an effort to stand, saying that

she was quite well again, but that she would go into the house and

repose herself for a few minutes. As she rose, a hundred arms were

offered at once to her assistance. She stepped forward; and, to my

surprise, and I believe to the surprise of every body else, took mine,

made a sign to her husband not to follow us, and walked quickly towards

the house. Her woman, with a face of terror, met us, as we were going

into Lady Leonora’s apartment, with salts and hartshorn, and I know not

what in her hands.

“I am quite well, quite well again; I do not want any thing; I do not

want any thing. I do not want you, Mason,” said Leonora. “Lady Olivia is

so good as to assist me. I am come in only to rest for a few minutes.”

The woman gave me an evil look, and left the room. Never did I wish

any thing more than that she should have stayed. I was absolutely so

embarrassed, so distressed, when I found myself alone with Leonora,

that I knew not what to say. I believe I began with a sentence about

the night air, that was very little to the purpose. The sight of some

baby-linen which the maid had been making suggested to me something

which I thought more appropriate.

“My dear creature!” said I, “why will you fatigue yourself. so terribly,

and stand so much and so long in your situation?”

Leonora neither accepted nor rejected my interpretation of what had

passed. She made no reply; but fixed her eyes upon me as if she would

have read my very soul. Never did I see or feel eyes so expressive or

so powerful as hers were at this, moment. Mine absolutely fell beneath

them. What deprived me of presence of mind I know not; but I was utterly

without common sense. I am sure I changed colour, and Leonora must have

seen it through my rouge, for I had only the slightest tinge upon my

cheeks. The consciousness that she saw me blush disconcerted me beyond

recovery; it is really quite unaccountable: I trembled all over as I

stood before her; I was forced to have recourse to the hartshorn and

water, which stood upon the table. Leonora rose, and threw open the

window to give me fresh air. She pressed my hand, but rather with an

air of forgiveness than of affection; I was mortified and vexed; but my

pride revived me.

“We had better return to the company as soon as possible, I believe,”

said she, looking down at the moving crowd below.

“I am ready to attend you, my dear,” said I, coldly, “whenever you feel

yourself sufficiently rested and composed.”

She left the room, and I followed. You have no idea of the solicitude

with which the people hoped she was _better_--and _well_--and _quite

well_, &c. What amazing importance a fainting fit can sometimes bestow!

Her husband seemed no longer to have any eyes or soul but for her.

At supper, and during the rest of the night, she occupied the whole

attention of every body present. Can you conceive any thing so

provoking? But L---- must be an absolute fool!--Did he never see a woman

faint before?--He cannot pretend to be in love with his wife--I do not

understand it.--But this I know, that he has been totally different in

his manner towards me these three days past.

And now that my curiosity is satisfied about Leonora’s jealousy, I

shall absolutely perish with ennui in this stupid place. Adieu, dearest

Gabrielle! How I envy you! The void of my heart is insupportable. I must

have some passion to keep me alive. Forward any letters from poor R----,

if he has written under cover to you.

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXVII.

THE DUCHESS OF ---- TO HER DAUGHTER.

Take courage, my beloved daughter; take courage. Have a just confidence

in yourself and in your husband. For a moment he may be fascinated by

the arts of an unprincipled woman; for a moment she may triumph over

his senses, and his imagination; but of his esteem, his affection, his

heart, she cannot rob you. These have been, ought to be, will be yours.

Trust to your mother’s prophecy, my child. You may trust to it securely:

for, well as she loves you--and no mother ever loved a daughter

better--she does not soothe you with mere words of doting fondness; she

speaks to you the language of reason and of truth.

I know what such a man as Mr. L---- must esteem and love; I know of what

such a woman as my daughter is capable, when her whole happiness, and

the happiness of all that is dear to her, are at stake. The loss of

temporary admiration and power, the transient preference shown to a

despicable rival, will not provoke you to imprudent reproach, nor sink

you to helpless despair. The arts of an Olivia might continue to

deceive your husband, if he were a fool; or to please him, if he were a

libertine: but he has a heart formed for love, he cannot therefore be a

libertine: he is a man of superior abilities, and knows women too

well to be a dupe. With a penetrating and discriminative judgment

of character, he is a nice observer of female manners; his taste

is delicate even to excess; under a cold exterior he has a vivid

imagination and strong sensibility; he has little vanity, but a

superabundance of pride; he wishes to be ardently loved, but this

he conceals; it is difficult to convince him that he is beloved, and

scarcely possible to satisfy him by any common proofs of attachment. A

coquette will never attach Mr. L----. The admiration which others might

express for her charms and accomplishments, would never pique him to

competition: far from seeking “to win her praise whom all admire,” he

would disdain to enter the lists with the vulgar multitude: a heart,

in which he had a probability of holding only divided empire, would

not appear to him worth the winning. As a coquette, whatever may be

her talents, graces, accomplishments, and address, you have nothing

seriously to fear from Lady Olivia.

