CHAPTER I

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THE HEROINE

by

EATON STANNARD BARRETT

With an Introduction by Walter Raleigh

London

Henry Frowde

1909

Oxford: Horace Hart

Printer to the University

INTRODUCTION

'In Glamorganshire, of a rapid decline, occasioned by the bursting of a

blood-vessel, Eaton Stannard Barrett, esq., a native of Ireland, and a

student of the Middle Temple. He published "All the Talents", a Poem,

8vo. 1817.--"The Comet", a mock newspaper, 8vo. 1803.--A very pleasing

poem intituled "Woman", 8vo. 1810.--"The Heroine, or Adventures of

Cherubina", 3 vols. 12mo, 2d. edit. 1814. This volume is said to abound

in wit and humour.'

Very little can now be added to this obituary notice, which appeared

in the __ for April, 1820. The young Irishman whose death it records

was born at Cork in 1786, received his education chiefly in London,

addicted himself to the law, and was early diverted into the

profession of letters, which he practised with great energy and

versatility. Besides the works mentioned above, he wrote a serio-comic

romance called _The Rising Sun_, and a farcical comedy, full of noise

and bustle, called _My Wife, What Wife?_ The choice of this last

phrase (sacred, if any words in poetry are sacred) for the title of a

rollicking farce indicates a certain bluntness of sensibility in the

author. He was young, and fell head over ears in love with cleverness;

he was a law-student, and took to political satire as a duck takes to

the rain; he was an Irishman, and found himself the master of a happy

Irish wit, clean, quick, and dainty, but no ways searching or

profound. At the back of all his satire there lies a simple social

creed, which he accepts from the middle-class code of his own time,

and does not question. The two of his works which achieved something

like fame, _Woman, a Poem_, and _The Heroine_, here reprinted, set

forth that creed, describing the ideal heroine in verse, and warning

her, in prose, against the extravagances that so easily beset her. The

mode in female character has somewhat changed since George was king,

and the pensive coyness set up as a model in the poem seems to a

modern reader almost as affected as the vagaries described in the

novel. Yet the poem has all the interest and brilliancy of an old

fashion-plate. Here is woman as she wished to be in the days of the

Regency, or perhaps as man wished her to be, for it is impossible to

say which began it. Both gloried in the contrast of their habits. If

man, in that age of the prize-ring and the press-gang, was

pre-eminently a drinking, swearing, fighting animal, his indelicacy

was redeemed by the shrinking graces of his mate.

For woman is not undevelopt man,

But diverse:

as the poet of the later nineteenth century sings. But Tennyson was

anticipated in this discovery by Mr. Barrett:

Yes, heaven a contrast not unmeet, designed

Between the bearded and the blushing kind.

Those who often see the bearded kind clad in overcoats, carrying

umbrellas, and timorous of social greetings, may have some difficulty

in recognizing the essential truth of the following lines, which

describe man in his grandeur, as his blushing consort loves to think of

him:

Man, from those moments, when his infant age

Cried for the moon, ambitious aims engage,

One world subdued, more worlds he wishes given,

He piles his impious tower to clamber heaven;

Scoops cities under earth; erects his home

On mountains of wild surges, vales of foam;

Soars air, and high above the thunder runs,

Now flaked with sleet, now reddened under suns.

Even in his pastime man his soul reveals;

Raised with carousing shout, his goblet reels.

Now from his chase imperial lions fly,

And now he stakes a princedom on a die.

What would he more? The consecrated game

Of murder must transmit his epic name,

Some empire tempts him; at his stern command,

An armed cloud hails iron o'er the land.

Earth thunders underneath the pondrous tread,

Son slaughters sire, the dying stab the dead.

The vallies roar, that loved a warbling mood,

Their mutilated lilies float on blood;

And corpses sicken streams, and towns expire,

And colour the nocturnal clouds with fire.

Last, vultures pounce upon the finished strife,

And dabble in the plash of human life.

Such is man, all magnificence and terror. And now a softly trilling

note ushers in the partner of his cares:

But the meek female far from war removes,

Girt with the Graces and endearing Loves.

To rear the life we destine to destroy,

To bind the wound we plant, is her employ.

Her rapine is to press from healing bud,

Or healthful herb, the vegetable blood;

Her answer, at the martial blast abhorred,

Harmonic noise along the warbling chord.

To her belong light roundelay and reel,

To her the crackling hearth and humming wheel;

(Sounds of content!) to her the milky kine,

And Peace, O Woman, gentle Peace is thine.

Their studies are as dissimilar as their tastes. Nothing less than a

comet will excite the curiosity of man; for woman the flower-garden is

science enough:

Prone o'er abstruse research, let man expound

Dark causes; what abyss our planet drowned;

And where the fiery star its hundred years

Of absence travels, ere it re-appears.

To Woman, whose best books are human hearts,

Wise heaven a genius less profound imparts.

His awful, her's is lovely; his should tell

How thunderbolts, and her's how roses fell.

Here is the genesis of the Early Victorian ideal of female beauty. The

author describes, with heart-felt sentiment, its graces and charms,

The beautiful rebuke that looks surprise,

The gentle vengeance of averted eyes;

--which last line so pleased him that it occurs again in _The

Farewell_ (Letter XXV of _The Heroine_). The shorter poem, like the

longer, has the indescribable old-world charm of a pressed rose-leaf,

an elegant tarnished mirror, a faded silken fan, a vanished mode. The

secret of this sentimental type of beauty perhaps lies here, that the

simplicity and shyness and ardour of youth are reduced, not by a

conscious science, but by the timid rules of propriety and modesty, to

the service of an all-prevailing coquetry. Ovid, as expounded by Mrs.

Chapone or Miss Hannah More, gains something in the delicacy of his

methods, and loses nothing of his empire:

Ut quondam iuvenes, ita nunc, mea turba, puellae

Inscribant spoliis: Naso magister erat.

It must be said, however, that the author of _Woman, a Poem_ does not

confine himself to the alluring graces. His best known and most quoted

lines are written in praise of courage and fidelity:

Not she denied her God with recreant tongue,

Not she with traitrous kisses round him clung;

She, while Apostles shrank, could danger brave,

Last at his cross and earliest at his grave.

If he were to survive in a single quotation, it is probably by these

lines that the author, who spent much labour on the revision and

polishing of his poem, would wish to be remembered.

It may seem strange that the author of this romantic poem on Woman

should have been so ready to parody the new school of prose romance.

Miss Cherry Wilkinson, when she took the name of Cherubina, and

commenced heroine, might certainly have found some useful hints for her

behaviour in this earlier treatise. But the fact is that no parodist is

successful who has not at some time fallen deeply under the spell of

the literature that he parodies. Parody is, for the most part, a weak

and clinging kind of tribute to the force of its original. Very perfect

parodies, which catch the soul, as well as the form, of the models that

they imitate, almost lose their identity and become a part of that

which they were meant to ridicule. Feeble parodies, where poor matter,

not strong enough to speak for itself, claims notice by the aid of a

notorious tune, are even more conspicuously dependent on the vogue of

their original. The art of a tailor is seen in the cut of a coat; to

make a mechanical copy of it, substituting tartan or fustian for

velvet, is what any Chinese slave can do. It is form in literature

which is difficult to invent. When a poem or a story, by the

individuality and novelty of its form, has caught the public taste,

there are always some among its victims who are nothing if not

critical. They cannot forget it, yet it does not content them. They

think it narrow and partial in its conception; it does not mirror

Nature exactly as they see her; in short, they have ideas of their own.

These ideas perhaps have not vitality enough to create their own

definite form, so when a form is presented to them they seize on it for

their purpose. Hence every new and original kind in literature produces

a tribe of imitators, some of them contented imitators, who undersell

the first author with colourable copies; others discontented imitators,

or parodists, who offer their own substitute for the author's wares,

yet stamp it with his brand. The compliment is the same in either case;

and the effect is not much different, for nothing so quickly exhausts

the popularity of a work of art as its power of multiplying its kind.

Some congenital weakness, it is fair to say, there must have been in

the original, when the form designed for a single purpose serves so

many others. The weakness is not always easy to detect; but it is

always there. It may be the weakness of excess; an ample and

loose-folded robe like Walt Whitman's is characteristic of its wearer,

but can soon be adapted to a borrower. Or it may be the weakness of

defect; the music and solemnity of the _Psalm of Life_ are a world too

wide for the shrunken body of the thought that they conceal. A perfect

conception expressing itself inevitably in the form that has grown

with its growth defies imitators. The great things of Virgil and of

Dante suffer no parody. And this is what is meant by a classic.

Yet lesser books have their day; and young authors, or old authors

trying a new kind of work, often begin by imitation. They discover

their genius by their failure. The famous parodies (so to call them)

are not parodies at all; their freedom from the servility of parody is

what has given them their place in literature. Cervantes may have

thought that he could criticize and banter the romances of chivalry by

telling the adventures of a poor and high-minded gentleman travelling

on the roads of Spain; but once the new situation was created it called

for a new treatment. Fielding doubtless intended to parody Richardson

by a tale of the chastity of a serving-man; and it is easy to see how a

mere wit would have carried out the design. But Fielding, like

Cervantes, was too rich in ideas, and too brave in purpose, to be

another man's mocking servitor. First Mrs. Slipslop incommodes the

framework by her intrusion, and then Parson Adams enters to complete

the disaster. The breakdown of these pretended parodies is always due

to the same cause--the appearance on an artificially designed scene of

real character. Character, where it is fully conceived, will not take

its orders from the scene-shifter; it reacts in surprising ways to

slight accidental provocations; it will not play the part or speak the

words assigned to it; it is consistent with nothing but itself; from

self-revelation it soon passes to self-assertion, and subdues the world

to its will, disordering all the puppet-show.

It cannot be claimed for Eaton Stannard Barrett that he proved

superior to the task which he undertook. There is little or no real

character in _The Heroine_. Perhaps Jerry Sullivan, the faithful Irish

servitor, with his ready speech and bold resourcefulness, comes

nearest to the life, but even he is drawn, like Lever's comic

Irishmen, not intimately. A few touches of verisimilitude are

sufficient to portray a servant, whose business is to come when he is

called and to help others in their necessities. The heroine herself

has no breath in her; she is inconceivably credulous, impossibly

ignorant, and even while she talks the author often forgets her very

existence and speaks in her stead, so that she seems to be quizzing

her own fatuity. Perhaps this incompetent portraiture was to be

expected from the author of _Woman, a Poem_, but it takes some of the

edge off the fun of the book. Cherubina is not a girl, with silly,

flighty notions in her head, such as romance engenders, but a pedantic

female lawyer, determined to order her life, down to the smallest

detail, on precedents borrowed from her favourite reading. Miss

Austen's girls, in _Northanger Abbey_, talk like girls; Cherubina

talks like a book. Nevertheless, Miss Austen herself read _The

Heroine_, and confessed to the pleasure she had from it. It enjoyed a

high and brief reputation. The first edition appeared in 1813; the

second followed it in the space of a year; and in 1816 the author,

before he was thirty years old, may have read a notice of himself in

the _Biographical Dictionary of the Living Authors of Great Britain

and Ireland_ concluding with the following eulogy: 'This work (_The

Heroine_) has been pronounced not inferior in wit and humour to

Tristram Shandy, and in point of plot and interest infinitely beyond

Don Quixote.'

Let us save what remnants we can of this monstrous pronouncement. Of

character, as has been said, there is next to none in _The Heroine_;

so that only those who can read _Don Quixote_ and _Tristram Shandy_,

careless of the characters portrayed, might possibly be able to return

a verdict on the comparison. There are many readers of books who

grudge labour spent on character-drawing; the long colloquies between

Don Quixote and Sancho or between my Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim they

would be glad to see abbreviated, so they might get back to the

confusion and bustle of life. Why all this dissection of the heart,

while there are crowns to be broke? What the soldier said is not

evidence; it is what he did that they desire to hear. For readers of

this temper there is abundance of entertainment in _The Heroine_, if

once they can bring themselves to accept the perilously slender

illusion. The scenes described are as full of movement as a

harlequinade. No Irish fair is richer in incident. And there is such a

flow of high spirits; the author carries the whole business through

with such unflagging zest, that the farce, though it hardly ever

touches on the confines of comedy, is pleasant farce, instinct with

good nature and good fellowship. Those who like a book that saves them

from the more exacting companionship of their own thoughts might do

worse than read _The Heroine_.

This is lukewarm praise; but the book has a stronger claim than this

on the interest of the reader; it marks a crisis in literary history.

The author was a well-read man, and all the fashionable literature of

his day is reflected in his pages. He was familiar with the essayists

and moralists of the eighteenth century; indeed, he often falls into

their attitude in his opposition to the extravagances of the Romantic

movement. His parody of Johnson's later style is one of the very best

of the multitude of Johnsonian imitations. Boswell, writing before

1791, was able to enumerate a distinguished array of disciples and

copyists, among them Hugh Blair, Professor of Rhetoric at Edinburgh,

George Colman the elder, Robertson the historian, Gibbon, Miss Burney,

Mrs. Barbauld, Henry Mackenzie, Vicesimus Knox, and last, John Young,

Professor of Greek at Glasgow, whose _Criticism on the Elegy written

in a Country Church-yard, being a continuation of Dr. Johnson's

Criticism on the Poems of Gray_ (1783) is rightly praised by Boswell

as the most perfect of all professed imitations of Johnson's style. It

is only half a parody; Johnson's method in criticism has been so

thoroughly assimilated by the author, that some of Johnson's strong

sense filters in here and there as if by oversight. Horace Walpole

said of it, acutely enough, that the author seemed to wish to be taken

by Gray's admirers for a ridiculer of Johnson, and by Johnson's

admirers for a censurer of Gray. But if this is the best imitation of

Johnson's critical manner, his biographical style and his light

occasional verse have never been so happily mimicked as in the

_Memoirs of James Higginson, by Himself_, which occur in Letter X of

_The Heroine_. Johnson continued to be the most influential teacher of

English prose until Macaulay, by introducing a more glittering kind of

antithesis and a freer use of the weapons of offence in criticism,

usurped his supremacy.

A more voluminous and easier literature had enthralled the popular

taste for some thirty or forty years before the author of _The

Heroine_ delivered his attack. Only a few are now remembered even by

name of that horde of romances which issued from the cheap presses, in

the train of Mrs. Radcliffe. It is reasonable to suppose that many of

them, which had not the help of that great preservative of a bad book,

good binding, have perished from off the face of the earth. They are

not yet old enough to be precious, as Elizabethan trash is precious,

and doubtless the surviving copies of some of them are even now being

cast out from lumber-rooms and remote country libraries, to suffer

their fate by fire. Their names are scattered plentifully up and down

the _Bibliotheca Britannica_ and other monumental compilations, where

books that go under in their fight against time have Christian burial

and a little headstone reserved for them. In _The Heroine_ only the

chief of them are referred to by name. The romances of Mrs.

Radcliffe--_The Mysteries of Udolpho_, _The Italian_, and _The Bravo

of Venice_--are praised as being 'often captivating and seldom

detrimental'. The rivals of Mrs. Radcliffe who wrote those enormously

popular works, _The Children of the Abbey_ and _Caroline of

Lichtfield_, receive a less respectful treatment. At the close of his

book the author of _The Heroine_ summarizes his indictment against

these and their kind: 'They present us with incidents and characters

which we can never meet in the world; and act upon the mind like

intoxicating stimulants; first elevate, and then enervate it. They

teach us to revel in ideal scenes of transport and distraction; and

harden our hearts against living misery, by making us so refined as to

feel disgust at its unpoetical accompaniments.' Throughout the book he

keeps up a running fire of criticism. When Cherubina visits

Westminster Abbey, 'It is the first,' she says, 'that I have ever

seen, though I had read of thousands.' She apologizes for using the

vulgar word 'home'--'you know that a mere home is my horror'. She

confesses that she is very inadequately armed with religion--'I knew

nothing of religion except from novels; and in these, though the

devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a degree, it never

influences their acts, or appears connected with their moral duties.

It is so speculative and generalized, that it would answer the Greek

or the Persian church, as well as the Christian; and none but the

picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as kissing a

cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a

well-worded prayer.'

The notable thing is that this attack on the novels of the day was not

an isolated protest; it expressed the general mind and echoed the

current opinion. Miss Austen, with more suavity and art, had long

before said the same thing. The romance was declining; it had become a

cheap mechanical thing; and the mind of the nation was turning away

from it to reinstate those teachers of moral prudence whose influence

had been impaired by the flood, but not destroyed. If any one had been

rash enough, in the year 1814, to prophesy the future of literature, he

would have been justified in saying that, to all appearances, the prose

romance was dead. It had fallen into its dotage, and the hand of Eaton

Stannard Barrett had killed it. _The Heroine_ seemed to mark the end

of an age of romance, and the beginning of a new era of sententious

prose.

Such a prophet would have been approved by _The Edinburgh Review_ and

all the best judges of the time. He would have been wrong, for he

could not foresee the accident of genius. Walter Scott, like Cherubina

(whose adventures he read and applauded), had fallen a victim to the

fascinations of the writers of romance, yet, unlike her, had not

allowed them to deprive him of all acquaintance with 'a more useful

class of composition' and the toils of active life. Romance was what

he cared for, and he brought the sobriety and learning of a judge to

the task of vindicating his affection. He proved that the old romantic

stories are convincing enough if only the blood of life flows through

them. His great panoramas of history are exhibited in the frame-work

of a love-plot. In place of the feeble comic interest of the earlier

romances he supplied a rich and various tissue of national character

and manners. Ancient legend and song, fable and superstition, live

again in his work. And, as if Cherubina's unhappy experiences had all

been in vain, there is always a heroine. The readers who had been

laughed into scepticism by the wit of the enemy were within a few

years won back to poetry and romance; Cherubina was deposed, and in

her place there reigned the Bride of Lammermoor.

WALTER RALEIGH.

OXFORD,

_Christmas, 1908._

THE HEROINE,

OR

ADVENTURES OF A FAIR ROMANCE READER,

BY

EATON STANNARD BARRETT, ESQ.

* * * * *

"L'Histoire d'une femme est toujours un Roman."

* * * * *

_IN THREE VOLUMES._

VOL. I.

* * * * *

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,

PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT-STREET, HANOVER-SQUARE;

AND SOLD BY GEORGE GOLDIE, EDINBURGH,

AND JOHN CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1813.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE GEORGE CANNING &c. &c. &c.

Sir,

It was the happiness of STERNE to have dedicated his volumes to a

PITT. It is my ambition to inscribe this work to you. My wishes

would be complete, could I resemble the writer as you do the

statesman.

I have the honor to be,

Sir,

Your most sincere, and most humble servant,

E. S. BARRETT.

THE HEROINE TO THE READER

Attend, gentle and intelligent reader; for I am not the fictitious

personage whose memoirs you will peruse in 'The Heroine;' but I am a

corporeal being, and an inhabitant of another world.

Know, that the moment a mortal manuscript is written out in a legible

hand, and the word End or Finis annexed thereto, whatever characters

happen to be sketched in it (whether imaginary, biographical, or

historical), acquire the quality of creating and effusing a sentient

soul or spirit, which instantly takes flight, and ascends through the

regions of air, till it arrives at the MOON; where it is then embodied,

and becomes a living creature; the precise counterpart, in mind and

person, of its literary prototype.

Know farther, that all the towns, villages, rivers, hills, and vallies

of the moon, owe their origin, in a similar manner, to the descriptions

given by writers of those on earth; and that all the lunar trades and

manufactures, fleets and coins, stays for men, and boots for ladies,

receive form and substance here, from terrestrial books on war and

commerce, pamphlets on bullion, and fashionable magazines.

Works consisting of abstract argument, ethics, metaphysics, polemics,

&c. which, from their very nature, cannot become tangible essences,

send up their ideas, in whispers, to the moon; where the tribe of

talking birds receive, and repeat them for the Lunarians. So that it is

not unusual to hear a mitred parrot screaming a political sermon, or a

fashionable jay twittering unfigurative canzonets. These birds then are

our philosophers; and so great is their value, that they sell for as

much as your patriots.

The moment, however, that a book becomes obsolete on earth, the

personages, countries, manners, and things recorded in it, lose, by the

law of sympathy, their existence in the moon.

This, most grave reader, is but a short and imperfect sketch of the way

we Moonites live and die. I shall now give you some account of what has

happened to me since my coming hither.

It is something more than three lunar hours; or, in other words, about

three terrestrial days ago, that, owing to the kindness of some human

gentleman or other (to whom I take this opportunity of returning my

grateful thanks), I became conscious of existence. Like the Miltonic

Eve, almost the first thing I did was to peep into the water, and

admire my face;--a very pretty one, I assure you, dear reader. I then

perceived advancing a lank and grimly figure in armour, who introduced

himself as Don Quixote; and we soon found each other kindred souls.

We walked, hand in hand, through a beautiful tract of country called

Terra Fertilitatis; for your Selenographers, Langrenus, Florentius,

Grimaldus, Ricciolus, and Hevelius of Dantzic, have given proper names

to the various portions of our hemisphere.

As I proceeded, I met the Radcliffian, Rochian, and other heroines; but

they tossed their heads, and told me pertly that I was a slur on the

sisterhood; while some went so far as to say I had a design upon their

lives. They likewise shunned the Edgeworthian heroines, whom they

thought too comic, moral, and natural.

I met the Lady of the Lake, and shook hands with her; but her hand felt

rather hard from the frequent use of the oar; and I spoke to the Widow

Dido, but she had her old trick of turning on her heel, without

answering a civil question.

I found the Homeric Achilles broiling his own beefsteaks, as usual; the

Homeric Princesses drawing water, and washing linen; the Virgilian

Trojans eating their tables, and the Livian Hannibal melting mountains

with the patent vinegar of an advertisement.

The little boy in the Æneid had introduced the amusement of whipping

tops; and Musidora had turned bathing-woman at a halfpenny a dip.

A Cæsar, an Alexander, and an Alfred, were talking politics, and

quaffing the Horatian Falernian, at the Garter Inn of Shakespeare. A

Catiline was holding forth on Reform, and a Hanno was advising the

recall of a victorious army.

As I walked along, a parcel of Moonites, fresh from your newspapers,

just popped up their heads, nodded, and died. About twenty statesmen

come to us in this way almost every day; and though some of them are of

the same name, and drawn from the same original, they are often as

unlike each other as so many clouds. The Buonapartes, thus sent, are,

in general, hideous fellows. However, your Parliamentary Reports

sometimes agreeably surprise us with most respectable characters of

that name.

On my way, I could observe numbers of patients dying, according as the

books that had created them were sinking into oblivion. The Foxian

James was paraded about in a sedan chair, and considered just gone; and

a set of politicians, entitled All the Talents, who had once made a

terrible noise among us, lay sprawling in their last agonies. But the

most extensive mortality ever known here was caused by the burning of

the Alexandrian Library. This forms quite an æra in the Lunar Annals;

and it is called The great Conflagration.

I had attempted to pluck an apple from a tree that grew near the road;

but, to my surprise, grasped a vacuum; and while Don Quixote was

explaining to me that this phænomenon arose from the Berkeleian system

of immaterialism; and that this apple was only a globular idea, I heard

a squeaking voice just beside me cry:

'I must remark, Madam, that the writer who sent you among us had far

too much to say, and too little to do.'

I looked round, but saw nobody.

''Tis Junius,' observed Don Quixote. 'He was invisible on earth, and

therefore must be so here. Do not mind his bitter sayings.'

'An author,' continued the satirist, 'who has judgment enough to write

wit, should have judgment enough to prevent him from writing it.'

'Sir,' said Don Quixote, 'if, by his works of wit, he can attain

popularity, he will ensure a future attention to his works of judgment.

So here is at thee, caitiff!' and closing his visor, he ran atilt at

pure space.

'Nay,' cried Junius, 'let us not quarrel, though we differ. Mind

unopposed by mind, fashions false opinions of its own, and degenerates

from its original rectitude. The stagnant pool resolves into putridity.

It is the conflict of the waters which keeps them pure.'

'Except in dropsical cases, I presume,' said Tristram Shandy, who just

then came up, with his Uncle Toby. 'How goes it, heroine? How goes

it?--By the man in the moon, the moment I heard of your arrival here, I

gave three exulting flourishes of my hand, thus 1 2 3 then applying my

middle finger to my thumb, and compressing them, by means of the

flexory muscles, I shot them asunder transversely; so that the finger

coming plump upon the aponeurosis--

* * * * *

In short,--for I don't much like the manner in which I am getting on

with the description--I snapped my fingers.

'Now, Madam, I will bet the whole of Kristmanus's, Capuanus's,

Schihardus's, Phocylides's, and Hanzelius's estates,--which are the

best on our disk,--to as much landed property as could be shovelled

into your shoe--that you will get miserably mauled by their reverences,

the Scotch Reviewers. My life for it, these lads will say that your

character is a mere daub drawn in distemper--the colouring too

rich--the hair too golden--an eyelash too much--then, that the book

itself has too little of the rational and argumentative;--that the

fellow merely wrote it to make the world laugh,--which, an' please your

reverences, is the gravest occupation an author can chuse;--that some

of its incidents are plastered as thick as butter on the bread of

Mamma's darling; others so diluted, that they wash down the bread and

butter most unpalatably, and the rest unconducive to the plot, moral,

and peripeteia. In short, Madam, it will appear that the work has every

fault which must convict it Aristotellically and Edinburgo--reviewically,

in the eyes of ninety-nine barbati; but which will leave it not the

ninety-ninth part of a gry the worse in the eyes of fifteen millions

of honest Englishmen; besides several very respectable ladies and

gentlemen yet unborn, and nations yet undiscovered, who will read

translations of it in languages yet unspoken. Bless me, what hacking

they will have at you! Small sword and broad sword--staff and

stiletto--flankonnade and cannonade--hurry-scurry--right wing and

left wing----'

But Tristram paused short in consternation; for his animated

description of a fight had roused the military spirits of Don Quixote

and Captain Shandy, who were already at hard knocks; the one with his

spear, and the other with his crutch. I therefore took this occasion of

escaping.

And now day begins to decline; and your globe, which never sets to us,

will soon shed her pale earthshine over the landscape. O how serene,

how lovely these regions! Here are no hurricanes, or clouds, or

vapours. Here heroines cannot sigh; for here there is no air to sigh

withal. Here, in our great pits, poetically called vallies, we retire

from all moonly cares; or range through the meads of Cysatus or

Gruemberget, and luxuriate in the coolness of the Conical Penumbra.

I trust you will feel, dear reader, that you now owe more to my

discoveries than to those of Endymion, Copernicus, Tycho Brahe,

Galileus, and Newton. I pray you, therefore, to reward my services with

a long and happy life; though much I fear I shall not obtain it. For, I

am told, that two little shining specks, called England and Ireland

(which we can just see with our glasses on your globe), are the places

that I must depend upon for my health and prosperity. Now, if they

fall, I must fall with them; and I fancy they have seen the best of

their days already. A parrot informs me, that they are at daggers drawn

with a prodigious blotch just beside them; and that their most approved

patriots daily indite pamphlets to shew how they cannot hold out ten

years longer. The Sternian Starling assured me just now that these

patriots write the triumphs of their country in the most commiserating

language; and portray her distresses with exultation. Of course,

therefore, they conceive that her glories would undo her, and that

nothing can save her but her calamities. So, since she is conquering

away at a great rate, I may fairly infer that she is on her last legs.

Before I conclude, I must inform you of how I shall have this letter

conveyed to your world. Laplace, and other philosophers, have already

proved, that a stone projected by a volcano, from the moon, and with

the velocity of a mile and a half per second, would be thrown beyond

the sphere of the moon's attraction, and enter into the confines of the

earth's. Now, hundreds have attested on oath, that they have seen

luminous meteors moving through the sky; and that these have fallen on

the earth, in stony or semi-metallic masses. Therefore, say the

philosophers, these masses came all the way from the moon. And they say

perfectly right. Believe it piously, dear reader, and quote me as your

authority.

It is by means of one of these stones that I shall contrive to send you

this letter. I have written it on asbestus, in liquid gold (as both

these substances are inconsumable by fire); and I will fasten it to the

top of a volcanic mountain, which is expected to explode in another

hour.

Alas, alas, short-sighted mortals! how little ye foresee the havoc that

will happen hereafter, from the pelting of these pitiless stones. For,

about the time of the millenium, the doctrine of projectiles will be so

prodigiously improved, that while there is universal peace upon earth,

the planets will go to war with each other. Then shall we Lunarians,

like true satellites, turn upon our benefactors, and instead of merely

trying our small shot (as at present), we will fire off whole

mountains; while you, from your superior attraction, will find it

difficult to hit us at all. The consequence must be, our losing so much

weight, that we shall approach, by degrees, nearer and nearer to you;

'till at last, both globes will come slap together, flatten each other

out, like the pancakes of Glasse's Cookery, and rush headlong into

primeval chaos.

Such will be the consummation of all things.

Adieu.

THE HEROINE

LETTER I

My venerable Governess, guardian of my youth, must I then behold you no

more? No more, at breakfast, find your melancholy features shrouded in

an umbrageous cap, a novel in one hand, a cup in the other, and tears

springing from your eyes, at the tale too tender, or at the tea too

hot? Must I no longer wander with you through painted meadows, and by

purling rivulets? Motherless, am I to be bereft of my more than mother,

at the sensitive age of fifteen? What though papa caught the Butler

kissing you in the pantry? What though he turned you by the shoulder

out of his house? I am persuaded that the kiss was maternal, not

amorous, and that the interesting Butler is your son.

Perhaps you married early in life, and without the knowledge of your

parents. A gipsy stole the pretty pledge of your love; and at length,

you have recognized him by the scar on his cheek. Happy, happy mother!

Happy too, perhaps, in being cast upon the world, unprotected and

defamed; while I am doomed to endure the security of a home, and the

dullness of an unimpeached reputation. For me, there is no hope

whatever of being reduced to despair. I am condemned to waste my

health, bloom, and youth, in a series of uninterrupted prosperity.

It is not, my friend, that I wish for ultimate unhappiness, but that I

am anxious to suffer present sorrow, in order to secure future

felicity: an improvement, you will own, on the system of other girls,

who, to enjoy the passing moment, run the risk of being wretched for

ever after. Have not all persons their favorite pursuits in life, and

do not all brave fatigue, vexation, and calumny, for the purpose of

accomplishing them? One woman aspires to be a beauty, another a title,

a third a belle esprit; and to effect these objects, health is

sacrificed, reputation tainted, and peace of mind destroyed. Now my

ambition is to be a Heroine, and how can I hope to succeed in my

vocation, unless I, too, suffer privations and inconveniences? Besides,

have I not far greater merit in getting a husband by sentiment,

adventure, and melancholy, than by dressing, gadding, dancing, and

singing? For heroines are just as much on the alert to get husbands, as

other young ladies; and to say the truth, I would never voluntarily

subject myself to misfortunes, were I not certain that matrimony would

be the last of them. But even misery itself has its consolations and

advantages. It makes one, at least, look interesting, and affords an

opportunity for ornamental murmurs. Besides, it is the mark of a

refined mind. Only fools, children, and savages, are happy.

With these sentiments, no wonder I should feel discontented at my

present mode of life. Such an insipid routine, always, always, always

the same. Rising with no better prospect than to make breakfast for

papa. Then 'tis, 'Good morrow, Cherry,' or 'is the paper come, Cherry?'

or 'more cream, Cherry,' or 'what shall we have to dinner, Cherry?' At

dinner, nobody but a farmer or the Parson; and nothing talked but

politics and turnips. After tea I am made sing some fal lal la of a

ditty, and am sent to bed with a 'Good night, pretty miss,' or 'sweet

dear.' The clowns!

Now, instead of this, just conceive me a child of misery, in a castle,

a convent, or a cottage; becoming acquainted with the hero by his

saving my life--I in beautiful confusion--'Good Heaven, what an angel!'

cries he--then sudden love on both sides--in two days he kisses my

hand. Embarrassments--my character suspected--a quarrel--a

reconciliation--fresh embarrassments.--O Biddy, what an irreparable

loss to the public, that a victim of thrilling sensibility, like me,

should be thus idling her precious time over the common occupations of

life!--prepared as I am, too, by a five years' course of novels (and

you can bear witness that I have read little else), to embody and

ensoul those enchanting reveries, which I am accustomed to indulge in

bed and bower, and which really constitute almost the whole happiness

of my life.

That I am not deficient in the qualities requisite for a heroine, is

indisputable. All the world says I am handsome, and it would be

melancholy were all the world in error. My form is tall and aërial, my

face Grecian, my tresses flaxen, my eyes blue and sleepy. But the great

point is, that I have a remarkable mole just over my left temple. Then,

not only peaches, roses, and Aurora, but snow, lilies, and alabaster,

may, with perfect propriety, be adopted in a description of my skin. I

confess I differ from other heroines in one point. They, you may

remark, are always unconscious of their charms; whereas, I am, I fear,

convinced of mine, beyond all hope of retraction.

There is but one serious flaw in my title to Heroine--the mediocrity of

my lineage. My father is descended from nothing better than a decent

and respectable family. He began life with a thousand pounds, purchased

a farm, and by his honest and disgusting industry, has realized fifty

thousand. Were even my legitimacy suspected, it would be some comfort;

since, in that case, I should assuredly start forth, at one time or

other, the daughter of some plaintive nobleman, who lives retired, and

slaps his forehead.

One more subject perplexes me. It is my name; and what a name--Cherry!

It reminds one so much of plumpness and ruddy health. Cherry--better be

called Pine-apple at once. There is a green and yellow melancholy in

Pine-apple, that is infinitely preferable. I wonder whether Cherry

could possibly be an abbreviation of CHERUBINA. 'Tis only changing y

into ubina, and the name becomes quite classic. Celestina, Angelina,

Seraphina, are all of the same family. But Cherubina sounds so

empyrean, so something or other beyond mortality; and besides I have

just a face for it. Yes, Cherubina I am resolved to be called, now and

for ever.

But you must naturally wish to learn what has happened here, since your

departure. I was in my boudoir, reading the Delicate Distress, when I

heard a sudden bustle below, and 'Out of the house, this moment,'

vociferated by my father. The next minute he was in my room with a face

like fire.

'There!' cried he, 'I knew what your famous romances would do for us at

last.'

'Pray, Sir, what?' asked I, with the calm dignity of injured innocence.

'Only a kissing match between the Governess and the Butler,' answered

he. 'I caught them at the sport in the pantry.'

I was petrified. 'Dear Sir,' said I, 'you must surely mistake.'

