'Nay, my honest fellow----'

'Never honest-fellow me,' cried Jerry: 'it won't take, old boy. So bad

manners to you, and that is worse than bad luck, go boil your tongue

hard, like a calve's, and then it won't wag so glib and smooth;--ay,

and go boil your nose white like veal too. But this I can tell you,

that you will neither beat us out, nor starve us out; for we have

sticks and stones, and meat and good liquor; and we will eat together,

and drink together, and----'

'And sleep together, I suppose,' cried Betterton: 'for of course, her

ladyship will think nothing of sleeping in the same apartment with

twenty or thirty men.'

The fatal words fell upon me like a thunderbolt! It was, indeed, too

true, that a large portion of my troops must remain all night in the

Black Chamber, as there would be no room for them elsewhere: so how in

the name of wonder could I contrive to sleep? Certain it is, that

Ellena Di Rosalba travelled a whole day and night in a carriage with

two ruffians, who never left her for a moment; and it was not till

after Luxima and the missionary had journeyed together several entire

days, that (to quote the very words) _for the first time since the

commencement of their pilgrimage she was hidden from his view_. How

these heroines managed I know not; but this I know, that I could not

abide the idea of sleeping in the presence of men. And yet, to

surrender my sweet, my beloved, my venerable castle, the hereditary

seat of my proud progenitors, at the moment of an immortal victory, ere

the laurel was yet warmed on the throbbings of my forehead;--and all

for what? For the most pitiful and unclassical reason that ever

disgraced a human creature. Why, I should be pointed at, scouted at.

'Look, look, there is the heroine who surrendered her castle,

because----' and then a whisper and a titter, and a ''Tis fact 'pon my

honour.' Oh, my friend, my friend, the thought was madness!

I considered, and reconsidered, but every moment only strengthened me

more and more in the conviction that there was no remedy.

'Jerry,' said I, 'dear Jerry, we must surrender.'

'Surrender!' exclaimed Jerry, 'Why then, death alive, for what?'

'Because,' answered I, 'my modesty would prevent me from sleeping

before so many men.'

'Poo,' cried he, 'do as I do. Have too much modesty to shew your

modesty. Sleep? By my soul you shall sleep, and snore too, if you have

a mind. Sleep? Sure, can't you pin the curtains round, so that we

shan't see you? Sleep? Sure, how did the ladies manage on board the

packet that I came over in? Sleep--sleep--sleep? O murder. I believe we

must surrender, sure enough. O murder, murder, 'tis all over with us?

For now that I think of it, we shan't have even room to lie down you

know.'

'This is a sad affair,' said I to the minstrel. 'Can you devise no

remedy?'

'None,' said the minstrel, blushing through his very eyeballs.

'Well,' cried Betterton, 'is the council of war over?'

'Yes, Sir,' said I, 'and I consent to conclude a peace.'

'I thought you would,' cried Betterton; 'so now for the terms.'

After much altercation, these articles (written by Betterton, with his

pencil, and signed by him and the warden, who went down for the

purpose) were agreed upon by the contending powers.

Art. 1.

All the prisoners, at present in the castle, shall be forthwith

released.

Art. 2.

The troops of the contending powers shall consign their arms into

the hands of the respective leaders.

Art. 3.

The commandant of the besieged army shall evacuate the castle, at

the head of his men, and take a northerly direction; and at the

same moment the commandant of the besieging army shall lead his

forces in a southerly direction.

Art. 4.

The Lady Cherubina De Willoughby shall depart from the castle as

soon as both armies are out of sight; and she shall not hold

communication, direct or indirect, with the warden, for the space

of twenty-four hours.

Art. 5.

The minstrel, Higginson, shall be permitted to remain with the Lady

Cherubina, as her escort.

(Signed) BETTERTON.

SULLIVAN.

While Betterton returned to his army, for the purpose of announcing the

peace, I fixed with Jerry to meet him in London at the expiration of

twenty-four hours.

I now perceived Susan running towards the castle, with all her men; and

as soon as she got under the walls, she cried:

'No peace; no peace; but bloody, bloody war! Come down here, you wretch

with the steel bonnet, till I tear your eyes out;--you special babe of

hell, that robbed me of the only friend I had on earth!' And she ran on

with the most horrible imprecations, and vows of vengeance.

'Arrah, and is that Susy?' cried one of my men, leaning over the

battlements.

'Patrick O'Brien!' exclaimed she. 'Oh! Patrick, Patrick, are you so

faithless as to be taking part with my mortal enemy?'

'I am taking part with my countrymen,' cried Patrick; 'and we have just

made a peace; so by gog, if you break it, 'tis yourself will be my

mortual innimy!'

'Dear, dear Patrick!' said she, 'don't let that vile woman decoy you

from me, and I will do whatever you desire.'

'Then I desires you to go back this moment,' said Patrick.

Susan retired to the main body, without uttering a word.

The several articles were then executed in due form. The prisoners were

liberated: the soldiers on both sides laid down their arms. I

distributed all my remaining money amongst my men: they thanked me with

a shout; and then, headed by the warden, issued from the castle. At the

same time, Betterton and his party marched off the field.

When Jerry had got almost out of sight, he halted his men, faced them

towards the castle, and all gave three last cheers. I waved my

handkerchief, and cried like a child.

I then took a tender leave of my dear Black Chamber; and with a heavy

heart, and a tardy step, departed from my castle, till better days

should enable me to revisit it. I proceeded with the minstrel to the

poor woman's cottage, whence I now write; and I have just dispatched

him for a chaise, as I shall return to London immediately.

My heart is almost broken.

Adieu.

LETTER XL

MS.

O YE, WHOEVER YE ARE, WHOM CHANCE OR MISFORTUNE MAY HEREAFTER CONDUCT

TO THIS SPOT, TO YOU I SPEAK, TO YOU REVEAL THE STORY OF MY WRONGS,

AND ASK YOU TO REVENGE THEM. VAIN HOPE! YET IT IMPARTS SOME COMFORT

TO BELIEVE, THAT WHAT I NOW WRITE MAY ONE DAY MEET THE EYE OF A

FELLOW-CREATURE; THAT THE WORDS WHICH TELL MY SUFFERINGS MAY ONE DAY

DRAW PITY FROM THE FEELING HEART.

KNOW THEN, THAT ON THE NIGHT OF THE FATAL DAY WHICH SAW ME DRIVEN FROM

MY CASTLE, BY RUTHLESS FOES, FOUR MEN IN BLACK VISAGES, RUSHED INTO

THE COTTAGE WHERE I HAD TAKEN SHELTER, BORE ME FROM IT, AND FORCED ME

AND MY MINSTREL INTO A CARRIAGE. WE TRAVELLED MILES IN IMPENETRABLE

SILENCE. AT LENGTH THEY STOPPED, CAST A CLOAK OVER MY FACE, AND

CARRIED ME IN THEIR ARMS, ALONG WINDING PASSAGES, AND UP AND DOWN

FLIGHTS OF STEPS. THEY THEN TOOK OFF THE CLOAK, AND I FOUND MYSELF IN

AN ANTIQUE AND GOTHIC APARTMENT. MY CONDUCTORS LAID DOWN A LAMP, AND

DISAPPEARED. I HEARD THE DOOR BARRED UPON ME. O SOUND OF DESPAIR! O

MOMENT OF UNUTTERABLE ANGUISH! SHUT OUT FROM DAY, FROM FRIENDS, FROM

LIFE--IN THE PRIME OF MY YEARS, IN THE HEIGHT OF MY TRANSGRESSIONS,--I

SINK UNDER THE----

* * * * *

ALMOST AN HOUR HAS NOW PASSED IN SOLITUDE AND SILENCE. WHY AM I

BROUGHT HITHER? WHY CONFINED THUS RIGOROUSLY? THE HORRORS OF DEATH ARE

BEFORE MY EYES. O DIRE EXTREMITY! O STATE OF LIVING DEATH! IS THIS A

VISION? ARE THESE THINGS REAL? ALAS, I AM BEWILDERED.

* * * * *

Such, Biddy, was the manuscript that I scribbled last night, after the

mysterious event which it relates. You shall now hear the particulars

of all that has occurred to me since.

After the ruffians had departed, and I had rallied my spirits, I took

up the lamp, and began examining the chamber. It was spacious, and the

feeble light that I carried could but just penetrate it. Part of the

walls were hidden with historical arras, worked in colourless and

rotten worsted, which depicted scenes from the Provençal Romances; the

deeds of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; the Crusaders, Troubadours,

and Saracens; and the Necromantic feats of the Magician Jurl. The walls

were wainscotted with black larchwood; and over the painted and

escutcheoned windows hung iron visors, tattered pennons, and broken

shields. An antique bed of decayed damask, with a lofty tester, stood

in a corner; and a few grand moth-eaten chairs, tissued and fringed

with threads of tarnished gold, were round the room. At the farther

end, a picture of a soldier on horseback, darting his spear upon a man,

who held up his hands in a supplicating attitude, was enclosed in a

frame of uncommon size, that reached down to the ground. An old harp,

which occupied one corner, proved imprisonment, and some clots of blood

upon the floor proved murder.

I gazed with delight at this admirable apartment. It was a perfect

treasure: nothing could be more complete: all was in the best style of

horror; and now, for the first time, I felt the full consciousness of

being as real a heroine as ever existed.

I then indulged myself with imagining the frightful scenes I should

undergo here. Such attempts to murder me, such ghosts, such mysteries!

figures flitting in the dusty perspective, quick steps along the

corridor, groans, and an ill-minded lord of the castle.

