diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:02 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:02 -0700 |
| commit | 94e6e6cb39b13172c25ac6bd57f60f87877b6bd3 (patch) | |
| tree | 5c277690868e698ff411e9c7d751ee1318928494 /9321-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '9321-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 9321-h/9321-h.htm | 24807 |
1 files changed, 24807 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/9321-h/9321-h.htm b/9321-h/9321-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7a10aae --- /dev/null +++ b/9321-h/9321-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,24807 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Tales and Novels, Volume Viii (of X), by Maria Edgeworth + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre {font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Tales And Novels, Volume 8 (of 10), by Maria Edgeworth + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales And Novels, Volume 8 (of 10) + Patronage, concluded; Comic Dramas; Leonora; and Letters + +Author: Maria Edgeworth + + +Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9321] +This file was first posted on September 21, 2003 +Last Updated: December 20, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME 8 (OF 10) *** + + + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and Distributed +Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES AND NOVELS, + </h1> + <h4> + VOLUME VIII (of X) + </h4> + <h3> + PATRONAGE, concluded;<br /> COMIC DRAMAS; LEONORA; AND LETTERS + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Maria Edgeworth + </h2> + <h5> + In Ten Volumes. With Engravings on Steel<br /> (Engravings are not included + in this edition) + </h5> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>PATRONAGE, Concluded</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER XL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER XLI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER XLII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER XLIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>COMIC DRAMAS</b>. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> <b>LOVE AND LAW</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> DRAMATIS PERSONÆ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> LOVE AND LAW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> ACT I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> SCENE I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> SCENE II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> SCENE III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> SCENE IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> SCENE V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> ACT II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> SCENE I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> SCENE II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> SCENE III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> ACT III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> SCENE I. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> <b>THE ROSE, THISTLE</b>, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE ROSE, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> ACT I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> SCENE I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> SCENE II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> SCENE III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> ACT II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> SCENE I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> SCENE II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> SCENE III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> SCENE IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> SCENE V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> ACT III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> SCENE I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> SCENE II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> SCENE III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> SCENE IV. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> <b>LEONORA (Letters)</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> <b>LETTER From A GENTLEMAN TO HIS FRIEND</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> <b>LETTERS</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PATRONAGE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. + </h2> + <p> + No less an event than Alfred’s marriage, no event calling less + imperatively upon her feelings, could have recovered Lady Jane’s sympathy + for Caroline. But Alfred Percy, who had been the restorer of her fortune, + her friend in adversity, what pain it would give him to find her, at the + moment when he might expect her congratulations, quarrelling with his + sister—that sister, too, who had left her home, where she was so + happy, and Hungerford Castle, where she was adored, on purpose to tend + Lady Jane in sickness and obscurity! + </p> + <p> + Without being put exactly into these words, or, perhaps, into any words, + thoughts such as these, with feelings of gratitude and affection, revived + for Caroline in Lady Jane’s mind the moment she heard of Alfred’s intended + marriage. + </p> + <p> + “Good young man!—Excellent friend!—Well, tell me all about it, + <i>my dear</i>.” + </p> + <p> + It was the first time that her ladyship had said <i>my dear</i> to + Caroline since the day of the fatal refusal. + </p> + <p> + Caroline was touched by this word of reconciliation—and the tears it + brought into her eyes completely overcame Lady Jane, who hastily wiped her + own. + </p> + <p> + “So, my dear Caroline—where were we? Tell me about your brother’s + marriage—when is it to be?—How has it been brought about?—The + last I heard of the Leicesters was the good dean’s death—I remember + pitying them very much—Were they not left in straitened + circumstances, too? Will Alfred have any fortune with Miss Leicester?—Tell + me every thing—read me his letters.” + </p> + <p> + To go back to Dr. Leicester’s death. For some months his preferments were + kept in abeyance. Many were named, or thought of, as likely to succeed + him. The deanery was in the gift of the crown, and as it was imagined that + the vicarage was also at the disposal of government, applications had + poured in, on all sides, for friends, and friends’ friends, to the + remotest link of the supporters of ministry—But—to use their + own elegant, phrase—the hands of government were tied. + </p> + <p> + It seems that in consequence of some parliamentary interest, formerly + given opportunely, and in consideration of certain arrangements in his + diocese, to serve persons whom ministers were obliged to oblige, a promise + had long ago been given to Bishop Clay that his recommendation to the + deanery should be accepted on the next vacancy. The bishop, who had + promised the living to his sister’s husband, now presented it to Mr. + Buckhurst Falconer, with the important addition of Dr. Leicester’s + deanery. + </p> + <p> + To become a dean was once the height of Buckhurst’s ambition, that for + which in a moment of elation he prayed, scarcely hoping that his wishes + would ever be fulfilled: yet now that his wish was accomplished, and that + he had attained this height of his ambition, was he happy? No!—far + from it; farther than ever. How could he be happy—dissatisfied with + his conduct, and detesting his wife? In the very act of selling himself to + this beldam, he abhorred his own meanness; but he did not know how much + reason he should have to repent, till the deed was done. It was done in a + hurry, with all the precipitation of a man who hates himself for what he + feels forced to do. Unused to bargain and sale in any way, in marriage + never having thought of it before, Buckhurst did not take all precautions + necessary to make his sacrifice answer his own purpose. He could not + conceive the avaricious temper and habits of his lady, till he was hers + past redemption. Whatever accession of income he obtained from his + marriage, he lived up to; immediately, his establishment, his expenses, + surpassed his revenue. His wife would not pay or advance a shilling beyond + her stipulated quota to their domestic expenses. He could not hear the + parsimonious manner in which she would have had him live, or the shabby + style in which she received his friends. He was more profuse in proportion + as she was more niggardly; and whilst she scolded and grudged every penny + she paid, he ran in debt magnanimously for hundreds. When the living and + deanery came into his possession, the second year’s fruits had been eaten + beforehand. Money he must have, and money his wife would not give—but + a litigious agent suggested to him a plan for raising it, by demanding a + considerable sum from the executors of the late Dr. Leicester, for what is + called <i>dilapidation</i>. The parsonage-house seemed to be in good + repair; but to make out charges of dilapidation was not difficult to those + who understood the business—and fifteen hundred pounds was the + charge presently made out against the executors of the late incumbent. It + was invidious, it was odious for the new vicar, in the face of his + parishioners, of all those who loved and respected his predecessor, to + begin by making such a demand—especially as it was well known that + the late dean had not saved any of the income of his preferment, but had + disposed of it amongst his parishioners as a steward for the poor. He had + left his family in narrow circumstances. They were proud of his virtues, + and not ashamed of the consequences. With dignity and ease they retrenched + their expenses; and after having lived as became the family of a dignitary + of the church, on quitting the parsonage, the widow and her niece retired + to a small habitation, suited to their altered circumstances, and lived + with respectable and respected economy. The charge brought against them by + the new dean was an unexpected blow. It was an extortion, to which Mrs. + Leicester would not submit—could not without injury to her niece, + from whose fortune the sum claimed, if yielded, must be deducted. + </p> + <p> + Alfred Percy, from the first moment of their distress, from the time of + good Dr. Leicester’s death, had been assiduous in his attentions to Mrs. + Leicester; and by the most affectionate letters, and, whenever he could + get away from London, by his visits to her and to his Sophia, had proved + the warmth and constancy of his attachment. Some months had now passed—he + urged his suit, and besought Sophia no longer to delay his happiness. Mrs. + Leicester wished that her niece should now give herself a protector and + friend, who might console her for the uncle she had lost. It was at this + period the <i>dilapidation charge</i> was made. Mrs. Leicester laid the + whole statement before Alfred, declaring that for his sake, as well as for + her niece’s, she was resolute to defend herself against injustice. Alfred + could scarcely bring himself to believe that Buckhurst Falconer had acted + in the manner represented, with a rapacity, harshness, and cruelty, so + opposite to his natural disposition. Faults, Alfred well knew that + Buckhurst had; but they were all, he thought, of quite a different sort + from those of which he now stood accused. What was to be done? Alfred was + extremely averse from going to law with a man who was his relation, for + whom he had early felt, and still retained, a considerable regard: yet he + could not stand by, and see the woman he loved, defrauded of nearly half + the small fortune she possessed. On the other hand, he was employed as a + professional man, and called upon to act. He determined, however, before + he should, as a last resource, expose the truth and maintain the right in + a court of justice, previously to try every means of conciliation in his + power. To all his letters the new dean answered evasively and + unsatisfactorily, by referring him to his attorney, into whose hands he + said he had put the business, and he knew and wished to hear nothing more + about it. The attorney, Solicitor Sharpe, was impracticable—Alfred + resolved to see the dean himself; and this, after much difficulty, he at + length effected. He found the dean and his lady tête-à-tête. Their raised + voices suddenly stopped short as he entered. The dean gave an angry look + at his servant as Alfred came into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Your servants,” said Alfred, “told me that you were not at home, but I + told them that I knew the dean would be at home to an old friend.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very good,—(said Buckhurst)—you do me a great deal of + honour,” said the dean. + </p> + <p> + Two different manners appeared in the same person: one natural—belonging + to his former, the other assumed, proper, as he thought, for his present + self, or rather for his present situation. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you be seated? I hope all our friends—” Mrs. Buckhurst, or, + as she was called, Mrs. Dean Falconer, made divers motions, with a very + ugly chin, and stood as if she thought there ought to be an introduction. + The dean knew it, but being ashamed to introduce her, determined against + it. Alfred stood in suspension, waiting their mutual pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you sit down, sir?” repeated the dean. + </p> + <p> + Down plumped Mrs. Falconer directly, and taking out her spectacles, as if + to shame her husband, by heightening the contrast of youth and age, + deliberately put them on; then drawing her table nearer, settled herself + to her work. + </p> + <p> + Alfred, who saw it to be necessary, determined to use his best address to + conciliate the lady. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dean, you have never yet done me the honour to introduce me to Mrs. + Falconer.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought—I thought we had met before—since—Mrs. + Falconer, Mr. Alfred Percy.” + </p> + <p> + The lady took off her spectacles, smiled, and adjusted herself, evidently + with an intention to be more agreeable. Alfred sat down by her work-table, + directed his conversation to her, and soon talked, or rather induced her + to talk herself into fine humour. Presently she retired to dress for + dinner, and “hoped Mr. Alfred Percy had no intention of running away—<i>she</i> + had a well-aired bed to offer him.” + </p> + <p> + The dean, though he cordially hated his lady, was glad, for his own sake, + to be relieved from her fits of crossness; and was pleased by Alfred’s + paying attention to her, as this was a sort of respect to himself, and + what he seldom met with from those young men who had been his companions + before his marriage—they usually treated his lady with a neglect or + ridicule which reflected certainly upon her husband. + </p> + <p> + Alfred never yet had touched upon his business, and Buckhurst began to + think this was merely a friendly visit. Upon Alfred’s observing some + alteration which had been lately made in the room in which they were + sitting, the dean took him to see other improvements in the house; in + pointing out these, and all the conveniences and elegancies about the + parsonage, Buckhurst totally forgot the <i>dilapidation suit</i>; and + every thing he showed and said tended unawares to prove that the house was + in the most perfect repair and best condition possible. Gradually, + whatever solemnity and beneficed pomp there had at first appeared in the + dean’s manner, wore off, or was laid aside; and, except his being somewhat + more corpulent and rubicund than in early years, he appeared like the + original Buckhurst. His gaiety of heart, indeed, was gone, but some + sparkles of his former spirits remained. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said he, showing Alfred into his study, “here, as our good friend + Mr. <i>Blank</i> said, when he showed us his study, ‘<i>Here</i> is <i>where</i> + I read all day long—quite snug—and nobody’s a bit the wiser + for it.’” + </p> + <p> + The dean seated himself in his comfortable arm-chair. “Try that chair, + Alfred, excellent for sleeping in at one’s ease.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To rest the cushion and soft dean invite.” + </pre> + <p> + “Ah!” said Alfred, “often have I sat in this room with my excellent + friend, Dr. Leicester!” + </p> + <p> + The new dean’s countenance suddenly changed: but endeavouring to pass it + off with a jest, he said, “Ay, poor good old Leicester, he sleeps for + ever,—that’s one comfort—to me—if not to you.” But + perceiving that Alfred continued to look serious, the dean added some more + proper reflections in a tone of ecclesiastical sentiment, and with a sigh + of decorum—then rose, for he smelt that the <i>dilapidation suit</i> + was coming. + </p> + <p> + “Would not you like, Mr. Percy, to wash your hands before dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, Mr. Dean, I must detain you a moment to speak to you on + business.” + </p> + <p> + Black as Erebus grew the face of the dean—he had no resource but to + listen, for he knew it would come after dinner, if it did not come now; + and it was as well to have it alone in the study, where nobody might be a + bit the wiser. + </p> + <p> + When Alfred had stated the whole of what he had to say, which he did in as + few and strong words as possible, appealing to the justice and feelings of + Buckhurst—to the fears which the dean must have of being exposed, + and ultimately defeated, in a court of justice—“Mrs. Leicester,” + concluded he, “is determined to maintain the suit, and has employed me to + carry it on for her.” + </p> + <p> + “I should very little have expected,” said the dean, “that Mr. Alfred + Percy would have been employed in such a way against me.” + </p> + <p> + “Still less should I have expected that I could be called upon in such a + way against you,” replied Alfred. “No one can feel it more than I do. The + object of my present visit is to try whether some accommodation may not be + made, which will relieve us both from the necessity of going to law, and + may prevent me from being driven to the performance of this most painful + professional duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Duty! professional duty!” repeated Buckhurst: “as if I did not understand + all those <i>cloak-words</i>, and know how easy it is to put them on and + off at pleasure!” + </p> + <p> + “To some it may be, but not to me,” said Alfred, calmly. + </p> + <p> + Anger started into Buckhurst’s countenance: but conscious how + inefficacious it would be, and how completely he had laid himself open, + the dean answered, “You are the best judge, sir. But I trust—though + I don’t pretend to understand the honour of lawyers—I trust, as a + gentleman, you will not take advantage against me in this suit, of any + thing my openness has shown you about the parsonage.” + </p> + <p> + “You trust rightly, Mr. Dean,” replied Alfred, in his turn, with a look + not of anger, but of proud indignation; “you trust rightly, Mr. Dean, and + as I should have expected that one who has had opportunities of knowing me + so well ought to trust.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a clear answer,” said Buckhurst. “But how could I tell?—so + much <i>jockeying</i> goes on in every profession—how could I tell + that a lawyer would be more conscientious than another man? But now you + assure me of it—I take it upon your word, and believe it in your + case. About the accommodation—<i>accommodation</i> means money, does + not it?—frankly, I have not a shilling. But Mrs. Falconer is all <i>accommodation</i>. + Try what you can do with her—and by the way you began, I should hope + you would do a great deal,” added he, laughing. + </p> + <p> + Alfred would not undertake to speak to his lady, unless the dean would, in + the first instance, make some sacrifice. He represented that he was not + asking for money, but for a relinquishment of a claim, which he + apprehended not to be justly due: “And the only use I shall ever make of + what you have shown me here, is to press upon your feelings, as I do at + this moment, the conviction of the injustice of that claim, which I am + persuaded your lawyers only instigated, and that you will abandon.” + </p> + <p> + Buckhurst begged him not to be persuaded of any such thing. The + instigation of an attorney, he laughing said, was not in law counted the + instigation of the devil—at law no man talked of feelings. In + matters of property judges did not understand them, whatever figure they + might make with a jury in criminal cases—with an eloquent advocate’s + hand on his breast. + </p> + <p> + Alfred let Buckhurst go on with his vain wit and gay rhetoric till he had + nothing more to say, knowing that he was hiding consciousness of + unhandsome conduct. Sticking firmly to his point, Alfred showed that his + client, though gentle, was resolved, and that, unless Buckhurst yielded, + law must take its course—that though he should never give any hint, + the premises must be inspected, and disgrace and defeat must follow. + </p> + <p> + Forced to be serious, fretted and hurried, for the half-hour bell before + dinner had now rung, and the dean’s stomach began to know canonical hours, + he exclaimed, “The upshot of the whole business is, that Mr. Alfred Percy + is in love, I understand, with Miss Sophia Leicester, and this fifteen + hundred pounds, which he pushes me to the bare wall to relinquish, is + eventually, as part of her fortune, to become his. Would it not have been + as fair to have stated this at once?” + </p> + <p> + “No—because it would not have been the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “No!—You won’t deny that you are in love with Miss Leicester?” + </p> + <p> + “I am as much in love as man can be with Miss Leicester; but her fortune + is nothing to me, for I shall never touch it.” + </p> + <p> + “Never touch it! Does the aunt—the widow—the cunning widow, + refuse consent?” + </p> + <p> + “Far from it: the aunt is all the aunt of Miss Leicester should be—all + the widow of Dr. Leicester ought to be. But her circumstances are not what + they ought to be; and by the liberality of a friend, who lends me a house, + rent free, and by the resources of my profession, I am better able than + Mrs. Leicester is to spare fifteen hundred pounds: therefore, in the + recovery of this money I have no personal interest at present. I shall + never receive it from her.” + </p> + <p> + “Noble! Noble!—just what I could have done myself—once! What a + contrast!” + </p> + <p> + Buckhurst laid his head down upon his arms flat on the table, and remained + for some moments silent—then, starting upright, “I’ll never claim a + penny from her—I’ll give it all up to you! I will, if I sell my band + for it, by Jove!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! what has your father to answer for, who forced you into the church!” + thought Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Buckhurst,” said he, “my dear dean—” + </p> + <p> + “Call me Buckhurst, if you love me.” + </p> + <p> + “I do love you, it is impossible to help it, in spite of—” + </p> + <p> + “All my faults—say it out—say it out—in spite of your + conscience,” added Buckhurst, trying to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Not in spite of my conscience, but in favour of yours,” said Alfred, + “against whose better dictates you have been compelled all your life to + act.” + </p> + <p> + “I have so, but that’s over. What remains to be done at present? I am in + real distress for five hundred pounds. Apropos to your being engaged in + this dilapidation suit, you can speak to Mrs. Falconer about it. Tell her + I have given up the thing; and see what she will do.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred promised he would speak to Mrs. Falconer. “And, Alfred, when you + see your sister Caroline, tell her that I am not in one sense such a + wretch—quite, as she thinks me. But tell her that I am yet a greater + wretch—infinitely more miserable than she, I hope, can conceive—beyond + redemption—beyond endurance miserable.” He turned away hastily in an + agony of mind. Alfred shut the door and escaped, scarcely able to bear + his own emotion. + </p> + <p> + When they met at dinner, Mrs. Dean Falconer was an altered person—her + unseemly morning costume and well-worn shawl being cast aside, she + appeared in bloom-coloured gossamer gauze, and primrose ribbons, a + would-be young lady. Nothing of that curmudgeon look, or old fairy cast of + face and figure, to which he had that morning been introduced, but in + their place smiles, and all the false brilliancy which rouge can give to + the eyes, proclaimed a determination to be charming. + </p> + <p> + The dean was silent, and scarcely ate any thing, though the dinner was + excellent, for his lady was skilled in the culinary department, and in + favour of Alfred had made a more hospitable display than she usually + condescended to make for her husband’s friends. There were no other + guests, except a young lady, companion to Mrs. Falconer. Alfred was as + agreeable and entertaining as circumstances permitted; and Mrs. Buckhurst + Falconer, as soon as she got out of the dining-room, even before she + reached the drawing-room, pronounced him to be a most polite and + accomplished young man, very different indeed from the <i>common run</i>, + or the usual style, of Mr. Dean Falconer’s dashing bachelor beaux, who in + her opinion were little better than brute bears. + </p> + <p> + At coffee, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, as + Alfred was standing beside Mrs. Falconer, meditating how and when to speak + of the object of his visit, she cleared the ground by choosing the topic + of conversation, which, at last fairly drove her husband out of the room. + She judiciously, maliciously, or accidentally, began to talk of the + proposal which she had heard a near relation of hers had not long since + made to a near relation of Mr. Alfred Percy’s—Mr. Clay, of + Clay-hall, her nephew, had proposed for Mr. Alfred’s sister, Miss Caroline + Percy. She was really sorry the match was not to take place, for she had + heard a very high character of the young lady in every way, and her nephew + was rich enough to do without fortune—not but what that would be + very acceptable to all men—especially young men, who are now mostly + all for money instead of all for love—except in the case of very + first rate extraordinary beauty, which therefore making a woman a prey, + just as much one as the other, might be deemed a misfortune as great, + though hardly <i>quite</i>, Mrs. Buckhurst said, as she had found a great + fortune in her own particular case. The involution of meaning in these + sentences rendering it not easy to be comprehended, the dean stood it + pretty well, only stirring his coffee, and observing that it was cold; but + when his lady went on to a string of interrogatories about Miss Caroline + Percy—on the colour of her eyes and hair—size of her mouth and + nose—requiring in short a complete full-length portrait of the young + lady, poor Buckhurst set down his cup, and pleading business in his study, + left the field open to Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “Near-sighted glasses! Do you never use them, Mr. Percy?” said Mrs. Dean + Falconer, as she thought Alfred’s eyes fixed upon her spectacles, which + lay on the table. + </p> + <p> + No—he never used them, he thanked her: he was rather far-sighted + than short-sighted. She internally commended his politeness in not taking + them up to verify her assertion, and put them into her pocket to avoid all + future danger. + </p> + <p> + He saw it was a favourable moment, and entered at once into his business—beginning + by observing that the dean was much out of spirits. The moment money was + touched upon, the curmudgeon look returned upon the lady; and for some + time Alfred had great difficulty in making himself heard: she poured forth + such complaints against the extravagance of the dean, with lists of the + debts she had paid, the sums she had given, and the vow she had made, + never to go beyond the weekly allowance she had, at the last settlement, + agreed to give her husband. + </p> + <p> + Alfred pleaded strongly the expense of law, and the certainty, in his + opinion, of ultimate defeat, with the being obliged to pay all the costs, + which would fall upon the dean. The dean was willing to withdraw his claim—he + had promised to do so, in the most handsome manner; and therefore, Alfred + said, he felt particularly anxious that he should not be distressed for + five hundred pounds, a sum for which he knew Mr. Falconer was immediately + pressed. He appealed to Mrs. Falconer’s generosity. He had been desired by + the dean to speak to her on the subject, otherwise he should not have + presumed—and it was as a professional man, and a near relation, that + he now took the liberty: this was the first transaction he had ever had + with her, and he hoped he should leave the vicarage impressed with a sense + of her generosity, and enabled to do her justice in the opinion of those + who did not know her. + </p> + <p> + That was very little to her, she bluntly said—she acted only up to + her own notions—she lived only for herself. + </p> + <p> + “And for her husband.” Love, Alfred Percy said, he was assured, was + superior to money in her opinion. “And after all, my dear madam, you set + me the example of frankness, and permit me to speak to you without + reserve. What can you, who have no reason, you say, to be pleased with + either of your nephews, do better with your money, than spend it while you + live and for yourself, in securing happiness in the gratitude and + affection of a husband, who, generous himself, will be peculiarly touched + and attached by generosity?” + </p> + <p> + The words, <i>love, generosity, generous</i>, sounded upon the lady’s ear, + and she was unwilling to lose that high opinion which she imagined Alfred + entertained of her sentiments and character. Besides, she was conscious + that he was in fact nearer the truth than all the world would have + believed. Avaricious in trifles, and parsimonious in those every-day + habits which brand the reputation immediately with the fault of avarice, + this woman was one of those misers who can be generous by fits and starts, + and who have been known to <i>give</i> hundreds of pounds, but never + without reluctance would part with a shilling. + </p> + <p> + She presented the dean, her husband, with an order on her banker for the + money he wanted, and Alfred had the pleasure of leaving his unhappy friend + better, at least, than he found him. He rejoiced in having compromised + this business so successfully, and in thus having prevented the + litigation, ill-will, and disgraceful circumstances, which, without his + interference, must have ensued. + </p> + <p> + The gratitude of Mrs. Leicester and her niece was delightful. The aunt + urged him to accept what he had been the means of saving, as part of her + niece’s fortune; but this he absolutely refused, and satisfied Mrs. + Leicester’s delicacy, by explaining, that he could not, if he would, now + yield to her entreaties, as he had actually obtained the money from poor + Buckhurst’s generous repentance, upon the express faith that he had no + private interest in the accommodation. + </p> + <p> + “You would not,” said Alfred, “bring me under the act against raising + money upon false pretences?” + </p> + <p> + What Alfred lost in money he gained in love. His Sophia’s eyes beamed upon + him with delight. The day was fixed for their marriage, and at Alfred’s + suggestion, Mrs. Leicester consented, painful as it was, in some respects, + to her feelings, that they should be married by the dean in the parish + church. + </p> + <p> + Alfred brought his bride to town, and as soon as they were established in + their own house, or rather in that house which Mr. Gresham insisted upon + their calling their own, Lady Jane Granville was the first person to offer + her congratulations.—Alfred begged his sister Caroline from Lady + Jane, as he had already obtained his father’s and mother’s consent. Lady + Jane was really fond of Caroline’s company, and had forgiven her, as well + as she could; yet her ladyship had no longer a hope of being <i>of use</i> + to her, and felt that even if any other offer were to occur—and none + such as had been made could ever more be expected—it would lead only + to fresh disappointment and altercation; therefore she, with the less + reluctance, relinquished Caroline altogether. + </p> + <p> + Caroline’s new sister had been, from the time they were first acquainted, + her friend, and she rejoiced in seeing all her hopes for her brother’s + happiness accomplished by this marriage. His Sophia had those habits of + independent occupation which are essential to the wife of a professional + man, and which enable her to spend cheerfully many hours alone, or at + least without the company of her husband. On his return home every + evening, he was sure to find a smiling wife, a sympathizing friend, a + cheerful fireside.—She had musical talents—her husband was + fond of music; and she did not lay aside the accomplishments which had + charmed the lover, but made use of them to please him whom she had chosen + as her companion for life. Her voice, her harp, her utmost skill, were + ready at any moment, and she found far more delight in devoting her + talents to him than she had ever felt in exhibiting them to admiring + auditors. This was the domestic use of accomplishments to which Caroline + had always been accustomed; so that joining in her new sister’s + occupations and endeavours to make Alfred’s evenings pass pleasantly, she + felt at once as much <i>at home</i> as if she had been in the country; for + the mind is its own place, and domestic happiness may be naturalized in a + capital city. + </p> + <p> + At her brother’s house, Caroline had an opportunity of seeing a society + that was new to her, that of the professional men of the first eminence + both in law and medicine, the men of science and of literature, with whom + Alfred and Erasmus had been for years assiduously cultivating + acquaintance. They were now happy to meet at Alfred’s house, for they + liked and esteemed him, and they found his wife and sister sensible, + well-informed women, to whom their conversation was of real amusement and + instruction; and who, in return, knew how to enliven their leisure hours + by female sprightliness and elegance. Caroline now saw the literary and + scientific world to the best advantage: not the amateurs, or the mere <i>show</i> + people, but those who, really excelling and feeling their own superiority, + had too much pride and too little time to waste upon idle flattery, or + what to them were stupid, uninteresting <i>parties</i>. Those who refused + to go to Lady Spilsbury’s, or to Lady Angelica Headingham’s, or who were + seen there, perhaps, once or twice in a season as a great favour and + honour, would call three or four evenings every week at Alfred’s. + </p> + <p> + The first news, the first hints of discoveries, inventions, and literary + projects, she heard from time to time discussed. Those men of talent, whom + she had heard were to be seen at <i>conversaziones</i>, or of whom she had + had a glimpse in fine society, now appeared in a new point of view, and to + the best advantage; without those pretensions and rivalships with which + they sometimes are afflicted in public, or those affectations and + singularities, which they often are supposed to assume, to obtain + notoriety among persons inferior to them in intellect and superior in + fashion. Instead of playing, as they sometimes did, a false game to amuse + the multitude, they were obliged now to exert their real skill, and play + fair with one another. + </p> + <p> + Sir James Harrington tells us, that in his days the courtiers who played + at divers games in public, had a way of exciting the admiration and + amazement of the commoner sort of spectators, by producing heaps of golden + counters, and seeming to stake immense sums, when all the time they had + previously agreed among one another, that each guinea should stand for a + shilling, or each hundred guineas for one: so that in fact two modes of + calculation were used for the initiated and uninitiated; and this exoteric + practice goes on continually to this hour, among literary performers in + the intellectual, as well as among courtiers in the fashionable world. + </p> + <p> + Besides the pleasure of studying celebrated characters, and persons of + eminent merit, at their ease and at her own, Caroline had now + opportunities of seeing most of those objects of rational curiosity, which + with Lady Jane Granville had been prohibited as <i>mauvais ton</i>. With + men of sense she found it was not <i>mauvais ton</i> to use her eyes for + the purposes of instruction or entertainment. + </p> + <p> + With Mrs. Alfred Percy she saw every thing in the best manner; in the + company of well-informed guides, who were able to point out what was + essential to be observed; ready to explain and to illustrate; to procure + for them all those privileges and advantages as spectators, which common + gazers are denied, but which liberal and enlightened men are ever not only + ready to allow, but eager to procure for intelligent, unassuming females. + </p> + <p> + Among the gentlemen of learning, talents, and eminence in Alfred’s own + profession, whom Caroline had the honour of seeing at her brother’s, were + Mr. Friend, the <i>friend</i> of his early years at the bar; and that + great luminary, who in a higher orbit had cheered and guided him in his + ascent. The chief justice was in a station, and of an age, where praise + can be conferred without impropriety, and without hurting the feelings of + delicacy or pride. He knew how to praise—a difficult art, but he + excelled in it. As Caroline once, in speaking of him, said, “Common + compliments compared to praise from him, are as common coin compared to a + medal struck and appropriated for the occasion.” + </p> + <p> + About this time Mr. Temple came to tell Alfred, that a ship had been + actually ordered to be in readiness to carry him on his intended embassy; + that Mr. Shaw had recovered; that Cunningham Falconer had no more excuses + or pretences for delay; despatches, the last Lord Oldborough said he + should ever receive from him as envoy, had now arrived, and Temple was to + have set out immediately; but that the whole embassy had been delayed, + because Lord Oldborough had received a letter from Count Altenberg, giving + an account of alarming revolutionary symptoms, which had appeared in the + capital, and in the provinces, in the dominions of his sovereign, Lord + Oldborough had shown Mr. Temple what related to public affairs, but had + not put the whole letter into his hands. All that he could judge from what + he read was, that the Count’s mind was most seriously occupied with the + dangerous state of public affairs in his country. “I should have thought,” + added Mr. Temple, “that the whole of this communication was entirely of a + political nature, but that in the last page which Lord Oldborough put into + my hand, the catch-words at the bottom were <i>Countess Christina</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred observed, “that, without the aid of Rosamond’s imagination to + supply something more, nothing could be made of this. However, it was a + satisfaction to have had direct news of Count Altenberg.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Mr. Temple came for Alfred. Lord Oldborough desired to see + him. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever his business may be, I am sure it is important and interesting,” + said Mr. Temple; “by this time I ought to be well acquainted with Lord + Oldborough—I know the signs of his suppressed emotion, and I have + seldom seen him put such force upon himself to appear calm, and to do the + business of the day, before he should yield his mind to what pressed on + his secret thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. + </h2> + <p> + When Alfred arrived, Lord Oldborough was engaged with some gentlemen from + the city about a loan. By the length of time which the negotiators stayed, + they tried Alfred’s patience; but the minister sat with immoveable + composure, till they knew their own minds, and till they departed. Then, + the loan at once dismissed from his thoughts, he was ready for Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “You have married, I think, Mr. Alfred Percy, since I saw you last—I + congratulate you.” + </p> + <p> + His lordship was not in the habit of noticing such common events; Alfred + was surprised and obliged by the interest in his private affairs which + this congratulation denoted. + </p> + <p> + “I congratulate you, sir, because I understand you have married a woman of + sense. To marry a fool—to form or to have any connexion with a + fool,” continued his lordship, his countenance changing remarkably as he + spoke, “I conceive to be the greatest evil, the greatest curse, that can + be inflicted on a man of sense.” + </p> + <p> + He walked across the room with long, firm, indignant strides—then + stopping short, he exclaimed, “<i>Lettres de cachet</i>!—Dangerous + instruments in bad hands!—As what are not?—But one good + purpose they answered—they put it in the power of the head of every + noble house to disown, and to deprive of the liberty to disgrace his + family, any member who should manifest the will to commit desperate crime + or desperate folly.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred was by no means disposed to join in praise even of this use of a <i>lettre + de cachet</i>, but he did not think it a proper time to argue the point, + as he saw Lord Oldborough was under the influence of some strong passion. + He waited in silence till his lordship should explain himself farther. + </p> + <p> + His lordship unlocked a desk, and produced a letter. + </p> + <p> + “Pray, Mr. Percy—Mr. Alfred Percy—have you heard any thing + lately of the Marchioness of Twickenham?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred, at this instant, recollected the whisper which he had once heard + at chapel, and he added, “Not of late, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Lord Oldborough, putting a letter into Alfred’s hands—“there + is the sum of what I have heard.” + </p> + <p> + The letter was from the Duke of Greenwich, informing Lord Oldborough that + an unfortunate discovery had been made of <i>an affair</i> between the + Marchioness of Twickenham and a certain Captain Bellamy, which rendered an + immediate separation necessary. + </p> + <p> + “So!” thought Alfred, “my brother Godfrey had a fine escape of this fair + lady!” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen her once since I received that letter, and I never will see + her again,” said Lord Oldborough: “that’s past—all that concerns her + is past and irremediable. Now as to the future, and to what concerns + myself. I have been informed—how truly, I cannot say—that some + time ago a rumour, a suspicion of this intrigue was whispered in what they + call the fashionable world.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe that your lordship has been truly informed,” said Alfred; and + he then mentioned the whisper he had heard at the chapel. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!—Farther, it has been asserted to me, that a hint was given to + the Marquis of Twickenham of the danger of suffering that—what is + the man’s name?—Bellamy, to be so near his wife; and that the hint + was disregarded.” + </p> + <p> + “The marquis did very weakly or very wickedly,” said Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “All wickedness is weakness, sir, you know: but to our point. I have been + assured that the actual discovery of the intrigue was made to the marquis + some months previously to the birth of his child—and that he forbore + to take any notice of this, lest it might affect the legitimacy of that + child. After the birth of the infant—a boy—subsequent + indiscretions on the part of the marchioness, the marquis would make it + appear, gave rise to his first suspicions. Now, sir, these are the points, + of which, as my friend, and as a professional man, I desire you to + ascertain the truth. If the facts are as I have thus heard, I presume no + divorce can be legally obtained.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will direct you instantly to the proper channels for information.” + </p> + <p> + Whilst Lord Oldborough wrote directions, Alfred assured him he would + fulfil his commission with all the discretion and celerity in his power. + </p> + <p> + “The next step,” continued Lord Oldborough—“for, on such a subject, + I wish to say all that is necessary at once, that it may be banished from + my mind—your next step, supposing the facts to be ascertained, is to + go with this letter—my answer to the Duke of Greenwich. See him—and + see the marquis. In matters of consequence have nothing to do with + secondary people—deal with the principals. Show in the first place, + as a lawyer, that their divorce is unattainable—next, show the + marquis that he destroys his son and heir by attempting it. The duke, I + believe, would be glad of a pretext for dissolving the political connexion + between me and the Greenwich family. He fears me, and he fears the world: + he dares not abandon me without a pretence for the dissolution of + friendship. He is a weak man, and never dares to act without a pretext; + but show him that a divorce is not necessary for his purpose—a + separation will do as well—Or without it, I am ready to break with + him at council, in the House of Lords, on a hundred political points; and + let him shield himself as he may from the reproach of desertion, by + leaving the blame of quarrel on my impracticability, or on what he will, I + care not—so that my family be saved from the ignominy of divorce.” + </p> + <p> + As he sealed his letter, Lord Oldborough went on in abrupt sentences. + </p> + <p> + “I never counted on a weak man’s friendship—I can do without his + grace—Woman! Woman! The same—ever since the beginning of the + world!” + </p> + <p> + Then turning to Alfred to deliver the letter into his hand, “Your brother, + Major Percy, sir—I think I recollect—He was better in the West + Indies.” + </p> + <p> + “I was just thinking so, my lord,” said Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—better encounter the plague than a fool.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough had never before distinctly adverted to his knowledge of + his niece’s partiality for Godfrey, but his lordship now added, “Major + Percy’s honourable conduct is not unknown: I trust honourable conduct + never was, and never will be, lost upon me.—This to the Duke of + Greenwich—and this to the marquis.—Since it was to be, I + rejoice that this Captain Bellamy is the gallant.—Had it been your + brother, sir—could there have been any love in the case—not, + observe, that I believe in love, much less am I subject to the weakness of + remorse—but a twinge might have seized my mind—I might + possibly have been told that the marchioness was married against her + inclination.—But I am at ease on that point—my judgment of her + was right.—You will let me know, in one word, the result of your + negotiation without entering into particulars—divorce, or no + divorce, is all I wish to hear.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred did not know all the circumstances of the Marchioness of + Twickenham’s marriage, nor the peremptory manner in which it had been + insisted upon by her uncle, otherwise he would have felt still greater + surprise than that which he now felt, at the stern, unbending character of + the man. Possessed as Lord Oldborough was by the opinion, that he had at + the time judged and acted in the best manner possible, no after-events + could make him doubt the justice of his own decision, or could at all + shake him in his own estimation. + </p> + <p> + Alfred soon brought his report. “In one word—no divorce, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s well—I thank you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + His lordship made no farther inquiries—not even whether there was to + be a <i>separation</i>. + </p> + <p> + Alfred was commissioned by the Duke of Greenwich to deliver a message, + which, like the messages of the gods in Homer, he delivered verbatim, and + without comment: “His grace of Greenwich trusts Lord Oldborough will + believe, that, notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances, which + dissolved in some degree the family connexion, it was the farthest + possible from his grace’s wish or thoughts to break with Lord Oldborough, + as long as private feelings, and public principles, could be rendered by + any means compatible.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough smiled in scorn—and Alfred could scarcely command + his countenance. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough prepared to give his grace the opportunity, which he knew + he desired, of differing with him on principle: his lordship thought his + favour and power were now sufficiently established to be able to do + without the Duke of Greenwich, and his pride prompted him to show this to + his grace and to the world. He carried it with a high hand for a short + time; but even whilst he felt most secure, and when all seemed to bend and + bow before his genius and his sway, many circumstances and many persons + were combining to work the downfall of his power. + </p> + <p> + One of the first slight circumstances which shook his favour, was a speech + he had made to some gentleman, about the presentation of the deanery to + Buckhurst Falconer. It had been supposed by many, who knew the court which + Commissioner Falconer paid to Lord Oldborough, that it was through his + lordship’s interest, that this preferment was given to the son; but when + some person, taking this for granted, spoke of it to his lordship, he + indignantly disclaimed all part in the transaction, and it is said that he + added, “Sir, I know what is due to private regard as a man—and as a + minister what must be yielded to parliamentary influence; but I never + could have advised the bestowing ecclesiastical benefice and dignity upon + any one whose conduct was not his first recommendation.” + </p> + <p> + This speech, made in a moment of proud and perhaps unguarded indignation, + was repeated with additions, suppressions, variations, and comments. Any + thing will at court serve the purpose of those who wish to injure, and it + is inconceivable what mischief was done to the minister by this slight + circumstance. In the first place, the nobleman high in office, and the + family connexions of the nobleman who had made the exchange of livings, + and given the promise of the deanery to Bishop Clay, were offended beyond + redemption—because they were in the wrong. Then, all who had done, + or wished to do wrong, in similar instances, were displeased by reflection + or by anticipation. But Lord Oldborough chiefly was injured by + misrepresentation in the quarter where it was of most consequence to him + to preserve his influence. It was construed by the highest authority into + disrespect, and an imperious desire to encroach on favour, to control + prerogative, and to subdue the mind of his sovereign. Insidious arts had + long been secretly employed to infuse these ideas; and when once the + jealousy of power was excited, every trifle confirmed the suspicion which + Lord Oldborough’s uncourtier-like character was little calculated to + dispel. His popularity now gave umbrage, and it was hinted that he wished + to make himself the <i>independent</i> minister of the people. + </p> + <p> + The affairs of the country prospered, however, under his administration; + there was trouble, there was hazard in change. It was argued, that it was + best to wait at least for some reverse of fortune in war, or some symptom + of domestic discontent, before an attempt should be made to displace this + minister, formidable by his talents, and by the awe his commanding + character inspired. + </p> + <p> + The habit of confidence and deference for his genius and integrity + remained, and to him no difference for some time appeared, in consequence + of the secret decay of favour. + </p> + <p> + Commissioner Falconer, timid, anxious, restless, was disposed by + circumstances and by nature, or by second nature, to the vigilance of a + dependent’s life; accustomed to watch and consult daily the barometer of + court favour, he soon felt the coming storm; and the moment he saw + prognostics of the change, he trembled, and considered how he should best + provide for his own safety before the hour of danger arrived. Numerous + libels against the minister appeared, which Lord Oldborough never read, + but the commissioner, with his best spectacles, read them all; for he well + knew and believed what the sage Selden saith, that “though some make + slight of libels, yet you may see by them how the wind sets.” + </p> + <p> + After determining by the throwing up of these straws which way the wind + set, the commissioner began with all possible skill and dexterity to trim + his boat. But dexterous trimmer though he was, and “prescient of change,” + he did yet not foresee from what quarter the storm would come. + </p> + <p> + Count Altenberg’s letters had unveiled completely the envoy Cunningham + Falconer’s treachery, as far as it related to his intrigues abroad, and + other friends detected some of his manoeuvres with politicians at home, to + whom he had endeavoured to pay court, by betraying confidence reposed in + him respecting the Tourville papers. Much of the mischief Cunningham had + done this great minister still operated, unknown to his unsuspicious mind: + but sufficient was revealed to determine Lord Oldborough to dismiss him + from all future hopes of his favour. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Commissioner Falconer,” he began one morning, the moment the + commissioner entered his cabinet, “Mr. Commissioner Falconer,” in a tone + which instantly dispelled the smile at entrance from the commissioner’s + countenance, and in the same moment changed his whole configurature. “My + confidence is withdrawn from your son, Mr. Cunningham Falconer—for + ever—and not without good reason—as you may—if you are + not aware of it already—see, by those papers.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough turned away, and asked his secretaries for his red box, as + he was going to council. + </p> + <p> + Just as he left his cabinet, he looked back, and said, “Mr. Falconer, you + should know, if you be not already apprised of it, that your son + Cunningham is on his road to Denmark. You should be aware that the journey + is not made by my desire, or by his majesty’s order, or by any official + authority; consequently he is travelling to the court of Denmark at his + own expense or yours—unless he can prevail upon his Grace of + Greenwich to defray his ambassadorial travelling charges, or can afford to + wait for them till a total change of administration—of which, sir, + if I see any symptoms to-day in council,” added his lordship, in the tone + of bitter irony; “I will give you fair notice—for fair dealing is + what I practise.” + </p> + <p> + This said, the minister left the commissioner to digest his speech as he + might, and repaired to council, where he found every thing apparently as + smooth as usual, and where he was received by all, especially by the + highest, with perfect consideration. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Commissioner Falconer was wretched beyond expression—wretched + in the certainty that his son, that he himself, had probably lost, + irrecoverably, one excellent patron, before they had secured, even in case + of change, another. This premature discovery of Cunningham’s intrigues + totally disconcerted and overwhelmed him; and, in the bitterness of his + heart, he cursed the duplicity which he had taught and encouraged, still + more by example, than by precept. But Cunningham’s duplicity had more and + closer folds than his own. Cunningham, conceited of his diplomatic genius, + and fearful of the cautious timidity of his father, did not trust that + father with the knowledge of all he did, or half of what he intended; so + that the commissioner, who had thought himself at the bottom of every + thing, now found that he, too, had been cheated by his son with false + confidences; and was involved by him in the consequences of a scheme, of + which he had never been the adviser. Commissioner Falconer knew too well, + by the experience of Cumberland and others, the fate of those who suffer + themselves to be lured on by second-hand promises; and who venture, + without being publicly acknowledged by their employers, to undertake any + diplomatic mission. Nor would Cunningham, whose natural disposition to + distrust was greater than his father’s, have sold himself to any political + tempter, without first signing and sealing the compact, had he been in + possession of his cool judgment, and had he been in any other than the + desperate circumstances in which he was placed. His secret conscience + whispered that his recall was in consequence of the detection of some of + his intrigues, and he dreaded to appear before the haughty, irritated + minister. Deceived also by news from England that Lord Oldborough’s + dismission or resignation could not be distant, Cunningham had ventured + upon this bold stroke for an embassy. + </p> + <p> + On Lord Oldborough’s return from council, the commissioner, finding, from + his secret informants, that every thing had gone on smoothly, and being + over-awed by the confident security of the minister, began to doubt his + former belief; and, in spite of all the symptoms of change, was now + inclined to think that none would take place. The sorrow and contrition + with which he next appeared before Lord Oldborough were, therefore, truly + sincere; and when he found himself alone once more with his lordship, + earnest was the vehemence with which he disclaimed his unworthy son, and + disavowed all knowledge of the transaction. + </p> + <p> + “If I had seen cause to believe that you had any part in this transaction, + sir, you would not be here at this moment: therefore your protestations + are superfluous—none would be accepted if any were necessary.” + </p> + <p> + The very circumstance of the son’s not having trusted the father + completely, saved the commissioner, for this time, from utter ruin: he + took breath; and presently—oh, weak man! doomed never to know how to + deal with a strong character—fancying that his intercession might + avail for his son, and that the pride of Lord Oldborough might be + appeased, and might be suddenly wrought to forgiveness, by that tone and + posture of submission and supplication used only by the subject to + offended majesty, he actually threw himself at the feet of the minister. + </p> + <p> + “My gracious lord—a pardon for my son!” + </p> + <p> + “I beseech you, sir!” cried Lord Oldborough, endeavouring to stop him from + kneeling—the commissioner sunk instantly on his knee. + </p> + <p> + “Never will the unhappy father rise till his son be restored to your + favour, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Lord Oldborough, “I have no favour for those who have no sense + of honour: rise, Mr. Falconer, and let not the father degrade himself for + the son—<i>unavailingly</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The accent and look were decisive—the commissioner rose. Instead of + being gratified, his patron seemed shocked, if not disgusted: far from + being propitiated by this sacrifice of dignity, it rendered him still more + averse; and no consolatory omen appearing, the commissioner withdrew in + silence, repenting that he had abased himself. After this, some days and + nights passed with him in all the horrors of indecision—Could the + minister weather the storm or not?—should Mr. Falconer endeavour to + reinstate himself with Lord Oldborough, or secure in time favour with the + Duke of Greenwich?—Mrs. Falconer, to whom her husband’s groans in + the middle of the night at last betrayed the sufferings of his mind, drew + from him the secret of his fears and meditations. She advised strongly the + going over, decidedly, and in time, but secretly, to the Greenwich + faction. + </p> + <p> + The commissioner knew that this could not be done secretly. The attention + of the minister was now awake to all his motions, and the smallest + movement towards his grace of Greenwich must be observed and understood. + On the other hand, to abide by a falling minister was folly, especially + when he had positively withdrawn his favour from Cunningham, who had the + most to expect from his patronage. Between these opposite difficulties, + notwithstanding the urgent excitations of Mrs. Falconer, the poor + commissioner could not bring himself to decide, till the time for action + was past. + </p> + <p> + Another blow came upon him for which he was wholly unprepared—there + arrived from abroad accounts of the failure of a secret expedition; and + the general in his despatches named Colonel John Falconer as the officer + to whose neglect of orders he principally attributed the disappointment. + It appeared that orders had been sent to have his regiment at a certain + place at a given hour. At the moment these orders came, Colonel John + Falconer was out on a shooting party without leave. The troops, of course, + on which the general had relied, did not arrive in time, and all his other + combinations failed from this neglect of discipline and disobedience of + orders. Colonel Falconer was sent home to be tried by a court-martial. + </p> + <p> + “I pity you, sir,” said Lord Oldborough, as Commissioner Falconer, white + as ashes, read in his presence these despatches—“I pity you, sir, + from my soul: here is no fault of yours—the fault is mine.” + </p> + <p> + It was one of the few faults of this nature which Lord Oldborough had ever + committed. Except in the instance of the Falconer family, none could name + any whom his lordship had placed in situations, for which they were + inadequate or unfit. Of this single error he had not foreseen the + consequences; they were more important, more injurious to him and to the + public, than he could have calculated or conceived. It appeared now as if + the Falconer family were doomed to be his ruin. That the public knew, in + general, that John Falconer had been promoted by ministerial favour, Lord + Oldborough was aware; but he imagined that the peculiar circumstances of + that affair were known only to himself and to Commissioner Falconer’s + family. To his astonishment he found, at this critical moment, that the + whole transaction had reached the ear of majesty, and that it was soon + publicly known. The commissioner, with protestations and oaths, declared + that the secret had never, by his means, transpired—it had been + divulged by the baseness of his son Cunningham, who betrayed it to the + Greenwich faction. They, skilled in all the arts of undermining a rival, + employed the means that were thus put into their power with great + diligence and effect. + </p> + <p> + It was observed at the levee, that the sovereign looked coldly upon the + minister. Every courtier whispered that Lord Oldborough had been certainly + much to blame. Disdainful of their opinions, Lord Oldborough was sensibly + affected by the altered eye of his sovereign. + </p> + <p> + “What! After all my services!—At the first change of fortune!” + </p> + <p> + This sentiment swelled in his breast; but his countenance was rigidly + calm, his demeanour towards the courtiers and towards his colleagues more + than usually firm, if not haughty. + </p> + <p> + After the levee, he demanded a private audience. + </p> + <p> + Alone with the king, the habitual influence of this great minister’s + superior genius operated. The cold manner was changed, or rather, it was + changed involuntarily. From one “not used to the language of apology,” the + frank avowal of a fault has a striking effect. Lord Oldborough took upon + himself the whole blame of the disaster that had ensued, in consequence of + his error, an error frequent in other ministers, in him, almost + unprecedented. + </p> + <p> + He was answered with a smile of royal raillery, that the peculiar family + circumstances which had determined his lordship so rapidly to promote that + officer, must, to all fathers of families and heads of houses, if not to + statesmen and generals, be a sufficient and home apology. + </p> + <p> + Considering the peculiar talent which his sovereign possessed, and in + which he gloried, that of knowing the connexions and domestic affairs, not + only of the nobility near his person, but of private individuals remote + from his court, Lord Oldborough had little cause to be surprised that this + secret transaction should be known to his majesty. Something of this his + lordship, with all due respect, hinted in reply. At the termination of + this audience, he was soothed by the condescending assurance, that whilst + the circumstances of the late unfortunate reverse naturally created regret + and mortification, no dissatisfaction with his ministerial conduct mixed + with these feelings; on the contrary, he was assured that fear of the + effect a disappointment might have on the mind of the public, in + diminishing confidence in his lordship’s efforts for the good of the + country, was the sentiment which had lowered the spirits and clouded the + brow of majesty. + </p> + <p> + His lordship returned thanks for the gracious demonstration of these + sentiments—and, bowing respectfully, withdrew. In the faces and + behaviour of the courtiers, as in a glass, he saw reflected the truth. + They all pretended to be in the utmost consternation; and he heard of + nothing but “apprehensions for the effect on the public mind,” and “fears + for his lordship’s popularity.” His secretary, Mr. Temple, heard, indeed, + more of this than could reach his lordship’s ear directly; for, even now, + when they thought they foresaw his fall, few had sufficient courage to + hazard the tone of condolence with Lord Oldborough, or to expose the face + of hypocrisy to the severity of his penetrating eye. In secret, every + means had been taken to propagate in the city, the knowledge of all the + circumstances that were unfavourable to the minister, and to increase the + dissatisfaction which any check in the success of our armies naturally + produces. The tide of popularity, which had hitherto supported the + minister, suddenly ebbed; and he fell, in public opinion, with astonishing + rapidity. For the moment all was forgotten, but that he was the person who + had promoted John Falconer to be a colonel, against whom the cry of the + populace was raised with all the clamour of national indignation. The + Greenwich faction knew how to take advantage of this disposition. It + happened to be some festival, some holiday, when the common people, having + nothing to do, are more disposed than at any other time to intoxication + and disorder. The emissaries of designing partisans mixed with the + populace, and a mob gathered round the minister’s carriage, as he was + returning home late one day—the same carriage, and the same man, + whom, but a few short weeks before, this populace had drawn with loud + huzzas, and almost with tears of affection. Unmoved of mind, as he had + been when he heard their huzzas, Lord Oldborough now listened to their + execrations, till from abuse they began to proceed to outrage. Stones were + thrown at his carriage. One of his servants narrowly escaped being struck. + Lord Oldborough was alone—he threw open his carriage-door, and + sprang out on the step. + </p> + <p> + “Whose life is it you seek?” cried he, in a voice which obtained instant + silence. “Lord Oldborough’s? Lord Oldborough stands before you. Take his + life who dares—a life spent in your service. Strike! but strike + openly. You are Englishmen, not assassins.” + </p> + <p> + Then, turning to his servants, he added, in a calm voice, “Home—slowly. + Not a man here will touch you. Keep your master in sight. If I fall, mark + by what hand.” + </p> + <p> + Then stepping down into the midst of the people, he crossed the street to + the flagged pathway, the crowd opening to make way for him. He walked on + with a deliberate firm step; the mob moving along with him, sometimes + huzzaing, sometimes uttering horrid execrations in horrid tones. Lord + Oldborough, preserving absolute silence, still walked on, never turned his + head, or quickened his pace, till he reached his own house. Then, facing + the mob, as he stood waiting till the door should be opened, the people, + struck with his intrepidity, with one accord joined in a shout of + applause. + </p> + <p> + The next instant, and before the door was opened, they cried, “Hat off!—Hat + off!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough’s hat never stirred. A man took up a stone. + </p> + <p> + “Mark that man!” cried Lord Oldborough. + </p> + <p> + The door opened. “Return to your homes, my countrymen, and bless God that + you have not any of you to answer this night for murder!” + </p> + <p> + Then entering his house, he took off his hat, and gave it to one of his + attendants. His secretary, Temple, had run down stairs to meet him, + inquiring what was the cause of the disturbance. + </p> + <p> + “Only,” said Lord Oldborough, “that I have served the people, but never + bent to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Curse them! they are not worth serving. Oh! I thought they’d have taken + my lord’s life that minute,” cried his faithful servant Rodney. “The sight + left my eyes. I thought he was gone for ever. Thank God! he’s safe. Take + off my lord’s coat—I can’t—for the soul of me. Curse those + ungrateful people!” + </p> + <p> + “Do not curse them, my good Rodney,” said Lord Oldborough, smiling. “Poor + people, they are not ungrateful, only mistaken. Those who mislead them are + to blame. The English are a fine people. Even an English mob, you see, is + generous, and just, as far as it knows.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough was sound asleep this night, before any other individual + in the house had finished talking of the dangers he had escaped. + </p> + <p> + The civil and military courage shown by the minister in the sudden attack + upon his character and person were such as to raise him again at once to + his former height in public esteem. His enemies were obliged to affect + admiration. The Greenwich party, foiled in this attempt, now disavowed it. + News of a victory effaced the memory of the late disappointment. Stocks + rose—addresses for a change of ministry were quashed—addresses + of thanks and congratulation poured in—Lord Oldborough gave them to + Mr. Temple to answer, and kept the strength of his attention fixed upon + the great objects which were essential to the nation and the sovereign he + served. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Falconer saw that the storm had blown over, the darkness was past—Lord + Oldborough, firm and superior, stood bright in power, and before him the + commissioner bent more obsequious, more anxious than ever. Anxious he + might well be—unhappy father! the life, perhaps, of one of his sons, + his honour, certainly, at stake—the fortune of another—his + existence ruined! And what hopes of propitiating him, who had so suffered + by the favour he had already shown, who had been betrayed by one of the + family and disgraced by another. The commissioner’s only hope was in the + recollection of the words, “I pity you from my soul, sir,” which burst + from Lord Oldborough even at the moment when he had most reason to be + enraged against Colonel Falconer. Following up this idea, and working on + the generous compassion, of which, but for this indication, he should not + have supposed the stern Lord Oldborough to be susceptible, the + commissioner appeared before him every day the image of a broken-hearted + father. In silence Lord Oldborough from time to time looked at him; and by + these looks, more than by all the promises of all the great men who had + ever spoken to him, Mr. Falconer was reassured; and, as he told Mrs. + Falconer, who at this time was in dreadful anxiety, he felt certain that + Lord Oldborough would not punish him for the faults of his sons—he + was satisfied that his place and his pension would not be taken from him—and + that, at least in fortune, they should not be utterly ruined. In this + security the commissioner showed rather more than his customary degree of + strength of mind, and more knowledge of Lord Oldborough’s character than + he had upon most other occasions evinced. + </p> + <p> + Things were in this state, when, one morning, after the minister had given + orders that no one should be admitted, as he was dictating some public + papers of consequence to Mr. Temple, the Duke of Greenwich was announced. + His grace sent in a note to signify that he waited upon Lord Oldborough by + order of his majesty; and that, if this hour were not convenient, he + begged to have the hour named at which his grace could be admitted. His + grace was admitted instantly. Mr. Temple retired—for it was evident + this was to be a secret conference. His grace of Greenwich entered with + the most important solemnity—infinitely more ceremonious than usual; + he was at last seated, and, after heavy and audible sighs, still hesitated + to open his business. Through the affected gloom and dejection of his + countenance Lord Oldborough saw a malicious pleasure lurking, whilst, in a + studied exordium, he spoke of the infinite reluctance with which he had + been compelled, by his majesty’s express orders, to wait upon his lordship + on a business the most painful to his feelings. As being a public + colleague—as a near and dear connexion—as a friend in long + habits of intimacy with his lordship, he had prayed his majesty to be + excused; but it was his majesty’s pleasure: he had only now to beg his + lordship to believe that it was with infinite concern, &c. Lord + Oldborough, though suffering under this circumlocution, never condescended + to show any symptom of impatience; but allowing his grace to run the + changes on the words and forms of apology, when these were exhausted, his + lordship simply said, that “his majesty’s pleasure of course precluded all + necessity for apology.” + </p> + <p> + His grace was vexed to find Lord Oldborough still unmoved—he was + sure this tranquillity could not long endure: he continued, “A sad + business, my lord—a terrible discovery—I really can hardly + bring myself to speak—” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough gave his grace no assistance. + </p> + <p> + “My private regard,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + A smile of contempt on Lord Oldborough’s countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Your lordship’s hitherto invulnerable public integrity—” + </p> + <p> + A glance of indignation from Lord Oldborough. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hitherto</i> invulnerable!—your grace will explain.” + </p> + <p> + “Let these—these fatal notes—letters—unfortunately got + into the hands of a leading, impracticable member of opposition, and by + him laid—Would that I had been apprised, or could have conceived it + possible, time enough to prevent that step; but it was done before I had + the slightest intimation—laid before his majesty—” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough calmly received the letters from his grace. + </p> + <p> + “My own handwriting, and private seal, I perceive.” + </p> + <p> + The duke sighed—and whilst Lord Oldborough drew out, opened, and + read the first letter in the parcel, his grace went on—“This affair + has thrown us all into the greatest consternation. It is to be brought + before parliament immediately—unless a resignation should take place—which + we should all deplore. The impudence, the inveteracy of that fellow, is + astonishing—no silencing him. We might hush up the affair if his + majesty had not been apprised; but where the interest of the service is + concerned, his majesty is warm.” + </p> + <p> + “His majesty!” cried Lord Oldborough: “His majesty could not, I trust, for + a moment imagine these letters to be I mine?” + </p> + <p> + “But for the hand and seal which I understood your lordship to + acknowledge, I am persuaded his majesty could not have believed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Believed! My king! did he believe it?” cried Lord Oldborough. His + agitation was for a moment excessive, uncontrollable. “No! that I will + never credit, till I have it from his own lips.” Then commanding himself, + “Your grace will have the goodness to leave these letters with me till + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + His grace, with infinite politeness and regret, was under the necessity of + refusing this request. His orders were only to show the letters to his + lordship, and then to restore them to the hands of the member of + opposition who had laid them before his majesty. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough took off the cover of one of the letters, on which was + merely the address and seal. The address was written also at the bottom of + the letter enclosed, therefore the cover could not be of the least + importance. The duke could not, Lord Oldborough said, refuse to leave this + with him. + </p> + <p> + To this his grace agreed—protesting that he was far from wishing to + make difficulties. If there were any thing else he could do—any + thing his lordship would wish to have privately insinuated or publicly + said— + </p> + <p> + His lordship, with proud thanks, assured the duke he did not wish to have + any thing privately insinuated; and whatever it was necessary to say or do + publicly, he should do himself, or give orders to have done. His lordship + entered into no farther explanation. The duke at last was obliged to take + his leave, earnestly hoping and trusting that this business would + terminate to his lordship’s entire satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + No sooner was the duke gone than Lord Oldborough rang for his carriage. + </p> + <p> + “Immediately—and Mr. Temple, instantly.” + </p> + <p> + Whilst his carriage was coming to the door, in the shortest manner + possible Lord Oldborough stated the facts to his secretary, that letters + had been forged in his lordship’s name, promising to certain persons + promotion in the army—and navy—gratification—and + pensions. Some were addressed to persons who had actually obtained + promotion, shortly after the time of these letters; others contained + reproaches for having been ill-used. Even from the rapid glance Lord + Oldborough had taken of these papers, he had retained the names of several + of the persons to whom they were addressed—and the nature of the + promotion obtained. They were persons who could have had no claim upon an + honest minister. His lordship left a list of them with Mr. Temple—also + the cover of the letter, on which was a specimen of the forged writing and + the private seal. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to the king. In my absence, Mr. Temple, think for me—I + know you feel for me. The object is to discover the authors of this + forgery.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, may I consult with Mr. Alfred Percy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—with no other person.” + </p> + <p> + It was not Lord Oldborough’s day for doing business with the king. He was + late—the king was going out to ride. His majesty received the + minister as usual; but notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty’s + words and manner, it was evident to Lord Oldborough’s penetration, that + there was a coldness and formality in the king’s countenance. + </p> + <p> + “I beg I may not detain your majesty—I see I am late,” said Lord + Oldborough. + </p> + <p> + “Is the business urgent, my lord?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; for it concerns principally myself: it can, therefore, wait your + majesty’s leisure at any hour your majesty may appoint.” + </p> + <p> + The king dismounted instantly. + </p> + <p> + “This moment, my lord, I am at leisure for any business that concerns your + lordship.” + </p> + <p> + The king returned to the palace—Lord Oldborough followed, and all + the spectators on foot and horseback were left full of curiosity. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty’s words and manner, and + the polite promptitude to attend to any business that concerned his + lordship, it was evident to Lord Oldborough’s penetration that there was + an unusual coldness and formality in the king’s countenance and + deportment, unlike the graciousness of his reception when satisfied and + pleased. As soon as the business of the day had been gone through, Lord + Oldborough said he must now beg his majesty’s attention on a subject which + principally concerned himself. The king looked as one prepared to hear, + but determined to say as little as possible. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough placed himself so as to give the king the advantage of the + light, which he did not fear to have full on his own countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, certain letters, signed with my name, and sealed with my seal, have, + I am informed, been laid before your majesty.” + </p> + <p> + “Your lordship has been rightly informed.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust—I hope that your majesty—” + </p> + <p> + At the firm assertion, in the tone with which Lord Oldborough pronounced, + I <i>trust</i>—his majesty’s eye changed—and moved away from + Lord Oldborough’s, when he, with respectful interrogation of tone, added, + “I <i>hope</i> your majesty could not believe those letters to be mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Frankly, my lord,” said the king, “the assertions, the insinuations of no + man, or set of men, of any rank or weight in my dominions, could by any + imaginable means have induced me to conceive it possible that such letters + had been written by your lordship. Not for one moment could my belief have + been compelled by any evidence less strong than your lordship’s + handwriting and seal. I own, I thought I knew your lordship’s seal and + writing; but I now see that I have been deceived, and I rejoice to see + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank your majesty. I cannot feel surprise that a forgery and a + counterfeit which, at first view, compelled my own belief of their being + genuine, should, for a moment, have deceived you, sir; but, I own, I had + flattered myself that my sovereign knew my heart and character, yet better + than my seal and signature.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “And I should have hoped that, if your majesty had perused those letters, + no assertions could have been necessary, on my part, to convince you, sir, + that they could not be mine. I have now only to rejoice that your majesty + is undeceived; and that I have not intruded unnecessarily with this + explanation. I am fully sensible, sir, of your goodness, in having thus + permitted me to make, as early as possible, this assertion of my + innocence. For the proofs of it, and for the detection of the guilty, I am + preparing; and I hope to make these as clear to you, sir, as your + majesty’s assurance of the pleasure you feel in being undeceived is + satisfactory—consolatory to me,” concluded Lord Oldborough, with a + bow of profound yet proud respect. + </p> + <p> + “My lord,” said the king, “I have no doubt that this affair will redound + to your honour, and <i>terminate to your lordship’s entire satisfaction</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The very phrase used by the Duke of Greenwich. + </p> + <p> + “As to myself, your lordship can have no farther anxiety; but I wish your + lordship’s endeavours to detect and bring proofs home to the guilty may be + promptly successful—for the gratification of your own feelings, and + the satisfaction of the public mind, before the matter should be brought + forward in parliament.” + </p> + <p> + His majesty bowed, and as Lord Oldborough retired, he added some gracious + phrases, expressive of the high esteem he felt for the minister, and the + interest he had always, and should always take, in whatever could + contribute to his public and private—<i>satisfaction</i>—(again). + </p> + <p> + To an eye and ear less practised in courts than this minister’s, all that + had been said would have been really satisfactory: but Lord Oldborough + discerned a secret embarrassment in the smile, a constraint in the manner, + a care, an effort to be gracious in the language, a caution, a rounding of + the periods, a recurrence to technical phrases of compliment and amity, a + want of the free fluent language of the heart; language which, as it + flows, whether from sovereign or subject, leaves a trace that the art of + courtier or of monarch cannot imitate. In all attempts at such imitation, + there is a want, of which vanity and even interest is not always sensible, + but which feeling perceives instantly. Lord Oldborough felt it—and + twice, during this audience, he was on the point of offering his + resignation, and twice, exerting strong power over himself, he refrained. + </p> + <p> + He saw plainly that he was not where he had been in the king’s confidence; + that his enemies had been at work, and, in some measure, had succeeded; + that suspicions had been infused into the king’s mind. That his king had + doubted him, his majesty had confessed—and Lord Oldborough discerned + that there was no genuine joy at the moment his majesty was undeceived, no + real anxiety for his honour, only the ostensible manifestation suitable to + the occasion—repeatable—or recordable. + </p> + <p> + Still there was nothing of which he could complain; every expression, if + written down or repeated, must have appeared proper and gracious from the + sovereign to his minister; and for that minister to resign at such a + moment, from pride or pique, would have been fatal to the dignity, perhaps + to the integrity, of his character. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough reasoned thus as he stood in the presence of the king, and + compelled himself, during the whole audience, and to the last parting + moment, to preserve an air and tone of calm, respectful self-possession. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + </h2> + <p> + During Lord Oldborough’s absence, his faithful secretary had been active + in his service. Mr. Temple went immediately to his friend Alfred Percy. + Alfred had just returned fatigued from the courts, and was resting + himself, in conversation with his wife and Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to disturb you, Alfred,” said Mr. Temple, “but I must take you + away from these ladies to consult you on particular business.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! let the particular business wait till he has rested himself,” said + Mrs. Percy, “unless it be a matter of life and death.” + </p> + <p> + “Life and death!” cried Lady Frances Arlington, running in at the open + door—“Yes, it is a matter of life and death!—Stay, Mr. Temple! + Mr. Percy! going the moment I come into the room—Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible it would be,” said Mr. Temple, “in any other case; but—” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘When a lady’s in the case, + You know all other things give place,’” + </pre> + <p> + cried Lady Frances. “So, positively, gentlemen, I stop the way. But, Mr. + Temple, to comfort you—for I never saw a man, gallant or ungallant, + look so impatient—I shall not be able to stay above a moment—Thank + you, Mrs. Percy, I can’t sit down—Mrs. Crabstock, the crossest of + Crabstocks and stiffest of pattern-women, is in the carriage waiting for + me. Give me joy—I have accomplished my purpose, and without Lady + Jane Granville’s assistance—obtained a permit to go with Lady Trant, + and made her take me to Lady Angelica’s last night. Grand conversazione!—Saw + the German baron! Caught both the profiles—have ‘em here—defy + you not to smile. Look,” cried her ladyship, drawing out of her <i>reticule</i> + a caricature, which she put into Caroline’s hand; and, whilst she was + looking at it, Lady Frances went on speaking rapidly. “Only a sketch, a + scrawl in pencil, while they thought I was copying a Sonnet to Wisdom—on + the worst bit of paper, too, in the world—old cover of a letter I + stole from Lady Trant’s <i>reticule</i> while she was at cards. Mr. + Temple, you shall see my <i>chef-d’oeuvre</i> by and by; don’t look at the + reverse of the medal, pray. Did not I tell you, you were the most + impatient man in the world?” + </p> + <p> + It was true that Mr. Temple was at this instant most impatient to get + possession of the paper, for on the back of that cover of the letter, on + which the caricature was drawn, the hand-writing of the direction appeared + to him—He dared scarcely believe his eyes—his hopes. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Crabstock, my lady,” said the footman, “is waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, sir,” said Lady Frances: “so, Caroline, you won’t see the + likeness. Very well; if I can’t get a compliment, I must be off. When you + draw a caricature, I won’t praise it. Here! Mr. Temple, one look, since + you are dying for it.” + </p> + <p> + “One look will not satisfy me,” cried Mr. Temple, seizing the paper: “your + ladyship must leave the drawing with us till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Us—must</i>. Given at our court of St. James’s. Lord + Oldborough’s own imperative style.” + </p> + <p> + “Imperative! no; humbly I beseech your ladyship, thus humbly,” cried Mr. + Temple, kneeling in jest, but keeping in earnest fast hold of the paper. + </p> + <p> + “But why—why? Are you acquainted with Lady Angelica? I did not know + you knew her.” + </p> + <p> + “It is excellent!—It is admirable!—I cannot let it go. This + hand that seized it long shall hold the prize.” + </p> + <p> + “The man’s mad! But don’t think I’ll give it to you—I would not give + it to my mother: but I’ll lend it to you, if you’ll tell me honestly why + you want it.” + </p> + <p> + “Honestly—I want to show it to a particular friend, who will be + delighted with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me who, this minute, or you shall not have it.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Crabstock, my lady, bids me say, the duchess—” + </p> + <p> + “The duchess—the deuce!—if she’s come to the duchess, I must + go. I hope your man, Mrs. Percy, won’t tell Mrs. Crabstock he saw this + gentleman kneeling.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Crabstock’s getting out, my lady,” said the footman, returning. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Temple, for mercy’s sake, get up.” + </p> + <p> + “Never, till your ladyship gives the drawing.” + </p> + <p> + “There! there! let me go—audacious!” + </p> + <p> + “Good morning to you, Mrs. Percy—Good bye, Caroline—Be at Lady + Jane’s to-night, for I’m to be there.” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship ran off, and met Mrs. Crabstock on the stairs, with whom we + leave her to make her peace as she pleases. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Temple, I believe you are out of your senses,” said Alfred: “I + never saw any man so importunate about a drawing that is not worth a straw—trembling + with eagerness, and kneeling!—Caroline, what do you think Rosamond + would have thought of all this?” + </p> + <p> + “If she knew the whole, she would have thought I acted admirably,” said + Mr. Temple. “But come, I have business.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred took him into his study, and there the whole affair was explained. + Mr. Temple had brought with him the specimen of the forgery to show to + Alfred, and, upon comparing it with the handwriting on the cover of the + letter on which the caricature was drawn, the similarity appeared to be + strikingly exact. The cover, which had been stolen, as Lady Frances + Arlington said, from Lady Trant’s <i>reticule</i>, was directed to Captain + Nuttall. He was one of the persons to whom forged letters had been + written, as appeared by the list which Lord Oldborough had left with Mr. + Temple. The secretary was almost certain that his lordship had never + written with his own hand to any Captain Nuttall; but this he could ask + the moment he should see Lord Oldborough again. It seemed as if this paper + had never been actually used as the cover of a letter, for it had no + post-mark, seal, or wafer. Upon farther inspection, it was perceived that + a <i>t</i> had been left out in the name of <i>Nuttall</i>; and it + appeared probable that the cover had been thrown aside, and a new one + written, in consequence of this omission. But Alfred did not think it + possible that Lady Trant could be the forger of these letters, because he + had seen some of her ladyship’s notes of invitation to Caroline, and they + were written in a wretched cramped hand. + </p> + <p> + “But that cramped hand might be feigned to conceal the powers of + penmanship,” said Mr. Temple. + </p> + <p> + “Well! granting her ladyship’s talents were equal to the mere execution,” + Alfred persisted in thinking she had not abilities sufficient to invent or + combine all the parts of such a scheme. “She might be an accomplice, but + she must have had a principal—and who could that principal be?” + </p> + <p> + The same suspicion, the same person, came at the same moment into the + heads of both gentlemen, as they sat looking at each other. + </p> + <p> + “There is an intimacy between them,” said Alfred. “Recollect all the pains + Lady Trant took for Mrs. Falconer about English Clay—they—” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Falconer! But how could she possibly get at Lord Oldborough’s + private seal—a seal that is always locked up—a seal never used + to any common letter, never to any but those written by his own hand to + some private friend, and on some very particular occasion? Since I have + been with him I have not seen him use that seal three times.” + </p> + <p> + “When and to whom, can you recollect?” said Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “I recollect!—I have it all!” exclaimed Mr. Temple, striking the + table—“I have it! But, Lady Frances Arlington—I am sorry she + is gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Why! what of her?—Lady Frances can have nothing more to do with the + business.” + </p> + <p> + “She has a great deal more, I can assure you—but without knowing + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of that I am certain, or all the world would have known it long ago: but + tell me how.” + </p> + <p> + “I recollect, at the time when I was dangling after Lady Frances—there’s + good in every thing—just before we went down to Falconer-court, her + ladyship, who, you know, has always some reigning fancy, was distracted + about what she called <i>bread-seals</i>. She took off the impression of + seals with bread—no matter how, but she did—and used to + torment me—no, I thought it a great pleasure at the time—to + procure for her all the pretty seals I could.” + </p> + <p> + “But, surely, you did not give her Lord Oldborough’s?” + </p> + <p> + “I!—not I!—how could you imagine such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “You were in love, and might have forgotten consequences.” + </p> + <p> + “A man in love may forget every thing, I grant—except his fidelity. + No, I never gave the seal; but I perfectly recollect Lady Frances showing + it to me in her collection, and my asking her how she came by it.” + </p> + <p> + “And how did she?” + </p> + <p> + “From the cover of a note which the duke, her uncle, had received from + Lord Oldborough; and I, at the time, remembered his lordship’s having + written it to the Duke of Greenwich on the birth of his grandson. Lord + Oldborough had, upon a former occasion, affronted his grace by sending him + a note sealed with a wafer—this time his lordship took special care, + and sealed it with his private <i>seal of honour</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Well! But how does this bring the matter home to Mrs. Falconer?” said + Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “Stay—I am bringing it as near home to her as possible. We all went + down to Falconer-court together; and there I remember Lady Frances had her + collection of bread-seals, and was daubing and colouring them with + vermilion—and Mrs. Falconer was so anxious about them—and Lady + Frances gave her several—I must see Lady Frances again directly, to + inquire whether she gave her, among the rest, Lord Oldborough’s—I’ll + go to Lady Jane Granville’s this evening on purpose. But had I not better + go this moment to Lady Trant?” + </p> + <p> + Alfred advised, that having traced the matter thus far, they should not + hazard giving any alarm to Lady Trant or to Mrs. Falconer, but should + report to Lord Oldborough what progress had been made. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Temple accordingly went home, to be in readiness for his lordship’s + return. In the mean time the first exaltation of indignant pride having + subsided, and his cool judgment reflecting upon what had passed, Lord + Oldborough considered that, however satisfactory to his own mind might be + the feeling of his innocence, the proofs of it were necessary to satisfy + the public; he saw that his character would be left doubtful, and at the + mercy of his enemies, if he were in pique and resentment hastily to + resign, before he had vindicated his integrity. “<i>If</i> your proofs be + produced, my lord!”—these words recurred to him, and his anxiety to + obtain these proofs rose high; and high was his satisfaction the moment he + saw his secretary, for by the first glance at Mr. Temple’s countenance he + perceived that some discovery had been made. + </p> + <p> + Alfred, that night, received through Mr. Temple his lordship’s request, + that he would obtain what farther information he could relative to the + private seal, in whatever way he thought most prudent. His lordship + trusted entirely to his discretion—Mr. Temple was engaged with other + business. + </p> + <p> + Alfred went with Caroline to Lady Jane Granville’s, to meet Lady Frances + Arlington; he entered into conversation, and by degrees brought her to his + point, playing all the time with her curiosity, and humouring her + childishness, while he carried on his cross-examination. + </p> + <p> + At first she could not recollect any thing about making the seals he + talked of. “It was a fancy that had passed—and a past fancy,” she + said, “was like a past love, or a past beauty, good for nothing but to be + forgotten.” However, by proper leading of the witness, and suggesting + time, place, and circumstance, he did bring to the fair lady’s mind all + that he wanted her to remember. She could not conceive what interest Mr. + Percy could take in the matter—it was some jest about Mr. Temple, + she was sure. Yes, she did recollect a seal with a Cupid riding a lion, + that Mr. Temple gave her just before they went to Falconer-court—was + that what he meant? + </p> + <p> + “No—but a curious seal—” (Alfred described the device.) + </p> + <p> + “Lord Oldborough’s! Yes, there was some such odd seal.” But it was not + given to her by Mr. Temple—she took that from a note to her uncle, + the Duke of Greenwich. + </p> + <p> + Yes—that, Alfred said, he knew; but what did her ladyship do with + it? + </p> + <p> + “You know how I got it! Bless me! you seem to know every thing I do and + say. You know my affairs vastly well—you act the conjuror admirably—pray, + can you tell me whom I am to marry?” + </p> + <p> + “That I will—when your ladyship has told me to whom you gave that + seal.” + </p> + <p> + “That I would, and welcome, if I could recollect—but I really can’t. + If you think I gave it to Mr. Temple, I assure you, you are mistaken—you + may ask him.” + </p> + <p> + “I know your ladyship did not give it to Mr. Temple—but to whom did + you give it?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember now—not to any gentleman, after all—you are + positively out. I gave it to Mrs. Falconer.” + </p> + <p> + “You are certain of that, Lady Frances Arlington?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain, Mr. Alfred Percy.” + </p> + <p> + “And how can you prove it to me, Lady Frances?” + </p> + <p> + “The easiest way in the world—by asking Mrs. Falconer. Only I don’t + go there now much, since Georgiana and I have quarrelled—but what + can make you so curious about it?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a secret.”—At the word <i>secret</i>, her attention was + fixed.—“May I ask if your ladyship would know the seal again if you + saw it?—Is this any thing like the impression?” (showing her the + seal on the forged cover.) + </p> + <p> + “The very same that I gave Mrs. Falconer, I’ll swear to it—I’ll tell + you how I know it particularly. There’s a little outer rim here, with + points to it, which there is not to the other. I fastened my bread-seal + into an old setting of my own, from which I had lost the stone. Mrs. + Falconer took a fancy to it, among a number of others, so I let her have + it. Now I have answered all your questions—answer mine—Whom am + I to marry?” + </p> + <p> + “Your ladyship will marry whomsoever—your ladyship <i>pleases</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “That was an ambiguous answer,” she observed; “for that she <i>pleased</i> + every body.” Her ladyship was going to run on with some further questions, + but Alfred pretending that the oracle was not permitted to answer more + explicitly, left her completely in the dark as to what his meaning had + been in this whole conversation. + </p> + <p> + He reported progress to Lord Oldborough—and his lordship slept as + soundly this night as he did the night after he had been attacked by the + mob. + </p> + <p> + The next morning the first person he desired to see was Mr. Falconer—his + lordship sent for him into his cabinet. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Commissioner Falconer, I promised to give you notice, whenever I + should see any probability of my going out of power.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heaven! my lord,” exclaimed the commissioner, starting back. The + surprise, the consternation were real—Lord Oldborough had his eye + upon him to determine that point. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible, surely!—I hope—” + </p> + <p> + His hope flitted at the moment to the Duke of Greenwich—but returned + instantly: he had made no terms—had missed his time. If Lord + Oldborough should go out of office—his place, his pension, gone—utter + ruin. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough marked the vacillation and confusion of his countenance, + and saw that he was quite unprepared. + </p> + <p> + “I hope—Merciful Powers! I trust—I thought your lordship had + triumphed over all your enemies, and was firmer in favour and power than + ever. What can have occurred?” + </p> + <p> + Without making any answer, Lord Oldborough beckoned to the commissioner to + approach nearer the window where his lordship was standing, and then + suddenly put into his hand the cover with the forged handwriting and seal. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to understand by this, my lord?” said the bewildered + commissioner, turning it backwards and forwards. “Captain Nuttall!—I + never saw the man in my life. May I ask, my lord, what I am to comprehend + from this?” + </p> + <p> + “I see, sir, that you know nothing of the business.” + </p> + <p> + The whole was explained by Lord Oldborough succinctly. The astonishment + and horror in the poor commissioner’s countenance and gestures, and still + more, the eagerness with which he begged to be permitted to try to + discover the authors of this forgery, were sufficient proofs that he had + not the slightest suspicion that the guilt could be traced to any of his + own family. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough’s look, fixed on the commissioner, expressed what it had + once before expressed—“Sir, from my soul, I pity you!” + </p> + <p> + The commissioner saw this look, and wondered why Lord Oldborough should + pity <i>him</i> at a time when all his lordship’s feelings should + naturally be for himself. + </p> + <p> + “My lord, I would engage we shall discover—we shall trace it.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe that I have discovered—that I have traced it,” said Lord + Oldborough; and he sighed. + </p> + <p> + Now that sigh was more incomprehensible to the commissioner than all the + rest, and he stood with his lips open for a moment before he could utter, + “Why then resign, my lord?” + </p> + <p> + “That is my affair,” said Lord Oldborough. “Let us, if you please, sir, + think of yours; for, probably, this is the only time I shall ever more + have it in my power to be of the least service to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! my lord—my lord, don’t say so!” said the commissioner quite + forgetting all his artificial manner, and speaking naturally: “the last + time you shall have it in your power!—Oh! my dear lord, don’t say + so!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, I must—it gives me pain—you see it does.” + </p> + <p> + “At such a time as this to think of me instead of yourself! My lord, I + never knew you till this moment—so well.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I you, sir,” said Lord Oldborough. “It is the more unfortunate for us + both, that our connexion and intercourse must now for ever cease.” + </p> + <p> + “Never, never, my lord, if you were to go out of power to-morrow—which + Heaven, in its mercy and justice, forbid! I could never forget the + goodness—I would never desert—in spite of all interest—I + should continue—I hope your lordship would permit me to pay my duty—all + intercourse could never cease.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough saw, and almost smiled at the struggle between the + courtier and the man—the confusion in the commissioner’s mind + between his feelings and his interest. Partly his lordship relieved, and + partly he pained Mr. Falconer, by saying, in his firm tone, “I thank you, + Mr. Falconer; but all intercourse must cease. After this hour, we meet no + more. I beg you, sir, to collect your spirits, and to listen to me calmly. + Before this day is at an end, you will understand why all farther + intercourse between us would be useless to your interest, and incompatible + with my honour. Before many hours are past, a blow will be struck which + will go to your heart—for I see you have one—and deprive you + of the power of thought. It is my wish to make that blow fall as lightly + upon you as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! my lord, your resignation would indeed be a blow I could never + recover. The bare apprehension deprives me at this moment of all power of + thought; but still I hope—” + </p> + <p> + “Hear me, sir, I beg, without interruption: it is my business to think for + you. Go immediately to the Duke of Greenwich, make what terms with him you + can—make what advantage you can of the secret of my approaching + resignation—a secret I now put in your power to communicate to his + grace, and which no one yet suspects—I having told it to no one + living but to yourself. Go quickly to the duke—time presses—I + wish you success—and a better patron than I have been, than my + principles would permit me to be. Farewell, Mr. Falconer.” + </p> + <p> + The commissioner moved towards the door when Lord Oldborough said “<i>Time + presses</i>;” but the commissioner stopped—turned back—could + not go: the tears—real tears—rolled down his cheeks—Lord + Oldborough went forward, and held out his hand to him—the + commissioner kissed it, with the reverence with which he would have kissed + his sovereign’s hand; and bowing, he involuntarily backed to the door, as + if quitting the presence of majesty. + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity that man was bred a mere courtier, and that he is cursed + with a family on none of whom there is any dependence,” thought Lord + Oldborough, as the door closed upon the commissioner for ever. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough delayed an hour purposely, to give Mr. Falconer advantage + of the day with the Duke of Greenwich: then ordered his carriage, and + drove to—Mrs. Falconer’s. + </p> + <p> + Great was her surprise at the minister’s entrance.—“Concerned the + commissioner was not at home.” + </p> + <p> + “My business is with Mrs. Falconer.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord—your lordship—the honour and the pleasure of a visit—Georgiana, + my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Falconer nodded to her daughter, who most unwillingly, and as if + dying with curiosity, retired. + </p> + <p> + The smile died away upon Mrs. Falconer’s lips as she observed the stern + gravity of Lord Oldborough’s countenance. She moved a chair towards his + lordship—he stood, and leaning on the back of the chair, paused, as + he looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “What is to come?—Cunningham, perhaps,” thought Mrs. Falconer; “or + perhaps something about John. When will he speak?—I can’t—I + must—I am happy to see your lordship looking so well.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Falconer acquainted with Lady Trant?” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Trant—yes, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy! Is it possible?—No, for her own sake she would not betray + me,” thought Mrs. Falconer. + </p> + <p> + “Intimately?” said Lord Oldborough. + </p> + <p> + “Intimately—that is, as one’s intimate with every body of a certain + sort—one visits—but no farther—I can’t say I have the + honour—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Falconer was so distracted by seeing Lord Oldborough searching in his + pocket-book for a letter, that in spite of all her presence of mind, she + knew not what she said; and all her presence of countenance failed, when + Lord Oldborough placed before her eyes the cover directed to Captain + Nuttall. + </p> + <p> + Can you guess how this came into Lady Trant’s possession, madam?” + </p> + <p> + “I protest, my lord,” her voice trembling, in spite of her utmost efforts + to command it, “I don’t know—nor can I conceive—” + </p> + <p> + “Nor can you conceive by whom it was written, madam?” + </p> + <p> + “It appears—it bears a resemblance—some likeness—as far + as I recollect—but it is so long since I have seen your lordship’s + own hand—and hands are so like—sometimes—and I am so bad + a judge—every hand, all fashionable hands, are so like.” + </p> + <p> + “And every seal like every seal?” said Lord Oldborough, placing the + counterfeit seal before Mrs. Falconer. “I recommend it to you, madam, to + waste no farther time in evasion; but to deliver to me the counterpart of + this seal, the impression of my private seal, which you had from Lady + Frances Arlington.” + </p> + <p> + “A mere bread-seal! Her ladyship surely has not said—I really have + lost it—if I ever had it—I declare your lordship terrifies me + so, by this strange mode—” + </p> + <p> + “I recommend it to you once more, madam, and for the last time I earnestly + recommend it to you, to deliver up to me that seal, for I have sworn to my + belief that it is in your possession; a warrant will in consequence be + issued, to seize and search your papers. The purport of my present visit, + of which I should gladly have been spared the pain, is to save you, madam, + from the public disgrace of having a warrant executed. Do not faint, + madam, if you can avoid it, nor go into hysterics; for if you do, I must + retire, and the warrant must be executed. Your best course is to open that + desk, to give me up the seal, to make to me at this instant a full + confession of all you know of this transaction. If you do thus, for your + husband’s sake, madam, I will, as far as I can consistently with what is + due to myself, spare you the shame of an arrest.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Falconer, with trembling hands, unlocked the desk, and delivered the + seal. + </p> + <p> + “And a letter which I see in the same hand-writing, madam, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + She gave it; and then, unable to support herself longer, sunk upon a sofa: + but she neither fainted nor screamed—she was aware of the + consequences. Lord Oldborough opened the window to give her air. She was + relieved by a burst of tears, and was silent—and nothing was heard + but her sobs, which she endeavoured to suppress in vain. She was more + relieved on looking up by one glance at Lord Oldborough’s countenance, + where she saw compassion working strongly. + </p> + <p> + But before she could take any advantage of it, the expression was changed, + the feeling was controlled: he was conscious of its weakness—he + recollected what public justice, and justice to his own character, + required—he recollected all the treachery, the criminality, of which + she had been guilty. + </p> + <p> + “Madam, you are not now in a condition, I see, to explain yourself farther—I + will relieve you from my presence: my reproaches you will never hear; but + I shall expect from you, before one hour, such an avowal in writing of + this whole transaction, as may, with the written confession of Lady Trant, + afford the proofs which are due to my sovereign, and to the public, of my + integrity.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Falconer bowed her head, covered her face, clasped her hands in + agony: as Lord Oldborough retired, she sprang up, followed to throw + herself at his feet, yet without knowing what she could say. + </p> + <p> + “The commissioner is innocent!—If you forsake him, he is undone—all, + all of us, utterly ruined! Oh! Georgiana! Georgiana! where are you? speak + for me!” + </p> + <p> + Georgiana was in an inner apartment, trying on a new robe <i>à la + Georgienne</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever you may wish farther to say to me, madam,” said Lord Oldborough, + disengaging himself from her, and passing decidedly on, before Georgiana + appeared, “you will put in writing, and let me have within this hour—or + never.” + </p> + <p> + Within that hour, Commissioner Falconer brought, for Lord Oldborough, the + paper his wife had drawn up, but which he was obliged to deliver to Mr. + Temple; for Lord Oldborough had so ordered, and his lordship persevered in + refusing to see him more. Mrs. Falconer’s paper was worded with all the + art and address of which she was mistress, and all the pathos she could + command—Lord Oldborough looked only for facts—these he marked + with his pencil, and observed where they corroborated and where they + differed from Lady Trant’s confession, which Mr. Temple had been charged + to obtain during his lordship’s visit to Mrs. Falconer. The greater part + of the night Lord Oldborough and Mr. Alfred Percy were employed arranging + these documents, so as to put the proofs in the clearest and shortest + form, to be laid before his majesty the succeeding day. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that Mrs. Falconer had been first tempted to these practices + by the distress for money into which extravagant entertainments, or, as + she stated, the expenses incident to her situation—expenses which + far exceeded her income—had led her. It was supposed, from her + having kept open house at times for the minister, that she and the + commissioner had great influence; she had been applied to—presents + had been offered, and she had long withstood. But at length, Lady Trant + acting in concert with her, they had been supplied with information by a + clerk in one of the offices, a relation of Lady Trant, who was a vain, + incautious youth, and, it seems, did not know the use made of his + indiscretion: he told what promotions he heard spoken of—what + commissions were making out. The ladies prophesied, and their prophecies + being accomplished, they gained credit. For some time they kept themselves + behind the scenes—and many, applying to A.B., and dealing with they + did not know whom, paid for promotions which would have come unpaid for; + others paid, and were never promoted, and wrote letters of reproach—Captain + Nuttall was among these, and he it was, who, finding himself duped, first + stirred in the business; and by means of an active member of opposition, + to whom he made known his secret grievance, brought the whole to light. + </p> + <p> + The proofs arranged (and Lord Oldborough never slept till they were + perfected), he reposed tranquilly. The next day, asking an audience of his + majesty, he simply laid the papers on his majesty’s table, observing that + he had been so fortunate as to succeed in tracing the forgery, and that he + trusted these papers contained all the necessary proofs. + </p> + <p> + His lordship bowed and retired instantly, leaving his majesty to examine + the papers alone. + </p> + <p> + The resolution to resign his ministerial station had long been forming in + Lord Oldborough’s mind. It was not a resolution taken suddenly in pride or + pique, but after reflection, and upon strong reasons. It was a measure + which he had long been revolving in his secret thoughts. During the + enthusiasm of political life, the proverbial warnings against the vanity + of ambition, and the danger of dependence on the favour of princes, had + passed on his ear but as a schoolboy’s lesson: a phrase “to point a moral, + or adorn a tale.” He was not a reading man, and the maxims of books he + disregarded or disbelieved; but in the observations he made for himself he + trusted: the lessons he drew from life were never lost upon him, and he + acted in consequence of that which he believed, with a decision, vigour, + and invariability, seldom found even among philosophers. Of late years he + had, in real life, seen striking instances of the treachery of courtiers, + and had felt some symptoms of insecurity in the smile of princes. Fortune + had been favourable to him—she was fickle—he determined to + quit her before she should change. Ambition, it is true, had tempted him—he + had risen to her highest pinnacle: he would not be hurled from high—he + would descend voluntarily, and with dignity. Lord Oldborough’s habits of + thought were as different as possible from those of a metaphysician: he + had reflected less upon the course of his own mind than upon almost any + other subject; but he knew human nature practically; disquisitions on + habit, passion, or the sovereign good, were unread by him, nor, in the + course of his life, had he ever formed a system, moral or prudential; but + the same penetration, the same <i>longanimity</i>, which enabled him to + govern the affairs of a great nation, gave him, when his attention turned + towards himself, a foresight for his own happiness. In the meridian of + life, he had cherished ambition, as the only passion that could supply him + with motive strong enough to call great powers into great action. But of + late years he had felt something, not only of the waywardness of fortune, + but of the approaches of age—not in his mind, but in his health, + which had suffered by his exertions. The attacks of hereditary gout had + become more violent and more frequent. If he lived, these would, probably, + at seasons, often incapacitate him from his arduous ministerial duties: + much, that he did well, must be ill done by deputy. He had ever reprobated + the practice of leaving the business of the nation to be done by clerks + and underlings in office. Yet to this the minister, however able, however + honest, must come at last, if he persist in engrossing business and power + beyond what an individual can wield. Love for his country, a sense of his + own honour, integrity, and consistency, here combined to determine this + great minister to retire while it was yet time—to secure, at once, + the dignity and happiness of the evening of life. The day had been devoted + to good and high purposes—that was enough—he could now, + self-satisfied and full of honour, bid adieu to ambition. This resolution, + once formed, was fixed. In vain even his sovereign endeavoured to dissuade + him from carrying it into execution. + </p> + <p> + When the king had examined the papers which Lord Oldborough had laid + before him, his majesty sent for his lordship again, and the moment the + minister entered the cabinet, his majesty expressed his perfect + satisfaction in seeing that his lordship had, with so little trouble, and + with his usual ability, got to the bottom of this affair. + </p> + <p> + What was to be done next? The Duke of Greenwich was to be summoned. His + grace was in astonishment when he saw the papers which contained Lord + Oldborough’s complete vindication, and the crimination of Mrs. Falconer. + Through the whole, as he read on, his grace had but one idea, viz. + “Commissioner Falconer has deceived me with false intelligence of the + intended resignation.” Not one word was said by Lord Oldborough to give + his grace hope of that event—till the member of opposition by whom + the forged letters had been produced—till all those who knew or had + heard any thing of the transaction were clearly and fully apprised of the + truth. After this was established, and that all saw Lord Oldborough clear + and bright in honour, and, at least apparently, as firm in power as he had + ever been, to the astonishment of his sovereign his lordship begged + permission to resign. + </p> + <p> + Whatever might have been the effect of misrepresentation, to lower Lord + Oldborough’s favour, at the moment when he spoke of retiring, his king + recollected all his past services—all that must, in future, be + hazarded and lost in parting with such a minister—so eminent in + abilities, of such tried integrity, of such fidelity, such attachment to + his person, such a zealous supporter of royalty, such a favourite with his + people, so successful as well as so able a minister! Never was he so much + valued as at this moment. All his sovereign’s early attachment returned in + full strength and warmth. + </p> + <p> + “No, my lord, you must not—you will not leave me.” + </p> + <p> + These simple words, spoken with the warmth of the heart, touched Lord + Oldborough more than can be told. It was difficult to resist them, + especially when he saw tears in the eyes of the monarch whom he loved. + </p> + <p> + But his resolution was taken. He thanked his majesty, not with the + common-place thanks of courtiers, but with his whole heart and soul he + thanked his majesty for this gracious condescension—this testimony + of approbation—these proofs of sensibility to his attachment, which + paid—overpaid him, in a moment, for the labours of a life. The + recollection of them would be the glory, the solace of his age—could + never leave his memory while life lasted—would, he thought, be + present to him, if he should retain his senses, in his dying moment. But + he was, in the midst of this strong feeling, firm to the resolution his + reason had taken. He humbly represented, that he had waited for a + favourable time when the affairs of the country were in a prosperous + train, when there were few difficulties to embarrass those whom his + majesty might name to succeed to his place at the head of administration: + there were many who were ambitious of that station—zeal, talents, + and the activity of youth were at his majesty’s command. For himself, he + found it necessary for his health and happiness to retire from public + business; and to resign the arduous trust with which he had been honoured. + </p> + <p> + “My lord, if I must accept of your resignation, I must—but I do it + with regret. Is there any thing your lordship wishes—any thing you + will name for yourself or your friends, that I can do, to show my sense of + your services and merit?” + </p> + <p> + “For myself, your majesty’s bounty has left me nothing to wish.” + </p> + <p> + “For your friends, then, my lord?—Let me have the satisfaction of + obliging you through them.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing could be more gracious or more gratifying than the whole of this + parting audience. It was Lord Oldborough’s last audience. + </p> + <p> + The news of his resignation, quickly whispered at court, was not that day + publicly known or announced. The next morning his lordship’s door was + crowded beyond example in the memory of ministers. Mr. Temple, by his + lordship’s order, announced as soon as possible the minister’s having + resigned. All were in astonishment—many in sorrow: some few—a + very few of the most insignificant of the crowd, persons incapable of + generous sympathy, who thought they could follow their own paltry + interests unnoticed—left the room, without paying their farewell + respects to this great minister—minister now no more. + </p> + <p> + The moment he appeared, there was sudden silence. All eyes were fixed upon + him, every one pressing to get into the circle. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, thank you for these marks of attention—of regard. Mr. + Temple has told you—you know, my friends, that I am a man without + power.” + </p> + <p> + “We know,” answered a distinguished gentleman, “that you are Lord + Oldborough. With or without power, the same in the eyes of your friends, + and of the British nation.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough bowed low, and looked gratified. His lordship then went + round the circle with an air more cheerful, more free from reserve, than + usual; with something in his manner more of sensibility, but nothing less + of dignity. All who merited distinction he distinguished by some few + appropriate words, which each remembered afterwards, and repeated to their + families and friends. He spoke or listened to each individual with the + attention of one who is courting, not quitting, popularity. Free from that + restraint and responsibility which his public and ministerial duties had + imposed upon him, he now entered into the private concerns of all, and + gave his parting assistance or counsel. He noted all grievances—registered + all promises that ought to be recommended to the care of his successor in + office. The wishes of many, to whom he had forborne to give any + encouragement, he now unexpectedly fulfilled and surpassed. When all were + satisfied, and had nothing more to ask or to hope from him, they yet + delayed, and parted from Lord Oldborough with difficulty and regret. + </p> + <p> + A proof that justice commands more than any other quality the respect and + gratitude of mankind. Take time and numbers into the calculation, and all + discover, in their turn, the advantage of this virtue. This minister, a + few regretted instances excepted, had shown no favour, but strict justice, + in his patronage. + </p> + <p> + All Lord Oldborough’s requests for his friends were granted—all his + recommendations attended to: it was grateful to him to feel that his + influence lasted after his power had ceased. Though the sun had apparently + set, its parting rays continued to brighten and cheer the prospect. + </p> + <p> + Under a new minister, Mr. Temple declined accepting of the embassy which + had been offered to him. Remuneration suitable to his services, and to the + high terms in which Lord Oldborough had spoken of his merit, was promised; + and without waiting to see in what form, or manner, this promise would be + accomplished, the secretary asked and obtained permission to accompany his + revered master to his retirement. Alfred Percy, zealous and ardent in Lord + Oldborough’s service, the more this great man’s character had risen upon + his admiration, had already hastened to the country to prepare every thing + at Clermont-park for his reception. By his orders, that establishment had + been retrenched; by Alfred Percy’s activity it was restored. Services, + which the richest nobleman in the land could not have purchased, or the + highest have commanded, Alfred was proud to pay as a voluntary tribute to + a noble character. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough set out for the country at a very early hour in the + morning, and no one previously knew his intentions, except Mr. Temple. He + was desirous to avoid what it had been whispered was the design of the + people, to attend him in crowds through the streets of the metropolis. + </p> + <p> + As they drove out of town, Lord Oldborough recollected that in some + account, either of the Duke of Marlborough, or the Duke of Ormond’s + leaving London, after his dismission from court, it is said, that of all + those whom the duke had served, all those who had courted and flattered + him in the time of his prosperity and power, none showed any gratitude or + attachment, excepting one page, who appeared at the coach-door as his + master was departing, and gave some signs of genuine sorrow and respect. + </p> + <p> + “I am fortunate,” said Lord Oldborough, “in having few complaints to make + of ingratitude. I make none. The few I might make,” continued his + lordship, who now rewarded Mr. Temple’s approved fidelity, by speaking to + him with the openness and confidence of friendship, “the few I might make + have been chiefly caused by errors of my own in the choice of the persons + I have obliged. I thank Heaven, however, that upon the whole I leave + public life not only with a good conscience, but with a good opinion of + human nature. I speak not of courtiers—there is nothing of nature + about them—they are what circumstances make them. Were I to live my + life over again, the hours spent with courtiers are those which I should + most wish to be spared; but by a statesman, or a minister, these cannot be + avoided. For myself, in resigning my ministerial office, I might say, as + Charles the Fifth, when he abdicated, said to his successor, ‘I leave you + a heavy burthen; for since my shoulders have borne it, I have not passed + one day exempt from anxiety.’ + </p> + <p> + “But from the first moment I started in the course of ambition, I was + aware that tranquillity must be sacrificed; and to the last moment I + abided by the sacrifice. The good I had in view, I have reached—the + prize at which I aimed, I have won. The glory of England was my object—her + approbation my reward. Generous people!—If ever I bore toil or peril + in your cause, I am rewarded, and never shall you hear me say that ‘the + unfruitful glories please no more.’ The esteem of my sovereign!—I + possess it. It is indefeasibly mine. His favour, his smiles, are his to + give, or take away. Never shall he hear from me the <i>wailings</i> of + disappointed ambition.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. + </h2> + <p> + Caroline took advantage of the opportunity of returning home with her + brother Alfred, when he went to the country, to prepare Clermont-park for + the reception of Lord Oldborough. And now she saw her home again with more + than wonted delight. Every thing animate and inanimate seemed to smile + upon her, every heart rejoiced at her return; and she enjoyed equally the + pleasure of loving, and of being beloved by, such friends. She had been + amused and admired during her residence in London; but a life of + dissipation she had always thought, and now she was convinced from + experience, could never suit her taste or character. She would immediately + have resumed her former occupations, if Rosamond would have permitted; but + Rosamond took entire possession of her at every moment when her father or + mother had not claimed their prior right to hear and to be heard. + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, my dear, don’t natter yourself that you shall be left in peace—See!—she + is sitting down to write a letter, as if she had not been away from us + these six months—You must write to Lady Jane Granville!—Well, + finish your gratitude quickly—and no more writing, reading, or + drawing, this day; you must think of nothing but talking, or listening to + me.” + </p> + <p> + Much as she loved talking in general, Rosamond now so far preferred the + pleasure of hearing, that, with her eyes fixed on Caroline, her + countenance varying with every variety of Caroline’s expression, she sat + perfectly silent all the time her sister spoke. And scarcely was her voice + heard, even in exclamation. But, during the pauses of narrative, when the + pause lasted more than a minute, she would say, “Go on, my dear Caroline, + go on. Tell us something more.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Mr. Temple—and + Rosamond did not immediately find her fluency of speech increase. Mr. + Temple had seized the first moment that duty and gratitude to his master + and friend permitted to hasten to the Hills, nor had Lord Oldborough been + unmindful of his feelings. Little as his lordship was disposed to think of + love affairs, it seems he recollected those of his secretary; for, the + morning after their arrival at Clermont-park, when he proffered his + services, Lord Oldborough said, that he had only to trouble Mr. Temple to + pay a visit for him, if it would not be disagreeable, to his old friend + Mr. Percy. + </p> + <p> + “Tell him that I know his first wish will be to come to show me that it is + the man, not the minister, for whom he had a regard: tell him this proof + of his esteem is unnecessary. He will wish to see me for another reason: + he is a philosopher—and will have a philosophical curiosity to + discover how I exist without ambition. But of that he cannot yet form a + judgment—nor can I: therefore, if he pleases, let his visit be + delayed till next week. I have some papers to arrange, which I should wish + to show him, and I cannot have them sooner in readiness. If you, Mr. + Temple, can contrive to pass this week at Mr. Percy’s, let me not detain + you. There is no fear,” added he, smiling, that “in solitude I should be + troubled by the spectre which haunted the minister in Gil Blas in his + retirement.” + </p> + <p> + Never was man happier than Mr. Temple, when he found himself in the midst + of the family circle at the Hills, and seated beside Rosamond, free from + all cares, all business, all intrigues of courtiers, and restraints of + office; no longer in the horrors of, attendance and dependence, but with + the promise of a competent provision for life—with the consciousness + of its having been, honourably obtained; and to brighten all, the hope, + the delightful hope, of soon prevailing on the woman he loved, to become + his for ever. + </p> + <p> + Alfred Percy had been obliged to return directly to London, and for once + in his life Mr. Temple benefited by the absence of his friend. In the + small house at the Hills, Alfred’s was the only room that could have been + spared for him; and in this room, scarcely fourteen feet square, the + ex-secretary found himself lodged more entirely to his satisfaction than + he had ever been in the sumptuous apartments of the great. The happy are + not fastidious as to their accommodations; they never miss the painted + ceiling, or the long arcade, and their slumbers require no bed of down. + The lover’s only fear was, that this happy week would pass too swiftly; + and, indeed, time flew unperceived by him, and by Rosamond. One fine day, + after dinner, Mrs. Percy proposed, that instead of sitting longer in the + house, they should have their dessert of strawberries in some pleasant + place in the lawn or wood. Rosamond eagerly seconded this proposal, and + whispered, “Caroline’s bower.” + </p> + <p> + Thither they went. This bower of Caroline, this favourite spot, Rosamond, + during her sister’s absence, had taken delight in ornamenting, and it did + credit as much to her taste as to her kindness. She had opened a view on + one side to a waterfall among the rocks; on the other, to a winding path + descending through the glen. Honey-suckle, rose, and eglantine, near the + bower, were in rich and wild profusion; all these, the song of birds, and + even the smell of the new-mown grass, seemed peculiarly delightful to Mr. + Temple. Of late years he had been doomed to close confinement in a capital + city; but all his tastes were rural, and, as he said, he feared he should + expose himself to the ridicule Dr. Johnson throws on those “who talk of + sheep and goats, and who babble of green fields.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percy thought Dr. Johnson was rather too intolerant of rural + description, and of the praises of a country life, but acknowledged that + he quite agreed with him in disliking, pastorals—excepting always + that beautiful drama, “The Gentle Shepherd.” Mr. Percy said, that, in his + opinion, a life purely pastoral must, if it could be realized, prove as + insufferably tiresome in reality, as it usually is found to be in fiction. + He hated Delias and shepherdesses, and declared that he should soon grow + tired of any companion with whom he had no other occupation in common but + “<i>tending a few sheep</i>.” There was a vast difference, he thought, + between pastoral and domestic life. His idea of domestic life comprised + all the varieties of literature, exercise, and amusement for the + faculties, with the delights of cultivated society. + </p> + <p> + The conversation turned from pastoral life and pastorals to Scotch and + English ballads and songs. Their various merits of simplicity, pathos, or + elegance, were compared and discussed. After the Reliques of Ancient + Poetry had been sufficiently admired, Rosamond and Caroline mentioned two + modern compositions, both by the same author, each exquisite in its + different style of poetry—one beautiful, the other sublime. + Rosamond’s favourite was the Exile of Erin; Caroline’s, the Mariners of + England. To justify their tastes, they repeated the poems. Caroline fixed + the attention of the company on the flag, which has + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze,” + </pre> + <p> + when suddenly her own attention seemed to be distracted by some object in + the glen below. She endeavoured to go on, but her voice faltered—her + colour changed. Rosamond, whose quick eye followed her sister’s, instantly + caught a glimpse of a gentleman coming up the path from the glen. Rosamond + started from her seat, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, “It is! It <i>is</i> + he!—It is Count Altenberg!” + </p> + <p> + They had not recovered from their astonishment when Count Altenberg stood + before them. To Mr. Percy, to Mrs. Percy, to Rosamond, to each he spoke, + before he said one word to Caroline. But one look had said all, had + spoken, and had been understood. + </p> + <p> + That he was not married she was certain—for that look said he loved + her—and her confidence in his honour was secure: Whatever had + delayed his return, or had been mysterious in his conduct, she felt + convinced that he had never been to blame. + </p> + <p> + And on his part did he read as distinctly the truth in her countenance?—Was + the high colour, the radiant pleasure in that countenance unmarked? The + joy was so veiled by feminine modesty, that he doubted, trembled, and if + at last the rapid feelings ended in hope, it was respectful hope. With + deference the most marked, mingled with dignity, tenderness, and passion, + he approached Caroline. He was too delicate, too well-bred, to distress + her by distinguishing her more particularly; but as he took the seat, + which she left for him beside her mother, the open and serene expression + of her eye, with the soft sound of her voice, in the few words she + answered to what he said, were enough to set his heart at ease. The sight + of Mr. Temple had at first alarmed the Count, but the alarm was only + momentary. One glance at Rosamond re-assured him. + </p> + <p> + Ideas, which it requires many words to tell, passed instantaneously with + the rapidity of light. After they were seated, some minutes were spent in + common-place questions and answers, such as those which Benjamin Franklin + would wisely put all together, into one formula, to satisfy curiosity. + Count Altenberg landed the preceding day—had not stopped to see any + one in England—had not even heard of Lord Oldborough’s resignation—had + proceeded directly to the Hills—had left his equipage at a town a + few miles distant—thought he had been fully master of the well-known + road, but the approach having been lately changed, he had missed his way. + </p> + <p> + This settled, to make room for a more interesting explanation, Mr. Temple + had the politeness to withdraw. Rosamond had the humanity, and Caroline + the discretion, to accompany him in his walk. + </p> + <p> + Count Altenberg then said, addressing himself to Mr. Percy, on whose + regard he seemed to have reliance, and to Mrs. Percy, whom he appeared + most anxious to interest in his favour, “You certainly, sir, as a man of + penetration, and a father; you, madam, as a mother, and as a lady who must + have been accustomed to the admiration of our sex, could not avoid seeing, + when I was in this country before, that I felt the highest admiration, + that I had formed the strongest attachment for your daughter—Miss + Caroline Percy.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. and Mrs. Percy both acknowledged that they thought Count Altenberg had + shown some preference for Caroline; but as he had never declared his + attachment, they had not felt themselves justified in inferring more from + his attentions than his general good opinion. A change in his manner, + which they observed shortly before they quitted Hungerford Castle, had + impressed them with the idea that he had no such views as they had once + been led to imagine, and their never having heard any thing from him + since, had confirmed them in this belief. + </p> + <p> + “Painful—exquisitely painful, as it was to me,” said Count + Altenberg, “I felt myself bound in honour to leave you in that error; and, + at all hazards to myself, to suffer you to continue under that persuasion, + as I was then, and have been till within these few days, in dread of being + obliged to fulfil an engagement, made without my concurrence or knowledge, + and which must for ever have precluded me from indulging the first wish of + my heart. The moment, literally the moment I was at liberty, I hastened + hither, to declare my real sentiments, and to solicit your permission to + address your daughter. But before I can expect that permission, before I + can hope for your approbation of my suit—an approbation which, I am + well aware, must depend entirely upon your opinion of my character—I + must, to explain whatever may have appeared unintelligible in my conduct, + be permitted to make you fully acquainted with the circumstances in which + I have been placed.” + </p> + <p> + Beginning with the history of his father’s letters and his own, respecting + the projected marriage with the Countess Christina, he related, nearly as + follows, all that passed, after his having, in obedience to his father’s + summons, returned home. He found contracts drawn up and ready for his + signature—the friends of both families apprized of the proposed + alliance, and every thing actually prepared for his marriage. + Remonstrances with his father were vain. The old Count said that it was + impossible to break off the match, that his honour and the honour of his + house was pledged. But independently of all promises, he considered the + accomplishment of this marriage as most desirable and advantageous: with + all the vehemence of affection, and all the force of parental authority, + he charged his son to fulfil his engagements. The old Count was a fond but + an imperious father; a good but an ambitious man. It was his belief that + love is such a transient passion, that it is folly to sacrifice to its + indulgence any of the solid and permanent interests of life. His + experience at courts, and his observation on the gallantries of young + princes and nobles, had taught him to believe that love is not only a + transient, but a variable and capricious feeling, easily changing its + object, and subsisting only by novelty. All that his son said of his + attachment to Caroline, of the certainty of its permanence, and of its + being essential to the happiness of his life, the father heard but as the + common language of every enamoured youth. He let his son speak without + interruption, but smiled incredulous, and listened only as to the voice of + one in the paroxysm of a passion, which, however violent, would + necessarily subside. Between the fits, he endeavoured to control the fever + of his mind, and as a spell repeated these words, “Albert! see the young + Countess Christina—but once—I ask no more.” + </p> + <p> + Albert, with the respect due to a father, but with the firmness due to + himself, and with all the courage which love only could have given to + oppose the authority and affection of a parent, refused to ratify the + contract that had been prepared, and declined the proposed interview. He + doubted not, he said, that the lady was all his father described—beautiful, + amiable, and of transcendant talents; he doubted not her power to win any + but a heart already won. He would enter into no invidious comparisons, nor + bid defiance to her charms—his own choice was made, he was sure of + his constancy, and he thought it not only the most honourable course, but + the most respectful to the Lady Christina, ingenuously at once, and + without having any interview with her, or her friends, to state the truth—that + the treaty had been commenced by his father without his knowledge, and + carried on under total ignorance of an attachment he had formed in + England. The father, after some expressions of anger and disappointment, + was silent, and appeared to acquiesce. He no longer openly urged the + proposed interview, but he secretly contrived that it should take place. + At a masked ball at court, Count Albert entered into conversation with a + Minerva, whose majestic air and figure distinguished her above her + companions, whose language, thoughts, and sentiments, perfectly sustained + the character which she assumed. He was struck with admiration by her + talents, and by a certain elevation of thought and sentiment, which, in + all she said, seemed the habitual expression of a real character, not the + strained language of a feigned personage. She took off her mask—he + was dazzled by her beauty. They were at this moment surrounded by numbers + of her friends and of his, who were watching the effect produced by this + interview. His father, satisfied by the admiration he saw in Count + Albert’s countenance, when they both took off their masks, approached and + whispered, “the Countess Christina.” Count Altenberg grew pale, and for a + moment stood in silent consternation. The lady smiled with an air of + haughty superiority, which in some degree relieved him, by calling his own + pride to his aid, and by convincing him that tenderness, or feminine + timidity, which he would have most dreaded to wound, were not the + characteristics of her mind. He instantly asked permission to pay his + respects to her at her father’s palace the ensuing day. She changed colour—darted + a penetrating glance at the Count; and after an incomprehensible and quick + alternation of pleasure and pain in her countenance, she replied, that + “she consented to grant Count Albert Altenberg that interview which he and + their mutual friends desired.” She then retired with friends from the + assembly. + </p> + <p> + In spite of the haughtiness of her demeanour, it had been obvious that she + had desired to make an impression upon Count Albert; and all who knew her + agreed that she had never on any occasion been seen to exert herself so + much to shine and please. She shone, but had not pleased. The father, + however, was content; an interview was promised—he trusted to the + charms and talents of the Countess—he trusted to her flattering + desire to captivate, and with impatience and confidence, he waited for the + event of the succeeding day. Some intervening hours, a night of feverish + and agonizing suspense, would have been spared to Count Albert, had he at + this time known any thing of an intrigue—an intrigue which an artful + enemy had been carrying on, with design to mortify, disgrace, and ruin his + house. The plan was worthy of him by whom it was formed—M. de + Tourville—a person, between whom and Count Albert there seemed an + incompatibility of character, and even of manner; an aversion openly, + indiscreetly shown by the Count, even from his boyish years, but + cautiously concealed on the part of M. de Tourville, masked in courtly + smiles and a diplomatic air of perfect consideration. Fear mixed with M. + de Tourville’s dislike. He was aware that if Count Albert continued in + confidence with the hereditary prince, he would, when the prince should + assume the reins of government, become, in all probability, his prime + minister, and then adieu to all M. de Tourville’s hopes of rising to + favour and fortune. Fertile in the resources of intrigue, gallant and + political, he combined them, upon this occasion, with exquisite address. + When the Countess Christina was first presented at court, he had observed + that the Prince was struck by her beauty. M. de Tourville took every means + that a courtier well knows how to employ, to flatter the taste by which he + hoped to benefit. In secret he insinuated into the lady’s ear that she was + admired by the prince. M. de Tourville knew her to be of an aspiring + character, and rightly judged that ambition was her strongest passion. + When once the hope of captivating the prince had been suggested to her, + she began to disdain the proposed alliance with the house of Altenberg; + but she concealed this disdain, till she could show it with security: she + played her part with all the ability, foresight, and consummate prudence, + of which ambition, undisturbed by love, is capable. Many obstacles opposed + her views: the projected marriage with Count Albert Altenberg—the + certainty that the reigning prince would never consent to his son’s + forming an alliance with the daughter of a subject. But the old Prince was + dying, and the Lady Christina calculated, that till his decease, she could + protract the time appointed for her marriage with Count Albert. The young + Prince might then break off the projected match, prevail upon the Emperor + to create her a Princess of the empire, and then, without derogating from + his rank, or giving offence to German ideas of propriety, he might gratify + his passion, and accomplish the fulness of her ambition. Determined to + take no counsel but her own, she never opened her scheme to any of her + friends, but pursued her plan secretly, in concert with M. de Tourville, + whom she considered but as a humble instrument devoted to her service. He + all the while considering her merely as a puppet, played by his art, to + secure at once the purposes of his interest and of his hatred. He thought + he foresaw that Count Albert would never yield his intended bride + peaceably to his prince—he knew nothing of the Count’s attachment in + England—the Lady Christina was charming—the alliance highly + advantageous to the house of Altenberg—the breaking off such a + marriage, and the disappointment of a passion which he thought the young + Countess could not fail to inspire, would, as M. de Tourville hoped, + produce an irreparable breach between the Prince and his favourite. On + Count Albert’s return from England, symptoms of alarm and jealousy had + appeared in the Prince, unmarked by all but by the Countess Christina, and + by the confidant, who was in the secret of his passion. + </p> + <p> + So far M. de Tourville’s scheme had prospered, and from the character of + the hereditary Prince, it was likely to succeed in its ultimate view. He + was a Prince of good dispositions, but wanting in resolution and civil + courage: capable of resisting the allurements of pleasure for a certain + time, but soon weary of painful endurance in any cause; with a taste for + virtue, but destitute of that power to bear and forbear, without which + there is no virtue: a hero, when supported by a stronger mind, such as + that of his friend, Count Albert; but relaxing and sinking at once, when + exposed to the influence of a flatterer such as M. de Tourville: subject + to exquisite shame and self-reproach, when he had acted contrary to his + own idea of right; yet, from the very same weakness that made him err, + disposed to be obstinate in error. M. de Tourville argued well from his + knowledge of his character, that the Prince, enamoured as he was of the + charms of the fair Christina, would not long be able to resist his + passion; and that if once he broke through his sense of honour, and + declared that passion to the destined bride of his friend, he would ever + afterwards shun and detest the man whom he had injured. All this M. de + Tourville had admirably well combined: no man understood and managed + better the weaknesses of human nature, but its strength he could not so + well estimate; and as for generosity, as he could not believe in its + sincerity, he was never prepared for its effects. The struggles which the + Prince made against his passion were greater, and of longer duration, than + M. de Tourville had expected. If Count Albert had continued absent, the + Prince might have been brought more easily to betray him; but his return + recalled, in the midst of love and jealousy, the sense of respect he had + for the superior character of this friend of his early days: he knew the + value of a friend—even at the moment he yielded his faith to a + flatterer. He could not at once forfeit the esteem of the being who + esteemed him most—he could not sacrifice the interest, and as he + thought, the happiness, of the man who loved him best. The attachment his + favourite had shown him, his truth, his confiding openness of temper, the + pleasure in his countenance when he saw him first upon his return from + England, all these operated on the heart of the Prince, and no declaration + of his passion had been made at the time when the appointed interview took + place between Count Albert and the Countess Christina at her father’s + palace. Her friends not doubting that her marriage was on the eve of its + accomplishment, had no scruple, even in that court of etiquette, in + permitting the affianced lovers to have as private a conference as each + seemed to desire. The lady’s manner was this morning most alarmingly + gracious. Count Albert was, however, struck by a difference in her air the + moment she was alone with him, from what it had been whilst in the + presence of her friends. All that he might without vanity have interpreted + as marking a desire to please, to show him favour, and to evince her + approbation, at least, of the choice her friends had made for her, + vanished the moment they withdrew. What her motives might be, Count + Altenberg could not guess; but the hope he now felt, that she was not + really inclined to consider him with partiality, rendered it more easy to + enter into that explanation, upon which he was, at all events, resolved. + With all the delicacy due to her sex, with all the deference due to her + character, and all the softenings by which politeness can soothe and + conciliate pride, he revealed to the Countess Christina the real state of + his affections: he told her the whole truth, concluding, by repeating the + assurance of his belief, that her charms and merit would be irresistible + to any heart that was disengaged. + </p> + <p> + The lady heard him in astonishment: for this turn of fate she had been + wholly unprepared—the idea of his being attached to another had + never once presented itself to her imagination; she had never calculated + on the possibility that her alliance should be declined by any individual + of a family less than sovereign. She possessed, however, pride of + character superior to her pride of rank, and strength of mind suited to + the loftiness of her ambition. With dignity in her air and countenance, + after a pause of reflection, she replied, “Count Albert Altenberg is, I + find, equal to the high character I have heard of him: deserving of my + esteem and confidence, by that which can alone command esteem and merit + confidence—sincerity. His example has recalled me to my nobler self, + and he has, in this moment, rescued me from the labyrinth of a + diplomatist. Count Albert’s sincerity I—little accustomed to + imitation, but proud to <i>follow</i> in what is good and great—shall + imitate. Know then, sir, that my heart, like your own, is engaged: and + that you may be convinced I do not mock your ear with the semblance of + confidence, I shall, at whatever hazard to myself, trust to you my secret. + My affections have a high object—are fixed upon him, whose friend + and favourite Count Albert Altenberg deservedly is. I should scorn myself—no + throne upon earth could raise me in my own opinion, if I could deceive or + betray the man who has treated me with such sincerity.” + </p> + <p> + Relieved at once by this explanation, and admiring the manner in which it + was made, mingled joy and admiration were manifest in his countenance; and + the lady forgave him the joy, in consideration of the tribute he paid to + her superiority. Admiration was a tribute he was most willing to yield at + this moment, when released from that engagement to love, which it had been + impossible for him to fulfil. + </p> + <p> + The Countess recalled his attention to her affairs and to his own. Without + his making any inquiry, she told him all that had been done, and all that + yet remained to be done, for the accomplishment of her hopes: she had been + assured, she said, by one now in the favour and private confidence of the + hereditary prince, that his inclination for her was—painfully and + with struggles, which, in her eyes, made his royal heart worthy her + conquest—suppressed by a sense of honour to his friend. + </p> + <p> + “This conflict would now cease,” Count Albert said. “It should be his + immediate care to relieve his Prince from all difficulty on his account.” + </p> + <p> + “By what means?” the Countess asked. + </p> + <p> + “Simply by informing him of the truth—as far as I am concerned. Your + secret, madam, is safe—your confidence sacred. Of all that concerns + myself—my own attachment, and the resignation of any pretensions + that might interfere with his, he shall immediately be acquainted with the + whole truth.” + </p> + <p> + The Countess coloured, and repeating the words, “<i>the whole truth</i>,” + looked disconcerted, and in great perplexity replied, that Count Albert’s + speaking to the Prince directly—his immediate resignation of his + pretensions—would, perhaps, defeat her plans. This was not the + course she had intended to pursue—far from that which M. de + Tourville had pointed out. After some moments’ reflection, she said, “I + abide by the truth—speak to the prince—be it so: I trust to + your honour and discretion to speak to him in such terms as not to + implicate me, to commit my delicacy, or to derogate from my dignity. We + shall see then whether he loves me as I desire to be loved. If he does, he + will free me, at once, from all difficulty with my friends, for he will + speak <i>en prince</i>—and not speak in vain; if he loves me not, I + need not tell you, sir, that you are equally free. My friends shall be + convinced that I will never be the bride of any other man.” + </p> + <p> + After the explanation with the Lady Christina, Count Albert lost no time; + he went instantly to the palace. In his way thither, he was met by one of + the pages, who told him the Prince desired to see him immediately. He + found the Prince alone. Advancing to meet him, with great effort in his + manner to command his emotion, the Prince said, “I have sent for you, + Count Albert, to give you a proof that the friendship of Princes is not, + in every instance, so vain a thing as it is commonly believed to be. Mine + for you has withstood strong temptation:—you come from the Countess + Christina, I believe, and can measure, better than any one, the force of + that temptation. Know, that in your absence it has been my misfortune to + become passionately enamoured of your destined bride; but I have never, + either by word or look, directly or indirectly, infringed on what I felt + to be due to your friendship and to my own honour. Never did I give her + the slightest intimation of my passion, never attempted to take any of the + advantages which my situation might be supposed to give.” + </p> + <p> + Count Albert had just received the most convincing testimony corroborating + these assertions—he was going to express his sense of the conduct of + his Prince, and to explain his own situation, but the Prince went on + speaking with the eagerness of one who fears his own resolution, who has + to say something which he dreads that he should not be able to resume or + finish, if his feelings should meet with any interruption. + </p> + <p> + “And now let me, as your friend and prince, congratulate you, Count + Albert, on your happiness; and, with the same sincerity, I request that + your marriage may not be delayed, and that you will take your bride + immediately away from my father’s court. Time will, I hope, render her + presence less dangerous; time will, I hope, enable me to enjoy your + society in safety; and when it shall become my duty to govern this state, + I shall hope for the assistance of your talents and integrity, and shall + have deserved, in some degree, your attachment.” + </p> + <p> + The Count, in the strongest manner, expressed his gratitude to his Prince + for these proofs of his regard, given under circumstances the most trying + to the human heart. He felt, at this instant, exquisite pleasure in + revealing to his highness the truth, in showing him that the sacrifice he + had so honourably, so generously determined to make, was not requisite, + that their affections were fixed on different objects, that before Count + Albert had any idea of the prince’s attachment to the Lady Christina, it + had been his ardent wish, his determination, at all hazards, to break off + engagements which he could not fulfil. + </p> + <p> + The Prince was in rapturous joy—all his ease of manner towards his + friend returned instantly, his affection and confidence flowed in full + tide. Proud of himself, and happy in the sense of the imminent danger from + which he had escaped, he now described the late conflicts his heart had + endured with the eloquence of self-complacency, and with that sense of + relief which is felt in speaking on the most interesting of all subjects + to a faithful friend from whom a secret has been painfully concealed. The + Prince now threw open every thought, every feeling of his mind. Count + Altenberg rose higher than ever in his favour: not the temporary favourite + of the moment—the companion of pleasures—the flatterer of + present passion or caprice; but the friend in whom there is certainty of + sympathy, and security of counsel. The Prince, confiding in Count Albert’s + zeal and superior powers, now took advice from him, and made a confidant + no longer of M. de Tourville. The very means which that intriguing + courtier had taken to undermine the Count thus eventually proved the cause + of establishing more firmly his credit. The plain sincerity of the Count, + and the generous magnanimity of the lady, at once disconcerted and + destroyed the artful plan of the diplomatist. M. de Tourville’s + disappointment when he heard from the Countess Christina the result of her + interview with Count Albert, and the reproaches which in that moment of + vexation he could not refrain from uttering against the lady for having + departed from their plan, and having trusted to the Count, unveiled to her + the meanness of his character and the baseness of his designs. She plainly + saw that his object had been not to assist her love, but to gratify his + own hate: not merely to advance his own fortune—that, she knew, must + be the first object of every courtier—but “to rise upon the ruins of + another’s fame;” and this, she determined, should never be accomplished by + her assistance, or with her connivance. She put Count Albert on his guard + against this insidious enemy. + </p> + <p> + The Count, grateful to the lady, yet biassed neither by hope of her future + favour nor by present desire to please, firm in honour and loyalty to the + Prince who asked his counsel, carefully studied the character of the + Countess Christina, to determine whether she possessed the qualities fit + for the high station to which love was impatient that she should be + elevated. When he was convinced that her character was such as was + requisite to ensure the private happiness of the prince, to excite him to + the attainment of true glory—then, and not till then, he decidedly + advised the marriage, and zealously offered any assistance in his power to + promote the union. The hereditary Prince about this time became, by the + death of his father, sole master of his actions; but it was not prudent to + begin his government with an act in open defiance of the prejudices or + customs of his country. By these customs, he could not marry any woman + under the rank of a Princess; and the Emperor had been known to refuse + conferring this rank, even on favourites of powerful potentates, by whom + he had been in the most urgent manner solicited. Count Albert Altenberg + stood high in the esteem of the Emperor, at whose court he had spent some + time; and his prince now commissioned him to go to Vienna, and endeavour + to move the Emperor to concede this point in his favour. This embassy was + a new and terrible delay to the Count’s anxious desire of returning to + England. But he had offered his services, and he gave them generously. He + repaired to Vienna, and persevering through many difficulties, at length + succeeded in obtaining for the Countess the rank of Princess. The + attachment of the Prince was then publicly declared—the marriage was + solemnized—all approved of the Prince’s choice—all—except + the envious, who never approve of the happy. Count Albert received, both + from the Prince and Princess, the highest marks of esteem and favour. M. + de Tourville, detected and despised, retired from court in disgrace and in + despair. + </p> + <p> + Immediately after his marriage, the Prince declared his intention of + appointing Count Albert Altenberg his prime minister; but before he + entered on the duties of his office and the very moment that he could be + spared by his Prince, he asked and obtained permission to return to + England, to the lady on whom his affections were fixed. The old Count, his + father, satisfied with the turn which affairs had taken, and gratified in + his utmost ambition by seeing his son minister of state, now willingly + permitted him to follow his own inclination in the choice of a wife. + “And,” concluded Count Albert, “my father rejoices that my heart is + devoted to an Englishwoman: having himself married an English lady, he + knows, from experience, how to appreciate the domestic merits of the + ladies of England; he is prepossessed in their favour. He agrees, indeed, + with foreigners of every nation, who have had opportunities of judging, + and who all allow that—next to their own countrywomen—the + English are the most charming and the most amiable women in the world.” + </p> + <p> + When the Count had finished, and had pronounced this panegyric of a + nation, while he thought only of an individual, he paused, anxious to know + what effect his narrative had produced on Mr. and Mrs. Percy. + </p> + <p> + He was gratified both by their words and looks, which gave him full + assurance of their entire satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “And since he had done them the honour of appealing to their opinion, they + might be permitted to add their complete approbation of every part of his + conduct, in the difficult circumstances in which he had been placed. They + were fully sensible of the high honour that such a man as Count Altenberg + conferred on their daughter by his preference. As to the rest, they must + refer him to Caroline herself.” Mr. Percy said with a grave voice, but + with a smile from which the Count augured well, “that even for the most + advantageous and, in his opinion, desirable connexion, he would not + influence his daughter’s inclination.