'No such thing,' cried he. 'The kiss was too much of a smacker for

that:--it rang through the pantry. But please the fates, she shall

never darken my doors again. I have just discharged both herself and

her swain; and what is better, I have ordered all the novels in the

house to be burnt, by way of purification. As they love to talk of

flames, I suppose they will like to feel them.' He spoke, and ran

raging out of the room.

Adieu, then, ye dear romances, adieu for ever. No more shall I

sympathize with your heroines, while they faint, and blush, and weep,

through four half-bound octavos. Adieu ye Edwins, Edgars, and Edmunds;

ye Selinas, Evelinas, Malvinas; ye inas all adieu! The flames will

consume you all. The melody of Emily, the prattle of Annette, and the

hoarseness of Ugo, all will be confounded in one indiscriminate

crackle. The Casa and Castello will blaze with equal fury; nor will the

virtue of Pamela aught avail to save; nor Wolmar delighting to see his

wife in a swoon; nor Werter shelling peas and reading Homer, nor

Charlotte cutting bread and butter for the children.

You, too, my loved governess, I regret extremely.

Adieu.

CHERUBINA.

LETTER II

It was not till this morning, that a thought of the most interesting

nature flashed across my mind. Pondering on the cruel conduct of my

reputed father, in having burnt my novels, and discharged you, without

even allowing us to take a hysterical farewell, I was struck with the

sudden notion that the man is not my father at all. In short, I began

with wishing this the case, and have ended with believing it. My

reasons are irresistible, and deduced from strong and stubborn facts.

For, first, there is no likeness between this Wilkinson and me. 'Tis

true, he has blue eyes, like myself, but has he my pouting lip and

dimple? He has the flaxen hair, but can he execute the rosy smile?

Next, is it possible, that I, who was born a heroine, and who must

therefore have sprung from an idle and illustrious family, should be

the daughter of a farmer, a thrifty, substantial, honest farmer? The

thing is absurd on the face of it, and never will I tamely submit to

such an indignity.

Full of this idea, I dressed myself in haste, resolving to question

Wilkinson, to pierce into his inmost soul, to speak daggers to him; and

if he should not unfold the mystery of my birth, to fly from his house

for ever. With a palpitating heart, I descended the stairs, rushed into

the breakfast-room, and in a moment was at the feet of my persecutor.

My hands were folded across my bosom, and my blue eyes raised to his

face.

'Heyday, Cherry,' said he, laughing, 'this is a new flourish. There,

child, now fancy yourself stabbed, and come to breakfast.'

'Hear me,' cried I.

'Why,' said he, 'you keep your countenance as stiff and steady as the

face on our rapper.'

'A countenance,' cried I, 'is worth keeping, when the features are a

proof of the descent, and vindicate the noble birth from the baseness

of the adoption.'

'Come, come,' said he, 'your cup is full all this time.'

'And so is my heart,' cried I, pressing it expressively.

'What is the meaning of this mummery?' said he.

'Hear me, Wilkinson,' cried I, rising with dignified tranquillity.

'Candor is at once the most amiable and the most difficult of virtues;

and there is more magnanimity in confessing an error, than in never

committing one.'

'Confound your written sentences,' cried he, 'can't you come to the

point?'

'Then, Sir,' said I, 'to be plain and explicit, learn, that I have

discovered a mystery in my birth, and that you--you, Wilkinson, are

not--my real Father!'

I pronounced these words with a measured emphasis, and one of my

ineffable looks. Wilkinson coloured like scarlet and stared steadily in

my face.

'Would you scandalize the mother that bore you?' cried he, fiercely.

'No, Wilkinson,' answered I, 'but you would, by calling yourself my

father.'

'And if I am not,' said he, 'what the mischief must _you_ be?'

'An illustrious heiress,' cried I, 'snatched from my parents in her

infancy;--snatched by thee, vile agent of the diabolical conspiracy!'

He looked aghast.

'Tell me then,' continued I, 'miserable man, tell me where my dear, my

distracted father lingers out the remnant of his wretched days? My

mother too--or say, am I indeed an orphan?'

Still he remained mute, and gazed on me with a searching intensity. I

raised my voice:

'Expiate thy dire offences, restore an outcast to her birthright, make

atonement, or _tremble at retribution_!'

I thought the farmer would have sunk into the ground.

'Nay,' continued I, lowering my voice, 'think not I thirst for

vengeance. I myself will intercede for thee, and stay the sword of

Justice. Poor wretch! I want not thy blood.'

The culprit had now reached the climax of agony, and writhed through

every limb and feature.

'What!' cried I, 'can nothing move thee to confess thy crimes? Then

hear me. Ere Aurora with rosy fingers shall unbar the eastern gate----'

'My child, my child, my dear darling daughter!' exclaimed this

accomplished crocodile, bursting into tears, and snatching me to his

bosom, 'what have they done to you? What phantom, what horrid disorder

is distracting my treasure?'

'Unhand me, guileful adulator,' cried I, 'and try thy powers of

tragedy elsewhere, for--_I know thee!_' I spoke, and extricated myself

from his embrace.

'Dreadful, dreadful!' muttered he. 'Her sweet senses are lost.' Then

turning to me: 'My love, my life, do not speak thus to your poor old

father.'

'Father!' exclaimed I, accomplishing with much accuracy that hysterical

laugh, which (gratefully let me own) I owe to your instruction;

'Father!'

The fat farmer covered his face with his hands, and rushed out of the

room.

I relate the several conversations, in a dramatic manner, and word for

word, as well as I can recollect them, since I remark that all heroines

do the same. Indeed I cannot enough admire the fortitude of these

charming creatures, who, while they are in momentary expectation of

losing their lives, or their honours, or both, sit down with the utmost

unconcern, and indite the wittiest letters in the world. They have even

sufficient presence of mind to copy the vulgar dialect, uncooth

phraseology, and bad grammar, of the villains whom they dread; and all

this in the neatest and liveliest style imaginable.

Adieu.

LETTER III

Soon after my last letter, I was summoned to dinner. What heroine in

distress but loaths her food? so I sent a message that I was unwell,

and then solaced myself with a volume of the Mysteries of Udolpho,

which had escaped the conflagration. At ten, I flung myself on my bed,

in hopes to have dreams portentous of my future fate; for heroines are

remarkably subject to a certain prophetic sort of night-mare. You

remember the story that Ludovico read, of a spectre who beckons a baron

from his castle in the dead of night, and leading him into a forest,

points to his own corpse, and bids him bury it. Well, owing, I suppose,

to my having just read this episode, and to my having fasted so long, I

had the following dreams.

Methought a delicious odour of viands attracted me to the kitchen,

where I found an iron pot upon the fire simmering in unison with my

sighs. As I looked at it with a longing eye, the lid began to rise, and

I beheld a half-boiled turkey stalk majestically forth. It beckoned me

with its claw. I followed. It led me into the yard, and pointed to its

own head and feathers, which were lying in a corner. I felt infinitely

affected.

Straight the scene changed. I found myself seated at a dinner-table;

and while I was expecting the repast, lo, the Genius of Dinner

appeared. He had a mantle laced with silver eels, and his locks were

dropping with costly soups. A crown of golden fishes was on his head,

and pheasants' wings at his shoulders. A flight of little tartlets

fluttered around him, and the sky rained down hock, comfits, and Tokay.

As I gazed on him, he vanished, in a sigh, that was strongly

impregnated with the fumes of brandy. What vulgar, what disgusting

visions, when I ought to have dreamt of nothing but coffins and ladies

in black.

At breakfast, this morning, Wilkinson affected the most tender

solicitude for my health; and as I now watched his words, I could

discover in almost all that he said, something to confirm my surmise of

his not being my father.

After breakfast a letter was handed to him, which he read, and then

gave to me. It was as follows:

London.

In accepting your invitation to Sylvan Lodge, my respected friend,

I am sure I shall confer a far greater favor on myself, than, as

you kindly tell me, I shall on you. After an absence of seven

years, spent in the seclusion of a college, and the fatigues of a

military life, how delightful to revisit the scene of my childhood,

and those who contribute to render its memory so dear! I left you

while you were my guardian; I return to you with the assurances of

finding you a friend. Let me but find you what I left you, and you

shall take what title you please.

Yet, much as I flatter myself with your retaining all your former

feelings towards me, I must expect a serious alteration in those of

my friend Cherry. Will she again make me her playmate? Again climb

my shoulders, and gallop me round the lawn? Are we to renew all our

little quarrels, then kiss and be friends? Shall we even recognize

each other's features, through their change from childhood to

maturity? There is, at least, one feature of our early days, that,

I trust, has undergone no alteration--our mutual affection and

friendship.

I fear I cannot manage matters so as to be with you before ten

to-morrow night: remember I bespeak my old room.

Ever affectionately your's,

ROBERT STUART.

To Gregory Wilkinson, Esq.

'There,' cries the farmer, 'if I have deprived you of an old woman,

I have got you a young man. Large estates, you know;--handsome,

fashionable;--come, pluck up a heart, my girl; ay, egad, and steal

one too.'

I rose, gave him one of my ineffable looks, and retired to my

chamber.

'So,' said I, locking my door, and flinging myself on the bed,

'this is something like misery. Here is a precious project against

my peace. I am to be forced into marriage, am I? And with whom? A

man whose legitimacy is unimpeached, and whose friends would

certainly consent. His name Robert too:--master Bobby, as the

servants used to call him. A fellow that mewed like a cat, when he

was whipt. O my Bob! what a pretty monosyllable for a girl like me

to pronounce. Now, indeed, my wretchedness is complete; the cup is

full, even to overflowing. An orphan, or at least an outcast;

immured in the prison of a proud oppressor--threatened with a

husband of decent birth, parentage and education--my governess

gone, my novels burnt, what is left to me but flight? Yes, I will

roam through the wide world in search of my parents; I will ransack

all the sliding pannels and tapestries in Italy; I will explore Il

Castello Di Udolpho, and will then enter the convent of Ursulines,

or Carmelites, or Santa della Pieta, or the Abbey of La Trappe.

Here I meet with nothing better than smiling faces and honest

hearts; or at best, with but sneaking villains. No precious

scoundrels are here, no horrors, or atrocities, worth mentioning.

But abroad I shall encounter banditti, monks, daggers, racks--O ye

celebrated terrors, when shall I taste of you?'

I then lay planning an elopement, till I was called to dinner.

Adieu.

LETTER IV

O my friend, such a discovery!--a parchment and a picture. But you

shall hear.

After dinner I stole into Wilkinson's study, in hopes of finding,

before my flight, some record or relic, that might aid me in

unravelling the mystery of my birth. As heroines are privileged to

ransack private drawers, and read whatever they find there, I opened

Wilkinson's scrutoire, without ceremony. But what were my sensations,

when I discovered in a corner of it, an antique piece of tattered

parchment, scrawled all over, in uncouth characters, with this

frightful fragment.

_This Indenture_

For and in consideration of

Doth grant, bargain, release

Possession, and to his heirs and assigns

Lands of Sylvan Lodge, in the

Trees, stones, quarries.

Reasonable amends and satisfaction

This demise

Molestation of him the said Gregory Wilkinson

The natural life of

Cherry Wilkinson only daughter of

De Willoughby eldest son of Thomas

Lady Gwyn of Gwyn Castle.

O Biddy, does not your blood run cold at this horrible scrawl? for

already you must have decyphered its terrific import. The part lost may

be guessed from the part left. In short, it is a written covenant

between this Gregory Wilkinson, and the miscreant (whom my being an

heiress had prevented from enjoying the title and estate that would

devolve to him at my death), stipulating to give Wilkinson 'Sylvan

Lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, quarries, &c.' as 'reasonable

amends and satisfaction,' for being the instrument of my 'Demise;'

and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the said

Gregory Wilkinson,' for taking away 'the natural life of Cherry

Wilkinson'--'only daughter of----' something--'De Willoughby, eldest

son of Thomas'--What an unfortunate chasm! Then follows, 'Lady Gwyn of

Gwyn Castle.' So that it is evident I am at least a De Willoughby, and

if not noble myself, related to nobility. For what confirms me in this

supposition of my relationship to Lady Gwyn, is an old portrait which I

found a few minutes after, in one of Wilkinson's drawers, representing

a young and beautiful female dressed in a superb style, and underneath

it, in large letters, the name of, 'NELL GWYN.'

Distraction! what shall I do? Whither turn? To sleep another night

under the same roof with a wretch, who has bound himself to assassinate

me, would be little short of madness. My plan, therefore, is already

arranged for flight, and this very evening I mean to begin my

pilgrimage.

The picture and parchment I will hide in my bosom during my journey;

and I will also carry with me a small bandbox, containing my satin

slip, a pair of silk stockings, my spangled muslin, and all my jewels.

For as some benevolent duchess may possibly take me into her family,

and her son persecute me, I might just as well look decent, you know.

On mature deliberation, I have resolved to take but five guineas with

me, since more would make me too comfortable, and tempt me, in some

critical moment, to extricate myself from distress.

I shall leave the following billet on my toilet.

To Gregory Wilkinson, Farmer.

Sir,

When this letter meets your eye, the wretched writer will be far

removed from your machinations. She will be wandering the convex

earth in pursuit of those parents, from whose dear embraces you

have torn her. She will be flying from a Stuart, for whose

detestable embraces you have designed her.

Your motive for this hopeful match I can guess. As you obtained one

property by undertaking my death, you are probably promised another

for effecting my marriage. Learn that the latter fate has more

terrors for me than the former. But I have escaped both. As for the

ten thousand pounds willed to me by your deceased wife, I suppose

it will revert to you, as soon as I prove that I am not your

daughter. Silly man! you might at this moment obtain that legacy,

by restoring me to my real parents.

Alas! Sir, you are indeed very wicked. Yet remember, that

repentance is never too late, and that virtue alone is true

nobility.

The much injured CHERUBINA.

All is prepared, and in ten minutes I commence my interesting

expedition. London being the grand emporium of adventure, and the most

likely place for obtaining information on the subject of my birth, I

mean to bend my steps thither; and as Stuart is to be here at ten

to-night, and as he must come the London road, I shall probably meet

him. Should I recognize him, what a scene we shall have! but he cannot

possibly recognize me, since I was only eight years old when we last

parted.

Adieu.

LETTER V

The rain rattled and the wind whistled, as I tied on my bonnet for my

journey. With the bandbox in my hand, I descended the stairs, and

paused in the hall to listen. I heard a distant door shut, and steps

advancing. Not a moment was to be lost, so I sprang forward, opened the

hall door, and ran down the shrubbery.

'O peaceful shades!' exclaimed I, 'why must I leave you? In your

retreats I should still find "pleasure and repose!"'

I then hastened into the London road, and pressed forward with a

hurried step, while a violent tempest beat full against my face. Being

in such distress, I thought it incumbent on me to compose a sonnet;

which I copy for you.

SONNET

Bereft by wretches of endearing home, And all the joys of parent and of

friend, Unsheltered midst the shattering storm I roam, On mangled feet,

and soon my life must end. So the young lark, whom sire and mother

tend, Some fowler robs of sire and mother dear. All day dejected in its

nest it lies; No food, no song, no sheltering pinion near. Night comes

instead, and tempests round it rise, At morn, with gasping beak, and

upward breast: it dies.

Four long and toilsome miles had I now walked with a dignified air;

till, finding myself fatigued, and despairing of an interview with

Stuart, I resolved to rest awhile, in the lone and uninhabited house

which lies, you may recollect, on the grey common, about a hundred

paces from the road. Besides, I was in duty bound to explore it, as a

ruined pile.

I approached it. The wind moaned through the broken windows, and the

rank grass rustled in the court. I entered. All was dark within; the

boards creaked as I trod, the shutters flapped, and an ominous owl was

hooting in the chimney. I groped my way along the hall, thence into a

parlour--up stairs and down--not a horror to be found. No dead hand met

my left hand, firmly grasping it, and drawing me forcibly forward; no

huge eye-ball glared at me through a crevice. How disheartening!

The cold was now creeping through me; my teeth chattered, and my whole

frame shook. I had seated myself on the stairs, and was weeping

piteously, wishing myself safe at home, and in bed; and deploring the

dire necessity which had compelled me to this frightful undertaking,

when on a sudden I heard the sound of approaching steps. I sprang upon

my feet with renovated spirits. Presently several persons entered the

hall, and a vulgar accent cried:

'Jem, run down to the cellar and strike a light.'

'What can you want of me, now that you have robbed me?' said the voice

of a gentleman.

'Why, young man,' answered a ruffian, 'we want you to write home for a

hundred pounds, or some such trifle, which we will have the honour of

spending for you. You must manufacture some confounded good lie about

where you are, and why you send for the money; and one of us will carry

the letter.'

'I assure you,' said the youth, 'I shall forge no such falsehood.'

'As you please, master,' replied the ruffian, 'but, the money or your

life we must have, and that soon.'

'Will you trust my solemn promise to send you a hundred pounds?' said

the other. 'My name is Stuart: I am on my way to Mr. Wilkinson, of

Sylvan Lodge, so you may depend upon my sending you, by his assistance,

the sum that you require, and I will promise not to betray you.'

'No, curse me if I trust,' cried the robber.

'Then curse me if I write,' said Stuart.

'Look you, Squire,' cried the robber. 'We cannot stand parlying with

you now; we have other matters on hands. But we will lock you safe in

the cellar, with pen, ink, and paper, and a lantern; and if you have

not a fine bouncing lie of a letter, ready written when we come back,

you are a dead man--that is all.'

'I am almost a dead man already,' said Stuart, 'for the cut you gave me

is bleeding torrents.'

They now carried him down to the cellar, and remained there a few

minutes, then returned, and locked the door outside.

'Leave the key in it,' says one, 'for we do not know which of us may

come back first.' They then went away.

Now was the fate of my bitter enemy, the wily, the wicked Stuart, in my

power; I could either liberate him, or leave him to perish. It struck

me, that to miss such a promising interview, would be stupid in the

extreme; and I felt a sort of glow at the idea of saying to him, live!

besides, the fellow had answered the robbers with some spirit, so I

descended the steps, unlocked the door, and bursting into the cellar,

stood in an unparalleled attitude before him. He was sitting on the

ground, and fastening a handkerchief about his wounded leg, but at my

entrance, he sprang upon his feet.

'Away, save thyself!' cried I. 'She who restores thee to freedom flies

herself from captivity. Look on these features--Thou wouldest have

wrung them with despair. Look on this form--Thou wouldest have prest it

in depravity. Hence, unhappy sinner, and learn, that innocence is ever

victorious and ever merciful.'

'I am all amazement!' exclaimed he. 'Who are you? Whence come you? Why

speak so angrily, yet act so kindly?'

I smiled disdain, and turned to depart.

'One moment more,' cried he. 'Here is some mistake; for I never even

saw you before.'

'Often!' exclaimed I, and was again going.

'So you will leave me, my sweet girl,' said he, smiling. 'Now you have

all this time prevented me from binding my wound, and you owe me some

compensation for loss of blood.'

I paused.

'I would ask you to assist me,' continued he, 'but in binding one

wound, I fear you would inflict another.'

Mere curiosity made me return two steps.

'I think, however, there would be healing in the touch of so fair a

hand,' and he took mine as he spoke.

At this moment, my humanity conquered my reserve, and kneeling down, I

began to fasten the bandage; but resolved on not uttering another word.

'What kindness!' cried he. 'And pray to whom am I indebted for it?'

No reply.

'At least, may I learn whether I can, in any manner, repay it?'

No reply.

'You said, I think, that you had just escaped from confinement?'

No reply.

'You will stain your beautiful locks,' said he: 'my blood should flow

to defend, but shall not flow to disfigure them. Permit me to collect

those charming tresses.'

'Oh! dear, thank you, Sir!' stammered I.

'And thank you, ten thousand times,' said he, as I finished my

disagreeable task; 'and now never will I quit you till I see you safe

to your friends.'

'You!' exclaimed I. 'Ah, traitor!'

He gazed at me with a look of pity. 'Farewell then, my kind preserver,'

said he; ''tis a long way to the next habitation, and should my wound

open afresh and should I faint from loss of blood----'

'Dear me,' said I, 'let me assist you.'

He smiled. 'We will assist each other,' answered he; 'and now let us

not lose a moment, for the robbers may return.'

He took the lantern to search the cellar for his watch and money.

However, we saw nothing there but a couple of portmanteaus, some rusty

pistols, and a small barrel, half full of gunpowder. We then left the

house; but had hardly proceeded twenty yards, when he began to totter.

'I can go no farther,' said he, sinking down. 'I have lost so much

blood, that my strength is entirely exhausted.'

'Pray Sir,' said I, 'exert yourself, and lean on me.'

'Impossible,' answered he; 'but fly and save your own life.'

'I will run for assistance,' said I, and flew towards the road, where I

had just heard the sound of an approaching carriage. But on a sudden it

stopped, voices began disputing, and soon after a pistol was fired. I

paused in great terror, for I judged that these were the robbers again.

What was I to do? When a heroine is reduced to extremities, she always

does one of two things, either faints on the spot, or exhibits energies

almost superhuman.

Faint I could not, so nothing remained for me, but energies almost

superhuman. I pondered a moment, and a grand thought struck me.

Recollecting the gunpowder in the cellar, I flew for it back to the

ruin, carried it up to the hall, threw most of it on the floor, and

with the remainder, strewed a train, as I walked towards Stuart.

When I was within a few paces of him, I heard quick steps; and a hoarse

voice vociferating, 'Who goes yonder with the light?' for I had brought

the lantern with me.

'Fly!' cried Stuart, 'or you are lost.'

I snatched the candle from the lantern, applied it to the train, and

the next moment dropped to the ground at the shock of the tremendous

explosion that followed. A noise of falling timbers resounded through

the ruin, and the robbers were heard scampering off in all directions.

'There!' whispered I, after a pause; 'there is an original horror for

you; and all of my own contrivance. The villains have fled, the

neighbours will flock to the spot, and you will obtain assistance.'

By this time we heard the people of the carriage running towards us.

'Stuart!' cried I, in an awful voice.

'My name indeed!' said he. 'This is completely inexplicable.'

'Stuart,' cried I, 'hear my parting words. _Never again_', (quoting

his own letter,) '_will I make you my playmate; never again climb your

shoulders, and gallop you round the lawn!_ Ten o'clock is past. Go not

to Sylvan Lodge to-night. She departed two hours ago. Look to your

steps.'

I spoke this portentous warning, and fled across the common. Miss

Wilkinson! Miss Wilkinson! sounded on the blast; but the wretch had

discovered me too late. I ran about half a mile, and then looking

behind me, beheld the ruin in a blaze. Renovated by the sight of this

horror, I walked another hour, without once stopping; till, to my

surprise and dismay, I found myself utterly unable to proceed a step

farther. This was the more provoking, because heroines often perform

journies on foot that would founder fifty horses.

I now knocked at a farm-house, on the side of the road; but the people

would not admit me. Soon after, I perceived a boy watching sheep in a

field, and begged earnestly that he would direct me to some romantic

cottage, shaded with vines and acacias, and inhabited by a lovely

little Arcadian family.

'There is no family of that name in these here parts,' said he.

'_These here!_' cried I, 'Ah, my friend, that is not pastoral

language. I see you will never pipe madrigals to a Chloris or a

Daphne.'

'And what sort of nasty language is that?' cried he. 'Get along with

you, do: I warrant you are a bad one.' And he began pelting me with

tufts of grass.

At last, I contrived to shelter myself under a haycock, where I

remained till day began to dawn. Then, stiff and chilled, I proceeded

on my journey; and in a short time, met a little girl with a pail of

milk, who consented to let me change my dress at her cottage, and

conducted me thither.

It was a family of frights, flat noses and thick lips without mercy. No

Annettes and Lubins, or Amorets and Phyllidas, or Florimels and

Florellas; no little Cherubin and Seraphim amongst them. However, I

slipped on (for _slipping on_ is the heroic mode of dressing) my

spangled muslin, and joined their uglinesses at breakfast, resolving to

bear patiently with their features. They tell me that a public coach to

London will shortly pass this way, so I shall take a place in it.

On the whole, I see much reason to be pleased with what has happened

hitherto. How fortunate that I went to the house on the common! I see

plainly, that if adventure does not come to me, I must go to adventure.

And indeed, I am authorized in doing so by the example of my sister

heroines; who, with a noble disinterestedness, are ever the chief

artificers of their own misfortunes; for, in nine cases out of ten,

were they to manage matters like mere common mortals, they would avoid

all those charming mischiefs which adorn their memoirs.

As for this Stuart, I know not what to think of him. I will, however,

do him the justice to say, that he has a pleasing countenance; and

although he neither kissed my hand, nor knelt to me, yet he had the

decency to talk of 'wounds,' and my 'charming tresses.' Perhaps, if he

had saved my life, instead of my having saved his; and if his name had

consisted of three syllables ending in i or o; and, in fine, were he

not an unprincipled profligate, the man might have made a tolerable

hero. At all events, I heartily hate him; and his smooth words went for

nothing.

The coach is in sight.

Adieu.

LETTER VI

'I shall find in the coach,' said I, approaching it, 'some emaciated

Adelaide, or sister Olivia. We will interchange congenial looks--she

will sigh, so will I--and we shall commence a vigorous friendship on

the spot.'

Yes, I did sigh; but it was at the huge and hideous Adelaide that

presented herself, as I got into the coach. In describing her, our

wittiest novelists would say, that her nose lay modestly retired

between her cheeks; that her eyes, which pointed inwards, seemed

looking for it, and that her teeth were

'Like angels' visits; short and far between.'

She first eyed me with a supercilious sneer, and then addressed a

diminutive old gentleman opposite, in whose face Time had ploughed

furrows, and Luxury sown pimples.

'And so, Sir, as I was telling you, when my poor man died, I so

bemoaned myself, that between swoons and hysterics, I got nervous all

over, and was obliged to go through a regiment.'

I stared in astonishment. 'What!' thought I, 'a woman of her magnitude

and vulgarity, faint, and have nerves? Impossible!'

'Howsomdever,' continued she, 'my Bible and my daughter Moll are great

consolations to me. Moll is the dearest little thing in the world; as

straight as a popular; then such dimples; and her eyes are the very

squintessence of perfection. She has all her catechism by heart, and

moreover, her mind is uncontaminated by romances and novels, and such

abominations.'

'Pray, Ma'am,' said I, civilly, 'may I presume to ask how romances and

novels contaminate the mind?'

'Why, Mem,' answered she tartly, and after another survey: 'by teaching

little misses to go gadding, Mem, and to be fond of the men, Mem, and

of spangled muslin, Mem.'

'Ma'am,' said I, reddening, 'I wear spangled muslin because I have no

other dress: and you should be ashamed of yourself for saying that I am

fond of the men.'

'The cap fits you then,' cried she.

'Were it a fool's cap,' said I, 'perhaps I might return the

compliment.'

I thought it expedient, at my first outset in life, to practise apt

repartee, and emulate the infatuating sauciness, and elegant

vituperation of Amanda, the Beggar Girl, and other heroines; who, when

irritated, disdain to speak below an epigram.

'Pray, Sir,' said she, to our fellow traveller, 'what is your opinion

of novels? Ant they all love and nonsense, and the most unpossible lies

possible?'

'They are fictions, certainly,' said he.

'Surely, Sir,' exclaimed I, 'you do not mean to call them fictions.'

'Why no,' replied he, 'not absolute fictions.'

'But,' cried the big lady, 'you don't pretend to call them true.'

'Why no,' said he, 'not absolutely true.'

'Then,' cried I, 'you are on both sides of the question at once.'

He trod on my foot.

'Ay, that you are,' said the big lady.

He trod on her foot.

'I am too much of a courtier,' said he, 'to differ from the ladies,'

and he trod on both our feet.

'A courtier!' cried I: 'I should rather have imagined you a musician.'

'Pray why?' said he.

'Because,' answered I, 'you are playing the pedal harp on this lady's

foot and mine.'

'I wished to produce harmony,' said he, with a submitting bow.

'At least,' said I, 'novels must be much more true than histories,

because historians often contradict each other, but novelists never

do.'

'Yet do not novelists contradict themselves?' said he.

'Certainly,' replied I, 'and there lies the surest proof of their

veracity. For as human actions are always contradicting themselves, so

those books which faithfully relate them, must do the same.'

'Admirable!' exclaimed he. 'And yet what proof have we that such

personages as Schedoni, Vivaldi, Camilla, or Cecilia ever existed?'

'And what proof have we,' cried I, 'that such personages as Alfred the

Great, Henry the Fifth, Elfrida, or Mary Queen of Scots, ever existed?

I wonder at a man of sense like you. Why, Sir, at this rate you might

just as well question the truth of Guy Faux's attempt to blow up the

Parliament-House, or of my having blown up a house last night.'

'You blow up a house!' exclaimed the big lady with amazement.

'Madam,' said I, modestly, 'I scorn ostentation, but on my word and

honour, 'tis fact.'

'Of course you did it accidentally,' said the gentleman.

'You wrong me, Sir,' replied I; 'I did it by design.'

'You will swing for it, however,' cried the big lady.

'Swing for it!' said I; 'a heroine swing? Excellent! I presume, Madam,

you are unacquainted with the common law of romance.'

'Just,' said she, 'as you seem to be with the common law of England.'

'I despise the common law of England,' cried I.

'Then I fancy,' said she, 'it would not be much amiss if you were

hanged.'

'And I fancy,' retorted I, nodding at her big figure, 'it would not be

much amiss if you were quartered.'

Instantly she took out a prayer-book, and began muttering over it with

the most violent piety and indignation.

Meantime the gentleman coincided in every syllable that I said, praised

my parts and knowledge, and discovered evident symptoms of a

discriminating mind, and an amiable heart. That I am right in my good

opinion of him is most certain; for he himself assured me that it would

be quite impossible to deceive me, I am so penetrating. In short, I

have set him down as the benevolent guardian, whom my memoirs will

hereafter celebrate, for having saved me from destruction.

Indeed he has already done so. For, when our journey was almost over,

he told me, that my having set fire to the ruin might prove a most

fatal affair; and whispered that the big lady would probably inform

against me. On my pleading the prescriptive immunities of heroines, and

asserting that the law could never lay its fangs on so ethereal a name

as Cherubina, he solemnly swore to me, that he once knew a

golden-haired, azure-eyed heroine, called Angelica Angela Angelina, who

was hanged at the Old Bailey for stealing a broken lute out of a

haunted chamber; and while my blood was running cold at the recital, he

pressed me so cordially to take refuge in his house, that at length, I

threw myself on the protection of the best of men.

I now write from his mansion in Grosvenor Square, where we have just

dined. His name is Betterton; he has no family, and is possessed of a

splendid independence. Multitudes of liveried menials watch his nod;

and he does me the honour to call me cousin. My chamber too is

charming. The curtains hang quite in a new style, but I do not like the

pattern of the drapery.

To-morrow I mean to go shopping; and I may, at the same time, pick up

some adventures on my way; for business must be minded.

Adieu.

LETTER VII

Soon after my last letter, I was summoned to supper. Betterton appeared

much interested in my destiny, and I took good care to inspire him with

a due sense of my forlorn and unprotected state. I told him that I had

not a friend in the wide world, related to him my lamentable tale, and

as a proof of my veracity shewed him the parchment, the picture, and

the mole.

To my great surprise, he said that he considered my high birth

improbable; and then began advising me to descend from my romantic

flights, as he called them, and to seek after happiness instead of

misery.

'In this town,' continued he, after a long preamble, 'your charms would

be despotic, if unchained by legal constraints. But for ever distant

from you be that cold and languid tie which erroneous policy invented.

For you be the sacred community of souls, the mystic union, whose tie

of bondage is the sway of passion, the wish, the licence, and impulse

the law.'

'Pretty expressions enough,' said I, 'only I cannot comprehend them.'

'Charming girl!' cried he, while he conjured up a fiend of a smile, and

drew a brilliant from his finger, 'accept this ring, and the signature

of the hand that has worn it, securing to you five hundred a-year,

while you remain under my protection.'

'Ha, monster!' exclaimed I, 'and is this thy vile design?'

So saying, I flung the ruffian from me, then rushed down stairs, opened

the door, and quick as lightning darted along the streets.

At last, panting for breath, I paused underneath a portico. It was now

midnight. Not a wheel, not a hoof fatigued the pavement, or disturbed

the slumbering mud of the metropolis. But soon steps and soft voices

broke the silence, and a youth, encircling a maiden's waist with his

arm, and modulating the most mellifluent phraseology, passed by me.

Another couple succeeded, and another, and another. The town seemed

swarming with heroes and heroines. 'Fortunate pairs!' ejaculated I, 'at

length ye enjoy the reward of your incomparable constancy and virtue.

Here, after a long separation, meeting by chance, and in extreme

distress, ye pour forth the pure effusions of your souls. O blissful

termination of unexampled miseries!'

I now perceived, on the steps of a house, a fair and slender form,

robed in white. She was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head

leaning on one side, within her hand.

'She seems a sister in misfortune,' said I; 'so, should she but have a

Madona face, and a name ending in a, we will live, we will die

together.'

I then approached, and discovered a countenance so pale, so pensive, so

Roman, that I could almost have knelt and worshipped it.

'Fair unfortunate,' said I, taking her hand and pressing it;

'interesting unknown, say by what name am I to address so gentle a

sister in misery.'

'Eh? What?' cried she, in a tone somewhat coarser than I was prepared

to expect.

'May I presume on my sudden predilection,' said I, 'and inquire your

name?'

'Maria,' replied she, rising from her seat; 'and now I must be gone.'

'And where are you going, Maria?' said I.

'To the Devil,' said she.

'Alas! my love,' whispered I, 'sorrow hath bewildered thee. Impart to

me the cause of thy distress, and perhaps I can alleviate, if not

relieve it. I am myself a miserable orphan; but happy, thrice happy,

could I clasp a sympathetic bosom, in this frightful wilderness of

houses and faces, where, alas! I know not a human being.'

'Then you are a stranger here?' said she quickly.

'I have been here but a few hours,' answered I.

'Have you money?' she demanded.

'Only four guineas and a half,' replied I, taking out my purse.

'Perhaps you are in distress--perhaps--forgive this officiousness--not

for worlds would I wound your delicacy, but if you want assistance----'

'I have only this old sixpence upon earth,' interrupted she, 'and there

'tis for you, Miss.'

So saying, she put sixpence into my purse, which I had opened while I

was speaking.

'Generous angel!' cried I.

'Now we are in partnership, a'nt we?' said she.

'Yes, sweet innocent,' answered I, 'we are partners in grief.'

'And as grief is dry,' cried she, 'we will go moisten it.'

'And where shall we moisten it, Maria?' said I.

'In a pothouse,' cried she. 'It will do us good.'

'O my Maria!' said I, 'never, never!'

'Why then give me back my sixpence,' cried she, snatching at my purse;

but I held it fast, and, springing from her, ran away.