In the midst of this pleasing reverie, methought I heard a step

approaching. It stopped at the door, the bolts were undrawn, and an

antiquated waiting-woman, in fardingale, ruffles, flounces, and

flowered silk, bustled into the room.

'My lord,' said she, 'desires me to let your ladyship know that he will

do himself the honour of waiting on you in half-an-hour.'

'Tell your lord,' said I, 'that I shall be ready to receive him: but

pray, my good woman,' said I, 'what is the name of your lord?'

'Good woman!' cried she, bridling up; 'no more good woman than

yourself: Dame Ursulina, if you please.'

'Well then, Dame Ursulina, what is his name?'

'The Baron Hildebrand,' answered she. 'The only feudal chieftain left

in England.'

'And what is the name of his castle?'

'Gogmagog,' answered she: 'and it is situated in the Black Forest of

Grodolphon, whose oaks are coeval with the reign of Brute.'

'And, alas!' cried I, 'why have I been seized? Why thus imprisoned?

Why----'

The Dame laid her finger across her lips, and grinned volumes of

mystery.

'At least, tell me,' said I, with a searching look, 'how comes that

blood on the floor; for it appears but just spilt?'

'Lauk!' cried she, 'that blood is there these fifty years. Sure your

ladyship has often read in romances of blood on floors, and daggers,

that looked as fresh as a daisy at the end of centuries. But,

alas-o-day! modern blood won't keep like the good old blood. Ay, ay,

ay; the times have degenerated in every thing;--even in harps. Look at

that harp yonder: I warrant 'tis in excellent tune at this moment,

albeit no human finger has touched it these ten years: and your

ladyship must remember reading of other cobwebbed harps in old castles,

that required no tuning-hammer, after lying by whole ages. But, indeed,

they do say, that the ghost keeps this harp in order, by playing on it

o' nights.'

'The ghost!' exclaimed I.

'Ay, by my fackins,' said she; 'sure this is the haunted chamber of the

northern tower; and such sights and noises--Santa Catharina of Sienna,

and St. Bridget, and San Pietro, and Santa Benedicta, and St.

Radagunda, defend me!'

Then, aspirating an ejaculation, she hastily hobbled out of the room,

and locked the door after her, without giving me farther satisfaction.

However, the visit from Baron Hildebrand occupied my mind more than the

ghost; and I sat expecting it with great anxiety. At last, I heard a

heavy tread along the corridor: the door was unbarred, and a huge, but

majestic figure, strode into the chamber. The black plume towering on

his cap, the armorial coat, Persian sash, and Spanish cloak, conspiring

with the most muscular frown imaginable, made him look truly

tremendous.

As he flung himself into a chair, he cast a Schedoniac scowl at me;

while I felt, that one glance from the corner of a villain's eye is

worth twenty straight-forward looks from an honest man. My heart

throbbed audible, my bosom heaved like billows: I threw into my

features a conventual smile, and stood before him, in all the silence

of despair, something between Niobe, patience, and a broken lily.

'Lady!' cried he, with a voice that vibrated through my brain; 'I am

the Baron Hildebrand, that celebrated ruffian. My plans are terrible

and unsearchable. Hear me.

'My daughter, the Lady Sympathina, though long betrothed to the Marquis

De Furioso, has long been enamoured of the Lord Montmorenci. In vain

have I tried entreaties and imprecations: nothing will induce her to

relinquish him; even though he has himself confessed to her that you

reign sole tormentress of his heart.

'While doubtful what course to take, I heard, from my vassals, of your

having seized on a neighbouring castle, and of Montmorenci's being

there with you. The moment was too precious to be lost. I planted armed

spies about the castle, with orders to make you and him prisoners the

first opportunity. These orders are executed, and his lordship is a

captive in the western turret.

'Now, Madam, you must already guess my motive for having taken this

step. It is to secure your immediate marriage with his lordship, and

thus to terminate for ever my daughter's hopes, and my own inquietude.

In two days, therefore, be prepared to give him your hand, or to suffer

imprisonment for life.'

'My lord,' said I, 'I am a poor, weak, timid girl, but yet not

unmindful of my noble lineage. I cannot consent to disgrace it. My

lord, I will not wed Montmorenci.'

'You will not?' cried he, starting from his seat.

'I will not,' said I, in a tone of the sweetest obstinacy.

'Insolent!' exclaimed he, and began to pace the chamber with prodigious

strides. Conceive the scene;--the tall figure of Hildebrand passing

along, with folded arms; the hideous desolation of the room, and my

shrinking figure. It was great, very great. It resembled a Pandemonium,

where an angel of light was tormented by a fiend. Yet insult and

oppression had but added to my charms, as the rose throws forth fresh

fragrance by being mutilated.

On a sudden he stopped short before me.

'What is your reason for refusing to marry him?' said he.

'My lord,' answered I, 'I do not feel for his lordship the passion of

love.'

'Love!' cried he, with yells of laughter. 'Why this is Sympathina's

silly rhodomontade. Love! There is no such passion. But mark me, Madam:

soon shall you learn that there is such a passion as revenge!' And with

these words he rushed out of the chamber.

Nothing could be better than my conduct on this occasion. I was

delighted with it, and with the castle, and with every thing. I

therefore knelt and chaunted a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn;

while my eyes, like a magdalen's, were cast to the planets.

Adieu.

LETTER XLI

I had flung myself on the bed: my lamp was extinguished; and now sleep

began to pour its opiate over me, when, (terrible to tell!) methought I

heard steps stealing through my very chamber.

'She sleeps,' whispered a voice.

'Then poniard her at once,' said another.

'Remember, I must have five ducats,' said the first.

'Four,' said the second: 'Grufflan, the tormentor of innocents, would

charge but two.'

'Then I will betray the murder.'

'I will take good care you shall not.'

'How so?'

'I will assassinate you after it.'

'Diavolo! 'Tis prudent, however. But by St. Jago, I will not consent to

be assassinated under a ducat a-piece to my children.'

'Well, you shall have them.'

'Then, Maestro mio illustrissimo, the Bravo Abellino is your povero

devotissimo!'

The next instant my strained eyeballs saw a figure half starting from

behind the tattered arras, in a long cloak, and flat cap. His right

hand held a dagger, and his left a dark lantern, that cast a yellow

glare on the ruffianly sculpture of his visage.

I screamed;--but sorry am I to say, less like a heroine than a

sea-gull;--and the bravo advanced. On a sudden, the door of the chamber

was burst open, and Montmorenci rushed forward, with a brandished

sword. At the same moment, Baron Hildebrand sprang from behind the

tapestry.

'Turn, villain!' cried Montmorenci; and a desperate battle began.

My life was the stake. I hung upon every blow, winced as the steel

descended on Montmorenci, and moved as he moved, with agonised mimicry.

At length, victory declared in his favour. The bandit lay lifeless, and

the baron was disarmed; but escaped out of the chamber.

'Let us fly!' cried my preserver, snatching me to his heart. 'I have

bribed a domestic.--A horse is in waiting.--Let us fly!'

'Let us, let us!' said I, disengaging myself.

'Yet hold!' cried he. 'I have saved your life. Save mine, by consenting

to an immediate union.'

'Ay, my lord----'

'What?'

'I cannot.'

'Cannot!'

'Come, my lord; do come!'

'On my knees, lady----'

'Seize the villain, and immure him in the deepest dungeon!' exclaimed

the baron, rushing into the room with his domestics.

Some of them laid hold on Montmorenci, the rest bore off the body of

the bandit. The baron and I were left alone.

'My lord,' said I, flinging myself at his feet (for alas, I had now

lost all my magnanimity), 'that man is my horror and detestation. But

only promise to spare my life for one day more, and indeed, indeed, I

will try if I can make up my mind to marry him.'

''Tis well,' said the baron. 'To-night you sleep secure: to-morrow

decides your fate.'

He spoke, and stalked out of the chamber.

This horrid castle--would I had never set foot in it. I will escape if

I can, I am resolved. I have already tried the walls, for a sliding

pannel or a concealed door; but nothing of the kind can I discover. And

yet something of the kind there must be, else how could the baron and

bravo have entered my chamber? I protest this facility of intrusion in

antique apartments is extremely distressing. For besides its exposing

one to be murdered, just think how it exposes one to be peeped at. I

declare I dare not even undress, lest some menial should be leering

through a secret crevice. Oh, that I were once more in the mud cottage!

I am sick of castles.

Adieu.

LETTER XLII

This morning, after a maid had cleaned out the room, Dame Ursulina

brought breakfast.

'Graciousnessosity!' cried she, 'here is the whole castle in such a

fluster; hammering and clamouring, and paddling at all manner of

possets, to make much of the fine company that is coming down to the

baron to-day.'

'Heavens!' exclaimed I, 'when will my troubles cease? Doubtless they

are a most dissolute set. An amorous Verezzi, an insinuating Cavigni,

and an abandoned Orsino; besides some lovely voluptuary, some

fascinating desperado, who plays the harp, and poisons by the hour.'

'La, not at all,' said the dame. 'We shall have none but old Sir

Charles Grandison, and his lady, Miss Harriet Byron, that was;--old Mr.

Mortimer Delville, and his lady, Miss Cecilia, that was;--and old Lord

Mortimer, and his lady, Miss Amanda, that was.'

'Can it be possible?' cried I. 'Why these are all heroes and heroines!'