But, my dear, Mr. L----‘s mind may be in a situation to require

amusement. That species of apathy which succeeds to passion is not,

as the inexperienced imagine, the death of love, but the necessary and

salutary repose from which it awakens refreshed and revived. Mr. L----‘s

passion for you has been not only tender, but violent, and the calm,

which inevitably succeeds, should not alarm you.

When a man feels that his fondness for a wife is suspended, he is uneasy

in her company, not only from the sense of decreased pleasure, but from

the fear of her observation and detection. If she reproach him, affairs

become worse; he blames himself, he fears to give pain whenever he is in

her presence: if he attempt to conceal his feelings, and to appear what

he is no longer, a lover, his attempts are awkward; he becomes more and

more dissatisfied with himself; and the person who compels him to this

hypocrisy, who thus degrades him in his own eyes, must certainly be in

danger of becoming an object of aversion. A wife, who has sense enough

to abstain from all reproaches, direct or indirect, by word or look, may

reclaim her husband’s affections: the bird escapes from his cage, but

returns to his nest. I am glad that you have agreeable company at your

house; they will amuse Mr. L----, and relieve you from the necessity of

taking a share in any conversation that you dislike. Our witty friend

----will supply your share of conversation; and as to your silence,

remember that witty people are always content with those who _act

audience_.

I rejoice that you persist in your daily occupations. To a mind like

yours, the sense of performing your duty will, next to religion, be the

firmest support upon which you can rely.

Perhaps, my dear, even when you read this, you will still be inclined to

justify Lady Olivia, and to conceal from your heart the suspicions

which her conduct excites. I am not surprised, that you should find it

difficult to believe, that one to whom you have behaved so generously,

should treat you with treachery, and ingratitude. I am not surprised,

that you who feel what it is to love, should think, that a woman whose

heart is occupied by attachment to one object, must be incapable of

thinking of any other. But love in such a heart as yours is totally

different from what it is in the fancy of these heroines. In their

imagination, the objects are as fleeting as the pictures in the clouds

chased by the wind.

From Lady Olivia expect nothing: depend only on yourself. When you

become, as you soon must, completely convinced that the woman, in whom

your unsuspecting soul confided, is utterly unworthy of your esteem,

refrain from all imprudent expressions of indignation. I despise--you

will soon hate--your rival; but in the moment of detection think of what

is due to yourself, and act as calmly as if you had never loved her.

She will suffer no pain from the loss of your friendship: she has not a

heart that can value it. Probably she is envious of you. All these women

desire to mortify those whom they cannot degrade to their own level:

and I am inclined to suspect that this malevolent feeling, joined to

the want of occupation, may be the cause of her present conduct. Her

manoeuvres will not ultimately succeed. She will be deserted by Mr.

L----, disappointed and disgraced, and your husband will be more yours

than ever. When this happy moment comes, my Leonora; when your husband

returns, preferring yours to all other society, then will be the time

to exert all your talents, all your charms, to prove your superiority

in every thing, but most in love. The soothings of female tenderness,

in certain situations, have power not only to calm the feelings of

self-reproach, but to diffuse delight over the soul of man. The oil,

which the skilful mariner throws upon the sea, not only smooths the

waves in the storm, but when the sun shines, spreads the most beautiful

colours over the surface of the waters.

My dear daughter, though your mother writes seemingly at her ease, you

must not fancy that she does not feel for you. Do not imagine, that in

the coldness of extinguished passions, and in the pride of counselling

age, your mother expects to charm agony with words. No, my child, I am

not so absurd, so cruel. Your letter forced tears from eyes, which are

not used like sentimental eyes to weep upon every trifling occasion.

My first wish was to set out immediately to see you; but whatever

consolation or pleasure my company might afford, I believe it might be

disadvantageous to you in your present circumstances. I could not be an

hour in the room with this Lady Olivia, without showing some portion of

the indignation and contempt that I feel for her conduct. This warmth of

mine might injure you in your husband’s opinion. Though you would have

too strong a sense of propriety, and too much dignity of mind, to make

complaints of your husband to me, or to any one living; yet it might

be supposed that your mother was your confidante in secret, and your

partisan in public: this might destroy your domestic happiness. No

husband can or ought to endure the idea of his wife’s caballing against

him. I admire and shall respect your dignified silence.