'Stop thief, stop thief!' vociferated she.

In an instant, I heard a sort of rattling noise from several quarters,

and an old fellow, called a watchman, came running out of a wooden box,

and seized me by the shoulder.

'She has robbed me of my purse,' exclaimed the wily wanton. ''Tis a

green one, and has four guineas and a half in it, besides a curious old

sixpence.'

The watchman took it from me, and examined it.

''Tis my purse,' cried I, 'and I can swear it.'

'You lie!' said the little wretch; 'you know well that you snatched it

out of my hand, when I was going to give you sixpence, out of charity.'

Horror and astonishment struck me dumb; and when I told my tale, the

watchman declared that both of us must remain in custody, till next

morning; and then be carried before the magistrate. Accordingly, he

escorted us to the watchhouse, a room filled with smoke and culprits;

where we stayed all night, in the midst of swearing, snoring, laughing

and crying.

In the morning we were carried before a magistrate; and with step

superb, arms folded, and neck erect, I entered the room.

'Pert enough,' said the magistrate; and turning from me, continued his

examination of two men who stood near him.

It appeared that one of them (whose name was Jerry Sullivan) had

assaulted the other, on the following occasion. A joint sum of money

had been deposited in Sullivan's hands, by this other, and a third man,

his partner, which sum Sullivan had consented to keep for them, and had

bound himself to return, whenever both should go together to him, and

demand it. Sometime afterwards, one of them went to him, and told him

that the other being ill, and therefore unable to come for the money,

had empowered him to get it. Sullivan, believing him, gave the money,

and when he next met the other, mentioned the circumstance. The other

denied having authorized what had been done, and demanded his own share

of the deposit from Sullivan, who refused it. Words ensued, and

Sullivan having knocked him down, was brought before the magistrate, to

be committed for an assault.

'Have you any defence?' said the magistrate to him.

'None that I know of,' answered he, 'only I would knock him down again,

if he touched my honour again.'

'And is this your defence?' said the magistrate.

'It is so,' replied Sullivan, 'and I hope your worship likes it, as

well as I like your worship.'

'So well,' said the magistrate, 'that I now mean to do you a signal

service.'

'Why then,' cried Sullivan, 'may the heavens smile on you.'

'And that service,' continued the magistrate, 'is to commit you

immediately.'

'Why then,' cried Sullivan, 'may the Devil inconvenience you!'

'By your insolence, you should be an Irishman,' said the magistrate.

'I was an Irishman forty years ago,' replied Sullivan, 'and I don't

suppose I am anything else now. Though I have left my country, I scorn

to change my birth-place.'

'Commit him,' said the magistrate.

Just then, a device struck me, which I thought might extricate the poor

fellow; so, having received permission, I went across, and whispered it

to him.

'The heavens smile on you,' cried he, and then addressed his accuser:

'If I can prove to you that I have not broken our agreement about the

money, will you promise not to prosecute me for this assault?'

'With all my heart,' answered he; 'for if you have not broken our

agreement, you must have the money still, which is all I want.'

'And will your worship,' said Sullivan, 'permit this compromise, and

stand umpire between us?'

'I have not the least objection,' answered the magistrate; 'for I would

rather be the means of your fulfilling an agreement, than of your

suffering a punishment; and would rather recompense your accuser with

money than with revenge.'

'Well then,' said Jerry to his accuser; 'was not our agreement, that I

should return the money to yourself and your partner, whenever you came

together to me, and asked for it?'

'Certainly,' said the man.

'And did you both ever come together to me, and ask for it?'

'Never,' said the man.

'Then I have not broken our agreement,' cried Sullivan.

'But you cannot keep it,' said the other; 'for you have given away the

money.'

'No matter for that,' cried Sullivan, 'provided I have it when both of

you come to demand it. But I believe that will be never, for the fellow

who ran off will not much like to shew his face again. So now will your

worship please to decide.'

The magistrate, after complimenting me upon my ingenuity, confessed, he

said, with much unwillingness, that Sullivan had made out his case

clearly. The poor accuser was therefore obliged to abide by his

promise, and Sullivan was dismissed, snapping his fingers, and offering

to treat the whole world with a tankard.

My cause came after, and the treacherous Maria was ordered to state her

evidence.

But what think you, Biddy, of my keeping you in suspense, till my next

letter? The practice of keeping in suspense is quite common among

novelists. Nay, there is a lady in the Romance of the Highlands, who

terminates, not her letter, but her life, much in the same style. For

when dying, she was about to disclose the circumstances of a horrid

murder, and would have done so too, had she not unfortunately expended

her last breath in a beautiful description of the verdant hills, rising

sun, all nature smiling, and a few streaks of purple in the east.

Adieu.

LETTER VIII

Maria being ordered to state her evidence, 'That I will,' said she,

'only I am so ashamed of having been out late at night--but I must tell

your worship how that happened.'

'You need not,' said the magistrate.

'Well then,' she continued, 'I was walking innocently home, with my

poor eyes fixed upon the ground, for fear of the fellors, when what

should I see, but this girl, talking on some steps, with a pickpocket,

I fancy, for he looked pretty decent. So I ran past them, for I was so

ashamed you can't think; and this girl runs after me, and says, says

she, "The fellor wouldn't give me a little shilling," says she, "so by

Jingo, you must," says she.'

'By Jingo! I say by Jingo?' cried I. 'St. Catherine guard me! Indeed,

your Excellenza, my only oath is Santa Maria.'

'She swore at me like a trooper,' continued the little imp, 'so I

pulled out my purse in a fright, and she snatched it from me, and ran

away, and I after her, calling stop thief; and this is the whole truth

'pon my honour and word, and as I hope to be married.'

The watchman declared that he had caught me running away, that he had

found the purse in my hand, and that Maria had described it, and the

money contained in it, accurately.

'And will your worship,' said Maria, 'ask the girl to describe the

sixpence that is in it?'

The magistrate turned to me.

'Really,' said I, 'as I never even saw it, I cannot possibly pretend to

describe it.'

'Then I can,' cried she. ''Tis bent in two places, and stamped on one

of its sides with a D and an H.'

The sixpence was examined, and answered her description of it.

'The case is clear enough,' said the magistrate, 'and now, Miss, try

whether you can advocate your own cause as well as Jerry Sullivan's.'

Jerry, who still remained in the room, came behind me, and whispered,

'Troth, Miss, I have no brains, but I have a bit of an oath, if that is

of any use to you. I would sell my soul out of gratitude, at any time.'

'Alas! your Excellenza,' said I to the magistrate, 'frail is the tenure

of that character, which has Innocence for its friend, and Infamy for

its foe. Life is a chequered scene of light and shade; life is a jest,

a stage----'

'Talking of life is not the way to save it,' said the magistrate. 'Less

sentiment and more point, if you please.'

I was silent, but looked anxiously towards the door.

'Are you meditating an escape?' asked he.

'No,' said I, 'but just wait a little, and you shall see what an

interesting turn affairs will take.'

'Come,' cried he, 'proceed at once, or say you will not.'

'Ah, now,' said I, 'can't you stop one moment, and not spoil everything

by your impatience. I am only watching for the tall, elegant young

stranger, with an oval face, who is to enter just at this crisis, and

snatch me from perdition.'

'Did he promise to come?' said the magistrate.

'Not at all,' answered I, 'for I have never seen the man in my life.

But whoever rescues me now, you know, is destined to marry me

hereafter. That is the rule.'

'You are an impudent minx,' said the magistrate, 'and shall pay dear

for your jocularity. Have you parents?'

'I cannot tell.'

'Friends?'

'None.'

'Where do you live?'

'No where.'

'At least 'tis plain where you will die. What is your name?'

'Cherubina.'

'Cherubina what?'

'I know not.'

'Not know? I protest this is the most hardened profligate I have ever

met. Commit her instantly.'

I now saw that something must be done; so summoning all my most

assuasive airs, I related the whole adventure, just as it had occurred.

Not a syllable obtained belief. The fatal sixpence carried all before

it. I recollected the fate of Angelica Angela Angelina, and shuddered.

What should I do? One desperate experiment remained.

'There were four guineas and half a guinea in the purse,' said I to the

girl.

'To be sure there were,' cried she. 'How cunning you are to tell me my

own news.'

'Now,' said I, 'answer me at once, and without hesitation, whether it

is the half guinea or one of the guineas that is notched in three

places, like the teeth of a saw?'

She paused a little, and then said; 'I have a long story to tell about

those same notches. I wanted a silk handkerchief yesterday, so I went

into a shop to buy one, and an impudent ugly young fellor was behind

the counter. Well, he began ogling me so, I was quite ashamed; and says

he to me, there is the change of your two pound note, says he, a guinea

and a half in gold, says he, and you are vastly handsome, says he. And

there are three notches in one of the coins, says he; guess which, says

he, but it will pass all the same, says he, and you are prodigious

pretty, says he. So indeed, I was so ashamed, that though I looked at

the money, and saw the three notches, I have quite forgotten which they

were in--guinea or half guinea; for my sight spread so, with shame at

his compliments, that the half guinea looked as big as the guinea.

Well, out I ran, blushing like a poor, terrified little thing, and sure

enough, a horrid accident was near happening me in my hurry. For I was

just running under the wheel of a carriage, when a gentleman catches me

in his arms, and says he, you are prodigious pretty, says he; and I

frowned so, you can't think; and I am sure, I never remembered to look

at the money since; and this is the whole truth, I pledge you my credit

and honour, and _by the immaculate Wenus_, as the gentlemen say.'

The accusing witness who insulted the magistrate's bench with the oath,

leered as she gave it in; and the recording clerk, as he wrote it down,

drew a line under the words, and pointed them out for ever.

'Then you saw the three notches?' said I.

'As plain as I see you now,' replied she, 'and a guilty poor thing you

look.'

'And yet,' said I, 'if his Excellenza examines, he will find that there

is not a single notch in any one of the coins.'

''Tis the case indeed,' said the magistrate, after looking at them.

He then questioned both of us more minutely, and turning to me, said,

'Your conduct, young woman, is unaccountable: but as your accuser has

certainly belied herself, she has probably belied you. The money, by

her own account, cannot be her's, but as it was found in your

possession, it may be your's. I therefore feel fully justified in

restoring it to you, and in acquitting you of the crime laid to your

charge.'

Jerry Sullivan uttered a shout of joy. I received the purse with silent

dignity, gave Maria back her sixpence, and hurried out of the room.

Jerry followed me.

'Why then,' cried he, shaking me heartily by the hand, as we walked

along, 'only tell me how I can serve you, and 'tis I am the man that

will do it; though, to be sure, you must be the greatest little

scapegrace (bless your heart!) in the three kingdoms.'

'Alas!' said I, 'you mistake my character. I am heiress to an immense

territory, and a heroine--the proudest title that can adorn a woman.'

'I never heard of that title before,' said Jerry, 'but I warrant 'tis

no better than it should be.'

'You shall judge for yourself,' said I. 'A heroine is a young lady,

rather taller than usual, and often an orphan; at all events, possessed

of the finest eyes in the world. Though her frame is so fragile, that a

breath of wind might scatter it like chaff, it is sometimes stouter

than a statue of cast iron. She blushes to the tips of her fingers, and

when other girls would laugh, she faints. Besides, she has tears,

sighs, and half sighs, at command; lives a month on a mouthful, and is

addicted to the pale consumption.'

'Why then, much good may it do her,' cried Jerry; 'but in my mind, a

phthisicky girl is no great treasure; and as for the fashion of living

a month on a mouthful, let me have a potatoe and chop for my dinner,

and a herring on Saturday nights, and I would not give a farthing for

all the starvation you could offer me. So when I finish my bit of

herring, my wife says to me, winking, a fish loves water, says she, and

immediately she fetches me a dram.'

'These are the delights of vulgar life,' said I. 'But to be thin,

innocent, and lyrical; to bind and unbind her hair; in a word, to be

the most miserable creature that ever augmented a brook with tears,

these, my friend, are the glories of a heroine.'

'Famous glories, by dad!' cried Jerry; 'but as I am a poor man, and not

particular, I can contrive to make shift with health and happiness, and

to rub through life without binding my hair.--Bind it? by the powers,

'tis seldom I even comb it.'

As I was all this time without my bonnet (for in my hurry from

Betterton's I had left it behind me), I determined to purchase one. So

I went into a shop, with Jerry, and asked the woman of it for an

interesting and melancholy turn of bonnet.

She looked at me with some surprise, but produced several; and I fixed

on one which resembled a bonnet that I had once seen in a picture of a

wood nymph. So I put it on me, wished the woman good morning, and was

walking away.

'You have forgotten to pay me, Miss,' said she.

'True,' replied I, 'but 'tis no great matter. Adieu.'

'You shall pay me, however,' cried she, ringing a bell, and a man

entered instantly from an inner room.

'Here is a hussey,' exclaimed she, 'who refuses to pay me for a

bonnet.'

'My sweet friend,' said I to her, 'a distressed heroine, which I am, I

assure you, runs in debt every where. Besides, as I like your face, I

mean to implicate you in my plot, and make you one of the _dramatis

personæ_ in the history of my life. Probably you will turn out to be

my mother's nurse's daughter. At all events, I give you my word, I will

pay you at the _denouement_, when the other characters come to be

provided for; and meantime, to secure your acquaintance, I must insist

on owing you money.'

'By dad,' said Jerry, 'that is the first of all ways to lose an

acquaintance.'

'The bonnet or the money!' cried the man, stepping between me and the

door.

'Neither the one nor the other,' answered I. 'No, Sir, to run in debt

is part of my plan, and by what right dare you interfere to save me

from ruin? Pretty, indeed, that a girl at my time of life cannot select

her own misfortunes! Sir, your conduct astonishes, shocks, disgusts

me.'

To such a reasonable appeal the man could not reply, so he snatched at

my bonnet. Jerry jumped forward, and arrested his arm.

'Hands off, bully!' cried the shopman.

'No, in troth,' said Jerry; 'and the more you bid me, the more I won't

let you go. If her ladyship has set her heart on a robbery, I am not

the man to balk her fancy. Sure, did not she save me from a gaol? And

sure, would not I help her to a bonnet? A bonnet? 'Pon my conscience,

she shall have half a dozen. 'Tis I that would not much mind being

hanged for her!'

So saying, he snatched a parcel of bonnets from the counter, and was

instantly knocked down by the shopman. He rose, and both began a

furious conflict. In the midst of it, I was attempting to rush from the

shop, when I found my spangled muslin barbarously seized by the woman,

who tore it to pieces in the struggle; and pulling off the bonnet, gave

me a horrid slap in the face. I would have cuffed her nicely in return,

only that she was more than my match; but I stamped at her with my

feet. At first I was shocked at having made this unheroic gesture; till

I luckily recollected, that Amanda once stamped at an amorous footman.

Meantime Jerry had stunned his adversary with a blow; so taking this

opportunity of escape, he dragged me with him from the shop, and

hurried me through several streets, without uttering a word.

At length I was so much exhausted, that we stopped; and strange figures

we were: Jerry's face smeared with blood, nothing on my head, my long

hair hanging loose about me, and my poor spangled muslin all in rags.

'Here,' said Jerry to an old woman who was selling apples at the corner

of the street, 'take care of this young body, while I fetch her a

coach.' And off he ran.

The woman looked at me with a suspicious eye, so I resolved to gain her

good opinion. It struck me that I might extract pathos from an apple,

and taking one from her stall, 'An apple, my charming old friend,' said

I, 'is the symbol of discord. Eve lost Paradise by tasting it, Paris

exasperated Juno by throwing it.'--A loud burst of laughter made me

turn round, and I perceived a crowd already at my elbow.

'Who tore her gown?' said one.

'Ask her spangles,' said another.

'Or her hair,' cried a third.

''Tis long enough to hang her,' cried a fourth.

'The king's hemp will do that job for her,' added a fifth.

A pull at my muslin assailed me on the one side, and when I turned

about, my hair was thrown over my face on the other.

'Good people,' said I, 'you know not whom you thus insult. I am

descended from illustrious, and perhaps Italian parents----'

A butcher's boy advanced, and putting half a hat under his arm; 'Will

your ladyship,' said he, 'permit me to hand you into that there shop?'

I bowed assent, and he led me, nothing loath. Peals of laughter

followed us.

'Now,' said I, as I stood at the door, 'I will reward your gallantry

with half a guinea.'

As I drew forth my money, I saw his face reddening, his cheeks

swelling, and his mouth pursing up.

'What delicate sensibility!' said I, 'but positively you must not

refuse this trifle.'

He took it, and then, just think, the brute laughed in my face!

'I will give this guinea,' cried I, quite enraged, 'to the first who

knocks that ungrateful down.'

Hardly had I spoken, when he was laid prostrate. He fell against the

stall, upset it, and instantly the street was strewn with apples, nuts,

and cakes. He rose. The battle raged. Some sided with him, some against

him. The furious stall-woman pelted both parties with her own apples;

while the only discreet person there, was a ragged little girl, who

stood laughing at a distance, and eating one of the cakes.

In the midst of the fray, Jerry returned with a coach. I sprang into

it, and he after me.

'The guinea, the guinea!' cried twenty voices at once. At once twenty

apples came rattling against the glasses.

'Pay me for my apples!' cried the woman.

'Pay me for my windows!' cried the coachman.

'Drive like a devil,' cried Jerry, 'and I will pay you like an

emperor!'

'Much the same sort of persons, now-a-days,' said the coachman, and

away we flew. The guinea, the guinea! died along the sky. I thought I

should have dropt with laughter.

My dear friend, do you not sympathize with my sorrows? Desolate,

destitute, and dependent on strangers, what is to become of me? I

declare I am extremely unhappy.

I write from Jerry's house, where I have taken refuge for the present;

and as soon as I am settled elsewhere, you shall hear from me again.

Adieu.

LETTER IX

Jerry Sullivan is a petty woollendraper in St. Giles's, and occupies

the ground-floor of a small house. At first his wife and daughter eyed

me with some suspicion; but when he told them how I had saved him from

ruin, and that I was somehow or other a great lady in disguise, they

became very civil, and gave me a tolerable breakfast. Then fatigued and

sleepy, I threw myself on a bed, and slept till two.

I woke with pains in all my limbs; but anxious to forward the

adventures of my life, I rose, and called mother and daughter to a

consultation on my dress. They furnished me with their best

habiliments, for which I agreed to give them two guineas; and I then

began equipping myself.

While thus employed, I heard the voices of husband and wife in the next

room, rising gradually to the matrimonial key. At last the wife

exclaims,

'A Heroine? I will take my corporal oath, there is no such title in all

England; and if she has the four guineas, she never came honestly by

them; so the sooner she parts with them the better; and not a step

shall she stir in our cloathes till she launches forth three of them.

So that's that, and mine's my own, and how do you like my manners,

Ignoramus?'

'How dare you call me Ignoramus?' cried Jerry. 'Blackguard if you like,

but no ignoramus, I believe. I know what I could call you, though.'

'Well,' cried she, 'saving a drunkard and a scold, what else can you

call me?'

'I won't speak another word to you,' said Jerry; 'I would not speak to

you, if you were lying dead in the kennel.'

'Then you're an ugly unnatural beast, so you are,' cried she, 'and your

Miss is no better than a bad one; and I warrant you understand one

another well.'

This last insinuation was sufficient for me. What! remain in a house

where suspicion attached to my character? What! act so diametrically,

so outrageously contrary to the principle of aspersed heroines, who are

sure on such occasions to pin up a bundle, and set off? I spurned the

mean idea, and resolved to decamp instantly. So having hastened my

toilette, I threw three guineas on the table, and then looked for a pen

and ink, to write a sonnet on gratitude. I could find nothing, however,

but a small bit of chalk, and with this substitute, I scratched the

following lines on the wall.

SONNET ON GRATITUDE

_Addressed to Jerry Sullivan_

As some deputed angel, from the spheres

Of empyrean day, with nectar dewed,

Through firmamental wildernesses steers,

To starless tracts of black infinitude--

Here the chalk failed me, and just at the critical moment for my simile

had also failed me, nor could I have ever gotten beyond infinitude. I

got to the street door, however, and without fear of being overheard;

to such an altitude of tone had words arisen between husband and wife,

who were now contesting a most delicate point--which of them had beaten

the other last.

'I know,' cried Jerry, 'that I gave the last blow.'

'Then take the first now,' cried his wife, as I shut the door.

Anticipating the probability that I should have occasion for Jerry's

services again, I marked the number of the house, and then hastened

along the street. It was swarming and humming like a hive of bees, and

I felt as if I could never escape alive out of it. Here a carriage

almost ran over me; there a waggoner's whip almost blinded me. Now a

sweep brushed against me. 'Beauty!' cried a man like a monkey, and

chucked my chin, while a fellow with a trunk shoved me aside.

I now turned into a street called Bond Street, where a long procession

of carriages was passing. I remarked that the coachmen (they could not

be gentlemen, I am sure) appeared to stand in great estimation; for the

ladies of one carriage used to nod most familiarly to the driver of

another. Indeed, I had often heard it said, that ladies and coachmen

are sometimes particularly intimate; but till now I could never believe

it.

The shops next attracted my attention, and I stopped to look at some of

them. You cannot conceive any thing more charming: Turkish turbans,

Indian shawls, pearls, diamonds, fans, feathers, laces; all shewn for

nothing at the windows. I had but one guinea remaining!

At length feeling tired and hungry, and my feet being quite foundered,

I determined to lose no farther time in taking lodgings. Perceiving

'Apartments to let,' written on a door, I rapped, and a servant girl

opened it.

'Pray,' said I to her, 'are your northern apartments uninhabited?'

She replied that there were two rooms on the second floor disengaged,

and comfortably furnished.

'I do not want them comfortable,' said I; 'but are they furnished with

tapestry and old pictures? That is the point.'

'There is only master's face over the chimney,' said she.

'Do the doors creek on their hinges?' asked I.

'That they don't,' said she, 'for I oiled 'em all only yesterday.'

'Then you shewed a depraved taste,' cried I. 'At least, are the

apartments haunted?'

'Lauk, no!' said she, half shutting the door.

'Well then, my good girl, tell me candidly whether your mistress is

like the landladies one reads of. Is she a fat, bustling little woman,

who would treat me to tea, cakes, and plenty of gossip, and at the end

of a week, say to me, "out, hussy, tramp this moment;" or is she a

pale, placid matron, worn to a thread-paper, and whose story is

interwoven with mine?'

'Deuce take your impudence!' cried she, slapping the door in my face.

I tried other houses with no better success; and even when I merely

asked for common lodgings, without stipulating for spectres or

tapestry, the people would not accommodate me, unless I could procure

some recommendation besides my own.

As I had no friend to give me a character, it became necessary to make

a friend; so I began to look about for a fit subject. Passing a shop

where eggs and butter were sold, and lodgings to be let, I perceived a

pretty woman sitting behind the counter, and a fine infant playing upon

it. I thought that all this bore an auspicious appearance; so I

tottered into the shop, and placing myself opposite to the woman, I

gazed at her with an engaging and gentle intelligence. She demanded my

business.

'Interesting creature!' whispered I, pressing her hand as it rested on

the counter. 'O may that little rosy fatling----'

Unfortunately there was an egg in the hand that I took, which I crushed

by the compression, and the yolk came oozing between her fingers.

'Reptile!' cried she, as she threw the fragments in my face.

'Savage!' cried I, as I ran out of the shop, and wiped off the eggy

dishonours.

At length I reached an immense edifice, which appeared to me the castle

of some brow-knitting baron. Ponderous columns supported it, and

statues stood in the niches. The portal lay open. I glided into the

hall. As I looked anxiously around, I beheld a cavalier descending a

flight of steps. He paused, muttered some words, laid his hand upon his

heart, dropped it, shook his head, and proceeded.

I felt instantly interested in his fate; and as he came nearer,

perceived, that surely never lighted on this orb, which he hardly

seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. His form was tall, his face

oval, and his nose aquiline. Seducing sweetness dwelled in his smile,

and as he pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with rapture, or

beam with sensibility. Once more he paused, frowned, and waving his

arm, exclaimed, with an elegant energy of enunciation!

'To watch the minutes of this night, that if again this apparition

come, he may approve our eyes, and speak to it!'

That moment a pang, poignant, but delicious, transfixed my bosom. Too

well I felt and confessed it the dart of love. In sooth, too well I

knew that my heart was lost to me for ever. Silly maiden! But fate had

decreed it.

I rushed forward, and sank at the feet of the stranger.

'Pity and protect a destitute orphan!' cried I. 'Here, in this

hospitable castle, I may hope for repose and protection. Oh, Signor,

conduct me to your respected mother, the Baroness, and let me pour into

her ear my simple and pathetic tale.'

'O ho! simple and pathetic!' cried he. 'Come, my dear, let me hear it.'

I seated myself on the steps, and told him my whole story. During the

recital, the noble youth betrayed extreme sensibility. Sometimes he

turned his head aside to conceal his emotion; and sometimes stifled a

hysterical laugh of agony.

When I had ended, he begged to know whether I was quite certain that I

had ten thousand pounds in my power. I replied, that as Wilkinson's

daughter, I certainly had; but that the property must devolve to some

one else, as soon as I should be proved a nobleman's daughter.

He then made still more accurate inquiries about it; and after having

satisfied himself:

'Beshrew my heart!' exclaimed he; 'but I will avenge your injuries; and

ere long you shall be proclaimed and acknowledged the Lady Cherubina De

Willoughby. Meantime, as it will be prudent for you to lie concealed

from the search of your enemies, hear the project which I have formed.

I lodge at present in Drury-lane, an obscure street; and as one

apartment in the house is unoccupied, you can hire it, and remain

there, a beautiful recluse, till fortune and my poor efforts shall

rescue from oppression the most enchanting of her sex.'

He spoke, and seizing my hand, carried it to his lips.

'What!' cried I, 'do you not live in this castle, and are you not its

noble heir?'

'This is no castle,' said he, 'but Covent Garden Theatre.'

'And you?' asked I with anxiety.

'Am an actor,' answered he.

'And your name?'

'Is Abraham Grundy.'

'Then, Mr. Abraham Grundy,' said I, 'allow me to have the satisfaction

of wishing you a very good evening.'

'Stay!' cried he, detaining me, 'and you shall know the whole truth. My

birth is illustrious, and my real name Lord Altamont Mortimer

Montmorenci. But like you, I am enveloped in a cloud of mysteries, and

compelled to the temporary resource of acting. Hereafter I will

acquaint you with the most secret particulars of my life; but at

present, you must trust to my good faith, and accept of my protection.'

'Generous Montmorenci!' exclaimed I, giving him my hand, which he

pressed upon his heart.

'Now,' said he, 'you must pass at these lodgings as my near relation,

or they will not admit you.'

At first, I hesitated at deviating from veracity; but soon consented,

on recollecting, that though heroines begin with praising truth,

necessity makes them end with being the greatest story-tellers in the

world. Nay, Clarissa Harlowe, when she had a choice, often preferred

falsehood to fact.

During our walk to the lodgings, Montmorenci instructed me how to play

my part, and on our arrival, introduced me to the landlady, who was

about fifty, and who looked as if the goddess of fasting had bespoken

her for a hand-maid.

With an amiable effrontery, and a fine easy flow of falsehood, he told

her, as we had concerted, that I was his second cousin, and an orphan;

my name Miss Donald (Amanda's assumed name), and that I had come to

Town for the purpose of procuring by his interest, an appointment at

the Theatre.

The landlady said she would move heaven and earth, and her own bed, for

so good a gentleman; and then consented to give me her sleeping-room on

the ground-floor, at some trifle or other,--I forget what. I have also

the use of a parlour adjoining it. There is, however, nothing

mysterious in these chambers, but a dark closet belonging to the

parlour, whither I may fly for refuge, when pursued by my persecutors.

Thus, my friend, the plot of my history begins to take a more

interesting shape, and a fairer order of misfortune smiles upon me.

Trust me, there is a taste in distress as well as in millinery. Far be

from me the loss of eyes or limbs, such publicity as the pillory

affords, or the grossness of a jail-fever. I would be sacrificed to the

lawless, not to the laws, dungeoned in the holy Inquisition, not

clapped into Bridewell, recorded in a novel, not in the Newgate

Calender. Were I inelegantly unhappy, I should be wretched indeed.

Yes, my Biddy, sensations hitherto unknown now heave my white bosom,

vary the carnation of my cheeks, and irradiate my azure eyes. I sigh,

gaze on vacancy, start from a reverie; now bite, now moisten my coral

lip, and pace my chamber with unequal steps. Too sure I am deeply,

distractedly in love, and Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci is the first of

men.

Adieu.

LETTER X

The landlady, his lordship, and another lodger, are accustomed to dine

in common; and his lordship easily persuaded me to join the party.

Accordingly, just as I had finished my last letter, dinner was

announced, so having braided my tresses, I tripped up stairs, and

glided into the room. You must know I have practised tripping, gliding,

flitting, and tottering, with great success. Of these, tottering ranks

first, as it is the approved movement of heroic distress.

'I wonder where our mad poet can be?' said the hostess; and as she

spoke, an uncouth figure entered, muttering in emphatic accents,

'The hounds around bound on the sounding ground.'

He started on seeing me, and when introduced by his lordship, as Mr.

Higginson, his fellow lodger, and a celebrated poet, he made an

unfathomable bow, rubbed his hands, and reddened to the roots of his

hair.

This personage is tall, gaunt, and muscular; with a cadaverous

countenance, and black hair in strings on his forehead. I find him one

of those men who spend their lives in learning how the Greeks and

Romans lived; how they spoke, dressed, ate; what were their coins and

houses, &c.; but neglect acquainting themselves with the manners and

customs of their own times. Montmorenci tells me that his brain is

affected by excessive study; but that his manners are harmless.

At dinner, Montmorenci looked all, said all, did all, which conscious

nobility, united with ardent attachment, could inspire in a form

unrivalled, and a face unexcelled. I perceived that the landlady

regarded him with eyes of tender attention, and languishing allurement,

but in vain. I was his magnet and his Cynosure.

As to Higginson, he did not utter a word during dinner, except asking

for a bit of _lambkin_; but he preserved a perpetuity of gravity in

his face, and stared at me, the whole time, with a stupid and

reverential fixedness. When I spoke, he stopped in whatever attitude

he happened to be; whether with a glass at his mouth, or a fork half

lifted to it.

After dinner, I proposed that each of us should relate the history of

our lives; an useful custom established by heroines, who seldom fail of

finding their account in it; as they are almost always sure to

discover, by such means, either a grandmother or a murder. Thus too,

the confession of a monk, the prattle of an old woman, a diamond cross

on a child's neck, or a parchment, are the certain forerunners of

virtue vindicated, vice punished, rights restored, and matrimony made

easy.

The landlady was asked to begin.

'I have nothing to tell of myself,' said she, 'but that my mother left

me this house, and desired me to look out for a good husband, Mr.

Grundy; and I am not as old as I look; for I have had my griefs, as

well as other folks, and every tear adds a year, as they say; and 'pon

my veracity, Mr. Grundy, I was but thirty-two last month. And my

bitterest enemies never impeached my character, that is what they

did'nt, nor could'nt; they dare'nt to my face. I am a perfect snowdrop

for purity. Who presumes to go for to say that a lord left me an

annuity or the like? Who, I ask? But I got a prize in the lottery. So

this is all I can think to tell of myself; and, Mr. Grundy, your

health, and a good wife to you, Sir.'

After this eloquent piece of biography, we requested of Higginson to

recount his adventures; and he read a short sketch, which was to have

accompanied a volume of poems, had not the booksellers refused to

publish them. I copy it for you.

MEMOIRS OF JAMES HIGGINSON

BY HIMSELF:

'Of the lives of poets, collected from posthumous record, and oral

tradition, as little is known with certainty, much must be left to

conjecture. He therefore, who presents his own memoirs to the

public, may surely merit the reasonable applause of all, whose

minds are emancipated from the petulance of envy, the

fastidiousness of hypercriticism, and the exacerbation of party.

'I was born in the year 1771, at 24, Swallow Street; and should the

curious reader wish to examine the mansion, he has every thing to

hope from the alert urbanity of its present landlord, and the civil

obsequiousness of his notable lady. He who gives civility, gives

what costs him little, while remuneration may be multiplied in an

indefinite ratio.

'My parents were reputable tobacconists, and kept me behind the

counter, to negociate the titillating dust, and the tranquillizing

quid. Of genius the first spark which I elicited, was reading a

ballad in the shop, while the woman who sold it to me was stealing

a canister of snuff. This specimen of mental abstraction (a quality

which I still preserve), shewed that I would never make a good

tradesman; but it also shewed, that I would make an excellent

scholar. A tutor was accordingly appointed for me; and during a

triennial course of study, I had passed from the insipidity of the

incipient _hic_, _hæc_, _hoc_, to the music of a Virgil, and the

thunder of a Demosthenes.

'Debarred by my secluded life from copying the polished converse of

high society, I have at least endeavoured to avoid the vulgar

phraseology of low; and to discuss the very weather with a

sententious association of polysyllabical ratiocination.

'With illustrations of my juvenile character, recollection but ill

supplies me. That I have always disliked the diurnal ceremony of

ablution, and a hasty succession of linen, is a truth which he who

has a sensitive texture of skin will easily credit; which he who

will not credit, may, if he pleases, deny; and may, if he can,

controvert. But I assert the fact, and I expect to be believed,

because I assert it. Life, among its quiet blessings, can boast of

few things more comfortable than indifference to dress.

'To honey with my bread, and to apple-sauce with my goose, I have

ever felt a romantic attachment, resulting from the classical

allusions which they inspire. That man is little to be envied,

whose honey would not remind him of the Hyblean honey, and whose

apple-sauce would not suggest to him the golden apple.

'But notwithstanding my cupidity for such dainties, I have that

happy adaptation of taste which can banquet, with delight, upon

hesternal offals; can nibble ignominious radishes, or masticate

superannuated mutton.

'My first series of teeth I cut at the customary time, and the

second succeeded them with sufficient punctuality. This fact I had

from my mother.

'My first poetical attempt was an epitaph on the death of my tutor,

and it was produced at the precocious age of ten.

EPITAPH

Here lies the body of John Tomkins, who

Departed this life, aged fifty-two;

After a long and painful illness, that

He bore with Christian fortitude, though fat.

He died lamented deeply by this poem,

And all who had the happiness to know him.

'This composition my father did not long survive; and my mother, to

the management of the business feeling quite unequal, relinquished

it altogether, and retired with the respectable accumulation of a

thousand pounds.