'Pon my conversation, and by my fig, and as I am a true maiden, so they

are,' said she; 'for my lord scorns any other sort of varment. And we

shall have such tickling and pinching; and fircumdandying, and

cherrybrandying, and the genteel poison of bad wine; and the warder

blowing his horn, and the baron in his scowered armour, and I in a coif

plaited high with ribbons all about it, and in the most rustling silk I

have. And Philip, the butler, meets me in the dark. "Oddsboddikins,"

says he (for that is his pet oath), "mayhap I should know the voice of

that silk?" "Oddspittikins," says I, "peradventure thou should'st;" and

then he catches me round the neck, and----'

'There, there!' cried I, 'you distract me.'

'Marry come up!' muttered she. 'Some people think some people--Marry

come up, quotha!' And she flounced out of the room.

I sat down to breakfast, astonished at what I had just heard. Harriet

Byron, Cecilia, Amanda, and their respective consorts, all alive and

well! Oh, could I get but one glimpse of them, speak ten words with

them, I should die content. I pictured them to myself, adorned with all

the venerable loveliness of a virtuous old age,--even in greyness

engaging, even in wrinkles interesting. Hand in hand they walk down the

gentle slope of life, and often pause to look back upon the scenes that

they have passed--the happy vale of their childhood, the turretted

castle, the cloistered monastery.

This reverie was interrupted by the return of Dame Ursulina.

'The baron,' said she, 'has just gone off to London; we think either

for the purpose of consulting physicians about his periodical madness,

or of advising government to propose a peace with France. So my young

mistress, the Lady Sympathina, is anxious to visit you during his

absence,--as he prohibited her;--and she has sent me to request that

you will honor her with your permission.'

'Tell her I shall be most happy to see and to solace a lady of her

miseries,' answered I. 'And I trust we shall swear an eternal

friendship when we meet.'

'Friendship,' said the dame, 'is the soft soother of human cares. O, to

see two fair females sobbing respondent, while their blue eyes shine

through their tears like hyacinths bathed in the dews of the morning!'

'Why, dame,' cried I, 'how did you manage to pick up such a charming

sentiment, and such elegant language?'

'Marry come up!' said she, 'I havn't lived, not I, not with heroines,

not for nothing. Marry come up, quotha!' And this frumpish old woman

sailed out of the chamber in a great fume.

I now prepared for an interview of congenial souls; not was I long kept

in suspense. Hardly had the dame disappeared, when the door opened

again, and a tall, thin, lovely girl, flew into the room. She stopped

opposite me. Her yellow ringlets hung round her pale face like a mist

round the moon. Again she advanced, took both my hands, and stood

gazing on my features.

'Ah, what wonder,' said she, 'that Montmorenci should be captivated by

these charms! No, I will not, cannot take him from you. He is your's,

my friend. Marry him, and leave me to the solitude of a cloister.'

'Never!' cried I. 'Ah, madam, ah, Sympathina, your magnanimity amazes,

transports me. No, my friend; your's he shall, he must be; for you love

him, and I hate him.'

'Hate him!' cried she; 'and wherefore? Ah, what a form is his, and ah,

what a face! Locks like the spicy cinnamon; eyes half dew, half

lightning; lips like a casket of jewels, loveliest when open----'

'And teeth like the Sybil's books,' said I; 'for two of them are

wanting.'

'Ah,' cried she, 'this I am informed is your reason for not marrying

him; as if his charms lay in his teeth, like Sampson's strength in his

hair.'

'Upon my honor,' said I, 'I would not marry him, if he had five hundred

teeth. But you, my friend, you shall marry him, in spite of his teeth.'

'Ah,' cried she, 'and see my father torture you to death?'

'It were not torture,' said I, 'to save you from it.'

'It were double torture,' cried she, 'to be saved by your's.'

'Justice,' said I, 'demands the sacrifice.'

'Generosity,' said she, 'would spare the victim.'

'Is it generosity,' said I, 'to wed me with one I hate?'

'Is it justice,' said she, 'to wed me with one who hates me?'

'Ah, my friend,' cried I, 'you may vanquish me in Antithetical and

Gallican repartee, but never shall you conquer me in sentimental

magnanimity.'

'Let us then swear an eternal friendship,' cried she.

'I swear!' said I.

'I swear!' said she.

We rushed into each other's arms.

'And now,' cried she, when the first transports had subsided, 'how do

you like being a heroine?'

'Above all things in the world,' said I.

'And how do you get on at the profession?' asked she.

'It is not for me to say,' replied I. 'Only this, that ardor and

assiduity are not wanting on my part.'

'Of course then,' said she, 'you shine in all the requisite qualities.

Do you blush well?'

'As well as can be expected,' said I.

'Because,' said she, 'blushing is my chief beauty. I blush one tint and

three-fourths with joy; two tints, including forehead and bosom, with

modesty; and four with love, to the points of my fingers. My father

once blushed me against the dawn for a tattered banner to a rusty

poniard.'

'And who won?' said I.

'It was play or pay,' replied she; 'and the morning happened to be

misty, so there was no sport in that way; but I fainted, which was just

as good, if not better. Are you much addicted to fainting?'

'A little,' said I.

''Pon honor?'

'Well, ma'am, to be honest with you, I am afraid I have never fainted

yet; but at a proper opportunity I flatter myself----'

'Nay, love,' said she, 'do not be distressed about the matter. If you

weep well, 'tis a good substitute. Do you weep well?'

'Extremely well, indeed,' said I.

'Come then,' cried she, 'we will weep on each other's necks.' And she

flung her arms about me. We remained some moments in motionless

endearment.

'Are you weeping?' said she, at length.

'No, ma'am,' answered I.

'Ah, why don't you?' said she.

'I can't, ma'am,' said I; 'I can't.'

'Ah, do,' said she.

'Upon my word, I can't,' said I: 'sure I am trying all I can. But,

bless me, how desperately you are crying. Your tears are running down

my bosom like a torrent, and boiling hot too. Excuse me, ma'am, but you

will give me my death of cold.'

'Ah, my fondling,' said she, raising herself from my neck; 'tears are

my sole consolation. Ofttimes I sit and weep, I know not why; and then

I weep to find myself weeping. Then, when I can weep, I weep at having

nothing to weep at; and then, when I have something to weep at, I weep

that I cannot weep at it. This very morning I bumpered a tulip with my

tears, while reading a dainty ditty that I must now repeat to you.

'_The moon had just risen, as a maid parted from her lover. A

sylph was pursuing her sigh through the deserts of air, bathing in

its warmth, and enhaling its odours. As he flew over the ocean, he

saw a sea-nymph sitting on the shore, and singing the fate of a

shipwreck, that appeared at a distance, with broken masts, and

floating rudder. Her instrument was her own long and blue tresses,

which she had strung across rocks of coral. The sparkling spray

struck them, and made sweet music. He saw, he loved, he hovered

over her. But invisible, how could he attract her eyes?

Incorporeal, how could he touch her? Even his voice could not be

heard by her amidst the dashing of the waves, and the melody of her

ringlets. The sylphs, pitying his miserable state, exiled him to a

bower of woodbine. There he sits, dips his pen of moonshine in the

subtle dew ere it falls, and writes his love on the bell of a

silver lily._'

This charming tale led us to talk of moonshine. We moralized on the

uncertainty of it, and of life; discussed sighs, and agreed that they

were charming things; enumerated the various kinds of tresses--flaxen,

golden, chesnut, amber, sunny, jetty, carroty; and I suggested two new

epithets,--sorrel hair and narcissine hair. Such a flow of soul never

was.

At last she rose to depart.

'Now, my love,' said she, 'I am in momentary expectation of Sir Charles

Grandison, Mortimer Delville, and Lord Mortimer, with their amiable

wives. Will you permit them, during the baron's absence, to spend an

hour with you this evening? They will not betray us. I shall be proud

of showing you to them, and you will receive much delight and

edification from their society.'

I grasped at the proposal with eagerness; she flitted out of the

chamber with a promissory smile; and I was so charmed, that I began

frisking about, and snapping my fingers, in a most indecorous manner.

What an angel is this Sympathina! Her face has the contour of a Madona,

with the sensibility of a Magdalen. Her voice is soft as the last

accents of a dying maid. Her language is engaging, her oh is sublime,

and her ah is beautiful.

Adieu.

LETTER XLIII

Towards night I heard the sound of several steps approaching the

chamber. The bolts were undrawn, and Lady Sympathina, at the head of

the company, entered, and announced their names.

'Bless me!' said I, involuntarily; for such a set of objects never were

seen.

Sir Charles Grandison came forward the first. He was an emaciated old

oddity in flannels and a flowing wig. He bowed over my hand, and kissed

it--his old custom, you know.

Lady Grandison leaned on his arm, bursting with fat and laughter, and

so unlike what I had conceived of Harriet Byron, that I turned from her

in disgust.

Mortimer Delville came next; and my disappointment at finding him a

plain, sturdy, hard-featured fellow, was soon absorbed in my still

greater regret at seeing his Cecilia,--once the blue-eyed, sun-tressed

Cecilia,--now flaunting in all the reverend graces of a painted

grandmother, and leering most roguishly.

After them, Lord Mortimer and his Amanda advanced; but he had fallen

into flesh; and she, with a face like scorched parchment, appeared both

broken-hearted and broken-winded; such a perpetual sighing and wheezing

did she keep.