And now fare you well, my dearest child. May God bless you! If a

mother’s prayers could avail, you would be the happiest of human beings.

I do, without partiality, believe you to be one of the best and most

amiable of women. ----

* * * * *

LETTER XXVIII.

LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

Had your letter, my dearest mother, reached me a few hours sooner, I

should not have exposed myself as I have done.

Yesterday, at our _fête champêtre_, you would have been ashamed of me. I

am ashamed of myself. I did the very reverse of what I ought, of what

I would have done, if I had been fortified by your counsel. Instead of

being calm and dignified, I was agitated beyond all power of control. I

lost all presence of mind, all common sense, all recollection.

I know your contempt for swooning heroines. What will you say, when you

hear that your daughter fainted--fainted in public? I believe, however,

that, as soon as I recovered, I had sufficient command over myself to

prevent the accident from being attributed to the real cause, and I hope

that the very moment I came to my recollection, my manner towards Lady

Olivia was such as to preclude all possibility of her being blamed or

even suspected. From living much abroad, she has acquired a certain

freedom of manner, and latitude of thinking, which expose her to

suspicion; but of all serious intention to injure me, or to pass the

bounds of propriety, I totally acquit her. She is not to blame for the

admiration she excites, nor is she to be the sufferer for my weakness of

mind or of health.

Great and unreasonable folly I am sure I showed--but I shall do so no

more.

The particular circumstances I need not explain: you may be assured,

that wherever I think it right to be silent, nothing shall tempt me

to speak: but I understood, by the conclusion of your letter, that you

expect me to preserve an absolute silence upon this subject in future:

this I will not promise. I cannot conceive that I, who do not mean to

injure any human being, ought, because I am unhappy, and when I am most

in want of a friend, to be precluded from the indulgence of speaking

of what is nearest my heart to that dear, safe, most enlightened, and

honourable of friends, who has loved, guided, instructed, and encouraged

me in every thing that is right from my infancy. Why should I be refused

all claim to sympathy? why must my thoughts and feelings be shut up

in my own breast? and why must I be a solitary being, proscribed from

commerce with my own family, with my beloved mother, to whom I have been

accustomed to tell every feeling and idea as they arose? No; to all

that is honourable I will strictly conform; but, by the superstition of

prudence, I do not hold myself bound.

Nothing could be kinder than my husband’s conduct to me the evening

after I was taken ill. He left home early this morning; he is gone to

meet his friend, General B----, who has just returned from abroad. I

hope that Mr. L---- will be absent only a few days; for it would be

fatal to my happiness if he should find amusement at a distance from

home. His home, at all events, shall never be made a cage to him; when

he returns, I will exert myself to the utmost to make it agreeable. This

I hope can be done without obtruding my company upon him, or putting

myself in competition with any person. I could wish that some fortunate

accident might induce Lady Olivia to leave us before Mr. L----‘s return.

Had I the same high opinion of her generosity that I once formed, had I

the same perfect confidence in her integrity and in her friendship for

me, I would go this moment and tell her all that passes in my heart: no

humiliation of my vanity would cost me any thing if it could serve the

interests of my love; no mean pride could stand in my mind against the

force of affection. But there is a species of pride which I cannot, will

not renounce--believing, as I do, that it is the companion, the friend,

the support of virtue. This pride, I trust, will never desert me: it has

grown with my growth; it was implanted in my character by the education

which my dear mother gave me; and now, even by her, it cannot be

eradicated. Surely I have misunderstood one passage in your letter: you

cannot advise your daughter to restrain just indignation against vice

from any motive of policy or personal interest. You say to me, “In the

moment of detection think of what is due to yourself, and act as calmly

as if you had never loved her.” If I _could_, I would not do this.

Contempt shown by virtue is the just punishment of vice, a punishment

which no selfish consideration should mitigate. If I were convinced

that Lady Olivia were guilty, would you have me behave to her as if I

believed her to be innocent? My countenance, my voice, my principles,

would revolt from such mean and pernicious hypocrisy, degrading to the

individual, and destructive to society.