'I still pursued my studies, and from time to time accommodated

confectionaries and band-boxes with printed sheets, which the world

might have read, had it pleased, and might have been pleased with,

had it read. For some years past, however, the booksellers have

declined to publish my productions at all. Envious enemies poison

their minds against me, and persuade them that my brain is

disordered. For, like Rousseau, I am the victim of implacable foes;

but my genius, like an arch, becomes stronger the more it is

opprest.

'On a pretty little maid of my mother's, I made my next poetical

effort, which I present to the reader.

TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT

If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran

One tide of ink to Ispahan;

If all the geese in Lincoln fens,

Produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens;

If Holland old or Holland new,

One wond'rous sheet of paper grew;

Could I, by stenographic power,

Write twenty libraries an hour;

And should I sing but half the grace

Of half a freckle on thy face;

Each syllable I wrote, should reach

From Inverness to Bognor's beach;

Each hairstroke be a river Rhine,

Each verse an equinoctial line.

'Of the girl, an immediate dismission ensued; but for what reason, let

the sedulous researches of future biographers decide.

'At length, having resolved on writing a volume of Eclogues, I

undertook an excursion into the country to learn pastoral manners, and

write in comfort, far from my tailor. An amputated loaf, and a

contracted Theocritus, constituted my companions. Not a cloud blotted

the blue concave, not a breeze superinduced undulation over the verdant

tresses of the trees.

'In vain I questioned the youths and maidens about their Damons and

Delias; their Dryads and Hamadryads; their Amaboean contentions and

their amorous incantations. When I talked of Pan, they asked me if it

was a pan of milk; when I requested to see the pastoral pipe, they

shewed me a pipe of tobacco; when I spoke of satyrs with horns, they

bade me go to the husbands; and when I spoke of fawns with cloven heel,

they bade me go to the Devil. While charmed with a thatched and shaded

cottage, its slimy pond or smoking dunghill disgusted me; and when I

recumbed on a bank of cowslips and primroses, my features were

transpierced by wasps and ants and nettles. I fell asleep under

sunshine, and awoke under a torrent of rain. Dripping and disconsolate,

I returned to my mother, drank some whey; and since that misadventurous

perambulation have never ruralized again. To him who subjects himself

to a recurrence of disaster, the praise of boldness may possibly be

accorded, but the praise of prudence must certainly be denied.

'A satirical eclogue, however, was the fruit of this expedition. It is

called Antique Amours, and is designed to shew, that passions which are

adapted to one time of life, appear ridiculous in another. The reader

shall have it.

ANTIQUE AMOUR

AN ECLOGUE

'Tis eve. The sun his ardent axle cools

In ocean. Dripping geese shake off the pools.

An elm men's shadows measure; red and dun,

The shattered leaves are rustling as they run;

While an aged bachelor and ancient maid,

Sit amorous under an old oak decayed.

He (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass)

Strews fodder underneath the hoary lass;

Then thus,--O matchless piece of season'd clay,

'Tis Autumn, all things shrivel and decay.

Yet as in withered Autumn, charms we see,

Say, faded maiden, may we not in thee?

What tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore;

For wrinkles are the dimples of threescore:

Tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies,

It fondly circles round those roseate eyes;

And while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain,

The tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain.

Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,

Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.

To clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold,

Of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold;

Then, after stately kisses, to repair

That architectural edifice of hair,

These, these are blessings.--O my grey delight,

O venerable nymph, O painted blight,

Give me to taste of these. By Heaven above,

I tremble less with palsy than with love;

And tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth,

My words flow unobstructed by a tooth.

Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet,

Ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet.

Come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law,

Nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw.

Come, and in formal frolic intertwine,

The braided silver of thy hair with mine.

Then sing some bibulous and reeling glee,

And drink crusht juices of the grape with me.

Sing, for the wine no water shall dilute;

'Tis drinking water makes the fishes mute.

Come then, age urges, hours have winged feet;

Ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet.

So spoke the slim and elderly remains

Of once a youth. A staff his frame sustains;

And aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel,

Thin as the spectre of a famished eel.

Sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes,

The virgin a decrepid simper tries,

Then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain,

Her passion, and the teeth that still remain.

Innocent pair! But now the rain begins,

So both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins.

And homeward haste. Such loves the Poet wrote,

In the patch'd poverty of half a coat;

Then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime,

Magnanimously mad in mighty rhime.

'With my venerable parent, I now pass a harmless life. As we have

no society, we have no scandal; ourselves, therefore, we make our

favourite topic, and ourselves we are unwilling to dispraise.

'Whether the public will admire my works, as well as my mother

does, far be from me to determine. If they cannot boast of wit and

judgment, to the praise of truth and modesty they may at least lay

claim. To be unassuming in an age of impudence, and veracious in an

age of mendacity, is to combat with a sword of glass against a

sword of steel; the transparency of the one may be more beautiful

than the opacity of the other; yet let it be recollected, that the

transparency is accompanied with brittleness, and the opacity with

consolidation.'

* * * * *

I listened with much compassion to this written evidence of a perverted

intellect. O my friend, what a frightful disorder is madness!

My turn came next, and I repeated the fictitious tale that Montmorenci

had taught me. He confirmed it; and on being asked to relate his own

life, gave us, with great taste, such a natural narrative of a man

living on his wits, that any one who knew not his noble origin must

have believed it.

Soon afterwards, he retired to dress for the theatre; and when he

returned, I beheld a perfect hero. He was habited in an Italian

costume; his hair hung in ringlets, and mustachios embellished his lip.

He then departed in a coach, and as soon as he had left us:

'I declare,' said the landlady to me, 'I do not like your cousin's

style of beauty at all; particularly his pencilled eyebrows and curled

locks, they look so womanish.'

'What!' said I, 'not admire Hesperian, Hyacinthine, clustering curls?

Surely you would not have a hero with overhanging brows and lank hair?

These are worn by none but the villains and assassins.'

I perceived poor Higginson colouring, and twisting his fingers; and I

then recollected that his brows and hair have precisely the faults

which I reprobated.

'Dear, dear, dear!' muttered he, and made a precipitate retreat from

the room.

I retired soon after; and I now hasten to throw myself on my bed, dream

of love and Montmorenci, and wake unrefreshed, from short and

distracted slumbers.

Adieu.

LETTER XI

This morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my

door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour,

entered. Oh! ye conscious blushes, it was my Montmorenci! A plume of

white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were

wanting.

'I come,' cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his

lips, 'I come in the ancient armour of my family, to perform my promise

of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.'

'My lord,' said I, 'rise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to

appreciate the honour that Montmorenci confers.'

He bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet, he placed

himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history.

'All was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder

rolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced.

'In the province of Languedoc stood the Gothic Castle of Montmorenci.

Before it ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose

summits exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial

vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the

blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir,

that swept downward to their base.

'My lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?'

whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black feathers, to the banditti,

in their long cloaks.

'If they an't,' said Bernardo, 'by St. Jago, we might load our carbines

with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against this confounded

north-wind.'

'The wind is east-south-east,' said Ugo.

'At this moment the bell of Montmorenci Castle tolled one. The sound

vibrated through the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites

of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the

honour to address you. Much alarmed, I started from my couch, which was

of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of flowered gold, and the canopy

of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies, by Michael

Angelo. But conceive my horror when I beheld my chamber filled with

banditti!

'Snatching my sword, I flew to a corner, where my coat of mail lay

heapt. The bravos rushed upon me; but I fought and dressed, and dressed

and fought, till I had perfectly completed my unpleasing toilette.

'I then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen years

of age.

Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,

Than twenty of their swords.--

'To describe the horror of the contest that followed, were beyond the

pen of an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced

with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail,

And whistled as they went for want of thought.

'At length my sword broke, so I set sail for England.

'As I first touched foot on her chalky beach; Hail! exclaimed I, happy

land, thrice hail! Take to thy fostering bosom the destitute

Montmorenci--Montmorenci, once the first and richest of the Gallic

nobility--Montmorenci, whom wretches drove from his hereditary

territories, for loyalty to his monarch, and opposition to the

atrocities of exterminators and revolutionists.

'Nine days and nights I wandered through the country, the rivulet my

beverage, and the berry my repast: the turf my couch, and the sky my

canopy.'

'Ah!' interrupted I, 'how much you must have missed the canopy of white

velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies!'

'Extremely,' said he, 'for during sixteen long years, I had not a roof

over my head.--I was an itinerant beggar!

'One summer's day, the cattle lay panting under the broad umbrage; the

sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and the struggling

brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat under a hedge,

and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form, flexile as the

flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the sighs of a dying

vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod.

What a divinity! she was fresh as the Anadyomene of Apelles, and

beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxitiles, or the Helen of Zeuxis. Her eyes

dipt in Heaven's own hue.'----

'Sir,' said I, 'you need not mind her eyes: I dare say they were blue

enough. But pray who was this immortal doll of your's?'

'Who!' cried he. 'Why who but--shall I speak it? Who but--the LADY

CHERUBINA DE WILLOUGHBY!!!'

'I!'

'You!'

'Ah! Montmorenci!'

'Ah! Cherubina! I followed you with cautious steps,' continued he,

'till I traced you into your--you had a garden, had you not?'

'Yes.'

'Into your garden. I thought ten thousand flowerets would have leapt

from their beds to offer you a nosegay. But the age of gallantry is

past, that of merchants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded,

and the glory of Cupid is extinguished for ever!

'You disappeared, I uttered incoherent sentences, and next morning

resumed my station at a corner of the garden.'

'At which corner?' asked I.

'Why really,' said he, 'I cannot explain; for the place was then new to

me, and the ground was covered with snow.'

'With snow!' cried I. 'Why I thought you were eating wild strawberries

only the day before.'

'I!' said he. 'Sure you mistake.'

'I declare most solemnly you told me so,' cried I.

'Why then,' said he, 'curse me if I did.'

'Sir,' said I. 'I must remark that your manners----'

'Bless me!' cried he, 'yes, I did say so, sure enough, and I did eat

wild strawberries too; but they were _preserved_ wild strawberries. I

had got a small crock of them from an oyster woman, who was opening

oysters in a meadow, for a hysterical butcher; and her knife having

snapt in two, I lent her my sword; so, out of gratitude, she made me a

present of the preserves. By the bye, they were mouldy.

'One morning, as I sat at the side of the road, asking alms, some

provincial players passed by me. I accosted them, and offered my

services. In short, they took me with them; I performed, was applauded;

and at length my fame reached London, where I have now been acting some

years, with much success; anxious as I am, to realize a little money,

that I may return, in disguise, to my native country, and petition

Napoleon to restore my forfeited estates.

'Such, fair lady, such is my round, unvarnished tale.

'But wherefore,' cried he, starting from his seat; 'wherefore talk of

the past? Oh! let me tell you of the present and of the future. Oh! let

me tell you, how dearly, how devotedly I love you!'

'Love me!' cried I, giving such a start as the nature of the case

required. 'My lord, this is so--really now so----'

'Pardon this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,' said he, flinging

himself at my feet. 'Fain would I have let concealment, like a worm in

the bud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the

maddening sight of so much beauty?'

I remained silent, and with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast

my blue eyes to the ground. I never looked so lovely.

'But I go!' cried he, springing on his feet. 'I fly from you for ever!

No more shall Cherubina be persecuted with my hopeless love. But

Cherubina, the hills and the vallies shall echo, and the songsters of

the grove shall articulate Cherubina. I will shake the leaves of the

forest with my sighs, and make the stream so briny with my tears, that

the turbot shall swim into it, and the sea-weed grow upon its banks!'

'Ah, do not!' said I, with a look of unutterable anguish.

'I will!' exclaimed he, pacing the chamber with long strides, and

slapping his heart, 'and I call all the stars of respectability to

witness the vow. Then, Lady Cherubina,' continued he, stopping short

before me; 'then, when maddened and emaciated, I shall pillow my

haggard head on a hard rock, and lulled by the hurricanes of Heaven,

shall sink into the sleep of the grave.'----

'Dear Montmorenci!' said I, quite overcome, 'live for my sake--as you

value my--friendship,--live.'

'Friendship!' echoed he. 'Oh! Cherubina, Oh! my soul's precious

treasure, say not that icy word. Say hatred, disgust, horror; any thing

but friendship.'

'What shall I say?' cried I, ineffably affected, 'or what shall I do?'

'What you please,' muttered he, looking wild and pressing his forehead.

'My brain is on fire. Hark! chains are clanking--The furies are

whipping me with their serpents--What smiling cherub arrests yon bloody

hand? Ha! 'tis Cherubina. And now she frowns at me--she darts at

me--she pierces my heart with an arrow of ice!'

He threw himself on the floor, groaned grievously, and tore his hair. I

was horror-struck.

'I declare,' said I, 'I would say any thing on earth to relieve

you;--only tell me what.'

'Angel of light!' exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on

me a smile that might liquefy marble. 'Have I then hope? Dare I say it?

Dare I pronounce the divine words, she loves me?'

'I am thine and thou art mine!' murmured I, while the room swam before

me.

He took both my hands in his own, pressed them to his forehead and

lips, and leaned his burning cheek upon them.

'My sight is confused,' said he, 'my breathing is opprest; I hear

nothing, my veins swell, a palpitation seizes my heart, and I scarcely

know where I am, or whether I exist!'

Then softly encircling my waist with his arm, he pressed me to his

heart. With what modesty I tried to extricate myself from his embrace;

yet with what willing weakness I trembled on his bosom. It was

Cherubina's hand that fell on his shoulder, it was Cherubina's tress

that played on his cheek, it was Cherubina's sigh that breathed on his

lip.

'Moment of a pure and exquisite emotion!' cried he. 'In the life of man

you are known but once; yet once known, can you ever be forgotten? Now

to die would be to die most blest!'

Suddenly he caught me under the chin, and kissed me. I struggled from

him, and sprang to the other end of the room, while my neck and face

were suffused with a glow of indignation.

'Really,' said I, panting with passion, 'this is so unprovoked, so

presuming.'

He cast himself at my feet, execrated his folly, and swore that he had

merely fulfilled an etiquette indispensible among lovers in his own

country.

''Tis not usual here, my lord,' said I; 'and I have no notion of

submitting to any freedom that is not sanctioned by the precedent of

those exalted models whom I have the honour to imitate.

'I fancy, my lord, you will find, that, as far as a kiss on the hand,

or an arm round the waist, they have no particular objection. But a

salute on the lip is considered inaccurate. My lord, on condition that

you never repeat the liberty, here is my hand.'

He snatched it with ardor, and strained it to his throbbing bosom.

'And now,' cried he, 'make my happiness complete, by making this hand

mine for ever.'

On a sudden an air of dignified grandeur involved my form. My mind, for

the first time, was called upon to reveal its full force. It felt the

solemnity of the appeal, and triumphed in its conscious ability.

'What!' cried I, 'knowest thou not the fatal, the inscrutable, the

mysterious destiny, which must ever prevent our union?'

'Speak, I conjure you,' cried he, 'or I expire on the spot.'

'Alas!' exclaimed I, 'can'st thou suppose the poor orphan Cherubina so

destitute of principle and of pride, as to intrude herself unknown,

unowned, unfriended; mysterious in her birth, and degraded in her

situation, on the ancient and illustrious House of Montmorenci?

'Here then I most solemnly vow, never to wed, till the horrible mystery

which hangs over my birth be developed.'

You know, Biddy, that a heroine ought always to snatch at an

opportunity of making a fatal vow. When things are going on too smooth,

and interest drooping, a fatal vow does wonders. I remember reading in

some romance, of a lady, who having vowed never to divulge a certain

secret, kept it twenty years; and with such inviolability, that she

lived to see it the death of all her children, several of her friends,

and a fine old aunt.

As soon as I had made this fatal vow, his lordship fell into the most

afflicting agonies and attitudes.

'Oh!' cried he, 'to be by your side, to see you, touch you, talk to

you, love you, adore you, and yet find you lost to me for ever. Oh!

'tis too much, too much.'

'The milliner is here, Miss,' said the maid, tapping at the door.

'Bid her call again,' said I.

'Beloved of my soul!' murmured his lordship.

'Ma'am,' interrupted the maid, opening the door, 'she cannot call

again, as she must go from this to Kensington.'

'Then let her come in,' said I, and she entered with a charming

assortment of bonnets and dresses.

'We will finish the scene another time,' whispered I to his lordship.

His lordship swore that he would drop dead that instant.

The milliner declared that she had brought me the newest patterns.

'On my honour,' said I to his lordship, 'you shall finish this scene

to-morrow morning, if you wish it.'

'You may go and be---- Heigho!' said he, suddenly checking himself.

What he was about to say, I know not; something mysterious, I should

think, by the knitting of his brows. However, he snatched his spear,

shield, and helmet, made a low bow, laid his hand on his heart, and

stalked out of the chamber. Interesting youth!

I then ran in debt for some millinery, drank hartshorn, and chafed my

temples.

I think I was right about the kiss. I confess I am not one of those

girls who try to attract men through the medium of the touch; and who

thus excite passion at the expence of respect. Lips are better employed

in sentiment, than in kissing. Indeed, had I not been fortified by the

precedent of other heroines, I should have felt, and I fear, did

actually feel, even the classical embrace of Montmorenci too great a

freedom. But remember I am still in my noviciate. After a little

practice, I shall probably think it rather a pleasure to be strained,

and prest, and folded to the heart. Yet of this I am certain, that I

shall never attain sufficient hardihood to ravish a kiss from a man's

mouth; as the divine Heloise did; who once ran at St. Preux, and

astonished him with the most balmy and remarkable kiss upon record.

Poor fellow! he was never the same after it.

I must say too, that Montmorenci did not shew much judgment in urging

me to marry him, before I had undergone adventures for four volumes.

Because, though the heroic etiquette allowed me to fall in love at

first sight, and confess it at second sight, yet it would not authorize

me to marry myself off quite so smoothly. A heroine is never to be got

without agony and adventure. Even the ground must be lacerated, before

it will bring forth fruits, and often we cannot reach the lovely

violet, till we have torn our hands with brambles.

I did not see his lordship again until dinner time; and we had almost

finished our repast, before the poet made his appearance and his bow.

His bow was as usual, but his appearance was strangely changed. His

hair stood in stiff ringlets on his forehead, and he had pruned his

bushy eyebrows, till hardly one bristle remained; while a pair of white

gloves, small enough for myself, were forced upon his hands. He glanced

at us with a conscious eye, and hurried to his seat at table.

'Ovid's Metamorphoses, by Jupiter!' exclaimed Montmorenci. 'Why,

Higginson, how shameful for the mice to have nibbled your eyebrows,

while Apollo Belvidere was curling your hair!'

The poet blushed, and ate with great assiduity.

'My dear fellow,' continued his lordship, 'we can dispense with those

milk-white gloves during dinner. Tell me, are they mamma's, dear

mamma's?'

'I will tell my mother of you!' cried the poet, half rising from his

chair.

Now his mother is an old bed-ridden lady in one of the garrets. I then

interfered in his behalf, and peace was restored.

After dinner, I took an opportunity, when the landlady had left the

room, to request ten pounds from his lordship, for the purpose of

paying the milliner. Never was regret so finely pictured in a face as

in his, while he swore that he had not a penny upon earth. Indeed so

graceful was his lamentation, so interesting his penury, that though

the poet stole out of the room for ten pounds, which he slipped into my

hand, I preferred the refusal of the one to the donation of the other.

Yes, this amiable young nobleman increases in my estimation every

moment. Never can you catch him out of a picturesque position. He would

exhaust in an hour all the attitudes of all the statues; when he talks

tenderness, his eyes glow with a moist fire, and he always brings in

his heart with peculiar happiness. Then too, his oaths are at once well

conceived and elegantly expressed. Thunderbolts and the fixed stars are

ever at his elbow, and no man can sink himself to perdition with so

fine a grace.

But I could write of him, talk of him, think of him, hour after hour,

minute after minute; even now, while the shadows of night are

blackening the blushes of the rose, till dawn shall stain with her

ruddy fire, the snows of the naked Apennine; till the dusky streams

shall be pierced with darts of light, and the sun shall quaff his dewy

beverage from the cup of the tulip, and the chalice of the lily. That

is pretty painting.

Adieu.

LETTER XII

'It is my lady, O it is my love!' exclaimed Lord Altamont Mortimer

Montmorenci, as he flew, like a winged mercury, into my apartment this

morning. A loud rap at the door checked his eloquence, and spoiled a

most promising posture.

'Is Miss Wilkinson within?' said a voice in the hall.

'No such person lives here,' replied the maid, who was accustomed to

hear me called Miss Donald.

'But there does, and on the ground-floor too, and I will find her out,

I warrant,' cried the same voice.

My door was then thrown open, and who should waddle into the room, but

fat Wilkinson!

My first feeling (could you believe it) was of gladness at seeing him;

nor had I presence of mind enough, either to repulse his embrace, or

utter a piercing shriek. Happily my recollection soon returned, and I

flung him from me.

'Cherry,' said he, 'dear Cherry, what have I done to you, that you

should use me thus? Was there ever a wish of your heart that I left

ungratified? And now to desert me in my old age! Only come home with

me, my child, only come home with me, and I will forgive you all.'

'Wilkinson,' said I, 'this interview must be short, pointed, and

decisive. As to calling yourself my father, that is a stale trick, and

will not pass; and as to personating (what I perceive you aspire to)

the grand villain of my plot, your corpulency, pardon me, puts that out

of the question for ever. I should be just as happy to employ you as

any other man I know, but excuse me if I say, that you rather overrate

your talents and qualifications. Have you the gaunt ferocity of famine

in your countenance? Can you darken the midnight of a scowl? Have you

the quivering lip and the Schedoniac contour? And while the lower part

of your face is hidden in black drapery, can your eyes glare from under

the edge of a cowl? In a word, are you a picturesque villain, full of

plot, and horror, and magnificent wickedness? Ah, no, Sir, you are only

a sleek, good-humoured, chuckle-headed gentleman. Continue then what

nature made you; return to your plough, mow, reap, fatten your pigs and

the parson; but never again attempt to get yourself thrust into the

pages of a romance.'

Disappointment and dismay forced more meaning into his features than I

thought them possessed of. The fact is, he had never imagined that my

notions of what villains ought to be were so refined; and that I have

formed my taste in these matters upon the purest models.

As a last effort of despair, the silly man flung himself on his knees

before me, and grasping my hands, looked up in my face, with such an

imploring wretchedness of expression, while the tears rolled silently

down his cheeks, that I confess I was a little moved; and for the

moment fancied him sincere.

'Now goodness bless thee,' said he, at length, 'goodness bless thee,

for those sweet tears of thine, my daughter!'

'Tears!' cried I, quite shocked.

'Yes, darling,' said he, 'and now with this kiss of peace and love, we

will blot out all the past.'

I shrieked, started from my seat, and rushed into the expanding arms of

Montmorenci.

'And pray, Sir,' cried Wilkinson, advancing fiercely, 'who are you?'

'A lodger in this house, Sir,' answered his lordship, 'and your best

friend, as I trust you will acknowledge hereafter. I became acquainted

with this lady at the table of our hostess, and learned from her, that

she had left your house in disgust. Yesterday morning, on entering her

apartment, to make my respects, I found an old gentleman there, one

Doctor Merrick, whom I recognized as a wretch of infamous character;

tried twice for shoplifting, and once for having swindled the Spanish

ambassador out of a golden snuff-box. I, though an humble individual,

yet being well acquainted with this young lady's high respectability,

presumed to warn her against such a dangerous companion; when I found,

to my great concern, that she had already promised him her hand in

marriage.'

Wilkinson groaned: I stared.

'On being apprised of his character,' continued Montmorenci, 'the young

lady was willing enough to drop the connection, but unfortunately, the

ruffian had previously procured a written promise of marriage from her,

which he now refuses to surrender; and at the moment you came, I was

consulting with your daughter what was best to be done.'

'Lead me to him!' cried Wilkinson, 'lead me to the villain this

instant, and I will shew you what is best to be done!'

'I have appointed an interview with him, about this time,' said his

lordship, 'and as your feelings might probably prompt you to too much

warmth, perhaps you had better not accompany me; but should I fail in

persuading him to deliver up the fatal paper, you shall then see him

yourself.'

'You are a fine fellow!' cried the farmer, shaking his hand, 'and have

bound me to you for ever.'

'I will hasten to him now,' said his lordship, and casting a

significant glance at me, departed; leaving me quite astonished, both

at his story, and his motive for fabricating it. It was, however, my

business to support the deception.

Wilkinson then told me that he discovered my place of residence in

London, from the discharged Butler, who, it seems, is not your son, but

your lover; and to whom you have shewn all my letters. He went to

Wilkinson, and made the disclosure for forty guineas. Sordid wretch!

and Wilkinson says that he wants to marry you, merely for the sake of

your annuity. Biddy, Biddy! had you known as much of the world as I do

now, a fortune hunter would not have imposed upon you.

As to your shewing him my letters, I cannot well blame you for a breach

of trust, which has answered the purpose of involving my life in a more

complicated labyrinth of entanglements.

But to return. In the midst of our conversation, the maid brought me a

note. It was from Montmorenci, and as follows:

'Will my soul's idol forgive the tale I told Wilkinson, since it

was devised in order to save her from his fangs? This Doctor

Merrick, whom I mentioned to him, instead of being a swindler, is a

mad-doctor; and keeps a private madhouse. I have just seen him, and

have informed him that I am about to put a lunatic gentleman, my

honoured uncle, under his care. I told him, that this dear uncle

(who, you may well suppose is Wilkinson) has lucid intervals; that

his madness arose from grief at an unfortunate amour of his

daughter's, and shews itself in his fancying that every man he sees

wants to marry her, and has her written promise of marriage.

'I have already advanced the necessary fees, and now is your time

to wheedle Wilkinson out of money, by pretending that you will

return home with him. A true heroine, my sweet friend, ever shines

in deception.

Good now, play one scene

Of excellent dissembling.--SHAKESPEARE.

'Ever, ever, ever,

'Your faithful

'MONTMORENCI.

'P.S. Excuse tender language, as I am in haste.'

This dear letter I placed in my bosom: and when I begged of the farmer

to let me have a little money, he took out his pocket-book.

'Here, my darling,' said he, 'here are notes to the tune of a hundred

pounds, that you may pay all you owe, and purchase whatever baubles and

finery you like. This is what you get for discarding that swindler, and

promising to return home with old dad.'

Soon afterwards, our hero came back, and told us that his interview had

proved unsuccessful. It was therefore determined that we should all

repair to the Doctor's (for Wilkinson would not go without me), and off

we set in a hired coach. On our arrival, we were shewn into a parlour,

and after some minutes of anxious suspense, the Doctor, a thin little

figure, with a shrivelled face and bushy wig, came humming into the

room.

Wilkinson being introduced, the Doctor commenced operations, by trying

the state of his brain.

'Any news to-day, Mr. Wilkinson?' said he.

'Very bad news for me, Sir,' replied Wilkinson, sullenly.

'I mean public news,' said the Doctor.

'A private grievance ought to be considered of public moment,' said

Wilkinson.

'Well remarked, Sir,' cried the Doctor, 'a clear-headed observation as

possible. Sir, I give you credit. There is a neatness in the turn of it

that argues a collected intellect.'

'Sir,' said Wilkinson, 'I hope that some other observations which I am

about to offer will please you as well.'

'I hope so for your own sake,' answered the Doctor; 'I shall certainly

listen to them with a favourable ear.'

'Thank you, Sir,' said the farmer: 'and such being the case, I make no

doubt that all will go well; for men seldom disagree, when they wish to

coincide.'

'Good again,' cried the Doctor. 'Apt and good. Sir, if you continue to

talk so rationally, I promise you that you will not remain long in my

house.'

'I am sorry,' replied Wilkinson, 'that talking rationally is the way to

get turned out of your house, because I have come for the purpose of

talking rationally.'

'And while such is your resolution,' said the Doctor, 'nothing shall be

left undone to make my house agreeable. You have only to hint your

wishes, and they shall be gratified.'

'Sir, Sir,' cried Wilkinson, grasping his hand, 'your kindness is

overpowering, because it is unexpected. However, I do not mean to

trespass any farther on your kindness than just to request, that you

will do me the favour of returning to my daughter the silly paper

written by her, containing her promise to marry you; and if you could

conveniently lay your hand on it now, you would add to the obligation,

as I mean to leave Town in an hour.'

'Mr. Wilkinson,' said the Doctor, 'I shall deal candidly with you.

Probably you will not leave Town these ten years. And pardon me, if I

give you fair warning, that should you persist in asking for the paper,

a severe horse-whipping will be the consequence.'

'A horse-whipping!' repeated Wilkinson, as if he could not believe his

ears.

'You shall be cut from shoulder to flank,' said the Doctor. ''Tis my

usual way of beginning.'

'Any thing more, my fine fellow?' cried the farmer.

'Only that if you continue refractory,' said the Doctor, 'you shall be

lashed to the bed-post, and shall live on bread and water for a month.'

'Here is a proper ruffian for you!' cried Wilkinson. 'Now, by the

mother that bore me, I have a good mind to flay you within an inch of

your life!'

'Make haste then,' said the Doctor, ringing the bell; 'for you will be

handcuffed in half a minute.'

'Why you little creature,' cried Wilkinson, 'do you hope to frighten

me? Not ask for the paper, truly! Ay, ten thousand times over and over.

Give me the paper, give me the paper; give me the paper, the paper, the

paper! What say you to that, old Hector?'

'The handcuffs!' cried the Doctor to the servant.

'Ay, first handcuff me, and then pick my pockets,' cried Wilkinson.

'You see I have found you out, sirrah! yes I have discovered that you

are a common shoplifter, tried five times for your life--and the very

fellow that swindled the Spanish ambassador out of a diamond

snuff-box.'

'A good deal deranged, indeed,' whispered the Doctor to his lordship.

'But how the deuce the girl could bring herself to fancy you,' cried

Wilkinson, 'that is what shocks me most. A fellow, by all that is

horrid, as ugly as if he were bespoke--an old fellow, too, and twice as

disgusting, and not half so interesting, as a monkey in a consumption.'

'Perfectly distracted, 'pon my conscience!' muttered the Doctor; 'the

maddest scoundrel, confound him, that ever bellowed in Bedlam!'

Two servants entered with handcuffs.

'Look you,' cried Wilkinson, shaking his cane; 'dare to bring your

bullies here, and if I don't cudgel their carcases out of shape, and

your's into shape, may I be shot.'

'Secure his hands,' said the Doctor.

Wilkinson instantly darted at the Doctor, and knocked him down. The

servants collared Wilkinson, who called to Montmorenci for assistance;

but in vain; and after a furious scuffle, the farmer was handcuffed.

'Dear uncle, calm these transports!' said his lordship. 'Your dutiful

and affectionate nephew beseeches you to compose yourself.'

'Uncle!--nephew!' cried the farmer. 'What do you mean, fellow? Who the

devil is this villain?'

'Are you so far gone, as not to know your own nephew?' said the Doctor,

grinning with anger.

'Never set eyes on the poltron till an hour ago!' cried Wilkinson.

'Merciful powers!' exclaimed Montmorenci. 'And when I was a baby, he

dandled me; and when I was a child, he gave me whippings and

sugar-plums; and when I came to man's estate, he cherished me in his

bosom, and was unto me as a father!' Here his lordship applied a

handkerchief to his face.

'The man is crazed!' cried Wilkinson.

'No, dear uncle,' said Montmorenci, ''tis you who are crazed; and to be

candid with you, this is a madhouse, and this gentleman is the

mad-doctor, and with him you must now remain, till you recover from

your complaint--the most afflicting instance of insanity, that,

perhaps, was ever witnessed.'

'Insanity!' faltered the farmer, turning deadly pale. 'Mercy, mercy on

my sinful soul, for I am a gone man!'

'Nay,' said his lordship, 'do not despair. The Doctor is the first in

his profession, and will probably cure you in the course of a few

years.'

'A few years? That bread and water business will dispatch me in a week!

Mad? I mad? I vow to my conscience, Doctor, I was always reckoned the

quietest, easiest, sweetest--sure every one knows honest Gregory

Wilkinson. Don't they, Cherry? Dear child, answer for your father. Am I

mad? Am I, Cherry?'

'As butter in May,' said Montmorenci.

'You lie like a thief!' vociferated the farmer, struggling and kicking.

'You lie, you sneering, hook-nosed reprobate!'

'Why, my dear uncle,' said Montmorenci, 'do you not recollect the night

you began jumping like a grasshopper, and scolding the full-moon in my

deer-park?'

'Your deer-park? I warrant you are not worth a cabbage-garden! But now

I see through the whole plot. Ay, I am to be kept a prisoner here,

while my daughter marries that old knave before my face. It would kill

me, Cherry; I tell you I should die on the spot. Oh, my unfortunate

girl, are you too conspiring against me? Are you, Cherry? Dear Cherry,

speak. Only say you are not!'

'Indeed, my friend,' said I, 'you shall be treated with mildness.

Doctor, I beg you will not act harshly towards him. With all his

faults, the man is goodnatured and well tempered, and to do him

justice, he has always used me kindly.'

'Have I not?' cried he. 'Sweet Cherry, beautiful Cherry, blessings on

you for that!'

'Come away,' said Montmorenci hastily. 'You know 'tis near dinner

time.'

'Farewell, Doctor,' said I. 'Adieu, poor Wilkinson.'

'What, leaving me?' cried he, 'leaving your old father a prisoner in

this vile house? Oh, cruel, cruel!'

'Come,' said Montmorenci, taking my hand: 'I have particular business

elsewhere.'

'For pity's sake, stay five minutes!' cried Wilkinson, struggling with

the servants.

'Come, my love!' said Montmorenci.

'Only one minute--one short minute!' cried the other.

'Well,' said I, stopping, 'one minute then.'

'Not one moment!' cried his lordship, and was hurrying me away.

'My child, my child!' cried Wilkinson, with a tone of such

indescribable agony, as made the blood curdle in my veins.

'Dear Sir,' said I, returning; 'indeed I am your friend. But you know,

you know well, I am not your child.'

'You are!' cried he, 'by all that is just and good, you are my own

child!'

'By all that is just and good,' exclaimed Montmorenci, 'you shall come

away this instant, or remain here for ever.' And he dragged me out of

the room.

'Now then,' said the poor prisoner, as the door was closing, 'now do

what you please with me, for my heart is quite broken!'

On our way home, his lordship enjoined the strictest secrecy with

regard to this adventure. I shewed him the hundred pounds, and

reimbursed him for what he had paid the Doctor; and on our arrival, I

discharged my debt to the poet.

Adieu.

LETTER XIII

Soon after I had got into these lodgings, I sent the servant to

Grosvenor Square, with a message for Betterton, requesting him to let

me have back the bandbox, which I left at his house the night I fled

from him. In a short time she returned with it, and I found every

article safe.