I was too much shocked and disappointed to speak; but Sir Charles soon

broke silence; and after the most tedious sentence of compliment that I

had ever heard, he thus continued:

'Your ladyship may recollect I have always been celebrated for giving

advice. Let me then advise you to relieve yourself from your present

embarrassment, by marrying Lord Montmorenci. It seems you do not love

him. For that very reason marry him. Trust me, love before marriage is

the surest preventive of love after it. Heroes and heroines exemplify

the proposition. Why do their biographers always conclude the book just

at their wedding? Simply because all beyond it is unhappiness and

hatred.'

'Surely, Sir Charles,' said I, 'you must be mistaken. Their biographers

(who have such admirable information, that they can even tell the

thoughts and actions of dying personages, when not a soul is near

them), these always end the book with declaring that the connubial

lives of their heroes and heroines are like unclouded skies, or

unruffled streams, or summer all the year through, or some gentle

simile or other.'

'That is all irony,' replied Sir Charles. 'But I know most of these

heroes and heroines myself; and I know that nothing can equal their

misery.'

'Do you know Lord Orville and his Evelina?' said I; 'and are not they

happy?'

'Happy!' cried he, laughing. 'Have you really never heard of their

notorious miffs? Why it was but yesterday that she flogged him with a

boiled leg of mutton, because he had sent home no turnips.'

'Astonishment!' exclaimed I. 'And she, when a girl, so meek.'

'Ay, there it is,' said he. 'One has never seen a white foal or a cross

girl; but often white horses and cross wives. Let me advise you against

white horses.'

'But pray,' said I, addressing Amanda, 'is not your brother Oscar happy

with his Adela?'

'Alas, no,' cried she. 'Oscar became infatuated with the charms of

Evelina's old governess, Madam Duval; so poor Adela absconded; and

she, who was once the soul of mirth, has now grown a confirmed

methodist; curls a sacred sneer at gaiety, loves canting and

decanting, piety and _eau de vie_. In short, the devil is very busy

about her, though she sometimes drives him away with a thump of the

Bible.'

'Well, Rosa, the gentle beggar-girl,--what of her?' said I.

'Eloped with one Corporal Trim,' answered Sir Charles.

'How shocking!' cried I. 'But Pamela, the virtuous Pamela?'----

'Made somewhat a better choice,' said Sir Charles; 'for she ran off

with Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, when he returned to the happy

valley.'

'Dreadful accounts, indeed!' said I.

'So dreadful,' said Sir Charles, bowing over my hand, 'that I trust

they will determine you to marry Montmorenci. 'Tis true, he has lost

two teeth, and you do not love him; but was not Walstein a cripple? And

did not Caroline of Lichfield fall in love with him after their

marriage, though she had hated him before it?'

'Recollect,' cried Cecilia, 'what perils environ you here. The baron is

the first murderer of the age.'

'Look at yonder blood,' cried old Mortimer Delville.

'Remember the bandit last night,' cried old Lord Mortimer.

'Think of the tremendous spectre that haunts this apartment,' cried

Lady Grandison.

'And above all,' cried the Lady Sympathina, 'bear in mind that this

chamber may be the means of your waking some morning with a face like a

pumpkin.'

'Heavens!' exclaimed I, 'what do you mean? My face like a pumpkin?'

'Yes,' said she. 'The dampness of the room would swell it up like a

pumpkin in a single night.'

'Oh! ladies and gentlemen,' cried I, dropping on my knees, 'you see

what shocking horrors surround me here. Oh! let me beseech of you to

pity and to rescue me. Surely, surely you might aid me in escaping!'

'It is out of the nature of possibilities,' said Lady Sympathina.

'At least, then,' cried I, 'you might use your influence to have me

removed from this vile room, that feels like a well.'

'Fly!' cried Dame Ursulina, running in breathless. 'The baron has just

returned, and is searching for you all. And he has already been through

the chapel, and armoury, and gallery; and the west tower, and east

tower, and south tower; and the cedar chamber, and oaken chamber, and

black chamber, and grey, brown, yellow, green, pale pink, sky blue; and

every shade, tinge, and tint of chamber in the whole castle.

Benedicite, Santa Maria; how the times have degenerated! Come, come,

come.'

The guests vanished, the door was barred, and I remained alone.

I sat ruminating in sad earnest, on the necessity for my consenting to

this hateful match; when (and I protest to you, I had not thought it

was more than nine o'clock), a terrible bell, which I never heard

before, tolled, with an appalling reverberation, that rang through my

whole frame, the frightful hour of ONE!

At the same moment I heard a noise; and looking towards the opposite

end of the chamber, I beheld the great picture on a sudden disappear;

and, standing in its stead, a tall figure, cased in blood-stained

steel, and with a spectral visage, the perfect counterpart of the

baron's.

I sat gasping. It uttered these sepulchral intonations.

'_I am the spirit of the murdered Alphonso. Lord Montmorenci deserves

thee. Wed him, or in two days thou liest a corpse. To-morrow night I

come again._'

The superhuman appearance spoke; and (oh, soothing sound) uttered a

human sneeze!

'Damnation!' it muttered. 'All is blown!' And immediately the picture

flew back to its place.

Well, I had never heard of a ghost's sneezing before: so you may judge

I soon got rid of my terror, and felt pretty certain that this was no

bloodless and marrowless apparition, but the baron himself, who had

adopted the ghosting system, so common in romances, for the purpose of

frightening me into his schemes.

However, I had now discovered a concealed door, and with it a chance of

escape. I must tell you, that escape by the public door is utterly

impracticable, as a maid always opens it for those that enter, and

remains outside till they return. However, I have a plan about the

private door; which, if the ghost should appear again, as it promised,

is likely to succeed.

I was pondering upon this plan, when in came Dame Ursulina, taking

snuff, and sneezing at a furious rate.

'By the mass,' said she, 'it rejoiceth the old cockles of my heart to

see your ladyship safe; for as I passed your door just now, methought I

heard the ghost.'

'You might well have heard it,' said I, pretending infinite faintness,

'for I have seen it; and it entered through yonder picture.'

'Benedicite!' cried she, 'but it was a true spectre!'

'A real, downright apparition,' said I, 'uncontaminated with the

smallest mixture of mortality.'

'And didn't your ladyship hear me sneeze at the door?' said she.

'I was too much alarmed to hear anything,' answered I. 'But pray have

the goodness to lend me that snuff-box, as a pinch or two may revive me

from my faintness.' I had my reasons for this request.

'A heroine take snuff!' cried she, laying the box on the table.

'Lack-a-daisy, how the times are changed! But now, my lady, don't be

trying to move or cut that great picture; for though the ghost comes

into the chamber through it, no mortal can. I know better than to let

you give me the slip; and I will tell a story to prove my knowledge of

bolts and bars. When I was a girl, a young man lodged in the house; and

one night he stole the stick that I used to fasten the hasp and staple

of my door with. Well, my mother bade me put a carrot (as there was

nothing else) in its place. So I put in a carrot--for I was a dutiful

daughter; but I put in a boiled carrot--for I was a love-sick maiden.

Eh, don't I understand the doctrine of bolts and bars?'

'You understand a great deal too much,' said I, as the withered wanton

went chuckling out of the chamber.

I must now retire to rest. I do not fear being disturbed by a bravo

to-night; but I am uneasy, lest I should wake in the morning with a

face like a pumpkin.

Adieu.

LETTER XLIV

About noon the Baron Hildebrand paid me a visit, to hear, as he said,

my final determination respecting my marriage with Montmorenci. I had

prepared my lesson, and I told him that my mind was not yet entirely

reconciled to such an event; but that it was much swayed by a most

extraordinary circumstance which had occurred the night before. He

desired me to relate it; and I then, with apparent agitation, recounted

the particulars of the apparition, and declared that if it should come

again I would endeavour to preserve my presence of mind, and enter into

conversation with it; in order (as it appeared quite well informed of

the picture) to learn whether my marriage with his lordship would prove

fortunate or otherwise. I then added, that if its answer should be

favourable, I would not hesitate another moment to give him my hand.

The baron, while he could not suppress a smile, protested himself

highly delighted with my determination of speaking to the spectre, and

encouraged me not to fear it, as it was the most harmless creature of

its kind ever known.

He then took his leave. I spent the remainder of the day reflecting on

the desperate enterprise that I had planned for the night, and

fortifying my mind by recalling all the hazardous escapes of other

heroines.

At last the momentous hour was at hand. The lamp and snuff-box lay on

the table. I sat anxious, and kept a watchful eye upon the picture.

The bell tolled one, again the picture vanished, and again the spectre

stood there. Its left thumb rested upon its hip, and its right hand was

held to the heavens. I sent forth a well-executed shriek, and hid my

face in my hands, while it spoke these words:

'_I come to thee for the last time. Wilt thou wed Montmorenci, or

wilt thou not?--Speak._'

'Oh!' cried I, 'if you would only promise not to do me a mischief, I

have something particular to ask of you.'

'A spirit cannot harm a mortal,' drawled out the spectre.

'Well then,' said I, faltering and trembling.--'Perhaps--pardon

me--perhaps you would first have the goodness to walk in.'

The spectre advanced a few paces, and paused.

'This is so kind, so condescending,' said I, 'that really--do take a

chair.'

The spectre shook its head mournfully.

'Pray do,' said I, 'you will oblige me.'

The spectre seated itself in a chair; but atoned for the mortal act by

an immortal majesty of manner.