May I never more see the smile of love on the lips of my husband, nor

its expression in his eyes, if I do so degrade myself in my own opinion

and in his! Yes, in his; for would not he, would not any man of sense or

delicacy, recur to that idea so common with his sex, and so just, that

if a woman will sacrifice her sense of honour to her passions in one

instance, she may in another? Would he not argue, “If she will do this

for me because she is in love with me, why not for a new favourite, if

time or accident should make me less an object of passion?” No; I may

lose his love--this would be my misfortune: but to forfeit his esteem

would be my fault; and, under the remorse which I should then have to

endure, I am persuaded that no power of art or nature could sustain my

existence.

So much for myself. As to the general good of society, that, I confess,

is not at this moment the uppermost consideration in my mind; but I

will add a few words on that subject, lest you should imagine me to be

hurried away by my own feelings. Public justice and reason are, I

think, on my side. What would become of the good order of society or the

decency of families, if every politic wife were to receive or invite, or

permit her husband’s mistress to reside in her house? What would become

of conjugal virtue in either sex, if the wife were in this manner not

only to connive at the infidelity of her husband, but to encourage and

provide for his inconsistency? If she enters into bonds of amity and

articles of partnership with her rival, with that person by whom she has

been most injured, instead of being the dignified sufferer, she becomes

an object of contempt.

My dearest mother, my most respected friend, my sentiments on this

subject cannot essentially differ from yours. I must have mistaken your

meaning. Pray write quickly, and tell me so; and forgive, if you cannot

approve of, the warmth with which I have spoken.

I am your truly affectionate

And grateful daughter,

LEONORA L----

* * * * *

LETTER XXIX.

OLIVIA TO MADAME P----.

My amiable Gabrielle, I must be faithful to my promise of writing to you

every week, though this place affords nothing new either in events or

sentiment. Mr. L----‘s absence made this castle insupportably dull.

A few days ago he returned home, and met me with an easy kind of

indifference, provoking enough to a woman who has been accustomed to

excite some sensation. However, I was rejoiced at this upon Leonora’s

account. She was evidently delighted, and her spirits and affections

seemed to overflow involuntarily upon all around her; even to me her

manner became quite frank and cordial, almost caressing. She is really

handsome when she is animated, and her conversation this evening quite

surprised me. I saw something of that playfulness, those light touches,

that versatility of expression, those words that mean more than meet

the ear; every thing, in short, that could charm in the most polished

foreign society. Leonora seemed to be inspired with all the art of

conversation, by the simple instinct of affection. What astonished me

most was the grace with which she introduced some profound philosophical

remarks. “Such pearls,” said Mr. L----, “come from the deep.”

With all these talents, what might not Leonora be in proper hands! But

now she is nothing except to her husband, and a few intimate friends.

However, this is not my affair. Let me go on to what concerns myself.

You may believe, my dear Gabrielle, that I piqued myself upon showing at

least as much easy indifference as was shown to me: freedom encourages

freedom. As there was no danger of my being too amiable, I did not think

myself bound in honour or sentiment to keep myself in the shade; but

I could not be as brilliant as you have seen me at your _soirées_: the

magic circle of adorers, the inspiring power of numbers, the éclat of

public _representation_, were wanting. I retired to my own apartment at

night, quite out of humour with myself; and Josephine, as she undressed

me, put me still further out of patience, by an ill-timed history of

a dispute she has had with Leonora’s Swiss servant. The Swiss and

Josephine, it seems, came to high words in defence of their mistresses’

charms. Josephine provoked the Swiss by saying, that his lady might

possibly be handsome if she were dressed in the French taste; _mais

qu’elle étoit bien Angloise_, and would be quite another thing if she

had been at Paris. The Swiss retorted by observing, that Josephine’s

lady had indeed learnt in perfection at Paris _the art of making herself

up_, which was quite necessary to a beauty _un peu passée_. The words

were not more agreeable to me than they had been to Josephine. I wonder

at her assurance in repeating them--“Un peu passée!” Many a woman in

England, ten, fifteen years older than I am, has inspired a violent

passion; and it has been observed, that power is retained by these

mature charmers, longer than conquest can be preserved by inexperienced

beauties. There are women who have learnt to combine, for their

own advantage, and for that of their captives, all the pleasure and

_conveniences_ of society, all that a thorough knowledge of the world

can give--women who have a sufficient attention to appearances,

joined to a real contempt of all prejudices, especially that of

constancy--women who possess that knowledge of the human heart, which

well compensates transient bloom; who add the expression of sentiment to

beautiful features, and who employ

“Gay smiles to comfort, April showers to move,

And all the nature, all the art of Love.”