To my amazement and dismay, who should enter my apartment this morning

but Betterton himself! I dropped my book. He bowed to the dust.

'Your business, Sir?' said I, rising with a dignity, which, from my

being under the repeated necessity of assuming it, has now become

natural to me.

'To make a personal apology,' replied he, 'for the disrespectful and

inhospitable treatment which the loveliest of her sex experienced at my

house.'

'An apology for one insult,' said I, 'must seem insincere, when the

mode adopted for making it is another insult.'

'The retort is exquisitely elegant,' answered he, 'but I trust, not

true. For, granting, my dear Madam, that I offer a second insult by my

intrusion, still I may lessen the first insult so much by my apology

that the sum of both may be less than the first, as it originally

stood.'

'Really,' said I, 'you have blended politeness and arithmetic so

happily together; you have clothed multiplication and subtraction in

such polished phraseology----'

'Good!' cried he, 'that is real wit.'

'You have added so much algebra to so much sentiment,' continued I.

'Good, good!' interrupted he again.

'In short, you have apologized so gracefully by the rule of three, that

I know not which has assisted you the most--Chesterfield or Cocker.'

'Inimitable,' exclaimed he. 'Really your retorting powers are superior

to those of any heroine on record.'

In short, my friend, I was so delighted with my repartee, that I could

not, for my life, continue vexed with the object of it; and before he

left me, I said the best things in nature, found him the most agreeable

old man in the world, shook hands with him at parting, and gave him

permission to visit me again.

On calm consideration, I do not disapprove of my having allowed him

this liberty. Were he merely a good kind of good for nothing old

gentleman, it would only be losing time to cultivate an acquaintance

with him. But as the man is a reprobate, I may find account in

enlisting him amongst the other characters; particularly, since I am at

present miserably off for villains. Indeed, I augur auspiciously of his

powers, from the fact (which he confessed), of his having discovered my

place of abode, by following the maid, when she was returning with my

bandbox.

But I have to inform you of another rencontre.

Last night, the landlady, Higginson, and myself, went to see his

lordship perform in the new Spectacle. The first piece was called a

melodrama; a compound of horror and drollery, where scenery, dresses,

and decorations, prevailed over nature, genius, and moral. As to the

plot, I could make nothing of it; only that the hero and heroine were

in very great trouble about trifles, and quite at their ease in real

distress. For instance, when the heroine had arrived at the height of

her misery, she began to sing. Then the hero, resolving to revenge her

wrongs, falls upon one knee, turns up his eyes, and calls on the sacred

majesty of God to assist him. This invocation to the Divinity might,

perhaps, prove the hero's piety, but I am afraid it shewed the poet's

want of any. Certainly, however, it produced a powerful effect on my

feelings. I heard the glory of God made subservient to a theatrical

clap-trap, and my blood ran cold. So, I fancy, did the blood of six or

seven sweet little children behind the scenes, for they were presently

sent upon the stage, to warm themselves with a dance. After dancing,

came murder, and the hero gracefully advanced with a bullet in his

head. He falls; and many well-meaning persons suppose that the curtain

will fall with him. No such thing: Hector had a funeral, and so must

Kemble. Accordingly the corpse appears, handsomely dished up on an

escutcheoned coffin; while certain virgins of the sun (who, I am told,

support that character better than their own), chaunt a holy requiem

round it. When horror was exhausted, the poet tried disgust.

After this piece came another, full of bannered processions, gilded

pillars, paper snows, and living horses, that were really far better

actors than the men who rode them. It concluded with a grand battle, in

which twenty men on horseback, and twenty on foot, beat each other

indiscriminately, and with the utmost good humour. Armour clashed,

sabres struck fire, a castle was burnt to the ground, horses fell dead,

the audience rose shouting and clapping, and a man just below me in the

pit, cried out in an ecstasy, 'I made their saddles! I made their

saddles!'

As to Montmorenci's performance, nothing could equal it; for though his

character was the meanest in the piece, he contrived to make it the

most prominent. He had an emphasis for every word, an attitude for

every emphasis, and a look for every attitude. The people, indeed,

hissed him repeatedly, because they knew not, as I did, that his acting

a broken soldier in the style of a dethroned monarch, proceeded from

his native nobility of soul, not his want of talent.

After the performance, we were pressing through the crowd in the lobby,

when I saw, as I thought, Stuart (Bob Stuart!), at a short distance

from me, looking anxiously about him. On nearer inspection, I found I

was right, and it occurred to me, that I might extract a most

interesting scene from him, besides laying a foundation for future

incident. I therefore separated myself (like Evelina at the Opera) from

my party, and contrived to cross his path. At first he did not

recognize me, but I continued by his side till he did.

'Miss Wilkinson!' exclaimed he, 'how rejoiced I am to see you! Where is

your father?'

'Let us leave this place,' said I, 'they are searching for me, I know

they are.'

'Who?' said he.

'Hush!' whispered I. 'Conduct me in silence from the theatre.'

He put my hand under his arm, and hurried me away. When we had gained

the street:

'You may perceive by my lameness,' said he, 'that I am not yet well of

the wound I received the night I met you on the Common. But I could not

refrain from accompanying your father to Town, in search of you; and as

I heard nothing of him since he went to your lodgings yesterday, I

called there myself this evening, and was told that you had gone to the

theatre. They could give me no information about your father, but of

course, you have seen him since he came to Town.'

'I have not, I assure you,' said I, an evasive, yet conscientious

answer, because Wilkinson is not my real father.

'That is most extraordinary,' cried he, 'for he left the hotel

yesterday, to call on you. But tell me candidly, Miss Wilkinson, what

tempted you to leave home? How are you situated at present? with whom?

and what is your object?'

'Alas!' said I, 'a horrible mystery hangs over me, which I dare not now

develop. It is enough, that in flying from one misfortune, I have

plunged into a thousand others, that peace has fled from my heart, and

that I am RUINED.'

'Ruined!' exclaimed he, with a look of horror.

'Past redemption,' said I, hiding my face in my hands.

'This will be dreadful news for your poor father,' said he. 'But I beg

of you to tell me the particulars.'

'Then to be brief,' answered I, 'the first night I came to Town, a

gentleman decoyed me into his house, and treated me extremely ill.'

'The villain!' muttered Stuart.

'Afterwards I left him,' continued I, 'and walked the streets, till I

was taken up for a robbery, and put into the watchhouse.'

'Is this fact?' asked Stuart, 'or are you merely sporting with my

feelings?'

''Tis fact, on my honour,' said I, 'and to conclude my short, but

pathetic tale, a gentleman, a mysterious and amiable youth, met me by

mere accident, after my release; and I am, at present, under his

protection.'

'A shocking account indeed!' said he. 'But have you never considered

the consequences of continuing this abandoned course of life?'

'Now here is a pretty insinuation!' cried I; 'but such is always the

fate of us poor heroines. No, never can we get through an innocent

adventure in peace and quietness, without having our virtue called in

question. 'Tis always our virtue, our virtue. If we are caught coming

out of a young man's bed-room,--'tis our virtue. If we remain a whole

night in the streets,--'tis our virtue. If we make a nocturnal

assignation,--Oh! 'tis our virtue, our virtue. Such a rout as they

make.'

'I regret,' said Stuart, 'to see you treat the subject so lightly, but

I do beseech of you to recollect, that your wretched parent----'

''Tis a fine night, Sir.'

'That your wretched parent----'

'Sir,' said I, 'when spleen takes the form of remonstrance, a lecture

is only a scolding put into good language. This is my house, Sir.' And

I stopped at the door.

'At least,' said he, 'will you do me the favour of being at home for me

to-morrow morning?'

'Perhaps I may,' replied I. 'So good night, master Bobby!'

The poet and the landlady did not return for half an hour. They told me

that their delay was occasioned by their search for me; but I refused

all explanation as to what happened after I had lost them.

Adieu.

LETTER XIV

Just as I had finished my last letter, his lordship entered my room,

but saluted me coldly.

'I am informed,' said he, 'that you strayed from your party last night,

and refused, afterwards, to give an account of yourself to the

landlady. May I hope, that to me, who feel a personal interest in all

your actions, you will be more communicative?'

'I regret,' said I, 'that circumstances put it out of my power to

gratify your wishes. I foresee that you, like an Orville, or a

Mortimer, will suspect and asperse your mistress. But the Sun shall

return, the mist disperse, and the landscape laugh again.'

'Confound your metaphors! 'cried he, discarding attitude and elegance

in an instant. 'Do you hope to hide your cunning under mists and

laughing landscapes? But I am not to be gulled; I am not to be done. No

going it upon me, I say. Tell me directly, madam, where you were, and

with whom; or by the devil of devils, you shall repent it finely.'

I was thunderstruck. 'Sir,' said I, 'you have agitated the gentle air

with the concussion of inelegant oaths and idioms, uttered in the most

ungraceful manner. Sir, your vulgarity is unpardonable, and we now part

for ever.'

'For ever!' exclaimed he, reverting into attitude, and interlacing his

knuckles in a clasp of agony. 'Hear me, Cherubina. By the shades of my

ancestors, my vulgarity was assumed!'

'Assumed, Sir?' said I, 'and pray, for what possible purpose?'

'Alas!' cried he, 'I must not, dare not tell. It is a sad story, and

enveloped in a mysterious veil. Oh! fatal vow! Oh! cruel Marchesa!'

Shocking were his contortions as he spoke.

'No!' cried I. 'No vow could ever have produced so dreadful an effect

on your language.'

'Well, 'said he, after a painful pause, 'sooner than incur the odium of

falsehood, I must disclose to you the horrid secret.

'The young Count Di Narcissini was my friend. Educated together, we

became competitors in our studies and accomplishments; and in none of

them could either of us be said to excel the other; till, on our

introduction at Court, it was remarked by the Queen, that I surpassed

the Count in shaking hands. 'Narcissini,' said her Majesty, 'has

judgment enough in knowing when to present a single finger, or perhaps

two; but, for the positive pressure, or the negligent hand with a

drooping wrist; or the cordial, honest, dislocating shake, give me

Montmorenci. I cannot deny that the former has great taste in this

accomplishment; but then the latter has more genius--more

execution--more, as it were, of the _magnifique_ and _aimable_.'

'His mother the Marchesa overheard this critique, turned as pale as

ashes, and left the levee.

'That night, hardly had I fallen into one of those gentle slumbers,

which ever attends the virtuous, when a sudden noise roused me; and on

opening my eyes, I beheld the detested Marchesa, with an Italian

assassin, standing over me.'

'Montmorenci!' cried she, 'thou art the bane of my repose. Thou hast

surpassed my son in the graces. Now listen. Either pledge thyself, by

an irrevocable vow, henceforth to sprinkle thy conversation with

uncouth phrases, and colloquial barbarisms, or prepare to die!'

'Terrible alternative! What could I do? The dagger gleamed before my

face. I shuddered, and took the fatal vow of vulgarity.

'The Marchesa then put into my hand the Blackguard's Dictionary, which

I studied night and day with much success; and I have now the

misfortune to state, that I can be, so far as language goes, the

greatest blackguard in England.'

'Unhappy youth!' cried I. 'This, indeed, accounts for what had often

made me uneasy. But say, can nothing absolve you from this hateful

vow?'

'There is one way,' he replied. 'The Marchesa permitted me to resume my

natural elegance, as soon as my marrying should put an end to

competition between her son and me. Oh! then, my Cherubina, you, you

alone can restore me to hope, to happiness, and to grammar!'

'Ah! my lord,' cried I, 'recollect my own fatal vow. Never, never can I

be your's!'

'Drive me not mad!' he cried. 'You are mine, you shall be mine. This,

this is the bitterest moment of my life. You do not, cannot love me.

No, Cherubina, no, you cannot love me.'

I fixed my eyes in a wild gaze, rose hastily from my chair, paced the

room with quick steps; and often sighing deeply, clasped my hands and

shuddered.

He led me to the sofa, kissed the drapery of my cambric handkerchief,

and concealed his face in its folds. Then raising his head.

'Do you love me?' said he, with a voice dropping manna.

A smile, bashful in its archness, played round my rich and trembling

lip; and with an air of bewitching insinuation, I placed my hand on his

shoulder, shook my head, and looked up in his face, with an expression

half reproachful, half tender.

He snatched me in a transport to his heart; and that trembling

pressure, which virtue consecrated, and love understood, conveyed to

each of us an unspeakable sensation; as if a beam from Heaven had

passed through both our frames, and left some of its divine warmth

behind it.

What followed, angels might have attested.

A ringlet had escaped from the bandage of my bodkin. He clipped it off

with my scissors, and fixed it next his heart; while I prettily

struggled to prevent him, with arch anger, and a pouting playfulness. A

thousand saucy triumphs were basking in his eyes, when the door opened,

and who should make his appearance, but--Master Bobby!

I could have boxed him.

'I avail myself,' said he, 'of the permission you gave me last night,

to call on you this morning.'

Montmorenci looked from the one to the other with amazement.

'And as I am anxious,' continued Stuart, 'to speak with you in

private----'

'Sir,' said I, 'any thing which you have to communicate, this

gentleman, my particular friend, may hear.'

'Yes, Sir,' cried his lordship, in a haughty tone, 'for I have the

honour to boast myself the protector of this lady.'

'If you mean her protector from injury and insult,' said Stuart, 'I

hope, Sir, you are not on this occasion, as on others, an actor?'

'You know me then?' said his lordship.

'I saw you perform last night,' answered Stuart, 'but, to say the

truth, I do not recollect your name.'

'My name is Norval on the Grampian Hills,' cried his lordship.

'Sir,' said Stuart, 'though we sometimes laugh at you, even in your

grave characters, the part you have now chosen seems much too serious

for drollery. Allow me to ask, Sir, by what right you feel entitled to

call yourself the protector of this lady?'

'First inform me,' said Montmorenci, 'by what right you feel entitled

to put that question?'

'By the right of friendship,' answered Stuart.

'No, but enmity,' cried I, 'unprovoked, unprincipled, inexorable

enmity. This is the Stuart whom you have often heard me mention, as my

persecutor; and I hope you will now make him repent of his temerity.'

'Sir,' said his lordship, 'I desire you to leave the house.'

'Not till you favour me with your company,' replied Stuart; 'for I find

I must have some serious conversation with you.'

'Beshrew my heart!' cried Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci, 'if you

want satisfaction, follow me this moment. I am none of your slovenly,

slobbering shots. Damme, I scorn to pistol a gentleman about the

ankles. I can teach the young idea how to shoot, damme.'

He spoke, and strode out of the room.

Stuart smiled and followed him. You must know, I speculate upon a duel.

In short, my plot is entangling itself admirably; and such characters

as Betterton and Stuart will not fail to keep the wheels of it going.

Betterton is probably planning to carry me off by force; Stuart and our

hero are coming to a misunderstanding about me; the latter will,

perhaps, return with his arm in an interesting sling, and another

parting-forever interview cannot be far distant.

Such is the promising aspect of affairs.

Adieu.

LETTER XV

While I was sitting in the most painful suspense, a knock came to the

door, and Stuart entered.

'You terrify, shock, amaze me!' cried I. 'What dreadful blow awaits me?

Speak!'

'Pray,' said he, laughing, 'what was your fancy for telling me that you

were ruined?'

'And so I am,' answered I.

'At least, not in the way you wished me to suppose,' said he.

'I repeat, Sir,' cried I, 'that I am ruined: no matter in what manner;

but ruined I am.'

'Your friend, the player, tells me that you are not,' said he.

'My friend, the player, is very meddling,' answered I. 'This is the way

that whatever plot I lay down for my memoirs is always frustrated. Sir,

I say I am ruined.'

'Well,' cried he, 'I will not dispute the point. I wish only to guard

you against being ruined again. I mistrust this Grundy much. From his

conversation, after we left you, I can perceive that he has a

matrimonial design upon you. Pray beware of the fellow.'

'The fellow!' cried I. 'Alas! you know him not. His large and piercing

eye is but the index of a soul fraught with every human virtue.'

'Ah! my friend,' said he, 'you stand on the very verge of a precipice,

and I must endeavour, even at the risk of your displeasure, to snatch

you from it.'

He then began a long lecture on my conduct, and asserted that my

romantic turn is a sort of infatuation, amounting to little less than

madness, and likely to terminate in ruin. He painted, in language

pretty enough, the distraction of Wilkinson, after I had fled from his

house; and, at last, contrived to extract from me (what, I remark, I

can never obtain when I want them)--tears.

Seeing me thus affected, he turned the conversation to desultory

topics. We talked of old times, of our juvenal sports and quarrels,

when we were playfellows; what happened after our separation; his life

at college and in the army; my studies and accomplishments. Thence we

made a natural transition to the fine arts. In short, it was the first

time in my life that I had a rational conversation (as it is called)

with a well-informed young man, and I confess I felt gratified.

Besides, even his serious remonstrances were so happily interspersed

with humour and delicate irony, that I could not bring myself to be

displeased with him.

He remained more than two hours, and at parting took my hand.

'I have hitherto been scolding you,' said he, with a smile, 'and I must

now praise you, that I may be better entitled to scold you again. You

have the elements of every thing amiable and endearing in your mind,

and an admirable understanding to direct them. But you want some one to

direct that understanding. Your father and I have already had a serious

consultation on the subject; but till he comes, nothing can be done.

Indeed, I am much alarmed at his absence. Meantime, will you permit me

to legislate in his stead, and to begin by chusing more eligible

lodgings for you. I confess I dread the machinations of that actor.'

As he spoke, a rap came to the door.

'Do me the favour to take tea with me this evening,' said I, 'and we

will talk the matter over.'

He promised, and took his leave.

Montmorenci then made his appearance, and in visible perturbation, at

having found Stuart here again. If I can constitute a jealousy between

them it will add to the animation of several scenes. I therefore

praised Stuart to the skies, and mentioned my having asked him to tea.

His lordship flew into a violent rage, and swore that the villain

wanted to unheroinize me, in order to gain me himself. He then renewed

his entreaties that I would consent to an immediate marriage; but now

the benefits of my fatal vow shone forth in their full lustre, and its

irrevocability gave rise to some of the finest agonies that his

lordship ever exhibited.

At length we separated to dress for dinner.

At my toilette I recollected with exactness every particular of his

late conversation; his sentiments so congenial with mine; his manners

so engaging; his countenance so noble and ingenuous.

'I shall see him no more,' said I.

A sigh that followed, told me more of my heart than I wished to know.

No, my Biddy, never, never can he be mine. I must banish his dear image

from my mind; and to speak in the simple and unsophisticated language

of the heroine in the Forest of Montalbo:

'_Indeed, surely, I think, we ought, under existing circumstances,

dearest, dearest madam, to avoid, where we can, every allusion, to

this, I fear, alas! our, indeed, hopeless attachment._'

Adieu.

LETTER XVI

When Stuart came, he found his lordship, the landlady, the poet, and

myself sitting round the tea-table. At first the conversation was

general, and on the topics of the day. These Stuart discussed with much

animation and volubility, while his lordship sat silent and

contemptuous. I fancy that his illustrious tongue disdained to trifle.

Meantime Higginson, in a new coat and waistcoat, sat anglicising the

Latinity of his face, and copying the manners and attitudes of

Montmorenci, whom the poor man, I verily believe, is endeavouring to

rival. At length the word poetry caught his ear; he gave the graces to

the winds, and listened.

'Therefore,' continued Stuart to me, 'satirical poetry must be much

more useful than encomiastic.'

'Sir,' said Higginson, drawing back his head and lowering his voice, as

if he dreaded nothing so much as being heard, 'I must beg leave, in all

humility, to coincide with your exprest proposition; but to suggest a

doubt whether it be decorous to violate the repose of noble blood.'

'If the great deserve exposure as much as the mean,' said Stuart,

'their rank is rather a reason why they should be censured sooner;

because their bad example is more conspicuous, and, therefore, more

detrimental.' 'But,' said I, 'though satirizing the vicious may be

beneficial to the community, is it always advantageous to the

satirist?'

'Johnson observes,' answered Stuart, 'that _it is no less a proof of

eminence to have many enemies than many friends_; and, indeed, without

the one we seldom have the other. On the whole, however, I would

advise a writer not to drop the olive-branch in grasping at the rod;

though those whom he finds privately endeavouring to vilify his own

character, self-defence entitles him to expose without mercy.'

'That satire is salutary to society, I am convinced,' said I. 'It

becomes mischievous only when it is aimed at the worthy heart.'

'And yet,' said Stuart, 'those that are loudest in declaiming against

the satirist, are often fondest of disseminating the satire. Now he who

slanders with his tongue, is just as culpable as he who defames with

his pen; for, if the one weapon be not as extensive, in its effects, as

the other, the motives of those who use it are equally vile. Hume, in

one of his essays, says, that _a whisper may fly as quick, and be as

pernicious, as a pamphlet_.'

'And I think,' said I, 'that those who never allow people faults, are

just as injurious to the community as those who never allow them

virtues.'

'True,' said Stuart; 'and a late publication (which equals in

sentiment, diction, and pictures of character, any work of the kind in

our language) thus concludes a description of them: _These, assuming

the name of Good-nature, say, that for their part, they wish to avoid

making enemies, and when they cannot speak well of people, they make it

a rule not to speak of them at all. Now this is an admirable system,

for thus, permitting vice, they sanction it, and by not opposing,

assist its progress._'

'So you see,' said Higginson, 'that next to laws and religion, which

correct the serious derelictions, writing, which chastises the smaller

foibles, is the most useful instrument in a state.'

'Observe,' whispered I to Stuart, 'how the ruling passion breaks

forth.'

'And, therefore,' continued Higginson, 'next to the legislator and

divine, the poet is the most exalted member of the community.'

'Pardon me there,' said I. 'The most exalted members are not

legislators, or divines, or poets, who prescribe, but heroes and

heroines, who perform.'

'If you mean the heroes and heroines of romance,' said Stuart, 'their

performances are useful in teaching us what we should shun, not what we

should imitate. The heroine, in particular, quits a comfortable home,

turns out to be the best pedestrian in the world; and, after weeping

tears enough to float her work-basket, weds some captious, passionate,

and kneeling hero.'

'Better,' cried I, 'than to remain a domesticated rosy little Miss, who

romps with the squire, plays an old tune on an old piano, and reads

prayers for the good family--servants and all. At last, marrying some

honest gentleman, who lives on his saddle, she degenerates into a

dangler of keys and whipper of children; trots up and down stairs,

educates the poultry, and superintends the architecture of pies.'

'Now for my part,' said Stuart, 'I would have a young lady neither a

mere homely drudge, nor a sky-rocket heroine, let off into the clouds.

I would educate her heart and head, as well as her fingers and feet.

She should be at once the ornament of the social group, and the delight

of the domestic circle; abroad attractive, at home endearing; the

enchantress to whom levity would apply for mirth, and wisdom for

admonition; and her mirth should be graceful, and her admonition

fascinating. If she happened to be solitary, she should have the power

of contemplation, and if her needle broke, she should be capable of

finding resource in a book. In a word, she should present a proof, that

wit is not inconsistent with good-nature, nor liveliness with

good-sense, and that to make the virtues attractive, they ought to be

adorned with the graces.'

'And pray, to whom would you marry this charmer?' asked his lordship,

winking at me.

'Why,' replied he, 'when she wishes to settle in life, I would have her

consult her parents, and make a prudent match.'

'A prudent match!' cried I. 'Just conceive--a prudent match! Oh,

Stuart, I declare I am quite ashamed of you.'

''Pon honour,' said his lordship, 'you are too severe. I will bet five

to four he means well.'

'No doubt,' said I. 'And to be candid, I think him a mighty good sort

of a man.'

'A proper behaved young person,' said his lordship.

'An honest _bon diable_!' added I.

'A worthy soul!' said he.

'A respectable character!' cried I.

'A decent creature!' said he.

'A humane and pious christian,' cried I.

This last hit was irresistible, and both of us burst out laughing,

while Stuart sat silent, and even affected to smile.

'Now is your time,' whispered I, to his lordship. 'A few more sarcasms,

and he crouches to you for ever.'

'I fancy, young gentleman,' said his lordship, turning full upon

Stuart, and laughing so long, that I thought he would never finish the

sentence; 'I fancy, my tight fellow, you may now knock under.'

'I am not always inclined to do so,' replied Stuart; 'neither am I

easily provoked to knock down.'

'Knock down whom?' demanded his lordship, with the most complete frown

I had ever beheld.

'A puppy,' said Stuart coolly.

'You lie!' vociferated our hero.

'Leave the room, Sir,' cried Stuart, starting from his seat.

Montmorenci rose, retreated to the door;--stopped--went on--stopped

again--moved--stopped--

'Vanish!' cried Stuart, advancing.

His lordship vanished.

I ran, snatched a pen, and wrote on a scrap of paper

'VINDICATE YOUR HONOUR, OR NEVER APPEAR IN MY PRESENCE!'

I then rang the bell for the maid, and slipping some silver into her

hand, begged that she would deliver the paper to his lordship.

Higginson then started from his chair.

'After a deliberate consideration of the subject,' said he, 'I am more

and more convinced, that a poet is the first character in society.'

During a whole hour, I remained in a state of the most distracting

suspense, for he never returned! Meantime, Stuart was privately

pressing me to leave my lodgings, and remain at his father's, till

Wilkinson should be found. Indignant at the cowardly conduct of his

lordship, I was almost consenting; when on a sudden, the door flew

open, and with a slow step and dignified deportment, Lord Altamont

Mortimer Montmorenci entered. All eyes were rivetted on him. He walked

towards Stuart, and fell upon one knee before him:

'I come, Sir,' said he, 'to retract that abuse which I gave you just

now. I submit to whatever punishment you please; nor shall I think my

honour re-established till my fault is repaired. Then grant me the

pardon that I beg, on whatever conditions you think proper.'

'For shame!' exclaimed I, with an indignation that I could not

suppress. 'You a hero?'

His lordship instantly snatched a book from his pocket, and opening a

passage, presented it to me. The book was _La Nouvelle Heloise_.

'You see there,' said he, 'how Lord B., after having given St. Preux

the lie, begs forgiveness on his knees, and in the precise words which

I have just used. Will Cherubina condemn the conduct that Heloise

applauded?'

'Ever excellent, ever exalted mortal!' cried I. 'O thou art indeed all

that is just, dignified, magnanimous.'

I gave him my hand, and he bowed over it. Supper was announced. Mirth

ruled the night. The landlady sat gazing on his lordship; his lordship

on me. Stuart uttered a thousand witticisms; and even the poet

determined to be heard; for, in the midst of our merriment, I saw him,

with his mouth open, and his neck stretched forward, watching for the

first moment of silence. It came.

'This is the fun,

Equalled by none;

So never, never, never have done!'

cried the happy creature, and protruded such an exorbitant laugh as

made ample amends for the gravity of his whole life.

At length Stuart took leave; and the rest of us separated to our

several apartments.

That coxcomb, I see, has no notion of sentiment, and no taste for

admiring those who have. There he sits, calm, unconcerned, and never

once fixes his eyes on me with a speaking gaze. Oh, no; nothing but wit

or wisdom for him. Not only is the fellow far from a pathetic turn

himself, but he has also an odd faculty of detaching even me from my

miseries, and of reducing me to horrid hilarity. It would vex a saint

to see how he makes me laugh, though I am predetermined not to give him

a single smile. But Montmorenci, the sentimental Montmorenci, timely

interposes the fine melancholy of his features;--he looks, he sighs, he

speaks; and in a moment I am recalled to the soft emotions, and a due

sense of my deplorable destiny.

Adieu.

LETTER XVII

Clouds are impending, and I know not whether they will clash together,

and elicit lightning, or mingle into one, and descend in refreshing

showers.

This morning, Montmorenci, the hostess, and myself, breakfasted early,

and then went shopping. I purchased a charming scarf, a bonnet, two

dresses, a diamond cross, and a pair of pearl ear-rings. His lordship

borrowed a guinea from me, and then bought a small casket, which he

presented to me in the handsomest manner.

We next visited Westminster Abbey; the first that I have ever seen,

though I had read of thousands. To my great disappointment, I found in

it no cowled monks with scapulars, and no veiled nuns with rosaries.

Nothing but statues of statesmen and warriors, in stone wigs and marble

regimentals.

Soon after we had returned home, Higginson entered my room, stealing,

and with a look of terror.

'My mother presents her respectful compliments,' said he in a whisper,

'and begs you will honour her with your presence, that she may do

herself the pleasure of saving you from destruction.'

'Tell me,' said I, with a look that pierced into his soul, 'which

character do _you_ mean to support on this occasion? that of my

friend, or of an accomplice in the plot against me?'

Higginson looked aghast.

'As to your being a principal,' continued I, 'that is not likely; but I

must ascertain if your object is to be--excuse me--an understrapping

ruffian. Never fear, speak your mind candidly.'

'And I was writing verses on you all the morning, and it was for you

that I clipped my eyebrows, and it was for you that I--dear me, dear

me!' cried the poor man, and began whimpering like a child.

'Nay,' said I, 'if it is not your taste, that is another affair; but

though I cannot countenance you as a villain, I will at least respect

you as an honest man. I will, I assure you; so now lead me to your

mother.'

We proceeded up stairs, and entered a garret; where his mother, a

corpulent old lady, was lying in a fit of the gout.

Higginson having introduced us: 'Miss,' said she, 'I sent for you to

tell you that I have just overheard your hostess, and an old gentleman

(Betterton, I think she called him), planning something against you.

They were in the next room, and thought I could not hear; but this I

know, that he offered her fifty pounds, if she would assist him in

obtaining you. And so, Miss, from all my son says of you, and sure

enough he raves of you like mad, I thought you would wish to be saved

from ruin.'

'Certainly, Madam,' answered I. 'At the same time, I must beg

permission to remark, that you have destroyed half the interest of this

intrigue against me, by forewarning me of it.'

'May be so, Miss,' said she. 'I have done my duty as a Christian,

however.'

'Nay,' said I, 'do not suppose I resent your conduct, old lady. I am

sure you meant all for the best, and I sincerely wish you health and

happiness. Farewell.'

On returning to my room, I found Betterton there before me. He came to

request that I would accept of a ticket for the masquerade, at the

Pantheon: and he gave another to the landlady; who, he said, must

accompany me thither: so 'tis clear that he means to decoy me from it.

Unhappy girl! But how can I refuse going? A heroine, you know, never

misses a masquerade: it is always the scene of her best adventure; and

to say the truth, I cannot resist the temptation of so delightful an

amusement. Now to consult about my character.

LETTER XVIII

At dinner, yesterday, I bespoke his lordship as an escort to the

masquerade; and we then held a council of dress. It was resolved, that

I should appear in the character of Sterne's Maria, and his lordship as

Corporal Trim.

This morning, just as I had finished reading the closet-scene, in the

Children of the Abbey, Betterton and the landlady came into my room;

and in a short time, I perceived the purport of their visit; as they

began requesting that I would not take either Stuart or Montmorenci

with me to the masquerade.

'The fact is, Miss,' said the landlady, 'that I have heard your real

story. Mr. Grundy is not your cousin at all, and your name is

Wilkinson, not Donald. Howsomever, as I believe you meant no harm, in

this deception, I am willing, at the solicitations of this excellent

gentleman, to let you remain in my house, provided you promise not to

receive any more visits from that Stuart, who is the greatest villain

unhanged; or from Mr. Grundy, who has certainly bad designs on you;

though he made proposals of marriage to myself, no longer ago than

yesterday.'

A tapping at my door prevented me from expressing my total disbelief in

her latter assertion. It struck me that should the person prove to be

his lordship, I might make her look extremely foolish, by letting her

overhear his declarations of attachment to me. 'Conceal yourselves in

this closet,' whispered I to my visitors. 'I have particular reasons.'

They looked at each other, and hesitated.

'In, in!' said I; 'for I suspect that this visit is from a villain, and

I wish you to hear what passes.'

Both then went into the closet. I opened the door of my chamber, and,

to my great disappointment, the poet appeared at it, with his eyes

rolling, and his mouth ajar.

'What is the matter?' asked I.

He gaped still wider, but said nothing.

'Ah,' cried I, 'that is an awkward attempt at expressing horror. If you

have any hideous news to communicate, why do you not rush into the

room, tossing your hands on high, and exclaiming, "Fly, fair lady, all

is lost!"'

'Indeed, Miss,' said he, 'I was never in the way of learning good

breeding. But don't go to the masquerade, Miss, Oh, don't! My mother

overheard old Betterton just now planning with the landlady, to carry

you from it by force. But, Miss, I have a fine sword, above stairs,

three feet and a half long, and I will rub off the rust, and----'

A knock at the street-door interrupted him. I was in a hiding mood.

Already the scene promised wonders; and I resolved not to damp its

rising spirit; so made the simple Higginson get underneath the sofa.

The next moment my door opened, and Vixen, Montmorenci's terrier, came

bounding towards me.

'Go, dear Vixen,' cried I, snatching her to my bosom; 'carry back to

your master all that nourishes his remembrance. Go, dear Vixen, guard

him by night, and accompany him by day, serve him with zeal, and love

him with fidelity!'

I turned round, and perceived--Montmorenci! The poor timid girl bent

her eyes to the ground.

'Yes, dear Vixen,' said he, 'you have now indeed a claim to my regard;

and with the fondest gratitude will I cherish you!'

He then flew to me, and poured forth, at my feet, the most passionate

acknowledgments, and tender protestations.

I tried to break from him.

'No, loveliest Cherubina!' said he, detaining me. 'Not thus must we

part.'

'We must part for ever!' exclaimed I. 'After that rash soliloquy which

you have just heard, never can I bear you in my sight. Besides, Sir,

you are betrothed, at this moment, to another.'

'I? Ridiculous! But to whom?'

'Our hostess--a most charming woman.'

'Our hostess! Yes, a charming woman indeed. She has roses in her cheek,

and lilies in her skin; but they are white roses, and orange lilies.

Our hostess! Beshrew my heart, I would let cobwebs grow on my lips

before I would kiss her.'

Another knock came to the door.

'Me miserable!' exclaimed I. 'If this be the person I suspect, we are

both undone--separated for ever!'

'Who? what? where shall I hide?' cried his lordship.

'Yon dark closet,' said I, pointing. 'Fly.'

His lordship sprang into the closet, and closed the door.

'I can hear no tidings of your father,' said Stuart, entering the room.

'I have searched every hotel in Town, and I really fear that some

accident----'

'Mercy upon me! who's here?' cried his lordship from the closet. 'As I

hope to be saved, the place is full of people. Let me go; whoever the

devil you are, let me go!'

'Take that--and that--and that:--you poor, pitiful, fortune-hunting

play-actor!' vociferated the landlady, buffetting him about.