'As you are of another world,' said I, ''tis but fair to do the honours

of this; and in truth, I am not at all astonished that you apparitions

should speak so harshly as you usually do, we mortals always shew such

evident aversion and horror at your appearance.'

'There is a prejudice gone forth against us,' said the spectre, with a

hollow voice, 'in consequence of our coming at night, like thieves.'

'Yes,' said I, 'at one precisely. And it has often struck me how well

the clocks of old castles were kept, for they regularly struck just as

the ghost appeared. Indeed, ghosts keep such late hours, that 'tis no

wonder they look pale and thin. I do not recollect ever to have heard

or read of a fat or a fresh-coloured phantom.'

'Nor of a ghost wanting a limb or an eye,' said the spectre.

'Nor of an ugly ghost,' said I bowing.

The spectre took the compliment, and bowed in return.

'And therefore,' said the spectre, 'as spirits are always accurate

resemblances of the bodies that they once inhabited, none but thin and

pale persons can ever become ghosts.'

'And by the same rule,' said I, 'none but blue-eyed and golden-haired

persons can go to heaven; for our painters always represent angels so.

I have never heard of a hazel-eyed angel, or a black-haired cherub.'

'I know,' said the spectre, 'if angels are, as painters depict them,

always sitting naked on cold clouds, I would rather live the life of a

ghost, to the end of the chapter.'

'And pray,' cried I, 'where, and how do ghosts live?'

'Within this very globe,' said the spectre. 'For this globe is not, as

most mortals imagine, a solid body, but a round crust about ten miles

thick; and the concave inside is furnished just like the convex

outside, with wood, water, vale and mountain. In the centre stands a

nice little golden sun, about the size of a pippin, and lights our

internal world; where, whatever enjoyments we loved as men, we retain

as ghosts. We banquet on visionary turtle, or play at aërial marbles,

or drive a phantasmagoric four in hand. The young renew their amours,

and the more aged sit yawning for the day of judgment.--But I scent the

rosy air of dawn. Speak, lady; what question art thou anxious that I

should expound?'

'Whether,' said I, 'if I marry Lord Montmorenci, I shall be happy with

him or not?'

'Blissful as Eden,' replied the spectre. 'Your lives will be congenial,

and your deaths simultaneous.'

'And now,' said I, walking closer to it, 'will you do me the favour to

take a pinch of snuff?'

'Avant!' it cried, motioning me from it with its hand.

But quick as thought, I flung the whole contents of the box full into

its eyes.

'Blood and thunder!' exclaimed the astonished apparition.

I snatched the lamp, sprang through the frame of the picture, shut the

concealed door, bolted it; while all the time I heard the phantom

within, dancing in agony at its eyes, and sending mine to as many

devils as could well be called together on so short a notice.

Thus far my venturous enterprise had prospered. I now found myself in a

narrow passage, with another door at the farther end of it; and I

prepared to traverse winding stairs, subterranean passages, and suites

of tapestried apartments. I therefore advanced, and opened the door;

but in an instant started back; for I had beheld a lighted hall, of

modern architecture, with gilded balustrades, ceiling painted in

fresco, Etruscan lamps, and stucco-work! Yes, it was a villa, or a

casino, or a pallazo, or any thing you please but a castello.

Amazement! Horror! What should I do? whither turn? delay would be

fatal. Again I peeped. The hall was empty; so, putting down my lamp, I

stole across it to an open door, and looked through the chink. I had

just time to see a Persian saloon, and in the centre a table laid for

supper, when I heard several steps entering the hall. It was too late

to retreat, so I sprang into the room; and recollecting that a curtain

had befriended me once before, I ran behind one which I saw there.

Instantly afterwards the persons entered. They were spruce footmen,

bringing in supper. Not a scowl, not a mustachio amongst them.

As soon as the covers were laid, a crowd of company came laughing into

the room; but, friend of my bosom, fancy, just fancy my revulsion of

soul, my dismay, my disgust, my bitter indignation--oh! how shall I

describe to you half what I felt, when I recognised these wretches, as

they entered one by one, to be the identical gang who had visited me

the day before, as heroes and heroines! I knew them instantly, though

they looked twice as young; and in the midst of them all, as blithe as

larks, came Betterton himself and Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci!

My heart died at the sight.

After they had seated themselves, Betterton (who sat at the head, and

therefore was master) desired one of the servants to bring in 'the

crazed poet.' And now two footmen appeared, carrying between them a

large meal-bag, filled with Higginson; which they placed to the table,

on a vacant seat. The bag was fastened at the top, and a slit was on

the side of it.

The wretches then began to banter him, and bade him put forth his head;

but he would neither move nor speak. At last they turned the

conversation to me.

'I wonder can he be ghosting her all this time?' said Betterton.

'Well,' cried the fellow who had personated Sir Charles Grandison, 'I

ought to have played the ghost, I am so much taller than he.'

'Not unless you could act it better than you did Grandison,' said the

late Lady Sympathina. 'No, no, I was the person who performed my part

well;--pouring a vial of hot water down her neck, by way of tears; and

frightening her out of her senses by talking of a face like a pumpkin!'

'Nay,' cried my Lord Montmorenci, 'the best piece of acting you ever

saw was when I first met her at the theatre, and persuaded her that

Abraham Grundy was Lord Altamont Mortimer Montmorenci.'

'Except,' said Betterton, 'when I played old Whylome Eftsoones, at the

masquerade, and made her believe that Cherry Wilkinson was Lady

Cherubina De Willoughby.'

I turned quite sick; but I had no time for thought, the thunderclaps

came so thick upon me.

'She had some mad notion of the kind before,' said Grundy (I have done

with calling him Montmorenci), 'for she fancied that an old piece of

parchment, part of a lease of lives, was an irrefragable proof of her

being Lady De Willoughby.'

'Ay,' cried Betterton, 'and of poor Wilkinson's being her persecutor,

instead of her father; on the strength of which vagary he lies at this

moment in a madhouse.'

'But,' said Grundy, 'her setting up for a heroine, and her affectation

while imitating the manners and language that authors chuse to give

their heroines, would make a tiger laugh. I vow and protest, our

amorous interview, where she first told her love, was the most

burlesque exhibition in nature. I am thine, and thou art mine!

whimpered the silly girl, sinking on my bosom. She now says she does

not love me. Don't believe a syllable of it. Why, the poor creature

could not even bridle her passion in my presence. Such hugging and

kissing as she went on with, that, as I hope to be saved, I sometimes

thought she would suffocate me outright.'

''Tis false as hell!' cried I, bursting into tears, and running from

behind the curtain. 'Upon my sacred honour, ladies and gentlemen, 'tis

every word of it a vile, malicious, execrable falsehood! Oh, what shall

I do? what shall I do?' and I wrung my hands with agony.

The guests had risen from their seats in amaze; and I now made a spring

towards the door, but was intercepted by Betterton, who held me fast.

'In the name of wonder,' cried he, 'how came you here?'

'No matter,' cried I, struggling. 'I know all. What have I ever done to

you, you base, you cruel people?'

'Keep yourself cool, my little lady,' said he.

'I won't, I can't!' cried I. 'To use me so. You vile set; you horrid,

horrid set!'

'Go for another meal-bag,' said he, to the servant. 'Now, madam, you

shall keep company with the bagged poet.'

'Mercy, mercy!' cried I, 'What, will no one help me?'

'I will if I can!' exclaimed Higginson, with his head thrust out of the

bag, like a snail; and down he slided from his seat, and began rolling,

and tumbling, and struggling on the floor, till he got upon his feet;

and then he came jumping towards me, now falling now rising, while his

face and bald forehead were all over meal, his eyes blaring, and his

mouth wide open. The company, wherever he moved, kept in a circle round

him, and clapped their hands and shouted.

As I stood, with Betterton still holding me fast, he was suddenly flung

from me by some one, and my hand seized. I turned, and beheld--Stuart.

'Oh! bless you, bless you!' cried I, catching his arm, 'for you have

come to save me from destruction!'

He pressed my hand, and pointing to Betterton and Grundy, who stood

thunderstruck, cried, 'There are your men!'

A large posse of constables immediately rushed forward, and arrested

them.

'Heydey! what is all this?' cried Betterton.

''Tis for the beating you gave us when we were doing our duty,' said a

man, and I recognised in the speaker one of the police-men who had

arrested me about the barouche.

'This is government all over,' cried Betterton. 'This is the minister.

This is the law!'

'And let me tell you, Sir,' said Stuart, 'that nothing but my respect

for the law deters me at this moment from chastising you as you

deserve.'

'What do you mean, sirrah?' cried Betterton.

'That you are a ruffian,' said Stuart, 'and the same cowardice which

made you offer insult to a woman will make you bear it from a man. Now,

Sir, I leave you to your fate.' And we were quitting the room.

'What thing is that?' said Stuart, stopping short before the poet; who,

with one arm and his face out of the bag, lay on his back, gasping and

unable to stir.

'Cut it, cut it!' cried the poor man, in choaking accents.

'Higginson I protest!' exclaimed Stuart, as he snatched a knife from

the table, and laid open the bag. Up rose the poet, resurrectionary

from his hempen coffin, and was beginning to clench his fist; but

Stuart caught his arm, and hurried him and me out of the room.

Stuart, with great eagerness, now began asking me the particulars of

all that had occurred at Betterton's; and his rage, as I related it,

was extreme.

He then proceeded to tell me how he had discovered my being there.