—Caroline must decide.” + </p> + <p> + The Count, with all the persuasive tenderness and energy of truth and + love, pleaded his own cause, and was heard by Caroline with a modest, + dignified, ingenuous sensibility, which increased his passion. Her + partiality was now heightened by her conviction of the strength and + steadiness of his attachment; but whilst she acknowledged how high he + stood in her esteem, and did not attempt to conceal the impression he had + made on her heart, yet he saw that she dreaded to yield to the passion + which must at last require from her the sacrifice of her home, country, + friends, and parents. As long as the idea of being united to him was faint + and distant, so was the fear of the sacrifices that union might demand; + but now, the hope, the fear, the certainty, at once pressed on her heart + with the most agitating urgency. The Count as far as possible relieved her + mind by the assurance, that though his duty to his Prince and his father, + that though all his private and public connexions and interests obliged + him to reside some time in Germany, yet that he could occasionally visit + England, that he should seize every opportunity of visiting a country he + preferred to all others; and, for his own sake, he should cultivate the + friendship of her family, as each individual was in different ways suited + to his taste and stood high in his esteem. + </p> + <p> + Caroline listened with fond anxiety to these hopes: she was willing to + believe in promises which she was convinced were made with entire + sincerity; and when her affections had been wrought to this point, when + her resolution was once determined, she never afterwards tormented the man + to whom she was attached, with wavering doubts and scruples. + </p> + <p> + Count Altenberg’s promise to his prince obliged him to return at an + appointed time. Caroline wished that time had been more distant; she would + have delighted in spending the spring-time of love in the midst of those + who had formed till now all the happiness of her life—with her + parents, to whom she owed every thing, to whom her gratitude was as warm, + as strong, as her affection—with her beloved sister, who had + sympathized so tenderly in all her sorrow, and who ardently wished to have + some time allowed to enjoy her happiness. Caroline felt all this, but she + felt too deeply to display feeling: sensible of what the duty and honour + of Count Altenberg demanded, she asked for no delay. + </p> + <p> + The first letters that were written to announce her intended marriage were + to Mrs. Hungerford and to Lady Jane Granville. And it may be recorded as a + fact rather unusual, that Caroline was so fortunate as to satisfy all her + friends: not to offend one of her relations, by telling any too soon, or + too late, of her intentions. In fact, she made no secret, no mystery, + where none was required by good sense or propriety. Nor did she + communicate it under a strict injunction of secrecy to twenty friends, who + were afterwards each to be angry with the other for having, or not having, + told that of which they were forbidden to speak. The order of precedency + in Caroline’s confidential communications was approved of even by all the + parties concerned. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hungerford was at Pembroke with her nieces when she received + Caroline’s letter: her answer was as follows: + </p> + <h3> + “MY DEAR CHILD, + </h3> + <p> + “I am ten years younger since I read your letter, therefore do not be + surprised at the quickness of my motions—I shall be with you at the + Hills, in town, or wherever you are, as soon as it is possible, after you + let me know when and where I can embrace you and our dear Count. At the + marriage of my niece, Lady Mary Barclay, your mother will remember that I + prayed to Heaven I might live to see my beloved Caroline united to the man + of her choice—I am grateful that this blessing, this completion of + all my earthly hopes and happiness, has been granted to me. + </p> + <h3> + “M. ELIZABETH HUNGERFORD.” + </h3> + <p> + The answer of Lady Jane Granville came next. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Confidential</i>. + </p> + <p> + “This is the last <i>confidential</i> letter I shall ever be able to write + to you—for a married woman’s letters, you know, or you will soon + know, become, like all the rest of her property, subject to her husband—excepting + always the secrets of which she was possessed before marriage, which do + not go into the common stock, if she be a woman of honour—so I am + safe with you, Caroline; and any erroneous opinion I might have formed, or + any hasty expressions I may have let drop, about a certain Count, you will + bury in oblivion, and never let me see you look even as if you recollected + to have heard them. + </p> + <p> + “You were right, my dear, in that whole business—I was wrong; and + all I can say for myself is, that I was wrong with the best possible + intentions. I now congratulate you with as sincere joy, as if this + charming match had been made by my advice, under my <i>chaperonage</i>, + and by favour of that <i>patronage of fashion</i>, of which I know your + father thinks that both my <i>head</i> and <i>heart</i> are full; there he + is only half right, after all: so do not let him be too proud. I will not + allow that my heart is ever wrong, certainly not where you are concerned. + </p> + <p> + “I am impatient, my dear Caroline, to see your Count Altenberg. I heard + him most highly spoken of yesterday by a Polish nobleman, whom I met at + dinner at the Duke of Greenwich’s. Is it true, that the Count is to be + prime minister of the Prince of ——? the Duke of Greenwich + asked me this question, and I promised I would let his grace know from <i>the + best possible</i> authority—but I did not <i>commit</i> you. + </p> + <p> + “And now, my dear, for my own interest. If you have really and cordially + forgiven me, for having so rashly said, upon a late occasion, that I would + never forgive you, prove to me your placability and your sincerity—use + your all-powerful influence to obtain for me a favour on which I have set + my heart. Will you prevail on all your house to come up to town directly, + and take possession of mine?—Count Altenberg, you say, has business + to transact with ministers: whilst this is going on, and whilst the + lawyers are settling preliminaries, where can you all be better than with + me? I hope I shall be able to make Mr. and Mrs. Percy feel as much at + home, in one hour’s time, as I found myself the first evening after my + arrival at the Hills some years ago. + </p> + <p> + “I know the Hungerfords will press you to go to them, and Alfred and Mrs. + A. Percy will plead <i>nearest of kin</i>—I can only throw myself + upon your generosity. The more inducements you have to go to other + friends, the more I shall feel gratified and obliged, if you favour me + with this proof of your preference and affection. Indulge me, my dear + Caroline, perhaps for the last time, with your company, of which, believe + me, I have, though a woman of the world, sense and feeling sufficient + fully to appreciate the value. Yours (at all events), ever and + affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + “J. GRANVILLE. + </h3> + <p> + “<i>Spring Gardens—Tuesday</i>. + </p> + <p> + “P. S.—I hope your father is of my opinion, that weddings, + especially among persona of a certain rank of life, ought always to be <i>public</i>,—attended + by the friends and connexions of the families, and conducted with + something of the good old aristocratic formality, pomp, and state, of + former times.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane Granville’s polite and urgent request was granted. Caroline and + all her family had pleasure in showing Lady Jane that they felt grateful + for her kindness. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Temple obtained permission from Lord Oldborough to accompany the + Percys to town; and it was settled that Rosamond and Caroline should be + married on the same day. + </p> + <p> + But the morning after their arrival in London, Mr. Temple appeared with a + countenance very unlike that which had been seen the night before—Hope + and joy had fled.—All pale and in consternation!—Rosamond was + ready to die with terror. She was relieved when he declared that the evil + related only to his fortune. The place that had been promised to him was + given; indeed—the word of promise was kept to the ear—but by + some management, either of Lord Skreene’s or Lord Skrimpshire’s, the place + had been <i>saddled</i> with a pension to the widow of the gentleman by + whom it had been previously held, and the amount of this pension was such + as to reduce the profits of the place to an annual income by no means + sufficient to secure independence, or even competence, to a married man. + Mr. Temple knew that when the facts were stated to Lord Oldborough, his + lordship would, by his representations to the highest authority, obtain + redress; but the secretary was unwilling to implicate him in this + disagreeable affair, unwilling to trouble his tranquillity again with + court intrigues, especially, as Mr. Temple said, where his own personal + interest alone was concerned—at any rate this business must delay + his marriage. Count Altenberg could not possibly defer the day named for + his wedding—despatches from the continent pressed the absolute + necessity of his return. Revolutionary symptoms had again appeared in the + city—his prince could not dispense with his services. His honour was + at stake. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Temple did not attempt or pretend to bear his disappointment like a + philosopher: he bore it like a lover, that is to say, very ill. Rosamond, + poor Rosamond, rallied him with as much gaiety as she could command with a + very heavy heart. + </p> + <p> + After a little time for reflection, her good sense, which, when called + upon to act, never failed to guide her conduct, induced her to exert + decisive influence to prevent Mr. Temple from breaking out into violent + complaints against those in power, by whom he had been ill-treated. + </p> + <p> + The idea of being married on the same day with her sister, she said, after + all, was a mere childish fancy, for which no solid advantage should be + hazarded; therefore she conjured her lover, not in heat of passion to + precipitate things, but patiently to wait—to return and apply to + Lord Oldborough, if he should find that the representations he had already + made to Lord Skrimpshire failed of effect. With much reluctance, Mr. + Temple submitted to postpone the day promised for his marriage; but both + Mr. and Mrs. Percy so strongly supported Rosamond’s arguments, that he was + compelled to be prudent. Rosamond now thought only of her sister’s + approaching nuptials. Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer arrived in town, + and all Mr. and Mrs. Percy’s troops of friends gathered round them for + this joyful occasion. + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane Granville was peculiarly happy in finding that Mr. Percy agreed + with her in opinion that marriages ought to be publicly solemnized; and + rejoiced that, when Caroline should be led to the altar by the man of her + choice, she would feel that choice sanctioned by the approbation of her + assembled family and friends. Lady Jane justly observed, that it was + advantageous to mark as strongly as possible the difference between + marriages with consent of friends, and clandestine unions, which from + their very nature must always be as private as possible. + </p> + <p> + If some little love of show, and some aristocratic pride of family, mixed + with Lady Jane’s good sense upon this as upon most other occasions, the + truly philosophic will be inclined to pardon her; for they best know how + much of all the principles which form the strength and happiness of + society, depends upon mixed motives. + </p> + <p> + Mr. and Mrs. Percy, grateful to Lady Jane, and willing to indulge her + affection in its own way, gratified her with permission to arrange the + whole ceremonial of the wedding. + </p> + <p> + Now that Rosamond’s marriage was postponed, she claimed first right to be + her sister’s bridemaid; Lady Florence Pembroke, Mrs. Hungerford’s niece, + had made her request, and obtained Caroline’s promise, to be the second; + and these were all that Caroline desired to have: but Lady Jane Granville + evidently wished for the honour and glory of Lady Frances Arlington for a + third, because she was niece to the Duke of Greenwich; and besides, as + Lady Jane pleaded, “though a little selfish, she really would have been + generous, if she had not been spoiled: to be sure, she cared in general + for no one but herself; yet she absolutely showed particular interest + about Caroline. <i>Besides</i>, her ladyship had set her heart upon the + matter, and never would forgive a disappointment of a fancy.” Her + ladyship’s request was granted. Further than this affair of the three + bridemaids we know not—there is no record concerning who were the + bride-men. But before we come to the wedding-day, we think it necessary to + mention, for the satisfaction of the prudent part of the world, that the + settlements were duly signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of + proper witnesses. + </p> + <p> + At the moment of recording this fact, we are well aware that as much as we + shall gain in the esteem of the old, we shall lose in the opinion of the + young. We must therefore be satisfied with the nod of approbation from + parents, and must endure the smile of scorn from lovers. We know that + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Jointure, portion, gold, estate, + Houses, household-stuff, or land, + The low conveniences of fate, + Are Greek, no lovers understand.” + </pre> + <p> + We regret that we cannot gratify some of our courteous readers with a + detailed account of the marriage of Caroline and Count Altenberg, with a + description of the wedding-dresses, or a list of the company, who, after + the ceremony, partook of an elegant collation at Lady Jane Granville’s + house in Spring-Gardens. We lament that we cannot even furnish a paragraph + in honour of Count Altenberg’s equipage. + </p> + <p> + After all their other friends had made their congratulations, had taken + leave of Caroline, and had departed, Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer + still lingered. + </p> + <p> + “I know, my love,” said Mrs. Hungerford, “I ought to resign you, in these + last moments, to your parents, your brothers, your own Rosamond; yet I + have some excuse for my selfishness—they will see you again, it is + to be hoped, often—But I!—that is not in the course of nature: + the blessing I scarcely could have expected to live to enjoy has been + granted to me. And now that I have seen you united to one worthy of you, + one who knows your value, I am content—I am grateful. Farewell, + again and again, my beloved Caroline, may every—” + </p> + <p> + Tears spoke the rest. Turning from Caroline, she leaned on Count + Altenberg’s arm; as he conducted her to her carriage, “You are a happy + man, Count Altenberg,” said she: “forgive me, if I am not able to + congratulate you as I ought—Daughter Mortimer, you know my heart—speak + for me, if you can.” + </p> + <p> + Count Altenberg was more touched by this strong affection for Caroline + than he could have been by any congratulatory compliments to himself. + After the departure of Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs. Mortimer, came the + separation so much dreaded by all the family, for which all stood + prepared. Despising and detesting the display of sensibility, they had + fortified themselves for this moment with all their resolution, and each + struggled to repress their own feelings. + </p> + <p> + Count Altenberg had delayed till the last moment. It was now necessary + that they should set out. Caroline, flushed crimson to the very temples + one instant, and pale the next, commanded with the utmost effort her + emotion; Rosamond, unable to repress hers, clung to her sister weeping. + Caroline’s lips quivered with a vain attempt to speak—she could only + embrace Rosamond repeatedly, and then her mother. Her father pressed her + to his bosom—blessed her—and then drawing her arm within his, + led her to her husband. + </p> + <p> + As they passed through the hall, the faithful housekeeper, and the old + steward, who had come from the country to the marriage, pressed forward, + in hopes of a last look. Caroline stopped, and took leave of each. She was + able, though with difficulty, to speak, and she thanked them for all the + services and kindness she had received from them from childhood to this + hour: then her father led her to the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “It is the order of nature, my dear child,” said he; “we are fond but not + selfish parents; your happiness is gained by the sacrifice, and we can + part with you.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. + </h2> + <p> + Some sage moralist has observed, that even in the accomplishment of our + most ardent wishes in this world, there is always some circumstance that + disappoints our expectations, or mixes somewhat of pain with the joy. + “This is perfectly true,” thought Rosamond. “How often have I wished for + Caroline’s marriage with Count Altenberg—and now she is married—really + married—and gone!” + </p> + <p> + It had passed with the rapidity of a dream: the hurry of joy, the + congratulations—all, all was over; and in sad silence, Rosamond felt + the reality of her loss—by Rosamond doubly felt at this moment, when + all her own affairs were in great uncertainty. Mr. Temple was still unable + to obtain the performance of the promise which had been made him of <i>remuneration</i> + and <i>competent provision</i>. He had gone through, in compliance with + the advice of his friends, the mortification of reiterating vain memorials + and applications to the Duke of Greenwich, Lord Skrimpshire, Lord Skreene, + and Mr. Secretary Cope. The only thing which Mr. Temple refused to do, was + to implicate Lord Oldborough, or to disturb him on the subject. He had + spent some weeks with his old master in his retirement without once + adverting to his own difficulties, still hoping that on his return to town + a promise would be fulfilled, which Lord Skreene had given him, that “the + affair should in his absence be settled to his satisfaction.” But on his + return to town, his lordship found means of evasion and delay, and threw + the blame on others; the course of memorials and representations was to be + recommenced. Mr. Temple’s pride revolted, his love was in despair—and + frequently, in the bitterness of disappointment, he reiterated to his + friend Alfred his exclamations of regret and self-reproach, for having + quitted, from pique and impatience of spirit, a profession where his own + perseverance and exertions would infallibly have rendered him by this time + independent. Rosamond saw with sympathy and anguish the effect which these + feelings of self-reproach, and hope delayed, produced on Mr. Temple’s + spirits and health. His sensibility, naturally quick, and rendered more + acute by disappointment, seemed now continually to draw from all + characters and events, and even from every book he opened, a moral against + himself, some new illustration or example, which convinced him more and + more of the folly of being a dependant on the great. He was just in this + repentant mood, when one morning, at Mrs. Alfred Percy’s, Rosamond heard + him sigh deeply several times, as he was reading with great attention. She + could not forbear asking what it was that touched him so much. He put the + book into her hands, pointing to the following passage. “The whole of this + letter{1},” said he, “is applicable to me and excellent; but this really + seems as if it had been written for me or by me.” + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Letter from Mr. Williams (secretary to Lord Chancellor West) + to Mrs. Williams.} + </p> + <p> + She read, + </p> + <p> + “I was a young man, and did not think that men were to die, or to be + turned out . . . What was to be done now?—No money, my former patron + in disgrace! friends that were in favour not able to serve me, or not + willing; that is, cold, timid, careful of themselves, and indifferent to a + man whose disappointments made him less agreeable . . . I languished on + for three long melancholy years, sometimes a little elated; a smile, a + kind hint, a downright promise, dealt out to me from those in whom I had + placed some silly hopes, now and then brought a little refreshment, but + that never lasted long; and to say nothing of the agony of being reduced + to talk of one’s own misfortunes and one’s wants, and that basest and + lowest of all conditions, the slavery of borrowing, to support an idle + useless being—my time, for those three years, was unhappy beyond + description. What would I have given then for a profession! . . . any + useful profession is infinitely better than a thousand patrons.” + </p> + <p> + To this Rosamond entirely acceded, and admired the strong good sense of + the whole letter; but she observed to Mr. Temple, that it was very unjust, + not only to himself, but what was of much more consequence, to <i>her</i>, + to say that all this applied exactly to his case. “Did Mr. Temple,” she + asked, “mean to assert that she could esteem a man who was <i>an idle + useless being</i>, a mere dependant on great men, a follower of courts? + Could such a man have recommended himself to her father? Could such a man + ever have been the chosen friend of her brother Alfred? + </p> + <p> + “It was true,” she acknowledged, “that this friend of her brother had made + one mistake in early life; but who is there that can say that he has not + in youth or age committed a single error? Mr. Temple had done one silly + thing, to be sure, in quarrelling with his profession; but he had + suffered, and had made amends for this afterwards, by persevering + application to literature. There he had obtained the success he deserved. + Gentlemen might sigh and shake their heads, but could any gentleman deny + this? Could it be denied that Mr. Temple had distinguished himself in + literature? Could any person deny that a political pamphlet of his + recommended him to the notice of Lord Oldborough, one of the ablest + statesmen in England, who made him his secretary, and whose esteem and + confidence he afterwards acquired by his merit, and continued, in place + and out, to enjoy?—Will any gentleman deny this?” Rosamond added, + that, “in defence of <i>her brother’s friend</i>, she could not help + observing, that a man who had obtained the esteem of some of the first + persons of their day, who had filled an employment of trust, that of + secretary to a minister, with fidelity and credit, who had published three + celebrated political pamphlets, and two volumes of moral and philosophical + disquisitions, which, as she had heard the bookseller say, were become <i>stock + books</i>, could not deserve to be called an <i>idle useless being</i>. To + be born and die would not make all his history—no, such a man would + at least be secure of honourable mention in the Biographia Britannica as a + writer—moral—political—metaphysical.” + </p> + <p> + But while Rosamond thus did her utmost to support the spirits of her + lover, her own began to fail; her vivacity was no longer natural: she felt + every day more and more the want of her sister’s sympathy and strength of + mind. + </p> + <p> + Letters from abroad gave no hope of Caroline’s return—delay after + delay occurred. No sooner had quiet been restored to the country, than + Count Altenberg’s father was taken ill, and his illness, after long + uncertainty, terminated fatally. + </p> + <p> + After the death of his father, the Count was involved in a variety of + domestic business, which respect for the memory of his parent, and + affection for surviving relations, could not allow him to leave. When all + this had been arranged, and when all seemed preparing for their return to + England, just when Rosamond hoped that the very next letter would announce + the day when they would set out, the French declared war, the French + troops were actually in motion—invasion was hourly expected—it + was necessary to prepare for the defence of the country. At such a moment + the Count could not quit his country or his Prince. And there was + Caroline, in the midst of a country torn by civil war, and in the midst of + all the horrors of revolution. + </p> + <p> + About this time, to increase the anxiety of the Percy family, they learned + that Godfrey was taken prisoner on his way home from the West Indies. The + transport, in which his division of the regiment had embarked had been + separated from her convoy by a gale of wind in the night, and it was + apprehended that she had been taken by the enemy. Godfrey’s family hoped + for a moment that this might be a false alarm; but after enduring the + misery of reading contradictory paragraphs and contests of the newspaper + writers with each other for several successive days, it was at last too + clearly established and confirmed, by official intelligence, that the + transport was taken by a Dutch ship. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of these accumulating causes of anxiety, trials of another + kind were preparing for this family, as if Fortune was determined to do + her utmost to ruin and humble those who had despised her worshippers, + struggled against her influence, and risen in the world in defiance of her + power. To explain the danger which now awaited them, we must return to + their old family enemy, Sir Robert Percy. Master of Percy-hall, and of all + that wealth could give, he could not enjoy his prosperity, but was + continually brooding on plans of avarice and malice. + </p> + <p> + Since his marriage with Miss Falconer, Sir Robert Percy’s establishment + had become so expensive as to fret his temper continually. His tenants had + had more and more reason to complain of their landlord, who, when any of + his farms were out of lease, raised his rents exorbitantly, to make + himself amends, as he said, for the extravagance of his wife. The tenants, + who had ever disliked him as the successor and enemy of their <i>own</i> + good and beloved landlord, now could not and attempted not to conceal + their aversion. This renewed and increased the virulence of his dislike to + <i>our</i> branch of the Percys, who, as he knew, were always compared <i>with + him and his</i>, and seemed to be for ever present to the provoking + memories of these tenants. + </p> + <p> + Sir Robert was disappointed hitherto in the hope for which he married, the + hope of an heir, who should prevent the estate from returning to those + from whom it had been wrested by his arts. Envy at seeing the rising and + prosperous state of <i>those Percys</i>, who, in spite of their loss of + fortune, had made their way up again through all obstacles, combined to + increase his antipathy to his relations. His envy had been exasperated by + the marriage of Caroline to Count Altenberg, and by the high reputation of + her brother. He heard their praises till his soul sickened; and he was + determined to be their destruction. He found a willing and able assistant + in Sharpe the attorney, and they soon devised a plan worthy of their + conjoined malice. At the time when Sir Robert had come into possession of + Percy-hall, after the suit had been decided in his favour, he had given up + all claim to the rents which Mr. Percy had received during the years which + he had held the estate, and had accepted in lieu of them the improvements + which Mr. Percy had made on the estate, and a considerable quantity of + family plate and a collection of pictures. But now Sir Robert wrote to Mr. + Percy without adverting to this agreement, and demanding from him the + amount of all the rents which he had received, deducting only a certain + sum on his own valuation for improvements. The plate and pictures, which + he had left at Percy-hall, Sir Robert said he was willing to take in lieu + of the debt; but an immense balance against Mr. Percy remained. In + technical phrase, we believe, he warned Mr. Percy that Sharpe his attorney + had directions to commence a suit against him for the <i>mesne rents</i>. + The amount of the claim was such as it was absolutely impossible that Mr. + Percy could pay, even by the sale of every thing he possessed in the + world. If this claim were established, his family would be reduced to + beggary, he must end his days in a prison, or fly his country, and take + refuge in some foreign land. To this last extremity Sir Robert hoped to + reduce him. In reply, however, to his insolent letter, he was surprised, + by receiving from Mr. Percy a calm and short reply, simply saying that his + son Alfred would take the proper steps to bring the affair to trial, and + that he must submit to the decision of the law, whatever that might be. + Sir Robert was mortified to the quick by finding that he could not extort + from his victim one concession or complaint, nor one intemperate + expression. + </p> + <p> + But however calm and dignified was Mr. Percy’s conduct, it could not be + without the greatest anxiety that he awaited the event of the trial which + was to decide his future fate and that of his whole family. + </p> + <p> + The length of time which must elapse before the trial could come on was + dreadful. Suspense was the evil they found most difficult to endure. + Suspense may be easily borne by persons of an indolent character, who + never expect to rule their destiny by their own genius; but to those who + feel themselves possessed of energy and abilities to surmount obstacles + and to brave dangers, it is torture to remain passive—to feel that + prudence, virtue, genius avail them not—that while rapid ideas pass + in their imagination, time moves with an unaltered pace, and compels them + to wait, along with the herd of vulgar mortals, for knowledge of futurity. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. + </h2> + <p> + What has become all this time of the Falconer family? + </p> + <p> + Since the marriage of Miss Falconer with Sir Robert Percy, all intercourse + between the Falconers and our branch of the Percy family had ceased; but + one morning, when Alfred was alone, intently considering his father’s + case, and the legal difficulties which threatened him, he was surprised by + a visit from Commissioner Falconer. The commissioner looked thin, pale, + and wretched. He began by condoling with Alfred on their mutual family + misfortunes. Alfred received this condolence with politeness, but with a + proud consciousness that, notwithstanding his father’s present + difficulties, and the total loss of fortune with which he was threatened, + neither his father, nor any individual in his family, would change places + with any one of the Falconers; since nothing dishonourable could be + imputed to Mr. Percy, and since none of his misfortunes had been + occasioned by any imprudence of his own. + </p> + <p> + A deep sigh from the commissioner, at the moment these thoughts were + passing in Alfred’s mind, excited his compassion, for he perceived that + the same reflections had occurred to him. + </p> + <p> + After taking an immoderate quantity of snuff, the commissioner went on, + and disclaimed, in strong terms, all knowledge of his son-in-law Sir + Robert’s cruel conduct to his cousin. The commissioner said that Sir + Robert Percy had, since his marriage with Bell Falconer, behaved very ill, + and had made his wife show great ingratitude to her own family—that + in Mrs. Falconer’s distress, when she and Georgiana were most anxious to + retire from town for a short time, and when Mrs. Falconer had naturally + looked to the house of her married daughter as a sure asylum, the doors of + Percy-hall had been actually shut against her; Sir Robert declaring, that + he would not be involved in the difficulties and disgrace of a family who + had taken him in to marry a girl without any fortune. + </p> + <p> + Alfred was perfectly convinced, both from the cordial hatred with which + the commissioner now spoke of his son-in-law, and from Mr. Falconer’s + disposition, that he had nothing to do with the cruel measures which Sir + Robert had taken against his father. Commissioner Falconer was not a + malevolent, but a weak man—incapable of being a disinterested friend—equally + incapable of becoming a malicious enemy. The commissioner now proceeded to + his own affairs, and to the business of his visit. He said that he had + been disappointed in all his hopes from the Greenwich party—that + when <i>that sad business of Mrs. Falconer’s came out</i>, they had seized + this as a pretence for <i>dropping</i> him altogether—that when they + had, by Lord Oldborough’s retreat from office, obtained every thing they + wanted, and had no more occasion for assistance or information, they had + shamefully forgotten, or disowned, all their former promises to + Cunningham. They had refused to accredit him at the court of Denmark, + refused even to defray the expenses of his journey thither, which, in the + style he had thought it necessary for an ambassador to travel in, had been + considerable. Upon the hopes held out, he had taken a splendid house in + Copenhagen, and had every day, for some weeks, been in expectation of the + arrival of his credentials. When it was publicly known that another + ambassador was appointed, Cunningham’s creditors became clamorous; he + contrived to escape from Copenhagen in the night, and was proceeding <i>incog.</i> + in his journey homewards, when he was stopped at one of the small frontier + towns, and was there actually detained in prison for his debts. + </p> + <p> + The poor commissioner produced his son’s letter, giving an account of his + detention, and stating that, unless the money he had raised in Copenhagen + was paid, there was no hope of his being liberated—he must perish in + a foreign jail. + </p> + <p> + We spare the reader the just reproaches which the unhappy father, at this + moment, uttered against the son’s duplicity. It was his fate, he said, to + be ruined by those for whom he had been labouring and planning, night and + day, for so many years. “And now,” concluded Mr. Falconer, “here am I, + reduced to sell almost the last acre of my paternal estate—I shall + literally have nothing left but Falconer-court, and my annuity!—Nothing!—But + it must be done, ill as he has used me, and impossible as it is, ever, + even at this crisis, to get the truth from him—I must pay the money: + he is in jail, and cannot be liberated without this sum. I have here, you + see, under the hand of the chief magistrate, sufficient proof—I will + not, however, trouble you, my dear sir, with showing more of these letters—only + it is a comfort to me to speak to one who will listen with some sympathy—Ah! + sir, when out of place!—out of favour!—selling one’s estate!—how + people change!—But I am taking up your time. Since these lands are + to be sold, the sooner the better. Your father, you know, is trustee to my + marriage-settlements, and, I believe, his consent, his signature, will be + necessary—will it not?—I am no lawyer—I really am not + clear what <i>is</i> necessary—and my solicitor, Mr. Sharpe, I have + dismissed: perhaps you will allow me to put the business into your hands?” + </p> + <p> + Alfred undertook it, and kindly told the commissioner that if he would + send him his papers, he would, without putting him to any expense, look + them over carefully—have all the necessary releases drawn—and + make his title clear to any purchaser who should apply. + </p> + <p> + The commissioner was full of gratitude for this friendly offer, and + immediately begged that he might leave his title-deeds. Accordingly the + servant was desired to bring in the box which he had left in the carriage. + The commissioner then rose to take leave, but Alfred begged he would stay + till he had written a list of the deeds, as he made it a rule never to + take charge of any papers, without giving a receipt for them. The + commissioner thought this “a superfluous delicacy between friends and + relatives;” but Alfred observed that relations would, perhaps, oftener + continue friends, if in matters of business, they took care always to be + as exact as if they were strangers. + </p> + <p> + The commissioner looked at his watch—said he was in haste—he + was going to wait upon Lord Somebody, from whom, in spite of all his + experience, he expected something. + </p> + <p> + “You will find a list of the deeds, I have a notion,” said he, “in the + box, Mr. Alfred Percy, and you need only sign it—that will be quite + sufficient.” + </p> + <p> + “When I have compared the papers with the list, I will sign it,” said + Alfred: “my clerk and I will do it as quickly as possible. Believe me, you + cannot be in greater haste than I am.” + </p> + <p> + The commissioner, secretly cursing Alfred’s accuracy, and muttering + something of the necessity for his own punctuality, was obliged to submit. + He sat down—the clerk was sent for—the box was opened. The + list of the papers was, as Alfred found, drawn out by Buckhurst Falconer; + and the commissioner now recollected the time. “Just when poor Buckhurst,” + said the father, with a sigh, “was arguing with me against going into the + church—at that time. I remember, he was desperately in love with + your sister Caroline.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, in truth,” said Alfred, smiling, as he read over the scrawled list, + “this looks a little as if it were written by a man in love—here’s + another reason for our comparing the papers and the list.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, I took it all upon trust—I am no lawyer—I never + looked at them—never opened the box, and am very sorry to be obliged + to do it now.” + </p> + <p> + The essential care, either of papers or estate, the commissioner had + evermore neglected, while he had all his life been castle-building, or + pursuing some phantom of fortune at court. Whilst Alfred was comparing the + papers and the list, the commissioner went on talking of the marriage of + Caroline with Count Altenberg, asking when they expected them to return. + It was possible that Count Altenberg might be moved to make some + remonstrance in favour of Cunningham; and a word or two from him to the + Duke of Greenwich would do the business. The commissioner longed to hint + this to Alfred, but he was so intent upon these bundles of parchment, that + till every one of them was counted, it would be in vain to make that + attempt: so the commissioner impatiently stood by, while the clerk went on + calling over the papers, and Alfred, in equal strains, replying. “Thank + Heaven!” said he to himself, “they have got to the last bundle.” + </p> + <p> + “Bundle eighteen,” cried the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Bundle eighteen,” replied Alfred. “How many numbers does it contain?” + </p> + <p> + “Six,” said the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Six!—no, seven, if you please,” said Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “But six in the list, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I will read them over,” said Alfred. “No. 1. Deed of assignment to Filmer + Griffin, Esq. No. 2. Deed of mortgage to Margaret Simpson, widow. No. 3. + Deed of lease and release. No. 4. Lease for a year—” + </p> + <p> + “No. 4. no such thing—stop, sir—Deed!” + </p> + <p> + Alfred gave one look at the paper, and starting up, snatched it from the + hands of his clerk, with an exclamation of joy, signed the receipt for the + commissioner, put it into his hands, locked the box, and sat down to write + a letter, all with such rapidity that the commissioner was struck with + astonishment and curiosity. Notwithstanding all his impatience to be + punctual to his own engagement, he now stood fixed to the spot, and at + last began with “My dear Mr. Alfred Percy, may I ask what has happened?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear commissioner, I have found it—I have found it—the + long-lost deed, and I am writing to my father, to tell him. Excuse me—excuse + me if I am not able to explain farther at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + The commissioner understood it all too quickly. He saw how it had happened + through Buckhurst’s carelessness. At the time Buckhurst had been packing + up these papers, some of Mr. Percy’s had been lying on the table—Buckhurst + had been charged not to mix them with his father’s; but he was in love, + and did not know what he was doing. + </p> + <p> + The commissioner began three sentences, and left them all unfinished, + while Alfred did not hear one word of them: the first was an apology for + Buckhurst, the second a congratulation for his good cousin Percy, the + third was an exclamation that came from his heart. “Good Heavens! but what + will become of my daughter Bell and Sir Robert? I do not comprehend quite, + my dear sir.” + </p> + <p> + Perceiving that he was not heard by Alfred, the commissioner took up his + hat and departed, determining that he would inquire farther from Sir + Robert’s solicitor concerning the probable consequences of the recovery of + this deed. + </p> + <p> + Alfred had no sooner finished his joyful letter to his father than he + wrote to Sir Robert Percy, informing him of the recovery of the deed, and + letting him know that he was ready to show it to whomsoever Sir Robert + would send to his house to examine it. He made this offer to put an end at + once to all doubts. He trusted, he said, that when Sir Robert should be + satisfied of the existence and identity of the deed, he would stop his + present proceedings for the recovery of the <i>mesne rents</i>, and that + he would, without obliging his father to have farther recourse to law, + restore to him the Percy estate. + </p> + <p> + To this letter no answer was received for some time. At length Mr. Sharpe + called on Alfred, and begged to see the deed. He was permitted to examine + it in Alfred’s presence. He noted down the date, names of the witnesses, + and some other particulars, of which, he observed, it was necessary he + should inform Sir Robert, before he could be satisfied as to the identity + of the conveyance. Sharpe was particularly close and guarded in his looks + and words during this interview; would neither admit nor deny that he was + satisfied, and went away leaving nothing certain, but that he would write + to Sir Robert. Alfred thought he saw that they meant to avoid giving an + answer, in order to keep possession some months longer, till another term. + He took all the necessary steps to bring the matter to trial immediately, + without waiting for any answer from Sir Robert. No letter came from him, + but Alfred received from his solicitor the following note: + </p> + <p> + “Sir, + </p> + <p> + “I am directed by Sir Robert Percy to acquaint you, in reply to yours of + the 20th instant, that conceiving his title to the Percy estate to be no + way affected by the instrument to which you allude therein, he cannot + withdraw his present suit for the <i>mesne rents</i> that had been already + received, if you proceed in an ejectment for the recovery of the aforesaid + estate. + </p> + <p> + “I am, sir, + </p> + <p> + “Your humble servant, + </p> + <p> + “A. Sharpe. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Wednesday.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Alfred was surprised and alarmed by this letter. It had never occurred to + him as possible, that Sir Robert and his counsel would attempt to stand a + new trial in the face of this recovered deed; this was beyond all he could + have conceived even from their effrontery and villany. He consulted Mr. + Friend, who, after considering Sharpe’s letter, could not devise what + defence they intended to make, as the deed, upon most accurate + examination, appeared duly executed, according to the provision of the + statute of frauds. Upon the whole, Mr. Friend was of opinion that the + letter was meant merely to alarm the plaintiffs, and to bring them to + offer or consent to a compromise. In this opinion Alfred was confirmed the + next day, by an interview with Sharpe, accidental on Alfred’s part, but + designed and prepared by the solicitor, who watched Alfred as he was + coming out of the courts, and dogged him till he parted from some + gentlemen with whom he was walking—then joining him, he said, in a + voice which Mr. Allscrip might have envied for its power of setting sense + at defiance, “I am happy, Mr. Alfred Percy, to chance to see you to-day; + for, with a view to put an end to litigation and difficulties, I had a few + words to suggest—premising that I do not act or speak now, in any + wise, as or for Sir Robert Percy, or with reference to his being my + client, or as a solicitor in this cause, be it understood, but merely and + solely as one gentleman to another, upon honour—and not bringing + forward any idea to be taken advantage of hereafter, as tending to any + thing in the shape of an offer to compromise, which, in a legal point of + view, you know, sir, I could not be warranted to hazard for my client, and + of consequence, which I hereby declare, I do not in any degree mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you be so good, Mr. Sharpe, to state at once what you do mean? for + I confess I do not, in any degree, understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, sir, what I mean is, simply, and candidly, and frankly, this: + that if I could, without compromising the interest of my client, which, as + an honest man, I am bound not to do or appear to do, I should wish to put + an end to this litigation between relations; and though your father thinks + me his enemy, would convince him to the contrary, if he would allow me, + and could point out the means of shortening this difference between + relations, which has occasioned so much scandal; and moreover, could + devise an accommodation, which might be agreeable to both parties, and + save you a vast deal of trouble and vexation; possession,” added he, + laughing, “being nine points of the law.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Sharpe paused, as if hoping that something would now be said by + Alfred, that might direct him whether to advance or recede; but Alfred + only observed, that probably the end Mr. Sharpe proposed to himself by + speaking was to make himself understood, and that this desirable end he + had not yet attained. + </p> + <p> + “Why, sir, in some cases, one cannot venture to make one’s self understood + any way, but by inuendoes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, good morning to you, sir—you and I can never understand one + another.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, sir, unless you are in a hurry,” cried Mr. Sharpe, catching + Alfred by the button, “which (when so large an estate, to which you might + eventually succeed, is in question) you are too much a man of business to + be—in one word, then, for I won’t detain you another moment, and I + throw myself open, and trust to your honour—” + </p> + <p> + “You do me honour.” + </p> + <p> + “Put a parallel case. You, plaintiff A——, I, defendant B——. + I should, if I were A——, but no way advising it, being B——, + offer to divide the whole property, the claim for the <i>mesne rents</i> + being wholly given up; and that the offer would be accepted, I’d engage + upon my honour, supposing myself witnessing the transaction, only just as + a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible, sir,” cried Alfred, with indignation. “Do you take me for a + fool? Do you think I would give up half my father’s estate, knowing that + he has a right to the whole?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, sir—I only suggested an A. B. case. But one word more, + sir,” cried Mr. Sharpe, holding Alfred, who was breaking from him, “for + your own—your father’s interest: you see this thing quite in a wrong + point of view; when you talk of a few months’ more or less delay of + getting possession, being all there is between us—depend upon it, if + it goes to trial you will never get possession.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, sir, if you think so, you are betraying the interest of your + client, in advising me not to let it go to trial.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! sir: but that is between you and me only.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, sir, it is between you and your conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! if that’s all—my conscience is at ease, when I’m trying to + prevent the scandal of litigation between relations: therefore, just let + me mention to you for your private information, what I know Sir Robert + would not wish to come out before the trial.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell it to me, sir—I will not hear it,” cried Alfred, + breaking from him, and walking on very fast. + </p> + <p> + Faster still Sharpe pursued. “You’ll remember, sir, at all events, that + what has been said is not to go further—you’ll not forget.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forget that I am a man of honour, sir,” said Alfred. + </p> + <p> + Sharpe parted from him, muttering, “that if he lived to the day of trial, + he would repent this.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I live till the day of judgment, I shall never repent it,” thought + Alfred. + </p> + <p> + Now fully convinced that Sir Robert desired a compromise, and wanted only + to secure, while in possession, some portion of that property, which he + knew the law would ultimately force him to relinquish, Alfred persevered + in his course, relieved from the alarm into which he had at first been + thrown, when he learned that his opponents intended to make a defence. + Alfred felt assured that they would never let the matter come to trial; + but time passed on, and they still persisted. Many of his brother lawyers + were not only doubtful, but more inclined to despond than to encourage him + as to the event of the trial; several regretted that he had not accepted + of Mr. Sharpe’s offered compromise. “Half the estate certain, and his + father’s release from all difficulties, they thought too good offers to + have been rejected. He might, as Sharpe had prophesied, have to repent his + rejection of that proposal.” + </p> + <p> + Others observed, that though Mr. Alfred Percy was certainly a young man of + great talents, and had been successful at the bar, still he was a young + lawyer; and it was a bold and hazardous, not to say rash thing, to take + upon himself the conduct of a suit against such opponents as Mr. Sharpe + and Sir Robert Percy, practised in law, hardened in iniquity, and now + driven to desperation. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Friend was the only man who stood steadily by Alfred, and never + wavered in his opinion. “Trust to truth and justice,” said he; “you did + right not to compromise—be firm. If you fail, you will have this + consolation—you will have done all that man could do to deserve + success.” + </p> + <p> + The day of trial approached. Mr. Friend had hoped, till very late in the + business, that the object of their adversaries was only to intimidate, and + that they would never let it go to trial: now it was plain they would. But + on what grounds? Again and again Mr. Friend and Alfred perused and + reperused Sir John Percy’s deed, and examined the opinions of counsel of + the first eminence. Both law and right appeared to be clearly on their + side; but it was not likely that their experienced opponents should + persist without having some strong resource. + </p> + <p> + A dread silence was preserved by Sir Robert Percy and by Mr. Solicitor + Sharpe. They must have some deep design: what it could be, remained to be + discovered even till the day of trial. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. + </h2> + <p> + The day of trial arrived—Mr. Percy came up to town, and brought Mrs. + Percy and Rosamond with him to his son Alfred’s, that they might all be + together, and hear as soon as possible their fate. + </p> + <p> + The trial came on about three o’clock in the afternoon. The court was + uncommonly crowded. Mr. Percy, his son Erasmus, and all his friends, and + Sir Robert and his adherents, appeared on opposite sides of the galleries. + </p> + <p> + The excellent countenance and gentlemanlike demeanour of Mr. Percy were + contrasted with the dark, inauspicious physiognomy of Sir Robert, who sat + opposite to him, and who was never tranquil one second, but was + continually throwing notes to his counsel, beckoning or whispering to his + attorney—while convulsive twitches of face and head, snuff-taking, + and handkerchief spread frequently to conceal the expression of his + countenance, betrayed the malignant flurry of his spirits. + </p> + <p> + Alfred conducted his father’s cause in the most judicious and temperate + manner. An attempt had been made by Sir Robert to prejudice the public + against Mr. Percy, by representing him as the descendant of a younger + brother, who was endeavouring to dispossess the heir of the elder branch + of the family of that estate, which belonged to him by right of + inheritance. Alfred’s fast care was to put the court and the jury in full + possession of the facts. He stated that “His father, Lewis Percy, + plaintiff in this cause, and Robert Percy, Bart. defendant, both descended + from Sir John Percy, who was their grandfather. Sir John outlived both his + sons, who left him two grandsons, Robert was the son of his eldest, and + Lewis of his youngest son. Sir John had two estates, one of them paternal, + which went in the ordinary course of descent to the representative of the + eldest son, being the present Sir Robert Percy. Sir John’s other estate, + in Hampshire, which came to him by his wife, he conveyed, a short time + before his death, to his youngest grandson, the present Lewis Percy, who + had held undisturbed possession of it for many years. But, in process of + time, Sir Robert Percy ruined himself by play, and having frequent + intercourse with Sharpe, the solicitor, upon some great emergency inquired + whether it was not possible to shake the title of his cousin Mr. Percy’s + estate. He suggested that the conveyance might not be forthcoming; but Sir + Robert assured him that both his grandfather and the present Mr. Percy + were men of business, and that there was little likelihood either that the + deeds should be lost, or that there should be any flaw in the title. + Afterwards a fire broke out at Percy-hall, which consumed that wing of the + house in which were Mr. Percy’s papers—the papers were all saved + except this deed of conveyance. Mr. Sharpe being accidentally apprized of + the loss, conveyed the intelligence to Sir Robert. He immediately + commenced a suit against his cousin, and had finally succeeded in + obtaining a verdict in his own favour, and possession of the Hampshire + estate. At the time when Mr. Percy delivered up possession and quitted + Percy-hall, in consideration of the extensive improvements which he had + made, and in consideration of his giving up to Sir Robert plate, + furniture, wine, horses, and equipages, Sir Robert had promised to forego + whatever claim he might have upon Mr. Percy for the rents which he had + received during the time he had held the estate; but, afterwards, Sir + Robert repented of having made this agreement, broke his promise, and took + out a writ against his cousin for the <i>mesne rents</i>. They amounted to + an immense sum, which Mr. Percy was utterly unable to pay, and he could + have had no hope of avoiding ruin, had the claim been by law decided + against him. By fortunate circumstances, however, he had, while this cause + was pending, recovered that lost conveyance, which proved his right to the + Hampshire estate. Of this he had apprized Sir Robert, who had persisted, + nevertheless, in holding possession, and in his claim for the <i>mesne + rents</i>. The present action was brought by Mr. Percy in resistance of + this unjust claim, and for the recovery of his property.” + </p> + <p> + Not one word of invective, of eloquence, of ornament, or of any attempt at + pathos, did our barrister mix with this statement. It was his object to + put the jury and the court clearly in possession of facts, which, + unadorned, he knew would appear stronger than if encumbered by any flowers + of oratory. + </p> + <p> + Having produced the deed, conveying the Hampshire estate to his father, + Alfred called evidence to prove the signature of Sir John Percy, and the + handwriting of the witnesses. He farther proved that this conveyance had + been formerly seen among his father’s papers at Percy-hall, showed it had + been recently recovered from Mr. Falconer’s box of papers, and explained + how it had been put there by mistake, and he supported this fact by the + evidence of Commissioner Falconer, father-in-law to the defendant.—Alfred + rested his cause on these proofs, and waited, anxious to know what defence + the defendant was prepared to make. + </p> + <p> + To his astonishment and consternation, Sir Robert’s counsel produced + another deed of Sir John Percy’s, revoking the deed by which Sir John had + made over his Hampshire estate to his younger grandson, Mr. Percy; it + appearing by a clause in the original deed that a power for this purpose + had been therein reserved. This deed of revocation was handed to the judge + and to the jury, that it might be examined. The two deeds were carefully + compared. The nicest inspection could not discover any difference in the + signature or seal. When Mr. Friend examined them, he was in dismay. The + instrument appeared perfect. Whilst the jury were occupied in this + examination, Mr. Friend and Alfred had a moment to consult together. + </p> + <p> + “We are undone,” whispered Mr. Friend, “if they establish this deed of + revocation—it sets us aside for ever.” + </p> + <p> + Neither Mr. Friend nor Alfred had any doubt of its being a forgery, but + those, who had plunged thus desperately in guilt, would probably be + provided with perjury sufficient to support their iniquity. + </p> + <p> + “If we had been prepared!” said Mr. Friend: “but how could we be prepared + for such a stroke? Even now, if we had time, we could summon witnesses who + would discredit theirs, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Do not despair,” said Alfred: “still we have a chance that their own + witnesses may cross each other, or contradict themselves. Falsehood, with + all its caution, is seldom consistent.” + </p> + <p> + The trial proceeded. Alfred, in the midst of the fears and sighs of his + friends, and of the triumphant smiles and anticipating congratulations of + his enemies, continued to keep both his temper and his understanding cool. + His attention was fixed upon the evidence produced, regardless of the + various suggestions whispered or written to him by ignorant or learned + advisers. + </p> + <p> + William Clerke, the only surviving witness to the deed of revocation + produced by Sir Robert, was the person on whose evidence this cause + principally rested. He was now summoned to appear, and room was made for + him. He was upwards of eighty years of age: he came slowly into court, and + stood supporting himself upon his staff, his head covered with thin gray + hairs, his countenance placid and smiling, and his whole appearance so + respectable, so venerable, as to prepossess, immediately, the jury and the + court in his favour. + </p> + <p> + Alfred Percy could scarcely believe it possible, that such a man as this + could be the person suborned to support a forgery. After being sworn, he + was desired to sit down, which he did, bowing respectfully to the court. + Sir Robert Percy’s counsel proceeded to examine him as to the points they + desired to establish. + </p> + <p> + “Your name, sir, is William Clerke, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “My name is William Clerke,” answered the old man, in a feeble voice. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see this paper before?” showing him the deed. + </p> + <p> + “I did—I was present when Sir John Percy signed it—he bid me + witness it, that is, write my name at the bottom, which I did, and then he + said, ‘Take notice, William Clerke, this is a deed, revoking the deed by + which I made over my Hampshire estate to my youngest grandson, Lewis + Percy.’” + </p> + <p> + The witness was going on, but the counsel interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “You saw Sir John Percy sign this deed—you are sure of that?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Is this Sir John Percy’s signature?” + </p> + <p> + “It is—the very same I saw him write; and here is my own name, that + he bid me put just there.” + </p> + <p> + “You can swear that this is your handwriting?” + </p> + <p> + “I can—I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you recollect what time Sir John Percy signed this deed?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; about three or four days before his death.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, that is all we want of you, Mr. Clerke.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred Percy desired that Clerke should be detained in court, that he + might cross-examine him. The defendants went on, produced their evidence, + examined all their witnesses, and established all they desired. + </p> + <p> + Then it came to Alfred’s turn to cross-examine the witnesses that had been + produced by his adversary. When William Clerke re-appeared, Alfred + regarding him stedfastly, the old man’s countenance changed a little; but + still he looked prepared to stand a cross-examination. In spite of all his + efforts, however, he trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you are trembling on the brink of the grave!” said Alfred, addressing + him in a low, solemn tone: “pause, and reflect, whilst you are allowed a + moment’s time. A few years must be all you have to spend in this world. A + few moments may take you to another, to appear before a higher tribunal—before + that Judge, who knows our hearts, who sees into yours at this instant.” + </p> + <p> + The staff in the old man’s hand shook violently. + </p> + <p> + Sir Robert Percy’s counsel interrupted—said that the witness should + not be intimidated, and appealed to the court. The judge was silent, and + Alfred proceeded, “You know that you are upon your oath—these are + possibly the last words you may ever utter—look that they be true. + You know that men have been struck dead whilst uttering falsehoods. You + are upon your oath—did you see Sir John Percy sign this deed?” + </p> + <p> + The old man attempted in vain to articulate. + </p> + <p> + “Give him time to recollect,” cried the counsel on the opposite side: + “give him leave to see the writing now he has his spectacles.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at the writing twice—his head and hands shaking so that he + could not fix his spectacles. The question was repeated by the judge. The + old man grew pale as death. Sir Robert Percy, just opposite to him, + cleared his throat to catch the witness’s attention, then darted at him + such a look as only he could give. + </p> + <p> + “Did I see Sir John Percy sign this deed?” repeated William Clerke: “yes, + I did.” + </p> + <p> + “You hear, my lord, you hear,” cried Sir Robert’s counsel, “the witness + says he did—there is no occasion farther to intimidate this poor old + man. He is not used to speak before such an audience. There is no need of + eloquence—all we want is truth. The evidence is positive. My lord, + with your lordship’s leave, I fancy we may dismiss him.” + </p> + <p> + They were going to hurry him away, but Alfred Percy said that, with the + permission of the court, he must cross-examine that witness farther, as + the whole event of the trial depended upon the degree of credit that might + be given to his evidence. + </p> + <p> + By this time the old man had somewhat recovered himself; he saw that his + age and reverend appearance still prepossessed the jury in his favour, and + from their looks, and from the whispers near him, he learned that his + tremor and hesitation had not created any suspicion of guilt, but had been + attributed rather to the sensibility of virtue, and the weakness of age. + And, now that the momentary emotion which eloquence had produced on his + mind had subsided, he recollected the bribe that had been promised to him. + He was aware that he had already sworn what, if he contradicted, might + subject him to be prosecuted for perjury. He now stood obstinately + resolved to persevere in his iniquity. The first falsehoods pronounced and + believed, the next would be easy. + </p> + <p> + “Your name is William Clerke, and this,” said Alfred (pointing to the + witness’s signature), “is your handwriting?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I say it is.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>can</i> write then?” (putting a pen into his hand) “be so good as + to write a few words in the presence of the court.” He took the pen, but + after making some fruitless attempts, replied, “I am too old to write—I + have not been able to write my name these many years—Indeed! sir, + indeed! you are too hard upon one like me. God knows,” said he, looking up + to Heaven, some thought with feeling, some suspected with hypocrisy—“God + knows, sir, I speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. Have you any + more questions to put to me? I am ready to tell all I know. What interest + have I to conceal any thing?” continued he, his voice gaining strength and + confidence as he went on repeating the lesson which he had been taught. + </p> + <p> + “It was long, a long while ago,” he said, “since it had all happened; but + thank Heaven, his memory had been spared him, and he remembered all that + had passed, the same as if it was but yesterday. He recollected how Sir + John looked, where he sat, what he said when he signed this deed; and, + moreover, he had often before heard of a dislike Sir John had taken to his + younger grandson—ay, to that young gentleman’s father,” looking at + Alfred; “and I was very sorry to hear it—very sorry there should be + any dispute in the family, for I loved them all,” said he, wiping his eyes—“ay, + I loved ‘em all, and all alike, from the time they were in their cradles. + I remember too, once, Sir John said to me, ‘William Clerke,’ says he, ‘you + are a faithful lad’—for I was a lad once—” + </p> + <p> + Alfred had judiciously allowed the witness to go on as far as he pleased + with his story, in the expectation that some exaggeration and + contradiction would appear; but the judge now interrupted the old man, + observing that this was nothing to the purpose—that he must not take + up the time of the court with idle tales, but that if he had any thing + more to give in evidence respecting the deed, he should relate it. + </p> + <p> + The judge was thought to be severe; and the old man, after glancing his + eye on the jury, bowed with an air of resignation, and an appearance of + difficulty, which excited their compassion. + </p> + <p> + “We may let him go now, my lord, may not we?” said Sir Robert Percy’s + counsel. + </p> + <p> + “With the permission of his lordship, I will ask one other question,” said + Alfred. + </p> + <p> + Now it should be observed, that after the first examination of this + witness, Alfred had heard him say to Mr. Sharpe, “They forgot to bring out + what I had to say about the seal.” To which Sharpe had replied, “Enough + without it.” Alfred had examined the seal, and had observed that there was + something underneath it—through a small hole in the parchment he saw + something between the parchment and the sealing-wax. + </p> + <p> + “You were present, I think you say, Mr. Clerke, not only when this deed + was signed, but when it was sealed?” + </p> + <p> + “I was, sir,” cried Clerke, eager to bring out this part of the evidence, + as it had been prepared for him by Sir Robert; “I surely was; and I + remember it particularly, because of a little remarkable circumstance: Sir + John, God bless him!—I think I see him now—My lord, under this + seal,” continued the old man, addressing himself to the judge, and putting + his shrivelled finger upon the seal, “under this very seal Sir John put a + sixpence—and he called upon me to observe him doing it—for, my + lord, it is my opinion, he thought then of what might come to pass—he + had a sort of a foreboding of this day. And now, my lord, order them, if + you please, to break the seal—break it before them all,—and if + there is not the sixpence under it, why this deed is not Sir John’s, and + this is none of my writing, and,” cried he, lifting up his hands and eyes, + “I am a liar, and perjured.” + </p> + <p> + There was a profound silence. The seal was broken. The sixpence appeared. + It was handed in triumph, by Sir Robert Percy’s counsel, to the jury and + to the judge. There seemed to be no longer a doubt remaining in the minds + of the jury—and a murmur of congratulation among the partisans of + Sir Robert seemed to anticipate the verdict. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis all over, I fear,” whispered Friend to Alfred. “Alfred, you have + done all that could be done, but they have sworn through every thing—it + is over with us.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” said Alfred. Every eye turned upon him, some from pity, some + from curiosity, to see how he bore his defeat. At length, when there was + silence, he begged to be permitted to look at the sixpence. The judge + ordered that it should be shown to him. He held it to the light to examine + the date of the coin; he discovered a faint impression of a head on the + sixpence, and, upon closer inspection, he made out the date, and showed + clearly that the date of the coin was later than the date of the deed: so + that there was an absolute impossibility that this sixpence could have + been put under the seal of the deed by Sir John. + </p> + <p> + The moment Alfred stated this fact, the counsel on the opposite side took + the sixpence, examined it, threw down his brief, and left the court. + People looked at each other in astonishment. The judge ordered that + William Clerke should be detained, that he might be prosecuted by the + crown for perjury. + </p> + <p> + The old man fell back senseless. Mr. Sharpe and Sir Robert Percy pushed + their way together out of court, disclaimed by all who had till now + appeared as their friends. No farther evidence was offered, so that here + the trial closed. The judge gave a short, impressive charge to the jury, + who, without withdrawing, instantly gave their verdict in favour of the + plaintiff, Lewis Percy—a verdict that was received with loud + acclamations, which not even respect to the court could restrain. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percy and Alfred hastily shook hands with their friends, and in the + midst of universal applause hurried away to carry the good news to Mrs. + Percy and Rosamond, who were at Alfred’s house, waiting to hear the event + of the trial. + </p> + <p> + Neither Alfred nor Mr. Percy had occasion to speak—the moment Mrs. + Percy and Rosamond saw them they knew the event. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “our fortune is restored; and doubly happy we are, + in having regained it, in a great measure, by the presence of mind and + ability of my son.” + </p> + <p> + His mother and sister embraced Alfred with tears of delight. For some + moments a spectator might have imagined that he beheld a family in deep + affliction. But soon through these tears appeared on the countenance of + each individual the radiance of joy, smiles of affection, tenderness, + gratitude, and every delightful benignant feeling of the human heart. + </p> + <p> + “Has any body sent to Mrs. Hungerford and to Lady Jane Granville?” said + Mr. Percy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, messengers were sent off the moment the verdict was given,” + said Erasmus: “I took care of that.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity,” said Rosamond, “that Caroline is not here at this moment, + and Godfrey.” + </p> + <p> + “It is best as it is,” said Mrs. Percy: “we have that pleasure still in + store.” + </p> + <p> + “And now, my beloved children,” said Mr. Percy, “after having returned + thanks to Providence, let me here, in the midst of all of you to whom I + owe so large a share of my happiness, sit down quietly for a few minutes + to enjoy ‘the sober certainty of waking bliss.’” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. + </h2> + <p> + The day after the trial brought several happy letters to the Percys. + Rosamond called it the day of happy letters, and by that name it was ever + after recorded in the family. The first of these letters was from Godfrey, + as follows: + </p> + <p> + “Dear father, mother, brothers, and sisters all! I hope you are not under + any anxiety about me, for here I am, safe and sound, and in excellent + quarters, at the house of Mynheers Grinderweld, Groensveld, and + Slidderschild, Amsterdam, the Dutch merchants who were shipwrecked on our + coast years ago! If it had happened yesterday, the thing could not be + fresher in their memories. My dear Rosamond, when we laughed at their + strange names, square figures, and formal advice to us, if ever we should, + by the changes and chances of human events, be reduced to distress, we + little thought that I, a prisoner, should literally come to seek shelter + at their door. And most hospitably have I been received. National + prejudices, which I early acquired, I don’t know how, against the Dutch, + made me fancy that a Dutchman could think only of himself, and would give + nothing for nothing: I can only say from experience, I have been as + hospitably treated in Amsterdam as ever I was in London. These honest + merchants have overwhelmed me with civilities and substantial services, + and still they seem to think they can never do enough for me. I wish I may + ever see them on English ground again. But we have no Percy-hall to + receive them in now; and as well as I remember the Hills, we could not + conveniently stow more than one at a time. Side by side, as they stood + after breakfast, I recollect, at Percy-hall, they would completely fill up + the parlour at the Hills. + </p> + <p> + “I may well be in high spirits to-day; for these good people have just + been telling me, that the measures they have been taking to get my + exchange effected, have so far succeeded, they have reason to believe that + in a week, or a fortnight at farthest, I shall be under weigh for England. + </p> + <p> + “In the mean time, you will wonder perhaps how I got here; for I perceive + that I have subjected myself to Rosamond’s old reproach of never beginning + my story at the beginning. My father used to say, half the mistakes in + human affairs arise from our <i>taking for granted</i>; but I think I may + take it for granted, that either from the newspapers or from Gascoigne, + who must be in England by this time, you have learned that the transport I + was on board, with my division of the regiment, parted convoy in the storm + of the 18th, in the night, and at daybreak fell in with two Dutchmen. Our + brave boys fought as Englishmen always do; but all that is over now, so it + does not signify prosing about it. Two to one was too much—we were + captured. I had not been five minutes on the Dutchman’s deck, when I + observed one of the sailors eyeing me very attentively. Presently he came + up and asked if my name was not Percy, and if I did not recollect to have + seen him before? He put me in mind of the shipwreck, and told me he was + one of the sailors who were harboured in one of my father’s outhouses + whilst they were repairing the wreck. I asked him what had become of the + drunken carpenter, and told him the disaster that ensued in consequence of + that rascal’s carelessness. My sailor was excessively shocked at the + account of the fire at Percy-hall: he thumped his breast till I thought he + would have broken his breast-bone; and after relieving his mind by cursing + and swearing in high Dutch, low Dutch, and English, against the drunken + carpenter, he told me there was no use in saying any more, for that he had + punished himself.—He was found dead one morning behind a barrel, + from which in the night he had been drinking spirits surreptitiously + through a straw. Pray tell this to old John, who used always to prophesy + that this fellow would come to no good: assure him, however, at the same + time, that all the Dutch sailors do not deserve his maledictions. Tell + him, I can answer for the poor fellow who recognized me, and who, during + the whole passage, never failed to show me and my fellow-prisoners every + little attention in his power. When we got to Amsterdam, it was he + reminded me of the Dutch merchants, told me their names, which, without + his assistance, I might have perished before I could ever have + recollected, and showed me the way to their house, and never rested till + he saw me well settled. + </p> + <p> + “You will expect from me some account of this place. You need not expect + any, for just as I had got to this line in my letter appeared one who has + put all the lions of Amsterdam fairly out of my head—Mr. Gresham! He + has been for some weeks in the country, and has just returned. The Dutch + merchants, not knowing of his being acquainted with my family, never + mentioned him to me, nor me to him: so our surprise at meeting was great. + What pleasure it is in a foreign country, and to a poor prisoner, to see + any one from dear England, and one who knows our own friends! I had never + seen Mr. Gresham myself, but you have all by your letters made me well + acquainted with him. I like him prodigiously, to use a lady’s word (not + yours, Rosamond). Letters from Mr. Henry were waiting for him here; he has + just opened them, and the first news he tells me is, that Caroline is + going to be married! Is it possible? Count Altenberg! The last time I + heard from you, you mentioned nothing of all this. Some of your letters + must have been lost. Pray write again immediately, and do not take it for + granted that I shall be at home before a letter reaches me; but give me a + full history of every thing up to the present moment. Groensveld is + sealing his letters for London, and must have mine now or never. Adieu! + Pray write fully: you cannot be too minute for a poor prisoner. + </p> + <p> + “Yours affectionately, + </p> + <p> + “burning with curiosity, + </p> + <h3> + “GODFREY PERCY.” + </h3> + <p> + A letter from Mr. Gresham to Mr. Henry farther informed them, that + Godfrey’s exchange was actually effected, and that he had secured his + passage on board a vessel just ready to sail for England. + </p> + <p> + Next came letters from Count Altenberg. Briefly, in the laconic style of a + man pressed at once by sudden events and strong feelings, he related that + at the siege of the city of —— by the French, early in the + morning of the day on which it was expected that the enemy would attempt + to storm the place, his prince, while inspecting the fortifications, was + killed by a cannon-ball, on the very spot where the Count had been + standing but a moment before. All public affairs were changed in his + country by the death of the prince. His successor, of a weak character, + was willing to purchase present ease, and to secure his low pleasures, at + any price—ready to give up the honour of his country, and submit to + the conqueror—that he had been secretly intriguing with the enemy, + had been suspected, and this suspicion was confirmed by his dastardly + capitulation when the means of defence were in his power and the spirit of + his people eager for resistance. + </p> + <p> + With indignation, heightened by grief, contrast, and despairing + patriotism, Count Altenberg had remonstrated in vain—had refused, as + minister, to put his signature to the capitulation—had been + solicited urgently to concede—offers of wealth and dignities pressed + upon him: these he rejected with scorn. Released from all his public + engagements by the death of the prince, and by the retiring of the + princess from court, Count Altenberg refused to act as minister under his + successor; and seeing that, under such a successor to the government, no + means of serving or saving the country remained, he at once determined to + quit it for ever: resolved to live in a free country, already his own, + half by birth and wholly by inclination, where he had property sufficient + to secure him independence, sufficient for his own wishes, and for those + of his beloved Caroline—a country where he could enjoy better than + on any other spot in the whole compass of the civilized world, the + blessings of real liberty and of domestic tranquillity and happiness. + </p> + <p> + His decision made, it was promptly executed. He left to a friend the + transacting the sale of his German property, and Caroline concluded his + letter with + </p> + <h3> + “MY DEAR FRIENDS, + </h3> + <p> + “Passports are obtained, every thing ready. Early next week we set out for + England; by the first of next month we shall be at HOME.” + </p> + <p> + Then came a letter from Lord Oldborough. Some time previously to the + trial, surprised at neither seeing Mr. Temple nor hearing of his marriage, + his lordship had written to inquire what delayed his promised return. + Taking it for granted that he was married, his lordship in the most polite + manner begged that he would prevail upon his bride to enliven the + retirement of an old statesman by her sprightly company. As the friend of + her father he made this request, with a confidence in her hereditary + disposition to show him kindness. + </p> + <p> + In reply to this letter, Mr. Temple told his friend and master what had + delayed his marriage, and why he had hitherto forborne to trouble him on + the subject. Lord Oldborough, astonished and indignant, uttered once and + but once contemptuous exclamations against the “inconceivable meanness of + Lord Skrimpshire,” and the “infinitely small mind of his grace of + Greenwich;” then, without condescending to any communication with inferior + powers, his lordship applied directly to the highest authority. The + consequence was that a place double the value of that which had been + promised was given to Mr. Temple, and it was to announce his appointment + to it that occasioned the present letter from Lord Oldborough, enclosing + one from Mr. Secretary Cope, who “had it in command to assure his lordship + that the delay had arisen solely from the anxious desire of his majesty’s + ministers to mark their respect for his lordship’s recommendation, and + their sense of Mr. Temple’s merit, by doing more than had been originally + proposed. An opportunity, for which they had impatiently waited, had now + put it into their power to evince the sincerity of their intentions in a + mode which they trusted would prove to the entire satisfaction of his + lordship.” + </p> + <p> + The greatest care was taken both in substance and manner to gratify Lord + Oldborough, whose loss had been felt, and whose value had, upon + comparison, increased in estimation. + </p> + <p> + Rosamond was rewarded by seeing the happiness of the man she loved, and + hearing him declare that he owed it to her prudence. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamond’s prudence!—Whoever expected to hear this?” Mr. Percy + exclaimed. “And yet the praise is just. So, henceforward, none need ever + despair of grafting prudence upon generosity of disposition and vivacity + of temper.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Temple obtained from Rosamond a promise to be his, as soon as her + sister Caroline and her brother should arrive. + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane Granville, who felt the warmest interest in their prosperity, + was the first to whom they communicated all this joyful intelligence. Her + ladyship’s horses had indeed reason to rue this day; for they did more + work this day than London horses ever accomplished before in the same + number of hours, not excepting even those of the merciless Mrs. John + Prevost; for Lady Jane found it necessary to drive about to her thousand + acquaintance to spread the news of the triumph and felicity of the Percy + family. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of this tumult of joy, Mr. Percy wrote two letters: one was + to his faithful old steward, John Nelson, who deserved from his master + this mark of regard; the other was to Commissioner Falconer, to make him + some friendly offers of assistance in his own affairs, and to beg that, + through him, his daughter, the unhappy and deserted lady of Sir Robert + Percy, might be assured that neither Mr. Percy nor any of his family + wished to put her to inconvenience; and that far from being in haste to + return to Percy-hall, they particularly wished to wait in town for the + arrival of Caroline and Count Altenberg; and they therefore requested that + she would not hasten her removal, from any false idea of their impatience. + We said the deserted lady of Sir Robert Percy, for Sir Robert had fled + from the country. On quitting the court after the trial, he took all the + ready money he had previously collected from his tenants, and set out for + the continent, leaving a note for his wife, apprizing her “that she would + never see him more, and that she had better return to her father and + mother, as he had no means left to support her extravagance.” + </p> + <p> + Commissioner Falconer was at this time at Falconer-court, where he had + been obliged to go to settle some business with his tenantry, previously + to the sale of his land for the redemption of Cunningham. The + Commissioner’s answer to Mr. Percy’s letter was as follows: + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell you, my dear sir, how much I was touched by the kindness of + your letter and conduct—so different from what I have met with from + others. I will not cloud your happiness—in which, believe me, I + heartily rejoice—by the melancholy detail of all my own sorrows and + disappointments; but only answer briefly to your friendly inquiries + respecting my affairs. + </p> + <p> + “And first, for my unfortunate married daughter, who has been in this + terrible manner returned upon our hands. She thanks you for your + indulgence, on which she will not encroach. Before you receive this, she + will have left Percy-hall. She is going to live with a Miss Clapham, a + great heiress, who wants a fashionable companion and chaperon. Mrs. + Falconer became acquainted with her at Tunbridge, and has devised this + plan for Arabella. I fear Bell’s disposition will not suit such a + situation, but she has no other resource. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Falconer and Georgiana have so <i>over-managed</i> matters with + respect to Petcalf, that it has ended, as I long since feared it would, in + his breaking off. If Mrs. Falconer had taken my advice, Georgiana might + now be completely settled; instead of which she is fitting out for India. + She is going, to be sure, in good company; but in my opinion the expense + (which, Heaven knows, I can ill afford) will be thrown away like all the + rest—for Georgiana has been much worn by late hours, and though + still young, has, I fear, lost her bloom, and looks rather old for India. + </p> + <p> + “I am truly obliged to you, my dear sir, for your friendly offer with + respect to Falconer-court, and have in consequence stopped the sale of the + furniture. I shall rejoice to have such a good tenant as Mr. Temple. It is + indeed much more agreeable to me to let than to sell. The accommodation, + as you propose, will put it in my power to release Cunningham, which is my + most pressing difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “As you are the only person in the world now who takes an interest in my + affairs, or to whom I can safely unburden my mind, I must, though I know + complaint to be useless, relieve my heart by it for a moment. I can safely + say, that for the last ten years of my life I have never spent a day <i>for + myself</i>. I have been continually planning and toiling to advance my + family,—not an opportunity has been neglected; and yet from this + very family springs all my unhappiness. Even Mrs. Falconer blames me as + the cause of that <i>sad business</i>, which has disgraced us for ever, + and deprived us of all our friends—and has afforded an excuse for + breaking all promises. There are many, whom I will not name, but they are + persons now high in office, who have—I may venture to say it to you—used + me shamefully ill. + </p> + <p> + “Many an honest tradesman and manufacturer, to say nothing of men of + talents in the liberal professions, I have seen in the course of the last + forty years make their own fortunes, and large fortunes, while I have + ended worse than I began—have literally been working all my life for + others, not only without reward, but without thanks. If I were to begin + life again, I certainly should follow your principles, my dear sir, and + depend more upon myself and less upon others, than I have done—But + now all is over. Let me assure you, that in the midst of my own + misfortunes, I rejoice in your prosperity, and in the esteem and respect + with which I hear you and yours spoken of by all. + </p> + <p> + “Present my affectionate regards and congratulations to Mrs. Percy, and to + all your amiable and happy circle. Propriety and feeling for my poor + daughter, Lady Percy, must prevent my paying at present my personal + congratulations to you at Percy-hall; but I trust you will not the less + believe in the sincerity of my attachment. + </p> + <p> + “I am, my dear sir, + </p> + <p> + “Your obliged and faithful + </p> + <p> + “Friend and servant, + </p> + <h3> + “T. FALCONER. + </h3> + <p> + “P.S.—I have just learnt that the little place I mentioned to Mr. + Alfred Percy, when we last met, is not disposed of. Lord Oldborough’s + influence, as Mr. Temple well knows, is still all-powerful; and your + interest with his lordship, you must be sensible, is greater than that of + any other person living, without exception. A word from you would do the + business for me. It is but a trifle, which I should once have been ashamed + to ask: but it is now a matter of necessity.” + </p> + <p> + The event of the trial, and the restoration of the Percy family to their + property, were heard with transports of joy by the old tenantry. They had + not needed the effect of contrast, to make them love and feel the value of + their good landlord; but certainly Sir Robert Percy’s tyranny, and all + that he had made them suffer for their obstinate fidelity to the <i>old + branch</i>, had heightened and fortified their attachment. It was now + their turn to glory in that honest obstinacy, and with the strong English + sense of justice, they triumphed in having the rightful owners restored to + their estate, and to the seat of their ancestors. + </p> + <p> + As the Percy family crossed the well-known bridge at the end of the + village, those bells, which had sounded so mournfully, which had been + muffled when they quitted their home, now rang out a merry triumphant peal—and + it was rung by the hands of the very same persons who had formerly given + that proof of attachment to him in his adversity.—Emotion as strong + now seized Mr. Percy’s heart. At the same spot he jumped out of the + carriage, and by the same path along which he had hastened to stop the + bell-ringers, lest they should ruin themselves with Sir Robert, he now + hastened to see and thank these honest, courageous people. In passing + through the village, which had been freshly swept and garnished the + people, whom, he remembered to have seen in tears following the carriage + at their departure, were now crowding to their doors with faces bright + with smiles. Hats that had never stirred, and backs that had never bent + for the <i>usurper</i>, were now eager with low bows to mark their proud + respect to the true man. There were no noisy acclamations, for all were + touched. The voices of the young children, however, were heard, who, as + their mothers held them up in their arms, to see the landlord, of whom + they had heard so much, offered their little nosegays as the open carriage + passed, and repeated blessings on those, on whom from their cradles, they + had heard blessings bestowed by their parents. + </p> + <p> + The old steward stood ready at the park-gate to open it for his master. + His master and the ladies put their hands out of the carriage to shake + hands with him, but he could not stand it. He just touched his master’s + hand. Tears streamed down his face, and turning away without being able to + say one word, he hid himself in the porter’s lodge. + </p> + <p> + As they drove up to the house, they saw standing on the steps waiting—and + long had he been waiting there, for the first sound of the carriage—Johnson, + the butler, who had followed the family to the Hills, and had served them + in their fallen fortunes—Johnson was now himself. Before the + hall-door, wide open to receive them, he stood, with the livery-servants + in due order. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Harte, the good old housekeeper, had been sent down to prepare for + the reception of the family, and a world of trouble she had had; but all + was now right and proper, and she was as active and alert as the youngest + of her maidens could have been, in conducting the ladies to their + apartments, in showing all the old places, and doing what she called the + honours of the <i>re-installation</i>. She could have wished to have + vented a little of her indignation, and to have told how some things had + been left; but her better taste and judgment, and her sense of what would + be pleasing to her master and mistress, repressed all recrimination. By + the help of frequent recurrence to her snuff-box, in difficulties great, + together with much rubbing of her hands, and some bridling of her head, + she got through it, without naming those, who should not be thought of, as + she observed, on this joyful day. + </p> + <p> + The happiness of the Percy family was completed by the return of Godfrey, + of Caroline, and Count Altenberg. Godfrey arrived just as his family were + settled at Percy-hall. After his long absence from his home and country, + he doubly enjoyed this scene of domestic prosperity. Beloved as Rosamond + was by rich and poor in the neighbourhood, and the general favourite of + her family, her approaching marriage spread new and universal joy. It is + impossible to give an idea of the congratulations, and of the bustle of + the various preparations, which were going on at this time at Percy-hall, + especially in the lower regions. Even Mrs. Harte’s all-regulating genius + was insufficient for the exigencies of the times. Indeed, her head and her + heart were now at perpetual variance, continually counteracting and + contradicting each other. One moment delighted with the joy and affection + of the world below, she would come up to boast of it to her mistress and + her young ladies; the next moment she would scold all the people for being + out of their wits, and for not minding or knowing a single thing they were + doing, or ordered to do, “no more than the babes in the wood;” then + proving the next minute and acknowledging that she was “<i>really quite as + bad as themselves</i>. And no wonder, for the thoughts of Miss Rosamond’s + marriage had turned her head entirely upside down—for she had been + at Miss Rosamond’s christening, held her by proxy, and considered her + always as her particular own child, and well she might, for a better, + except, perhaps, Miss Caroline—I should say <i>the countess</i>—never + breathed.” + </p> + <p> + The making a <i>desert</i> island for Miss Rosamond’s wedding-dinner was + the object which had taken such forcible possession of Mrs. Harte’s + imagination, that till it was accomplished it was in vain to hope that any + other could, in her eyes, appear in any kind of proportion. In the midst + of all the sentimental joy above stairs, and in the midst of all the + important business of settlements and lawyers, Mrs. Harte was pursuing the + settled purpose of her soul, constructing with infinite care, as directed + by her complete English Housekeeper, a <i>desert island for a wedding</i>, + in a deep china dish, with a mount in the middle, two figures upon the + mount, with crowns on their heads, a knot of rock-candy at their feet, and + gravel-walks of <i>shot comfits</i>, judiciously intersecting in every + direction their dominions. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. + </h2> + <p> + As soon as it was possible, after his return to Percy-hall, Mr. Percy went + to pay his respects to Lord Oldborough. He found this great statesman + happy in retirement, without any affectation of happiness. There were + proofs in every thing about him that his mind had unbent itself agreeably; + his powers had expanded upon different objects, building, planting, + improving the soil and the people. + </p> + <p> + He had many tastes, which had long lain dormant, or rather which had been + held in subjugation by one tyrant passion. That passion vanquished, the + former tastes resumed their activity. The superior strength of his + character was shown in his never recurring to ambition. Its vigour was + displayed in the means by which he supplied himself, not only with variety + of occupation, but with variety of motive. Those, who best know the human + mind must be aware of the difficulty of supplying motive for one + accustomed to stimulus of so high a kind, as that to which Lord Oldborough + had been habituated. For one who had been at the head of the government of + a great nation, to make for himself objects in the stillness and privacy + of a country life, required no common talent and energy of soul. The + difficulty was increased to Lord Oldborough, for to him the vast resource + of a taste for literature was wanting. + </p> + <p> + The biographer of Sir Robert Walpole tells us, that though he had not + forgotten his classical attainments, he had little taste for literary + occupations. Sir Robert once expressed his regret on this subject to Mr. + Fox, in the library at Houghton. “I wish,” he said, “I took as much + delight in reading as you do; it would be the means of alleviating many + tedious hours in my present retirement. But, to my misfortune, I derive no + pleasure from such pursuits.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough felt, but never condescended to complain of that + deficiency of general literature, which was caused in him, partly by his + not having had time for the attainment, and partly by his having formed + too low an estimate of the influence and power of literature in the + political world. But he now took peculiar delight in recalling the + classical studies in which he had in his youth excelled; as Mr. Percy + sympathized with him in this taste, there was another point in which they + coalesced. Mr. Percy stayed with his old friend some days, for he was + anxious to give him this proof of attachment, and felt interested in + seeing his character develope itself in a new direction, displaying fresh + life and strength, and unexpected resource in circumstances, in which + statesmen of the most vigorous minds, and of the highest spirit, have been + seen to “droop and drowse,” to sink into indolence, sensuality, or the + horrors of hypochondriacism and superstition. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough, on his first retiring to Clermont-park, had informed Mr. + Percy that he should wish to see him as soon as he had arranged certain + papers. He now reminded his lordship of it, and Lord Oldborough put into + his hands a sketch, which he had been drawing out, of the principal + transactions in which he had been engaged during his political career, + with copies of his letters to the first public characters of the day in + our own and in foreign countries. Even by those who had felt no regard for + the man, the letters of such a minister would have been read with avidity; + but Mr. Percy perused them with a stronger interest than any which could + be created by mere political or philosophical curiosity. He read them with + a pleasure which a generous mind takes in admiring that which is good and + great, with the delight which a true friend feels in seeing proofs that + justify all the esteem he had previously felt. He saw in these original + documents, in this history of Lord Oldborough’s political life, the most + perfect consistency and integrity, the most disinterested and enlightened + patriotism. When Mr. Percy returned the manuscript to his lordship, he + spoke of the satisfaction he must experience in looking back upon this + record of a life spent in the service of his country, and observed that he + was not surprised that, with such a solid source of self-approbation, such + indefeasible claims to the gratitude of his countrymen, and such + well-earned fame, he should be, as he appeared, happy in retirement. + </p> + <p> + “I am happy, and, I believe, principally from the cause you have + mentioned,” said Lord Oldborough, who had a mind too great for the + affectation of humility. “So far I am happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet,” added he, after a considerable pause, “I have, I feel, a greater + capability of happiness, for which I have been prevented from making any + provision, partly by the course of life of which I made choice, and partly + by circumstances over which I had no control.” + </p> + <p> + He paused again; and, turning the conversation, spoke of his sister, an + elderly lady, who had come to pass some time with him. They had lived + separate almost all their lives; she in Scotland with her husband, a + Scottish nobleman, who having died about the time when Lord Oldborough had + resigned his ministerial situation, she had accepted his lordship’s + invitation to visit him in his retirement. The early attachment he had had + for this sister seemed to revive in his mind when they met; and, as if + glad to have some object for his affections, they were poured out upon + her. Mr. Percy observed a tenderness in his manner and voice when he spoke + to her, a thousand little attentions, which no one would have expected + from the apparently stern Lord Oldborough, a man who had been engrossed + all his life by politics. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the last day which Mr. Percy meant to spend at + Clermont-park, his lordship, as they were sitting together in his study, + expressed more than common regret at the necessity for his friend’s + departure, but said, “I have no right to detain you from your family.” + Then, after a pause, he added, “Mr. Percy, you first gave me the idea that + a private life is the happiest.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, in most cases I believe it is; but I never meant to assert that + a public life spent in noble exertion, and with the consciousness of + superior talent and utility, is not more desirable than the life of any + obscure individual can possibly be, even though he possess the pleasure of + domestic ease and tranquillity. There are men of eminent abilities, + capable of extraordinary exertions, inspired by exalted patriotism. I + believe, notwithstanding the corruption of so many has weakened all faith + in public virtue, I believe in the existence of such men, men who devote + themselves to the service of their country: when the time for their + relinquishing the toils of public life arrives, honour and + self-approbation follow them in retirement.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true, I am happy,” repeated Lord Oldborough; “but to go on with + what I began to say to you yesterday—I feel that some addition might + be made to my happiness. The sense of having, to the best of my ability, + done my duty, is satisfactory. I do not require applause—I disdain + adulation—I have sustained my public life without sympathy—I + could seldom meet with it—where I could, I have enjoyed it—and + could now enjoy it—exquisitely—as you do, Mr. Percy—surrounded + by a happy family. Domestic life requires domestic pleasures—objects + for the affections.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percy felt the truth of this, and could answer only by suggesting the + idea of Mr. Temple, who was firmly and warmly attached to Lord Oldborough, + and for whom his lordship had a strong regard. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Temple, and my daughter Rosamond, whom your lordship honoured with so + kind an invitation, propose, I know, paying their respects to you next + week. Though I am her father, I may venture to say that Rosamond’s + sprightliness is so mixed with solid information and good sense, that her + society will become agreeable to your lordship.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall rejoice to see Mrs. Temple here. As the daughter of one friend, + and the wife of another, she has a double claim to my regard. And (to say + nothing of hereditary genius or dispositions—in which you do not + believe, and I do), there can be no doubt that the society of a lady, + educated as your daughter has been, must suit my taste. The danger is, + that her society should become necessary to me. For Mr. Temple I already + feel a degree of affection, which I must repress, rather than indulge.” + </p> + <p> + “Repress!—Why so, my lord? You esteem him—you believe in the + sincerity of his attachment?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why with stoicism—pardon me, my dear lord—why repress + affection?” + </p> + <p> + “Lest I should become dependent for my daily happiness on one, whose + happiness is independent of mine—in some degree incompatible with + mine. Even if his society were given to me, his heart must be at his home, + and with his family. You see I am no proud stoic, but a man who dares to + look at life—the decline of life, such as it is—as it must be. + Different, Mr. Percy, in your situation—and in mine.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation was here interrupted by the arrival of a carriage. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough looked out of the window as it passed—then smiled, + and observed how altered the times were, since Clermont-park used to be + crowded with visitors and carriages—now the arrival of one is an + event. + </p> + <p> + The servant announced a foreign name, a Neapolitan abbé, who had come over + in the train of a new ambassador: he had just arrived in England, and had + letters from the Cardinal . . ., his uncle, which he was desired to + deliver into Lord Oldborough’s own hand. The abbé was, it appeared, + personally a stranger to him, but there had been some ministerial + intercourse between his lordship and the cardinal. Lord Oldborough + received these political letters with an air of composure and indifference + which proved that he ceased to have an interest in the game. + </p> + <p> + “He supposed,” he said, “that the abbé had been apprized that he was no + longer one of his majesty’s ministers—that he had resigned his + official situation—had retired—and that he took no part + whatever in public affairs.” + </p> + <p> + The abbé replied that he had been apprized that Lord Oldborough had + retired from the public office; but his uncle, he added, with a + significant smile, was aware that Lord Oldborough’s influence was as great + still as it had ever been, and greater than that of any ostensible + minister. + </p> + <p> + This Lord Oldborough disclaimed—coolly observing that his influence, + whatever it might be, could not be known even to himself, as it was never + exerted; and that, as he had determined nevermore to interfere in public + business, he could not be of the least political service to the cardinal. + The Duke of Greenwich was now the person to whom on such subjects all + applications should be addressed. + </p> + <p> + The abbé, however, repeated, that his instructions from the cardinal were + positive and peremptory, to deliver these letters into no hands but those + of Lord Oldborough—that in consequence of this strict injunction he + had come purposely to present them. He was instructed to request his + lordship would not put the letters into the hands of any secretary, but + would have the goodness to examine them himself, and give his counsel how + to proceed, and to whom they should, in case of his lordship’s declining + to interfere, be addressed. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Percy!” said Lord Oldborough, recalling Mr. Percy, who had risen to + quit the room, “you will not leave me—Whatever you may wish to say, + M. l’abbé, may be said before this gentleman—my friend.” + </p> + <p> + His lordship then opened the packet, examined the letters—read and + re-directed some to the Duke of Greenwich, others to the king: the abbé, + all the time, descanting vehemently on Neapolitan politics—regretting + Lord Oldborough’s resignation—adverting still to his lordship’s + powerful influence—and pressing some point in negotiation, for which + his uncle, the cardinal, was most anxious. + </p> + <p> + Among the letters, there was one which Lord Oldborough did not open: he + laid it on the table with the direction downwards, leaned his elbow upon + it, and sat as if calmly listening to the abbé; but Mr. Percy, knowing his + countenance, saw signs of extraordinary emotion, with difficulty + repressed. + </p> + <p> + At length the gesticulating abbé finished, and waited his lordship’s + instructions. + </p> + <p> + They were given in few words. The letters re-directed to the king and the + Duke of Greenwich were returned to him. He thanked his lordship with many + Italian superlatives—declined his lordship’s invitation to stay till + the next day at Clermont-park—said he was pressed in point of time—that + it was indispensably necessary for him to be in London, to deliver these + papers, as soon as possible. His eye glanced on the unopened letter. + </p> + <p> + “Private, sir,” said Lord Oldborough, in a stern voice, without moving his + elbow from the paper: “whatever answer it may require, I shall have the + honour to transmit to you—for the cardinal.” + </p> + <p> + The abbé bowed low, left his address, and took leave. Lord Oldborough, + after attending him to the door, and seeing him depart, returned, took out + his watch, and said to Mr. Percy “Come to me, in my cabinet, in five + minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Seeing his sister on the walk approaching his house, he added, “Let none + follow me.” + </p> + <p> + When the five minutes were over, Mr. Percy went to Lord Oldborough’s + cabinet—knocked—no answer—knocked again—louder—all + was silent—he entered—and saw Lord Oldborough seated, but in + the attitude of one just going to rise; he looked more like a statue than + a living person: there was a stiffness in his muscles, and over his face + and hands a deathlike colour. His eyes were fixed, and directed towards + the door—but they never moved when Mr. Percy entered, nor did Lord + Oldborough stir at his approach. From one hand, which hung over the arm of + his chair, his spectacles had dropped; his other hand grasped an open + letter. + </p> + <p> + “My dear lord!” cried Mr. Percy. + </p> + <p> + He neither heard nor answered. Mr. Percy opened the window and let down + the blind. Then attempting to raise the hand which hung down, he perceived + it was fixed in all the rigidity of catalepsy. In hopes of recalling his + senses or his power of motion, Mr. Percy determined to try to draw the + letter from his grasp; the moment the letter was touched, Lord Oldborough + started—his eyes darting fiercely upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Who dares? Who are you, sir?” cried he. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, Percy—my lord.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough pointed to a chair—Mr. Percy sat down. His lordship + recovered gradually from the species of trance into which he had fallen. + The cataleptic rigidity of his figure relaxed—the colour of life + returned—the body regained its functions—the soul resumed at + once her powers. Without seeming sensible of any interruption or + intermission of feeling or thought, Lord Oldborough went on speaking to + Mr. Percy. + </p> + <p> + “The letter which I now hold in my hand is from that Italian lady of + transcendent beauty, in whose company you once saw me when we first met at + Naples. She was of high rank—high endowments. I loved her; how well—I + need not—cannot say. We married secretly. I was induced—no + matter how—to suspect her fidelity—pass over these + circumstances—I cannot speak or think of them. We parted—I + never saw her more. She retired to a convent, and died shortly after: nor + did I, till I received this letter, written on her death-bed, know that + she had given me a son. The proofs that I wronged her are irresistible. + Would that they had been given to me when I could have repaired my + injustice!—But her pride prevented their being sent till the hour of + her death.” + </p> + <p> + On the first reading of her letter, Lord Oldborough had been so struck by + the idea of the injustice he had done the mother, that he seemed scarcely + to advert to the idea of his having a son. Absorbed in the past, he was at + first insensible both to the present and the future. Early associations, + long dormant, were suddenly wakened; he was carried back with irresistible + force to the days of his youth, and something of likeness in air and voice + to the Lord Oldborough he had formerly known appeared to Mr. Percy. As the + tumult of passionate recollections subsided, as this enthusiastic + reminiscence faded, and the memory of the past gave way to the sense of + the present, Lord Oldborough resumed his habitual look and manner. His + thoughts turned upon his son, that unknown being who belonged to him, who + had claims upon him, who might form a great addition to the happiness or + misery of his life. He took up the letter again, looked for the passage + that related to his son, and read it anxiously to himself, then to Mr. + Percy—observing, “that the directions were so vague, that it would + be difficult to act upon them.” + </p> + <p> + “The boy was sent when three years old to England or Ireland, under the + care of an Irish priest, who delivered him to a merchant, recommended by + the Hamburg banker, &c.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have difficulty in tracing this—great danger of being + mistaken or deceived,” said Lord Oldborough, pausing with a look of + anxiety. “Would to God that I had means of knowing with certainty <i>where</i>, + and above all, <i>what</i>, he is, or that I had never heard of his + existence!” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, are there any more particulars?” inquired Mr. Percy, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough continued to read, “Four hundred pounds of your English + money have been remitted to him annually, by means of these Hamburg + bankers. To them we must apply in the first instance,” said Lord + Oldborough, “and I will write this moment.” + </p> + <p> + “I think, my lord, I can save you the trouble,” said Mr. Percy: “I know + the man.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough put down his pen, and looked at Mr. Percy with + astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lord, however extraordinary it may appear, I repeat it—I + believe I know your son; and if he be the man I imagine him to be, I + congratulate you—you have reason to rejoice.” + </p> + <p> + “The facts, my dear sir,” cried Lord Oldborough: “do not raise my hopes.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percy repeated all that he had heard from Godfrey of Mr. Henry—related + every circumstance from the first commencement of them—the + impertinence and insult to which the mystery that hung over his birth had + subjected him in the regiment—the quarrels in the regiment—the + goodness of Major Gascoigne—the gratitude of Mr. Henry—the + attachment between him and Godfrey—his selling out of the regiment + after Godfrey’s ineffectual journey to London—his wishing to go into + a mercantile house—the letter which Godfrey then wrote, begging his + father to recommend Mr. Henry to Mr. Gresham, disclosing to Mr. Percy, + with Mr. Henry’s permission, all that he knew of his birth. + </p> + <p> + “I have that letter at home,” said Mr. Percy: “your lordship shall see it. + I perfectly recollect the circumstances of Mr. Henry’s having been brought + up in Ireland by a Dublin merchant, and having received constantly a + remittance in quarterly payments of four hundred pounds a year, from a + banker in Cork.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he inquire why, or from whom?” said Lord Oldborough; “and does he + know his mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not: the answer to his first inquiries prevented all further + questions. He was told by the bankers that they had directions to stop + payment of the remittance if any questions were asked.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough listened with profound attention as Mr. Percy went on with + the history of Mr. Henry, relating all the circumstances of his honourable + conduct with respect to Miss Panton—his disinterestedness, decision, + and energy of affection. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough’s emotion increased—he seemed to recognize some + traits of his own character. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>hope</i> this youth is my son,” said his lordship, in a low + suppressed voice. + </p> + <p> + “He deserves to be yours, my lord,” said Mr. Percy. + </p> + <p> + “To have a son might be the greatest of evils—to have <i>such</i> a + son must be the greatest of blessings,” said his lordship. He was lost in + thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “I must see the letter—I must + see the man.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, he is at my house.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough started from his seat—“Let me see him instantly.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, my lord,” said Mr. Percy, in a calm tone, for it was necessary + to calm his impetuosity—“to-morrow. Mr. Henry could not be brought + here to-night without alarming him, or without betraying to him the cause + of our anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, let it be—you are right, my dear friend. Let me see him + without his suspecting that I am any thing to him, or he to me—you + will let me have the letter to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percy sympathized with his impatience, and gratified it with all the + celerity of a friend: the letter was sent that night to Lord Oldborough. + In questioning his sons more particularly concerning Mr. Henry, Mr. Percy + learnt from Erasmus a fresh and strong corroborating circumstance. Dr. + Percy had been lately attending Mr. Gresham’s porter, O’Brien, the + Irishman; who had been so ill, that, imagining himself dying, he had sent + for a priest. Mr. Henry was standing by the poor fellow’s bedside when the + priest arrived, who was so much struck by the sight of him, that for some + time his attention could scarcely be fixed on the sick man. The priest, + after he had performed his official duties, returned to Mr. Henry, begged + pardon for having looked at him with so much earnestness, but said that + Mr. Henry strongly reminded him of the features of an Italian lady who had + committed a child to his care many years ago. This led to farther + explanation, and upon comparing dates and circumstances, Mr. Henry was + convinced that this was the very priest who had carried him over to + Ireland—the priest recognized him to be the child of whom he had + taken charge; but farther, all was darkness. The priest knew nothing more—not + even the name of the lady from whom he had received the child. He knew + only that he had been handsomely rewarded by the Dublin merchant, to whom + he had delivered the boy—and he had heard that this merchant had + since become bankrupt, and had fled to America. This promise of a + discovery, and sudden stop to his hopes, had only mortified poor Mr. + Henry, and had irritated that curiosity which he had endeavoured to lull + to repose. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percy was careful, both for Mr. Henry’s sake and for Lord + Oldborough’s, not to excite hopes which might not ultimately be + accomplished. He took precautions to prevent him from suspecting any thing + extraordinary in the intended introduction to Lord Oldborough. + </p> + <p> + There had been some dispute between the present minister and some London + merchant, about the terms of a loan which had been made by Lord Oldborough—Mr. + Gresham’s house had some concern in this transaction; and it was now + settled between Mr. Percy and Lord Oldborough, that his lordship should + write to desire to see Mr. Henry, who, as Mr. Gresham’s partner, could + give every necessary information. Mr. Henry accordingly was summoned to + Clermont-park, and accompanied Mr. Percy, with his mind intent upon this + business. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Henry, in common with all who were capable of estimating a great + public character, had conceived high admiration for Lord Oldborough; he + had seen him only in public, and at a distance—and it was not + without awe that he now thought of being introduced to him, and of hearing + and speaking to him in private. + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough, meanwhile, who had been satisfied by the perusal of the + letter, and by Mr. Percy’s information, waited for his arrival with + extreme impatience. He was walking up and down his room, and looking + frequently at his watch, which he believed more than once to have stopped. + At length the door opened. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Percy, and Mr. Henry, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Oldborough’s eye darted upon Henry. Struck instantly with the + resemblance to the mother, Lord Oldborough rushed forward, and clasping + him in his arms, exclaimed, “My son!” + </p> + <p> + Tenderness, excessive tenderness, was in his look, voice, soul, as if he + wished to repair in a moment the injustice of years. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lord Oldborough, “<i>now</i> I am happy—<i>now</i>, I + also, Mr. Percy, may be proud of a son—I too shall know the + pleasures of domestic life. Now I am happy!” repeated he, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And, pleased, resigned + To tender passions all his mighty mind.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>March 26th, 1813.</i> + </p> + <h3> + END OF PATRONAGE. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COMIC DRAMAS. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE AND LAW + </h2> + <h3> + A DRAMA. + </h3> + <h3> + IN THREE ACTS. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DRAMATIS PERSONÆ + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MEN. + + MR. CARVER, of Bob’s Fort . . <i>A Justice of the Peace in Ireland.</i> + OLD MATTHEW McBRIDE . . . . <i>A rich Farmer.</i> + PHILIP McBRIDE . . . . . <i>His Son.</i> + RANDAL ROONEY . . . . . <i>Son of the Widow Catherine Rooney + —a Lover of Honor McBride.</i> + MR. GERALD O’BLANEY . . . . <i>A Distiller.</i> + PATRICK COXE . . . . . <i>Clerk to Gerald O’Blaney.</i> + + WOMEN. + + MRS. CARVER . . . . . <i>Wife of Mr. Carver.</i> + MISS BLOOMSBURY . . . . . <i>A fine London Waiting-maid + of Mrs. Carver’s.</i> + MRS. CATHERINE ROONEY, + <i>commonly called</i> + CATTY ROONEY . . . . <i>A Widow—Mother of Randal Rooney.</i> + HONOR McBRIDE . . . . . . <i>Daughter of Matthew McBride, and + Sister of Philip McBride.</i> + + A Justice’s Clerk—a Constable—Witnesses—and two Footmen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE AND LAW + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>A Cottage.—A Table—Breakfast.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>HONOR McBRIDE, alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Phil!—(<i>calls</i>)—Phil, dear! come out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i>—(<i>answers from within</i>) Wait till I draw on my + boots! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, I may give it up: he’s full of his new boots—and + singing, see! + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PHIL McBRIDE, dressed in the height of the Irish buck-farmer + fashion, singing,</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh the boy of Ball’navogue! + Oh the dasher! oh the rogue! + He’s the thing! and he’s the pride + Of town and country, Phil McBride— + All the talk of shoe and brogue! + Oh the boy of Ball’navogue!” + </pre> + <p> + There’s a song to the praise and glory of your—of your brother, + Honor! And who made it, do you think, girl? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Miss Caroline Flaherty, no doubt. But, dear Phil, I’ve a + favour to ask of you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> And welcome! What? But first, see! isn’t there an elegant + pair of boots, that fits a leg like wax?—There’s what’ll plase + Car’line Flaherty, I’ll engage. But what ails you, Honor?—you look + as if your own heart was like to break. Are not you for the fair to-day?—and + why not? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! rasons. (<i>Aside</i>) Now I can’t speak. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Speak on, for I’m dumb and all ear—speak up, dear—no + fear of the father’s coming out, for he’s leaving his <i>bird</i> (i.e. + beard) in the bason, and that’s a work of time with him.—Tell all to + your own Phil. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Why then I won’t go to the fair—because—better + keep myself to myself, out of the way of meeting them that mightn’t be too + plasing to my father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> And might be too plasing to somebody else—Honor + McBride. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, Phil, dear! But only promise me, brother, dearest, if + you would this day meet any of the Rooneys— + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> That means Randal Rooney. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> No, it was his mother Catty was in my head. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> A bitterer scould never was!—nor a bigger lawyer in + petticoats, which is an abomination. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> ‘Tis not pritty, I grant; but her heart’s good, if her + temper would give it fair play. But will you promise me, Phil, whatever + she says—you won’t let her provoke you this day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> How in the name of wonder will I hinder her to give me + provocation? and when the spirit of the McBrides is up— + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But don’t lift a hand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Against a woman?—no fear—not a finger against a + woman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But I say not against any Rooney, man or woman. Oh, Phil! + dear, don’t let there be any fighting betwixt the McBride and Rooney + factions. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> And how could I hinder if I would? The boys will be having a + row, especially when they get the spirits—and all the better. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> To be drinking! Oh! Phil, the mischief that drinking does! + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Mischief! Quite and clane the contrary—when the + shillelah’s up, the pike’s down. ‘Tis when there’d be no fights at fairs, + and all sober, then there’s rason to dread mischief. No man, Honor, dare + be letting the whiskey into his head, was there any mischief in his heart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Well, Phil, you’ve made it out now cliverly. So there’s most + danger of mischief when men’s sober—is that it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Irishmen?—ay; for sobriety is not the nat’ral state of + the <i>craturs</i>; and what’s not nat’ral is hypocritical, and a + hypocrite is, and was, and ever will be my contempt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> And mine too. But— + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> But here’s my hand for you, Honor. They call me a beau and a + buck, a slasher and dasher, and flourishing Phil. All that I am, may be; + but there’s one thing I am not, and will never be—and that’s a bad + brother to you. So you have my honour, and here’s my oath to the back of + it. By all the pride of man and all the consate of woman—where will + you find a bigger oath?—happen what will, this day, I’ll not lift my + hand against Randal Rooney! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, thanks! warm from the heart. But here’s my father—and + where’s breakfast? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Oh! I must be at him for a horse: you, Honor, mind and back + me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Old McBRIDE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Late I am this fair day all along with my beard, that was + thicker than a hedgehog’s. Breakfast, where? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Here, father dear—all ready. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> There’s a jewel! always supple o’ foot. Phil, call to them + to bring out the horse bastes, while I swallow my breakfast—and a + good one, too. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Your horse is all ready standing, sir. But that’s what I + wanted to ax you, father—will you be kind enough, sir, to shell out + for me the price of a <i>daacent</i> horse, fit to mount a man like me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> What ails the baste you have under you always? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Fit only for the hounds:—not to follow, but to feed + ‘em. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Hounds! I don’t want you, Phil, to be following the hounds + at-all-at-all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But let alone the hounds. If you sell your bullocks well in + the fair to-day, father dear, I think you’ll be so kind to spare Phil the + price of a horse. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Stand out o’ my way, Honor, with that wheedling voice o’ + your own—I won’t. Mind your own affairs—you’re leaguing again + me, and I’ll engage Randal Rooney’s at the bottom of all—and the + cement that sticks you and Phil so close together. But mind, Madam Honor, + if you give him the meeting at the fair the day— + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Dear father, I’m not going—I give up the fair o’ + purpose, for fear I’d see him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>kissing her</i>) Why then you’re a piece of an angel! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> And you’ll give my brother the horse? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> I won’t! when I’ve said I won’t—I wont. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Buttons his coat, and exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Now there’s a sample of a father for ye! + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>returning</i>) And, Mistress Honor, may be you’d be + staying at home to—Where’s Randal Rooney to be, pray, while I’d be + from home? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! father, would you suspect— + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>catching her in his arms, and kissing her again and + again</i>) Then you’re a true angel, every inch of you. But not a word + more in favour of the horse—sure the money for the bullocks shall go + to your portion, every farthing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> There’s the thing! (<i>Holding her father</i>) I don’t wish + that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> (<i>stopping her mouth</i>) Say no more, Honor—I’m best + pleased so. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>aside</i>) I’ll give him the horse, but he sha’n’t + know it. (<i>Aloud</i>) I won’t. When I say I won’t, did I ever? + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Old McBRIDE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Never since the world <i>stud</i>—to do you justice, + you are as obstinate as a mule. Not all the bullocks he’s carrying to the + fair the day, nor all the bullocks in Ballynavogue joined to ‘em, in one + team, would draw that father o’ mine one inch out of his way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>aside, with a deep sigh</i>) Oh, then what will I do + about Randal ever! + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> As close a fisted father as ever had the grip of a guinea! If + the guineas was all for you—wilcome, Honor! But that’s not it. Pity + of a lad o’ spirit like me to be cramped by such a hunx of a father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! don’t be calling him names, Phil: stiff he is, more than + close—and any way, Phil dear, he’s the father still—and ould, + consider. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> He is,—and I’m fond enough of him, too, would he only + give me the price of a horse. But no matter—spite of him I’ll have + my swing the day, and it’s I that will tear away with a good horse under + me and a good whip over him in a capital style, up and down the street of + Ballynavogue, for you, Miss Car’line Flaherty! I know who I’ll go to, this + minute—a man I’ll engage will lend me the loan of his bay gelding; + and that’s Counshillor Gerald O’Blaney. {<i>Going, HONOR stops him.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Gerald O’Blaney! Oh, brother!—Mercy!—Don’t! any + thing rather than that— + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> (<i>impatiently</i>) Why, then, Honor? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>aside</i>) If I’d tell him, there’d be mischief. (<i>Aloud.</i>) + Only—I wouldn’t wish you under a compliment to one I’ve no opinion + of. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Phoo! you’ve taken a prejudice. What is there again + Counshillor O’Blaney? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> <i>Counshillor!</i> First place, why do you call him <i>counshillor</i>? + he never was a raal counshillor sure—nor jantleman at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Oh! counshillor by courtesy—he was an attorney once—just + as we <i>doctor</i> the apotecary. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But, Phil, was not there something of this man’s being + dismissed the courts for too sharp practice? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> But that was long ago, if it ever was. There’s sacrets in all + families to be forgotten—bad to be raking the past. I never knew you + so sharp on a neighbour, Honor, before:—what ails ye? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>sighing</i>) I can’t tell ye. {<i>Still holding him.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Let me go, then!—Nonsense!—the boys of + Ballynavogue will be wondering, and Miss Car’line most. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit, singing,</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh the boys of Ball’navogue.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>HONOR, alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, Phil! I <i>could</i> not tell it you; but did you but + know how <i>that</i> Gerald O’Blaney insulted your shister with his vile + proposhals, you’d no more ask the loan of his horse!—and I in dread, + whenever I’d be left in the house alone, that that bad man would boult in + upon me—and Randal to find him! and Randal’s like gunpowder when his + heart’s touched!—and if Randal should come <i>by himself</i>, worse + again! Honor, where would be your resolution to forbid him your presence? + Then there’s but one way to be right—I’ll lave home entirely. Down, + proud stomach! You must go to service, Honor McBride. There’s Mrs. Carver, + kind-hearted lady, is wanting a girl—she’s English, and nice; may be + I’d not be good enough; but I can but try, and do my best; any thing to + plase the father. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit HONOR.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE II. + </h2> + <p> + <i>O’BLANEY’S Counting-house.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>GERALD O’BLANEY alone at a desk covered with Papers.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Of all the employments in life, this eternal balancing of + accounts, see-saw, is the most sickening of all things, except it would be + the taking the inventory of your stock, when you’re reduced to <i>invent</i> + the stock itself;—then that’s the most lowering to a man of all + things! But there’s one comfort in this distillery business—come + what will, a man has always <i>proof spirits</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PAT COXE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> The whole tribe of Connaught men come, craving to be <i>ped</i> + for the oats, counsellor, due since last Serapht{1} fair. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Shrovetide.} + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Can’t be ped to-day, let ‘em crave never so.—Tell ‘em + <i>Monday</i>; and give ‘em a glass of whiskey round, and that will send + ‘em off contint, in a jerry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I shall—I will—I see, sir. {<i>Exit PAT COXE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Asy settled that!—but I hope many more duns for oats + won’t be calling on me this day, for cash is not to be had:—here’s + bills plenty—long bills, and short bills—but even the kites, + which I can fly as well as any man, won’t raise the wind for me now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Re-enter PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Tim McGudikren, sir, for his debt—and talks of the + sub-sheriff, and can’t wait. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I don’t ax him to wait; but he must take in payment, since + he’s in such a hurry, this bill at thirty-one days, tell him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I shall tell him so, plase your honour. {<i>Exit PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> They have all rendezvous’d to drive me mad this day; but the + only thing is to keep the head cool. What I’m dreading beyant all is, if + that ould Matthew McBride, who is as restless as a ferret when he has + lodged money with any one, should come this day to take out of my hands + the two hundred pounds I’ve got of his—Oh, then I might shut up! But + stay, I’ll match him—and I’ll match myself too: that daughter Honor + of his is a mighty pretty girl to look at, and since I can’t get her any + other way, why not ax her in marriage? Her portion is to be— + </p> + <p> + <i>Re-enter PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> The protested note, sir—with the charge of the protest + to the back of it, from Mrs. Lorigan; and her compliments, and to know + what will she do? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> What will <i>I</i> do, fitter to ax. My kind compliments to + Mrs. Lorigan, and I’ll call upon her in the course of the day, to settle + it all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I understand, sir. {<i>Exit PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Honor McBride’s portion will be five hundred pounds on the + nail—that would be no bad hit, and she a good, clever, likely girl. + I’ll pop the question this day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Re-enter PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Corkeran the cooper’s bill, as long as my arm. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Oh! don’t be bothering me any more. Have you no sinse? Can’t + you get shut of Corkeran the cooper without me? Can’t ye quarrel with the + items? Tear the bill down the middle, if necessary, and sind him away with + a flay (flea) in his ear, to make out a proper bill—which I can’t + see till to-morrow, mind. I never pay any man on fair-day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Nor on any other day. (<i>Aloud</i>) Corkeran’s + my cousin, counsellor, and if convanient, I’d be glad you’d advance him a + pound or two on account. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> ‘Tis not convanient was he twenty times your cousin, Pat. I + can’t be paying in bits, nor on account—all or none. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> None, then, I may tell him, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> You may—you must; and don’t come up for any of ‘em any + more. It’s hard if I can’t have a minute to talk to myself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> And it’s hard if I can’t have a minute to eat my breakfast, + too, which I have not. {<i>Exit PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Where was I?—I was popping the question to Honor + McBride. The only thing is, whether the girl herself wouldn’t have an + objection:—there’s that Randal Rooney is a great <i>bachelor</i> of + hers, and I doubt she’d be apt to prefar him before me, even when I’d + purpose marriage. But the families of the Rooneys and McBrides is at + vareance—then I must keep ‘em so. I’ll keep Catty Rooney’s spirit + up, niver to consent to that match. Oh! if them Rooneys and McBrides were + by any chance to make it up, I’d be undone: but against that catastrophe + I’ve a preventative. Pat Coxe! Pat Coxe! where are you, my young man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PAT, wiping his mouth.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Just swallowing my breakfast. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Mighty long swallowing you are. Here—don’t be two + minutes, till you’re at Catty Rooney’s, and let me see how cliverly you’ll + execute that confidential embassy I trusted you with. Touch Catty up about + her ould ancient family, and all the Kings of Ireland she comes from. <i>Blarney</i> + her cliverly, and work her to a foam against the McBrides. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Never fear, your honour. I’ll tell her the story we agreed on, + of Honor McBride meeting of Randal Rooney behind the chapel. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> That will do—don’t forget the ring; for I mane to put + another on the girl’s finger, if she’s agreeable, and knows her own + interest. But that last’s a private article. Not a word of that to Catty, + you understand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh! I understand—and I’ll engage I’ll compass Catty, + tho’ she’s a cunning shaver. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Cunning?—No; she’s only hot tempered, and asy managed. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Whatever she is, I’ll do my best to plase you. And I expict + your honour, counsellor, won’t forget the promise you made me, to ask Mr. + Carver for that little place—that situation that would just shute + me. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Never fear, never fear. Time enough to think of shuting you, + when you’ve done my business. {<i>Exit PAT.</i> That will work like harm, + and ould Matthew, the father, I’ll speak to, myself, genteelly. He will be + proud, I warrant, to match his daughter with a gentleman like me. But what + if he should smell a rat, and want to be looking into my affairs? Oh! I + must get it sartified properly to him before all things, that I’m as safe + as the bank; and I know who shall do that for me—my worthy friend, + that most consequential magistrate, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort, who loves to + be advising and managing of all men, women, and children, for their good. + ‘Tis he shall advise ould Matthew for <i>my</i> good. Now Carver thinks he + lades the whole county, and ten mile round—but who is it lades him, + I want to know? Why, Gerald O’Blaney.—And how? Why, by a spoonful of + the universal panacea, <i>flattery</i>—in the vulgar tongue, <i>flummery</i>. + (<i>A knock at the door heard.</i>) Who’s rapping at the street?—Carver + of Bob’s Fort himself, in all his glory this fair-day. See then how he + struts and swells. Did ever man, but a pacock, look so fond of himself + with less rason? But I must be caught deep in accounts, and a balance of + thousands to credit. (<i>Sits down to his desk, to account books.</i>) + Seven thousand, three hundred, and two pence. (<i>Starting and rising.</i>) + Do I see Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort?—Oh! the honour— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Don’t stir, pray—I beg—I request—I + insist. I am by no means ceremonious, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>bustling and setting two chairs</i>) No, but I’d wish to + show respect proper to him I consider the first man in the county. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Man! gentleman, he might have said. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Mr. CARVER sits down and rests himself consequentially.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Now, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort, you’ve been over fartiguing + yourself— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> For the public good. I can’t help it, really. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Oh! but, upon my word and honour, it’s too much: there’s + rason in all things. A man of Mr. Carver’s fortin to be slaving! If you + were a man in business, like me, it would be another thing. I must slave + at the desk to keep all round. See, Mr. Carver, see!—ever since the + day you advised me to be as particular as yourself in keeping accounts to + a farthing, I do, to a fraction, even like state accounts, see! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And I trust you find your advantage in it, sir. Pray, how + does the distillery business go on? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Swimmingly! ever since that time, Mr. Carver, your interest + at the castle helped me at the dead lift, and got that fine took off. ‘Tis + to your purtiction, encouragement, and advice entirely, I owe my present + unexampled prosperity, which you prophesied; and Mr. Carver’s prophecies + seldom, I may say never, fail to be accomplished. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I own there is some truth in your observation. I confess + I have seldom been mistaken or deceived in my judgment of man, woman, or + child. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Who can say so much? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> For what reason, I don’t pretend to say; but the fact + ostensibly is, that the few persons I direct with my advice are + unquestionably apt to prosper in this world. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Mighty apt! for which rason I would wish to trouble you for + your unprecedently good advice on another pint, if it, would not be too + great a liberty. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> No liberty at all, my good Gerald—I am always ready + to advise—only to-day—certainly, the fair day of Ballynavogue, + there are so many calls upon me, both in a public and private capacity, so + much business of vital importance! + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Vital importance!—that is his word on + all occasions. (<i>Aloud</i>) May be then, (oh! where was my head?) may be + you would not have breakfasted all this time? and we’ve the kittle down + always in this house, (<i>rising</i>) Pat!—Jack!—Mick!—Jenny! + put the kittle down. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Sit down, sit still, my worthy fellow. Breakfasted at + Bob’s Fort, as I always do. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> But a bit of cake—a glass of wine, to refrish and + replinish nature. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Too early—spoil my dinner. But what was I going to + say? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Burn me, if I know; and I pray all the saints + you may never recollect. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I recollect. How many times do you think I was stopped on + horseback coming up the street of Ballynavogue?—Five times by + weights and measures imperiously calling for reformation, sir. Thirteen + times, upon my veracity, by booths, apple-stalls, nuisances, vagabonds, + and drunken women. Pigs without end, sir—wanting ringing, and all + squealing in my ears, while I was settling sixteen disputes about tolls + and customs. Add to this, my regular battle every fair-day with the crane, + which ought to be any where but where it is; and my perputual discoveries + of fraudulent kegs, and stones in the butter! Now, sir, I only ask, can + you wonder that I wipe my forehead? (<i>wiping his forehead</i>). + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> In troth, Mr. Carver, I cannot! But these are the pains and + penalties of being such a man of consequence as you evidently are;—and + I that am now going to add to your troubles too by consulting you about my + little pint! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> A point of law, I dare to say; for people somehow or + other have got such a prodigious opinion of my law. (<i>Takes snuff.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) No coming to the pint till he has finished + his own panygeric. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And I own I cannot absolutely turn my back on people. Yet + as to <i>poor</i> people, I always settle them by telling them, it is my + principle that law is too expensive for the poor: I tell them, the poor + have nothing to do with the laws. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Except the penal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> True, the civil is for us, men of property; and no man + should think of going to law, without he’s qualified. There should be + licenses. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> No doubt. Pinalties there are in plinty; still those who can + afford should indulge. In Ireland it would as ill become a gentleman to be + any way shy of a law-shute, as of a duel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Yet law is expensive, sir, even to me. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> But ‘tis the best economy in the end; for when once you have + cast or non-shuted your man in the courts, ‘tis as good as winged him in + the field. And suppose you don’t get sixpence costs, and lose your cool + hundred by it, still it’s a great advantage; for you are let alone to + enjoy your own in pace and quiet ever after, which you could not do in + this county without it. But the love of the law has carried me away from + my business: the pint I wanted to consult you about is not a pint of law; + ‘tis another matter. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>looking at his watch</i>) I must be at Bob’s Fort, to + seal my despatches for the castle. And there’s another thing I say of + myself. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Remorseless agotist! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I don’t know how the people all have got such an idea of + my connexions at the castle, and my influence with his Excellency, that I + am worried with eternal applications: they expect I can make them all + gaugers or attorney-generals, I believe. How do they know I write to the + castle? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Oh! the post-office tells asy by the big sales (seals) to + your despatches—(<i>aside</i>)—which, I’ll engage, is all the + castle ever, rades of them, though Carver has his Excellency always in his + mouth, God help him! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Well, you wanted to consult me, Gerald? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> And you’ll give me your advice, which will be conclusive, + law, and every thing to me. You know the McBrides—would they be + safe? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Very safe, substantial people. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Then here’s the thing, Mr. Carver: as you recommend them, + and as they are friends of yours—I will confess to you that, though + it might not in pint of interest be a very prudent match, I am thinking + that Honor McBride is such a prudent girl, and Mrs. Carver has taken her + by the hand, so I’d wish to follow Mrs. Carver’s example for life, in + taking Honor by the hand for better for worse. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> In my humble opinion you cannot do better; and I can tell + you a secret—Honor will have no contemptible fortune in that rank of + life. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Oh, fortune’s always contemptible in marriage. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Fortune! sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Overshot. (<i>Aloud</i>) In comparison with + the patronage and protection or countenance she’d have from you and your + family, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> That you may depend upon, my good Gerald, as far as we + can go; but you know we are nothing. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Oh, I know you’re every thing—every thing on earth—particularly + with ould McBride; and you know how to speak so well and iloquent, and I’m + so tongue-tied and bashful on such an occasion. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Well, well, I’ll speak for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> A thousand thanks down to the ground. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>patting him on the back as he rises</i>) My <i>poor</i> + Gerald. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Then I am <i>poor</i> Gerald in point of wit, I know; but + you are too good a friend to be calling me <i>poor</i> to ould McBride—you + can say what I can’t say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Certainly, certainly; and you may depend on me. I shall + speak my decided opinion; and I fancy McBride has sense enough to be ruled + by me. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I am sure he has—only there’s a Randal Rooney, a wild + young man, in the case. I’d be sorry the girl was thrown I away upon + Randal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> She has too much sense: the father will settle that, and + I’ll settle the father. {<i>Mr. CARVER going.