That unhappy young nobleman bolted from the closet, with his face

running blood, and the landlady fast at his heels.

'Yes, you dog!' exclaimed she; 'I have discovered your treacherousness

at last. As for your love-letters and trinkets, to me, villain--I never

valued 'em a pin's point; but that you should go for to try to ruin

this sweet innocent young creature, that is what distresses me, so it

is.' And she burst out crying.

'Love-letters and trinkets to you!' exclaimed I. 'Surely he was not so

base, Madam.'

'But he was so base, Madam,' said she with a bitter look; 'and if you

fancy that 'tis yourself he loves, why look there; read the letter he

sent me yesterday, just after I had asked him to pay me for six months'

diet and lodging.'

I read:

'Accept, my lovely hostess, the pair of bracelets which accompanies

this note, and rest assured that I will discharge my bill, in the

course of another month.

'My motive for having brought Miss Wilkinson into your house, as my

cousin, was simply to restore her to her friends. Your jealousy,

though most unfounded, is most flattering.

'Ah, how little do you know your Grundy!--If I pay the silly girl a

few slight attentions, it is only to cloak that tenderness for you,

which preys upon my heart, and consumes my vitals;--that

tenderness, which I yesterday so solemnly vowed to evince (as soon

as my affairs are arranged) at the altar.

'Your own, own, own,

'ABRAHAM GRUNDY.'

It was as much as my dignity could do to suppress my indignation at

this letter; but the heroine prevailed, and I cast on his lordship my

famous compound expression of pity, contempt, and surprise, which I

tinged with just fascination enough to remind him of what a jewel he

had lost.

Meantime he stood wiping his face, and did not utter a word.

'And now,' cried I, 'now for the grand developement. James Higginson,

come forth!'

In a moment the poet was seen, creeping, like a huge tortoise, from

under the sofa.

'Mr. Higginson,' said I, 'did not your mother tell you, that this lady

here--this amiable lady,' (and I curtsied low to her, and she curtsied

still lower to me), 'that this first and best of women,' (and again we

exchanged rival curtsies), 'is plotting with a Mr. Betterton to betray

me into his hands at the masquerade?'

'Madam,' answered the poet, with a firm demeanour, 'I do solemnly

certify and asseverate, that so my mother told me.'

'Then your mother told a confounded falsehood!' cried Betterton,

popping out of the closet.

Higginson walked up to him, and knocked him down with the greatest

gravity imaginable. The hostess ran at Higginson, and fastened her

fangs in his face. Montmorenci laid hold of the hostess, and off came

her cap. Stuart dropped into a chair with laughter. I too forgot all my

dignity, and clapped my hands, and danced with delight, while they

kicked and scratched each other without mercy.

At length Stuart interfered, and separated the combatants. The landlady

retired to repair her dismantled head; and his lordship and Higginson

to wash their wounds. Betterton too was about to take his departure.

'Sir,' said Stuart, 'I must beg leave to detain you for a few moments.'

Betterton bowed and returned.

'Your name is Betterton, I believe.'

'It is, Sir.'

'After Mr. Higginson's accusation of you,' said Stuart, 'I feel myself

called upon, as the friend of this lady's father, to insist on your

apologizing for the designs which you have dared to harbour against

her; and to demand an unequivocal renunciation of those views for the

future.'

'You are an honest fellow,' said Betterton, 'and I respect your spirit.

Most sincerely, most humbly, Miss Wilkinson, do I solicit your

forgiveness; and I beg you will believe, that nothing but a

misrepresentation of your real character and history tempted me to

treat you with such undeserved insult. I now declare, that you have

nothing further to fear from me.'

'But before I can feel perfectly satisfied,' said Stuart, 'I must

stipulate for the discontinuance of your visits to Miss Wilkinson, as a

proof that you have relinquished all improper projects against her.'

'I had formed that resolution before you spoke,' answered Betterton,

'though many a bitter pang it will cost me. Now then we are all

friends. I may have my faults, but upon my soul, I am a man of

honour;--I am, upon my soul. As for you, Mr. Stuart, without flattery,

you have evinced more discretion and coolness, throughout this affair,

than I have ever seen in so young a man. Sir, you are an honour to the

human race, and I wish you would dine with me this evening at the Crown

and Anchor. Some friends of us meet there to discuss a radical reform.

Do, my dear fellow. We want nothing but men of respectability like you;

for our sentiments "are the finest in the world."'

'You will excuse me,' said Stuart, 'though I am told that your wines

are as fine and as foreign as your sentiments.'

'Well, adieu, good people,' said Betterton. 'Think of me with kindness.

Faults I may have, but my heart----' (tapping at it with his

forefinger), 'all is right here.'

After he had left us, I reprimanded Stuart so severely, for his

officiousness in having interfered about Betterton, that he went away

quite offended; and, I much fear, will never return. If he does not, he

will use me basely, to leave me here in this unprotected state, after

all his anxieties about me--anxieties too, which (I cannot tell why)

have pleased me beyond expression. I confess, I feel a regard for the

man, and should be sorry to have hurt his feelings seriously. Would Sir

Charles Bingley have deserted me so, I ask? No. But Stuart has no

notion of being a plain, useful, unsuccessful lover, like him. Well, I

must say, I hate to see a man more ready to fall out with one, than to

fall in love with one.

But Montmorenci--what shall I say of him? How can he possibly exculpate

himself from his treacherous intrigue with the landlady? I confess I am

predisposed to credit any feasible excuse which he can assign, rather

than find myself deceived, outrivalled, and deprived of a lover, not

alone dear to me, but indispensible to the progress of my memoirs.

Then, that closet-scene, from which I had a right to expect the true

pathetic, what a bear-garden it became! In short, I feel at this moment

disgusted with the world. I half wish I were at home again. Now too,

that Stuart has reminded me of our early days, I cannot avoid sometimes

picturing to myself the familiar fireside, the walks, frolics,

occupations of our childhood; and well I remember how he used to humour

my whims. Oh, these times are past, and now he opposes me in every

thing.

But whither am I wandering? Pardon these vulgar sentiments. They have

escaped my pen. You know that a mere home is my horror. Forgive them.

Adieu.

LETTER XIX

Determined to support my dignity, I dined alone in my room, after the

closet-scene; and during this evening, letters of the most

heart-rending nature passed between his lordship and me.

To be brief, he has convinced me, that the letter written in his name,

to the landlady, was a FORGERY of her own. The circumventing wretch! I

am of opinion, that it ought to be made a hanging matter.

The following is an extract from his and my correspondence. After a

most satisfactory disquisition on the various circumstances tending to

prove the forgery, he writes thus:

* * * * *

'I have begun twenty letters to you, and have torn them all. I write to

you on my knees, and the paper is blistered with my tears; but I have

dried it with my sighs.

'Sun, moon, and stars may rise and set as they will. I know not whether

it be day, or whether it be night.

'When the girl came with your last note, the idea that your eyes had

just been dwelling on her features, on her cap, ribbon, and apron, made

her and them so interesting, so dear to me, that, though her features

are snubbed, her cap tattered, her ribbon bottle-green (which I hate),

and her apron dirty, I should certainly have taken her in my arms, if I

had not been the most bashful of men.

'Though that note stung me to the heart, the words were hosts of angels

to me, and the small paper the interminable regions of bliss. Any thing

from you!

'How my heart beats, and my blood boils in my veins, when by chance our

feet meet under the table. The diapason of my heart-strings vibrates to

the touch. How often I call to mind the sweet reproof you once gave me

at dinner, when I trod on your toe in a transport of passion.

'"If you love me, tell me so," said you, smiling; "but do not hurt my

foot."

'Another little incident is always recurring to me. As we parted from

each other, the night before last, you held out your hand and said,

"Good-night, my dear Montmorenci." It was the first time you had ever

called me _dear_. The sound sank deep into my heart. I have repeated

it a hundred times since, and when I went to bed, I said, good night,

my dear Montmorenci. I recollected myself and laughed. The fatal kiss

that I once dared to snatch from you has undone me for ever. The

moisture on your lip was like a suppuration of rubies. O immortal

remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting moment!'

BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.

He who could be capable of the letter, could be capable of calling

it a forgery.

BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI.

Misery with you, were better than happiness without you.

BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.

Hatred and certainty were better than love and suspicion.

BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI.

Love is heaven and heaven is love.

BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.

If heaven be love, I fear that heaven is not eternal.

BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI.

If my mind be kept in suspense, my body shall be suspended too.

BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.

Foolish youth! If my life be dear to thee, attempt not thine own.

BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI.

It were easier to kill myself than to fly from Cherubina.

BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.

LIVE. I restore you to favour.

BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI.

Angelic girl! But how can I live without the means? My landlady

threatens me with an arrest. Heloise lent money to St. Preux.

BILLET FROM CHERUBINA.

In enclosing to you half of all I have, I feel, alas! that I am but

half as liberal of my purse as of my heart.

BILLET FROM MONTMORENCI.

I promise to pay Lady Cherubina de Willoughby, or order, on demand,

the sum of twenty-five pounds sterling, value received.

MONTMORENCI.

In a few minutes after I had received this last billet, his lordship

came in person to perfect the reconciliation. Never was so tender, so

excruciating a scene.

We then consulted about the masquerade; and he brought me down his

dress for it. The Montero cap and tarnished regimentals (which he

procured at the theatre) are admirable.

Soon after his departure, a letter was brought to me by the maid; who

said, that a tall man, wrapped in a dark cloak, put it into her hand,

and then fled with great swiftness.

Conceive my sensations on reading this note, written in an antiquated

hand.

_To Lady Cherubina de Willoughby.

These, greeting.

Most fayre Ladie

An aunciente and loyall Vassall that erewhyles appertained unto

yre ryhgte noble Auncestrie, in ye qualitie of Seneschal, hath,

by chaunce, discovred yer place of hiding, and doth crave ye boon

that you will not fayle to goe unto ye Masquerade at ye Pantheon;

where, anon he will joyn you, and unravell divers mysterys

touching your pedigree.

Lette nonne disswaid you from to goe, and eke lette nonne, save a

Matron, goe with you; els I dare not holde parle with you.

Myne honoured Ladie, if you heede not this counsell, you will work

yourselfe woefull ruth._

Judge if I can sleep a wink after such a mysterious communication.

Excellent old man! I mean to make him my steward.

Adieu.

LETTER XX

I believe I mentioned, in a former letter, that my bed-chamber was on

the ground floor, and looking into the yard at the back of the house.

Soon after I went to bed, last night, I heard a whispering and rustling

outside of the window, and while I was awaiting with anxiety the

result, sleep surprised me.

I awoke earlier, as I thought, than usual, this morning; for not a ray

penetrated my curtainless window. I then tried to compose myself to

sleep again, but in vain; so there I lay turning and tumbling about,

for eight or nine hours, at the very least. At last I became alarmed.

What can be the matter? thought I. Is the sun quenched or eclipsed? or

has the globe ceased rolling? or am I struck stone blind?

In the midst of my conjectures, a sudden cry of fire! fire!

reverberated through the house. I sprang out of bed, and huddled on me

whatever cloaths came to hand. I then groped for my casket of jewels,

and having secured it, rushed into the outer room, where my eyes were

instantly dazzled by the sudden glare of light.

However, I had presence of mind enough to snatch up Corporal Trim's

coat, which still remained on a chair; and to slip it on me. For, in

the first place, I had no gown underneath; and in the next, I

recollected, that Harriot Byron, at a moment of distress, went wild

about the country, in masquerade.

Hurrying into the hall, I saw the street door wide open, Stuart and

Montmorenci struggling with each other near it, the landlady dragging a

trunk down stairs, and looking like the ghost of a mad housemaid; and

the poet just behind her, with his corpulent mother, bed and all, upon

his back; while she kept exclaiming, that we should all be in heaven in

five minutes, and he crying out, Heaven forbid! Heaven forbid!

I darted past Stuart, just as he had got Montmorenci down; thence out

of the house, and had fled twenty paces, before I discovered, that, so

far from being night, it was broad, bright, incontrovertible day!

I had no time to reflect on this mystery, as I heard steps pursuing me,

and my name called. I fled the faster, for I dreaded I knew not what.

The portentous darkness of my room, the false alarm of fire, all

betokened some diabolical conspiracy against my life; so I rushed along

the street, to the horror and astonishment of all who saw me. For

conceive me drest in a long-skirted, red coat, stiff with tarnished

lace; a satin petticoat, satin shoes, no stockings, and my flaxen hair

streaming like a meteor behind me!

Stop her, stop her! was now shouted on all sides. Hundreds seemed in

pursuit. Panting and almost exhausted, I still continued my flight.

They gained on me. What should I do? I saw the door of a carriage just

opened, and two ladies, dressed for dinner, stepping into it. I sprang

in after them, crying, save me, save me! The footman endeavoured to

drag me out; the mob gathered round shouting; the horses took fright,

and set off in full gallop; I, meantime, on one knee, with my meek eyes

raised, and my hands folded across my bosom, awaited my fate; while the

ladies gazed on me in dismay, and supported one unbroken scream.

At last, the carriage dashed against a post, and was upset. Several

persons ran forward, and, I being uppermost, took me out the first.

Again I began running, and again a mob was at my heels. I felt certain

they would tear me in pieces. My head became bewildered; and all the

horrid sights I had ever read of rose in array before me. Bacchantes,

animated with Orphean fury, slinging their serpents in the air, and

uttering dithyrambics, appeared to surround me on every side. On I

flew. Knock it down! cried several voices.

A footman was just entering a house. I rushed past him, and into a

parlour, where a large party were sitting at dinner.

Save me! exclaimed I, and sank on my knees before them. All

arose:--some, in springing to seize me, fell; and others began dragging

me away. I grasped the table-cloth, in my confusion, and the next

instant, the whole dinner was strewn about the floor. Those who had

fallen down, rose in piteous plight; one bathed in soup, another

crowned with vegetables, and the face of a third all over harico.

They held me fast, and questioned me; then called me mad, and turned me

into the street. The mob were still waiting for me there, and they

cheered me as I came out; so seeing a shop at hand, I darted through

it, and ran up stairs, into the drawing-room.

There I found a mother in the cruel act of whipping her child. Ever a

victim to thrilling sensibility, I snatched the rod from her hand; she

shrieked and alarmed the house; and again I was turned out of doors.

Again, my friend the mob received me with a shout; again I took to

flight; rushed through another shop, was turned out--through another,

was turned out. In short, I threaded a dozen different houses, and

witnessed a dozen different domestic scenes. In this, they were

singing, in that scolding:--here, I caught an old man kissing the maid,

there, I found a young man reading the Bible. Entering another, I heard

ladies laughing and dancing in the drawing-room. I hurried past them to

the garrets, and saw their aged servant dying.

Shocked by the sight, I paused at his half-opened door. Not a soul was

in the room with him; and vials and basons strewed the table.

'Is that my daughter?' said he feebly. 'Will no one go for my daughter?

To desert me thus, after first breaking my heart! Well then, I will

find her out myself.'

He made a sudden effort to rise, but it was fatal. His head and arms

dropped down motionless, and hung out of the bed. He gave a hollow sob,

and expired.

Horrorstruck, I rushed into an adjoining garret, and burst into tears.

I felt guilty of I knew not what; and the picture of Wilkinson, dying

in the madhouse, and calling on his daughter, shot across me for a

moment.

The noise of people searching the rooms below, and ascending the

stairs, put an end to my disagreeable reflections; and I thought but of

escape. Running to the window of the garret, I found that it opened

upon the roof of a neighbouring house; and recollecting that robbers

often escape by similar means, I sprang out of the window, closed it

after me, and ran along a whole row of roofs.

At last I came to a house higher than the rest, with a small window,

similar to that by which I had just got out, and happily lying open. On

looking into the garret, I found that nobody was there, so I scrambled

into it, and fastened the window after me. A servant's bed, a chair, a

table, and an immense chest, constituted all the furniture. The chest

had nothing but a little linen in it; and I determined to make it my

place of refuge, in case of an alarm.

Having sat a few minutes, to compose my spirits, after the shock they

had just experienced, I resolved on exploring the several apartments;

for I felt a secret presentiment that this house was, some way or

other, connected with my fate--a most natural idea.

I first traversed the garrets, but found nothing in them worthy of

horror; so I stole, with cautious steps, down the first flight of

stairs, and found the door of the front room open. Hearing no noise

inside, I ventured to put in my head, and perceived a large table, with

lighted candles on it, and covered over with half-finished dresses of

various descriptions, besides bonnets, feathers, caps, and ribbons in

profusion; whence I concluded that the people of the house were

milliners.

Here I sat some time, admiring the dresses, and trying at a mirror how

the caps became me, till I was interrupted by steps on the stairs. I

ran behind a window-curtain; and immediately three young milliners came

into the room.

They sat down at the table, and began working.

'I wonder,' said one, 'whether our lodger has returned from dinner.'

'What a sly eye the fellow casts at me,' says another.

'And how he smiles at me,' says the first.

'And how he teases me about my being pretty,' says the second.

'And me too,' says the first; 'and he presses my hand into the

bargain.'

'Presses!' says the second; 'why, he _squeezes_ mine; and just think,

he tries to kiss me too.'

'I know,' says the third, who was the only pretty girl of the three,

'that he never lays a finger on me, nor speaks a word to me, good or

bad--never: and yesterday he lent me the Mysteries of Udolpho with a

very bad grace; and when I told him that I wanted it to copy the

description of the Tuscan girl's dress, as a lady had ordered me to

make up a dress like it, for the masquerade to-night, he handed me the

book, and said, that if I went there myself, the people would take my

face for a mask.'

Judge of my horror, when I recollected, that this was, indeed, the

night of the masquerade; and that I was pent behind a curtain, without

even a dress for it!

That Tuscan costume, thought I, would just answer. Perhaps I could

purchase it from the milliner. Perhaps---- But in the midst of my

perhaps's, the first and second milliner set off with some Indian

robes, which they had finished for the masquerade, while the pretty one

still remained to complete the Tuscan dress.

While I was just resolving to issue from my retreat, and persuade her

to sell me the dress, I heard a step stealing up the stairs; and

presently perceived a young gentleman peeping into the room. He nodded

familiarly to the milliner; and said, in a whisper, that he had seen

her companions depart, and was now come to know how soon she would go,

that he might meet her at their old corner. She replied, that she would

soon be ready; and he then stole back again.

I had now no time to lose in accomplishing my plan, so I drew aside the

curtain, and stood, in a commanding attitude before her.

The poor girl looked up, started, made a miserable imitation of the

heroic scream, and ran down stairs.

I ran after her, as far as the landing-place; and on looking over the

balusters, into the hall, I saw the young man who had just been with

her, listening to her account of the transaction. 'I will call the

watch,' said she, 'and do you keep guard at the door.'

She then hastened into the street, and he stood in such a manner, that

it was impossible for me to pass him.

'What is the matter?' cried the mistress of the house, coming out of

the parlour.

'A mad woman that is above stairs,' answered the young man. 'Miss Jane

has just seen her; dressed half like a man, half like a woman, and with

hair down to the ground!'

'What is all this?' cried a maid, running out of the kitchen.

'Oh! Molly,' said the mistress, 'Miss Jane is just frightened to death

by a monster above stairs, half man, half woman, and all over covered

with hair!'

Another servant now made her appearance.

'Oh! Betty,' cried Molly, 'Miss Jane is just killed by a huge monster

above stairs, half man, half beast, all over covered with black hair,

and I don't know what other devilments besides!'

'I will run and drive it down,' cried Betty, and began ascending the

stairs. Whither could I hide? I luckily recollected the large chest; so

I flew up to the garret. It was now quite dark; but I found the chest,

sprang into it, and having closed the lid, flung some of the linen over

me. I then heard the girl enter the next room, and in a few moments,

she came into mine, with another person.

'Here is the trunk, Tom,' said she, 'and I must lock it on you till the

search is over. You see, Tom, what risks I am running on your account;

for there is Miss Jane, killed by it, and lying in bits, all about the

floor.'

The man had now jumped into the chest; the girl locked it in an

instant, took out the key, and ran down.

Almost prest to death, I made a sudden effort to get from under him.

'What's this! Oh! mercy, what's this?' cried he, feeling about.

I gathered myself up; but did not speak.

'Help!' vociferated he. ''Tis the monster--here is the hair! help,

help!'

'Hush!' said I, 'or you will betray both of us. I am no monster, but a

woman.'

'Wasn't? it you that murdered the milliner?' said he, still trembling.

'No, really,' replied I, 'but now not a word; for I hear people

coming.'

As I spoke, several persons entered the room. We lay still. They

searched about; and one of them, approaching the chest, tried to lift

the lid.

'That is locked this month past,' said the voice of the maid who had

hidden the man in it, 'so you need not look there.'

They then searched the remaining garrets; and I heard them say, as they

were going down stairs, that I must have jumped out of a window.

'And now, Madam,' said the man, 'will you have the goodness to tell me

who you are?'

'A young and innocent maiden,' answered I, 'who, flying from my

persecutors, took refuge here.'

'Young and innocent!' cried he, 'good ingredients, faith. Come then, my

dear; I will protect you.'

So saying, he caught me round the waist, and attempted to kiss me.

I begged, reasoned, menaced--all would not do. I had read of a heroine,

whose virtue was saved by a timely brain-fever; so, as I could not

command one at that instant, I determined on affecting one.

'I murdered her famously!' exclaimed I; and then commenced singing and

moaning by turns.

He stopped, and lay quiet, as if uncertain what to make of me. I

scratched the chest with my nails, and laughed, and shrieked. He began

to mutter curses and prayers with great rapidity; till, as I was

gabbling over the finest passage in Ossian, 'Oh! merciful!' ejaculated

he, rolling himself into a ball; ''tis a Bedlamite broke loose!'

By this time, between my terror, and the heat of the chest, I was

gasping for breath; and my companion appeared on the very point of

suffocation; when, at this critical juncture, some one fortunately came

into the room. The man called for help, the chest was unlocked, opened;

and the maid with a candle appeared before us.

The man darted out like an arrow; she remained motionless with

astonishment at seeing me, while I lay there, almost exhausted; though,

as usual, not worth a swoon. I do believe, that the five fingers I am

writing with would leave me, sooner than my five senses.

'She has confessed to the murder!' cried the man; while the maid held

by his arm, and shrunk back, as I rose from the chest with an air of

dignity.

'Be not frightened, my friends,' said I smiling, 'for I assure you that

I am no murderess; and that the milliner is alive and well, at this

moment. Is she not, young woman?'

'Yes, sure,' answered she, somewhat recovering from her terror.

'How I came into this extraordinary situation,' continued I, 'it were

needless to relate; but I must have your assistance to get out of it.

If you, my good girl, will supply me with a decent gown, bonnet, and

pair of stockings, I will promise not to tell the family that you had a

lover secreted in the house, and I will give you two guineas for your

kindness.'

So saying, I took the casket from the pocket of my regimental coat, and

displayed the jewels and money that were in it.

'Mercy me!' cried the maid; 'how could they dare for to say that so

rich a lady murdered the girl?'

'Ay, or so handsome a lady,' added the man, bowing.

In a word, after some explanations and compliments, I gave the maid

four guineas, and the man the regimental coat; and was supplied with a

gown, bonnet, and pair of stockings.

As soon as I had dressed myself, we determined that I should steal down

stairs, and out of the house; and that, if discovered in my passage, I

should not betray the maid.

Accordingly, with much trepidation, I began to descend the stairs. Not

a soul seemed stirring. But as I passed by the milliner's room, I

perceived the door half open, and heard some one humming a tune inside.

I peeped through the chink, and saw the pretty milliner again seated

there, and still busied about the Tuscan dress. I resolved to make

another effort for it; and as I had gained my point with the maid, by

having discovered her intrigue, it struck me that I might succeed with

the milliner in a similar manner.

I therefore glided into the room, and seated myself just opposite to

her.

'Your business, Ma'am?' said she, looking surprised.

'To purchase that dress,' answered I.

''Tis already purchased,' said she.

'Do you remember the mad woman with the long hair?' said I, as I took

off my bonnet, and let down my tresses, with all the grandeur of virtue

victorious over vice.

She started and turned pale.

'You are the very person, I believe,' faltered she. 'What upon earth

shall I do?'

'Do?' cried I. 'Why, sell me the Tuscan dress of course. The fact

is--but let it go no farther--I am a heroine; I am, I give you my word

and honour. So, you know, the lady being wronged of the dress,

(inasmuch as she is but an individual), is as nothing compared with the

wrong that the community will sustain, if they lose the pleasure of

finding that I get it from you. Sure the whole scene, since I came to

this house, was contrived for the express purpose of my procuring that

individual costume; and just conceive what pretty confusion must take

place, if, after all, you prevent me! My dear girl, we must do poetical

justice. We must not disappoint the reader.

'You will tell me, perhaps, that selling the dress is improper?

Granted. But, recollect, what improper things are constantly done, in

novels, to bring about a pre-determined event. Your amour with the

gentleman, for instance; which I shall certainly tell your employer, if

you refuse to sell me the dress.

'As you value your own peace of mind, therefore, and in the name of all

that is just, generous, and honourable, I conjure you to reflect for a

moment, and you must see the matter in its rational light. What can you

answer to these arguments?'

'That the person who could use them,' said she, 'will never listen to

reason. I see what is the matter with you, and that I have no resource

but to humour you, or be ruined.' And she began crying.

To conclude, after a little farther persuasion, I got the dress, gave

her ten guineas, and, tripping down stairs, effected a safe escape out

of the house.

I then called a coach, and drove to Jerry Sullivan's; for I would not

return to my lodgings, lest the conspirators there should prevent me

from going to the masquerade.

The poor fellow jumped with joy when he saw me; but I found him in

great distress. His creditors had threatened his little shop with

immediate ruin, unless he would discharge his debts. He had now

provided the whole sum due, except forty pounds; but this he could not

procure, and the creditors were expected every minute.

'I have only twelve guineas in the world,' said I, opening my casket,

'but they are at your service.' And I put them into his hand.

'Dear Lady!' cried the wife, 'what a mortal sight of jewels you have

got! Do you know, now, I could borrow thirty pounds at least on them,

at the pawnbroker's; and that sum would just answer.'

'Nay,' said I, 'I cannot consent to part with them; though, had I

thirty pounds, I would sooner give it to you, than buy jewels with it.'

'Sure then,' cried she, 'by the same rule, you would sooner sell your

jewels, than let me want thirty pounds.'

'Not at all,' answered I, 'for I am fond of my jewels, and I do not

care about money. Besides, have I not already given you twelve

guineas?'

'You have,' answered she, 'and that is what vexes me. If you had given

me nothing at all, I would not have minded, because you were a

stranger. But first to make yourself our friend, by giving us twelve

guineas, and then to refuse us the remainder--'tis so unnatural!'

'Ungrateful woman!' cried I. 'Had I ten thousand pounds, you should not

touch a farthing of it.'

The arrival of the creditors interrupted us, and a touching scene

ensued. The wife and daughter flung themselves on their knees, and

wrung their hands, and begged for mercy; but the wretches were

inexorable.

How could I remain unmoved? In short, I slipped the casket into the

wife's hand; out she ran with it, and in a few minutes returned with

forty pounds. The creditors received the money due, passed receipts,

and departed, and Jerry returned me the twelve guineas, saying: 'Bless

your sweet face, for 'tis that is the finger-post to heaven, though, to

be sure, I can't look strait in it, after all you have done for me.

Och! 'tis a murder to be under an obligation: so if just a little bit

of mischief would happen you, and I to relieve you, as you did me, why

that would make me _aisy_.'

I am writing to you, from his house, while his daughter is finishing

the sleeve of my Tuscan dress; and in a short time I shall be ready for

the masquerade.

I confess I am not at all reconciled to the means I used in obtaining

that dress. I took advantage of the milliner's indiscretion in one

instance, to make her do wrong in another. But doubtless my biographer

will find excuses for me, which I cannot discover myself. Besides, the

code of moral law that heroines acknowledge is often quite opposite

from those maxims which govern other conditions of life. And, indeed,

if we view the various ranks and departments of society, we shall see,

that what is considered vicious in some of them, is not esteemed so in

others. Thus: it is deemed dishonest in a servant to cheat his master

of his wines, but it is thought perfectly fair for his master to

defraud the King of the revenue from those wines. In the same way, what

is called wantonness in a little minx with a flat face, is called only

susceptibility in a heroine with an oval one. We weep at the letters of

Heloise; but were they written by an alderman's fat wife, we should

laugh at them. The heroine may permit an amorous arm round her waist,

fly in the face of her parents, and make assignations in dark groves,

yet still be described as the most prudent of human creatures; but the

mere Miss has no business to attempt any mode of conduct beyond

modesty, decorum, and filial obedience. In a word, as different classes

have distinct privileges, it appears to me, from what I have read of

the law national, and the law romantic, that the heroine's prerogative

is similar to the King's, and that she, like him, can do no wrong.

Adieu.

LETTER XXI

O Biddy, I have ascertained my genealogy. I am--but I must not

anticipate. Take the particulars.

Having secured a comfortable bed at Jerry's, and eaten something (for I

had fasted all day), I went with him in a coach to the Pantheon, where

he promised to remain, and escort me back.

But I must first describe my Tuscan dress. It was a short petticoat of

pale green, with a bodice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up

at the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. My hair, which

fell in ringlets on my neck, was also ornamented with flowers and a

straw hat. I wore no mask, heroines so seldom do.

Palpitating with expectation, I entered the assembly. Such a multitude

of grotesque groups as presented themselves! Clowns, harlequins, nuns,

devils; all talking and none listening. The clowns happy to be called

fools, the harlequins as awkward as clowns, the nuns impudent, and the

devils well-conducted. But as there is a description of a masquerade in

almost every novel, you will excuse me from entering into farther

particulars.

Too much agitated to support my character with spirit, I retired to a

recess, and there anxiously awaited the arrival of the ancient vassal.

Hardly had I been seated five minutes, when an infirm and reverend old

man approached, and sat down beside me. His feeble form was propt upon

a long staff, a palsy shook his white locks, and his garments had all

the quaintness of antiquity.

During some minutes, he gazed on me with earnestness, through a black

mask; at length, heaving a heavy sigh, he thus broke forth in tremulous

accents:

'Well-a-day! how the scalding tears do run adown my furrowed cheeks;

for well I wis, thou beest herself--the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby,

the long-lost daughter of mine honoured mistress!'

'Speak, I beseech you!' cried I. 'Are you, indeed, the ancient and

loyal vassal?'

'Now by my truly, 'tis even so,' said he.

I could have hugged the dear old man to my heart.

'Welcome, thrice welcome, much respected menial!' cried I, grasping his

hand. 'But keep me not in suspense. Unfold to me the heart-harrowing

mysteries of my unhappy house!'

'Now by my fay,' said he, 'I will say forth my say. My name is Whylome

Eftsoones, and I was accounted comely when a younker. But what boots

that now? Beauty is like unto a flower of the field.--Good my lady,

pardon a garrulous old man. So as I was saying, the damozels were once

wont to leer at me right waggishly; but time changeth all things, as

the proverb saith; and time hath changed my face, from that of a

blithesome Ganymede to one of those heads which Guido has often

painted; mild, pale, penetrating. Good my lady, I must tell thee a

right pleasant and quaint saying of a certain nun, touching my face.'

'For pity's sake,' cried I, 'and as you value the preservation of my

senses, continue your story without these digressions.'

'Certes, my lady,' said he. 'Well, I was first taken, as a bonny page,

into the service of thy great great grandfader's fader's brother; and I

was in at the death of these four generations, till at last, I became

seneschal to thine honoured fader, Lord De Willoughby. His lordship

married the Lady Hysterica Belamour, and thou wast the sole offspring

of that ill-fated union.

'Soon after thy birth, thy noble father died of an apparition; or, as

some will have it, of stewed lampreys. Returning, impierced with mickle

dolour, from his funeral, which took place at midnight, I was stopped

on a common, by a tall figure, with a mirksome cloak, and a flapped

hat. I shook grievously, ne in that ghastly dreriment wist how myself

to bear.'

'I do not comprehend your expressions,' interrupted I.

'I mean,' said he, 'I was in such a fright I did not know what to do.

Anon, he threw aside his disguise, and I beheld--Lord Gwyn!'

'Lord Gwyn!' cried I.

'Yea,' said he. 'Lord Gwyn, who was ywedded unto Lord De Willoughby's

sister, the Lady Eleanor.'

'Then Lady Eleanor Gwyn is my aunt!' cried I.

'Thou sayest truly,' replied he. '"My good Eftsoones," whispered Lord

Gwyn to me, "know you not that my wife, Lady Eleanor Gwyn, will enjoy

all the extensive estates of her brother, Lord De Willoughby, if that

brother's infant, the little Cherubina, were no more?"

'"I trow, ween, and wote, 'tis as your lordship saith," answered I.

'His lordship then put into mine hand a stiletto.

'"Eftsoones," said he, with a hollow voice, "if this dagger be planted

in a child's heart, it will grow, and bear a golden flower!"

'He spake, and incontinently took to striding away from me, in such

wise, that maulgre and albe, I gan make effort after him, nathlesse and

algates did child Gwyn forthwith flee from mine eyne.'

'I protest most solemnly,' said I, 'I do not understand five words in

the whole of that last sentence!'

'And yet, my lady,' replied he, ''tis the pure well of English

undefiled, and such as was yspoken in mine youth.'

'But what can you mean by _child_ Gwyn?' said I. 'Surely his lordship

was no suckling at this time.'

'Child,' said Eftsoones, 'signified a noble youth, some centuries ago;

and it is coming into fashion again. For instance, there is Childe

Harold.'

'Then,' said I, 'there is "second childishness;" and I fancy there will

be "mere oblivion" too. But if possible, finish your tale in the

corrupt tongue.'

'I will endeavour,' said he. 'Tempted by this implied promise of a

reward, I took an opportunity of conveying you away from your mother,

and of secreting you at the house of a peasant, whom I bribed to bring

you up as his own daughter. I told Lord Gwyn that I had dispatched you,

and he gave me three and fourpence halfpenny for my trouble.

'When the dear lady, your mother, missed you, she went through the most

elegant extravagancies; till, having plucked the last hair from her

head, she ran wild into the woods, and has never been heard of since.'

'Dear sainted sufferer!' exclaimed I.

'A few days ago,' continued Eftsoones, 'a messenger out of breath came

to tell me, that the peasant to whom I had consigned you was dying, and

wished to see me. I went. Such a scene! He confessed to me that he had

sold you, body and bones, as he inelegantly expressed it, to one farmer

Wilkinson, about thirteen years before; for that this farmer, having

discovered your illustrious birth, speculated on a handsome

consideration from Lord Gwyn, for keeping the secret. Now I am told

there is a certain parchment----'

'Which I have!' cried I.