After his departure from Lady Gwyn's, he set off for London, to

prosecute his inquiries about my father; and spent some days in this

way, to no purpose. At length he returned to Lady Gwyn's, but was much

shocked at learning from her that I had robbed her, and absconded; and

had afterwards made an assault on her house, at the head of a set of

Irishmen. By the description she gave, he judged that Jerry Sullivan

was one of them; and not finding us at Monkton Castle, whither she

directed him, he posted back to London, in order to make inquiries at

Jerry's house. Jerry, who had just returned, related the whole history

of the castle; adding that I was to call upon him the moment I should

arrive in Town. Stuart, therefore, waited some time; but as I did not

appear, he began to suspect that Betterton had entrapped me; so he

hastened to the coachmaker, and having explained to him that I was no

swindler, and having paid him for the barouche, he told him (as he

learned from Jerry) that Betterton was one of those who had assaulted

the postilion and constables. The coachmaker, therefore, applied at the

police-office; and a party was dispatched to apprehend Betterton.

Stuart accompanied them, and thus gained admission (which he could not

otherwise have done) into the house.

Higginson now told a lamentable tale of the pranks that Betterton had

played on him; and amongst the rest, mentioned, that a servant had

seduced him into the bag, by pretending to be his friend, and to

smuggle him out of the house, in the character of meal.

He could gather, from several things said while the company were

tormenting him, that Grundy had agreed to marry me; and then, for a

stipulated sum, to give Betterton opportunities of prosecuting his

infamous designs. Thus both of them would escape the penalties of the

law.

He likewise informed me, that the female guests were (to use his own

words) ladies whom the male guests loved better than they ought to do;

and he then explained that the several rooms were furnished according

to the fashions of different countries; Grecian, Persian, Chinese,

Italian; and that mine was the Gothic chamber.

By this time, having reached the village, and stopped at an inn, where

we meant to sleep, I desired a room, and bade Stuart a hasty good

night.

Shocked, astonished, and ashamed at all that had passed, I threw myself

on the bed, and unburdened my full heart in a bitter fit of crying.

What! thought I, not the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby after all;--the

tale fabricated by Betterton himself;--the parchment that I had built

the hope of my noble birth upon a mere lease of lives;--could these

things be? Alas, there was no doubt of the fatal fact! I had overheard

the wretches boasting of it, and I had discovered their other

impositions with my own eyes. To be thus upset in my favourite

speculation, in the business of my whole life; to have to begin all

over again,--to have to search the wide world anew for my real name, my

real family--or was Wilkinson indeed my father? Oh! if so, what a fall!

and how horridly had I treated him! But I would not suffer myself to

think of it. Then to be laughed at, despised, insulted by dissolute

creatures calling themselves lords and barons, and bravos, and heroes

and heroines; and I declared to be no heroine! am I a heroine? I caught

myself constantly repeating; and then I walked about wildly, then sat

on the bed, then cast my body across it. Once I fell into a doze, and

dreamed frightful dreams of monsters pursuing me swifter than the wind,

while my bending limbs could only creep; and my voice, calling for

help, could not rise above a whisper. Then I woke, repeating, am I a

heroine? I believe I was quite delirious; for notwithstanding all that

I could do to prevent myself, I ran on rapidly, am I a heroine? am I?

am I? am I? am I? till my brain reeled from its poise, and my hands

were clenched with perturbation.

Thus passed the night, and towards morning I fell into a slumber.

Adieu.

LETTER XLV

This morning my head felt rather better, and I appeared before Stuart

with the sprightliest air imaginable; not that my mind was at

ease;--far from it;--but that I could not endure to betray my

mortification at having proved such a dupe to buffoons and villains.

After breakfast, we began arranging our plans, and decided on

proceeding to London; but did not determine on my place of residence

there. I had my own projects, however.

As Higginson had assisted in rescuing me from the police, Stuart

advised him to remain concealed somewhere, till after the trials of

Betterton and Grundy; for though the poor man did not know that they

were officers of justice whom he was assaulting (he having been in the

turret when the fray commenced), yet this fact might be difficult to

prove. Stuart, therefore, gave him some money, and I a letter; and he

set off, in extreme tribulation, for the cottage of the poor woman;

there to stay till the business should be decided.

Stuart and I then took our departure in a chaise. Unable to counterfeit

gaiety long, I relapsed into languor; nor could my companion, by any

effort, withdraw me from the contemplation of my late disgrace.

As we drew near Lady Gwyn's, he represented the propriety of my

restoring her portrait, lest she should have recourse to an arrest.

Disheartened by the past, and terrified for the future, I soon

consented; and on our arriving at the avenue of the gentleman who had

the portrait in his possession, Stuart, by my desire, went to the house

without me. He was absent some time, but at last came back with it in

his hand.

We then drove to Lady Gwyn's; and while I remained at the gate, he

proceeded to execute the commission for me. Presently, however, I saw

him return accompanied by Lady Gwyn herself, who welcomed me with much

kindness, begged I would forget the past, and prevailed on me to go

into the house.

But it was only to suffer new mortifications. For now, at the instance

of Stuart, she began to relate all the pranks which she had practised

upon me while I was with her. She confessed that the crowning ceremony

was merely to amuse her guests at my expence; and that my great mother

was her own nephew! Think of that, Biddy! She said that Stuart, who had

known her for some years, begged of her when I paid her my first visit

to let me remain under her care, till his return from Town; and to

humour my pretty caprices, as she called them. But he did not desire

her to go so far with the jest; and she had now just begun an apology

for her conduct, when I rose, overwhelmed with shame and indignation,

dropped a hasty courtesy, and fairly ran out of the house.

We proceeded some miles silent and uncomfortable. My heart was

bursting, and my head felt as if billows were tossing through it.

At last I found myself in sight of the village where William, whom I

had separated from his mistress a few weeks before, used to live. As

this was a favourable opportunity for reconciling the lovers, I now

made Stuart acquainted with the real origin of their quarrel, which I

had concealed from him at the time it happened, lest he should mar it.

He shook his head at the recital, and desired the driver to find out

William's house, and stop there. This was done, and in a few moments

William made his appearance. He betrayed some agitation at seeing me,

but saluted me with respect.

'Well, William,' said I, sportively, 'how goes on your little quarrel

with Mary? Is it made up?'

'No, Ma'am,' answered he, with a doleful look, 'and I fear never will.'

'Yes, William,' cried I, with an assuring nod, 'I have the happiness to

tell you that it will.'

'Ah, Ma'am,' said he, 'I suppose you do not know what a sad calamity

has fallen upon her since you were here. The poor creature has quite

lost her senses.'

'For shame!' cried I, 'What are you saying? Lost her senses! Well, I am

sure it was not my fault, however.'

'Your's?' said he. 'Oh, no, Ma'am. But she has never been in her reason

since the day you left her.'

'Let us be gone,' whispered I to Stuart, as I sank back in the

carriage. 'Surely not,' said he. 'Tis at least your duty to repair the

mischief you have done.'

'I should die before I could disclose it!' cried I.

'Then I will disclose it for you,' said he, leaping out of the chaise.

He went with William into the house, and I remained in such a state of

mind, that I was several times on the point of quitting the chaise, and

escaping I knew not whither; but any where from the horrid scene

awaiting me. At last, Stuart appeared without William; and getting in,

gave the driver directions to Mary's cottage.

I wanted him to go without me: but he declared that no effectual

explanation could take place, unless from myself. He then said every

thing to re-assure me. He told me that the poor girl was quite

harmless, and had only temporary fits of wandering; and that, were the

circumstances of the fatal letter once explained to her, and a

reconciliation effected, she might eventually recover from her

derangement; for William, it seems, had never divulged the contents of

that letter, as it enjoined him not; but now Stuart brought it with

him.

Having arrived near the cottage, we got out, and walked towards it.

With a faltering step I crossed the threshold, and found the father in

the parlour.

'Dear Miss,' said he, 'welcome here once more. I suppose you have come

to see poor Mary. Oh! 'tis a piteous, piteous sight. There she does

nothing but walk about, and sigh, and talk so wild; and nobody can tell

the cause but that William; and he will not, for he says she forbade

him.'

'Come with me,' said Stuart, 'and I will tell you the cause.'

He then led the miserable old man out of the room, and I remained at

the window weeping.

But in a few minutes I heard a step; and on turning round, saw the

father, running towards me with a face haggard and ghastly; and crying

out, 'Cruel, cruel, cruel!' then grasping my shoulder, and lifting his

tremulous hand to heaven: 'Now,' said he, 'may the lightning of a just

and good Providence----'

'Oh! pray,' cried I, snatching down his hand--'oh! pray do not curse

me! Do not curse a poor, silly, mad creature. It was a horrid affair;

very horrid; but, indeed, indeed, I meant no harm.'

'Be calm, my good man,' said Stuart, 'and let us go to the garden where

your daughter is walking. I am sure this young lady will not refuse to

accompany us, and do her utmost in this critical moment.'

'I will do any thing,' cried I, 'come along.'

We now passed into the garden; and I shuddered as I beheld the

beautiful wreck at a distance. She had just stopt short in a stepping

posture: her cloak had half fallen from her shoulders, and as her head

hung down, her forefinger was lightly laid on her lip.

Panting to tell her all, I flew towards her, and caught her hand.

'Do you remember me, Mary?' said I softly.

She looked at me some moments with a faint smile; and at last she

coloured.