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>following, aside</i>) And who has settled you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Don’t stir—don’t stir—men of business must be + nailed to a spot—and I’m not ceremonious. {<i>Exit Mr. CARVER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Pinned him by all that’s cliver! {<i>Exit O’BLANEY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE III. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Mrs. CARVER’S Dressing-room.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. CARVER sitting at work.—BLOOMSBURY standing.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Certainly, ma’am, what I always said was, that for the + commonalty, there’s no getting out of an Irish cabin a girl fit to be + about a lady such as you, Mrs. Carver, in the shape of a waiting-maid or + waiting-maid’s assistant, on account they smell so of smoke, which is very + distressing; but this Honor McBride seems a bettermost sort of girl, + ma’am; if you can make up your mind to her <i>vice</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Vice? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> That is, vicious pronounciations in regard to their Irish + brogues. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Is that all?—I am quite accustomed to <i>the + accent</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Then, ma’am, I declare now, I’ve been forced to stuff my <i>hears</i> + with cotton wool hever since I comed to Ireland. But this here Honor + McBride has a mighty pretty <i>vice</i>, if you don’t take exceptions to a + little nationality; nor she if not so smoke-dried: she’s really a nice, + tidy-looking like girl considering. I’ve taken tea with the family often, + and they live quite snug for Hirish. I’ll assure you, ma’am, quite + bettermost people for Hibernians, as you always said, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> I have a regard for old Matthew, though he is something + of a miser, I fear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> So, ma’am, shall I call the girl up, that we may see and + talk to her? I think, ma’am, you’ll find she will do; and I reckon to keep + her under my own eye and advice from morning till night: for when I seed + the girl so willing to larn, I quite took a fancy to her, I own—as + it were. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Well, Bloomsbury, let me see this Honor McBride. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> (<i>calling</i>) One of you there! please call up Honor + McBride. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> She has been waiting a great while, I fear; I don’t like + to keep people waiting. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> (<i>watching for HONOR as she speaks</i>) Dear heart, ma’am, + in this here country, people does love waiting for waiting’s sake, that’s + sure—they got nothing else to do. Here, Honor—walk in, Honor,—rub + your shoes always. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter HONOR, timidly.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> (<i>in an encouraging voice</i>) Come in, my good girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Oh! child, the door: the peoples never shut a door in, + Ireland! Did not I warn you?—says I, “Come when you’re called—do + as you’re bid—shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.” + Now what did I tell you, child? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> To shut the door after me when I’d come into a room. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> <i>When I’d come</i>—now that’s not dic’snary English. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Good Bloomsbury, let that pass for the present—come + a little nearer to me, my good girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Yes, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Take care of that china pyramint with your cloak—walk + on to Mrs. Carver—no need to be afraid—I’ll stand your friend. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> I should have thought, Honor McBride, you were in too + comfortable a way at home, to think of going into service. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>sighs</i>) No better father, nor brother, <i>nor</i> + (than) I have, ma’am, I thank your ladyship; but some things come across. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Oh! it is a blushing case, I see: I must + talk to her alone, by-and-by. (<i>Aloud</i>) I don’t mean, my good girl, + to pry into your family affairs. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! ma’am, you’re too good. (<i>Aside</i>) The kind-hearted + Lady, how I love her already! (<i>She wipes the tears from her eyes.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Take care of the bow-pot at your elbow, child; for if you + break the necks of them moss roses— + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I ax their pardon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Better take the flower-pot out of her way, Bloomsbury. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> (<i>moving the flower-pot</i>) There, now: but, Honor, keep + your eyes on my lady, never turn your head, and keep your hands always + afore you, as I show you. Ma’am, she’ll larn manners in time—Lon’on + was not built in a day. It i’n’t to be expected of she! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> It is not to be expected indeed that she should learn + every thing at once; so one thing at a time, good Bloomsbury, and one + person at a time. Leave Honor to me for the present. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Certainly, ma’am; I beg pardon—I was only saying— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Since it is, it seems, necessary, my good girl, that you + should leave home, I am glad that you are not too proud to go into + service. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! into <i>your</i> service, ma’am,—I’d be too proud + if you’d be kind enough to accept me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Then as to wages, what do you expect? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Any thing at all you please, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> (<i>pressing down her shoulder</i>) And where’s your curtsy? + We shall bring these Irish knees into training by and by, I hopes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I’m awk’ard and strange, ma’am—I never was from home + afore. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Poor girl—we shall agree very well, I hope. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh yes, any thing at all, ma’am; I’m not greedy—nor + needy, thanks above! but it’s what I’d wish to be under your protection if + it was plasing, and I’ll do my very best, madam. (<i>Curtsies.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Nobody can expect more, and I hope and trust you’ll find + mine an easy place—Bloomsbury, you will tell her, what will be + required of her. (<i>Mrs. Carver looks at her watch.</i>) At twelve + o’clock I shall be returned from my walk, and then, Honor, you will come + into my cabinet here; I want to say a few words to you. {<i>Exeunt omnes.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE IV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>The High Road—A Cottage in view—Turf-stack, Hay-rick, &c.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty Rooney alone, walking backwards and forwards.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> ‘Tis but a stone’s throw to Ballynavogue. But I don’t like + to be going into the fair on foot, when I been always used to go in upon + my pillion behind my husband when living, and my son Randal, after his + death. Wait, who comes here?—‘Tis Gerald O’Blaney’s, the + distiller’s, young man, Pat Coxe: now we’ll larn all—and whether + O’Blaney can lend me the loan of a horse or no. A good morrow to you, + kindly, Mr. Pat Coxe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PAT COXE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> And you the same, Mrs. Rooney, tinfold. Mr. O’Blaney has his + <i>sarvices</i> to you, ma’am: no, not his <i>sarvices</i>, but his + compliments, that was the word—his kind compliments, that was the + very word. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> The counshillor’s always very kind to me, and genteel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> And was up till past two in the morning, last night, madam, he + bid me say, looking over them papers you left with him for your shuit, + ma’am, with the McBrides, about the bit of Ballynascraw bog; and if you + call upon the counshillor in the course of the morning, he’ll find, or + make, a minute, for a consultation, he says. But mane time, to take no + step to compromise, or make it up, <i>for your life</i>, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> No fear, I’ll not give up at law, or any way, to a McBride, + while I’ve a drop of blood in my veins—and it’s good thick Irish + blood runs in these veins. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> No doubt, ma’am—from the kings of Ireland, as all the + world knows, Mrs. Rooney. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> And the McBrides have no blood at-all-at-all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Not a drop, ma’am—so they can’t stand before you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> They <i>ought</i> not, any way!—What are they? + Cromwellians at the best. Mac Brides! Scotch!—not Irish native, + at-all-at-all. People of yesterday, graziers—which tho’ they’ve made + the money, can’t buy the blood. My anshestors sat on a throne, when the + McBrides had only their <i>hunkers</i>{1} to sit upon; and if I walk now + when they ride, they can’t look down upon me—for every body knows + who I am—and what they are. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Their <i>hunkers</i>, i.e. their hams.} + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> To be sure, ma’am, they do—the whole country talks of + nothing else, but the shame when you’d be walking and they riding. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Then could the counshillor lend me the horse? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> With all the pleasure in life, ma’am, only every horse he has + in the world is out o’ messages, and drawing turf and one thing or another + to-day—and he is very sorry, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> So am I, then—I’m unlucky the day. But I won’t be + saying so, for fear of spreading ill luck on my faction. Pray now what + kind of a fair is it?—Would there be any good signs of a fight, Mr. + Pat Coxe? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> None in life as yet, ma’am—only just buying and selling. + The horse-bastes, and horned-cattle, and pigs squeaking, has it all to + themselves. But it’s early times yet—it won’t be long so. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> No McBrides, no Ballynavogue boys gathering yet? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> None to signify of the McBrides, ma’am, at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Then it’s plain them McBrides dare not be showing their + faces, or even their backs, in Ballynavogue. But sure all our Ballynascraw + boys, the Roonies, are in it as usual, I hope? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh, ma’am, there is plinty of Roonies. I marked Big Briny of + Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> All <i>good</i> men{1}—no better. Praise be where due. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: men who fight well.} + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> And scarce a McBride I noticed. But the father and son—ould + Matthew, and flourishing Phil, was in it, with a new pair of boots and the + silver-hilted whip. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> The spalpeen! turned into a buckeen, that would be a + squireen,—but can’t. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> No, for the father pinches him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> That’s well—and that ould Matthew is as obstinate a + neger as ever famished his stomach. What’s he doing in Ballynavogue the + day? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Standing he is there, in the fair-green with his score of fat + bullocks, that he has got to sell. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Fat bullocks! Them, I reckon, will go towards Honor + McBride’s portion, and a great fortin she’ll be for a poor man—but I + covet none of it for me or mine. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I’m sure of that, ma’am,—you would not demane yourself + to the likes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Mark me, Pat Coxe, now—with all them fat bullocks at + her back, and with all them fresh roses in her cheeks—and I don’t + say but she’s a likely girl, if she wa’n’t a McBride; but with all that, + and if she was the best spinner in the three counties—and I don’t + say but she’s good, if she wa’n’t a McBride;—but was she the best of + the best, and the fairest of the fairest, and had she to boot the two + stockings full of gould, Honor McBride shall never be brought home, a + daughter-in-law to me! My pride’s up. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> (<i>aside</i>) And I’m instructed to keep it up.—(<i>Aloud</i>) + True for ye, ma’am, and I wish that all had as much proper pride, as ought + to be having it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> There’s maning in your eye, Pat—give it tongue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> If you did not hear it, I suppose there’s no truth in it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> What?—which? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> That your son Randal, Mrs. Rooney, is not of your way of + thinking about Honor McBride, may be’s. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Tut! No matter what way of thinking he is—a young slip + of a boy like him does not know what he’ll think to-morrow. He’s a good + son to me; and in regard to a wife, one girl will do him as well as + another, if he has any sinse—and I’ll find him a girl that will + plase him, I’ll engage. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> May be so, ma’am—no fear: only boys do like to be + plasing themselves, by times—and I noticed something. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> What did you notice?—till me, Pat, dear, quick. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> No—‘tis bad to be meddling and remarking to get myself + ill-will; so I’ll keep myself to myself: for Randal’s ready enough with + his hand as you with the tongue—no offence, Mrs. Rooney, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Niver fear—only till me the truth, Pat, dear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Why, then, to the best of my opinion, I seen Honor McBride + just now giving Randal Rooney the meeting behind the chapel; and I seen + him putting a ring on her finger. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>clasping her hands</i>) Oh, murder!—Oh! the + unnat’ral monsters that love makes of these young men; and the traitor, to + use me so, when he promised he’d never make a stolen match unknown’st to + me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh, ma’am, I don’t say—I wouldn’t swear—it’s a + match yet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Then I’ll run down and stop it—and catch ‘em. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> You haven’t your jock on, ma’am—(<i>she turns towards + the house</i>)—and it’s no use—for you won’t catch ‘em: I seen + them after, turning the back way into Nick Flaherty’s. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Nick Flaherty’s, the publican’s? oh, the sinners! And this + is the saint that Honor McBride would be passing herself upon us for? And + all the edication she got at Mrs. Carver’s Sunday school! Oh, this comes + of being better than one’s neighbours! A fine thing to tell Mrs. Carver, + the English lady, that’s so nice, and so partial to Miss Honor McBride! + Oh, I’ll expose her! + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh! sure, Mrs. Rooney, you promised you’d not tell, (<i>Standing + so as to stop CATTY.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Is it who told me? No—I won’t mintion a sintence of + your name. But let me by—I won’t be put off now I’ve got the scent. + I’ll hunt ‘em out, and drag her to shame, if they’re above ground, or my + name’s not Catty Rooney! Mick! Mick! little Mick! (<i>calling at the + cottage door</i>) bring my blue <i>jock</i> up the road after me to + Ballynavogue. Don’t let me count three till you’re after me, or I’ll bleed + ye! (<i>Exit CATTY, shaking her closed hand, and repeating</i>) I’ll + expose Honor McBride—I’ll expose Honor! I will, by the blessing! + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> (<i>alone</i>) Now, if Randal Rooney would hear, he’d make a + jelly of me, and how I’d trimble; or the brother, if he comed across me, + and knewed. But they’ll niver know. Oh, Catty won’t say a sintence of my + name, was she carded! No, Catty’s a scould, but has a conscience. Then I + like conscience in them I have to dale with sartainly. {<i>Exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE V. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Mrs. CARVER’S Dressing-room, HONOR McBRIDE and MISS BLOOMSBURY + discovered.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> How <i>will</i> I know, Miss Bloomsbury, when it will be + twelve o’clock? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> You’ll hear the clock strike: but I suspect you’se don’t + understand the clock yet—well, you’ll hear the workmen’s bell. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I know, ma’am, oh, I know, true—only I was flurried, + so I forgot. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Flurried! but never be flurried. Now mind and keep your head + upon your shoulders, while I tell you all your duty—you’ll just + ready this here room, your lady’s dressing-room; not a partical of dust + let me never find, petticlarly behind the vindor shuts. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Vindor shuts!—where, ma’am? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> The <i>shuts</i> of the <i>vindors</i>—did you never + hear of a vindor, child? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Never, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> (<i>pointing to a window</i>) Don’t tell me! why, your head + is a wool-gathering! Now, mind me, pray—see here, always you put + that there,—and this here, and that upon that,—and this upon + this, and this under that,—and that under this—you can + remember that much, child, I supposes? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I’ll do my endeavour, ma’am, to remember all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> But mind, now, my good girl, you takes <i>petticlar</i> care + of this here pyramint of japanned china—and <i>very</i> petticlar + care of that there great joss—and the <i>very most petticularest</i> + care of this here right reverend Mandolin. (<i>Pointing to, and touching a + Mandarin, so as to make it shake. HONOR starts back.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> It i’n’t alive. Silly child, to start at a Mandolin shaking + his head and beard at you. But, oh! mercy, if there i’n’t enough to make + him shake his head. Stand there!—stand here!—now don’t you + see? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> <i>Which</i>, ma’am? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> “<i>Which, ma’am!</i>” you’re no <i>witch</i>, indeed, if + you don’t see a cobweb as long as my arm. Run, run, child, for the pope’s + head. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Pope’s head, ma’am? + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Ay, the pope’s head, which you’ll find under the stairs. + Well, a’n’t you gone? what do you stand there like a stuck pig, for?—Never + see a pope’s head?—never ‘ear of a pope’s head? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I’ve heard of one, ma’am—with the priest; but we are + protestants. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Protestants! what’s that to do? I do protest, I believe that + little head of yours is someway got wrong on your shoulders to-day. {<i>The + clock strikes</i>—HONOR, <i>who is close to it, starts.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> Start again!—why, you’re all starts and fits. Never + start, child! so ignoramus like! ‘tis only the clock in your ear,—twelve + o’clock, hark!—The bell will ring now in a hurry. Then you goes in + there to my lady—stay, you’ll never be able, I dare for to say, for + to open the door without me; for I opine you are not much usen’d to brass + locks in Hirish cabins—can’t be expected. See here, then! You turns + the lock in your hand this’n ways—the lock, mind now; not the key + nor the bolt for your life, child, else you’d bolt your lady in, and + there’d be my lady in Lob’s pound, and there’d be a pretty kettle, of + fish!—So you keep, if you can, all I said to you in your head, if + possible—and you goes in there—and I goes out here. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit BLOOMSBURY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (curtsying) Thank ye, ma’am. Then all this time I’m sensible + I’ve been behaving and looking little better than like a fool, or an <i>innocent.</i>—But + I hope I won’t be so bad when the lady shall speak to me. (<i>The bell + rings.</i>) Oh, the bell summons me in here.—(<i>Speaks with her + hand on the lock of the door</i>) The lock’s asy enough—I hope I’ll + take courage—(<i>sighs</i>)—Asier to spake before one nor two, + any way—and asier tin times to the mistress than the maid. {<i>Exit + HONOR.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>GERALD O’BLANEY’S Counting-house.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’BLANEY alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Then I wonder that ould Matthew McBride is not here yet. But + is not this Pat Coxe coming up yonder? Ay. Well, Pat, what success with + Catty? + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PAT COXE, panting.</i> + </p> + <p> + Take breath, man alive—What of Catty? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Catty! Oh, murder! No time to be talking of Catty now! Sure + the shupervizor’s come to town. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Blood!—and the malt that has not paid duty in the + cellar! Run, for your life, to the back-yard, give a whistle to call all + the boys that’s ricking o’ the turf, away with ‘em to the cellar, out with + every sack of malt that’s in it, through the back-yard, throw all into the + middle of the turf-stack, and in the wink of an eye build up the rick over + all, snoog (snug). + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I’ll engage we’ll have it done in a crack. {<i>Exit PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>calling after him</i>) Pat! Pat Coxe! man! + </p> + <p> + <i>Re-enter PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Would there be any fear of any o’ the boys <i>informin</i>? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Sooner cut their ears off! {<i>Exit PAT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Old McBRIDE, at the opposite side.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>speaking in a slow, drawling brogue</i>) Would Mr. + Gerald O’Blaney, the counsellor, be within? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>quick brogue</i>) Oh, my best friend, Matthew McBride, + is it you, dear? Then here’s Gerald O’Blaney, always at your sarvice. But + shake hands; for of all men in Ireland, you are the man I was aching to + lay my eyes on. And in the fair did ye happen to meet Carver of Bob’s + Fort? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>speaking very slowly</i>) Ay. did I—and he was + a-talking to me, and I was a-talking to him—and he’s a very good + gentleman, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort—so he is—and a gentleman + that knows how things should be; and he has been giving of me, Mr. + O’Blaney, a great account of you, and how you’re thriving in the world—and + so as that. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Nobody should know that better than Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort—he + knows all my affairs. He is an undeniable honest gentleman, for whom I + profess the highest regard. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Why then he has a great opinion of you too, counsellor—for + he has been advising of, and telling of me, O’Blaney, of your proposhal, + sir—and very sinsible I am of the honour done by you to our family, + sir—and condescension to the likes of us—though, to be sure, + Honor McBride, though she is my daughter, is a match for any man. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Is a match for a prince—a Prince Ragent even. So no + more about condescension, my good Matthew, for love livels all + distinctions. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> That’s very pretty of you to say so, sir; and I’ll repeat + it to Honor. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Cupid is the great liveller, after all, and the only + democrat Daity on earth I’d bow to—for I know you are no democrat, + Mr. McBride, but quite and clane the contrary way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Quite and clane and stiff, I thank my God; and I’m glad, + in spite of the vowel before your name, Mr. O’Blaney, to hear you are of + the same kidney. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I’m happy to find myself agreeable to you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> But, however agreeable to me, as I won’t deny, it might + be, sir, to see my girl made into a gentlewoman by marriage, I must + observe to you— + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> And I’ll keep her a jaunting car to ride about the country; + and in another year, as my fortune’s rising, my wife should rise with it + into a coach of her own. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Oh! if I’d live to see my child, my Honor, in a coach of + her own! I’d be too happy—oh, I’d die contint! + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) No fear!—(<i>Aloud</i>) And why should + not she ride in her own coach, Mistress Counsellor O’Blaney, and look out + of the windows down upon the <i>Roonies</i>, that have the insolence to + look up to her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Ah! you know <i>that</i>, then. That’s all that’s against + us, sir, in this match. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> But if <i>you</i> are against Randal, no fear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> I am against him—that is, against his family, and + all his seed, breed, and generation. But I would not break my daughter’s + heart if I could help it. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Wheugh!—hearts don’t break in these days, like china. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> This is my answer, Mr. O’Blaney, sir: you have my lave, + but you must have hers too. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I would not fear to gain that in due time, if you would + stand my friend in forbidding her the sight of Randal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> I will with pleasure, that—for tho’ I won’t force + her to marry to plase me, I’ll forbid her to marry to displase me; and + when I’ve said it, whatever it is, I’ll be obeyed. (<i>Strikes his stick + on the ground.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> That is all I ax. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> But now what settlement, counshillor, will you make on my + girl? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> A. hundred a year—I wish to be liberal—Mr. + Carver will see to that—he knows all my affairs, as I suppose he was + telling you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> He was—I’m satisfied, and I’m at a word myself + always. You heard me name my girl’s portion, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I can’t say—I didn’t mind—‘twas no object to me + in life. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>in a very low, mysterious tone, and slow brogue</i>) + Then five hundred guineas is some object to most men. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Certainly, sir; but not such an object as your daughter to + me: since we are got upon business, however, best settle all that out of + the way, as you say at once. Of the five hundred, I have two in my hands + already, which you can make over to me with a stroke of a pen. (<i>Rising + quickly, and getting pen, ink, and books.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>speaking very slowly</i>) Stay a hit—no hurry—in + life. In business—‘tis always most haste, worse speed. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Take your own time, my good Matthew—I’ll be as slow as + you plase—only love’s quick. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Slow and sure—love and all—fast bind, fast + find—three and two, what does that make? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> It used to make five before I was in love. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> And will the same after you’re married and dead. What am I + thinking of? A score of bullocks I had in the fair—half a score sold + in my pocket, and owing half—that’s John Dolan, twelve pound tin—and + Charley Duffy nine guineas and thirteen tin pinnies and a five-penny bit: + stay, then, put that to the hundred guineas in the stocking at home. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside</i>) How he makes my mouth water: (<i>Aloud</i>) + May be, Matthew, I could, that am used to it, save you the trouble of + counting? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> No trouble in life to me ever to count my money—only + I’ll trouble you, sir, if you please, to lock that door; bad to be + chinking and spreading money with doors open, for walls has ears and eyes. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> True for you. (<i>Rising, and going to lock the doors.</i>) + </p> + <p> + {<i>Old McBRIDE with great difficulty, and very slowly, draws out of his + pocket his bag of money—looking first at one door, and then at the + other, and going to try whether they are locked, before he unties his bag.</i>} + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>spreads and counts his money and notes</i>) See me + now, I wrote on some scrap somewhere 59<i>l.</i> in notes—then hard + cash, twinty pounds—rolled up silver and gould, which is scarce—but + of a hundred pounds there’s wanting fourteen pounds odd, I think, or + something that way; for Phil and I had our breakfast out of a one pound + note of Finlay’s, and I put the change somewhere—besides a riband + for Honor, which make a deficiency of fourteen pounds seven shillings and + two pence—that’s what’s deficient—count it which way you will. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>going to sweep the money off the table</i>) Oh! never + mind the deficiency—I’ll take it for a hundred plump. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>stopping him</i>) Plump me no plumps—I’ll have + it exact, or not at all—I’ll not part it, so let me see it again. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>aside with a deep sigh, almost a groan</i>) Oh! when I + had had it in my fist—almost: but ‘tis as hard to get money out of + this man as blood out of a turnip; and I’ll be lost to-night without it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> ‘Tis not exact—and I’m exact: I’ll put it all up + again—(<i>he puts it deliberately into the bag again, thrusting the + bag into his pocket</i>)—I’ll make it up at home my own way, and + send it in to you by Phil in an hour’s time; for I could not sleep sound + with so much in my house—bad people about—safer with you in + town. Mr. Carver says, you are as good as the Bank of Ireland—there’s + no going beyond that. (<i>Buttoning up his pockets.</i>) So you may unlock + the doors and let me out now—I’ll send Phil with all to you, and + you’ll give him a bit of a receipt or a token, that would do. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I shall give a receipt by all means—all regular: short + accounts make long friends. (<i>Unlocks the door.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> True, sir, and I’ll come in and see about the settlements + in the morning, if Honor is agreeable. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I shall make it my business to wait upon the young lady + myself on the wings of love; and I trust I’ll not find any remains of + Randal Rooney in her head. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Not if I can help it, depend on that. (<i>They shake + hands.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Then, fare ye well, father-in-law—that’s meat and + drink to me: would not ye take a glass of wine then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Not a drop—not a drop at all—with money about + me: I must be in a hurry home. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> That’s true—so best: recommind me kindly to Miss + Honor, and say a great dale about my impatience—and I’ll be + expicting Phil, and won’t shut up till he comes the night. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> No, don’t; for he’ll be with you before night-fall. {<i>Exit + McBRIDE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>calling</i>) Dan! open the door, there: Dan! Joe! open + the door smart for Mr. McBride! (O’BLANEY <i>rubbing his hands.</i>) Now I + think I may pronounce myself made for life—success to my parts!—and + here’s Pat too! Well, Pat Coxe, what news of the thing in hand? + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PAT COXE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Out of hand clane! that job’s nately done. The turf-rick, sir, + ‘s built up cliver, with the malt snug in the middle of its stomach—so + were the shupervishor a conjuror even, barring he’d dale with the ould + one, he’d never suspict a sentence of it. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Not he—he’s no conjuror: many’s the dozen tricks I + played him afore now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> But, counshillor, there’s the big veshel in the little passage—I + got a hint from a friend, that the shuper got information of the spirits + in that from some villain. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> And do you think I don’t know a trick for that, too? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> No doubt: still, counshillor, I’m in dread of my life that + that great big veshel won’t be implied in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Won’t it? but you’ll see it will, though; and what’s more, + them spirits will turn into water for the shupervisor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Water! how? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Asy—the ould tan-pit that’s at the back of the + distillery. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I know—what of it? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> A sacret pipe I’ve got fixed to the big veshel, and the pipe + goes under the wall for me into the tan-pit, and a sucker I have in the + big veshel, which I pull open by a string in a crack, and lets all off all + clane into the tan-pit. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> That’s capital!—but the water? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> From the pump, another pipe—and the girl’s pumping + asy, for she’s to wash to-morrow, and knows nothing about it; and so the + big veshel she fills with water, wondering what ails the water that it + don’t come—and I set one boy and another to help her—and the + pump’s bewitched, and that’s all:—so that’s settled. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> And cliverly. Oh! counshillor, we are a match for the shuper + any day or night. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> For him and all his tribe, <i>coursing</i> officers and all. + I’d desire no better sport than to hear the whole pack in full cry after + me, and I doubling, and doubling, and safe at my form at last. With you, + Pat, my precious, to drag the herring over the ground previous to the + hunt, to distract the scent, and defy the nose of the dogs. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Then I am proud to sarve you, counshillor. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I know you are, and a very honest boy. And what did you do + for me, with Catty Rooney? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> The best.—Oh! it’s I <i>blarny’d</i> Catty to the skies, + and then egged her on, and aggravated her against the McBrides, till I + left her as mad as e’er a one in Bedlam—up to any thing! And full + tilt she’s off to Flaherty’s, the publican, in her blue jock—where + she’ll not be long afore she kicks up a quarrel, I’ll engage; for she’s + sarching the house for Honor McBride, who is <i>not</i> in it—and + giving bad language, I warrant, to all the McBride faction, who <i>is</i> + in it, drinking. Oh! trust Catty’s tongue for breeding a riot! In half an + hour, I’ll warrant, you’ll have as fine a fight in town as ever ye seen or + <i>hard</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> That’s iligantly done, Pat. But I hope Randal Rooney is in + it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> In the thick of it he is, or will be. So I hope your honour + did not forgit to spake to Mr. Carver about that little place for me? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Forgit!—Do I forgit my own name, do you think? Sooner + forgit that <i>then</i> my promises. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh! I beg your honour’s pardon—I would not doubt your + word; and to make matters sure, and to make Catty cockahoop, I tould her, + and swore to her, there was not a McBride in the town but two, and there’s + twinty, more or less. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> And when she sees them twinty, more or less, what will she + think?—Why would you say that?—she might find you out in a lie + next minute, Mr. Overdo. ‘Tis dangerous for a young man to be telling more + lies than is absolutely requisite. The <i>lie superfluous</i> brings many + an honest man, and, what’s more, many a cliver fellow, into a scrape—and + that’s your great fau’t, Pat. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Which, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> <i>That</i>, sir. I don’t see you often now take a glass too + much. But, Pat, I hear you often still are too apt to indulge in a lie too + much. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Lie! Is it I?—Whin upon my conscience, I niver to my + knowledge tould a lie in my life, since I was born, excipt it would be + just to skreen a man, which is charity, sure,—or to skreen myself, + which is self-defence, sure—and that’s lawful; or to oblige your + honour, by particular desire, and <i>that</i> can’t be helped, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> I am not saying again all that—only (<i>laying his + hand on</i> PAT’S <i>shoulder as he is going out</i>) against another + time, all I’m warning you, young man, is, you’re too apt to think there + never can be lying enough. Now too much of a good thing is good for + nothing. {<i>Exit O’BLANEY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>PAT, alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> There’s what you may call the divil rebuking sin—and now + we talk of the like, as I’ve heard my <i>mudther</i> say, that he had need + of a long spoon that ates wid the divil—so I’ll look to that in + time. But whose voice is that I hear coming up stairs? I don’t believe but + it’s Mr. Carver—only what should bring him back agin, I wonder now? + Here he is, all out of breath, coming. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Mr. CARVER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Pray, young man, did you happen to see—(<i>panting + for breath</i>) Bless me, I’ve ridden so fast back from Bob’s Fort! + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> My master, sir, Mr. O’Blaney, is it? Will I run? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> No, no—stand still till I have breath.—What I + want is a copy of a letter I dropped some where or other—here I + think it must have been, when I took out my handkerchief—a copy of a + letter to his Excellency—of great consequence. (<i>Mr. CARVER sits + down and takes breath.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> (<i>searching about with officious haste</i>) If it’s above + ground, I’ll find it. What’s this?—an old bill: that is not it. + Would it be this, crumpled up?—“To His Excellency the Lord + Lieutenant of Ireland.” + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>snatching</i>) No farther, for your life! + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Well then I was lucky I found it, and proud. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And well you may be, young man; for I can assure you, on + this letter the fate of Ireland may depend. (<i>Smoothing the letter on + his knee.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I wouldn’t doubt it—when it’s a letter of your honour’s—I + know your honour’s a great man at the castle. And plase your honour, I + take this opportunity of tanking your honour for the encouragement I got + about that little clerk’s place—and here’s a copy of my hand-writing + I’d wish to show your honour, to see I’m capable—and a scholard. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Hand-writing! Bless me, young man, I have no time to look + at your hand-writing, sir. With the affairs of the nation on my shoulders—can + you possibly think?—is the boy mad?—that I’ve time to revise + every poor scholar’s copy-book? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I humbly beg your honour’s pardon, but it was only becaase I’d + wish to show I was not quite so unworthy to be under (whin you’ve time) + your honour’s protection, as promised. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> My protection?—you are not under my protection, + sir:—promised clerk’s place?—I do not conceive what you are + aiming at, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> The little clerk’s place, plase your honour—that my + master, Counshillor O’Blaney, tould me he spoke about to your honour, and + was recommending me for to your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Never—never heard one syllable about it, till this + moment. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh! murder:—but I expict your honour’s goodness will— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> To make your mind easy, I promised to appoint a young man + to that place, a week ago, by Counsellor O’Blaney’s special + recommendation. So there must be some mistake. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Mr. CARVER.</i>} + </p> + <p> + <i>PAT, alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Mistake? ay, mistake on purpose. So he never spoke! so he + lied!—my master that was praching me! And oh, the dirty lie he tould + me! Now I can’t put up with that, when I was almost perjuring myself for + him at the time. Oh, if I don’t fit him for this! And he got the place + given to another!—then I’ll git him as well sarved, and out of this + place too—seen-if-I-don’t! He is cunning enough, but I’m cuter nor + he—I have him in my power, so I have! and I’ll give the shupervizor + a scent of the malt in the turf-stack—and a hint of the spirits in + the tan-pit—and it’s I that will like to stand by innocent, and see + how shrunk O’Blaney’s double face will look forenent the shupervizor, when + all’s found out, and not a word left to say, but to pay—ruined hand + and foot! Then that shall be, and before nightfall. Oh! one good turn + desarves another—in revenge, prompt payment while you live! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit.</i>} + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE II. + </h2> + <p> + <i>McBRIDE’S Cottage.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>MATTHEW McBRIDE and HONOR. (MATTHEW with a little table before him, at + dinner.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>pushing his plate from him</i>) I’ll take no more—I’m + done. {<i>He sighs.</i>} + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Then you made but a poor dinner, father, after being at the + fair, and up early, and all!—Take this bit from my hands, father + dear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>turning away sullenly</i>) I’ll take nothing from you, + Honor, but what I got already enough—and too much of—and + that’s ungratitude. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Ungratitude, father! then you don’t see my heart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> I lave that to whoever has it, Honor: ‘tis enough for me, + I see what you do—and that’s what I go by. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, me! and what did I do to displase you, father? (<i>He is + obstinately silent; after waiting in vain for an answer, she continues</i>) + I that was thinking to make all happy, (<i>aside</i>) but myself, (<i>aloud</i>) + by settling to keep out of the way of—all that could vex you—and + to go to sarvice, to Mrs. Carver’s. I thought that would plase you, + father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Is it to lave me, Honor? Is it <i>that</i> you thought + would plase me, Honor?—To lave your father alone in his ould age, + after all the slaving he got and was willing to undergo, whilst ever he + had strength, early and late, to make a little portion for you, Honor,—you, + that I reckoned upon for the prop and pride of my ould age—and you + expect you’d plase me by laving me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Hear me just if, pray then, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>shaking her off as she tries to caress him</i>) Go, + then; go where you will, and demane yourself going into sarvice, rather + than stay with me—go. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> No, I’ll not go. I’ll stay then with you, father dear,—say + that will plase you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>going on without listening to her</i>) And all for the + love of this Randal Rooney! Ay, you may well put your two hands before + your face; if you’d any touch of natural affection at all, <i>that</i> + young man would have been the last of all others you’d ever have thought + of loving or liking any way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! if I could help it! + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> There it is. This is the way the poor fathers is always to + be trated. They to give all, daughter and all, and get nothing at all, not + their choice even of the man, the villain that’s to rob ‘em of all—without + thanks even; and of all the plinty of bachelors there are in the parish + for the girl that has money, that daughter will go and pick and choose out + the very man the father mislikes beyond all others, and then it’s “<i>Oh! + if I could help it</i>!”—Asy talking! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But, dear father, wasn’t it more than talk, what I did?—Oh, + won’t you listen to me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB</i> I’ll not hear ye; for if you’d a grain o spirit in your + mane composition, Honor, you would take your father’s part, and not be + putting yourself under Catty’s feet—the bad-tongued woman, that + hates you, Honor, like poison. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> If she does hate me, it’s all through love of her own— + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Son—ay—that she thinks too good for you—for + <i>you</i>, Honor; you, the Lily of Lismore—that might command the + pride of the country. Oh! Honor dear, don’t be lessening yourself; but be + a proud girl, as you ought, and my own Honor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, when you speak so kind! + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> And I beg your pardon, if I said a cross word; for I know + you’ll never think of him more, and no need to lave home at all for his + sake. It would be a shame in the country, and what would Mrs. Carver + herself think? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> She thinks well of it, then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Then whatever she thinks, she sha’n’t have my child from + me! tho’ she’s a very good lady, and a very kind lady, too. But see now, + Honor—have done with love, for it’s all foolishness; and when you + come to be as ould as I am, you’ll think so too. The shadows goes all one + way, till the middle of the day, and when that is past, then all the + t’other way; and so it is with love, in life—stay till the sun is + going down with you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Then it would be too late to be thinking of love. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> And too airly now, and there’s no good time, for it’s all + folly. I’ll ax you, will love set the potatoes?—will love make the + rent?—or will love give you a jaunting car?—as to my + knowledge, another of your bachelors would. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, don’t name him, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Why not—when it’s his name that would make a lady of + you, and there’d be a rise in life, and an honour to your family? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Recollect it was he that would have dishonoured my family, + in me, if he could. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> But he repints now; and what can a man do but repint, and + offer to make honourable restitution, and thinking of marrying, as now, + Honor dear;—is not that a condescension of he, who’s a sort of a + jantleman? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> A sort, indeed—a bad sort. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Why, not jantleman <i>born</i>, to be sure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Nor <i>bred.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Well, there’s many that way, neither born nor bred, but + that does very well in the world; and think what it would be to live in + the big shingled house, in Ballynavogue, with him! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I’d rather live here with you, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Then I thank you kindly, daughter, for that, but so would + not <i>I for</i> you,—and then the jaunting-car, or a coach, in + time, if he could! He has made the proposhal for you in form this day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> And what answer from you, father? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Don’t be looking so pale,—I tould him he had my + consint, if he could get yours. And, oh! before you speak, Honor dear, + think what it would be up and down in Ballynavogue, and every other place + in the county, assizes days and all, to be Mistress Gerald O’Blaney! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I couldn’t but think very ill of it, father; thinking ill, + as I do, of him. Father dear, say no more, don’t be breaking my heart—I’ll + never have that man; but I’ll stay happy with you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Why, then, I’ll be contint with that same; and who + wouldn’t?—If it’s what you’d rather stay, and <i>can</i> stay + contint, Honor dear, I’m only too happy. (<i>Embracing her—then + pausing.</i>) But for Randal— + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> In what can you fau’t him, only his being a Rooney? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> That’s all—but that’s enough. I’d sooner see you in + your coffin—sooner be at your wake to-night, than your wedding with + a Rooney! ‘Twould kill me. Come, promise me—I’d trust your word—and + ‘twould make me asy for life, and I’d die asy, if you’d promise never to + have him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Never till you would consent—that’s all I can promise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Well, that same is a great ase to my heart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> And to give a little ase to mine, father, perhaps you could + promise— + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> What?—I’ll promise nothing at all—I’ll promise + nothing at all—I’ll promise nothing I couldn’t perform. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But this you could perform asy, dear father: just hear your + own Honor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>aside</i>) That voice would wheedle the bird off the + bush—and when she’d prefar me to the jaunting-car, can I but listen + to her? (<i>Aloud</i>) Well, what?—if it’s any thing at all in + rason. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> It is in rason entirely. It’s only, that if Catty Rooney’s— + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>stopping his ears</i>) Don’t name her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> But she might be brought to rason, father; and if she should + be brought to give up that claim to the bit o’ bog of yours, and when all + differs betwix’ the families be made up, then you would consent. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> When Catty Rooney’s brought to rason! Oh! go shoe the + goslings, dear,—ay, you’ll get my consint then. There’s my hand: I + promise you, I’ll never be called on to perform that, Honor, jewel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>kissing his hand</i>) Then that’s all I’d ask—nor + will I say one word more, but thank you, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>putting on his coat</i>) She’s a good cratur—sorrow + better! sister or daughter. Oh! I won’t forget that she prefarred me to + the jaunting-car. Phil shall carry him a civil refusal. I’ll send off the + money, the three hundred, by your brother, this minute—that will be + some comfort to poor O’Blaney. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit McBRIDE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Is not he a kind father, then, after all?—That promise + he gave me about Catty, even such as it is, has ased my heart wonderfully. + Oh! it will all come right, and they’ll all be rasonable in time, even + Catty Rooney, I’ve great hope; and little hope’s enough, even for love to + live upon. But, hark! there’s my brother Phil coming. (<i>A noise heard in + the back-house.</i>) ‘Tis only the cow in the bier. (<i>A knock heard at + the door.</i>) No, ‘tis a Christian; no cow ever knocked so soft. Stay + till I open—Who’s in it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> (<i>from within</i>) Your own Randal—open quick. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! Randal, is it you? I can’t open the door. + </p> + <p> + {<i>She holds the door—he pushes it half open.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Honor, that I love more than life, let me in, till I speak + one word to you, before you’re set against me for ever. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> No danger of that—but I can’t let you in, Randal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Great danger! Honor, and you must. See you I will, if I die + for it! + </p> + <p> + {<i>He advances, and she retires behind the door, holding it against him.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Then I won’t see you this month again, if you do. My hand’s + weak, but my heart’s strong, Randal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Then my heart’s as weak as a child’s this minute. Never + fear—don’t hold against me, Honor; I’ll stand where I am, since you + don’t trust me, nor love me—and best so, may be: I only wanted to + say three words to you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I can’t hear you now, Randal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Then you’ll never hear me more. Good bye to you, Honor. + </p> + <p> + {<i>He pulls the door to, angrily.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> And it’s a wonder as it was you didn’t meet my father as you + came, or my brother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> (<i>pushing the door a little open again</i>) Your brother!—Oh, + Honor! that’s what’s breaking my heart—(<i>he sighs</i>)—that’s + what I wanted to say to you; and listen to me. No fear of your father, + he’s gone down the road: I saw him as I come the short cut, but he didn’t + see me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> What of my brother?—say, and go. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Ay, go—for ever, you’ll bid me, when I’ve said. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> What! oh, speak, or I’ll drop.—(<i>She no longer holds + the door, but leans against a table.—RANDAL advances, and looks in.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Don’t be frightened, then, dearest—it’s nothing in + life but a fight at a fair. He’s but little hurted. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Hurted!—and by who? by you, is it?—Then all’s + over.—(<i>RANDAL comes quite in—HONOR, putting her hand before + her eyes.</i>)—You may come or go, for I’ll never love you more. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I expicted as much!—But she’ll faint! + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I won’t faint: leave me, Mr. Randal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Take this water from me, (<i>holding a cup</i>) it’s all I + ask. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> No need. (<i>She sits down</i>) But what’s this?—(<i>Seeing + his hand bound up.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> A cut only. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Bleeding—stop it. (<i>Turning from him coldly.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Then by this blood—no, not by this worthless blood of + mine—but by that dearest blood that fled from your cheeks, and this + minute is coming back, Honor, I swear—(<i>kneeling to her.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Say what you will, or swear, I don’t hear or heed you. And + my father will come and find you there—and I don’t care. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I know you don’t—and I don’t care myself what happens + me. But as to Phil, it’s only a cut in the head he got, that signifies + nothing—if he was not your brother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Once lifted your hand against him—all’s over. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Honor, I did not lift my hand against <i>him</i>; but I was + in the quarrel with his faction. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> And this your promise to me not to be in any quarrel! No, if + my father consented to-morrow, I’d nivir have you now. (<i>Rises, and is + going—he holds her.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Then you’re wrong, Honor: you’ve heard all against me—now + hear what’s for me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> I’ll hear no more—let me go. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Go, then; (<i>he lets her go, and turns away himself</i>) + and I’m going before Mr. Carver, who <i>will</i> hear me, and the truth + will appear—and tho’ not from you, Honor, I’ll have justice. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit RANDAL.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Justice! Oh, worse and worse! to make all public; and if + once we go to law, there’s an end of love—<i>for ever.</i> + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit HONOR.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE III. + </h2> + <p> + <i>O’BLANEY’S House.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’BLANEY and CATTY ROONEY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> And didn’t ye hear it, counshillor? the uproar in the town + and the riot?—oh! you’d think the world was throwing out at windows. + See my jock, all tattered! Didn’t ye hear! + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> How could I hear, backwards, as you see, from the street, + and given up to my business? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Business! oh! here is a fine business—the McBrides + have driven all before them, and chased the Roonies out of Ballynavogue. (<i>In + a tone of deep despair.</i>) Oh! Catty Rooney! that ever you’d live to see + this day! + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Then take this glass (<i>offering a glass of whiskey</i>) to + comfort your heart, my good Mrs. Rooney. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> No, thank you, counshillor, it’s past that even! ogh! ogh!—oh! + wirrastrew!—oh! wirrastrew, ogh!—(<i>After wringing her hands, + and yielding to a burst of sorrow and wailing, she stands up firmly.</i>) + Now I’ve ased my heart, I’ll do. I’ve spirit enough left in me yet, you’ll + see; and I’ll tell you what I came to you for, counshillor. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Tell me first, is Randal Rooney in it, and is he hurt? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> He was in it: he’s not hurt, more shame for him! But, + howsomever, he bet one boy handsomely; that’s my only comfort. Our + faction’s all going full drive to swear examinations, and get justice. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Very proper—very proper: swear examinations—that’s + the course, and only satisfaction in these cases to get justice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Justice!—revenge sure! Oh! revenge is sweet, and I’ll + have it. Counshillor dear, I never went before Mr. Carver—you know + him, sir—what sort is he? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> A mighty good sort of gentleman—only mighty tiresome. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Ay, that’s what I hard—that he is mighty fond of + talking to people for their good. Now that’s what I dread, for I can’t + stand being talked to for my good. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> ‘Tis little use, I confess. We Irish is wonderful soon tired + of goodness, if there’s no spice of fun along with it; and poor Carver’s + soft, and between you and I, he’s a little bothered, but, Mrs. Rooney, you + won’t repate? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Repate!—I! I’m neither watch nor repater—I scorn + both; and between you and I, since you say so, counshillor, that’s my + chiefest objection to Carver, whom I wouldn’t know from Adam, except by + reputation. But it’s the report of the country, that he has common + informers in his pay and favour; now that’s mane, and I don’t like it. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Nor I, Mrs. Rooney. I had experience of informers in the + distillery line once. The worst varmin that is ever encouraged in any + house or country. The very mintion of them makes me creep all over still. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Then ‘tis Carver, they say, that has the oil of Rhodium for + them; for they follow and fawn on him, like rats on the rat catcher—of + all sorts and sizes, he has ‘em. They say, he sets them over and after one + another; and has <i>lations</i> of them that he lets out on the craturs’ + cabins, to larn how many grains of salt every man takes with his little <i>prates</i>, + and bring information if a straw would be stirring. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Ay, and if it would, then, it’s Carver that would quake like + the aspin leaf—I know that. It’s no malice at all in him; only just + he’s a mighty great poltroon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Is that all? Then I’d pity and laugh at him, and I go to him + preferably to any other magistrate. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> You may, Mrs. Rooney—for it’s in terror of his life he + lives, continually draming day and night, and croaking of carders and + thrashers, and oak boys, and white boys, and peep-o’-day boys, and united + boys, and riband-men, and men and boys of all sorts that have, and that + have not, been up and down the country since the rebellion. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> The poor cratur! But in case he’d prove refractory, and + would not take my examinations, can’t I persecute my shute again the + McBrides for the bit of the bog of Ballynascraw, counshillor?—Can’t + I <i>harash</i> ‘em at law? + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> You can, ma’am, harash them properly. I’ve looked over your + papers, and I’m happy to tell you, you may go on at law as soon and as + long as you plase. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>speaking very rapidly</i>) Bless you for that word, + counshillor; and by the first light to-morrow, I’ll drive all the grazing + cattle, every four-footed <i>baast</i> off the land, and pound ‘em in + Ballynavogue; and if they replevy, why I’ll distrain again, if it be forty + times, I will go. I’ll go on distraining, and I’ll advertise, and I’ll + cant, and I’ll sell the distress at the end of the eight days. And if they + dare for to go for to put a plough in that bit of reclaimed bog, I’ll come + down upon ‘em with an injunction, and I would not value the expinse of + bringing down a record a pin’s pint; and if that went again me, I’d remove + it to the courts above and wilcome; and after that, I’d go into equity, + and if the chancillor would not be my friend, I’d take it over to the + House of Lords in London, so I would as soon as look at ‘em; for I’d wear + my feet to the knees for justice—so I would. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> That you would! You’re an iligant lawyer, Mrs. Rooney; but + have you the sinews of war? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Is it money, dear?—I have, and while ever I’ve one + shilling to throw down to ould Matthew McBride’s guinea, I’ll go on; and + every guinea he parts will twinge his vitals: so I’ll keep on while ever + I’ve a fiv’-penny bit to rub on another—for my spirit is up. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Ay, ay, so you say. Catty, my dear, your back’s asy up, but + it’s asy down again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Not when I’ve been trod on as now, counshillor: it’s then + I’d turn and fly at a body, gentle or simple, like mad. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Well done, Catty (<i>patting her on the back</i>). There’s + my own pet mad cat—and there’s a legal venom in her claws, that + every scratch they’ll give shall fester so no plaister in law can heal it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh, counshillor, now, if you wouldn’t be flattering a wake + woman. + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> Wake woman!—not a bit of woman’s wakeness in ye. Oh, + my cat-o’-cats! let any man throw her from him, which way he will, she’s + on her legs and at him again, tooth and claw. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> With nine lives, renewable for ever. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit CATTY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>O’Bla.</i> (<i>alone</i>) There’s a demon in woman’s form set to work + for me! Oh, this works well—and no fear that the Roonies and + McBrides should ever come to an understanding to cut me out. Young Mr. + Randal Rooney, my humble compliments to you, and I hope you’ll become the + willow which you’ll soon have to wear for Miss Honor McBride’s pretty + sake. But I wonder the brother a’n’t come up yet with the rist of her + fortune. (Calls behind the scenes.) Mick! Jack! Jenny! Where’s Pat?—Then + why don’t you know? run down a piece of the road towards Ballynascraw, see + would you see any body coming, and bring me word would you see Phil + McBride—you know, flourishing Phil.—Now I’m prepared every way + for the shupervishor, only I wish to have something genteel in my fist for + him, and a show of cash flying about—nothing like it, to dazzle the + eyes. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit O’BLANEY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>An Apartment in Mr. CARVER’S House. Mr. CARVER seated: a table, pens, + ink, paper, and law-books. A cleric, pen in hand.—On the right-hand + side of Mr. CARVER stands Mrs. CATTY ROONEY.—RANDAL ROONEY beside + her, leaning against a pillar, his arms folded.—Behind Mrs. ROONEY, + three men—one remarkably tall, one remarkably little.—On the + left-hand of Mr. CARVER stand Old MATTHEW McBRIDE, leaning on his stick; + beside him, PHILIP McBRIDE, with his silver-hilted whip in his hand.—A + Constable at some distance behind Mr. CARVER’S chair.—Mr. CARVER + looking over and placing his books, and seeming to speak to his clerk.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>aside to her son</i>) See I’ll take it asy, and be very + shivel and sweet wid him, till I’ll see which side he’ll lane, and how it + will go with us Roonies—(<i>Mr. CARVER rising, leans forward with + both his hands on the table, as if going to speak, looks round, and clears + his throat loudly.</i>)—Will I spake now, plase your honour? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Dacency, when you see his honour preparing his throat. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Mr. CARVER clears his throat again.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>curtsying between each sentence</i>) Then I ixpect his + honour will do me justice. I got a great character of his honour. I’d + sooner come before your honour than any jantleman in all Ireland. I’m sure + your honour will stand my <i>frind</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clerk.</i> Silence! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Misguided people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw— + </p> + <p> + {<i>At the instant Mr. CARVER pronounces the word “Ballynavogue,” CATTY + curtsies, and all the ROONIES, behind her, bow, and answer—</i> + </p> + <p> + Here, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + {<i>And when Mr. CARVER says</i> “Ballynascraw,” <i>all the McBRIDES bow, + and reply—</i> + </p> + <p> + Here, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>speaking with pomposity, but embarrassment, and + clearing his throat frequently</i>) When I consider and look round me, + gentlemen, and when I look round me and consider, how long a period of + time I have had the honour to bear his majesty’s commission of the peace + for this county— + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>curtsying</i>) Your honour’s a good warrant, no doubt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Hem!—hem!—also being a residentiary gentleman + at Bob’s Fort—hem!—hem!—hem!—(<i>Coughs, and blows + his nose.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>aside to her son</i>) Choking the cratur is with the + words he can’t get out. (<i>Aloud</i>) Will I spake now, plase your + honour? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clerk.</i> Silence! silence! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And when I consider all the ineffectual attempts I have + made by eloquence and otherwise, to moralize and civilize you gentlemen, + and to eradicate all your heterogeneous or rebellious passions— + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Not a rebel, good or bad, among us, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clerk.</i> Silence! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I say, my good people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw, I + stand here really in unspeakable concern and astonishment, to notice at + this fair-time in my barony, these symptoms of a riot, gentlemen, and + features of a tumult. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> True, your honour, see—scarce a symptom of a fature + lift in the face here of little Charley of Killaspugbrone, with the + b’ating he got from them McBrides, who bred the riot, entirely under + Flourishing Phil, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>turning to PHIL McBRIDE.</i>) Mr. Philip McBride, son + of old Matthew, quite a substantial man,—I am really concerned, + Philip, to see you, whom I looked upon as a sort of, I had almost said, <i>gentleman</i>— + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> <i>Gentleman!</i> what sort? Is it because of the new topped + boots, or by virtue of the silver-topped whip, and the bit of a red rag + tied about the throat?—Then a gentleman’s asy made, now-a-days. + </p> + <p> + <i>Young McB.</i> It seems ‘tis not so asy any way, now-a-days, to make a + <i>gentlewoman</i>, Mrs. Rooney. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>springing forward angrily</i>) And is it me you mane, + young man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Oh! mother, dear, don’t be aggravating. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Clerk, why don’t you maintain silence? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>pressing before her son</i>) Stand back, then, Randal + Rooney—don’t you hear <i>silence</i>?—don’t be brawling before + his honour. Go back wid yourself to your pillar, or post, and fould your + arms, and stand like a fool that’s in love, as you are.—I beg your + honour’s pardon, but he’s my son, and I can’t help it.—But about our + examinations, plase your honour, we’re all come to swear—here’s + myself, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone, and big Briny of Cloon, and + Ulick of Eliogarty—all ready to swear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> But have these gentlemen no tongues of their own, madam? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> No, plase your honour, little Charley has no English tongue; + he has none but the native Irish. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Clerk, make out their examinations, with a translation; + and interpret for Killaspugbrone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Plase your honour, I being the lady, expicted I’d get lave + to swear first. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And what would you swear, madam, if you got leave, pray?—be + careful, now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> I’ll tell you how it was out o’ the face, plase your honour. + The whole Rooney faction— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> <i>Faction!</i>—No such word in my presence, madam. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh, but I’m ready to swear to it, plase your honour, in or + out of the presence:—the whole Rooney faction—every Rooney, + big or little, that was in it, was bet, and banished the town and fair of + Ballynavogue, for no rason in life, by them McBrides there, them scum o’ + the earth. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Gently, gently, my good lady; no such thing in my + presence, as scum o’ the earth. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Well, Scotchmen, if your honour prefars. But before a + Scotchman, myself would prefar the poorest spalpeen—barring it be + Phil, the buckeen—I ax pardon (<i>curtsying</i>), if a buckeen’s the + more honourable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Irrelevant in toto, madam; for buckeens and spalpeens are + manners or species of men unknown to or not cognizable by the eye of the + law; against them, therefore, you cannot swear: but if you have any thing + against Philip McBride— + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh, I have plinty, and will swear, plase your honour, that + he put me in bodily fear, and tore my jock, my blue jock, to tatters. Oh, + by the vartue of this book (<i>snatching up a book</i>), and all the books + that ever were shut or opened, I’ll swear to the damage of five pounds, be + the same more or less. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> My good lady, <i>more or less</i> will never do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Forty shillings, any way, I’ll swear to; and that’s a + felony, your honour, I hope? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Take time, and consult your conscience conscientiously, + my good lady, while I swear these other men— + </p> + <p> + {<i>She examines the coat, holding it up to view—Mr. CARVER beckons + to the Rooney party.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Beaten men! come forward. + </p> + <p> + <i>Big Briny.</i> Not <i>beaten</i>, plase your honour, only <i>bet</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ulick of Eliogarty.</i> Only black eyes, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> You, Mr. Charley or Charles Rooney, of Killaspugbrone; + you have read these examinations, and are you scrupulously ready to swear? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> He is, and <i>will</i>, plase your honour; only he’s the boy + that has got no English tongue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I wish <i>you</i> had none, madam, ha! ha! ha! (<i>The + two McBRIDES laugh—the ROONIES look grave.</i>) You, Ulick Rooney, + of Eliogarty, <i>are these</i> your examinations? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> He can’t write, nor rade writing from his cradle, plase your + honour; but can make his mark equal to another, sir. It has been read to + him any way, sir, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And you, sir, who style yourself big Briny of Cloon—you + think yourself a great man, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> It’s what many does that has got less rason, plase your + honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Understand, my honest friend, that there is a vast + difference between looking big and being great. + </p> + <p> + <i>Big Briny.</i> I see—I know, your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Now, gentlemen, all of you, before I hand you the book to + swear these examinations, there is one thing of which I must warn and + apprize you—that I am most remarkably clear-sighted; consequently + there can be no <i>thumb kissing</i> with me, gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Big Briny.</i> We’ll not ax it, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> No Rooney, living or dead, was ever guilty or taxed with the + like! (<i>Aside to her son</i>) Oh, they’ll swear iligant! We’ll flog the + world, and have it all our own way! Oh, I knew we’d get justice—or + I’d know why. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clerk.</i> Here’s the book, sir, to swear complainants. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Mr. CARVER comes forward.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Wait—wait; I must hear both sides. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Both sides! Oh, plase your honour—only bother you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Madam, it is my duty to have ears for all men.—Mr. + Philip, now for your defence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> He has none in nature, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Madam, you have had my ear long enough—be silent, + at your peril. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Ogh—ogh!—silent! + </p> + <p> + {<i>She groans piteously.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Sir, your defence, without any preamble or + pre-ambulation. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> I’ve no defence to make, plase your honour, but that I’m + innocent. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>shaking his head</i>) The worst defence in law, my + good friend, unless you’ve witnesses. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> All present that time in the fair was too busy fighting for + themselves to witness for me that I was not; except I’d call upon one that + would clear me entirely, which is that there young man on the opposite + side. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh, the impudent fellow! Is it my son? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Is it Randal Rooney? Why, Phil, are you turned <i>innocent</i>? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> I am not, father, at all. But with your lave, I call on + Randal Rooney, for he is an undeniable honourable man—I refer all to + his evidence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Thank you, Phil. I’ll witness the truth, on whatever side. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty rushes in between them, exclaiming, in a tremendous tone,</i> + </p> + <p> + If you do, Catty Rooney’s curse be upon— + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal stops her mouth, and struggles to hold his mother back.