'And a certain portrait of Nell Gwyn----'

'Which I have!'

'And a mole just above your left temple----'

'Which I have!' exclaimed I, in an ecstasy.

'Then your title is made out, as clear as the sun,' said he; 'and I

bow, in contrition, before Lady Cherubina de Willoughby, rightful

heiress of all the territory now appertaining, or that may hereinafter

appertain, to the House of De Willoughby.'

'Oh, dear, how delightful!' cried I. 'But my good friend, how am I to

set about proving my title?'

'Nothing easier,' answered he. 'Lady Gwyn (for his lordship is dead)

resides at this moment on your estate, which lies about thirty miles

from Town; so to-morrow morning you shall set off to see her ladyship,

and make your claims known to her. I will send a trusty servant with

you, and will myself proceed before you, to prepare her for your

arrival. You will therefore find me there.'

While we were in the act of arranging affairs more accurately, who

should make his appearance, but Stuart in a domino!

The moment he addressed me, old Eftsoones slunk away; nor could I catch

another glimpse of him during that night.

Stuart told me that he had come to the masquerade, on the chance of

finding me there, as I seemed so determined on going, the last time he

was with me. He likewise explained the mystery of the darkened chamber,

and the false alarm of fire.

It appears, that as soon as he had discovered the views of Betterton,

he hired a lodging at the opposite side of the street, and had two

police officers there, for the purpose of watching Betterton's

movements, and frustrating his attempts. He knocked several times in

the course of yesterday, but was always answered that I had walked out.

Knowing that I had not, he began to suspect foul play, and determined

on gaining admittance to me. He therefore knocked once more, and then

rushed into the house crying fire. This manoeuvre had the desired

effect, for an universal panic took place; and in the midst of it, he

saw me issuing forth, and effect my escape. After having pursued me

till he lost all traces of my route, he returned to my lodgings, and

was informed by the poet, that Betterton had persuaded the landlady to

fasten a carpet at the outside of my window, in order to make me remain

in bed, till the time for the masquerade should arrive; and thus

prevent me from having an interview with Stuart.

We then walked up and down the room, while I gave him an account of the

ancient and loyal vassal, and of all that I had heard respecting my

family. He was silent on the subject; and only begged of me to point

out Eftsoones, as soon as I should see him; but that interesting old

man never appeared. However, I was in great hopes of another adventure;

for a domino now began hovering about us so much, that Stuart at last

addressed it; but it glided away. He said he knew it was Betterton.

In about an hour, I became tired of the scene; for no one took notice

of my dress. We therefore bade Jerry, who was in waiting, call a coach;

and we proceeded in it to his house.

On our way, I mentioned my determination of setting off to Lady Gwyn's

the very next morning, as Eftsoones had promised to meet me there.

Stuart, for a wonder, applauded my resolution; and even offered to

accompany me himself.

'For,' said he, 'I think I know this old Eftsoones; and if so, I fancy

you will find me useful in unravelling part of the mystery. Besides, I

would assist, with all my soul, in any plan tending to withdraw you

from the metropolis.'

I snatched at his offer with joy; and it was then fixed that we should

take a chaise the next morning, and go together.

On our arrival at the lodging, Stuart begged a bed of Jerry, that he

might be ready for the journey in time; and the good-natured Irishman,

finding him my friend, agreed to make up a pallet for him in the

parlour.

Matters were soon arranged, and we have just separated for the night.

Well, Biddy, what say you now? Have I not made a glorious expedition of

it? A young, rich, beautiful titled heiress already--think of that,

Biddy.

As soon as I can decently turn Lady Gwyn out of doors, I mean to set

up a most magnificent establishment. But I will treat the poor woman

(who perhaps is innocent of her husband's crime) with extreme

delicacy. She shall never want a bed or a plate. By the by, I must

purchase silver plate. My livery shall be white and crimson. Biddy,

depend upon my patronage. How the parson and music-master will boast

of having known me. Then our village will swarm so, _to hear tell as

how_ Miss Cherry has grown a great lady. Old mother Muggins, at the

bottom of the hill, will make a good week's gossip out of it. However,

I mean to condescend excessively, for there is nothing I hate so much

as pride.

Yet do not suppose that I am speculating upon an easy life. Though the

chief obstacle to my marriage will soon be removed, by the confirmation

of my noble birth, still I am not ignorant enough to imagine that no

other impediments will interfere. Besides, to confess the fact, I do

not feel my mind quite prepared to marry Montmorenci at so short a

notice. Hitherto I have thought of him but as a lover, not as a

husband--very different characters, in general.

Ah, no, my friend; be well assured, that adversity will not desert me

quite so quickly. A present good is often the prognostic of an

approaching evil; and when prosperity points its sunshine in our faces,

misfortune, like our shadows, is sure to be behind.

Adieu.

LETTER XXII

After having breakfasted, and remunerated our entertainers, Stuart and

I set out in a post-chaise, while Jerry ran at our side half way down

the street, heaping me with blessings; and bidding me come to him if

ever I should be ruined. After we had advanced a few miles into the

country, Stuart began to look frequently through the back window, and

appeared uneasy. At length he stopped the carriage, and desired the

driver to turn round. As soon as the man had done so, another carriage,

which, it seems, had followed us from London, passed us, and

immediately turned after us.

''Tis as I thought!' cried Stuart, and stopping the chaise again,

jumped out of it.

The chaise behind us also stopped; and a gentleman alighted from it and

approached. But imagine my surprise, when I found that this gentleman

was old Betterton! I could almost have embraced him, his villainous

face looked so promising, and so pregnant with mischief.

'Sir,' said he to Stuart, 'as you have perceived me following your

carriage, I find myself compelled, however unwillingly, to declare my

motives for doing so. Last night I happened to be at the Pantheon, in a

domino, and saw you there escorting this lady. I confess I had long

before suspected your intentions towards her, and seeing you now

together at a masquerade, and without a matron, I did not feel my

suspicions lessened. I therefore had you both traced home, and I found,

to my great horror, that you stopped at a wretched, and, as I am

informed, infamous house in St. Giles's, where you remained during the

night. I found too, that a chaise was at the door of it this morning:

whence concluding, as I well might, that an elopement was in agitation,

I determined, if possible, to prevent so dreadful a catastrophe, by

hiring a carriage and pursuing you.

'Sir, you undertook to lecture me, when last I saw you; and plausibly

enough you performed your part. It is now my duty to return the

obligation. Mr. Stuart, Mr. Stuart, is it not a shame for you, Mr.

Stuart? Is this the way to treat the daughter of your friend, Mr.

Stuart? Go, silly boy, return to your home; and bless that heaven which

hath sent me to the rescue of this fair unfortunate.'

'By all that is comical,' cried Stuart, laughing immoderately, 'this is

too ludicrous even to be angry at! Miss Wilkinson, allow me to

introduce you to Mr. Whylome Eftsoones, an ancient and loyal vassal of

the De Willoughbys;--a mere modern in his principles, I am afraid; but

addicted, I wis, to antiquated language.'

Betterton, I thought, looked rather blank, as he said, 'Really, Sir, I

do not understand----'

'But really, Sir,' cried Stuart, 'I _do_ understand. I understand,

that if you would take less trouble in protecting this lady's honour,

you would have a better chance of preserving your own.'

'Sir,' answered Betterton, 'I will have you to know, that I would

sacrifice my life in defence of my honour.'

'Well, then,' said Stuart, 'though your life has but little of the

saint, it will, at least, have something of the martyr.'

Betterton scowled at him askance, and grinned a thousand devils.

'Hear me, gentlemen,' cried I. 'If either of you again say any thing

disrespectful or insulting to the other, I declare, on my honour, he

shall leave me instantly. At present, I should be happy if both would

do me the favour of escorting me to Lady Gwyn's, as I may meet with

treatment there that will render the support of friends indispensible.'

It was now Stuart's turn to look downcast, and Betterton's to smile

triumphant. The fact is, I wished to shew this admirable villain how

grateful I felt for his meritorious conduct in not having deserted me.

'I will accept of your invitation with pleasure,' said he, 'for my seat

lies within a few miles of her ladyship, and I wish to visit my

tenantry.'

It was now noon. A few fleecy clouds floated in the blue depths of

ether. The breeze brought coolness on its wings, and an inviting

valley, watered by a rivulet, lay on the left; here whitened with

sheep, and there dotted with little encampments of hay.

Exhilarated by the scene, after so long a confinement in the smoke and

stir of London, I proposed to my companions the rural exercise of

walking, as preferable to proceeding cooped up in a carriage. Each,

whatever was his motive, caught at the proposal with delight, and we

dismissed our chaises.

I now hastened to luxuriate in Arcadian beatitude. The pastoral habit

of Tuscany was favourable; nothing remained but to rival an Ida, or a

Glorvina, in simple touches of nature; and to trip along the lawns,

like a Daphne or a Hamadryad.

In an instant, I sprang across a hedge, and fled towards the little

valley, light as a wood-nymph flying from a satyr. I then took up a

most picturesque position. It was beside of the streamlet, under a

weeping willow, and on a grassy bank. Close behind me lay one of the

most romantic cottages that I had ever seen, and at its back was a

small garden, encompassed by green paling. The stream, bordered with

wild-flowers, prattled prettily; save here and there, where a jutting

stone shattered its crystal, and made its music hoarse. It purled and

murmured a little too, but no where could it be said either to tinkle

or gurgle, to chide or brawl.

Flinging off my bonnet, I shook my narcissine locks over my shoulders,

and began braiding them in the manner of a simple shepherdess.

Stuart came up the first. I plucked a daisy that was half dipt into the

brook; and instead of shaking off its moisture, I quaffed the liquid

fragrance with my lip, and then held the flower to him.

'What am I to do with it?' said he.

'To pledge me,' replied I. 'To drink Nature's nectar, that trembles on

the leaves which my lip has consecrated.'

He laughed and kissed the flower. That moment a lambkin began its

pretty bleat.

'Now,' said I, 'make me a simple tripping little ditty on a lambkin.'

'You shall have it,' answered he, 'and such as an attorney's clerk

would read to a milliner's apprentice.'

Dear sensibility, O la!

I heard a little lamb cry, ba;

Says I, so you have lost mamma?

Ah!

The little lamb, as I said so,

Frisking about the field did go,

And frisking, trod upon my toe.

Oh!

'Neat enough,' said I, 'only that it wants the word LOVE in it.'

'True,' cried Stuart; 'for all modern poems of the kind abound in the

word, though they seldom have much of the feeling.'

'And pray, my good friend,' asked I archly, as I bound up my golden

ringlets--'WHAT IS LOVE?'

'Nay,' said he, 'they say that talking of love is making it.'

Plucking a thistle that sprang from the bank, I blew away its down with

my balmy breath, merely to hide my confusion.

Surely I am the most sensitive of all created beings!

Betterton had now reached us, out of breath after his race, and utterly

unable to articulate.

'Betterton,' cried I, 'what is love?'

''Tis,' said he, gasping, ''tis--'tis----'

'The gentleman,' cried Stuart, 'gives as good a description of it as

most of our modern poets; who make its chief ingredients panting and

broken murmurs.'

'Now in my opinion,' said I, 'love is a mystical sympathy, which

unfolds itself in the glance that seeks the soul,--the sentiment that

the soul embodies--the tender gaiety--the more delicious sadness--the

stifled sigh--the soft and malicious smile--the thrill, the hope, the

fear--each in itself a little bliss. In a word, it is the swoon of the

soul, the delirium of the heart, the elegant inebriety of

unsophisticated sentiment.'

'If such be love,' said Stuart, 'I fear I shall never bring myself to

make it.'

'And pray,' said I, 'how would you make love?'

'There are many modes,' answered he, 'and the way to succeed with one

girl is often the way to fail with another. Girls may be divided into

the conversable and inconversable. He who can talk the best, has

therefore the best chance of the former; but would a man make a

conquest of one of the beautiful Inutilities, who sits in sweet

stupidity, plays off the small simpers, and founds her prospects in

life on the shape of her face, he has little more to do than call her a

goddess and make himself a monkey. Or if that should fail, as he cannot

apply to her understanding, he must have recourse to her feeling, and

try what the touch can do for him. The touch has a thousand virtues.

Only let him establish a lodgment on the first joint of her little

finger, he may soon set out on his travels, and make the grand tour of

her waist. This is, indeed, to have wit at his fingers' ends; and this,

I can assure you, is the best and shortest way to gain the hearts of

those demure misses, who think that all modesty consists in silence,

that to be insipid is to be innocent, and that because they have not a

word for a young man in public, they may have a kiss for him in

private.'

'Come,' said I, 'let us talk of love in poetry, not prose. I want some

pretty verses to fill up my memoirs; so, Betterton, now for an amorous

ode to your mistress.'

Betterton bowed and began:

TO FANNY

Say, Fanny, why has bounteous heaven,

In every end benign and wise,

Perfection to your features given?

Enchantment to your witching eyes?

Was it that mortal man might view

Thy charms at distance, and adore?

Ah, no! the man who would not woo,

Were less than mortal, or were more.

The mossy rose that scents the sky,

By bee, by butterfly caress'd,

We leave not on the stalk to die,

But fondly snatch it to the breast

There, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;--

Unless the breast be Fanny's own:

There blooming, every bloom excels;--

Except of Fanny's blush alone.

O Fanny, life is on the wing,

And years, like rivers, glide away:

To-morrow may misfortune bring,

Then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day

And while a lingering kiss I sip,

Ah, start not from these ardent arms;

Nor think the printure of my lip

Will rob your own of any charms.

For see, we crush not, though we tread,

The cup and primrose. Fanny smiled.

Come then and press the cup, she said,

Come then and press the primrose wild.

'Now,' cried Stuart, 'I can give you a poem, with just as much love in

it, and twice as much kissing.'

'That,' said I, 'would be a treasure indeed.'

He then began thus:

TO SALLY

Dawn with stains of ruddy light,

Streaks her grey and fragrant fingers,

While the Ethiop foot of night,

Envious of my Sally, lingers.

Upward poplars, downward willows,

Rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkle

Leaves of daffodillies, lilies,

Pennyroyal, periwinkle.

Rosy, balmy, honied, humid,

Biting, burning, murmuring kisses,

Sally, I will snatch from you, mid

Looks demure that tempt to blisses.

If your cheek grow cold, my dear,

I will kiss it, till it flushes,

Or if warm, my raptured tear,

Shall extinguish all its blushes.

Yes, that dimple is a valley,

Where sports many a little true love,

And that glance you dart, my Sally,

Might melt diamonds into dew love.

But while idle thus I chat,

I the war of lips am missing.

This, this, this, and that, that, that,

These make kissing, kissing, kissing.

The style of this poem reminded me of Montmorenci, and at the same

moment I heard a rustling sound behind me. I started. ''Tis

Montmorenci!' cried I.

Agitated in the extreme, I turned to see.--It was only a cock-sparrow.

'I deserve the disappointment,' said I to myself, 'for I have never

once thought of that amiable youth since I last beheld him. 'Sweetest

and noblest of men,' exclaimed I, aloud, 'say, dost thou mourn my

mysterious absence? Perhaps the draught of air that I now inhale is the

same which thou hast breathed forth, in a sigh for the far distant

Cherubina!'

'That cannot well be,' interrupted Stuart, 'or at least the sigh of

this unknown must have been packed up in a case, and hermetically

sealed, to have come to you without being dispersed on the way.'

'There you happen to be mistaken,' answered I. 'For in the Hermit of

the Rock, the heroine, while sitting on the coast of Sardinia, seemed

to think it highly probable, that the billow at her feet might be the

identical billow which had swallowed up her lover, about a year before,

off the coast of Martinique.'

'That was not at all more improbable than Valancourt's theory,' said

Stuart.

'What was it?' asked I.

'Why,' said he, 'that the sun sets, in different longitudes, at the

same moment. For when his Emily was going to Italy, while he remained

in France, he begged of her to watch the setting of the sun every

evening, that both their eyes might be fixed upon the same object at

once. Now, as the sun would set, where she was in Italy, much earlier

than where he was in France, he certainly took the best of all possible

methods to prevent their looking at it together.'

'But, Sir,' said Betterton, 'heroes and heroines are not bound to

understand astronomy.'

'And yet,' answered Stuart, 'they are greater star-gazers than the

ancient Egyptians. To form an attachment for the moon, and write a

sonnet on it, is the principal test of being a heroine.'

As he spoke, a painted butterfly came fluttering about me. To pursue it

was a classical amusement, for Caroline of Lichfield made a

butterfly-hunt her pastime; so springing on my feet, I began the chace.

The nimble insect eluded me for a long time, and at last got over the

paling, into the little garden. I followed it through a small gate, and

caught it; but alas! bruised it in the capture, and broke one of its

wings. The poor thing sought refuge in a lily, where it lay struggling

a few moments, and then its little spirit fled for ever.

What an opportunity for a sonnet! I determined to compose one under the

willow. A beautiful rose-bush was blushing near the lily, and reminded

me how pastoral I should look, could I recline on roses, during my

poetical ecstasy. But would it be proper to pick them? Surely a few

could do no harm. I glanced round--Nobody was in sight--I picked a few.

But what signified a few for what I wanted? I picked a few more. The

more I picked, the more I longed to pick--'Tis human nature; and was

not Eve herself tempted in a garden? So from roses I went to lilies,

from lilies to carnations, thence to jessamine, honey-suckle,

eglantine, sweet-pea; till, in short, I had filled my bonnet, and

almost emptied the beds. I then hurried to the willow with my prize;

sentenced Stuart and Betterton to fifty yards banishment, and

constructed a charming couch of flowers, which I damasked and inlaid

with daisies, butter-flowers, and moss.

Enraptured with my paradisaical carpet, I flung myself upon it, and my

recumbent form, as it pressed the perfumes, was indeed that of

Mahomet's Houri. Exercise and agitation had heightened the glow of my

cheeks, and the wind had blown my yellow hair about my face, like

withered leaves round a ripened peach. I never looked so lovely.

In a short time I was able to repeat this sonnet aloud.

SONNET

Where the blue stream reflected flowerets pale,

A fluttering butterfly, with many a freak,

Dipped into dancing bells, and spread its sail

Of azure pinions, edged with jetty streak.

I snatched it passing; but a pinion frail,

Ingrained with mealy gold, I chanced to break.

The mangled insect, ill deserving bane,

Falls in the hollow of a lily new.

My tears drop after it, but drop in vain.

The cup, embalmed with azure airs and dew,

And flowery dust and grains of fragrant seed,

Can ne'er revive it from the fatal deed.

So guileless nymphs attract some traiterous eye,

So by the spoiler crushed, reject all joy and die.

Now that the pomp of composition was over, I began to think I had

treated the owner of the garden extremely ill. I felt myself guilty of

little less than theft, and was deliberating on what I ought to do,

when an old, grey-headed peasant came running towards me from the

garden.

'Miss!' cried he, 'have you seen any body pass this way with a parcel

of flowers; for some confounded thief has just robbed me of all I had?'

I raised myself a little to reply, and he perceived the flowers

underneath.

'Odd's life!' cried he, 'so you are the thief, are you? How dare you,

hussey, commit such a robbery?'

'I am no hussey, and 'tis no robbery,' cried I; 'and trust me, you

shall neither have apology nor compensation. Hussey, indeed! Sir, it

was all your own fault for leaving that uncouth gate of your's open. I

am afraid, Sir, that you are a shockingly ignorant old man.'

The peasant was just about to seize me, when Stuart ran up, and

prevented him. They had then some private conversation together, and I

saw Stuart give him a guinea. The talismanic touch of gold struck

instant peace, and a compact of amity followed. Indeed, I have ever

found, that even my face, though a heroine's, and with all its dimples,

blushes, and glances, could never do half so much for me as the royal

face on a bit of gold.

The peasant was now very civil, and invited us to rest in his cottage.

Thither we repaired, and found his daughter, a beautiful young woman,

just preparing the dinner. I felt instantly interested in her fate. I

likewise felt hungry; so calling her aside, I told her that I would be

happy to have a dinner, and, if possible, a bed, at the cottage; and

that I would recompense her liberally for them, as I was a lady of

rank, but at present in great affliction.

She said she would be very glad to accommodate me, if her father would

permit her; and she then went to consult him. After a private

conference between them and Stuart, she told me that her father was

willing to let me remain. So we soon agreed upon the terms, and a

village was at hand, where Stuart and Betterton might dine and sleep.

Before they left me, they made me give a solemn promise not to quit the

cottage, till both of them should return, the next morning.

Stuart took an opportunity of asking me, whether he could speak to me

in private, that evening.

'At ten o'clock to-night,' answered I, 'I will be sitting at the

casement of my chamber. Trill a lamenting canzonet beneath it, as a

signal, and I will admit you to a stolen interview.'

Betterton and he then departed, but not in company with each other.

Dinner is announced.

Adieu

LETTER XXIII

At dinner, a young farmer joined us; and I soon perceived that he and

the peasant's daughter, Mary, were born for each other. They betrayed

their mutual tenderness by a thousand little innocent stratagems, that

passed, as they thought, unobserved.

After dinner, when Mary was about accompanying me to walk, the youth

stole after us, and just as I had got into the garden, he drew her

back, and I heard him kiss her. She came to me with her face a little

flushed, and her ripe lips ruddier than before.

'Well, Mary,' said I, 'what was he doing to you?'

'Doing, Ma'am? Nothing, I am sure.'

'Nothing, Mary?'

'Why, Ma'am, he only wanted to be a little rude, and kiss me, I

believe.'

'And you would not allow him, Mary?'

'Why should I tell a falsehood about it, Ma'am?' said she. 'To be sure

I did not hinder him; for he is my sweetheart, and we are to be married

next week.'

'And do you love him, Mary?'

'Better than my life, Ma'am. There never was such a good lad; he has

not a fault in the wide world, and all the girls are dying of envy that

I have got him.'

'Well, Mary,' said I, 'I foresee we shall spend a most delicious

evening. We will take a rural repast down to the brook, and tell our

loves. The contrast will be beautiful;--mine, the refined, sentimental,

pathetic story; your's the pretty, simple, little, artless tale. Come,

my friend; let us return, and prepare the rustic banquet. No souchong,

or bohea; (blessed names these!) no hot or cold cakes--Oh! no, but

creams, berries, and fruits; goat's milk, figs, and honey--Arcadian,

pastoral, primeval dainties!'

We then went back to the cottage, but could get nothing better than

currants, gooseberries, and a maple bowl of cream. Mary, indeed, cut a

large slice of bread and butter for her private amusement; and with

these we returned to the streamlet. I then threw myself on my flowery

couch, and my companion sat beside me.

We helped ourselves. I took rivulet to my cream, and scooped the brook

with my rosy palm. Innocent nymph! ah, why couldst thou not sit down in

the lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say thy prayers, and

go to heaven with this nut-brown maid?

I picked up a languishing rose, and sighed as I inhaled its perfume,

and gazed on its decay.

'Such, Mary,' said I, 'such will be the fate of you and me. How soft,

how serene this evening. It is a landscape for a Claud. But how much

more charming is an Italian or a French than an English landscape. O!

to saunter over hillocks, covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper

and tamarise, while shrubs fringe the summits of the rocks, or patches

of meagre vegetation tint their recesses! Plantations of almonds,

cypresses, palms, olives, and dates stretch along; nor are the larch

and ilex, the masses of granite, and dark forests of fir wanting; while

the majestic Garonne wanders, descending from the Pyrenees, and winding

its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.

'Is not all this exquisite, Mary?'

'It must, Ma'am, since you say so,' replied she.

'Then,' continued I, 'though your own cottage is tolerable, yet is it,

as in Italy, covered with vine leaves, fig-trees, jessamine, and

clusters of grapes? Is it tufted with myrtle, or shaded with a grove of

lemon, orange, and bergamot?'

'But Ma'am,' said Mary, ''tis shaded by some fine old elms.'

'True,' cried I, with the smile of approaching triumph. 'But do the

flowers of the spreading agnus castus mingle with the pomegranate of

Shemlek? Does the Asiatic andrachne rear its red trunk? Are the

rose-coloured nerit, and verdant alia marina imbost upon the rocks? And

do the golden clusters of Eastern spartium gleam amidst the fragrant

foliage of the cedrat, the most elegant shrub of the Levant? Do they,

Mary?'

'I believe not, Ma'am,' answered she. 'But then our fields are all over

daisies, butterflowers, clover-blossoms, and daffodowndillies.'

'Daffodowndillies!' cried I. 'Ah, Mary, Mary, you may be a very good

girl, but you do not shine in description. Now I leave it to your own

taste, which sounds better,--Asiatic andrachne, or daffodowndillies? If

you knew any thing of novels, you would describe for the ear, not for

the eye. Oh, my young friend, never, while you live, say

daffodowndillies.'

'Never, if I can help it, Ma'am,' said Mary. 'And I hope you are not

offended with me, or think the worse of me, on account of my having

said it now; for I could safely make oath that I never heard, till this

instant, of its being a naughty word.'

'I am satisfied,' said I. 'So now let us tell our loves, and you shall

begin.'

'Indeed, Ma'am,' said she, 'I have nothing to tell.'

'Impossible,' cried I. 'Did William never save your life?'

'Never, Ma'am.'

'Well then, he had a quarrel with you?'

'Never, in all his born days, Ma'am.'

'Shocking! Why how long have you known him?'

'About six months, Ma'am. He took a small farm near us; and he liked me

from the first, and I liked him, and both families wished for the

match; and when he asked me to marry him, I said I would; and so we

shall be married next week; and that is the whole history, Ma'am.'

'A melancholy history, indeed!' said I. 'What a pity that an

interesting pair, like you, who, without flattery, seem born for one of

Marmontel's tales, should be so cruelly sacrificed.'

I then began to consider whether any thing could yet be done in their

behalf, or whether the matter was indeed past redemption. I reflected

that it would be but an act of common charity,--hardly deserving

praise--to snatch them awhile from the dogged and headlong way they

were setting about matrimony, and introduce them to a few of the

sensibilities. Surely with very little ingenuity, I might get up an

incident or two between them;--a week or a fortnight's torture,

perhaps;--and afterwards enjoy the luxury of reuniting them.

Full of this laudable intention, I sat meditating awhile; and at length

hit upon an admirable plan. It was no less than to make Mary (without

her own knowledge) write a letter to William, dismissing him for ever!

This appears impossible, but attend.

'My story,' said I, to the unsuspecting girl, 'is long and lamentable,

and I fear, I have not spirits to relate it. I shall merely tell you,

that I yesterday eloped with the younger of the gentlemen who were here

this morning, and married him. I was induced to take this step, in

consequence of my parents having insisted that I should marry my first

cousin; who, by the by, is a namesake of your William's. Now, Mary, I

have a favour to beg of you. My cousin William must be made acquainted

with my marriage; though I mean to keep it a secret from my family, and

as I do not wish to tell him such unhappy tidings in my own

hand-writing--and in high life, my fair rustic, young ladies must not

write to young gentlemen, your taking the trouble to write out the

letter for me, would bind me to you for ever.'

'That I will, and welcome,' said the simple girl; 'only Ma'am, I fear I

shall disgrace a lady like you, with my bad writing. I am, out and out,

the worst scribbler in our family; and William says to me but

yesterday, ah, Mary, says he, if your tongue talked as your pen writes,

you might die an old maid for me. Ah, William, says I, I would bite off

my tongue sooner than die an old maid. So, to be sure, Willy laughed

very hearty.'

We then returned home, and retired to my chamber, where I dictated, and

Mary wrote as follows:

'Dear William,

'Prepare your mind for receiving a great and unexpected shock. To

keep you no longer in suspense, learn that I am MARRIED.

'Before I had become acquainted with you, I was attached to another

man, whose name I must beg leave to conceal. About a year since,

circumstances compelled him to go abroad, and before his departure,

he procured a written promise from me, to marry him on the first

day of his return. You then came, and succeeded in rivalling him.

'As he never once wrote, after he had left the country, I concluded

that he was dead. Yesterday, however, a letter from him was put

into my hand, which announced his return, and appointed a private

interview. I went. He had a clergyman in waiting to join our hands.

I prayed, entreated, wept--all in vain.

'I BECAME HIS WIFE.

'O William, pity, but do not blame me. If you are a man of honour

and of feeling, never shew this letter, or tell its contents to one

living soul. Do not even speak to myself on the subject of it.

'You see I pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the

name that I now bear.

'Adieu, dear William: adieu for ever.'

We then returned to the sitting-room, and found William there. While we

were conversing, I took an opportunity to slip the letter, unperceived,

into his hand, and to bid him read it in some other place. He retired

with it, and we continued talking. But in about half an hour he hurried

into the room, with an agitated countenance; stopped opposite to Mary,

and looked at her earnestly.

'William!' cried she, 'William! For shame then, don't frighten one so.'

'No, Mary,' said he, 'I scorn to frighten you, or injure you either. I

believe I am above that. But no wonder my last look at you should be

frightful. There is your true-lover's knot--there is your hair--there

are your letters. So now, Mary, good-bye, and may you be for ever

happy, is what I pray Providence, from the bottom of my broken heart!'

With these words, and a piteous glance of anguish, he rushed from the

room.

Mary remained motionless a moment; then half rose, sat down, rose

again; and grew pale and red by turns.

''Tis so--so laughable,' said she at length, while her quivering lip

refused the attempted smile. 'All my presents returned too. Sure--my

heavens!--Sure he cannot want to break off with me? Well, I have as

good a spirit as he, I believe. The base man; the cruel, cruel man!'

and she burst into a passion of tears.

I tried to sooth her, but the more I said, the more she wept. She was

sure, she said, she was quite sure that he wanted to leave her; and

then she sobbed so piteously, that I was on the point of undeceiving

her; when, fortunately, we heard her father returning, and she ran into

her own room. He asked about her; I told him that she was not

well;--the old excuse of a fretting heroine; so the good man went to

her, and with some difficulty gained admittance. They have remained

together ever since.

How delicious will be the happy denouement of this pathetic episode,

this dear novellette; and how sweetly will it read in my memoirs!

Adieu.

LETTER XXIV

The night was so dark when I repaired to the casement, that I have been

trying to compose a description of it for you, in the style of the best

romances. But after having summoned to my mind all the black articles

of value that I can recollect--ebony, sables, palls, pitch, and even

coal, I find I have nothing better to say, than, simply, that it was a

dark night.

Having opened the casement, I sat down at it, and repeated these lines

aloud.

SONNET

Now while within their wings each feather'd pair,

Hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew,

Shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air,

Earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew.

The lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee,

And I will moralize her minstrelsy.

Ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing,

One only warbles to the milder moon.

Thus for the great, how many wake the string,

Thus for the good, how few the lyre attune.

As soon as I had finished the sonnet, a low and tremulous voice, close

to the casement, sung these words:

SONG

Haste, my love, and come away;

What is folly, what is sorrow?

'Tis to turn from, joys to-day,

Tis to wait for cares to-morrow.

O'er the river,

Aspens shiver

Thus I tremble at delay.

Light discovers,

Vowing lovers:

See the stars with sharpened ray,

Gathering thicker,

Glancing quicker;

Haste, my love, and come away.

I sat enraptured, and heaved a sigh.

'Enchanting sigh!' cried the singer, as he sprang through the window;

but it was not the voice of Stuart.

I screamed loudly.

'Hush!' cried the mysterious unknown, and advanced towards me; when, to

my great relief, the door was thrown open, and the old peasant entered,

with Mary behind him, holding a candle.

In the middle of the room, stood a man, clad in a black cloak, with

black feathers in his hat, and a black mask on his face.

The peasant, pale as death, ran forward, knocked him to the ground, and

seized a pistol and carving-knife, that were stuck in a belt about his

waist.

'Unmask him!' cried I.

The peasant, kneeling on his body, tore off the mask, and I

beheld--Betterton!

'Alarm the neighbours, Mary!' cried the peasant.

Mary put down the candle, and went out.

'I must appear in an unfavourable light to you, my good man,' said this

terrifying character; 'but the young lady will inform you that I came

hither at her own request.'

'For shame!' cried I. 'What a falsehood!'

'Falsehood!' said he. 'I have your own letter, desiring me to come.'

'The man is mad,' cried I. 'I never wrote him a letter.'

'I can produce it to your face,' said he, pulling a paper from his

pocket, and to my great amazement reading these lines.

'Cherubina begs that Betterton will repair to her window, at ten

o'clock to-night, disguised like an Italian assassin, with dagger,

cloak, and pistol. The signal is to be his singing an air under the

casement, which she will then open, and he may enter her chamber.'

'I will take the most solemn oath,' cried I, 'that I never wrote a line

of it. But this unhappy wretch, who is a ruffian of the first

pretensions, has a base design upon me, and has followed me from

London, for the purpose of effecting it; so I suppose, he wrote the

letter himself, as an excuse, in case of discovery.'

'Then he shall march to the magistrate's,' said the peasant, 'and I

will indict him for house-breaking!'

A man half so frantic as Betterton I never beheld. He foamed, he

grinned, he grinded the remnants of his teeth; and swore that Stuart

was at the bottom of the whole plot.

By this time, Mary having returned with two men, we set forward in a

body to the magistrate's, and delivered our depositions before him. I

swore that I did not write the letter, and that, to the best of my

belief, Betterton harboured bad designs against me.

The peasant swore that he had found the culprit, armed with a knife and

pistol, in his house.

The magistrate, therefore, notwithstanding all that Betterton could

say, committed him to prison without hesitation.

As they were leading him away, he cast a furious look at the

magistrate, and said:

'Ay, Sir, I suppose you are one of those pensioned justices, who

minister our vague and sanguinary laws, and do dark deeds for our

usurping oligarchy, that has assumed a power of making our most

innocent actions misdemeanours, of determining points of law without

appeal, of imprisoning our persons without trial, and of breaking open

our houses with the standing army. But nothing will go right till we

have a reform in Parliament--neither peace nor war, commerce nor

agriculture----'

'Clocks nor watches, I suppose,' said the magistrate.

'Ay, clocks nor watches,' cried Betterton, in a rage. 'For how can our

mechanics make any thing good, while a packed parliament deprives them

of money and a mart?'

'So then,' said the magistrate, 'if St. Dunstan's clock is out of

order, 'tis owing to the want of a reform in Parliament.'

'I have not the most distant doubt of it,' cried Betterton.

''Tis fair then,' said the magistrate, 'that the reformists should take

such a latitude as they do; for, probably, by their encouragement of

time-pieces, they will at last discover the longitude.'

'No sneering, Sir,' cried Betterton. 'Now do your duty, as you call it,

and abide the consequence.'

This gallant grey Lothario was then led off; and our party returned

home.

Adieu.