--“Un peu passée!” The Swiss is impertinent, and knows nothing of

the matter. His master knows but little more. He would, however, know

infinitely more if I could take the trouble to instruct him; to which

I am almost tempted for want of something better to do. Adieu, my

Gabrielle. R----‘s silence is perfectly incomprehensible.

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXX.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

So, my amiable Gabrielle, you are really interested in my letters,

_though written during my English exile_, and you are curious to know

whether any of my _potent spells_ can wake into life this man of marble.

I candidly confess you would inspire me with an ambition to raise my

poor countrymen in your opinion, if I were not restrained by the sacred

sentiment of friendship, which forbids me to rival Leonora _even_ in a

husband’s opinion.

However, Josephine, who feels herself a party concerned ever since

her battle with the Swiss, has piqued herself upon dressing me

with exquisite taste. I am every day _mise à ravir_!--and with such

perfection of art, that no art appears--all is negligent simplicity.

I let Josephine please herself; for you know I am not bound to be

frightful, because I have a friend whose husband may chance to turn his

eye upon my figure, when he is tired of admiring hers. I rallied L----

the other day upon his having no eyes or ears but for his wife. Be

assured I did it in such a manner that he could not be angry. Then I

went on to a comparison between the _facility_ of French and English

society. He admitted that there was some truth and more wit in my

observations. I was satisfied. With these reasonable men, the grand

point for a woman is to amuse them--they can have logic from their own

sex. But, my Gabrielle, I am summoned to the _salon_, and must finish my

letter another day.

* * * * *

Heaven! can it be a fortnight since I wrote a line to my

Gabrielle!--Where was I?--“With these reasonable men the grand point

for a woman is to amuse them.” True--most true! L----, believing

himself only amused with my lively nonsense, indulged himself with it

continually. I was to believe only what he believed. Presently he could

not do without my conversation for more than two hours together. What

was I to do, my Gabrielle? I walked out to avoid him. He found me in the

woods--rallied me on my taste for solitude, and quoted Voltaire.

This led to a metaphysical conversation, half playful, half

serious:--the distinction which a man sometimes makes to his conscience

between thinking a woman entertaining, and feeling her interesting,

vanishes more easily, and more rapidly, than he is aware of--at least

in certain situations. This was not an observation I could make to my

companion in the woods, and he certainly did not make it for himself. It

would have been vanity in me to have broken off our conversation, lest

he should fall in love with me--it would have been blindness not to have

seen that he was in some danger. I thought of Leonora--and sighed--and

did all that was in my power to put him upon his guard. By way of

preservative, I frankly made him a confession of my attachment to R----.

This I imagined would put things upon a right footing for ever; but,

on the contrary, by convincing him of my innocence, and of my having

no designs on his heart, this candour has, I fear, endangered him still

more; yet I know not what to think--his manner is so variable towards

me--I must be convinced of what his sentiments are, before I can decide

what my conduct ought to be. Adieu, my amiable Gabrielle; I wait for

something decisive with an inexpressible degree of anxiety--I will not

now call it curiosity.--Apropos, does R---- wish that I should forget

that he exists? What is this business that detains him? But why do I

condescend to inquire?

OLIVIA.

* * * * *

LETTER XXXI.

GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.

MY DEAR L----, London.

I send you the horse to which you took a fancy. He has killed one of his

grooms, and lamed two; but you will be his master, and I hope he will

know it.

I have a word to say to you on a more serious subject. Pardon me if I

tell you that I think you are a happy man, and excuse me if I add, that

if you do not keep yourself so I shall not think you a wise one. A

good wife is better than a good-for-nothing mistress.--A self-evident

proposition!--A stupid truism! Yes; but if every man who knows a

self-evident proposition when he sees it on paper, always acted as if he

knew it, this would be a very wise and a very happy world; and I should

not have occasion to write this letter.

You say that you are only amusing yourself at the expense of a finished

coquette; take care that she does not presently divert herself

at yours.--“_You are proof against French coquetry and German

sentiment_.”--Granted--but a fine woman?--and your own vanity?--But you

have no vanity.--You call it pride then, I suppose. I will not quarrel

with you for a name. Pride, properly managed, will do your business as

well as vanity. And no doubt Lady Olivia knows this as well as I do. I

hope you may never know it better.

I am, my dear friend,

Truly yours,

J. B.

* * * * *

LETTER XXXII.

OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.

L---- Castle.