'Ah! yes, I remember you,' said she. 'You were with us that very

evening when I was so wretched. But I don't care about him now;--I

don't indeed; and if I could only see him once more, I would tell him

so. And then I would frown and turn from him; and then he would follow,

so sad and so pale: don't you think he would? And I am keeping his

presents to give back to him, as he did mine; and see how I have my

hair parted on my forehead, just as he used to like it, ready the

moment I see him to rumple it all about; and then he will cry so. Don't

you think he will? And then I will run, run, run away like the wind,

and never see him again; never, never again.'

'My dear Mary,' said I, 'you shall see him again, and be friends with

him too. Your William is still faithful to you;--most faithful, and

still loves you better than his life. I have seen him myself this

moment.'

'You have?' cried she, reddening. 'Oh! and what did he say? But hush,

not a word before my father and that man:' and she put one hand upon my

mouth, and with the other round my waist, hurried me into a little

arbour, where we sat down.

'And now,' whispered she, stealing her arms about my neck, and looking

earnestly into my eyes, while her whole frame shook, 'and now what did

he say?'

'Mary,' said I, with a serious tone and aspect, 'you must collect your

ideas, and listen attentively, for I have much to disclose. Do you

recollect a letter that I got you to write for me when I was here

last?'

'Letter--' muttered she. 'Letter.--Yes, I believe I do. Oh! yes, I

recollect it well; for it was a sad letter to your sweetheart, telling

him that you had married another; and your sweetheart's name was

William; and I thought, at the time, I would never write such a letter

to my own William.'

'And yet, Mary,' said I, 'your own William got that letter, by some

mistake,' (for I could not bear to tell the real fact) 'that very

evening; and seeing it in your hand-writing, and addressed to William,

he thought it was from you to him; and so he gave you back your

presents, and----'

'What is all that?' cried Mary, starting up. 'Merciful powers! say all

that over again!'

I made her sit down, and I shewed her the letter. As she read it, her

colour changed, her lip quivered, her hand shook; and at the

conclusion, she dropped it with a dreadful groan, and remained quite

motionless.

'Mary!' cried I, 'dear Mary, do not look so. Speak, Mary,' and I

stirred her shoulder; but she still sat motionless with a fixed smile.

'I shall, I will see her!' cried the voice of William at a distance;

and the next instant he was seated breathless by her side.

'Mary, my Mary!' cried he in the most touching accents.

At the well-known voice, she started, and turned towards him; but in a

moment averted her face, and rose as pale as ashes. Then drawing some

letters and baubles from her bosom, she threw them into his lap, and

began gently disarranging her hair, all the time looking sideways at

him, with an air of pretty dignity.

'Come,' said she, taking my hand, and leading me out of the arbour.

'Well, was not that glorious? Now I shall die content.'

'Yes,' said I, 'after having first killed your William. Have I not

explained all about the letter; and how can you now treat him so

cruelly?'

'The letter,' said she. 'Ay, true, the letter. Let me consider a

moment. He thought it was mine, do you say?'

'He did indeed, Mary; and yet you will not be friends with him.'

'But you see he won't follow me,' said she. 'He would have followed me

once. Is he following me?'

'He cannot,' answered I. 'The poor young man is lying on the ground,

and sobbing ready to break his heart.'

Mary stopped.

'Shall I call him?' said I.

'Why now,' said she, 'how can I prevent you?'

'William!' cried I. 'Mary calls you.'

William came flying towards her. At the sound of his steps she turned,

stretched forth her hands, uttered a long and piercing cry;--and they

were locked in each other's arms.

But the poor girl, quite overpowered by the sudden change, fell back

insensible; while William, kissing her, and weeping over her, bore her

into the house, and laid her on a bed.

It was so long before she shewed any symptoms of animation, that we

began to feel serious alarm; and William ran to the village for an

apothecary. By degrees she came to herself, and appeared somewhat more

composed; but still wandering. At last, with her hand clasped in her

lover's, she fell asleep; and then, as our presence could be no farther

useful, we took leave of the venerable peasant; who, generous with

recent hope, freely gave me his forgiveness and his blessing.

In my first transports of anguish at this scene, I disclosed to Stuart,

what I had all day determined, but dreaded to tell--the situation of my

father in the madhouse. At the horrid account, the good young man

turned pale, but said not a word. I saw that I was undone, and I burst

into tears.

'Be comforted, my dear girl,' said he, laying his hand on mine. 'You

have long been acting under the delusion of a dreadful dream, but this

confession, and these tears, are, I trust, the prognostics of a total

renunciation of error. So now let us hasten to your father and release

him. He shall forgive you; past follies shall be forgotten, past

pleasures renewed; you shall return to your real home, and Cherry

Wilkinson shall again be the daughter of an honest squire.'

'Mr. Stuart,' said I, 'as to my past follies, I know of none but

two;--Mary's and my father's matters. And as to that father, he may not

be what you suppose him. I fancy, Sir, there are such things as men who

begin life with plain names, and end it with the most Italian in the

world.'

'Well?' cried Stuart.

'Well,' said I, 'that honest squire, as you call him, may yet come out

to be a marquis.'

Stuart groaned, and put his head out at the window.

We have reached London, and I take the opportunity to write while

Stuart is procuring from Grundy, who now lies in prison, such a

statement as cannot fail to make the Doctor release my poor father

without hesitation.

How shall I support this approaching interview? I shall sink, I shall

die under it. Indeed I wish to die; and I feel an irresistible

presentiment that my prayer will shortly be granted. All day long I

have a horrid gloom hanging over me, besides a frequent wildness of

ideas, and an unusual irritability. I have a chilliness, and yet a

burning through my skin; and I am unwilling even to move. If I could

lock myself up in a room, with heaps of romances, and shut out all the

world, I sometimes fancy that I should be happy. But no, my friend; the

grave will soon be my chamber, the worms my books; and if ever I write

again, I shall write from the bed of death. I know it; I feel it. I

shall be reconciled to my dear parent, acknowledge my follies, and die.

Adieu.

LETTER XLVI

Agitated beyond measure, I found myself at the madhouse, without well

knowing how I had got there; and Stuart, after a long altercation with

the Doctor, supported me to the room where my father was confined. He

had to push me gently before him, and as I stopped breathless inside

the door, I saw by the dusky twilight a miserable object, shivering,

and sitting on a bed. A few rags and a blanket were cast about it: the

face was haggard, and the chin overgrown with a grisly beard. Yet,

amidst all this disfigurement, I could not mistake my father. I ran,

prostrated myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, exclaimed,

'Father, dear father!'

He started, and gazed at me for a moment; then flung me from him, and

threw himself with his face downward on the bed. I cast my body across

his, and endeavoured, with both my hands, to turn round his head, that

I might embrace him; but he resisted every effort.

'Father!' cried I, clasping his neck, 'will you break my heart? Will

you drive me to distraction? Speak, father! Oh! one word, one little

word, to save me from death!'

Still he lay mute and immoveable.

'You are cold, father,' said I. 'You shiver. Shall I put something

about you? shall I, father? Ah! I can be so kind and so tender when I

love one; and I love you dearly--Heaven knows I do.'

I stole my hand on one of his, and lay caressing his forehead, and

murmuring words of fondness in his ear. But nothing could avail. He

withdrew his hand by degrees, and buried his forehead deeper in the

cloaths. And now half frantic, I began to wring my hands, and beat the

pillow, and moan, and utter the most deplorable lamentations.

At last I thought I saw him a little convulsed, as if with smothered

tears.

'Ah,' cried I, 'you are relenting, you are weeping. Bless you for that.

Dear, dear father, look up, and see with what joy a daughter can

embrace you.'

'My child, my child!' cried he, turning, and throwing himself upon my

bosom. 'A heart of stone could not withstand this! There, there, there,

I forgive you all!'

Fast and fondly did we cling round each other, and sweet were the sighs

that we breathed, and the tears that we shed.

But I suffered too much: the disorder which had some time been

engendering in my frame now burst forth with alarming vehemence, and I

was conveyed raving into a carriage. On our arrival at the hotel, they

sent for a physician, who pronounced me in a violent fever of a nervous

nature. For a fortnight I was not expected to recover; and I myself

felt so convinced of my speedy dissolution, that I requested the

presence of a clergyman. He came; and his conversations, by composing

my mind, contributed in a great degree to my recovery. At my request,

he paid me daily visits. Our subject was religion,--not those

theological controversies which excite so much irreligious feeling, and

teach men to hate each other for the love of God; but those plain and

simple truths which convince without confounding, and which avoid the

bigotry that would worship error, because it is hereditary; and the

fanaticism that would lay rash hands on the holy temple, because some

of its smaller pillars appear unsound.

After several days of discussion on this important topic, he led me, by

degrees, to give him an account of my late adventures; and as I

related, he made comments.

Affected by his previous precepts, and by my own awful approach to

eternity, which had suppressed in my heart the passions of ambition and

pride, I now became as desirous of conviction as I had heretofore been

sophistical in support of my folly. To be predisposed is to be half

converted; and soon this exemplary pastor convinced my understanding of

the impious and immoral tendency of my past life. He shewed me, that to

the inordinate gratification of a particular caprice, I had sacrificed

my duty towards my natural protectors, myself, and my God. That my

ruling passion, though harmless in its nature, was injurious in its

effects; that it gave me a distaste for all sober occupations,

perverted my judgment, and even threatened me with the deprivation of

my reason. Religion itself, he said, if indulged with immoderate

enthusiasm, at last degenerates into zealotry, and leaves the poor

devotee too rapturous to be rational, and too virulent to be religious.