LETTER XXV

I rose early this morning, and repaired to my favourite willow, to

contemplate the placid landscape. Flinging myself on the grass, close

to the brook, I began to warble a rustic madrigal. I then let down my

length of tresses, and, stooping over the streamlet, laved them in the

little urn of the dimpling Naiad.

This, you know, was agreeable enough, but the accident that befel me

was not. For, leaning too much over, I lost my balance, and rolled

headlong into the middle of the rivulet. As it was shallow, I did not

fear being drowned, but as I was a heroine, I hoped to be rescued.

Therefore, instead of rising, as I might easily have done, there I lay,

shrieking and listening, and now and then lifting up my head, in hopes

to see Stuart come flying towards me on the wings of the wind, Oh no!

my gentleman thought proper to make himself scarce; so dripping,

shivering, and indignant, I scrambled out, and bent my steps towards

the cottage.

On turning the corner of the hedge, who should I perceive at the door,

but the hopeful youth himself, quite at his ease, and blowing a penny

trumpet for a chubby boy.

'What has happened to you?' said he, seeing me so wet.

'Only that I fell into the brook,' answered I, 'and was under the

disagreeable necessity of saving my own life, when I expected that you

would have condescended to take the trouble off my hands.'

'Expected!' cried he. 'Surely you had no reason for supposing that I

was so near to you, as even to have witnessed the disaster.'

'And it is, therefore,' retorted I, 'that you ought to have been so

near me as to have witnessed it.'

'You deal in riddles,' said he.

'Not at all,' answered I. 'For the farther off a distrest heroine

believes a hero, the nearer he is sure to be. Only let her have good

grounds for supposing him at her Antipodes, and nine times out of ten

she finds him at her elbow.'

'Well,' said he, laughing, 'though I did not save your life, I will not

endanger it, by detaining you in your wet dress. Pray hasten to change

it.'

I took his advice, and borrowed some clothes from Mary, while mine were

put to the fire. After breakfast, I once more equipped myself in my

Tuscan costume, and a carriage being ready for us, I took an

affectionate leave of that interesting rustic. Poor girl! Her attempts

at cheerfulness all the morning were truly tragical; and, absorbed in

another sorrow, she felt but little for my departure.

On our way, Stuart confessed that he was the person who wrote the

letter to Betterton in my name; and that he did so for the purpose of

entrapping him in such a manner as to prevent him from accompanying me

farther. He was at the window during the whole scene; as he meant to

have seized Betterton himself, had not the peasant done so.

'You will excuse my thus interfering in your concerns,' added he; 'but

gratitude demands of me to protect the daughter of my guardian; and

friendship for her improves the duty to a pleasure.'

'Ah!' said I, 'however it has happened, I fear you dislike me

strangely.'

'Believe me, you mistake,' answered he. 'With a few foibles (which are

themselves as fascinating as foibles can be), you possess many virtues;

and, let me add, a thousand attractions. I who tell you blunt truths,

may well afford you flattery.'

'Flattery,' said I, pleased by his praises, and willing to please him

in return by serious conversation, 'deserves censure only when the

motive for using it is mean or vicious.'

'Your remark is a just one,' observed he. 'Flattery is often but the

hyperbole of friendship; and even though a compliment itself may not be

sincere, our motive for paying it may be good. Flattery, so far from

injuring, may sometimes benefit the object of it; for it is possible to

create a virtue in others, by persuading them that they possess it.'

'Besides,' said I, 'may we not pay a compliment, without intending that

it should be believed; but merely to make ourselves agreeable by an

effort of the wit? And since such an effort shews that we consider the

person flattered worthy of it, the compliment proves a kind intention

at least, and thus tends to cement affection and friendship.'

In this manner Stuart insensibly led me to talk on grave topics; and we

continued a delightful conversation the remainder of the day. Sometimes

he seemed greatly gratified at my sprightly sallies, or serious

remarks; but never could I throw him off his guard, by the dangerous

softness of my manner. He now calls me the lovely visionary.

Would you believe that this laughing, careless, unpathetic creature, is

a poet, and a poet of feeling, as the following lines will prove. But

whether he wrote them on a real or an imaginary being, I cannot, by any

art, extract from him.

THE FAREWELL

Go, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day,

Long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me;

A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,

For far she hastens hence. Ah, hard decree!

Tell her I feel that at the parting hour,

More than the waves will heave in tumult wild:

More than the skies will threat a gushing shower,

More than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild.

Say that her influence flies not with her form,

That distant she will still engage my mind:

That suns are most remote when most they warm,

That flying Parthians scatter darts behind.

Long will I gaze upon her vacant home,

As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest,

There, will I cry, she turned the studious tome;

There sported, there her envied pet caressed.

There, while she plied accomplished works of art,

I saw her form, inclined with Sapphic grace;

Her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart,

And all the living treasures of her face.

The Parian forehead parting clustered hair,

The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow;

The witching archness, and the grace so rare,

So magical, it charmed I knew not how.

Light was her footstep as the silent flakes

Of falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn;

Her dimple, like the print the berry makes,

In some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn.

To snatch her passing accents as she spoke,

To see her slender hand, (that future prize)

Fling back a ringlet, oft I dared provoke,

The gentle vengeance of averted eyes.

Yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking awe

Withheld me from her sight, I broke my chain?

Or when I made a single glance my law,

What wonder if that law were made in vain?

And say, can nought but converse love inspire?

What tho' for me her lips have never moved?

The vale that speaks but with its feathered choir,

When long beheld, eternally is loved.

Go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy day

Of parting; go, and say farewell for me;

A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say,

Whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be.

If slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways,

If speaking, tell her in my words she glows;

If thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays,

If tuneful, tell her in my song she flows.

Tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove;

That soon my words on absent charms will dwell;

That soon my thoughts remembered hours will love;

That soon my song of vain regrets will tell.

Then, in romantic moments, I will frame,

Some scene ideal, where we meet at last;

Where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame,

She smiles reward and talks of all the past.

Now for the lark she flies my wistful lay.

Ah, could the bard some winged warbler be,

Following her form, no longer would he say,

Go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me.

I write from an inn within a mile of Lady Gwyn's. Another hour and my

fate is decided.

Adieu.

LETTER XXVI

At length, with a throbbing heart, I now, for the first time, beheld

the mansion of my revered ancestors--the present abode of Lady Gwyn.

That unfortunate usurper of my rights was not denied to me; so I

alighted; and though Stuart wished much to be present at the interview,

I would not permit him; but was ushered by the footman into the

sitting-room.

I entered with erect, yet gentle majesty; while my Tuscan habit, which

was soiled and shrivelled by the brook, gave me an air of complicated

distress.

I found her ladyship at a table, classifying fossils. She was tall and

thin, and bore the remains of beauty; but I could not discover the

family face.

She looked at me with some surprise; smiled, and begged to know my

business.

'It is a business,' said I, 'of the most vital importance to your

ladyship's honour and repose; and I lament that an imperious necessity

compels me to the invidious task of acquainting you with it. Could

anything add to the painful nature of my feelings, it would be to find

that I had wounded yours.'

'Your preamble alarms me,' said she. 'Do, pray be explicit.'

'I must begin,' said I, 'with declaring my perfect conviction of your

ignorance, that any person is existing, who has a right to the property

which your ladyship at present possesses.'

'Assuredly such a notion never entered my head,' said she, 'and indeed,

were such a claim made, I should consider it as utterly untenable--in

fact, impossible.'

'I regret,' said I, 'that it is undeniable. There are documents extant,

and witnesses living, to prove it beyond all refutation.'

Her ladyship, I thought, changed colour, as she said:

'This is strange; but I cannot believe it. Who would have the face to

set up such a silly claim?'

'I am so unfortunate as to have that face,' answered I, in a tone of

the most touching humility.

'You!' she cried with amazement. 'You!'

'Pardon me the pain I give you,' said I, 'but such is the fact; and

grating as this interview must be to the feelings of both parties, I do

assure you, that I have sought it, solely to prevent the more

disagreeable process of a law-suit.'

'You are welcome to twenty law-suits, if you wish them,' cried she,

'but I fancy they will not deprive me of my property.'

'At least,' said I, 'they may be the means of sullying the character of

your deceased lord.'

'I defy the whole world,' cried she, 'to affix the slightest imputation

on his character.'

'Surely,' said I, 'you cannot pretend ignorance of the fact, that his

lordship had the character of being--I trust, more from misfortune,

than from inherent depravity; for your ladyship well knows that man,

frail man, in a moment of temptation, perpetrates atrocities, which his

better heart afterwards disowns.'

'But his character!' cried she. 'What of his character?'

'Ah!' said I, 'your ladyship will not compel me to mention.'

'You have advanced too far to retreat,' cried she. 'I demand an

unequivocal explanation. What of his character?'

'Well, since I must speak plain,' replied I, 'it was that of

an--assassin!'

'Merciful powers!' said she, in a faint voice, and reddening violently.

'What does the horrid woman mean?'

'I have at this moment,' cried I, 'a person ready to make oath, that

your unhappy husband bribed a servant of my father's to murder me,

while yet an infant, in cold blood.'

''Tis a falsehood!' cried she. 'I would stake my life on its being a

vile, malicious, diabolical falsehood.'

'Would it were!' said I, 'but oh! Lady Gwyn, the circumstances, the

dreadful circumstances--these cannot be contradicted. It was

midnight;--the bones of my noble father had just been deposited in the

grave;--when a tall figure, wrapt in a dark cloak, and armed with a

dagger, stood before the seneschal. _It was the late Lord Gwyn!_'

'Who are you?' cried she, starting up quite pale and horror-struck. 'In

the name of all that is dreadful, who can you be?'

'Your own niece!' said I, meekly kneeling to receive her

blessing--'Lady Cherubina De Willoughby, the daughter of your

ladyship's deceased brother, Lord De Willoughby, and of his much

injured wife, the Lady Hysterica Belamour!'

'Never heard of such persons in all my life!' cried she, ringing the

bell furiously.

'Pray,' said I, 'be calm. Act with dignity in this affair. Do not

disgrace our family. On my honour, I mean to treat you with kindness.

Nay, we must positively be on terms of friendship--I make it a point.

After all, what is rank? what are riches? How vapid their charms,

compared with the heartfelt joys of truth and virtue! O, Lady Gwyn, O,

my respected aunt; I conjure you by our common ties of blood, by your

brother, who was my father, spurn the perilous toy, fortune, and retire

in time, and without exposing your lost lord, into the peaceful bosom

of obscurity!'

'Conduct this wretch out of the house,' said her ladyship to the

servant who had entered. 'She wants to extort money from me, I

believe.'

'A moment more,' cried I. 'Where is old Eftsoones? Where is that worthy

character?'

'I know no such person,' said she. 'Begone, impostor!'

At the word impostor, I smiled; drew aside my ringlets with one hand,

and pointed to my inestimable mole with the other.

'Am I an impostor now?' cried I. 'But learn, unfortunate woman, that I

have a certain parchment too.'----

'And a great deal of insolence too,' said she.

'The resemblance of it, at least,' cried I, 'for I have your ladyship's

portrait.'

'My portrait!' said she with a sneer.

'As sure as your name is Nell Gwyn,' cried I; 'for Nell Gwyn is written

under it; and let me add, that you would have consulted both your own

taste, and the dignity of our house better, had you got it written

Eleanor instead of Nell.'

'You little impertinent reprobate!' exclaimed she, feeling the peculiar

poignancy of the sarcasm. 'Begone this moment, or I will have you

drummed through the village!'

I waved my hand in token of high disdain, and vanished.

'Well,' said Stuart, as I got to the carriage, 'has her ladyship

acknowledged your claims?'

'No, truly,' cried I, 'but she has turned me out of my own house--think

of that!'

'Then,' said he, springing from the chaise, 'I will try whether I

cannot succeed better with her ladyship;' and he went into the house.

I remained in a state of the greatest perturbation till he came back.

'Good news!' cried he. 'Her ladyship wishes to see you, and apologize

for her rudeness; and I fancy,' added he, with a significant nod, 'all

will go well in a certain affair.'

'Yes, yes,' said I, nodding in return, 'I flatter myself she now finds

civility the best of her game.'

I then alighted, and her ladyship ran forward to meet me. She pressed

my hand, _my-deared_ me twice in a breath, told me that Stuart had

given her my little history--that it was delicious--elegant--exotic;

and concluded with declaring, that I must remain at her house a few

days, to talk over the great object of my visit.

Much as I mistrusted this sudden alteration in her conduct, I consented

to spend a short time with her, on the principle, that heroines always

contrive to get under the same roof with their bitterest enemies.

Stuart appeared quite delighted at my determination, and after another

private interview with her ladyship, set off for London, to make

further inquiries about Wilkinson. I am, however, resolved not to

release that mischievous farmer, till I have secured my title and

estate. You see I am grown quite sharp.

Her ladyship and I had then a long conversation, and she fairly

confessed the probability that my claims are just, but denied all

knowledge of old Eftsoones. I now begin to think rather better of her.

She has the sweetest temper in the world, loves literature and

perroquets, scrapes mezzotintos, and spends half her income in buying

any thing that is hardly to be had. She led me through her cabinet,

which contains the most curious assortment in nature--vases of onyx and

sardonyx, cameos and intaglios; subjects in sea-horse teeth, by

Fiamingo and Benvenuto Cellini; and antique gems in jadestone, mochoa,

coral, amber, and Turkish agate.

She has already presented me with several dresses, and she calls me

her lovely _protégée_, and the Lady Cherubina,--a sound that makes my

very heart leap within me. Nay, she did me the honour of assuring me,

that her curiosity to know a real heroine was one motive for her

having asked me on this visit; and that she positively considers an

hour with me worth all her curiosities put together. What a delicate

compliment! So could I do less, in return, than repeat my assurances,

that when I succeed in dispossessing her of the property, she shall

never want an asylum in my house.

Adieu.

LETTER XXVII

Think of its having never once struck me, till I had retired for the

night, that I might be murdered! How so manifest a danger escaped my

recollection, is inconceivable; but so it was, I never thought of it.

Lady Gwyn might be (for any thing I could tell to the contrary) just as

capable of plotting an assassination as the Marchesa di Vivaldi; and

surely her motives were far more urgent.

I therefore searched in my chamber, for some trap-door, or sliding

pannel, by which assassins might enter it; but I could find none. I

then resolved on exploring the galleries, corridors, and suites of

apartments, in this immense mansion; in hopes to discover some place of

retreat, or at least some mystery relative to my birth.

Accordingly, at the celebrated hour of midnight, I took up the taper,

and unbolting my door, stole softly along the lobby.

I stopped before one of our family pictures. It was of a lady, pale,

pensive, and interesting; and whose eyes, which appeared to look at me,

were sky-blue, like my own. That was sufficient.

'Gentle image of my departed mother!' ejaculated I, kneeling before it,

'may thy sacred ashes repose in peace!'

I then faintly chaunted a fragment of a hymn, and advanced. No sigh met

my listening ear, no moan amidst the pauses of the gust.

With a trembling hand I opened a door, and found myself in a spacious

chamber. It was magnificently furnished, and a piano stood in one

corner of it. Intending to run my fingers over the keys, I walked

forward; till a low rustling in that direction made me pause. But how

shall I paint to you my horror, my dismay, when I heard the mysterious

instrument on a sudden begin to sound; not loudly, but (more terrible

still!) with a hurried murmur; as if all its chords were agitated at

once, by the hand of some invisible demon.

I did not faint, I did not shriek; but I stood transfixed to the spot.

The music ceased. I recovered courage and advanced. The music began

again; and again I paused.

What! should I not lift the simple lid of a mere piano, after Emily's

having drawn aside the mysterious veil, and discovered the terrific wax

doll underneath it?

Emulation, enthusiasm, curiosity prompted me, and I rushed undaunted to

the piano. Louder and more rapid grew the notes--my desperate hand

raised the cover, and beneath it, I beheld a sight to me the most

hideous and fearful upon earth,--a mouse!

I screamed and dropped the candle, which was instantly extinguished.

The mouse ran by me; I flew towards the door, but missed it, and fell

against a table; nor was it till after I had made much clamour, that I

got out of the room. As I groped my way through the corridor, I heard

voices and people in confusion above stairs; and presently lights

appeared. The whole house was in a tumult.

'They are coming to murder me at last!' cried I, as I regained my

chamber, and began heaping chairs and tables against the door.

Presently several persons arrived at it, and called my name. I said not

a word. They called louder, but still I was silent; till at length they

burst open the door, and Lady Gwyn, with some of her domestics,

entered. They found me kneeling in an attitude of supplication.

'Spare, oh, spare me!' cried I.

'My dear,' said her ladyship, 'no harm shall happen you.'

'Alas, then,' exclaimed I, 'what portends this nocturnal visit? this

assault on my chamber? all these dreadful faces? Was it not enough,

unhappy woman, that thy husband attempted my life, but must thou, too,

thirst for my blood?'

Lady Gwyn whispered a servant, who left the room; the rest raised, and

put me to bed; while I read her ladyship such a lecture on murder, as

absolutely astonished her.

The servant soon after returned with a cup.

'Here, my love,' said her ladyship, 'is a composing draught for you.

Drink it, and you will be quite well to-morrow.'

I took it with gladness, for I felt my brain strangely bewildered by

the terror that I had just undergone. Indeed I have sometimes

experienced the same sensation before, and it is extremely

disagreeable.

They then left a candle in my room, and departed.

My mind still remains uneasy; but I have barricaded the door, and am

determined on not undressing. I believe, however, I must now throw

myself on the bed; for the draught has made me sleepy.

Adieu.

LETTER XXVIII

O Biddy Grimes, I am poisoned! That fatal draught last night--why did I

drink it?--I am in dreadful agony. When this reaches you, all will be

over.--But I would not die without letting you know.

Farewell for ever, my poor Biddy!

I bequeath you all my ornaments.

LETTER XXIX

Yes, my friend, you may well stare at receiving another letter from me;

and at hearing that I have not been poisoned in the least!

I must unfold the mystery. When I woke this morning, after my nocturnal

perambulation, I found my limbs so stiff, and such pains in all my

bones, that I was almost unable to move. Judge of my horror and

despair; for it instantly flashed across my mind, that Lady Gwyn had

poisoned me! My whole frame underwent a sudden revulsion; I grew sick,

and rang the bell with violence; nor ceased an instant, till half the

servants, and Lady Gwyn herself, had burst into my chamber.

'If you have a remnant of mercy left,' cried I, 'send for a doctor!'

'What is the matter, my dear,' said her ladyship.

'Only that you have poisoned me, my dear,' cried I. 'Dear, indeed! I

presume your ladyship imagines, that the liberty you have taken with my

life, authorizes all other freedoms. Oh, what will become of me!'

'Do, tell me,' said she, 'how are you unwell?'

'I am sick to death,' cried I. 'I have pains in all my limbs, and I

shall be a corpse in half an hour. Oh, indeed, you have done the

business completely. Lady Eleanor Gwyn, I do here, on my death-bed, and

with all my senses about me, accuse you, before your domestics, of

having administered a deadly potion to me last night.'

'Go for the physician,' said her ladyship to a servant.

'Well may you feel alarmed,' cried I. 'Your life will pay the forfeit

of mine.'

'But you need not feel alarmed,' said her ladyship, 'for really, what I

gave you last night, was merely to make you sleep.'

'Yes,' cried I, 'the sleep of the grave! O Lady Gwyn, what have I done

to you, to deserve death at your hands? And in such a manner too! Had

you even shewn so much regard to custom and common decency, as to have

offered me the potion in a bowl or a goblet, there might have been some

little palliation. But to add insult to injury;--to trick me out of my

life with a paltry tea-cup;--to poison a girl of my pretensions, as

vulgarly as you would a rat;--no, no, Madam, this is not to be

pardoned!'

Her ladyship again began assuring me that I had taken nothing more than

a soporific; but I would not hear her, and at length, I sent her and

the domestics out of the chamber, that I might prepare for my

approaching end.

How to prepare was the question; for I had never thought of death

seriously, heroines so seldom die. Should I follow the beautiful

precedent of the dying Heloise, who called her friends about her, got

her chamber sprinkled with flowers and perfumes, and then gave up the

ghost, in a state of elegant inebriation with home-made wine, which she

passed for Spanish? Alas! I had no friends--not even Stuart, at hand;

flowers and perfumes I would not condescend to beg from my murderess;

and as for wine, I could not abide the thoughts of it in a morning.

But amidst these reflections, a more serious and less agreeable subject

intruded itself upon me,--the thoughts of a future state. I strove to

banish it, but it would not be repulsed. Yet surely, said I, as a

heroine, I am a pattern of perfect virtue; and therefore, I must be

happy hereafter. But was virtue sufficient? At church (seldom as I had

frequented it, in consequence of its sober ceremonies, so unsuited to

my taste,) I remembered to have heard a very different doctrine. There

I had heard, that we cannot learn to do right without the Divine aid,

and that to propitiate it, we must make ourselves acquainted with those

principles of religion, which enable us to prefer duteous prayers, and

to place implicit reliance on the power and goodness of the Deity.

Alas, I knew nothing of religion, except from novels; and in these,

though the devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a

degree, it never influences their acts, or appears connected with their

moral duties. It is so speculative and generalized, that it would

answer the Greek or the Persian church, as well as the christian; and

none but the picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as

kissing a cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a

well-worded prayer.

The more I thought, the more horrible appeared my situation. I felt a

confused idea, that I had led a worthless, if not a criminal life; that

I had left myself without a friend in this world, and had not sought to

make one in the next. I became more and more agitated. I tried to turn

my thoughts back to the plan of expiring with grace, but all in vain. I

then wrote the note to you; then endeavoured to pray: nothing could

calm or divert my mind. The pains grew worse, I felt sick at heart, my

palate was parched, and I now expected that every breath would be my

last. My soul recoiled from the thought, and my brain became a confused

chaos. Hideous visions of eternity rushed into my mind; I lay

shivering, groaning, and abandoned to the most deplorable despair.

In this state the physician found me. O what a joyful relief, when he

declared, that my disorder was nothing but a violent rheumatism,

contracted, it seems, by my fall into the water the morning before!

Never was transport equal to mine; and I assured him that he should

have a place in my memoirs.

He prescribed for me; but remarked, that I might remain ill a whole

month, or be quite well in a few days.

'Positively,' said her ladyship, 'you must be quite well in four; for

then my ball comes on; and I mean to make you the most conspicuous

figure at it. I have great plans for you, I assure you.'

I thanked her ladyship, and begged pardon for having been so giddy as

to call her a murderess; while she laughed at my mistake, and made

quite light of it. Noble woman! But I dare say magnanimity is our

family virtue.

No sooner had I ceased to be miserable about leaving the world, than I

became almost as much so about losing the ball. To lose it from any

cause whatever, was sufficiently provoking; but to lose it by so gross

a disorder as a rheumatism, was, indeed, dreadful. Now, had I even some

pale, genteel, sofa-reclining illness, curable by hartshorn, I would

bless my kind stars, and drink that nauseous cordial, from morning even

unto night. For disguise thyself as thou wilt, hartshorn, still thou

art a bitter draught; and though heroines in all novels have been made

to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.

Being on this subject, I have to lament, that I am utterly unacquainted

with those refined ailments, which every girl that I read of, meets

with, as things of course. The consequence is my wanting that beauty,

which, touched with the languid delicacy of illness, gains from

sentiment what it loses in bloom; so that really this horse's

constitution of mine is a terrible disadvantage to me. I know, had I

the power of inventing my own indispositions, I would strike out

something far beyond even the hectics and head-aches of my fair

predecessors. I believe there is not a sigh-fever; but I would fall ill

of a scald from a lover's tear, or a classic scratch from the thorn of

a rose.

Adieu.

LETTER XXX

This morning I awoke almost free from pain; and towards evening, I was

able to appear in the drawing-room. Lady Gwyn had asked several of her

friends to tea, so that I passed a delightful afternoon; the charm,

admiration, and astonishment of all.

On retiring for the night to my chamber, I found this note on my

toilette, and read it with a beating heart.

_To the Lady Cherubina._

'YOUR MOTHER LIVES! and is confined in one of the subterranean

vaults belonging to the villa. At midnight you will hear a tapping

at your door. Open it, and two men in masks will appear outside.

They will blindfold, and conduct you to her. You will know her by

her striking likeness to her picture in the gallery. Be silent,

courageous, and circumspect.

'AN UNKNOWN FRIEND.'

What a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as I laid down the

billet, and lifted my filial eyes to heaven! I was about to behold my

mother. Mother--endearing name! I pictured to myself, that unfortunate

lady, stretched on a mattrass of straw, her eyes sunken in their

sockets, yet still retaining a portion of their wonted fire; her frame

emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp and chill. Fondly did I

depict our meeting--our embrace; she gently pushing me from her, to

gaze on all the lineaments of my countenance, and then baring my temple

to search for the mole. All, all is convincing; and she calls me the

softened image of my noble father!

Two tedious hours I waited in extreme anxiety, till at length the clock

struck twelve. My heart beat responsive, and in a few moments after, I

heard the promised signal at my door. I unbolted it, and beheld two men

in masks and cloaks. They blindfolded me, and each taking an arm, led

me along. Not a word passed. We traversed several suites of apartments,

ascended flights of stairs, descended others; now went this way, now

that; obliquely, circularly, angularly; till I began actually to

imagine we were all the time in one spot.

At length my conductors stopped.

'Unlock the postern gate,' whispered one, 'while I light a torch.'

'We are betrayed!' said the other, 'for this is the wrong key.'

'Then thou beest the traitor,' cried the first.

'Thou liest, dost lie, and art lying!' cried the second.

'Take that!' exclaimed the first. A groan followed, and the wretch

dropped to the ground.

'You have murdered him!' cried I, sickening with horror.

'I have only hamstrung him, my lady,' said the fellow. 'He will be lame

for life.'

'Treason!' shouted the wounded man.

His companion burst open the gate; a sudden current of wind met us, and

we fled along with incredible speed, while low moans and smothered

shrieks were heard at either side of us.

'Gracious heaven, where are we?' cried I.

'In the cavern of death!' said my conductor, 'famous for rats and

banditti.'

On a sudden innumerable footsteps echoed behind us. We ran swifter.

'Fire!' cried a ferocious accent, almost at my ear; and in a moment

several pistols were discharged.

I stopped, unable to move, breathe, or speak.

'I am wounded all over, right and left, fore and aft!' cried my

conductor.

'Am I bleeding?' said I, feeling myself with my hands.

'No, blessed St. Anthony be praised!' answered he; 'and now all is

safe, for we are at the cell, and the banditti have turned into the

wrong passage.'

He stopped, and unlocked a door.

'Enter,' said he, 'and behold your unhappy mother!'

He led me forward, took the bandage from my eyes, and retiring, locked

the door upon me.

Agitated already by the terrors of my dangerous expedition, I felt

additional horror on finding myself in a dismal cell, lighted with a

lantern; where, at a small table, sat a woman suffering under a

corpulency unparalleled in the memoirs of human monsters. She was clad

in sackcloth, her head was swathed in linen, and had grey locks on it,

like horses' tails. Hundreds of frogs were leaping about the floor; a

piece of mouldy bread, a mug of water, and a manuscript, lay on the

table; some straw, strewn with dead snakes and skulls, occupied one

corner, and the farther side of the cell was concealed behind a black

curtain.

I stood at the door, doubtful, and afraid to advance; while the

prodigious prisoner sat examining me from head to foot.

At last I summoned courage to say, 'I fear, Madam, I am an intruder

here. I have certainly been shewn into the wrong room.'

'It is, it is my own, my only daughter, my Cherubina!' cried she, with

a tremendous voice. 'Come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of

the departed Theodore!'

'Why, Ma'am,' said I, 'I would with great pleasure, but I am afraid

that---- Oh, Madam, indeed, indeed, I am quite sure you cannot be my

mother!'

'For shame!' cried she. 'Why not?'

'Why, Madam,' answered I, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her

picture proves.'

'And so was I once,' said she. 'This deplorable plumpness is owing to

want of exercise. You see, however, that I retain all my former

paleness.'

'Pardon me,' said I, 'for I must say that your face is a rich scarlet.'

'And is this our tender meeting?' cried she. 'After ten years'

imprisonment, to be disowned by my daughter, and taunted with sarcastic

insinuations against my face? Here is a pretty joke! Tell me, girl,

will you embrace me, or will you not?'

'Indeed, Madam,' answered I, 'I will embrace you presently.'

'Presently!' cried she.

'Yes,' said I, 'depend upon it I will. Only let me get over the first

shock.'

'Shock!' vociferated she.

Dreading her violence, and feeling myself bound to do the duties of a

daughter, I kneeled at her feet, and said:

'Ever excellent, ever exalted author of my being, I beg thy maternal

blessing!'

My mother raised me from the ground, and hugged me to her heart, with

such cruel vigour, that almost crushed, I cried out stoutly, and

struggled for release.

'And now,' said she, relaxing her grasp, 'let us talk over our wrongs.

This manuscript is a faithful narrative of my life, previous to my

marriage. It was written by my female confidant, to divert her grief,

during the long and alarming illness of her Dutch pug. Take it to your

chamber, and blot it with your tears, my love.'

I put the scroll in my bosom.

'Need I shock your gentle feelings,' continued she, 'by relating my

subsequent story? Suffice it, that as soon as you were stolen, I went

mad about the woods, till I was caught; and on recovering my senses, I

found myself in this infernal dungeon. Look at that calendar of small

sticks, notched all over with my dismal days and nights. Ten long years

I have eaten nothing but bread. Oh, ye favourite pullets, oh ye

inimitable apple-pies, shall I never, never, taste you more? Oft too,

my reason wanders. Oft I see figures that rise like furies, to torment

me. I see them when asleep; I see them now--now!'

She sat in a fixed attitude of horror, while her straining eyes moved

slowly round, as if they followed something. I stood shuddering, and

hating her more and more every moment.

'Gentle companion of my confinement!' cried she, apostrophizing a huge

toad that she pulled out of her bosom; 'dear, spotted fondling; thou,

next to my Cherubina, art worthy of my love. Embrace each other, my

friends.' And she put the hideous pet into my hand. I screamed and

dropped it.

'Oh!' cried I, in a passion of despair, 'what madness possessed me to

undertake this execrable enterprize!' and I began beating with my hand

against the door.

'Do you want to leave your poor mother?' said she, in a whimpering

tone.

'Oh! I am so frightened!' said I.

'You will spend the night here, however,' cried she; 'and probably your

whole life too; for no doubt the ruffian who brought you hither was

employed by Lady Gwyn to entrap you.'

When I heard this terrible suggestion, my blood ran cold, and I began

crying bitterly.

'Come, my love!' said my mother, 'and let me lull thee to repose on my

soft bosom. What is the world to us? Here in each other's society, we

will enjoy all that affection, all that virtue can confer. Come, my

daughter, and let me clasp thee to my heart once more!'

'Ah,' cried I, 'spare me!'

'What!' exclaimed she, 'do you spurn my proffered embrace?'

'Dear, no, Madam,' answered I. 'But--but you squeeze one so!'

My mother made a huge stride towards me; then stood groaning and

rolling her eyes.

'Help!' cried I, half frantic; 'help! help!'

I was stopped by a suppressed titter of infernal laughter, as if from

many demons; and on looking towards the black curtain, whence the sound

came, I saw it agitated; and about twenty terrific faces appeared

peeping through slits in it, and making grins of a most diabolical

nature. I hid my face in my hands.

''Tis the banditti!' cried my mother.

As she spoke, the door opened, a bandage was flung over my eyes, and I

was hurried off, almost senseless, in some one's arms; till at length,

I found myself alone in my own chamber.

Such was the detestable adventure of to-night. Oh, Biddy, that I should

have lived to meet this mother of mine! How different from the mothers

that other heroines contrive to rummage out in northern turrets and

ruined chapels! I am out of all patience. Liberate her I will, of

course, and make a suitable provision for her, when I get possession of

my property, but positively, never will I sleep under the same roof

with--(ye powers of filial love forgive me!) such a living mountain of

human horror.

Adieu.

LETTER XXXI

While her ladyship is busied in preparing for the ball of to-morrow

night, I find time to copy my mother's memoirs for your perusal. Were

she herself elegant and interesting, perhaps I might think them so too;

and if I dislike them, it must be because I dislike her; for the plot,

sentiment, diction, and pictures of nature, differ little from what we

find in other novels.

_Il Castello di Grimgothico_,

OR

MEMOIRS OF LADY HYSTERICA BELAMOUR.

A NOVEL.

_By Anna Maria Marianne Matilda Pottingen_,

Author of the Bloody Bodkin, Sonnets on most of the Planets, &c.

&c. &c.

Oh, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, oh!

THOMPSON.

CHAPTER I

Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.--SHAKESPEARE.

Blow, breezes, blow.--MOORE.

A STORM.--A RUSTIC REPAST.--AN ALARM.--UNCOMMON READINESS IN A

CHILD.--AN INUNDATED STRANGER.--A CASTLE OUT OF REPAIR.--AN

IMPAIRED CHARACTER.

It was on a nocturnal night in autumnal October; the wet rain fell

in liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and

Ossianly manner. The lowly, but peaceful inhabitants of a small,

but decent cottage, were just sitting down to their homely, but

wholesome supper, when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them.

Bertram armed himself with a ladle. 'Lackadaisy!' cried old

Margueritone, and little Billy seized the favourable moment to fill

his mouth with meat. Innocent fraud! happy childhood!

The father's lustre and the mother's bloom.--THOMPSON.

Bertram then opened the door; when lo! pale, breathless, dripping,

and with a look that would have shocked the Humane Society, a

beautiful female tottered into the room.

'Lackadaisy, Ma'am,' said Margueritone, 'are you wet?'

'Wet!' exclaimed the fair unknown, wringing a rivulet of rain from

the corner of her robe; 'O ye gods, wet!'

Margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and

turned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits.

Spirit of my sainted sire.

The stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. Her hair was long

and dark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we

will leave her there awhile; lest we should betray an ignorance of

the world, in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting

people.

On the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed

by the angry Atlantic, stood a moated, and turreted structure,

called Il Castello di Grimgothico.

As the northern tower had remained uninhabited since the death of

its late lord, Henriques De Violenci, lights and figures were,

_par consequence_, observed in it at midnight. Besides, the

black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit of meeting for

several years, and _quelquefois_, he paced the picture-gallery

with a hurried step. These circumstances combined, there could be

no doubt of his having committed murder. Accordingly, all avoided

him, except the Count Stiletto, and the hectic, but heavenly

Hysterica. The former, he knew, was the most pale-faced, flagitious

character in the world. But birds of a plume associate. The latter

shall be presented to the reader in the next chapter.