In a word, I have risen from my bed, an altered being; and I now look

back on my past delusions with abhorrence and disgust. Though the new

principles of conduct which I have adopted are not yet rooted or

methodized in my mind, and though the prejudices of a whole life are

not (and indeed could not be) entirely eradicated in a few days; still,

as I am resolved on endeavouring to get rid of them, I trust that my

reason will second my desire, and that the final consequence of my

perceiving what is erroneous will be my learning what is correct.

Adieu.

LETTER XLVII

My health is now so far re-established, that I am no longer confined to

my room. Stuart pays us constant visits, and his lively advice and

witty reasoning, more complimentary than reproachful, and more

insinuated than expressed, have tended to perfect my reformation.

He had put Don Quixote (a work which I never read before) into my

hands; and on my returning it to him, with a confession of the benefit

that I derived from it, the conversation naturally ran upon romances in

general. He thus delivered his sentiments.

'I do not protest against the perusal of fictitious biography

altogether; for many works of this kind may be read without injury,

and some with profit. Novels such as the Vicar of Wakefield, The

Fashionable Tales, and Coelebs, which draw man as he is, imperfect,

instead of man as he cannot be, superhuman, are both instructive

and entertaining. Romances such as the Mysteries of Udolpho, the

Italian, and the Bravo of Venice, which address themselves to the

imagination alone, are often captivating, and seldom detrimental. But

unfortunately so seductive are the latter class of composition, that

one is apt to neglect more useful books for them; besides, when

indulged in extreme, they tend to incapacitate us from encountering

the turmoils of active life. 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 at last 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.

'In a country where morals are on the decline, novels always fall

several degrees below the standard of national virtue: and the contrary

holds in an opposite state of things. For as these works are an

exaggerated picture of the times, they represent the prevalent opinions

and manners with a gigantic pencil. Thus, since France became depraved,

her novels have become dissolute; and since her social system arrived

at its extreme of vicious refinement, they too have adopted that last

master-stroke of refined vice, which wins the heart by the chastest

aphorisms, and then corrupts it by the most alluring pictures of

villainy. Take Rousseau for instance. What St. Preux is to Heloise, the

book is to the reader. The lover so fascinates his mistress by his

honourable sentiments, that she cannot resist his criminal advances.

The book infatuates the reader, till, in his admiration of its

morality, he loses all recollection of its licentiousness; for as

virtue is more captivating, so vice is less disgusting when adorned

with the Graces. It may be said that an author ought to portray vice in

its seductive colours, for the purpose of unmasking its arts, and thus

warning the young and inexperienced. But let it be recollected, that

though familiarity with enchanting descriptions of vice may add to

prudence, it must diminish virtue; and that while it teaches the reason

to resist, it entices the passions to yield. It was Rousseau's system,

however, to paint the scenes of a brothel, in order to speak the cant

of a monastery; and thus has he undone many an imitating miss or wife,

who began by listening to the language of love, that she might talk

sentiment, and act virtue; and ended by falling a victim to it, because

her heart had become entangled, her head bewildered, and her principles

depraved.

'Now, though we seldom see such publications in this country, yet there

is a strain of well-meaning, but false morality prevalent in some. I

will add (for why should I conceal it from you?) that your principles,

which have hitherto been formed upon such books alone, appear, at

times, a little perverted by their influence. It should now, therefore,

be your object to counteract these bad effects by some more rational

line of reading; and, as your ideas of real life are drawn from novels;

and as even your manners and language are vitiated by them, I would

recommend to you to mix in the world, to copy living instead of

imaginary beings, and to study the customs of actual, not ideal

society.'

With this opinion my father perfectly coincided: the system has already

been begun, and I now pass my time in an alternation of instruction and

amusement. Morality, history, languages, and music, occupy my mornings;

and my evenings are sometimes enlivened by balls, operas, and familiar

parties. As, therefore, we shall remain some time in town, my father

has taken a house.

Stuart, my counsellor and my companion, sits by my side, directs my

studies, re-assures my timidity, and corrects my mistakes. Indeed he

has to correct them often; for I still retain some taints of my former

follies and affectations. My postures are sometimes too picturesque, my

phrases too flowery, and my sentiments too sublime.

This having been the day fixed for the trials of Betterton and Grundy,

the prisoners were brought to the bar, and the names of the prosecutors

called. But these did not appear, and of consequence the culprits were

discharged. It is supposed that Betterton, the great declaimer against

bribery and corruption, had tampered with the postilion and the police,

and thus escaped the fate which awaited him.

Adieu.

LETTER XLVIII

In ridding ourselves of a particular fault, we are apt, at first, to

run too far into its opposite virtue. I had poured forth my tender

feelings to you with such sentimental absurdity, when I fancied myself

enamoured of one man, that as soon as I began to reform, and found

myself actually attached to another, I determined on concealing my

fondness from you, with the most scrupulous discretion of pen. Perhaps,

therefore, I should beg your forgiveness for never having hinted to you

before, what I am now about disclosing to you without any reserve.

Even at the very time when I thought I was bound in duty to be

devotedly in love with the hateful Grundy, I felt an unconscious

partiality for Stuart. But after my reformation, that partiality became

too decisive to be misinterpreted or concealed. And indeed he was so

constantly with me, and so kind a comforter and friend; and then so

fascinating are his manners, and so good his disposition; for I am

certain there is no such young man at all--you see in his eyes what he

is; you see instantly that his heart is all gentleness and benevolence,

and yet he has a fire in them, a fire that would delight you: and I

could tell you a thousand anecdotes of him that would astonish

you.--But what have I done with my sentence? Go back, good pen, and

restore it to the grammar it deserves: or rather leave it as it is--a

cripple for life, and hasten to the happy catastrophe.

With a secret transport which I cannot describe, I began of late to

perceive that Stuart had become more assiduous than usual in his visits

to me; that his manners betrayed more tenderness, and his language more

regard. These attentions increased daily; nor did he omit opportunities

of hinting his passion, in terms which I could not mistake.

This morning, however, put the matter beyond a doubt. I was alone when

he came to pay his accustomed visit. At first he made some faint

attempts at conversing upon indifferent topics; but all the time I

could perceive an uneasiness and perturbation in his manner that

surprised me.

'Pray,' said I, at length, 'what makes you so dull and absent to-day?'

'You,' replied he, with a smile.

'And what have I done?' said I.

''Tis not what you have done,' answered he; 'but what you will do.'

'And what is that?' said I.

He changed to a nearer chair, and looked at me with much agitation. I

guessed what was coming; I had expected it some time; but now, when the

moment arrived, I felt my heart fail; so I suddenly moved towards the

door, saying that I was sure I heard my father call. Stuart sprang

after me, and led me back by the hand.

'When I tell you,' said he, 'that on the possession of this hand

depends my happiness, may I flatter myself with the hope that my

happiness would not contribute to your misery?'

'As I am no longer a heroine,' said I, smiling, 'I do not intend to get

up a scene. You happen to have my hand now; and I am afraid--very much

afraid, that----'

'That what?' cried he, holding it faster.

'That it is not worth withdrawing,' said I.

But in this effort to shun a romance eclaircissement, I had, I feared,

run into the contrary extreme, and betrayed an undue boldness; so I got

sentimental in good earnest, and burst into tears. Stuart led me to my

chair, and soon dissipated my uneasiness by his eloquent expressions of

gratitude and delight, and his glowing pictures of our future

happiness. I told him, that I wondered how he, who knew my failings so

well, would venture to stake his happiness upon me.

'It was by my knowledge of your failings,' said he, 'that I discovered

your perfections. Those embarrassments of your life which I witnessed

have enabled me to judge of you more justly in a few months, than had I

been acquainted with you whole years, in the common routine of

intercourse. They have shewn me, that if you had weakness enough to

court danger, you had firmness enough to withstand temptation; and that

while the faulty part of your character was factitious and

superinduced, all the pure and generous impulses came from your heart.'

Our conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of my father;

and on his hearing from Stuart (who, it seems had made him a confidant)

the favourable issue of our interview, the good old man hugged both of

us in his arms.

To detain you no longer, a week hence is fixed for our wedding.

I have just received a letter from Mary, mentioning her perfect

restoration to health, and her union with William. I shall offer no

observation on your late marriage with the butler; but I must remark,

that your reason for having never given me advice, during my

follies--namely, because my father had deprived you of the right to do

so, evinced more anger towards him than love for me. However, I shall

always be happy to hear of your welfare.

Adieu.

LETTER XLIX

I have just time to tell you, before I leave town, that my fate was

sealed this morning, and that I am a wife.

On my return to the house, after the ceremony, I found an epithalamium,

addressed to me by poor Higginson; but it was more filled with hints at

his own misery than congratulations upon my happiness.

Honest Jerry Sullivan met me at the door, and shook my hand, and danced

round me in a fury of outrageous joy.

'Well,' cried he, 'often and often I thought your freaks would get you

hanged; but may I be hanged if ever I thought they would get you

married!'

'You see,' said I to Stuart, 'after all your pains to prevent me from

imitating romances, you have made me terminate my adventures like a

true romance--in a wedding. Pray with what moral will you now conclude

the book?'

'I will say,' returned he, 'that virtue--no. That calamity--no. That

fortitude and resignation--oh, no! I will say, then, that Tommy Horner

was a bad boy, and would not get plumcake; and that King Pepin was a

good boy, and rode in a golden coach.'

Adieu.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.

Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as

printed.