</i> + </p> + <p> + Oh, mother, you couldn’t curse!— + </p> + <p> + {<i>All the ROONIES get about her and exclaim</i>, + </p> + <p> + Oh, Catty, your son you couldn’t curse! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Silence, and let <i>me</i> be heard. Leave this lady to + me; I know how to manage these feminine vixens. Mrs. Catherine Rooney, + listen to me—you are a reasonable woman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> I am not, nor don’t pretend to it, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> But you can hear reason, madam, I presume, from the voice + of authority. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> No, plase your honour—I’m deaf, stone deaf. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> No trifling with me, madam; give me leave to advise you a + little for your good. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Plase your honour, it’s of no use—from a child up I + never could stand to be advised for my good. See, I’d get hot and hotter, + plase your honour, till I’d bounce! I’d fly! I’d burst! and myself does + not know what mischief I mightn’t do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Constable! take charge of this cursing and cursed woman, + who has not respect for man or magistrate. Away with her out of my + presence!—I commit her for a contempt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal</i> (<i>eagerly</i>) Oh! plase your honour, I beg your honour’s + pardon for her—my mother—entirely. When she is in her rason, + she has the greatest respect for the whole bench, and your honour above + all. Oh! your honour, be plasing this once! Excuse her, and I’ll go bail + for her she won’t say another word till she’d get the nod from your + honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> On that condition, and on that condition only, I am + willing to pass over the past. Fall back, constable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Why then, Gerald O’Blaney mislet me. This + Carver is a <i>fauterer</i> of the Scotch. Bad luck to every bone in his + body! (<i>As CATTY says this her son draws her back, and tries to pacify + her.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Is she muttering, constable? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Not a word, plase your honour, only just telling herself to + be quiet. Oh, mother, dearest, I’ll kneel to plase you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Kneel! oh, to an ould woman like me—no standing that! + So here, on my hunkers I am, for your sake, Randal, and not a word, good + or bad! Can woman do more? (<i>She sits with her fingers on her lips.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Now for your defence, Philip: be short, for mercy’s sake! + (<i>pulling out his watch.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Not to be detaining your honour too long—I was in + Ballynavogue this forenoon, and was just—that is, Miss Car’line + Flaherty was just— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Miss Caroline Flaherty! What in nature can she have to do + with the business? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Only axing me, sir, she was, to play the flageolets, which + was the rason I was sitting at Flaherty’s. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Address yourself to the court, young man. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Sitting at Flaherty’s—in the parlour, with the door + open, and all the McBrides which was <i>in it</i> was in the outer room + taking a toombler o’ punch I trated ‘em to—but not drinking—not + a man <i>out o’ the way</i>—when in comes that gentlewoman. (<i>Pointing + to Mrs. ROONEY.—RANDAL groans.</i>) Never fear, Randal, I’ll tell it + as soft as I can. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Soft, why? Mighty soft cratur ever since he was born, + plase your honour, though he’s my son. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>putting his fingers on his lips</i>) Friend Matthew, + no reflections in a court of justice ever. Go on, Philip. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> So some one having tould Mrs. Rooney lies, as I’m confident, + sir—for she come in quite <i>mad</i>, and abused my sister Honor; + accusing her, before all, of being sitting and giving her company to + Randal Rooney at Flaherty’s, drinking, and something about a ring, and a + meeting behind the chapel, which I couldn’t understand;—but it fired + me, and I stepped—but I recollected I’d promised Honor not to let + her provoke me to lift a hand good or bad—so I stepped across very + civil, and I said to her, says I, Ma’am, it’s all lies—some one has + been belying Honor McBride to you, Mrs. Rooney. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CATTY sighs and groans, striking the back of one hand reiteratedly + into the palm of the other—rises—beats the devil’s tattoo as + she stands—then claps her hands again.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> That woman has certainly more ways of making a noise, + without speaking, than any woman upon earth. Proceed, Philip. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Depind on it, it’s all lies, Mrs. Rooney, says I, ma’am. No, + but <i>you</i> lie, flourishing Phil, says she. With that every McBride to + a man, rises from the table, catching up chairs and stools and toomblers + and jugs to revenge Honor and me. Not for your life, boys, don’t <i>let-drive</i> + ne’er a one of yees, says I—she’s a woman, and a widow woman, and + only a <i>scould</i> from her birth: so they held their hands; but she + giving tongue bitter, ‘twas hard for flesh and blood to stand it. Now, for + the love of heaven and me, sit down all, and be <i>quite</i> as lambs, and + finish your poonch like gentlemen, sir, says I: so saying, I <i>tuk</i> + Mrs. Rooney up in my arms tenderly, as I would a bould child—she + screeching and screeching like mad:—whereupon her jock caught on the + chair, pocket-hole or something, and give one rent from head to <i>fut</i>—and + that was the tattering of the jock. So we got her to the door, and there + she spying her son by ill-luck in the street, directly stretches out her’ + arms, and kicking my shins, plase your honour, till I could not hold her, + “Murder! Randal Rooney,” cries she, “and will you see your own mother + murdered?” + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Them were the very words, I acknowledge, she used, which + put me past my rason, no doubt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Then Randal Rooney, being past his rason, turns to all them + Roonies that were <i>in no condition.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> That were, what we in English would call <i>drunk</i>, I + presume? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Something very near it, plase your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Sitting on the bench outside the door they were, when Randal + came up. “Up, Roonies, and at ‘em!” cried he; and up, to be sure, they + flew, shillelahs and all, like lightning, daling blows on all of us + McBrides: but I never lifted a hand; and Randal, I’ll do him justice, + avoided to lift a hand against me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> And while I live I’ll never forget <i>that</i> hour, nor <i>this</i> + hour, Phil, and all your generous construction. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Why then it almost softens me; but I won’t be + made a fool on. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>who has been re-considering the examinations</i>) It + appears to me that you, Mr. Philip McBride, did, as the law allows, only + <i>lay hands softly</i> upon complainant, Catherine Rooney; and the + Rooneys, as it appears, struck, and did strike, the first blow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I can’t deny, plase your honour, we did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>tearing the examinations</i>) Then, gentlemen—you + Roonies—<i>beaten men</i>, I cannot possibly take your examinations. + </p> + <p> + {<i>When the examinations are torn, the McBRIDES all bow and thank his + honour.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Beaten men! depart in peace. + </p> + <p> + <i>The ROONIES sigh and groan, and after turning their hats several times, + bow, walk a few steps away, return, and seem loath to depart. CATTY + springs forward, holding up her hands joined in a supplicating attitude to + Mr. CARVER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> If your honour would be plasing to let her spake now, or + she’d burst, may be. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Speak now, woman, and ever after hold your tongue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Then I am rasonable now, plase your honour; for I’ll put it + to the test—see, I’ll withdraw my examinations entirely, and I’ll + recant—and I’ll go farther, I’ll own I’m wrong—(though I know + I’m right)—and I’ll beg your pardon, McBrides, if—(but I know + I’ll not have to beg your pardon either)—but I say I <i>will</i> beg + your pardon, McBrides, <i>if</i>, mind <i>if</i>, you will accept my test, + and it fails me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Very fair, Mrs. Rooney. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> What is it she’s saying? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> What test, Mrs. Rooney? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Dear mother, name your test. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Let Honor McBride be summoned, and if she can prove she took + no ring, and was not behind the chapel with Randal, nor drinking at + Flaherty’s with him, the time she was, I give up all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Agreed, with all the pleasure in life, mother. Oh, may I + run for her? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Not a fut, you sir—go, Phil dear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> That I will, like a lapwing, father. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Where to, sir—where so precipitate? + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Only to fetch my sister. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Your sister, sir?—then you need not go far: your + sister, Honor McBride, is, I have reason to believe, in this house. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> So. Under whose protection, I wonder? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Under the protection of Mrs. Carver, madam, into whose + service she was desirous to engage herself; and whose advice— + </p> + <p> + <i>Clerk.</i> Shall I, if you please, sir, call Honor in? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> If you please. + </p> + <p> + {<i>A silence.—CATTY stands biting her thumb.—Old McBRIDE + leans his chin upon Us hands on his stick, and never stirs, even his eyes.—Young + McBRIDE looks out eagerly to the side at which HONOR is expected to enter—RANDAL + looking over his shoulder, exclaims—</i> + </p> + <p> + There she comes!—Innocence in all her looks. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh! that we shall see soon. No making a fool of me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> My daughter’s step—I should know it. (<i>Aside</i>) + How my old heart bates! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Mr. CARVER takes a chair out of the way.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Walk in—walk on, Miss Honor. Oh, to be sure, Miss + Honor will have justice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter HONOR McBRIDE, walking very timidly.</i> + </p> + <p> + And no need to be ashamed, Miss Honor, until you’re found out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Silence! + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Thank your honour. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Mr. CARVER whispers to his clerk, and directs him while the following + speeches go on.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> That’s a very pretty curtsy, Miss Honor—walk on, pray—all + the gentlemen’s admiring you—my son Randal beyant all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Mother, I won’t bear— + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Can’t you find a sate for her, any of yees? Here’s a stool—give + it her, Randal. (<i>HONOR sits down.</i>) And I hope it won’t prove the + stool of repentance, Miss or Madam. Oh, bounce your forehead, Randal—truth + must out; you’ve put it to the test, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I desire no other for her or myself. + </p> + <p> + {<i>The father and brother take each a hand of HONOR—support and + soothe her.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> I’d pity you, Honor, myself, only I know you a McBride—and + know you’re desaving me, and all present. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Call that other witness I allude to, clerk, into our + presence without delay. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clerk.</i> I shall, sir. {<i>Exit clerk.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> We’ll see—we’ll see all soon—and the truth will + come out, and shame the <i>dibbil</i> and the McBrides! + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> (<i>looking out</i>) The man I bet, as I’m a sinner! + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> What?—Which?—Where?—True for ye!—I + was wondering I did not see the man you bet appear again ye: and this is + he, with the head bound up in the garter, coming—miserable cratur he + looks—who would he be? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> You’ll see all soon, mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter PAT COXE, his head bound up.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Come on—walk on boldly, friend. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Pat Coxe! saints above! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Take courage, you are under my protection here—no + one will dare to touch you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal</i> (<i>with infinite contempt</i>) Touch ye! Not I, ye dirty + dog! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> No, sir, you have done enough that way already, it + appears. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Randal! what, has Randal done this? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Now observe—this Mr. Patrick Coxe, aforesaid, has + taken refuge with me; for he is, it seems, afraid to appear before his + master, Mr. O’Blaney, this night, after having been beaten: though, as he + assures me, he has been beaten without any provocation whatsoever, by you, + Mr. Randal Rooney—answer, sir, to this matter. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I don’t deny it, sir—I bet him, ‘tis true. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> To a jelly—without marcy—he did, plase your + honour, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Sir, plase your honour, I got rason to suspect this man to + be the author of all them lies that was tould backwards and forwards to my + mother, about me and Miss Honor McBride, which made my mother mad, and + driv’ her to raise the riot, plase your honour. I charged Pat with the + lies, and he shirked, and could give me no satisfaction, but kept swearing + he was no liar, and bid me keep my distance, for he’d a pocket pistol + about him. “I don’t care what you have about you—you have not the + truth about ye, nor in ye,” says I; “ye are a liar, Pat Coxe,” says I: so + he cocked the pistol at me, saying, <i>that</i> would prove me a coward—with + that I wrenched the pistol from him, and <i>bet</i> him in a big passion. + I own to that, plase your honour—there I own I was wrong (<i>turning + to HONOR</i>), to demane myself lifting my hand any way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> But it is not yet proved that this man has told any lies. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> If he has tould no lies, I wronged him. Speak, mother—(<i>COXE + gets behind CATTY, and twitches her gown</i>), was it he who was the + informer, or not? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Nay, Pat Coxe, if you lied, I’ll not screen you; but if you + tould the truth, stand out like a man, and stand to it, and I’ll stand by + you, against my own son even, Randal, if he was the author of the report. + In plain words, then, he, Pat Coxe, tould me, that she, Honor McBride, + gave you, Randal Rooney, the meeting behind the chapel, and you gave her + the ring—and then she went with you to drink at Flaherty’s. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>starting up</i>) Oh! who <i>could</i> say the like of + me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> There he stands—now, Pat, you must stand or fall—will + you swear to what you said? (<i>Old McBRIDE and PHIL approach PAT.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> This is not the point before me; but, however, I waive + that objection. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Oh! mother, don’t put him to his oath, lest he’d perjure + himself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> I’ll swear: do you think I’d be making a liar of myself? + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Father—Phil dear—hear me one word! + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Hear her—oh! hear her—go to her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> (<i>in a low voice</i>) Would you ask at what time it was he + pretends I was taking the ring and all that? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Plase your honour, would you ask the rascal what time? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Don’t call him rascal, sir—no <i>rascals</i> in my + presence. What time did you see Honor McBride behind the chapel, Pat Coxe? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> As the clock struck twelve—I mind—by the same + token the workmen’s bell rang as usual! that same time, just as I seen Mr. + Randal there putting the ring on her finger, and I said, “<i>There’s the + bell ringing for a wedding</i>,” says I. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> To whom did you say that, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> To myself, plase your honour—I’ll tell you the truth. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Truth! That time the clock struck twelve and the bell rang, + I was happily here in this house, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> If I might take the liberty to call one could do me justice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> No liberty in justice—speak out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> If I might trouble Mrs. Carver herself? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Mrs. Carver will think it no trouble (<i>rising with + dignity</i>) to do justice, for she has been the wife to one of his + majesty’s justices of the peace for many years. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Sends a servant for Mrs. CARVER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Mrs. Carver, my dear, I must summon you to appear in open + court, at the suit or prayer of Honor McBride. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Mrs. CARVER, who is followed by Miss BLOOMSBURY, on tiptoe.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Willingly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> The case lies in a nutshell, my dear: there is a man who + swears that Honor McBride was behind the chapel, with Randal Rooney + putting a ring on her finger, when the clock struck twelve, and our + workmen’s bell rang this morning. Honor avers she was at Bob’s Fort with + you: now as she could not be, like a bird, in two places at once—was + she with you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Honor McBride was with me when the workmen’s bell rang, + and when the clock struck twelve, this day—she stayed with me till + two o’clock. + </p> + <p> + {<i>All the ROONIES, except CATTY, exclaim—</i> + </p> + <p> + Oh, no going beyond the lady’s word! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> And I think it but justice to add, that Honor McBride + has this day given me such proofs of her being a good girl, a good + daughter, and a good sister, that she has secured my good opinion and good + wishes for life. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And mine in consequence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bloom.</i> And mine of course. {<i>HONOR curtsies.</i> + </p> + <p> + {<i>Old McBRIDE bows very low to Mr. CARVER, and again to Mrs. CARVER. + PHIL bows to Mr. and Mrs. CARVER, and to Miss BLOOMSBURY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Where are you now, Catty?—and you, Pat, ye + unfortinate liar? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> (<i>falling on his knees</i>) On me knees I am. Oh, I am an + unfortinate liar, and I beg your honour’s pardon this once. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> A most abandoned liar, I pronounce you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Oh! I hope your honour won’t abandon me, for I didn’t know + Miss Honor was under her ladyship, Mrs. Carver’s favour and purtection, or + I’d sooner ha’ cut my tongue out clane—and I expict your honour + won’t turn your hack on me quite, for this is the first lies I ever was + found out in since my creation; and how could I help, when it was by my + master’s particular desire? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Your master! honest Gerald O’Blaney! + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> O’Blaney!—save us! (<i>Lifting up her hands and eyes.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Take care, Pat Coxe. + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Mr. O’Blaney, ma’am—plase your honour—all truth + now—the counshillor, that same and no other, as I’ve breath in my + body—for why should I tell a lie now, when I’ve no place in my eye, + and not a ha’porth to get by it? I’ll confess all. It was by my master’s + orders that I should set you, Mrs. Rooney, and your pride up, ma’am, + again’ making up with them McBrides. I’ll tell the truth now, plase your + honour—that was the cause of the lies I mentioned about the ring and + chapel—I’ll tell more, if you’ll bind Mr. Randal to keep the pace. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I?—ye dirty dog!—Didn’t I tell ye already, I’d + not dirty my fingers with the likes of you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> All Mr. Gerald O’Blaney’s aim was to ruin Mr. Randal Rooney, + and set him by the ears with that gentleman, Mr. Philip McBride, the + brother, and they to come to blows and outrage, and then be in disgrace + committed by his honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> (<i>turning to</i> HONOR McBRIDE) Honor, you saved all—your + brother and I never lifted our hands against one another, thanks be to + Heaven and you, dearest! + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> And was there no truth in the story of the chapel and the + ring? + </p> + <p> + <i>Pat.</i> Not a word of truth, but lies, Mrs. Rooney, dear ma’am, of the + master’s putting into my mouth out of his own head. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CATTY ROONEY walks firmly and deliberately across the room to HONOR + McBRIDE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Honor McBride, I was wrong; and here, publicly, as I + traduced you, I ax your pardon before his honour, and your father, and + your brother, and before Randal, and before my faction and his. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Both ROONIES and McBRIDES all, excepting Old McBRIDE, clap their + hands, and huzza.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I ought to reprove this acclamation—but this once I + let it pass. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Father, you said nothing—what do you say, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>never moving</i>) I say nothing at all. I never + doubted Honor, and knew the truth must appear—that’s all I say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! father dear—more you will say (<i>shaking his + stick gently</i>). Look up at me, and remember the promise you gave me, + when Catty should be rasonable—and is not she rasonable now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> I did not hear a word from her about the bog of + Ballynascraw. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Is it the pitiful bit?—No more about it! Make crame + cheeses of it—what care I? ‘Twas only for pride I stood out—not + <i>that</i> I’m thinking of now! + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Well, then, miracles will never cease! here’s one in your + favour, Honor; so take her, Randal, fortune and all—a wife of five + hundred. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> (<i>kneeling</i>) Oh! happiest of men I am this minute. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> I the same, if she had not a pinny in the world. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> <i>Happiest of men!</i>—Don’t kneel or go in to + ecstasies now, I beg, till I know the <i>rationale</i> of this. Was not I + consulted?—did not I give my opinion and advice in favour of + another? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> You was—you did, plase your honour, and I beg your + honour’s pardon, and Mr. Counsellor O’Blaney’s. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And did not you give your consent?—I must think him + a very ill-used person. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> I gave my consint only in case he could win hers, plase + your honour, and he could <i>not</i>—and I could not break my own + daughter’s heart, and I beg your honour’s pardon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I don’t know how that may be, sir, but I gave my + approbation to the match; and I really am not accustomed to have my advice + or opinion neglected or controverted. Yet, on the other hand— + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter a Footman with a note, which he gives to Mr. CARVER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>aside to PHIL</i>) Say something for me, Phil, can’t + ye?—I hav’n’t a word. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>rising with a quicker motion than usual</i>) Bless + me! bless me!—here is a revolution! and a counter revolution!—Here’s + news will make you all in as great astonishment as I own I am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> What is it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> I’m made for life—I don’t care what comes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Nor I: so it is not to touch you, I’m happy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh! your honour, spake quick, <i>this time</i>—I beg + pardon! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Then I have to confess that <i>for once</i> I have been + deceived and mistaken in my judgment of a man; and what is more, of a + man’s <i>circumstances</i> completely—O’Blaney. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> What of his <i>circumstances</i>, oh! sir, in the name of + mercy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Bankrupt, at this instant all under seizure to the + supervisor. Mr. Gerald O’Blaney has fled the country. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Then, Honor, you are without a penny; for all her fortune, + 500<i>l.</i>, was in his hands. + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Then I’m as happy to have her without a penny—happier + I am to prove my love pure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> God bless you for my own son! That’s our way of thinking, + Mr. McBride—you see it was not for the fortune. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh! Phil, didn’t I tell you her heart was right? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> We will work hard—cheer up, McBrides. Now the Roonies + and McBrides has joined, you’ll see we’ll defy the world and O’Blaney, the + <i>chate</i> of <i>chates</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Randal’s own mother! + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Ay, now, we are all one family—now pull together. + Don’t be cast down, Phil dear. I’ll never call you <i>flourishing Phil</i> + again, so don’t be standing on pride. Suppose your shister has not a + pinny, she’s better than the best, and I’ll love her and fold her to my + ould warm heart, and the daughter of my heart she is now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Honor.</i> Oh, mother!—for you are my mother now—and happy + I am to have a mother in you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> I protest it makes me almost—almost—blow my + nose. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Why, then, you’re a good cratur. But who tould you I was a + vixen, dear—plase your honour? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Your friend that is gone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> O’Blaney? + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Frind! He never was frind to none—least of all to + hisself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Oh! the double-distilled villain!—he tould your honour + I was a vixen, and fond of law. Now would you believe what I’m going to + till you? he tould me of his honour— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Of me, his patron? + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> Of you, his patron, sir. He tould me your honour—which + is a slander, as we all here can witness, can’t we? by his honour’s + contempt of Pat Coxe—yet O’Blaney said you was as fond and proud of + having informers about you as a rat-catcher is of rats. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> Mistress Catherine Rooney, and all you good people,—there + is a great deal of difference between obtaining information and + encouraging common informers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> There is, I’m sinsible. (<i>Aside to her son</i>) Then he’s + a good magistrate—except a little pompous, mighty good. (<i>Aloud to + Mr. CARVER</i>) Then I beg your honour’s pardon for my bad behaviour, and + bad language and all. ‘Twas O’Blaney’s fau’t—but he’s down, and + don’t trample on the fallen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Don’t defind O’Blaney! Oh! the villain, to rob me of all + my hard arnings. Mrs. Catty, I thank you as much as a heavy heart can, for + you’re ginerous; and you, Randal, for your— + </p> + <p> + <i>Randal.</i> Is it for loving her, when I can’t help it?—who + could? + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> (<i>sighing deeply</i>) But still it goes against the + father’s heart to see his child, his pride, go pinnyless out of his house. + </p> + <p> + <i>Phil.</i> Then, sir, father dear, I have to tell you she is not + pennyless.—But I would not tell you before, that Randal, and Catty + too, might show themselves what they are. Honor is not pennyless: the + three hundred you gave me to lodge with O’Blaney is safe here. (<i>Opening + his pocket-book.</i>)—When I was going to him with it as you + ordered, by great luck, I was stopped by this very quarrel and riot in + Ballynavogue:—he was the original cause of kicking up the riot, and + was summoned before your honour,—and here’s the money. + </p> + <p> + <i>Old McB.</i> Oh, she’s not pinnyless! Well, I never saw money with so + much pleasure, in all my long days, nor could I think I’d ever live to + give it away with half so much satisfaction as this minute. I here give + it, Honor, to Randal Rooney and you:—and bless ye, child, with the + man of <i>your</i> choice, who is <i>mine</i> now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> (<i>aside to Mr. CARVER</i>) My dear, I wish to invite + all these good people to a wedding dinner; but really I am afraid I shall + blunder in saying their names—will you prompt me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> (<i>aside to Mrs. CARVER</i>) Why really I am not used to + be a prompter; however, I will condescend to prompt <i>you</i>, Mrs. + Carver. (<i>He prompts, while she speaks.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. Carv.</i> Mr. Big Briny of Cloon, Mr. Ulick of Eliogarty, Mr. + Charley of Killaspugbrone, and you, Mrs. Catty Rooney, and you, Mr. + McBride, senior, and you, Mr. Philip McBride, no longer <i>flourishing + Phil</i>; since you are now all reconciled, let me have the pleasure of + giving you a reconciliation dinner, at the wedding of Honor McBride, who + is an honour to her family, and Randal Rooney, who so well deserves her + love. + </p> + <p> + <i>The McBRIDES and ROONIES join in the cry of</i> Long life and great + luck to your ladyship, that was always good! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Carv.</i> And you comprehend that I beg that the wedding may be + celebrated at Bob’s Fort. + </p> + <p> + <i>All join in crying</i>, Long may your honour’s honour reign over us in + glory at Bob’s Fort! + </p> + <p> + <i>Catty.</i> (<i>cracking her fingers</i>) A fig for the bog of + Ballynascraw!—Now ‘tis all Love and no Law! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROSE, THISTLE, + </h2> + <h3> + AND + </h3> + <h3> + SHAMROCK. + </h3> + <h3> + A DRAMA. + </h3> + <h3> + IN THREE ACTS. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MEN. + + SIR WILLIAM HAMDEN . . . <i>An Elderly English Gentleman.</i> + + CHRISTY GALLAGHER . . . . <i>Landlord of an Irish village inn.</i> + + MR. ANDREW HOPE . . . . . <i>A Drum-major in a Scotch regiment.</i> + + OWEN LARKEN . . . . . . . <i>The Son of the Widow Larken + —a Boy of about fifteen.</i> + + GILBERT . . . . . . . . . <i>An English Servant of Sir William Hamden.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WOMEN. + + MISS O’HARA . . . . . . . <i>A young Heiress—Niece of Sir William Hamden.</i> + + MISS FLORINDA GALLAGHER . <i>Daughter of Christy Gallagher.</i> + + THE WIDOW LARKEN . . . . <i>Mother of Owen and of Mabel.</i> + + MABEL LARKEN . . . . . . <i>Daughter of the Widow Larken.</i> + + BIDDY DOYLE . . . . . . . <i>Maid of the Inn.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Band of a Regiment. +</pre> + <p> + SCENE.—<i>The Village of Bannow, in Ireland.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROSE, + </h2> + <h3> + &c. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>A Dressing-Room in Bannow-Castle, in Ireland.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN, in his morning-gown.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Every thing precisely in order, even in Ireland!—laid, + I do believe, at the very same angle at which they used to be placed on my + own dressing-table, at Hamden-place, in Kent. Exact Gilbert! most punctual + of valet de chambres!—and a young fellow, as he is, too! It is + admirable!—Ay, though he looks as if he were made of wood, and moves + like an automaton, he has a warm heart, and a true English spirit—true-born + English every inch of him. I remember him, when first I saw him ten years + ago at his father’s, Farmer Ashfield’s, at the harvest-home; there was + Gilbert in all his glory, seated on the top of a hay-rick, singing, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then sing in praise of men of Kent, + So loyal, brave, and free; + Of Britain’s race, if one surpass, + A man of Kent is he!” + </pre> + <p> + How he brought himself to quit the men of Kent to come to Ireland with me + is wonderful. However, now he is here, I hope he is tolerably happy: I + must ask the question in direct terms; for Gilbert would never speak till + spoken to, let him feel what he might. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>calls</i>) Gilbert!—Gilbert! + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter GILBERT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Here, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Gilbert, now you have been in Ireland some weeks, I hope you + are not unhappy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> No, sir, thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> But are you happy, man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Yes, sir, thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + {<i>GILBERT retires, and seems busy arranging his master’s clothes: Sir + WILLIAM continues dressing.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>aside</i>) <i>Yes, sir, thank you, sir.</i> As dry as a + chip—sparing of his words, as if they were his last. And the fellow + can talk if he would—has humour, too, if one could get it out; and + eloquence, could I but touch the right string, the heartstring. I’ll try + again. (<i>Aloud</i>) Gilbert! + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Yes, sir. (<i>Comes forward respectfully.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Pray what regiment was it that was passing yesterday through + the village of Bannow? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> I do not know, indeed, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> That is to say, you saw they were Highlanders, and that was + enough for you—you are not fond of the Scotch, Gilbert? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> No, sir, I can’t say as I be. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> But, Gilbert, for my sake you must conquer this prejudice. I + have many Scotch friends whom I shall go to visit one of these days—excellent + friends they are! + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Are they, sir? If so be you found them so, I will do my best, + I’m sure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then pray go down to the inn here, and inquire if any of the + Scotch officers are there. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> I will, sir. I heard say the officers went off this morning. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then you need not go to inquire for them. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> No, sir. Only as I heard say, the drum-major and band is to + stay a few days in Bannow, on account of their wanting to enlist a new + bugle-boy. I was a thinking, if so be, sir, you thought well of it, on + account you like these Scotch, I’d better to step down, and see how the + men be as to being comfortable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> That’s right, do. Pray, have they tolerable accommodations + at the inn in this village? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>smiling</i>) I can’t say much for that, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Now I shall set him going. (<i>Aloud</i>) + What, the inn here is not like one of our English inns on the Bath road? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>suppressing a laugh</i>) Bath road! Bless you, sir, it’s + no more like an inn on the Bath road, nor on any road, cross or by-road + whatsomdever, as ever I seed in England. No more like—no more like + than nothing at all, sir! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> What sort of a place is it, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Why, sir, I’d be ashamed almost to tell you. Why, sir, I + never seed such a place to call an inn, in all my born days afore. First + and foremost, sir, there’s the pig is in and out of the kitchen all day + long, and next the calf has what they call the run of the kitchen; so what + with them brute beasts, and the poultry that has no coop, and is always + under one’s feet, or over one’s head, the kitchen is no place for a + Christian, even to eat his bread and cheese in. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Well, so much for the kitchen. But the parlour—they + have a parlour, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Yes, sir, they have a parlour as they may call it, if they + think proper, sir. But then again, an honest English farmer would be <i>afeard + on</i> his life to stay in it, on account of the ceiling just a coming + down a’ top of his head. And if he should go up stairs, sir, why that’s as + bad again, and worse; for the half of them there stairs is rotten, and + ever so many pulled down and burnt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Burnt!—the stairs? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Burnt, sir, as sure as I’m standing here!—burnt, sir, + for fuel one <i>scarce year</i>, as they says, sir. Moreover, when a man + does get up the stairs, sir, why he is as bad off again, and worse; for + the floor of the place they calls the bedchamber, shakes at every step, as + if it was a coming down with one; and the walls has all cracks, from top + to toe—and there’s rat-holes, or holes o’ some sort or t’other, all + in the floor: so that if a man don’t pick his steps curiously, his leg + must go down through the ceiling below. And moreover, there’s holes over + head through the roof, sir; so that if it rains, it can’t but pour on the + bed. They tell me, they used for to shift the bed from one place to + another, to find, as they say, the dry corner; but now the floor is grown + so crazy, they dare not stir the bed for their lives. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Worse and worse! + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> And moreover, they have it now in the worst place in the + whole room, sir. Close at the head of the bed, there is a window with + every pane broke, and some out entirely, and the women’s petticoats and + the men’s hats just stuck in to <i>stop all for the night</i>, as they + say, sir. + </p> + <p> + {<i>GILBERT tries to stifle his laughter.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Laugh out, honest Gilbert. In spite of your gravity and your + civility, laugh. There is no harm, but sometimes a great deal of good done + by laughing, especially in Ireland. Laughing has mended, or caused to be + mended, many things that never would have been mended otherwise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>recovering his gravity</i>) That’s true, I dare to say, + sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Now, Gilbert, if you were to keep an inn, it would be a very + different sort of inn from what you have been describing—would not + it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> I hope so, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> I remember when we were talking of establishing you in + England, that your father told me you would like to set up an inn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>his face brightening</i>) For sartin, sir, ‘tis the thing + in the whole world I should like the best, and be the proudest on, if so + be it was in my power, and if so be, sir, you could spare me. (<i>Holding + his master’s coat for him to put on.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> <i>Could.</i> spare you, Gilbert!—I <i>will</i> spare + you, whether I can conveniently or not. If I had an opportunity of + establishing advantageously a man who has served me faithfully for ten + years, do you think I would not put myself to a little inconvenience to do + it?—Gilbert, you do not know Sir William Hamden. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Thank you, sir, but I do—and I should be main sorry to + leave you, that’s sartin, if it was even to be landlord of the best inn in + all England—I know I should. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> I believe it.—But, stay—let us understand one + another—I am not talking of England, and perhaps you are not + thinking of Ireland. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Yes, sir, but I am. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> You are! I am heartily glad to hear it, for then I can serve + you directly. This young heiress, my niece, to whom this town belongs, has + a new inn ready built. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> I know, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then, Gilbert, write a proposal for this inn, if you wish + for it, and I will speak to my niece. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>bowing</i>) I thank you, sir—only I hope I shall + not stand in any honest man’s light. As to a dishonest man, I can’t say I + value standing in his light, being that he has no right to have any, as I + can see. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> So, Gilbert, you will settle in Ireland at last? I am + heartily glad to see you have overcome your prejudices against this + country. How has this been brought about? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Why, sir, the thing was, I didn’t know nothing about it, and + there was a many lies told backwards and forwards of Ireland, by a many + that ought to have known better. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> And now that you have seen with your own eyes, you are + happily convinced that in Ireland the men are not all savages. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> No, sir, no ways savage, except in the article of some of + them going bare-footed; but the men is good men, most of them. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> And the women? You find that they have not wings on their + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> No, sir. (<i>Smiling</i>) And I’m glad they have not got + wings, else they might fly away from us, which I’d be sorry for—some + of them. + </p> + <p> + {<i>After making this speech, GILBERT steps back, and brushes his master’s + hat diligently.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Ha! is that the case? Now I understand it + all. ‘Tis fair, that Cupid, who blinds so many, should open the eyes of + some of his votaries. (<i>Aloud.</i>) When you set up as landlord in your + new inn, Gilbert, (<i>Gilbert comes forward</i>) you will want a landlady, + shall not you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>falls back, and answers</i>) I shall, sir, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Miss—what’s her name? the daughter of the landlord of + the present inn. Miss—what’s her name? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>answers without coming forward</i>) Miss Gallagher, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Miss Gallagher?—A very ugly name!—I think it + would be charity to change it, Gilbert. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>bashfully</i>) It would, no doubt, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> She is a very pretty girl. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> She is, sir, no doubt. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Cleaning the brush with his hand, bows, and is retiring.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Gilbert, stay, (<i>GILBERT returns.</i>) I say, Gilbert, I + took particular notice of this Miss Gallagher, as she was speaking to you + last Sunday. I thought she seemed to smile upon you, Gilbert. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>very bashfully</i>) I can’t say, indeed, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> I don’t mean, my good Gilbert, to press you to say any thing + that you don’t choose to say. It was not from idle curiosity that I asked + any questions, but from a sincere desire to serve you in whatever way you + like best, Gilbert. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Oh, dear master! I can’t speak, you are so good to me, and + always was—too good!—so I say nothing. Only I’m not ungrateful—I + know I’m not ungrateful, that I am not! And as to the rest, there’s not a + thought I have, you’d condescend for to know, but you should know it as + soon as my mother—that’s to say, as soon as ever I knowed it myself. + But, sir, the thing is this, since you’re so good to let me speak to you, + sir— + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Speak on, pray, my good fellow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Then, sir, the thing is this. There’s one girl, they say, has + set her thoughts upon me: now I don’t like she, because why? I loves + another; but I should not choose to say so, on account of its not being + over and above civil, and on account of my not knowing yet for sartin + whether or not the girl I loves loves me, being I never yet could bring + myself to ask her the question. I’d rather not mention her name neither, + till I be more at a sartinty. But since you be so kind, sir, if you be so + good to give me till this evening, sir, as I have now, with the hopes of + the new inn, an independency to offer her, I will take courage, and I + shall have her answer soon, sir—and I will let you know with many + thanks, sir, whether—whether my heart’s broke or not. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit GILBERT hastily.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>alone</i>) Good, affectionate creature! But who would + have thought that out of that piece of wood a lover could be made? This is + Cupid’s delight! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Sir WILLIAM.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE II. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Parlour of the Inn at Bannow.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER, sola.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Various articles of dress on the floor—a looking-glass propped up + on a chest—Miss GALLAGHER is kneeling before the glass, dressing her + long hair, which hangs over her shoulders.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> I don’t know what’s come to this glass, that it is not + flattering at all <i>the</i> day. The spots and cracks in it is making me + look so full of freckles and crow’s feet—and my hair, too, that’s + such a figure, as straight and as stiff and as stubborn as a presbyterian. + See! it won’t curl for me: so it is in the papillotes it must be; and + that’s most genteel. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Sound of a drum at a distance—Miss GALLAGHER starts up and + listens.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Hark till I hear! Is not that a drum I hear? Ay, I had + always a quick ear for the drum from my cradle. And there’s the whole band—but + it’s only at the turn of the avenue. It’s on parade they are. So I’ll be + dressed and dacent before they are here, I’ll engage. And it’s my plaid + scarf I’ll throw over all, iligant for the Highlanders, and I don’t doubt + but the drum-major will be conquist to it at my feet afore night—and + what will Mr. Gilbert say to that? And what matter what he says?—I’m + not bound to him, especially as he never popped me the question, being so + preposterously bashful, as them Englishmen have the misfortune to be. But + that’s not my fault any way. And if I happen to find a more shutable + match, while he’s turning the words in his mouth, who’s to blame me?—My + father, suppose!—And what matter?—Have not I two hundred + pounds of my own, down on the nail, if the worst come to the worst, and + why need I be a slave to any man, father or other?—But he’ll kill + himself soon with the whiskey, poor man, at the rate he’s going. Two + glasses now for his <i>mornings</i>, and his <i>mornings</i> are going on + all day. There he is, roaring. (<i>Mr. GALLAGHER heard singing.</i>) You + can’t come in here, sir. + </p> + <p> + {<i>She bolts the door.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter CHRISTY GALLAGHER, kicking the door open.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Can’t I, dear? what will hinder me?—Give me the <i>kay</i> + of the spirits, if you plase. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Oh, sir! see how you are walking through all my things. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And they on the floor!—where else should I walk, but + on the floor, pray, Miss Gallagher?—Is it, like a fly, on the + ceiling you’d have me be, walking with my head upside down, to plase you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Indeed, sir, whatever way you’re walking, it’s with your + head upside down, as any body may notice, and that don’t plase me at all—isn’t + it a shame, in a morning? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Phoo! don’t be talking of shame, you that knows nothing + about it. But lend me the kay of the spirits, Florry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Sir, my name’s Florinda—and I’ve not the kay of the + spirits at all, nor any such vulgar thing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Vulgar! is it the kay? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Yes, sir, it’s very vulgar to be keeping of kays. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> That’s lucky, for I’ve lost all mine now. Every single kay + I have in the wide world now I lost, barring this kay of the spirits, and + that must be gone after the rest too I b’lieve, since you know nothing of + it, unless it be in this here chist. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CHRISTY goes to the chest.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Oh, mercy, sir!—Take care of the looking-glass, which + is broke already. Oh, then, father, ‘tis not in the chist, ‘pon my word + and honour now, if you’ll b’lieve: so don’t be rummaging of all my things. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CHRISTY persists in opening the chest.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> It don’t signify, Florry; I’ve granted myself a gineral + sarch-warrant; dear, for the kay; and, by the blessing, I’ll go clane to + the bottom o’ this chist. (<i>Miss GALLAGHER writhes in agony.</i>) Why, + what makes you stand twisting there like an eel or an ape, child?—What, + in the name of the ould one, is it you’re afeard on?—Was the chist + full now of love-letter scrawls from the grand signior or the pope + himself, you could not be more tinder of them. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Tinder, sir!—to be sure, when it’s my best bonnet I’m + thinking on, which you are mashing entirely. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Never fear, dear! I won’t mash an atom of the bonnet, + provided always, you’ll mash these apples for me, jewel. (<i>He takes + apples out of the chest.</i>) And wasn’t I lucky to find them in it? Oh, I + knew I’d not sarch this chist for nothing. See how they’ll make an iligant + apple-pie for Mr. Gilbert now, who loves an iligant apple-pie above all + things—your iligant self always excipted, dear. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Miss GALLAGHER makes a slight curtsy, but motions the apples from her.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Give the apples then to the girl, sir, and she’ll make you + the pie, for I suppose she knows how. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And don’t you, then, Florry? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> And how should I, sir?—You didn’t send me to the + dancing-school of Ferrinafad to larn me to make apple-pies, I conclude. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Troth, Florry, ‘twas not I sint you there, sorrow foot but + your mother; only she’s in her grave, and it’s bad to be talking ill of + the dead any way. But be that how it will, Mr. Gilbert must get the + apple-pie, for rasons of my own that need not be mintioned. So, Biddy! + Biddy, girl! Biddy Doyle! + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter BIDDY, running, with a ladle in her hand.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Drop whatever you have in your hand, and come here, and be + hanged to you! And had you no ears to your head, Biddy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Sure I have, sir—ears enough. Only they are bothering + me so without, that pig and the dog fighting, that I could not hear ye + calling at-all-at-all. What is it?—For I’m skimming the pot, and + can’t lave it. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Miss GALLAGHER goes on dressing</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> It’s only these apples, see!—You’ll make me an + apple-pie, Biddy, smart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Save us, sir!—And how will I ever get time, when I’ve + the hash to make for them Scotch yet? Nor can I tell, for the life of me, + what it was I did with the onions and scallions neither, barring by great + luck they’d be in and under the press here—(<i>running to look under + the press</i>)—which they are, praised be God! in the far corner. + </p> + <p> + {<i>BIDDY stretches her arm under the press.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> There’s a nice girl, and a ‘cute cliver girl, worth a + dozen of your Ferrinafads. + </p> + <p> + {<i>BIDDY throws the onions out from under the press, while he speaks.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Then she’s as idle a girl as treads the earth, in or out of + shoe-leather, for there’s my bed that she has not made yet, and the stairs + with a month’s dust always; and never ready by any chance to do a pin’s + worth for one, when one’s dressing. + </p> + <p> + {<i>A drum heard; the sound seems to be approaching near.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Blood! the last rowl of the drum, and I not got the kay of + the spirits. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Oh, saints above! what’s gone with my plaid scarf?—and + my hair <i>behind</i>, see! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Miss GALLAGHER twists up her hair behind.—BIDDY gathers up the + onions into her apron, and exit hastily.—CHRISTY runs about the room + in a distracted manner, looking under and over every thing, repeating</i>—The + kay! the kay! the kay! + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> For the whiskey must be had for them Scotch, and the + bottled beer too for them English; and how will I get all or any without + the kay? Bones, and distraction! + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> And my plain hanke’cher that must be had, and where will I + find it, in the name of all the damons, in this chaos you’ve made me out + of the chist, father? And how will I git all in again, before the + drum-major’s in it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>sweeping up a heap of things in his arms, and throwing + them into the chest</i>) Very asy, sure! this ways. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>darting forward</i>) There’s the plaid hanke’cher.—(<i>She + draws it out from the heap under her father’s arm, and smooths it on her + knee.</i>) But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things! + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much + wanting for the horses that’s in it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>putting on her plaid scarf</i>) Weary on these pins! + that I can’t stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.—Biddy! + Biddy! Biddy! Biddy, can’t ye?—(<i>Re-enter BIDDY, looking + bewildered.</i>) Just pin me behind, girl—smart. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Biddy is it?—Biddy, girl, come over and help me + tramp down this hay. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CHRISTY jumps into the chest.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of God! with his + brogues and big feet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Oh, marcy! that’s too bad, sir; get out o’ that if you + plase, or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that’s coming up + the street—Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>jumping out</i>) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, + Biddy, and success to you; but you’ll no more get all in again afore + Christmas, to the best of my opinion, no more, see! than you’d get bottled + porter, froth and all, into the bottle again, once it was out. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Such comparisons!—(<i>tossing back her head.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And caparisons!—(<i>pointing to the finery on the + floor.</i>) But in the middle of it all, lend me the poker, which will + answer for the master-kay, sure!—that poker that is houlding up the + window—can’t ye, Biddy? + </p> + <p> + {<i>BIDDY runs and pulls the poker hastily from under the sash, which + suddenly falls, and every pane of glass falls out and breaks.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Murder! and no glazier! + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Then Biddy, of all girls, alive or dead, you’re the + awk’ardest, vulgarest, unluckiest to touch any thing at all! + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> (<i>picking up the glass</i>) I can’t think what’s come to + the glass, that makes it break so asy the day! Sure I done it a hundred + times the same, and it never broke wid me afore. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Well! stick up a petticoat, or something of the kind, and + any way lend me hould of the poker; for, in lieu of a kay, that’s the only + frind in need. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit CHRISTY with the poker.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> There, Biddy, that will do—any how.—Just shut + down the lid, can’t ye? and find me my other shoe. Biddy—then, lave + that,—come out o’ that, do girl, and see the bed!—run there, + turn it up just any way;—and Biddy, run here,—stick me this + tortise comb in the back of my head—oh! (<i>screams and starts away + from BIDDY.</i>) You ran it fairly into my brain, you did! you’re the + grossest! heavy handiest!—fit only to wait on Sheelah na Ghirah, or + the like.—(<i>Turns away from BIDDY with an air of utter contempt.</i>) + But I’ll go and resave the major properly.—(<i>Turns back as she is + going, and says to BIDDY</i>) Biddy, settle all here, can’t ye?—Turn + up the bed, and sweep the glass and dust in the dust corner, for it’s here + I’m bringing him to dinner,—so settle up all in a minute, do you + mind me, Biddy! for your life! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Miss GALLAGHER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>BIDDY, alone</i>—(<i>speaking while she puts the things in the + room in order.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Settle up all in a minute!</i>—asy said!—and <i>for my life</i> + too!—Why, then, there’s not a greater slave than myself in all + Connaught, or the three kingdoms—from the time I get up in the + morning, and that’s afore the flight of night, till I get to my bed again + at night, and that’s never afore one in the morning! But I wouldn’t value + all one pin’s pint, if it was kind and civil she was to me. But after I + strive, and strive to the utmost, and beyand—(<i>sighs deeply</i>) + and when I found the innions, and took the apple-pie off her hands, and + settled her behind, and all to the best of my poor ability for her, after, + to go and call me Sheelah na Ghirah! though I don’t rightly know who that + Sheelah na Ghirah was from Adam—but still it’s the bad language I + get, goes to my heart. Oh, if it had but plased Heaven to have cast me my + lot in the sarvice of a raal jantleman or lady instead of the likes of + these! Now, I’d rather be a dog in his honour’s or her honour’s house than + lie under the tongue, of Miss Gallagher, as I do—to say nothing of + ould Christy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss GALLAGHER’S voice heard, calling,</i> + </p> + <p> + Biddy! Biddy Doyle! Biddy, can’t ye? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Here, miss, in the room, readying it, I am. + </p> + <p> + <i>CHRISTY GALLAGHER’S voice heard calling,</i> + </p> + <p> + Biddy!—Biddy Doyle!—Biddy, girl! What’s come o’ that girl, + that always out o’ the way idling, when wanted?—Plague take her! + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Saints above! hear him now!—But I scorn to answer. + </p> + <p> + <i>Screaming louder in mingled voices, CHRISTY’S and Miss GALLAGHER’S,</i> + </p> + <p> + Biddy! Biddy Doyle!—Biddy, girl! + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>putting in his head</i>) Biddy! sorrow take ye! are ye + in it?—And you are, and we cracking our vitals calling you. What is + it you’re dallying here for? Stir! stir! dinner! + </p> + <p> + {<i>He draws back his head, and exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>BIDDY, alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + Coming then!—Sure it’s making up the room I am with all speed, and + the bed not made after all!—(<i>Throws up the press-bed.</i>)—But + to live in this here house, girl or boy, one had need have the lives of + nine cats and the legs of forty. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE III. + </h2> + <p> + <i>The Kitchen of the Inn.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER and CHRISTY GALLAGHER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Boys and Men belonging to the Band, in the back Scene.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>to the band</i>) The girl’s coming as fast as possible + to get yees your dinners, jantlemen, and sorrow better dinner than she’ll + give you: you’ll get all instantly—(<i>To Miss GALLAGHER</i>) And am + not I telling you, Florry, that the drum-major did not come in yet at all, + but went out through the town, to see and get a billet and bed for the + sick man they’ve got. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter BIDDY, stops and listens.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> I wonder the major didn’t have the manners to step in, and + spake to the lady first—was he an Irishman, he would. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Then it’s my wonder he wouldn’t step in to take his dinner + first—was he an Englishman, he would. But it’s lucky for me and for + him he didn’t, becaase he couldn’t, for it won’t be ready this + three-quarters of an hour—only the Scotch broth, which boiled over. + </p> + <p> + {<i>BIDDY retires, and goes on cooking.—CHRISTY fills out a glass of + spirits to each of the band.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Since the major’s not in it, I’ll not be staying here—for + here’s only riff-raff triangle and gridiron boys, and a black-a-moor, and + that I never could stand; so I’ll back into the room. Show the major up, + do you mind, father, as soon as ever he’d come. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Jantlemen all! here’s the king’s health, and confusion + worse confounded to his enemies, for yees; or if ye like it better, here’s + the plaid tartan and fillibeg for yees, and that’s a comprehensive toast—will + give ye an appetite for your dinners. + </p> + <p> + {<i>They drink in silence.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Did ye hear me, father? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Ay, ay.—Off with ye! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Miss GALLAGHER, tossing back her head.—CHRISTY pours out a + glass of whiskey for himself, and with appropriate graces of the elbow and + little finger, swallows it, making faces of delight.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Biddy! Biddy, girl, ye!—See the pig putting in his + nose—keep him out—can’t ye? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Hurrush! hurrush! (<i>Shaking her apron.</i>) Then that + pig’s as sinsible as any Christian, for he’d run away the minute he’d see + me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> That’s manners o’ the pig.—Put down a power more + turf, Biddy:—see the jantlemen’s gathering round the fire, and has a + right to be <i>could</i> in their knees this St. Patrick’s day in the + morning—for it’s March, that comes in like a lion. + </p> + <p> + {<i>The band during this speech appear to be speaking to BIDDY.—She + comes forward to CHRISTY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> What is it they are whispering and conjuring, Biddy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> ‘Twas only axing me, they were, could they all get beds the + night in it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Beds! ay can yees, and for a dozen more—only the + room above is tinder in the joists, and I would not choose to put more on + the floor than two beds, and one shake-down, which will answer for five; + for it’s a folly to talk,—I’ll tell you the truth, and not a word of + lie. Wouldn’t it be idle to put more of yees in the room than it could + hold, and to have the floor be coming through the parlour ceiling, and so + spoil two good rooms for one night’s bad rest, jantlemen?—Well, + Biddy, what is it they’re saying? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> They say they don’t understand—can they have beds or + not? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Why, body and bones! No, then, since nothing else will + they comprehend,—<i>no</i>,—only five, say,—five can + sleep in it. + </p> + <p> + {<i>The band divide into two parties,—Five remain, and the others + walk off in silence.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> And it’s into the room you’d best walk up, had not yees, + five jantlemen, that sleep? + </p> + <p> + {<i>The five walk into the parlour—CHRISTY preparing to follow, + carrying whiskey bottle and, jug—turns back, and says to BIDDY,</i> + </p> + <p> + Is it dumb they are all? or <i>innocents</i>? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Not at all innocents, no more than myself nor yourself. Nor + dumb neither, only that the Scotch tongue can’t spake English as we do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Oh! if that’s all, after dinner the whiskey punch will + make ‘em spake, I’ll engage. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit CHRISTY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> ‘Tis I that am glad they’ve taken themselves away, for + there’s no cooking with all the men in the fire. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE, Drum-major.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> A gude day to you, my gude lassy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> The same to you, sir, and kindly. I beg your pardon for not + knowing—would it be the drum-major, sir? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> No offence, my gude lass; I am Andrew Hope, and drum-major. + I met some of my men in the street coming down, and they told me they + could not have beds here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> No, sir, plase your honour, only five that’s in the room + yonder: if you’d be plased to walk up, and you’ll get your dinner + immediately, your honour, as fast as can be dished, your honour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> No hurry, my gude lass. But I would willingly see the beds + for my poor fellows, that has had a sair march. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Why then, if your honour would take a fool’s advice, you’d + not be looking at them beds, to be spoiling your dinner—since, good + or bad, all the looking at ‘em in the wide world won’t mend ‘em one + feather, sure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My gude girl, that’s true. Still I’d like ever to face the + worst. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Then it’s up that ladder you’ll go. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> No stairs? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Oh, there are stairs—but they are burnt and coming + down, and you’ll find the ladder safest and best; only mind the little + holes in the floor, if you plase, your honour. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks, and goes into the + bedchamber above.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>BIDDY, sola.</i> + </p> + <p> + Well, I’m ashamed of my life, when a stranger and foreigner’s reviewing + our house, though I’m only the girl in it, and no ways answerable. It + frets me for my country forenent them Scotch and English. (<i>Mr. HOPE + descends the ladder.</i>) Then I’m sorry it’s not better for your honour’s + self, and men. But there’s a new inn to be opened the 25th, in this town; + and if you return this way, I hope things will be more agreeable and + proper. But you’ll have no bad dinner, your honour, any way;—there’s + Scotch broth, and Scotch hash, and fried eggs and bacon, and a turkey, and + a boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and <i>pratees</i> the best, and well + boiled; and I hope, your honour, that’s enough for a soldier’s dinner, + that’s not nice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Enough for a soldier’s dinner! ay, gude truth, my lass; and + more than enough for Andrew Hope, who is no ways nice. But, tell me, have + you no one to help you here, to dress all this? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Sorrow one, to do a hand’s turn for me but myself, plase + your honour; for the daughter of the house is too fine to put her hand to + any thing in life: but she’s in the room there within, beyond, if you + would like to see her—a fine lady she is! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> A fine lady, is she? Weel, fine or coarse, I shall like to + see her,—and weel I may and must, for I had a brother once I luved + as my life; and four years back that brother fell sick here, on his road + to the north, and was kindly tended here at the inn at Bannow; and he + charged me, puir lad, on his death-bed, if ever fate should quarter me in + Bannow, to inquire for his gude friends at the inn, and to return them his + thanks; and so I’m fain to do, and will not sleep till I’ve done so.—But + tell me first, my kind lassy,—for I see you are a kind lassy,—tell + me, has not this house had a change of fortune, and fallen to decay of + late? for the inn at Bannow was pictured to me as a bra’ neat place. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Ah! that was, may-be, the time the Larkens had it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> The Larkens!—that was the very name: it warms my heart + to hear the sound of it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Ay, and quite another sort of an inn this was, I hear talk, + in their time,—and quite another guess sort, the Larkens from these + Gallaghers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And what has become of the Larkens, I pray? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> They are still living up yonder, by the bush of Bannow, in a + snug little place of a cabin—that is, the Widow Kelly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Kelly!—but I am looking for Larken. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Oh, Larken! that’s Kelly: ‘tis all one—she was a Kelly + before she was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden’s name + throughout. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> The same in our country—often. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Indeed! and her daughter’s name is Mabel, after the Kellys; + for you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an + ould song of Mabel Kelly—<i>Planxty</i> Kelly. Then the present + Mabel is as sweet a cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was—but I + must mind the pratees. (<i>She goes to lift a pot off the fire.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Hold! my gude girl, let me do that for you; mine is a strong + haund. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> I thank your honour,—it’s too much trouble entirely + for a jantleman like you; but it’s always the best jantleman has the <i>laste</i> + pride.—Then them Kellys is a good race, ould and young, and I love + ‘em, root and branch. Besides Mabel the daughter, there’s Owen the son, + and as good a son he is—no better! He got an edication in the + beginning, till the troubles came across his family, and the boy, the + child, for it’s bare fifteen he is this minute, give up all his hopes and + prospects, the cratur! to come home and slave for his mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Ah, that’s weel—that’s weel! I luve the lad that makes + a gude son.—And is the father <i>deed</i>? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Ay, dead and deceased he is, long since, and was buried just + upon that time that ould Sir Cormac, father of the young heiress that is + now at the castle above, the former landlord that was over us, died, see!—Then + there was new times and new <i>takes</i>, and the widow was turned out of + the inn, and these Gallaghers got it, and all wint wrong and to rack; for + Mrs. Gallagher, that was, drank herself into her grave unknownst, for it + was by herself in private she took it; and Christy Gallagher, the present + man, is doing the same, only publicly, and running through all, and the + house is tumbling over our ears: but he hopes to get the new inn; and if + he does, why, he’ll be lucky—and that’s all I know, for the dinner + is done now, and I’m going in with it—and won’t your honour walk up + to the room now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>going to the ladder</i>) Up here? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Oh, it’s not <i>up</i> at all, your honour, sure! but down + here—through this ways. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> One word more, my gude lassy. As soon as we shall have all + dined, and you shall have ta’en your ane dinner, I shall beg of you, if + you be not then too much tired, to show me the way to that bush of Bannow, + whereat this Widow Larken’s cottage is. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> With all the pleasure in life, if I had not a fut to stand + upon. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Mr. HOPE.—BIDDY follows with a dish smoking hot.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> And I hope you’ll find it an iligant Scotch hash, and + there’s innions plinty—sure the best I had I’d give you; for I’m + confident now he’s the true thing—and tho’ he is Scotch, he desarves + to be Irish, every inch of him. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit BIDDY DOYLE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>An Irish Cabin.—The Kitchen.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow LARKEN. On one side of her, MABEL at needle-work; on the other + side, OWEN her son enters, bringing in a spinning-wheel, which he places + before his mother.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> There, mother, is your wheel mended for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Oh, as good as new, Owen has made it for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not + I a right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me?—Still + it grieves me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your + brother here should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for better. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> And what better can I be than working for my mother—man + or boy? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn—I + saw several with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning + proposals for them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and + petitions for Sir William Hamden and Miss O’Hara. Will you go up to the + castle and speak, mother? + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> No, no—I can’t speak, Owen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Here’s the pen and ink-horn, and I’ll sit me down, if you’d + sooner write than speak. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that + inn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother—but if you had + gone over it, as I have. ‘Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as + a nutshell; not one of them grand inns, too great for the place, that never + answers no more than the hat that’s too big for the head, and that always + blows off. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister + Mabel—tho’ ‘tis not for me to say—such a likely, fine girl. + I’d not be happy to have her in a public-house—so many of all sorts + that would be in it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no + man of the house, nor master, nor father for her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Sure, mother, I’m next to a father for her. Amn’t I a + brother? and no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of + respect for her; and if you’d be pleasing, I could be man and master + enough. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> (<i>laughing</i>) You, ye dear slip of a boy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> (<i>proudly, and raising his head high</i>) Slip of a boy as + I am, then, and little as you think of me— + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can’t think you big + nor old, Owen, can I? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> No—nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all + sorts in respect, mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Then he looked like his father—did not he, Mabel? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> He did—God bless him! + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Now hear me, mother, for I’m going to speak sense. You need + not listen, Mabel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> But it’s what I like to listen to sense, especially yours, + Owen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Then I can’t help it.—You must hear, even if you blush + for it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Why would I blush? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Because you won’t be able to help it, when I say Mr. Gilbert.—See! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Oh, dear Owen! that’s not fair. (<i>She falls back a little.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Well, mother, it’s with you I’m reasoning. If he was your + son-in-law— + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Hush! that he’ll never be. Now, Owen, I’ll grow angry if you + put nonsense in the girl’s head. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> But if it’s in the man’s head, it’s not a bit nonsense. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Owen, you might well say I shouldn’t listen to you. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit MABEL.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> There now, you’ve drove your sister off. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Well, Gilbert will bring her on again, may be. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> May be—but that <i>may be</i> of yours might lead us + all wrong. + </p> + <p> + {<i>She lays her hand on OWEN’S arm, and speaks in a serious tone.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Now, dear, don’t be saying one word more to her, lest it + should end in a disappointment. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Still it is my notion, ‘tis Mabel he loves. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Oh! what should you know, dear, o’ the matter? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Only having eyes and ears like another. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Then what hinders him to speak? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> It’s bashfulness only, mother. Don’t you know what that is? + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> I do, dear. It’s a woman should know that best. And it is + not Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should be + more forward to understand than the man is to speak—was the man a + prince. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Mother, you are right; but I’m not wrong neither. And since + I’m to say no more, I’m gone, mother. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit OWEN.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> (<i>alone</i>) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he + does or says? It’s all heart he is, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, except from + want of thought. But, stay now, I’m thinking of them soldiers that is in + town. (<i>Sighs</i>) Then I didn’t sleep since ever they come; but + whenever I’d be sinking to rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum + for Owen to go. (<i>A deep groaning sigh.</i>) Och! and then the + apparition of Owen in regimentals was afore me! + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Success to my brains, and success to my tongue! + Success to myself, that never was wrong!” + </pre> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> (<i>capering, and snapping his fingers</i>) Ay, mad! mad with + joy I am. And it’s joy I give you, and joy you’ll give me, mother darling. + The new inn’s yours, and no other’s, and Gilbert is your own too, and no + other’s—but Mabel’s for life. And is not there joy enough for you, + mother? + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Joy!—Oh, too much! (<i>She sinks on a seat.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I’ve been too sudden for her! + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> No, dear—not a bit, only just give me time—to + feel it. And is it true? And am I in no dream now? And where’s Mabel, + dear? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Gone to the well, and Gilbert with her. We met her, and he + turned off with her, and I come on to tell you, mother dear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Make me clear and certain; for I’m slow and weak, dear. Who + told you all this good? and is it true?—And my child Mabel <i>mavourneen</i>!—Oh, + tell me again it’s true. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> True as life. But your lips is pale still, and you all in a + tremble. So lean on me, mother dear, and come out into God’s open air, + till I see your spirit come back—and here’s your bonnet, and we’ll + meet Mabel and Gilbert, and we’ll all go up to the castle to give thanks + to the lady. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> (<i>looking up to heaven</i>) Thanks! Oh, hav’n’t I great + reason to be thankful, if ever widow had! + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt, WIDOW leaning on OWEN.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE II. + </h2> + <p> + <i>An Apartment in Bannote Castle.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Footmen bringing in Baskets of Flowers.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss O’HARA and Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Now, my dear uncle, I want to consult you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> And welcome, my child. But if it is about flowers, you could + not consult a worse person, for I scarcely know a rose from a ——. + What is this you have here—a thistle? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Yes, sir; and that is the very thing I want your opinion + about. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Well, my dear, all I know about thistles, I think, is, that + asses love thistles—will that do? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Oh, no, sir—pray be serious, for I am in the greatest + hurry to settle how it is all to be. You know it is St. Patrick’s day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Yes, and here is plenty of shamrock, I see. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Yes, here is the shamrock—the rose, the ever blowing + rose—and the thistle. And as we are to have Scotch, English, and + Irish at our little fête champêtre this evening, don’t you think it would + be pretty to have the tents hung with the rose, thistle, and shamrock + joined? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Very pretty, my dear: and I am glad there are to be tents, + otherwise a fête champêtre in the month of March would give me the + rheumatism even to think of. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Oh, my dear sir, not at all. You will be snug and warm in + the green-house. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Well, Clara, dispose of me as you please—I am entirely + at your service for the rest of my days. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Thank you, sir—you are the best of uncles, guardians, + and friends. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Miss O’HARA goes back and appears to be giving directions to the + servants.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Uncle, nature made me—guardian, your father made me—friend, + you made me yourself, Clara. (<i>Sir WILLIAM comes forward, and speaks as + if in a reverie.</i>) And ever more my friendship for her shall continue, + though my guardianship is over. I am glad I conquered my indolence, and + came to Ireland with her; for a cool English head will be wanting to guide + that warm Irish heart.—And here I stand counsel for prudence against + generosity! + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> (<i>advancing to him playfully</i>) A silver penny for your + thoughts, uncle. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Shall I never teach you economy?—such extravagance! to + give a penny, and a silver penny, for what you may have for nothing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Nothing can come of nothing—speak again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> I was thinking of you, my—<i>ward</i> no longer. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Ward always, pray, sir. Whatever I may be in the eye of the + law, I am not arrived at years of discretion yet, in my own opinion, nor + in yours, I suspect. So I pray you, uncle, let me still have the advantage + of your counsel and guidance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> You ask for my advice, Clara. Now let me see whether you + will take it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I am all attention. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> You know you must allow me a little prosing. You are an + heiress, Clara—a rich heiress—an Irish heiress. You desire to + do good, don’t you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> (<i>with eagerness</i>) With all my heart!—With all my + soul! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> That is not enough, Clara. You must not only desire to do + good, you must know how to do it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Since you, uncle, know that so well, you will teach it to + me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Dear, flattering girl—but you shall not flatter me out + of the piece of advice I have ready for you. Promise me two things. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> And first, for your first. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> <i>Finish whatever you begin.</i>—Good beginnings, it + is said, make good endings, but great beginnings often make little + endings, or, in this country, no endings at all. <i>Finis coronat opta</i>—and + that crown is wanting wherever I turn my eyes. Of the hundred magnificent + things your munificent father began— + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> (<i>interrupting</i>) Oh, sir, spare my father!—I + promise you that <i>I</i> will finish whatever I begin. What’s your next + command? + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Promise me that you will never make a promise to a tenant, + nor any agreement about business, but in writing—and empower me to + say that you will never keep any verbal promise about business—then, + none such will ever be claimed. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I promise you—Stay!—this is a promise about + business: I must give it to you in writing. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Miss O’HARA sits down to a writing-table, and writes.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>looking out of the window</i>) I hope I have been early + enough in giving this my second piece of advice, worth a hundred sequins—for + I see the yard is crowded with gray-coated suitors, and the table here is + already covered with letters and petitions. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Yes, uncle, but I have not read half of them yet. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Presents the written promise to Sir WILLIAM.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Thank you, my dear; and you will be thankful to me for this + when I am dead and gone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> And whilst you are alive and here, if you please, uncle. + Now, sir, since you are so kind to say that your time is at my disposal, + will you have the goodness to come with me to these gray-coated suitors, + and let us give answers to these poor petitioners, who, “as in duty bound, + will ever pray.” + </p> + <p> + {<i>Takes up a bundle of papers.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>taking a letter from his pocket</i>) First, my dear + niece, I must add to the number. I have a little business. A petition to + present from a <i>protégé</i> of mine. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> A protégé of yours!—Then it is granted, whatever it + be. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>smiling</i>) Recollect your promise, Clara. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Oh, true—it must be in writing. + </p> + <p> + {<i>She goes hastily to the writing-table, and takes up a pen.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Read before you write, my dear—I insist upon it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Oh, sir, when it is a request of yours, how can I grant it + soon enough? But it shall be done in the way you like best—slowly—deliberately—(<i>opening + the letter</i>)—in minuet time. And I will look before I leap—and + I’ll read before I write. (<i>She reads the signature.</i>) Gilbert! + Honest Gilbert, how glad I shall be to do any thing for you, independently + of your master! (<i>Reads on, suddenly lets the letter drop, and clasps + her hands.</i>) Sir—Uncle, my dear uncle, how unfortunate I am! Why + did, not you ask me an hour ago?—Within this hour I have promised + the new inn to another person. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Indeed!—that is unfortunate. My poor Gilbert will be + sadly disappointed. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> How vexed I am! But I never should have thought of Gilbert + for the inn: I fancied he disliked Ireland so much that he would never + have settled here. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> So thought I till this morning. But love, my dear—love + is lord of all. Poor Gilbert! + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Poor Gilbert!—I am so sorry I did not know this + sooner. Of all people, I should for my own part have preferred Gilbert for + the inn, he would have kept it so well. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> He would so. (<i>Sighs.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I do so blame myself—I have been so precipitate, so + foolish, so wrong—without consulting you even. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Nay, my dear, I have been as wrong, as foolish, as + precipitate as you; for before I consulted you, I told Gilbert that I + could almost <i>promise</i> that he should have the inn in consequence of + my recommendation. And upon the strength of that <i>almost</i> he is gone + a courting. My dear, we are both a couple of fools; but I am an old—you + are a young one. There is a wide difference—let that comfort you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Oh, sir, nothing comforts me, I am so provoked with myself; + and you will be so provoked with me, when I tell you how silly I have + been. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Pray tell me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Would you believe that I have literally given it for a song? + A man sent me this morning a copy of verses to the heiress of Bannow. The + verses struck my fancy—I suppose because they flattered me; and with + the verses came a petition setting forth claims, and a tenant’s right, and + fair promises, and a proposal for the new inn; and at the bottom of the + paper I rashly wrote these words—“<i>The poet’s petition is granted.</i>” + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> A promise in writing, too!—My dear Clara, I cannot + flatter you—this certainly is not a wise transaction. So, to reward + a poet, you made him an innkeeper. Well, I have known wiser heads, to + reward a poet, make him an exciseman. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> But, sir, I am not quite so silly as they were, for I did + not <i>make</i> the poet an innkeeper—he is one already. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> An innkeeper already!—Whom do you mean? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> A man with a strange name—or a name that will sound + strange to your English ears—Christy Gallagher. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> A rogue and a drunken dog, I understand: but he is a poet, + and knows how to flatter the heiress of Bannow. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> (<i>striking her forehead</i>) Silly, silly Clara! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>changing his tone from irony to kindness</i>) Come, my + dear Clara, I will not torment you any more. You deserve to have done a + great deal of mischief by your precipitation; but I believe this time you + have done little or none, at least none that is irremediable; and you have + made Gilbert happy, I hope and believe, though without intending it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> My dear uncle—you set my heart at ease—but + explain. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then, my dear, I shrewdly suspect that the daughter of this + Christy <i>What-do-you-call-him</i> is the lady of Gilbert’s thoughts. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I see it all in an instant. That’s delightful! We can + pension off the drunken old father, and Gilbert and the daughter will keep + the inn. Gilbert is in the green-house, preparing the coloured lamps—let + us go and speak to him this minute, and settle it all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Speak to him of his loves? Oh, my dear, you’d kill him on + the spot! He is so bashful, he’d blush to death. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Well, sir, do you go alone, and I will keep far, far aloof. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt at opposite sides.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE III. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Parlour of the Inn.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>CHRISTY and Miss GALLAGHER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>to Miss GALLAGHER, slapping her on her back</i>) Hould + up your head, child; there’s money bid for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Lord, father, what a thump on the back to salute one with. + Well, sir, and if money is bid for me, no wonder: I suppose, it’s because + I have money. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> That’s all the rason—you’ve hit it, Florry. It’s + money that love always looks for now. So you may be proud to larn the news + I have for you, which will fix Mr. Gilbert, your bachelor, for life, I’ll + engage—and make him speak out, you’ll see, afore night-fall. We have + the new inn, dear!—I’ve got the promise here under her own + hand-writing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Indeed!—Well, I’m sure I shall be glad to get out of + this hole, which is not fit for a rat or a Christian to live in—and + I’ll have my music and my piano in the back parlour, genteel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Oh! Ferrinafad, are you there? It’s your husband must go + to that expinse, my precious, if he chooses, <i>twingling</i> and <i>tweedling</i>, + instead of the puddings and apple pies—that you’ll settle betwix + yees; and in the honeymoon, no doubt, you’ve cunning enough to compass + that, and more. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> To be sure, sir, and before I come to the honeymoon, I + promise you; for I won’t become part or parcel of any man that ever wore a + head, except he’s music in his soul enough to allow me my piano in the + back parlour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Asy! asy! Ferrinafad—don’t be talking about the + piano-forte, till you are married. Don’t be showing the halter too soon to + the shy horse—it’s with the sieve of oats you’ll catch him; and his + head once in the sieve, you have the halter on him clane. Pray, after all, + tell me, Florry, the truth—did Mr. Gilbert ever ax you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> La, sir, what a coarse question. His eyes have said as much + a million of times. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> That’s good—but not in law, dear. For, see, you + could not <i>shue</i> a man in the four courts for a breach of promise + made only with the eyes, jewel. It must be with the tongue afore witness, + mind, or under the hand, sale, or mark—look to that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> But, dear sir, Mr. Gilbert is so tongue-tied with that + English bashfulness. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then Irish impudence must cut the string of that tongue, + Florry. Lave that to me, unless you’d rather yourself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Lord, sir—what a rout about one man, when, if I + please, I might have a dozen lovers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Be the same more or less. But one rich bachelor’s worth a + dozen poor, that is, for the article of a husband. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> And I dare say the drum-major is rich enough, sir—for + all Scotchmen, they say, is fond of money and <i>a</i>conomie; and I’d + rather after all be the lady of a military man. (<i>Sings.</i>) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I’ll live no more at home, + But I’ll follow with the drum, + And I’ll be the captain’s lady, oh!” + </pre> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Florry! Florry! mind you would not fall between two + stools, and nobody to pity you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter BIDDY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Well, what is it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> The bed. I was seeing was the room empty, that I might make + it; for it’s only turned up it is, when I was called off to send in + dinner. So I believe I’d best make it now, for the room will be wanting + for the tea-drinking, and what not. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Ay, make the bed do, sure it’s asy, and no more about it;—you’ve + talked enough about it to make twinty beds, one harder nor the other,—if + talk would do. (<i>BIDDY goes to make the bed.</i>) And I’m sure there’s + not a girl in the parish does less in the day, for all the talk you keep. + Now I’ll just tell all you didn’t do, that you ought this day, Biddy. + </p> + <p> + {<i>While Miss GALLAGHER is speaking to BIDDY, Mr. GALLAGHER opens a + press, pours out, and swallows a dram.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Oh, that would be too long telling, Florry, and that’ll + keep cool. Lave her now, and you may take your scould out another time. I + want to spake to you. What’s this I wanted to say? My memory’s confusing + itself. Oh, this was it—I didn’t till you how I got this promise of + the inn: I did it nately—I got it for a song. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> You’re joking,—and I believe, sir, you’re not over + and above sober. There’s a terrible strong smell of the whiskey. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> No, the whiskey’s not strong, dear, at-all-at-all!—You + may keep smelling what way you plase, but I’m as sober as a judge, still,—and, + drunk or sober, always knows and knewed on which side my bread was + buttered:—got it for a song, I tell you—a bit of a + complimentary, adulatory scroll, that the young lady fancied—and + she, slap-dash, Lord love her, and keep her always so! writes at the + bottom, <i>granted the poet’s petition</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> And where on earth, then, did you get that song? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Where but in my brains should I get it? I could do that + much any way, I suppose, though it was not my luck to be edicated at + Ferrinafad. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Miss GALLAGHER looks back, and sees BIDDY behind her.—Miss + GALLAGHER gives her a box on the ear.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Manners! that’s to teach ye. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Manners!—Where would I larn them—when I was only + waiting the right time to ax you what I’d do for a clane pillow-case? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Why, turn that you have inside out, and no more about it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And turn yourself out of this, if you plase. (<i>He turns + BIDDY out by the shoulders.</i>) Let me hear you singing <i>Baltiorum</i> + in the kitchen, for security that you’re not hearing my sacrets. There, + she’s singing it now, and we’re snug;—tell me when she stops, and + I’ll stop myself. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Then there’s the girl has ceased singing. There’s + somebody’s come in, into the kitchen; may be it’s the drum-major. I’ll go + and see. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit Miss GALLAGHER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>CHRISTY, solus.</i> + </p> + <p> + There she’s off now! And I must after her, else she’ll spoil her market, + and my own. But look ye, now—if I shouldn’t find her agreeable to + marry this Mr. Gilbert, the man I’ve laid out for her, why here’s a good + stick that will bring her to rason in the last resort; for there’s no + other way of rasoning with Ferrinafad. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit CHRISTY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE IV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>The Garden of the Widow LARKEN’S Cottage.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>OWEN and MABEL.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> How does my mother bear the disappointment, Mabel about the + inn? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then to outward appearance she did not take it so much to + heart as I expected she would. But I’m sure she frets inwardly—because + she had been in such hopes, and in such spirits, and so proud to think how + well her children would all be settled. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Oh, how sorry I am I told her in that hurry the good news I + heard, and all to disappoint her afterwards, and break her heart with it! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> No, she has too good a heart to break for the likes. She’ll + hold up again after the first disappointment—she’ll struggle on for + our sakes, Owen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> She will: but Mabel dearest, what do you think of Gilbert? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> (<i>turning away</i>) I strive not to think of him at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> But sure I was not wrong there—he told me as much as + that he loved you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then he never told me that much. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> No! What, not when he walked with you to the well? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> No. What made you think he did? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Why, the words he said about you when he met me, was—where’s + your sister Mabel? Gone to the well, Gilbert, says I. And do you think a + man that has a question to ask her might make bold to step after her? says + he. Such a man as you—why not? says I. Then he stood still, and + twirled a rose he held in his hand, and he said nothing, and I no more, + till he stooped down, and from the grass where we stood pulled a sprig of + clover. Is not this what <i>you</i> call shamrock? says he. It is, says I. + Then he puts the shamrock along with the rose—How would <i>that</i> + do? says he. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Did he say that, Owen? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Yes, or how would they look together? or, would they do + together? or some words that way; I can’t be particular to the word—you + know, he speaks different from us; but that surely was the sense; and I + minded too, he blushed up to the roots, and I pitied him, and answered— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Oh, what did you answer? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I answered and said, I thought they’d do very well together; + and that it was good when the Irish shamrock and the English rose was + united. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> (<i>hiding her face with her hands</i>) Oh, Owen, that was + too plain. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Plain! Not at all—it was not. It’s only your tenderness + makes you feel it too plain—for, listen to me, Mabel. (<i>Taking her + hand from her face.</i>) Sure, if it had any meaning particular, it’s as + strong for Miss Gallagher as for any body else. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> That’s true:—and may be it was that way he took it,—and + may be it was her he was thinking of— + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> When he asked me for you? But I’ll not mislead you—I’ll + say nothing; for it was a shame he did not speak out, after all the + encouragement he got from me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then did he get encouragement from you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> That is—(<i>smiling</i>)—taking it the other way, + he might understand it so, if he had any conscience. Come now, Mabel, when + he went to the well, what did he say to you? for I am sure he said + something. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then he said nothing—but just put the rose and + shamrock into my hand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Oh! did he?—And what did you say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> I said nothing.—What could I say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Omen.</i> I wish I’d been with you, Mabel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> I’m glad you were not, Owen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Well, what did he say next? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> I tell you he said nothing, but cleared his throat and + hemmed, as he does often. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> What, all the way to the well and back, nothing but hem, and + clear his throat? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Nothing in life. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Why, then, the man’s a fool or a rogue. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Oh, don’t say that, any way. But there’s my mother coming in + from the field. How weak she walks! I must go in to bear her company + spinning. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> And I’ll be in by the time I’ve settled all here. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit MABEL.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>OWEN, solus.</i> + </p> + <p> + Oh! I know how keenly Mabel feels all, tho’ she speaks so mild. Then I’m + cut to the heart by this behaviour of Gilbert’s:—sure he could not + be so cruel to be jesting with her!—he’s an Englishman, and may be + he thinks no harm to jilt an Irishwoman. But I’ll show him—but then + if he never asked her the question, how can we say any thing?—Oh! + the thing is, he’s a snug man, and money’s at the bottom of all,—and + since Christy’s to have the new inn, and Miss Gallagher has the money!—Well, + it’s all over, and I don’t know what will become of me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> My gude lad, may your name be Larken? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> It is, sir—Owen Larken, at your service—the son + of the widow Larken. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mrs. H.</i> Then I have to thank your family for their goodness to my + puir brother, years ago. And for yourself, your friend, Mr. Christy + Gallagher, has been telling me you can play the bugle? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I can, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And we want a bugle, and the <i>pay’s</i> fifteen guineas; + and I’d sooner give it to you than three others that has applied, if + you’ll list. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Fifteen guineas! Oh! if I could send that money home to my + mother! but I must ask her consint. Sir, she lives convanient, just in + this cabin here—would you be pleased to step in with me, and I’ll + ask her consint. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> That’s right,—lead on, my douce lad—you ken the + way. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE V. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Kitchen of the Widow LAKKEN’S Cottage.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>A Door is seen open, into an inner Room.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>MABEL, alone, (Sitting near the door of the inner room, spinning and + singing</i>{1}.) + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: This song is set to music by Mr. Webbe.} + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sleep, mother, sleep! in slumber blest, + It joys my heart to see thee rest. + Unfelt in sleep thy load of sorrow; + Breathe free and thoughtless of to-morrow; + And long, and light, thy slumbers last, + In happy dreams forget the past. + Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest; + It joys my heart to see thee rest. + + Many’s the night she wak’d for me, + To nurse my helpless infancy: + While cradled on her patient arm, + She hush’d me with a mother’s charm. + Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest; + It joys my heart to see thee rest. + + And be it mine to soothe thy age, + With tender care thy grief assuage, + This hope is left to poorest poor, + And richest child can do no more. + Sleep, mother, sleep! thy slumber’s blest; + It joys my heart to see thee rest. +</pre> + <p> + <i>While MABEL is singing the second stanza, OWEN and ANDREW HOPE enter. + Mr. HOPE stops short, and listens: he makes a sign to OWEN to stand still, + and not to interrupt MABEL—while OWEN approaches her on tiptoe.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>aside</i>) She taks my fancy back to dear Scotland, to + my ain hame, and my ain mither, and my ain Kate. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> So Mabel! I thought you never sung for strangers? + </p> + <p> + {<i>MABEL turns and sees Mr. HOPE—She rises and curtsies.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>advancing softly</i>) I fear to disturb the mother, + whose slumbers are so blest, and I’d fain hear that lullaby again. If the + voice stop, the mother may miss it, and wake. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> (<i>looking into the room in which her mother sleeps, then + closing the door gently</i>) No, sir,—she’ll not miss my voice now, + I thank you—she is quite sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> This is Mr. Andrew Hope, Mabel—you might remember one + of his name, a Serjeant Hope. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Ah! I mind—he that was sick with us, some time back. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Ay, my brother that’s dead, and that your gude mither was so + tender of, when sick, charged me to thank you all, and so from my soul I + do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> ‘Twas little my poor mother could do, nor any of us for him, + even then, though we could do more then than we could now, and I’m glad he + chanced to be with us in our better days. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And I’m sorry you ever fell upon worse days, for you deserve + the best; and will have such again, I trust. All I can say is this—that + gif your brother here gangs with me, he shall find a brother’s care + through life fra’ me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I wouldn’t doubt you; and that you know, Mabel, would be a + great point, to have a friend secure in the regiment, if I thought of + going. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> <i>If!</i>—Oh! what are you thinking of, Owen? What is + it you’re talking of going? (<i>Turning towards the door of her mother’s + room suddenly.</i>) Take care, but she’d wake and hear you, and she’d + never sleep easy again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> And do you think so? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Do I think so? Am not I sure of it? and you too, Owen, if + you’d take time to think and feel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Why there’s no doubt but it’s hard, when the mother has + reared the son, for him to quit her as soon as he can go alone; but it is + what I was thinking: it is only the militia, you know, and I’d not be + going out of the three kingdoms ever at all; and I could be sending money + home to my mother, like Johnny Reel did to his. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Money is it? Then there’s no money you could send her—not + the full of Lough Erne itself, in golden guineas, could make her amends + for the loss of yourself, Owen, and you know that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And I am not the man that would entice you to list, or gang + with me, in contradiction to your duty at home, or your interest abroad: + so (<i>turning to</i> MABEL) do not look on me as the tempter to evil, nor + with distrust, as you do, kind sister as you are, and like my own Kate; + but hear me coolly, and without prejudice, for it is his gude I wish. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> I am listening then, and I ask your pardon if I looked a + doubt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> The gude mother must wish, above all things here below, the + weal and <i>advancement</i> and the honour of her bairns; and she would + not let the son be tied to her apron-strings, for any use or profit to + herself, but ever wish him to do the best in life for his sel’. Is not + this truth, gude friends—plain truth? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> It is then—I own that: truth and sense too. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Now see there, Mabel. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And better for him to do something abroad than digging at + home; and in the army he might get on,—and here’s the bugle-boy’s + pay. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Is it a bugle-boy you are thinking of making him? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> That’s the only thing I could make him. I wish I could offer + better. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then, I thank you, sir, and I wouldn’t doubt ye—and it + would be very well for a common boy that could only dig; but my brother’s + no common boy, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Oh, Mabel! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Hush, Owen! for it’s the truth I’m telling, and if to your + face I can’t help it. You may hide the face, but I won’t hide the truth. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Then speak on, my warm-hearted lassy, speak on. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then, sir, he got an edication while ever my poor father + lived, and no better scholar, they said, for the teaching he got:—but + all was given over when the father died, and the troubles came, and Owen, + as he ought, give himself up intirely for my mother, to help her, a widow. + But it’s not digging and slaving he is to be always:—it’s with the + head, as my father used to say, he’ll make more than the hands; and we + hope to get a clerk’s place for him sometime, or there will be a + schoolmaster wanting in this town, and that will be what he would be fit + for; and not—but it’s not civil, before you, a soldier, sir, to say + the rest. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Fear not, you will not give offence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> And not to be spending his breath blowing through a horn all + his days, for the sake of wearing a fine red coat. I beg your pardon + again, sir, if I say too much—but it’s to save my brother and my + mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> I like you the better for all you’ve said for both. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> And I’m off entirely:—I’ll not list, I thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + {<i>MABEL clasps her hands joyfully, then embraces her brother.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> And I’ll not ask you to list—and I would not have + asked it at all, but that a friend of yours told me it would be the + greatest service I could do you, and that it was the thing of all others + you wished. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> That friend was Christy Gallagher: but he was mistaken—that’s + all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> I hope that’s all. But I’ve no dependance on him for a + friend, nor has my mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Why, he was saying to me, and I could not say against it, + that he had a right to propose for the inn if he could, though Gilbert and + we wanted to get it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Then I wonder why Christy should be preferred rather than my + mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Then that’s a wonder—and I can’t understand how that + was. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> I have one more thing to say, or to do, which I should like + better, if you’ll give me leave. If there’s a difficulty aboot the rent of + this new inn that you are talking of, I have a little spare money, and + you’re welcome to it:—I consider it as a debt of my brother’s, which + I am bound to pay; so no obligation in life—tell me how much will + do. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Takes out his purse.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen</i> and <i>Mabel.</i> You are very kind—you are very good. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> No, I am not—I am only just. Say only how much will + do. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Alas! money won’t do now, sir. It’s all settled, and Christy + says he has a promise of it in writing from the lady. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> May be this Christy might sell his interest, and we will see—I + will not say till I find I can do. Fare ye weel till we meet, as I hope we + shall, at the dance that’s to be at the castle. The band is to be there, + and I with them, and I shall hope for this lassy’s hand in the dance. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> (<i>aside</i>) And Gilbert that never asked me! (<i>Aloud</i>) + I thank you kindly, sir, I sha’n’t go to the dance at-all-at-all, I + believe—my mother had better take her rest, and I must stay with her—a + good night to you kindly. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit MABEL into her mother’s room.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> This sister of yours would leave me no heart to carry back + to Scotland, I fear, but that I’m a married man already, and have my own + luve—a Kate of my own, that’s as fair as she, and as gude, and + that’s saying much. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Much more than Florinda Gallagher will like to + hear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> I shall thank you if you will teach me, for my Kate, the + words of that song your sister was singing when we came in. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I believe it’s to flatter me you say this, for that song is + my writing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Yours? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Mine, such as it is. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Sic a ane as you are then, I’m glad you are not to be a + bugle-boy: your sister is right. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I’ll teach you the words as we go along. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Do so;—but mind now this song-writing do not lead you + to idleness. We must see to turn your edication to good account. (<i>Aside</i>) + Oh, I will never rest till I pay my brother’s debt, some way or other, to + this gude family. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE I. + </h2> + <p> + <i>CHRISTY alone.</i> + </p> + <p> + So this Scotchman could not list Owen. <i>Couldn’t</i> nor <i>wouldn’t</i>, + that’s what he says; and the Scotchman looked very hard at me as he spoke: + moreover, I seen Mr. Gilbert and him with their two heads close together, + and that’s a wonder, for I know Gilbert’s not nat’rally fond of any sort + of Scotchman. There’s something brewing:—I must have my wits about + me, and see and keep sober this night, if I can, any way. From the first I + suspicted Mr. Gilbert had his heart on Mabel. (BIDDY DOYLE <i>puts her + head in</i>) Biddy Doyle! what the mischief does that head of yours do + there? + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Nothing in life, sir: only just to see who was in it, along + with yourself, because I thought I hard talking enough for two. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> You, girl, have curiosity enough for two, and two dozen, + and too much! So plase take your head and yourself out of that, and don’t + be overharing my private thoughts; for that was all the talking ye hard, + and <i>my</i> thoughts can’t abide listeners. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> I’m no listener—I ax your pardon, sir: I scorn to + listen to your thoughts, or your words even. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit BIDDY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> That girl has set me topsy-turvy. Where was I?—Oh! + this was it. Suppose even, I say, suppose this Gilbert’s fancy should + stick to Mabel, I might manage him, nevertheless. I’ve a great advantage + and prerogative over this Englishman, in his having never been dipped in + the Shannon. He is so <i>under cow</i> with bashfulness now, that I don’t + doubt but what in one of his confusions I could asy bring him to say Yes + in the wrong place; and sooner than come to a perplexing refusal of a + young lady, he might, I’ll engage, be brought about to marry the girl he + didn’t like, in lieu of the girl he did. We shall see—but hark! I + hear Ferrinafad’s voice, singing, and I must join, and see how the thing’s + going on, or going off. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE II. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Miss GALLAGHER and GILBERT at a Tea-Table.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Now would I give five golden guineas this + minute that her father, or any mortal man, woman, or child in the varsal + world, would come in and say something; for ‘tis so awk’ard for I to be + sitting here, and I nothing to say to she. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>aside</i>) When will the man pay me the compliment to + speak, I wonder? Wouldn’t any body think he’d no tongue in that mouth of + his, screwed up, and blushing from ear to ear? + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter CHRISTY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Hoo! hoo! hoo!—How’s this—both of yees mute as + fishes the moment I come in? Why I hard you just now, when my back was + turned, singing like turtle-doves—didn’t I, Florry? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Indeed, sir, as to turtle-doves, I’m not sinsible; but Mr. + Gilbert requisted of me to be favouring him with a song, which I was + complying with, though I’m not used to be singing without my piano. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Sorrow take your piano! you’re not come + there yet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> I wonder the drum-major isn’t come yet. Does he expect tea + can be keeping hot for him to the end of time? He’ll have nothing but + slop-dash, though he’s a very genteel man. I’m partial to the military + school, I own, and a High lander too is always my white-headed boy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>astonished</i>) Her white-headed boy!—Now, if I was + to be hanged for it, I don’t know what that means. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Now where can you have lived, Mr. Gilbert, not to know <i>that</i>? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>aside</i>) By the mass, he’s such a + matter-o’-fact-man, I can’t get round him with all my wit. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Here’s the drum-major! Scarlet’s asy seen at a distance, + that’s one comfort! + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Mr. HOPE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> I’m late, Miss Florinda, I fear, for the tea-table; but I + had a wee-wee bit of business to do for a young friend, that kept me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> No matter, major, my tapot defies you. Take a cup a tea. + Are you fond of music, major? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Very fond of music, ma’am—do you sing or play? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> I do play—I plead guilty to that I own. But in this + hole that we are in, there’s no room fitting for my piano. However, in the + new inn which we have got now, I’ll fix my piano iligant in the + back-parlour. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> In the mean time, Miss Florinda, will you favour us with a + song? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And I’ll be making the punch, for I’m no songstress. + Biddy! Biddy Doyle! hot water in a jerry. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Indeed I’m not used to sing without my piano; but, to + oblige the major, I’ll sing by note. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss GALLAGHER sings.</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Softly breathing through the heart, + When lovers meet no more to part; + That purity of soul be mine, + Which speaks in music’s sound divine. + + ‘Midst trees and streams of constant love, + That’s whispered by the turtle-dove; + Sweet cooing cushat all my pray’r, + Is love in elegance to share. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> That’s what I call fine, now! Very fine that. + </p> + <p> + {<i>GILBERT nods.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Look at that Englishman, now, that hasn’t a + word of compliment to throw to a dog, but only a nod. (<i>Aloud</i>) ‘Tis + the military that has always the souls for music, and for the ladies—and + I think, gentlemen, I may step for’ard, and say I’m entitled to call upon + you now:—Mr. Gilbert, if you’ve ever a love-song in your + composition. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Love-song I can’t say, ma’am; but such as I have—I’m no + great hand at composition—but I have one song—they call it, <i>My + choice of a wife.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Pray let’s have it, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Now for it, by Jabus. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Give it us, Mr. Gilbert. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter BIDDY with hot water, and exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>GILBERT sings.</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There’s none but a fool will wed on a sudden, + Or take a fine miss that can’t make a pudding; + If he get such a wife, what would a man gain, O! + But a few ballad-tunes on a wretched piano? + + Some ladies than peacocks are twenty times prouder, + Some ladies than thunder are twenty times louder; + But I’ll have a wife that’s obliging and civil— + For me, your fine ladies may go to the devil! +</pre> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>rising</i>) Sir, I comprehend your song, coarse as it + is, and its moral to boot, and I humbly thank ye, sir. (<i>She curtsies + low.</i>) And if I live a hundred year, and ninety-nine to the back of + that, sir, I will remember it to you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>leaving the punch which he had been making, comes + forward with a lemon in his hand</i>) Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Ferrinafad! + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Ferrinafad!—the man’s mad! + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Father, go your ways back to your punch. Here stands the + only <i>raal</i> gentleman in company (<i>pointing to the drum-major</i>), + if I’m to make the election. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Major, you can’t but drink her health for that compliment. + {<i>He presents a glass of punch to Mr. HOPE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Miss Gallagher’s health, and a gude husband to her, and <i>soon</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> And soon!—No hurry for them that has choice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> That has money, you mane, jewel. Mr. Gilbert, you did not + give us your toast. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Your good health, ma’am—your good health, sir,—Mr. + Hope, your good health, and your fireside in Scotland, and in pa’tic’lar + your good wife. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>starting</i>) Your wife, sir! Why, sir, is’t possible + you’re a married man, after all? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Very possible, ma’am—thank Heaven and my gude Kate. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> <i>His gude Kate</i>!—Well, I hate the Scotch accent + of all languages under the sun. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> In a married man, I suppose you <i>mane</i>, Florry? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> This is the way with officers continually—passing + themselves for bachelors. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then, Florry, we’d best recommend it to the drum-major the + next town he’d go into, to put up an advertisement in capitals on his cap, + warning all women whom it may consarn, that he is a married man. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> ‘Tis no consarn of mine, I’ll assure you, sir, at any rate; + for I should scorn to think of a Scotchman any way. And what’s a + drum-major, after all? {<i>Exit, in a passion.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Bo boo! bo boo! bo boo! there’s a tantarara now; but never + mind her, she takes them tantarums by turns. Now depend upon it, Mr. + Gilbert, it’s love that’s at the bottom of it all, clane and clear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> It’s very like, sir—I can’t say. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Oh, but I <i>can</i> say—I know her, egg and bird. + The thing is, she’s mad with you, and that has set her all through other.—But + we’ll finish our tumbler of punch. {<i>Draws forwards the table, and sets + chairs.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Egg and bird!—mad! All through other!—Confound + me if I understand one word the man is saying; but I will make him + understand me, if he can understand plain English. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>aside</i>) I’ll stand by and see fair play. I have my + own thought. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Now, Mr. ——, to be plain with you at once—here’s + fifty guineas in gold, and if you will take them, and give me up the + promise you have got of the new inn, you shall be welcome. That’s all I + have to say, if I was to talk till Christmas—and fewest words is + best in matters of business. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Fifty guineas in gold!—Don’t part with a guinea of + them, man, put ‘em up again. You shall have the new inn without a word + more, and into the bargain my good-will and my daughter—and you’re a + jantleman, and can’t say <i>no</i> to that, any way. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Yes, but I can though: since you drive me to the wall, I must + say no, and I do say no. And, dang it, I would have been hanged almost as + soon as say so much to a father. I beg your pardon, sir, but my heart is + given to another. Good evening to you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>holding him as he attempts to go</i>) Take it coolly, + and listen to me, and tell me—was you ever married before, Mr. + Gilbert? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Never. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then I was—and I can tell you that I found to my + cost, love was all in all with me before I was married, and after I had + been married a twel’-month, money was all in all with me; for I had the + wife, and I had not the money, and without the money, the wife must have + starved. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> But I can work, sir, and will, head, hands, and heart, for + the woman I love. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Asy said—hard done. Mabel Larken is a very pretty + girl. But wait till I tell you what Kit Monaghan said to me yesterday. I’m + going to be married, sir, says he to me. Ay, so you mintioned to me a + fortnight ago, Kit, says I—to Rose Dermod, isn’t it? says I. Not at + all, sir, says he—it is to Peggy McGrath, this time. And what + quarrel had you to Rose Dermod? says I. None in life, sir, says he; but + Peggy McGrath had two cows, and Rose Dermod had but the one, and in my + mind there is not the differ of a cow betwix’ one woman and another. Do + you understand me now, Mr. Gilbert? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Sir, we shall never understand one another—pray let me + go, before I get into a passion. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Breaks from CHRISTY, and exit.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Hollo! Hollo! Mr. Gilbert! (<i>GILBERT returns.</i>) One + word more about the new inn. I’ve done about Florry; and, upon my + conscience, I believe you’re right enough—only that I’m her father, + and in duty bound to push her as well as I can. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Well, sir, about the inn: be at a word with me; for I’m not + in a humour to be trifled with. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Fire beneath snow! who’d ha’ thought it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then, if it was sixty guineas instead of fifty, I’d take + it, and you should have my bargain of the inn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>aside</i>) I’ll not say my word until I see what the + bottom of the men are. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Why, to make up sixty, I must sell my watch + even; but I’ll do it—any thing to please Mabel. (<i>Aloud</i>) Well, + sixty guineas, if you won’t give it for less. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Done! (<i>Eagerly.</i>) + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Stay, stay, Mr. Gilbert! Have a care, Mr. Gallagher!—the + lady might not be well pleased at your handing over her written promise, + Mr. Gallagher—wait a wee bit. Don’t conclude this bargain till you + are before the lady at the castle. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> So best—no doubt. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> All one to me—so I pocket the sixty. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> (<i>aside to GILBERT</i>) Come off. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> We shall meet then at the castle to-night: till then, a good + day to you, Mr. Gallagher. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt GILBERT and Mr. HOPE.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Good night to ye kindly, gentlemen. There’s a fool to love + for you now! If I’d ax’d a hundred, I’d ha’ got it. But still there’s only + one thing. Ferrinafad will go mad when she learns I have sold the new inn, + and she to live on in this hole, and no place for the piano. I hope Biddy + did not hear a sentence of it. (<i>Calls</i>) Biddy! Biddy Doyle! Biddy, + can’t ye? + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Biddy.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> What is it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Did you hear any thing? Oh, I see ye did by your eyes. + Now, hark’ee, my good girl: don’t mention a sentence to Ferrinafad of my + settling the new inn, till the bargain’s complate, and money in both + pockets—you hear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> I do, sir. But I did not hear afore. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Becaase, she, though she’s my daughter, she’s crass—I’ll + empty my mind to you, Biddy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> (<i>aside</i>) He has taken enough to like to be talking to + poor Biddy. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Afore Florry was set up on her high horse by that little + independency her doting grandmother left her, and until she got her head + turned with that Ferrinafad edication, this Florry was a good girl enough. + But now what is she?—Given over to vanities of all sorts, and no + comfort in life to me, or use at all—not like a daughter at all, nor + mistress of the house neither, nor likely to be well married neither, or a + credit to me that way! And saucy to me on account of that money of hers I + liquidated unknown’st. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> True for ye, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then it all comes from the little finger getting to be the + master of me; for I’m confident that when sober, I was not born to be a + rogue nat’rally. Was not I honest Christy once? (<i>ready to cry.</i>) Oh, + I’m a great penitent! But there’s no help for it now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> True for you, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> I’m an unfortunate cratur, and all the neighbours know it.—So, + Biddy dear, I’ve nothing for it but to take another glass. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Oh! no, sir, not when you’ll be going up to the castle to + the lady—you’ll be in no condition. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Tut, girl—‘twill give me heart. Let’s be merry any + way. {<i>Exit, singing,</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They say it was care killed the cat, + That starved her, and caused her to die; + But I’ll be much wiser than that, + For the devil a care will care I.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE III. + </h2> + <p> + <i>Widow LARKEN’S Cottage.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow LARKEN, MABEL, and GILBERT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> And could you doubt me, Mabel, after I told you I loved you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> Never would nor could have doubted, had you once told me as + much, Mr. Gilbert. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> There was the thing, Mr. Gilbert—you know it was you + that was to speak, if you thought of her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Do not you remember the rose and the shamrock? + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Oh! she does well enough; and that’s what her heart was + living upon, till I killed the hope. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> You!—killed the hope!—I thought you were my + friend. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> And so I am, and was—but when you did not speak. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> If I had not loved her so well, I might have been able, + perhaps, to have said more. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Then that’s enough. Mabel mavourneen, wear the rose he give + you now—I’ll let you—and see it’s fresh enough. She put it in + water—oh! she had hope still! + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> And was not I right to trust him, mother? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Mabel, if I don’t do my best to make you happy all my days, I + deserve to be—that’s all! But I’m going to tell you about the new + inn: that’s what I have been about ever since, and I’m to have it for + sixty guineas. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter OWEN, rubbing his hands.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> You see, mother, I was right about Gilbert and Mabel. But Mr. + Hope and the band is gone up to the castle. Come, come!—time to be + off!—no delay!—Gilbert! Mabel, off with you! (<i>He pushes + them off.</i>) And glad enough ye are to go together. Mother dear, here’s + your bonnet and the cloak,—here round ye throw—that’s it—take + my arm. (<i>Widow stumbles as he pulls her on.</i>) Oh, I’m putting you + past your speed, mother. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> No, no.—No fear in life for the mother that has the + support of such a son. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCENE IV. + </h2> + <p> + <i>A large Apartment in Bannow Castle, ornamented with the Rose, Thistle, + and Shamrock.—The hall opens into a lawn, where the country-people + are seen dancing.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter CLARA, Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN, and a train of dancers.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Now, sir, as we have here English, Scotch, and Irish + dancers, we can have the English country-dance, the Scotch reel, and the + Irish jig. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then to begin with the Irish jig, which I have never seen. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> You shall see it in perfection. + </p> + <p> + {<i>An Irish jig is danced, a Scotch reel follows, and an English + country-dance. When CLARA has danced down the country-dance, she goes with + her partner to Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> We are going out to look at the dancers on the lawn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Take me with you, for I wish to see those merry dancers—I + hear them laughing. I love to hear the country-people laugh: theirs is + always <i>the heart’s laugh.</i> + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt Sir WILLIAM and CLARA.</i> + </p> + <p> + {<i>The dancers recommence, and after dancing for a few minutes, they go + off just as Sir WILLIAM and CLARA return, entering from the hall door.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> My dear uncle, thank you for going out among these poor + people, and for speaking so kindly to them. One would think that you had + lived in Ireland all your life, you know so well how to go <i>straight</i> + to Irish heads and Irish hearts by kindness, and by what they love almost + as well, <i>humour,</i> and good-humour. Thank you again and again. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> My dear niece, you need not thank me; for if you had nothing + to do with these people—if you had never been born—I should + have loved the Irish for their own sakes. How easy it is to please them! + How easy to make them happy; and how grateful they are, even for a few + words of kindness. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Yes. This I may say without partiality—whatever other + faults my countrymen have, they certainly are a grateful people. My + father, who knew them well, taught me from my childhood, to trust to Irish + gratitude. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>changing his tone</i>) But, on the other hand, it is my + duty to watch over your Irish generosity, Clara. Have you made any more + promises, my dear, since morning? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Oh! no, sir; and I have heartily repented of that which I + made this morning: for I find that this man to whom I have promised the + new inn is a sad drunken, good-for-nothing person; and as for his + daughter, whom I have never yet seen— + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> (<i>looking towards the entrance from the lawn</i>) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But who is this? What thing of sea or land? + Female of sex it seems— + That so bedeck’d, ornate and gay, + Comes this way sailing.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>Enter Miss GALLAGHER.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Sir, I beg pardon. But I was told Miss O’Hara would wish to + speak with Christy Gallagher, and I’m his daughter—he not being very + well to-night. He will be up with miss in the morning—but is + confined to his bed with a pain about his heart, he took, just when I was + coming away. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CHRISTY’S voice heard, singing, to the tune of “St. Patrick’s day in + the morning.”</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Full bumpers of whiskey, + Will make us all frisky, + On Patrick’s day in the morning.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> (<i>aside</i>) Oh! King of glory, if he is not come up + after all! + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> “What noise is that, unlike the former sound?” + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Only some man, singing in honour of St. Patrick, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter</i> CHRISTY GALLAGHER, BIDDY <i>trying to hold him back.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Tut! let me in: I know the lady is here, and I must thank + her as becoming— + </p> + <p> + {<i>CLARA puts her hand before her face and retires as he advances.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Oh! father, keep out—you’re not in a condition. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> John! Thomas! carry this man off. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Ah, now, just let me remark to his honour—did he + ever hear this song in England? (<i>He struggles and sings, while they are + carrying him off,</i>) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O’Rourke’s noble feast shall ne’er be forgot, + By those who were there, or by those who were not.” + </pre> + <p> + But it was not O’Rourke’s noble feast at all, it was O’Hara’s noble feast, + to the best of my knowledge—I’ll take my affidavit; and am not I + here, on the spot, ready and proud to fight any one that denies the + contrary? Let me alone, Florry, for I’m no babby to be taken out of the + room. Ready and proud, I say I am, to fight any tin men in the county, or + the kingdom itself, or the three kingdoms entirely, that would go for to + dare for to offer to articulate the contrary. So it’s Miss O’Hara for + ever, huzza! a! a! a! a! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Carry him off this instant. Begone! + </p> + <p> + {<i>The servants carry off CHRISTY GALLAGHER, while he sings, to the tune + of “One bottle more,”</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, give me but whiskey, continted I’ll sing, + Hibernia for ever, and God save the king!” + </pre> + <p> + {<i>Miss GALLAGHER directs and expedites her father’s retreat.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Shame! shame! Is this the tenant I have chosen? + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Indeed, and indeed, then, Miss O’Hara, I often preach to + him, but there’s no use in life preaching to him—as good preaching + to the winds! for, drunk or sober, he has an answer ready at all points. + It is not wit he wants, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> And he is happy in having a daughter, who knows how to make + the best of his faults, I see. What an excellent landlord he will be for + this new inn! + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Oh, certainly, sir—only it’s being St. Patrick’s + night, he would be more inexcusable; and as to the new inn, plase Heaven! + he shall get no pace on earth till he takes an oath afore the priest + against spirits, good or bad, for a twil’month to come, before ever I + trust a foot of his in the new inn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> But, ma’am, from your own appearance, I should apprehend + that you would not be suited to the business yourself—I should + suppose you would think it beneath you to keep an inn. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Why, ma’am—why, sir—you know when it is called + an hotel, it’s another thing; and I’m sure I’ve a great regard for the + family, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to oblige Miss O’Hara. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Miss Gallagher, let me beg that if you wish to oblige me— + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter GILBERT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Well, Gilbert? + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Only, sir, if you and Miss O’Hara were at leisure, sir, one + Mr. Andrew Hope, the master of the band, would wish to be allowed to come + in to sing a sort of a welcome home they have set to music, sir, for Miss + O’Hara. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I do believe this is the very song which that drunken man + gave me this morning, and for which I gave him the promise of the inn. I + shall be ashamed to hear the song. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Let me hear it, at all events. Desire Mr. Andrew Hope, and + his merry-men-all, to walk in. {<i>Exit GILBERT.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Enter Mr. HOPE and band.—Some of the country-people peep in, as + if wishing to enter.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Come in, my good friends. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Enter, among others, the Widow LARKEN, and MABEL, and OWEN.—BIDDY + follows timidly.—Miss GALLAGHER takes a conspicuous place.—Sir + WILLIAM and CLARA continue speaking.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Did Gilbert introduce his bride elect to you, Clara? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Yes, Mabel Larken, that girl with the sweet modest + countenance—and her mother, that respectable-looking woman; and her + brother, I see, is here, that boy with the quick, intelligent eyes. I know + all the family—know them all to be good; and these were the people I + might have served! Oh, fool! fool! + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Well, well, well, ‘tis over now, my dear Clara—you + will be wiser another time. Come, Mr. Hope, give us a little flattery, to + put us in good-humour with ourselves. + </p> + <p> + {<i>The band prelude; but just as they begin, Sir WILLIAM sees CHRISTY, + who is coming in softly, holding back the skirts of his coat.—Sir + WILLIAM in a loud voice exclaims,</i> + </p> + <p> + Turn out that man! How dare you return to interrupt us, sir? Turn out that + man! + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> (<i>falling on his knees</i>) Oh! plase your honour, I beg + your pardon for one minute: only just give me lave to <i>insense</i> your + honour’s honour. I’m not the same man at all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Stand up, stand up—an Englishman cannot bear to see a + man kneel to him. Stand up, pray, if you can. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then I can, plase your honour (<i>rises</i>), since I got + a shock. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> What shock? What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Oh, nothing in life, miss, that need consarn you—only + a fall I got from my horse, which the child they set to lead me would put + me up upon, and it come down and kilt me; for it wasn’t a proper horse for + an unfortunate man like me, that was overtaken, as I was then; and it’s + well but I got a kick of the baast. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Do you say you were kicked by a horse? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Not at all, plase your honour—I say <i>it was well + but</i> I got a kick of the baast. But it’s all for the best now; for see, + I’m now as sober as a jidge, and <i>quite</i> as any lamb; and if I’d get + lave only just to keep in this here corner, I would be no let or + hinderance to any. Oh! dear miss! spake for me! I’m an ould man, miss, + that your father’s honour was partial to always, and called me <i>honest</i> + Christy, which I was once, and till his death too. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> What a strange mixture is this man! + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> Pray let him stay, uncle—he’s sober now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Say not one word more, then; stand still there in your + corner. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And not a word for my life—not breathe, even—to + plase you! becaase I’ve a little business to mintion to the lady. Sixty + guineas to resave from Mr. Gilbert, yonder. Long life to you, miss! But + I’ll say no more till this Scotchman has done with his fiddle and his + musics. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> I thought, sir, you were not to have spoken another + syllable. + </p> + <p> + {<i>CHRISTY puts his finger on his lips, and bows to Sir WILLIAM and to + CLARA.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Now, Mr. Hope. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. HOPE sings, and the Band join in chorus,</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though Bannow’s heiress, fair and young, + Hears polish’d praise from ev’ry tongue; + Yet good and kind, she’ll not disdain + The tribute of the lowly swain. + The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; + Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee. + + That open brow, that courteous grace, + Bespeaks thee of thy generous race; + Thy father’s soul is in thy smile— + Thrice blest his name in Erin’s isle. + The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; + Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee. + + The bright star shining on the night, + Betokening good, spreads quick delight; + But quicker far, more glad surprise, + Wakes the kind radiance of her eyes. + The heart’s warm welcome, Clara, meets thee; + Thy native land, dear lady, greets thee{1}. +</pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Set to music by Mr. Webbe.} + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Then I’m not ashamed, any way, of that song of mine. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Of yours?—Is it possible that it is yours? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> It is indeed. These are the very lines he gave me this + morning. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And I humbly thank you, madam or miss, for having got them + set to the musics. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I had nothing to do with that. We must thank Mr. Hope for + this agreeable surprise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Why, then, I thank you, Mr. Drum. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> You owe me no thanks, sir. I will take none from you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> No—for I didn’t remember giving you the copy. I + suppose Florry did. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Not I, sir. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Or the schoolmaster’s foul copy may be, for it was he was + putting the song down for me on paper. My own hand-writing shaking so bad, + I could not make a fair copy fit for the lady. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Mr. Gallagher, don’t plunge farther in falsehood—you + know the truth is, that song’s not yours. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Why, then, by all— + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> Stop, stop, Mr. Gallagher—stop, I advise you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Why, then, I won’t stop at any thing—for the song’s + my own. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> In one sense of the word, may be, it may be called your own, + sir; for you bought it, I know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> I bought it? Oh, who put that in your Scotch brains? + Whoever it was, was a big liar. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> No liar at all, sir—I ax your pardon—‘twas I. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> And you overheard my thoughts, then, talking to myself—ye + traitor! + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> No, sir—again I ax your pardon; no listener Biddy + Doyle. But I was at the schoolmaster’s, to get him pen a letter for me to + my poor father, and there with him, I heard how Christy bought the song, + and seen the first copy—and the child of the house told me all about + it, and how it was lift there by Mr. Owen Larken. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> and <i>Clara</i> (<i>joyfully</i>). Owen Larken!—you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> All lies! Asy talk!—asy talk—asy to belie a + poor man. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> If you tell the truth, you can tell us the next verse, for + there’s another which we did not yet sing. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Not in my copy, which is the original. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> If you have another verse, let us hear it—and that + will decide the business. + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Oh, the devil another line, but what’s lame, I’ll engage, + and forged, as you’ll see. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. HOPE sings,</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Quick spring the feelings of the heart, + When touch’d by Clara’s gen’rous art; + Quick as the grateful shamrock springs, + In the good fairies’ favour’d rings. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> What does Christy say now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> Why, miss, I say that’s well said for the shamrock any + way. And all that’s in it for me is this—the schoolmaster was a + rogue that did not give me that verse in for my money. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then you acknowledge you bought it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Christy.</i> What harm, plase your honour? And would not I have a right + to buy what pleases me—and when bought and ped for isn’t it mine in + law and right? But I am mighty unlucky this night. So, come along, Florry—we + are worsted see! No use to be standing here longer, the laughing-stock of + all that’s in it—Ferrinafad. + </p> + <p> + <i>Miss G.</i> Murder! Father, then here’s all you done for me, by your + lies and your whiskey! I’ll go straight from ye, and lodge with Mrs. + Mulrooney. Biddy, what’s that you’re grinning at? Plase to walk home out + of that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Biddy.</i> Miss Florinda, I am partly engaged to dance; but I won’t be + laving you in your downfall: so here’s your cloak—and lane on me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Why, then, Biddy, we’ll never forget you in our prosperity. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel</i> and <i>Owen.</i> Never, never. You’re a good girl, Biddy. + </p> + <p> + {<i>Exeunt Miss GALLAGHER, BIDDY, and CHRISTY.</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> I am glad they are gone. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> I congratulate you, my dear niece, upon having got rid of + tenants who would have disgraced your choice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara.</i> These (<i>turning to OWEN, MABEL, and her mother,</i>) these + will do honour to it. My written promise was to <i>grant the poet’s + petition</i>. Owen, you are <i>the poet</i>—what is your petition? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> May I speak?—May I say all I wish? + </p> + <p> + <i>Clara</i> and <i>Sir W.</i> Yes, speak—say all you wish. + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> I am but a young boy, and not able to keep the new inn; but + Mr. Gilbert and Mabel, with my mother’s help, would keep it well, I think; + and it’s they I should wish to have it, ma’am, if it were pleasing to you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> And what would become of yourself, my good lad? + </p> + <p> + <i>Owen.</i> Time enough, sir, to think of myself, when I’ve seen my + mother and sister settled. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> Then as you won’t think of yourself, I must think for you. + Your education, I find, has been well begun, and I will take care it shall + not be left half done. + </p> + <p> + <i>Widow.</i> Oh, I’m too happy this minute! But great joy can say little. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mabel.</i> (<i>aside</i>) And great love the same. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. H.</i> This day is the happiest I have seen since I left the land + of cakes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Gilb.</i> Thank you, Mr. Hope. And when I say thank you, why, I feel + it. ‘Twas you helped us at the dead lift. + </p> + <p> + <i>Sir W.</i> You see I was right, Gilbert; the Scotch make good friends. + (<i>GILBERT bows.</i>) And now, Clara, my love, what shall we call the new + inn—for it must have a name? Since English, Scotch, and Irish, have + united to obtain it, let the sign be the Rose, Thistle, and Shamrock. + </p> + <h3> + END OF COMIC DRAMAS. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LEONORA + </h2> + <h3> + LETTER I. + </h3> + <p> + Lady Olivia to Lady Leonora L——. + </p> + <p> + What a misfortune it is to be born a woman! In vain, dear Leonora, would + you reconcile me to my doom. Condemned to incessant hypocrisy, or + everlasting misery, woman is the slave or the outcast of society. + Confidence in our fellow-creatures, or in ourselves, alike forbidden us, + to what purpose have we understandings, which we may not use? hearts, + which we may not trust? To our unhappy sex, genius and sensibility are the + most treacherous gifts of heaven. Why should we cultivate talents merely + to gratify the caprice of tyrants? Why seek for knowledge, which can prove + only that our wretchedness is irremediable? If a ray of light break in + upon us, it is but to make darkness more visible; to show us the narrow + limits, the Gothic structure, the impenetrable barriers of our prison. + Forgive me if on this subject I cannot speak—if I cannot think—with + patience. Is it not fabled, that the gods, to punish some refractory + mortal of the male kind, doomed his soul to inhabit upon earth a female + form? A punishment more degrading, or more difficult to endure, could + scarcely be devised by cruelty omnipotent. What dangers, what sorrows, + what persecutions, what nameless evils await the woman who dares to rise + above the prejudices of her sex! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ah! happy they, the happiest of their kind!” + </pre> + <p> + who, without a struggle, submit their reason to be swathed by all the + absurd bandages of custom. What, though they cripple or distort their + minds; are not these deformities beauties in the eyes of fashion? and are + not these people the favoured nurselings of the <i>World</i>, secure of + her smiles, her caresses, her fostering praise, her partial protection, + through all the dangers of youth and all the dotage of age? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ah! happy they, the happiest of their kind!” + </pre> + <p> + who learn to speak, and think, and act by rote; who have a phrase, or a + maxim, or a formula ready for every occasion; who follow— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All the nurse and all the priest have taught.” + </pre> + <p> + And is it possible that Olivia can envy these <i>tideless-blooded</i> + souls their happiness—their apathy? Is her high spirit so broken by + adversity? Not such the promise of her early years, not such the language + of her unsophisticated heart! Alas! I scarcely know, I scarcely recollect, + that proud self, which was wont to defy the voice of opinion, and to set + at nought the decrees of prejudice. The events of my life shall be + related, or rather the history of my sensations; for in a life like mine, + sensations become events—a metamorphosis which you will see in every + page of my history. I feel an irresistible impulse to open my whole heart + to you, my dear Leonora. I ought to be awed by the superiority of your + understanding and of your character; yet there is an indulgence in your + nature, a softness in your temper, that dissipates fear, and irresistibly + attracts confidence. + </p> + <p> + You have generously refused to be prejudiced against me by busy, malignant + rumour; you have resolved to judge of me for yourself. Nothing, then, + shall be concealed. In such circumstances I cannot seek to extenuate any + of my faults or follies. I am ready to acknowledge them all with + self-humiliation more poignant than the sarcasms of my bitterest enemies. + But I must pause till I have summoned courage for my confession. Dear + Leonora, adieu! + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER II. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO LEONORA. + </h3> + <p> + Full of life and spirits, with a heart formed for all the enthusiasm, for + all the delicacy of love, I married early, in the fond expectation of + meeting a heart suited to my own. Cruelly disappointed, I found—merely + a husband. My heart recoiled upon itself; true to my own principles of + virtue, I scorned dissimulation. I candidly confessed to my husband, that + my love was extinguished. I proved to him, alas! too clearly, that we were + not born for each other. The attractive moment of illusion was past—never + more to return; the repulsive reality remained. The living was chained to + the dead, and, by the inexorable tyranny of English laws, that chain, + eternally galling to innocence, can be severed only by the desperation of + vice. Divorce, according to our barbarous institutions, cannot be obtained + without guilt. Appalled at the thought, I saw no hope but in submission. + Yet to submit to live with the man I could not love was, to a mind like + mine, impossible. My principles and my feelings equally revolted from this + legal prostitution. We separated. I sought for balm to my wounded heart in + foreign climes. + </p> + <p> + To the beauties of nature I was ever feelingly alive. Amidst the sublime + scenes of Switzerland, and on the consecrated borders of her classic + lakes, I sometimes forgot myself to happiness. Felicity, how transient!—transient + as the day-dreams that played upon my fancy in the bright morning of love. + Alas! not all creation’s charms could soothe me to repose. I wandered in + search of that which change of place cannot afford. There was an aching + void in my heart—an indescribable sadness over my spirits. Sometimes + I had recourse to books; but how few were in unison with my feelings, or + touched the trembling chords of my disordered mind! Commonplace morality I + could not endure. History presented nothing but a mass of crimes. + Metaphysics promised some relief, and I bewildered myself in their not + inelegant labyrinth. But to the bold genius and exquisite pathos of some + German novelists I hold myself indebted for my largest portion of ideal + bliss; for those rapt moments, when sympathy with kindred souls + transported me into better worlds, and consigned vulgar realities to + oblivion. + </p> + <p> + I am well aware, my Leonora, that you approve not of these my favourite + writers: but yours is the morality of one who has never known sorrow. I + also would interdict such cordials to the happy. But would you forbid + those to taste felicity in dreams who feel only misery when awake? Would + you dash the cup of Lethe from lips to which no other beverage is + salubrious or sweet? + </p> + <p> + By the use of these opiates my soul gradually settled into a sort of + pleasing pensive melancholy. Has it not been said, that melancholy is a + characteristic of genius? I make no pretensions to genius: but I am + persuaded that melancholy is the habitual, perhaps the natural state of + those who have the misfortune to feel with delicacy. + </p> + <p> + You, my dear Leonora, will class this notion amongst what you once called + my refined errors. Indeed I must confess, that I see in you an exception + so striking as almost to compel me to relinquish my theory. But again let + me remind you, that your lot in life has been different from mine. Alas! + how different! Why had not I such a friend, such a mother as yours, early + to direct my uncertain steps, and to educate me to happiness? I might have + been—But no matter what I might have been—. I must tell you + what I have been. + </p> + <p> + Separated from my husband, without a guide, without a friend at the most + perilous period of my life, I was left to that most insidious of + counsellors—my own heart—my own weak heart. When I was least + prepared to resist the impression, it was my misfortune to meet with a man + of a soul congenial with my own. Before I felt my danger, I was entangled + beyond the possibility of escape. The net was thrown over my heart; its + struggles were to no purpose but to exhaust my strength. Virtue commanded + me to be miserable—and I was miserable. But do I dare to expect your + pity, Leonora, for such an attachment? It excites your indignation, + perhaps your horror. Blame, despise, detest me; all this would I rather + bear, than deceive you into fancying me better than I really am. + </p> + <p> + Do not, however, think me worse. If my views had been less pure, if I had + felt less reliance on the firmness of my own principles, and less + repugnance to artifice, I might easily have avoided some appearances, + which have injured me in the eyes of the world. With real contrition I + confess, that a fatal mixture of masculine independence of spirit, and of + female tenderness of heart, has betrayed me into many imprudences; but of + vice, and of that meanest species of vice, hypocrisy, I thank Heaven, my + conscience can acquit me. All I have now to hope is, that you, my + indulgent, my generous Leonora, will not utterly condemn me. Truth and + gratitude are my only claims to your friendship—to a friendship, + which would be to me the first of earthly blessings, which might make me + amends for all I have lost. Consider this before, unworthy as I am, you + reject me from your esteem. Counsel, guide, save me! Without vanity, but + with confidence I say it, I have a heart that will repay you for + affection. You will find me easily moved, easily governed by kindness. + Yours has already sunk deep into my soul, and your power is unlimited over + the affections and over the understanding of + </p> + <p> + Your obliged + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER III. + </h3> + <p> + FROM LADY LEONORA L—— TO HER MOTHER, THE DUCHESS OF ——, + ENCLOSING THE PRECEDING LETTERS. + </p> + <p> + I am permitted to send you, my dear mother, the enclosed letters. Mixed + with what you may not approve, you will, I think, find in them proofs of + an affectionate heart and superior abilities. Lady Olivia is just returned + to England. Scandal, imported from the continent, has had such an effect + in prejudicing many of her former friends and acquaintance against her, + that she is in danger of being excluded from that society of which she was + once the ornament and the favourite; but I am determined to support her + cause, and to do every thing in my power to counteract the effects of + malignity. I cannot sufficiently express the indignation that I feel + against the mischievous spirit of scandal, which destroys happiness at + every breath, and which delights in the meanest of all malignant feelings—the + triumph over the errors of superior characters. Olivia has been much + blamed, because she has been much envied. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, my dear mother, you have been prejudiced against her by false + reports. Do not imagine that her fascinating manners have blinded my + judgment: I assure you that I have discerned, or rather that she has + revealed to me, all her faults: and ought not this candour to make a + strong impression upon my mind in her favour? Consider how young, how + beautiful she was at her first entrance into fashionable life; how much + exposed to temptation, surrounded by flatterers, and without a single + friend. I am persuaded that she would have escaped all censure, and would + have avoided all the errors with which she now reproaches herself, if she + had been blessed with a mother such as mine. + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER IV. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO HER DAUGHTER. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAREST CHILD, + </h3> + <p> + I must answer your last before I sleep—before I can sleep in peace. + I have just finished reading the rhapsody which it enclosed; and whilst my + mind is full and warm upon the subject, let me write, for I can write to + my own satisfaction at no other time. I admire and love you, my child, for + the generous indignation you express against those who trample upon the + fallen, or who meanly triumph over the errors of superior genius; and if I + seem more cold, or more severe, than you wish me to be, attribute this to + my anxiety for your happiness, and to that caution which is perhaps the + infirmity of age. + </p> + <p> + In the course of my long life I have, alas! seen vice and folly dressed in + so many different fashions, that I can find no difficulty in detecting + them under any disguise; but your unpractised eyes are almost as easily + deceived as when you were five years old, and when you could not believe + that your pasteboard nun was the same person in her various changes of + attire. + </p> + <p> + Nothing would tempt you to associate with those who have avowed themselves + regardless of right and wrong; but I must warn you against another, and a + far more dangerous class, who professing the most refined delicacy of + sentiment, and boasting of invulnerable virtue, exhibit themselves in the + most improper and hazardous situations; and who, because they are without + fear, expect to be deemed free from reproach. Either from miraculous good + fortune, or from a singularity of temper, these adventurous heroines may + possibly escape with what they call perfect innocence. So much the worse + for society. Their example tempts others, who fall a sacrifice to their + weakness and folly. I would punish the tempters in this case more than the + victims, and for them the most effectual species of punishment is + contempt. Neglect is death to these female lovers of notoriety. The moment + they are out of fashion their power to work mischief ceases. Those who + from their character and rank have influence over public opinion are bound + to consider these things in the choice of their associates. This is + peculiarly necessary in days when attempts are made to level all + distinctions. You have sometimes hinted to me, my dear daughter, with all + proper delicacy, that I am too strict in my notions, and that, unknown to + myself, my pride mixes with morality. Be it so: the pride of family, and + the pride of virtue, should reciprocally support each other. Were I asked + what I think the best guard to a nobility in this or in any other country, + I should answer, VIRTUE. I admire that simple epitaph in Westminster Abbey + on the Duchess of Newcastle:—“Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest + sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester;—a noble family, for all the + brothers were valiant and all the sisters virtuous.” + </p> + <p> + I look to the temper of the times in forming rules for conduct. Of late + years we have seen wonderful changes in female manners. I may be like the + old marquis in Gil Blas, who contended that even the peaches of modern + days had deteriorated; but I fear that my complaints of the degeneracy of + human kind are better founded, than his fears for the vegetable creation. + A taste for the elegant profligacy of French gallantry was, I remember, + introduced into this country before the destruction of the French + monarchy. Since that time, some sentimental writers and pretended + philosophers of our own and foreign countries, have endeavoured to + confound all our ideas of morality. To every rule of right they have found + exceptions, and on these they have fixed the public attention by adorning + them with all the splendid decorations of eloquence; so that the rule is + despised or forgotten, and the exception triumphantly established in its + stead. These orators seem as if they had been employed by Satan to plead + the cause of vice; and, as if possessed by the evil spirit, they speak + with a vehemence which carries away their auditors, or with a subtlety + which deludes their better judgment. They put extreme cases, in which + virtue may become vice, or vice virtue: they exhibit criminal passions in + constant connexion with the most exalted, the most amiable virtues; thus + making use of the best feelings of human nature for the worst purposes, + they engage pity or admiration perpetually on the side of guilt. Eternally + talking of philosophy or philanthropy, they borrow the terms only to + perplex the ignorant and seduce the imagination. They have their systems + and their theories, and in theory they pretend that the general good of + society is their sole immutable rule of morality, and in practice they + make the variable feelings of each individual the judges of this general + good. Their systems disdain all the vulgar virtues, intent upon some <i>beau + ideal</i> of perfection or perfectibility. They set common sense and + common honesty at defiance. No matter: their doctrine, so convenient to + the passions and soporific to the conscience, can never want partisans; + especially by weak and enthusiastic women it is adopted and propagated + with eagerness; then they become personages of importance, and zealots in + support of their sublime opinions; and they can read,—and they can + write,—and they can talk,—and they can <i>effect a revolution + in public opinion</i>! I am afraid, indeed, that they can; for of late + years we have heard more of sentiment than of principles; more of the + rights of woman than of her duties. We have seen talents disgraced by the + conduct of their possessors, and perverted in the vain attempt to defend + what is unjustifiable. + </p> + <p> + Where must all this end? Where the abuse of reason inevitably ends—in + the ultimate law of force. If, in this age of reason, women make a bad use + of that power which they have obtained by the cultivation of their + understanding, they will degrade and enslave themselves beyond redemption; + they will reduce their sex to a situation worse than it ever experienced + even in the ages of ignorance and superstition. If men find that the + virtue of women diminishes in proportion as intellectual cultivation + increases, they will connect, fatally for the freedom and happiness of our + sex, the ideas of female ignorance and female innocence; they will decide + that one is the effect of the other. They will not pause to distinguish + between the use and the abuse of reason; they will not stand by to see + further experiments tried at their expense, but they will prohibit + knowledge altogether as a pernicious commodity, and will exert the + superior power which nature and society place in their hands, to enforce + their decrees. Opinion obtained freedom for women; by opinion they may be + again enslaved. It is therefore the interest of the female world, and of + society, that women should be deterred by the dread of shame from passing + the bounds of discretion. No false lenity, no partiality in favour of + amusing talents or agreeable manners, should admit of exceptions which + become dangerous examples of impunity. The rank and superior understanding + of a <i>delinquent</i> ought not to be considered in mitigation, but as + aggravating circumstances. Rank makes ill conduct more conspicuous: + talents make it more dangerous. Women of abilities, if they err, usually + employ all their powers to justify rather than to amend their faults. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid, my dear daughter, that my general arguments are closing round + your Olivia; but I must bid you a good night, for my poor eyes will serve + me no longer. God bless you, my dear child. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER V. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + I agree with you, my dear mother, that in these times especially it is + incumbent upon all persons, whose rank or reputation may influence public + opinion, to be particularly careful to support the cause of female honour, + of virtue, and religion. With the same object in view, we may however + differ in the choice of means for its attainment. Pleasure as well as pain + acts upon human creatures; and therefore, in governing them, may not + reward be full as efficacious as punishment? Our sex are sufficiently + apprised of the fatal consequences of ill conduct; the advantages of + well-earned reputation should be at least as great, as certain, and as + permanent. + </p> + <p> + In former times, a single finger pointed at the scutcheon of a knight + challenged him to defend his fame; but the defiance was open, the defence + was public; and if the charge proved groundless, it injured none but the + malicious accuser. In our days, female reputation, which is of a nature + more delicate than the honour of any knight, may be destroyed by the + finger of private malice. The whisper of secret scandal, which admits of + no fair or public answer, is too often sufficient to dishonour a life of + spotless fame. This is the height, not only of injustice, but of impolicy. + Women will become indifferent to reputation, which it is so difficult, + even by the prudence of years, to acquire, and which it is so easy to lose + in a moment, by the malice or thoughtlessness of those, who invent, or who + repeat scandal. Those who call themselves the world, often judge without + listening to evidence, and proceed upon suspicion with as much promptitude + and severity, as if they had the most convincing proofs. But because + Cæsar, nearly two thousand years ago, said that his wife ought not even to + be suspected, and divorced her upon the strength of this sentiment, shall + we make it a general maxim that suspicion justifies punishment? We might + as well applaud those, who when their friends are barely suspected to be + tainted with the plague, drive them from all human comfort and assistance. + </p> + <p> + Even where women, from the thoughtless gaiety of youth, or the impulse of + inexperienced enthusiasm, may have given some slight cause for censure, I + would not have virtue put on all her gorgon terrors, nor appear circled by + the vengeful band of prudes; her chastening hand will be more beneficially + felt if she wear her more benign form. To place the imprudent in the same + class with the vicious, is injustice and impolicy; were the same + punishment and the same disgrace to be affixed to small and to great + offences, the number of <i>capital</i> offenders would certainly increase. + Those who were disposed to yield to their passions would, when they had + once failed in exact decorum, see no motive, no fear to restrain them; and + there would be no pause, no interval between error and profligacy. Amongst + females who have been imprudent, there are many things to be considered + which ought to recommend them to mercy. The judge, when he is obliged to + pronounce the immutable sentence of the law, often, with tears, wishes + that it were in his power to mitigate the punishment: the decisions of + opinion may and must vary with circumstances, else the degree of + reprobation which they inflict cannot be proportioned to the offence, or + calculated for the good of society. Among the mitigating circumstances, I + should be inclined to name even, those which you bring in aggravation. + Talents, and what is called genius, in our sex are often connected with a + warmth of heart, an enthusiasm of temper, which expose to dangers, from + which the coldness of mediocrity is safe. In the illuminated palace of + ice, the lights which render the spectacle splendid, and which raise the + admiration of the beholders, endanger the fabric and tend to its + destruction. + </p> + <p> + But you will tell me, dear mother, that allusion is not argument—and + I am almost afraid to proceed, lest you should think me an advocate for + vice. I would not shut the gates of mercy, inexorably and + indiscriminately, upon all those of my own sex, who have even been <i>more + than imprudent</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He taught them shame, the sudden sense of ill— + Shame, Nature’s hasty conscience, which forbids + Weak inclination ere it grows to will, + Or stays rash will before it grows to deeds.” + </pre> + <p> + Whilst a woman is alive to shame she cannot be dead to virtue. But by + injudicious or incessant reproach, this principle, even where it is most + exquisite, may be most easily destroyed. The mimosa, when too long exposed + to each rude touch, loses its retractile sensibility. It ought surely to + be the care of the wise and benevolent to cherish that principle, + implanted in our nature as the guard of virtue, that principle, upon which + legislators rest the force of punishment, and all the grand interests of + society. + </p> + <p> + My dear mother, perhaps you will be surprised at the style in which I have + been writing, and you will smile at hearing your Leonora discuss the + duties of legislators and the grand interests of society. She has not done + so from presumption, or from affectation. She was alarmed by your + supposing that her judgment was deluded by fascinating manners, and she + determined to produce <i>general</i> arguments, to convince you that she + is not actuated by particular prepossession. You see that I have at least + some show of reason on <i>my</i> side. I have forborne to mention Olivia’s + name: but now that I have obviated, I hope by reasoning, the imputation of + partiality, I may observe that all my arguments are strongly in her + favour. She had been attacked by slander; <i>the world</i> has condemned + her upon suspicion merely. She has been imprudent; but I repeat, in the + strongest terms, that I am <i>convinced of her innocence</i>; and that I + should bitterly regret that a woman with such an affectionate heart, such + uncommon candour, and such superior abilities, should be lost to society. + </p> + <p> + Tell me, my dear mother, that you are no longer in anxiety about the + consequences of my attachment to Olivia. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate daughter, + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER VI. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO HER DAUGHTER. + </h3> + <p> + You lament, my dear child, that such an affectionate heart, such great + abilities as Olivia’s, should be lost to society. Before I sympathize in + your pity, my judgment must be convinced that it is reasonable. + </p> + <p> + What proofs has Lady Olivia given of her affectionate heart? She is at + variance with both her parents; she is separated from her husband; and she + leaves her child in a foreign country, to be educated by strangers. Am I + to understand, that her ladyship’s neglecting to perform the duties of a + daughter, a wife, and a mother, are proofs of an affectionate heart? As to + her superior talents, do they contribute to her own happiness, or to the + happiness of others? Evidently not to her own; for by her account of + herself, she is one of the most miserable wretches alive! She tells you + that “<i>she went to foreign climes in search of balm for a wounded heart, + and wandered from place to place, looking for what no place could afford</i>.” + She talks of “<i>indescribable sadness—an aching void—an + impenetrable prison—darkness visible—dead bodies chained to + living ones</i>;” and she exhibits all the disordered furniture of a + “diseased mind.” But you say, that though her powers are thus insufficient + to make herself happy, they may amuse or instruct the world; and of this I + am to judge by the letters which you have sent me. You admire fine + writing; so do I. I class eloquence high amongst the fine arts. But by + eloquence I mean something more than Dr. Johnson defines it to be, “the + art of speaking with fluency and elegance.” This is an art which is now + possessed to a certain degree by every boarding-school miss. Every + scribbling young lady can now string sentences and sentiments together, + and can turn a period harmoniously. Upon the strength of these + accomplishments they commence heroines, and claim the privileges of the + order; privileges which go to an indefinite and most alarming extent. + Every heroine may have her own code of morality for her private use, and + she is to be tried by no other; she may rail as loudly as she pleases “at + the barbarous institutions of society,” and may deplore “<i>the inexorable + tyranny of the English laws</i>.” If she find herself involved in delicate + entanglements of crossing duties, she may break through any one, or all of + them, to extricate herself with a noble contempt of prejudice. + </p> + <p> + I have promised to reason calmly; but I cannot repress the terror which I + feel at the idea of my daughter’s becoming the friend of one of these + women. Olivia’s letters are, I think, in the true heroine style; and they + might make a brilliant figure in a certain class of novels. She begins + with a bold exclamation on “the misfortune of being born a woman!—<i>the + slave or the outcast of society, condemned to incessant hypocrisy</i>!” + Does she mean modesty? Her manly soul feels it “<i>the most degrading + punishment that omnipotent cruelty could devise, to be imprisoned in a + female form</i>.” From such a masculine spirit some fortitude and + magnanimity might be expected; but presently she begs to be pitied, for a + broken spirit, and more than female tenderness of heart. I have observed + that the ladies who wish to be men, are usually those who have not + sufficient strength of mind to be women. + </p> + <p> + Olivia proceeds in an ironical strain to envy, as “<i>the happiest of + their sex, those who submit to be swathed by custom</i>.” These persons + she stigmatizes with the epithet of <i>tideless-blooded</i>. It is the + common trick of unprincipled women to affect to despise those who conduct + themselves with propriety. Prudence they term <i>coldness</i>; fortitude, + <i>insensibility;</i> and regard to the rights of others, <i>prejudice</i>. + By this perversion of terms they would laugh or sneer virtue out of + countenance; and, by robbing her of all praise, they would deprive her of + all immediate motive. Conscious of their own degradation, they would lower + every thing, and every body, to their own standard: they would make you + believe, that those who have not yielded to their passions are destitute + of sensibility; that the love which is not blazoned forth in glaring + colours is not entitled to our sympathy. The sacrifice of the strongest + feelings of the human heart to a sense of duty is to be called mean, or + absurd; but the shameless frenzy of passion, exposing itself to public + gaze, is to be an object of admiration. These heroines talk of strength of + mind; but they forget that strength of mind is to be shown in resisting + their passions, not in yielding to them. Without being absolutely of an + opinion, which I have heard maintained, that all virtue is sacrifice, I am + convinced that the essential characteristic of virtue is to bear and + forbear. These sentimentalists can do neither. They talk of sacrifices and + generosity; but they are the veriest egotists—the most selfish + creatures alive. + </p> + <p> + Open your eyes, my dear Leonora, and see things as they really are. Lady + Olivia thinks it a sufficient excuse for abandoning her husband, to say, + that she found “<i>his soul was not in unison with hers</i>.” She thinks + it an adequate apology for a criminal attachment, to tell you that “<i>the + net was thrown over her heart before she felt her danger: that all its + struggles were to no purpose, but to exhaust her strength</i>.” + </p> + <p> + If she did not feel her danger, she prepared it. The course of reading + which her ladyship followed was the certain preparation for her subsequent + conduct. She tells us that she could not endure “<i>the common-place of + morality, but metaphysics promised her some relief</i>.” In these days a + heroine need not be amoralist, but she must be a metaphysician. She must “<i>wander + in the not inelegant labyrinth</i>;” and if in the midst of it she comes + unawares upon the monster vice, she must not start, though she have no + clue to secure her retreat. + </p> + <p> + From metaphysics Lady Olivia went on to German novels. “<i>For her largest + portions of bliss, for those rapt moments, which consigned vulgar + realities to oblivion</i>,” she owns herself indebted to those writers, + who promise an ideal world of pleasure, which, like the <i>mirage</i> in + the desert, bewilders the feverish imagination. I always suspected the + imagination of these <i>women of feeling</i> to be more susceptible than + their hearts. They want excitation for their morbid sensibility, and they + care not at what expense it is procured. If they could make all the + pleasures of life into one cordial, they would swallow it at a draught in + a fit of sentimental spleen. The mental intemperance that they indulge in + promiscuous novel-reading destroys all vigour and clearness of judgment; + every thing dances in the varying medium of their imagination. Sophistry + passes for reasoning; nothing appears profound but what is obscure; + nothing sublime but what is beyond the reach of mortal comprehension. To + their vitiated taste the simple pathos, which o’ersteps not the modesty of + nature, appears cold, tame, and insipid; they must have <i>scènes</i> and + a <i>coup de théâtre</i>; and ranting, and raving, and stabbing, and + drowning, and poisoning; for with them there is no love without murder. + Love, in their representations, is indeed a distorted, ridiculous, horrid + monster, from whom common sense, taste, decency, and nature recoil. + </p> + <p> + But I will be calm.—You say, my dear Leonora, that your judgment has + not been blinded by Lady Olivia’s fascinating manners; but that you are + strongly influenced in her favour by that candour, with which she has + revealed to you all her faults. The value of candour in individuals should + be measured by their sensibility to shame. When a woman throws off all + restraint, and then desires me to admire her candour, I am astonished only + at her assurance. Do not be the dupe of such candour. Lady Olivia avows a + criminal passion, yet you say that you have no doubt of her innocence. The + persuasion of your unsuspecting heart is no argument: when you give me any + proofs in her favour, I shall pay them all due attention. In the mean time + I have given you my opinion of those ladies who place themselves in the + most perilous situations, and then expect you to believe them safe. + </p> + <p> + Olivia’s professions of regard for you are indeed enthusiastic. She tells + you, that “<i>your power is unlimited over her heart and understanding; + that your friendship would be to her one of the greatest of earthly + blessings</i>.” May be so—but I cannot wish you to be her friend. + With whatever confidence she makes the assertion, do not believe that she + has a heart capable of feeling the value of yours. These sentimental, + unprincipled women make the worst friends in the world. We are often told + that, “poor creatures! they do nobody any harm but themselves;” but in + society it is scarcely possible for a woman to do harm to herself, without + doing harm to others; all her connexions must be involved in the + consequences of her imprudence. Besides, what confidence can you repose in + them? If you should happen to be an obstacle in the way of any of their + fancies, do you think that they will respect you or your interest, when + they have not scrupled to sacrifice their own to the gratification of + their passions? Do you think that the gossamer of sentiment will restrain + those whom the strong chains of prudence could not hold? + </p> + <p> + Oh! my dearest child, forcibly as these arguments carry conviction to my + mind, I dread lest your compassionate, generous temper, should prevent + their reaching your understanding. Then let me conjure you, by all the + respect which you have ever shown for your mother’s opinions, by all that + you hold dear or sacred, beware of forming an intimacy with an + unprincipled woman. Believe me to be + </p> + <p> + Your truly affectionate mother, —— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER VII. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + No daughter ever felt more respect for the opinions of a parent than I do + for yours, my dearest mother; but you have never, even from childhood, + required from me a blind submission—you have always encouraged me to + desire conviction. And now, when the happiness of another is at stake, you + will forgive me if I am less disposed to yield than I should be, I hope, + if my own interest or taste were alone concerned. + </p> + <p> + You ask me what proofs I have of Lady Olivia’s innocence. Believe me, I + have such as are convincing to my unbiassed judgment, and such as would be + sufficient to satisfy all your doubts, were I at liberty to lay the whole + truth before you. But even to exculpate herself, Olivia will not ruin in + your opinion her husband, of whom you imagine that she has no reason to + complain. I, who know how anxious she is to obtain your esteem, can + appreciate the sacrifice that she makes; and in this instance, as in many + others, I admire her magnanimity; it is equal to her candour, for which + she is entitled to praise even by your own principles, dear mother: since, + far from having <i>thrown off all restraint</i>, she is exquisitely + susceptible of shame. + </p> + <p> + As to her understanding—have no persons of great talents ever been + unfortunate? Frequently we see that they have not been able, by all their + efforts and all their powers, to remedy the defects in the characters and + tempers of those with whom they have unhappily been connected. Olivia + married very young, and was unfortunately mistaken in her choice of a + husband: on that subject I can only deplore her error and its + consequences: but as to her disagreements with her own family, I do not + think her to blame. For the mistakes we make in the choice of lovers or + friends we may be answerable, but we cannot be responsible for the faults + of the relations who are given to us by nature. If we do not please them, + it may be our misfortune; it is not necessarily our fault. I cannot be + more explicit, without betraying Lady Olivia’s confidence, and implicating + others in defending her. + </p> + <p> + With respect to that attachment of which you speak with so much just + severity, she has given me the strongest assurances that she will do every + thing in her power to conquer it. Absence, you know, is the first and the + most difficult step, and this she has taken. Her course of reading + displeases you: I cannot defend it: but I am persuaded that it is not a + proof of her taste being vitiated. Many people read ordinary novels as + others take snuff, merely from habit, from the want of petty excitation; + and not, as you suppose, from the want of exorbitant or improper stimulus. + Those who are unhappy have recourse to any trifling amusement that can + change the course of their thoughts. I do not justify Olivia for having + chosen such <i>comforters</i> as certain novels, but I pity her, and + impute this choice to want of fortitude, not to depravity of taste. Before + she married, a strict injunction was laid upon her not to read any book + that was called a novel: this raised in her mind a sort of perverse + curiosity. By making any books or opinions contraband, the desire to read + and circulate them is increased; bad principles are consequently smuggled + into families, and being kept secret, can never be subject to fair + examination. I think it must be advantageous to the right side of any + question, that all which can be said against it should be openly heard, + that it may be answered. I do not + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hate when vice can bolt her arguments;” + </pre> + <p> + for I know that virtue has a tongue to answer her. The more vice repeats + her assertions, the better; because when familiarized, their boldness will + not astound the understanding, and the charm of novelty will not be + mistaken for the power of truth. We may observe, that the admiration for + the class of writers to whom you allude, though violent in its + commencement, has abated since they have been more known; and numbers, who + began with rapture, have ended with disgust. Persons of vivacious + imaginations, like Olivia, may be caught at first view by whatever has the + appearance of grandeur or sublimity; but if time be allowed for + examination, they will infallibly detect the disproportions, and these + will ever afterwards shock their taste: if you will not allow leisure for + comparison—if you say, do not look at such strange objects, the + obedient eyes may turn aside, but the rebel imagination pictures something + a thousand times more wonderful and charming than the reality. I will + venture to predict, that Olivia will soon be tired of the species of + novels which she now admires, and that, once surfeited with these books, + and convinced of their pernicious effects, she will never relapse into the + practice of novel reading. + </p> + <p> + As to her taste for metaphysical books—Dear mother, I am very daring + to differ with you in so many points; but permit me to say, that I do not + agree with you in detesting metaphysics. People may lose themselves in + that labyrinth; but why should they meet with vice in the midst of it? The + characters of a moralist, a practical moralist, and a metaphysician, are + not incompatible, as we may see in many amiable and illustrious examples. + To examine human motives, and the nature of the human mind, is not to + destroy the power of virtue, or to increase the influence of vice. The + chemist, after analyzing certain substances, and after discovering their + constituent parts, can lay aside all that is heterogeneous, and recompound + the substance in a purer state. From analogy we might infer, that the + motives of metaphysicians ought to be purer than those of the vulgar and + ignorant. To discover the art of converting base into noble passions, or + to obtain a universal remedy for all mental diseases, is perhaps beyond + the power of metaphysicians; but in the pursuit, useful discoveries may be + made. + </p> + <p> + As to Olivia’s letters—I am sorry I sent them to you; for I see that + they have lowered, instead of raising her in your opinion. But if you + criticise letters, written in openness and confidence of heart to a + private friend, as if they were set before the tribunal of the public, you + are—may I say it?—not only severe, but unjust; for you try and + condemn the subjects of one country by the laws of another. + </p> + <p> + Dearest mother, be half as indulgent to Olivia as you are to me: indeed + you are prejudiced against her; and because you see some faults, you think + her whole character vicious. But would you cut down a fine tree because a + leaf is withered, or because the canker-worm has eaten into the bud? Even + if a main branch were decayed, are there not remedies which, skilfully + applied, can save the tree from destruction, and perhaps restore it to its + pristine beauty? + </p> + <p> + And now, having exhausted all my allusions, all my arguments, and all my + little stock of eloquence, I must come to a plain matter of fact— + </p> + <p> + Before I received your letter I had invited Lady Olivia to spend some time + at L—— Castle. I fear that you will blame my precipitation, + and I reproach myself for it, because I know it will give you pain. + However, though you will think me imprudent, I am certain you would rather + that I were imprudent than unjust. I have defended Olivia from what I + believe to be unmerited censure; I have invited her to my house; she has + accepted my proffered kindness; to withdraw it afterwards would be doing + her irreparable injury: it would confirm all that the world can suspect: + it would be saying to the censorious—I am convinced that you are + right, and I deliver your victim up to you. + </p> + <p> + Thus I should betray the person whom I undertook to defend: her confidence + in me, her having but for a moment accepted my protection, would be her + ruin. I could not act in so base a manner. + </p> + <p> + Fear nothing for me, my best, but too anxious, friend. I may do Lady + Olivia some good; she can do me no harm. She may learn the principles + which you have taught me; I can never catch from her any tastes or habits + which you would disapprove. As to the rest, I hazard little or nothing. + The hereditary credit which I enjoy in my maternal right enables me to + assist others without injuring myself. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate daughter, + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER VIII. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO HER DAUGHTER. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAREST CHILD, + </h3> + <p> + I hope that you are in the right, and that I am in the wrong. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate mother, ——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER IX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + Prepare yourself, my ever dear and charming Gabrielle, for all the + torments of jealousy. Know, that since I came to England I have formed a + new friendship with a woman who is interesting in the extreme, who has + charmed me by the simplicity of her manners and the generous sensibility + of her heart. Her character is certainly too reserved: yet even this + defect has perhaps increased her power over my imagination, and + consequently over my affections. I know not by what magic she has obtained + it, but she has already an ascendancy over me, which would quite astonish + <i>you</i>, who know my wayward fancies and independent spirit. + </p> + <p> + Alas! I confess my heart is weak indeed; and I fear that all the power of + friendship and philosophy combined will never strengthen it sufficiently. + Oh, Gabrielle! how can I hope to obliterate from my soul that attachment + which has marked the colour of my destiny for years? Yet such courage, + such cruel courage is required of me, and of such I have boasted myself + capable. Lady Leonora L——, my new friend, has, by all the + English eloquence of virtue, obtained from me a promise, which, I fear, I + shall not have the fortitude to keep—but I must make the attempt—Forbid + R—— to write to me—Yes! I have written the words—Forbid + R—— to write to me—Forbid him to think of me—I + will do more—if possible I will forbid myself henceforward to think + of him—to think of love—Adieu, my Gabrielle—All the + illusions of life are over, and a dreary blank of future existence lies + before me, terminated only by the grave. To-morrow I go to L—— + Castle, with feelings which I can compare only to those of the unfortunate + La Vallière when she renounced her lover, and resolved to bury herself in + a cloister.—Alas! why have not I the resource of devotion? + </p> + <p> + Your unhappy + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER X. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Publish my travels!—Not I, my dear friend. The world shall never + have the pleasure of laughing at General B——‘s trip to Paris. + Before a man sets about to inform others, he should have seen, not only + the surface but the bottom of things; he should have had, not only a <i>vue + d’oiseau</i>, but (to use a celebrated naval commander’s expression) a <i>vue + de poisson</i> of his subject. By this time you must have heard enough of + the Louvre and the Tuilleries, and Versailles, and le petit Trianon, and + St. Cloud—and you have had enough of pictures and statues; and you + know all that can be known of Bonaparté, by seeing him at a review or a + levee; and the fashionable beauties and <i>celebrated characters</i> of + the hour have all passed and repassed through the magic lantern. A fresh + showman might make his figures a little more correct, or a little more in + laughable caricature, but he could produce nothing new. Alas! there is + nothing new under the sun. Nothing remains for the moderns, but to + practise the oldest follies the newest ways. Would you, for the sake of + your female friends, know the fashionable dress of a Parisian <i>elegante</i>, + see Seneca on the transparent vestments of the Roman ladies, who, like + these modern belles, were generous in the display of their charms to the + public. No doubt these French republicanists act upon the true Spartan + principle of modesty: they take the most efficacious method to prevent + their influence from being too great over the imaginations of men, by + renouncing all that insidious reserve which alone can render even beauty + permanently dangerous. + </p> + <p> + Of the cruelties of the revolution I can tell you nothing new. The public + have been steeped up to the lips in blood, and have surely had their fill + of horrors. + </p> + <p> + But, my dear friend, you say that I must be able to give a just view of + the present state of French society, and of the best parts of it, because + I have not, like some of my countrymen, hurried about Paris from one <i>spectacle</i> + to another, seen the opera, and the play-houses, and the masked balls, and + the gaming-houses, and the women of the Palais Royal, and the lions of all + sorts; gone through the usual routine of presentation and public dinners, + drunk French wine, damned French cookery, and “come home content.” I have + certainly endeavoured to employ my time better, and have had the good + fortune to be admitted into the best <i>private societies</i> in Paris. + These were composed of the remains of the French nobility, of men of + letters and science, and of families, who, without interfering in + politics, devote themselves to domestic duties, to literary and social + pleasures. The happy hours I have passed in this society can never be + forgotten, and the kindness I have received has made its full impression + upon an honest English heart. I will never disgrace the confidence of my + friends, by drawing their characters for the public. + </p> + <p> + Cæsar in all his glory, and all his despotism, could not, with impunity, + force a Roman knight {1} to go upon the stage: but modern + anecdote-mongers, more cruel and insolent than Cæsar, force their friends + of all ages and sexes to appear, and speak, and act, for the amusement or + derision of the public. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Laberius.} + </p> + <p> + My dear friend, is not my resolution, never to favour the world with my + tour, well grounded? I hope that I have proved to your satisfaction, that + I could tell people nothing but what I do not understand, or what is not + worth telling them, or what has been told them a hundred times, or what, + as a gentleman, I am bound not to publish. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XI. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + Friendship, my amiable and interesting Gabrielle, is more an affair of the + heart than of the head, more the instinct of taste than the choice of + reason. With me the heart is no longer touched, when the imagination + ceases to be charmed. Explain to me this metaphysical phenomenon of my + nature, and, for your reward, I will quiet your jealousy, by confessing + without compunction what now weighs on my conscience terribly. I begin to + feel that I can never love this English friend as I ought. She is <i>too + English</i>—far too English for one who has known the charms of + French ease, vivacity, and sentiment; for one who has seen the bewitching + Gabrielle’s infinite variety. + </p> + <p> + Leonora has just the figure and face that you would picture to yourself + for <i>une belle Anglaise</i>; and if our Milton comes into your memory, + you might repeat, for the quotation is not too trite for a foreigner, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye, + In every gesture dignity and love.” + </pre> + <p> + But then it is grace which says nothing, a heaven only for a husband, the + dignity more of a matron than of a heroine, and love that might have + suited Eve before she had seen this world. Leonora is certainly a beauty; + but then a beauty who does not know her power, and who, consequently, can + make no one else feel its full extent. She is not unlike your beautiful + Polish Princess, but she has none of the charming Anastasia’s irresistible + transitions from soft, silent languor, to brilliant, eloquent enthusiasm. + All the gestures and attitudes of Anastasia are those of taste and + sentiment; Leonora’s are simply those of nature. <i>La belle nature</i>, + but not <i>le beau idéal</i>. With a figure that would grace any court, or + shine upon any stage, she usually enters a room without producing, or + thinking of producing, any sensation; she moves often without seeming to + have any other intention than to change her place; and her fine eyes + generally look as if they were made only to see with. At times she + certainly has a most expressive and intelligent countenance. I have seen + her face enlightened by the fire of genius, and shaded by the exquisite + touches of sensibility; but all this is merely called forth by the + occasion, and vanishes before it is noticed by half the company. Indeed, + the full radiance of her beauty or of her wit seldom shines upon any one + but her husband. The audience and spectators are forgotten. Heavens! what + a difference between the effect which Leonora and Gabrielle produce! But, + to do her justice, much of this arises from the different <i>organization</i> + of French and English society. In Paris the insipid details of domestic + life are judiciously kept behind the scenes, and women appear as heroines + upon the stage with all the advantages of decoration, to listen to the + language of love, and to receive the homage of public admiration. In + England, gallantry is not yet <i>systematized</i>, and our sex look more + to their families than to what is called <i>society</i> for the happiness + of existence. And yet the affection of mothers for their children does not + appear to be so strong in the hearts of English as of French women. In + England, ladies do not talk of the <i>sentiment of maternity</i> with that + elegance and sensibility with which you expatiate upon it continually in + conversation. They literally are <i>des bonnes mères de famille</i>, not + from the impulse of sentiment, but merely from an early instilled sense of + duty, for which they deserve little credit. However, they devote their + lives to their children, and those who have the misfortune to be their + intimate friends are doomed to see them half the day, or all day long, go + through the part of the good mother in all its diurnal monotony of lessons + and caresses. All this may be vastly right—it is a pity it is so + tiresome. For my part I cannot conceive how persons of superior taste and + talents can submit to it, unless it be to make themselves a reputation, + and that you know is done by writing and talking on the general + principles, not by submitting to the minute details of education. The + great painter sketches the outline, and touches the principal features, + but leaves the subordinate drudgery of filling up the parts, finishing the + drapery, &c., to inferior hands. + </p> + <p> + Upon recollection, in my favourite “Sorrows of Werter,” the heroine is + represented cutting bread and butter for a group of children: I admire + this simplicity in Goethe; ‘tis one of the secrets by which he touches the + heart. Simplicity is delightful by way of variety, but always simplicity + is worse than <i>toujours perdrix</i>. Children in a novel or a drama are + charming little creatures: but in real life they are often insufferable + plagues. What becomes of them in Paris I know not; but I am sure that they + are never in the way of one’s conversations or reveries; and it would be a + blessing to society if English children were as inaudible and invisible. + These things strike me sensibly upon my return to England, after so long + an absence. Surely, by means of the machinery of masters, and governesses, + and schools, the manufacture of education might be carried on without + incommoding those who desire to see only the finished production. Here I + find the daughter of an English duke, a woman in the first bloom of youth, + of the highest pretensions in point of rank, beauty, fashion, + accomplishments, and talents, devoting herself to the education of two + children, orphans, left to her care by an elder sister. To take charge of + orphans is a good and fine action; as such it touches me sensibly; but + then where is the necessity of sacrificing one’s friends, and one’s + pleasures, day after day, and hour after hour, to mere children? Leonora + can persevere only from a notion of duty. Now, in my opinion, when + generosity becomes duty it ceases to be virtue. Virtue requires free-will: + duty implies constraint. Virtue acts from the impulse of the moment, and + never tires or is tired; duty drudges on in consequence of reflection, + and, weary herself, wearies all beholders. Duty, always laborious, never + can be graceful; and what is not graceful in woman cannot be amiable—can + it, my amiable Gabrielle? But I reproach myself for all I have written. + Leonora is my friend—besides, I am really obliged to her, and for + the universe would I not hint a thought to her disadvantage. Indeed she is + a most excellent, a faultless character, and it is the misfortune of your + Olivia not to love perfection as she ought. + </p> + <p> + My charming and interesting Gabrielle, I am more out of humour with myself + than you can conceive; for in spite of all that reason and gratitude urge, + I fear I cannot prefer the insipid virtues of Leonora to the lively graces + of Gabrielle. + </p> + <p> + As to the cold husband, Mr. L——, I neither know nor wish to + know any thing of him; but I live in hopes of an agreeable and interesting + accession to our society to-day, from the arrival of Leonora’s intimate + friend, a young widow, whose husband I understand was a man of a harsh + temper: she has gone through severe trials with surprising fortitude; and + though I do not know her history, I am persuaded it must be interesting. + Assuredly this husband could never have been the man of her choice, and of + course she must have had some secret unhappy attachment, which doubtless + preyed upon her spirits. Probably the object of her affection, in despair + at her marriage, plighted his faith unfortunately, or possibly may have + fallen a sacrifice to his constancy. I am all impatience to see her. Her + husband’s name was so ruggedly English, that I am sure you would never be + able to pronounce it, especially if you only saw it written; therefore I + shall always to you call her Helen, a name which is more pleasing to the + ear, and more promising to the imagination. I have not been able to + prevail upon Leonora to describe her friend to me exactly; she says only, + that she loves Helen too well to overpraise her beforehand. My busy fancy + has, however, bodied forth her form, and painted her in the most amiable + and enchanting colours. Hark! she is just arrived. Adieu. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XII. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + . . . Having now had the honour of spending nearly a week in the society + of the celebrated enchantress, Lady Olivia, you will naturally expect that + I should be much improved in the art of love: but before I come to my + improvements I must tell you, what will be rather more interesting, that + Leonora is perfectly well and happy, and that I have the dear delight of + exclaiming ten times an hour, “Ay, just as I thought it would be!—Just + such a wife, just such a mistress of a family I knew she would make.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Not to admire</i>,” is an art or a precept which I have not been able + to practise much since I came here. Some philosophers tell us that + admiration is not only a silly but a fatiguing state of mind; and I + suppose that nothing could have preserved my mind from being tired to + death, but the quantity of bodily exercise which I have taken. I could, if + I pleased, give you a plan and elevation of this castle. Nay, I doubt not + but I could stand an examination in the catalogue of the pictures, or the + inventory of the furniture. + </p> + <p> + You, Helen!—you who could not remember the colour of Lady N——‘s + <i>new</i> curtains after you had seen them at least a hundred times! + </p> + <p> + Lady N—— was indifferent to me, and how could I hang up her + curtains in my memory? By what could they hold? Do you not know, Margaret + ... all the fine things that I could say, and that quartos have said + before me, about the association of ideas and sensations, &c.? Those + we love impart to uninteresting objects the power of pleasing, as the + magnet can communicate to inert metal its attractive influence. + </p> + <p> + Till Mr. L—— was Leonora’s lover I never liked him much. I do + not mean to call him inert. I always knew that he had many excellent + qualities; but there was nothing in his temper peculiarly agreeable to me, + and there was something in his character that I did not thoroughly + understand; yet, since he is become Leonora’s husband, I find my + understanding much improved, and I dare say it will soon be so far + enlarged, that I shall comprehend him perfectly. + </p> + <p> + Leonora has almost persuaded me to like Lady Olivia. Not to laugh at her + would be impossible. I wish you could see the way in which we go on + together. Our first setting out would have diverted you. Enter Lady Olivia + breathless, with an air of theatric expectation—advances to embrace + Helen, who is laughing with Leonora—her back turned towards the side + of the stage at which Olivia enters—Olivia pauses suddenly, and + measures Helen <i>with a long look</i>. What passes in Lady Olivia’s mind + at this moment I do not know, but I guess that she was disappointed + woefully by my appearance. After some time she was recovered, by Leonora’s + assistance, from her reverie, and presently began to admire my vivacity, + and to find out that I was Clarissa’s Miss Howe—no, I was Lady G.—no, + I was Heloise’s Clara: but I, choosing to be myself, and insisting upon + being an <i>original</i>, sunk again visibly and rapidly in Olivia’s + opinion, till I was in imminent danger of being <i>nobody</i>, Leonora + again kindly interposed to save me from annihilation; and after an + interval of an hour or two dedicated to letter-writing, Lady Olivia + returned and seated herself beside me, resolved to decide what manner of + woman I was. Certain novels are the touchstones of feeling and <i>intellect</i> + with certain ladies. Unluckily I was not well read in these; and in the + questions put to me from these sentimental statute-books, I gave strange + judgments, often for the husband or parents against the heroine. I did not + even admit the plea of destiny, irresistible passion, or <i>entraînement</i>, + as in all cases sufficient excuse for all errors and crimes. Moreover, I + excited astonishment by calling things by obsolete names. I called a + married woman’s having a lover <i>a crime</i>! Then I was no judge of + virtues, for I thought a wife’s making an intimate friend of her husband’s + mistress was scandalous and mean; but this I was told is the height of + delicacy and generosity. I could not perceive the propriety of a man’s + liking two women at the same time, or a woman’s having a platonic + attachment for half a dozen lovers: and I owned that I did not wish + divorce could be as easily obtained in England as in France. All which + proved that I have never been out of England—a great misfortune! I + dare say it will soon be discovered that women as well as madeira cannot + be good for any thing till they have crossed the line. But besides the + obloquy of having lived only in the best company in England, I was further + disgraced by the discovery, that I am deplorably ignorant of metaphysics, + and have never been enlightened by any philanthropic transcendental + foreign professor of humanity. Profoundly humiliated, and not having yet + taken the first step towards knowledge, the knowing that I was ignorant, I + was pondering upon my sad fate, when Lady Olivia, putting her hand upon my + shoulder, summoned me into the court of love, there in my own proper + person to answer such questions as it should please her ladyship to ask. + For instance:—“Were you ever in love?—How often?—When?—Where?—And + with whom?” + </p> + <p> + Never having stood a cross-examination in public upon these points, I was + not quite prepared to reply; and I was accused of giving evasive answers, + and convicted of blushing. Mr. L——, who was present at this + examination, enjoyed, in his grave way, my astonishment and confusion, but + said not one word. I rallied my spirits and my wits, and gave some answers + which gained the smile of the court on my side. + </p> + <p> + From these specimens you may guess, my dear Margaret, how well this lady + and I are likely to agree. I shall divert myself with her absurdities + without scruple. Yet notwithstanding the flagrancy of these, Leonora + persuades me to think well of Olivia; indeed I am so happy here, that it + would be a difficult matter at present to make me think ill of any body. + The good qualities, which Leonora sees in her, are not yet visible to my + eyes; but Leonora’s visual orb is so cleared with charity and love, that + she can discern what is not revealed to vulgar sight. Even in the very + germ, she discovers the minute form of the perfect flower. <i>The Olivia</i> + will, I hope, in time, blow out in full perfection. + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XIII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + Monday. + </p> + <p> + O my Gabrielle! this Helen is not precisely the person that I expected. + Instead of being a dejected beauty, she is all life and gaiety. + </p> + <p> + I own I should like her better if she were a little more pensive; a tinge + of melancholy would, in her situation, be so becoming and natural. My + imagination was quite disappointed when I beheld the quickness of her eyes + and frequency of her smiles. Even her mode of showing affection to Leonora + was not such as could please me. This is the first visit, I understand, + that she has paid Leonora since her marriage: these friends have been + separated for many months.—I was not present at their meeting; but I + came into the room a few minutes after <i>Helen</i>’s arrival, and I + should have thought that they had seen one another but yesterday. This <i>dear + Helen</i> was quite at ease and at home in a few moments, and seemed as if + she had been living with us for years. I make allowance for the ease of + well-bred people. Helen has lived much in the world, and has polished + manners. But the heart—the heart is superior to politeness; and even + ease, in some situations, shows a want of the delicate <i>tact</i> of + sentiment. In a similar situation I should have been silent, entranced, + absorbed in my sensations—overcome by them, perhaps dissolved in + tears. But in Helen there appeared no symptoms of real sensibility—nothing + characteristic—nothing profound—nothing concentrated: it was + all superficial, and evaporated in the common way. I was provoked to see + Leonora satisfied. She assures me that Helen has uncommonly strong + affections, and that her character rather exceeds than is deficient in + enthusiasm. Possibly; but I am certain that Helen is in no danger of + becoming romantic. Far from being abstracted, I never saw any one seem + more interested and eager about every present occurrence—pleased, + even to childishness, with every passing trifle. I confess that she is too + much of this world for me. But I will if possible suspend my judgment, and + study her a few hours longer, before I give you my definitive opinion. + </p> + <p> + Thursday. + </p> + <p> + Well, my Gabrielle, my <i>definitive opinion</i> is that I can never love + this friend of Leonora. I said that she had lived much in the world—but + only in the English world: she has never seen any other; therefore, though + quite in a different style from Leonora, she shocks me with the same + nationality. All her ideas are exclusively English: she has what is called + English good sense, and English humour, and English prejudices of <i>all + sorts</i>, both masculine and feminine. She takes fire in defence of her + country and of her sex; nay, sometimes blushes even to awkwardness, which + one would not expect in the midst of her good breeding and vivacity. What + a difference between her vivacity and that of my charming Gabrielle! as + great as between the enlargement of your mind and the limited nature of + her understanding. I tried her on various subjects, but found her + intrenched in her own contracted notions. All new, or liberal, or sublime + ideas in morality or metaphysics she either cannot seize, or seizes only + to place in a ridiculous point of view: a certain sign of mediocrity. + Adieu, my Gabrielle. I must send you the pictures, whether engaging or + forbidding, of those with whom your Olivia is destined to pass her time. + When I have no events to relate, still I must write to convey to you my + sentiments. Alas! how imperfectly!—for I have interdicted myself the + expression of those most interesting to my heart. Leonora, calmly prudent, + coolly virtuous, knows not what it costs me to be faithful to this cruel + promise. Write to me, my sympathizing, my tender friend! + </p> + <p> + Your ever unhappy + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XIV. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + July 10th. + </p> + <p> + Some very good people, like some very fine pictures, are best at a + distance. But Leonora is not one of these: the nearer you approach, the + better you like her; as in arabesque-work you may admire the beauty of the + design even at a distance, but you cannot appreciate the delicacy of the + execution till you examine it closely, and discover that every line is + formed of grains of gold, almost imperceptibly fine. I am glad that the + “small sweet courtesies of life” have been hailed by one sentimental + writer at least. The minor virtues are not to be despised, even in + comparison with the most exalted. The common rose, I have often thought, + need not be ashamed of itself even in company with the finest exotics in a + hothouse; and I remember, that your brother, in one of his letters, + observed, that the common cock makes a very respectable figure, even in + the grand Parisian assembly of all the stuffed birds and beasts in the + universe. It is a glorious thing to have a friend who will jump into a + river, or down a precipice, to save one’s life: but as I do not intend to + tumble down precipices, or to throw myself into the water above half a + dozen times, I would rather have for my friends persons who would not + reserve their kindness wholly for these grand occasions, but who could + condescend to make me happy every day, and all day long, even by actions + not sufficiently sublime to be recorded in history or romance. + </p> + <p> + Do not infer from this that I think Leonora would hesitate to make <i>great</i> + sacrifices. I have had sufficient experience of her fortitude and active + courage of mind in the most trying circumstances, whilst many who talked + more stoutly, shrunk from <i>committing</i> themselves by actions. + </p> + <p> + Some maxim-maker says, that past misfortunes are good for nothing but to + be forgotten. I am not of his opinion: I think that they are good to make + us know our winter from our summer friends, and to make us feel for those + who have sustained us in adversity, that most pleasurable sensation of the + human mind—gratitude. + </p> + <p> + But I am straying unawares into the province of sentiment, where I am such + a stranger that I shall inevitably lose my way, especially as I am too + proud to take a guide. Lady Olivia —— may perhaps be very fond + of Leonora: and as she has every possible cause to be so, it is but + reasonable and charitable to suppose that she is: but I should never guess + it by her manner. She speaks of her friendship sometimes in the most + romantic style, but often makes observations upon <i>the enviable coolness + and imperturbability of Leonora’s disposition</i>, which convinces me that + she does not understand it in the least. Those who do not really feel, + always pitch their expressions too high or too low, as deaf people bellow, + or speak in a whisper. But I may be mistaken in my suspicions of Olivia; + for <i>to do the lady justice</i>, as Mrs. Candour would say, she is so + affected, that it is difficult to know what she really feels. Those who + put on rouge occasionally, are suspected of wearing it constantly, and + never have any credit for their natural colour; presently they become so + accustomed to common rouge, that, mistaking scarlet for pale pink, they + persist in laying on more and more, till they are like nothing human. + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XV. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + I have found it! I have found it! dear Gabrielle, rejoice with me! I have + solved the metaphysical problem, which perplexed me so cruelly, and now I + am once more at peace with myself. I have discovered the reason why I + cannot love Leonora as she merits to be loved—she has obliged me; + and the nature of obligation is such, that it supposes superiority on one + side, and consequently destroys the equality, the freedom, the ease, the + charm of friendship. Gratitude weighs upon one’s heart in proportion to + the delicacy of its feelings. To minds of an ordinary sort it may be + pleasurable, for with them it is sufficiently feeble to be calm; but in + souls of a superior cast, it is a poignant, painful sensation, because it + is too strong ever to be tranquil. In short, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Tis bliss but to a certain bound— + Beyond, ‘tis agony.” + </pre> + <p> + For my own part, the very dread that I shall not be thought to express + enough, deprives me of the power to speak or even to feel. Fear, you know, + extinguishes affection; and of all fears, the dread of not being + sufficiently grateful, operates the most powerfully. Thus sensibility + destroys itself.—Gracious Heaven! teach me to moderate mine. + </p> + <p> + In the nature of the obligation with which Leonora has oppressed my heart, + there is something peculiarly humiliating. Upon my return to this country, + I found the malignant genius of scandal bent upon destroying my + reputation. You have no idea of the miserable force of prejudice which + still prevails here. There are some women who emancipate themselves, but + then unluckily they are not in sufficient numbers to keep each other in + countenance in public. One would not choose to be confined to the society + of people who cannot go to court, though sometimes they take the lead + elsewhere. We are full half a century behind you in civilization; and your + revolution has, I find, afforded all our stiffened moralists <i>incontrovertible</i> + arguments against liberty of opinion or conduct in either sex. + </p> + <p> + I was thunderstruck when I saw the grave and repulsive faces of all my + female acquaintance. At first I attributed every thing that was strange + and disagreeable to English reserve, of which I had retained a + sufficiently formidable idea: but I presently found that there was some + other cause which kept all these nice consciences at a distance from my + atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + Would you believe it? I saw myself upon the point of being quite excluded + from good society. Leonora saved me from this imminent danger. + Voluntarily, and I must say nobly, if not gracefully, Leonora came forward + in my defence. Vanquishing her natural English timidity, she braved the + eyes, and tongues, and advice of all the prudes and old dowagers my + enemies, amongst whom I may count the superannuated Duchess her mother, + the proudest dowager now living. When I appeared in public with a + personage of Leonora’s unblemished reputation, scandal, much against her + will, was forced to be silent, and it was to be taken for granted that I + was, in the language of prudery, perfectly innocent. Leonora, to be + consistent in goodness, or to complete her triumph in the face of the + world, invited me to accompany her to the country.—I have now been + some weeks at this superb castle. Heaven is my witness that I came with a + heart overflowing with affection; but the painful, the agonizing sense of + humiliation mixed with my tenderest sentiments, and all became bitterness + insufferable. Oh, Gabrielle! you, and perhaps you alone upon earth, can + understand my feelings. Adieu!—pity me—I must not ask you a + single question about—I must not write the name for ever dear—What + am I saying? where are my promises?—Adieu!—Adieu! + </p> + <p> + Your unhappy + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XVI. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + July 16th. + </p> + <p> + As I have never thought it my duty in this mortal life to mourn for the + absurdities of my fellow-creatures, I should now enjoy the pleasure of + laughing at Lady Olivia, if my propensity were not checked by a serious + apprehension that she will injure Leonora’s happiness. From the most + generous motives, dear Leonora is continually anxious to soothe her mind, + to persuade and reason her into common sense, to re-establish her in + public opinion, and to make her happy. But I am convinced that Lady Olivia + never will have common sense, and consequently never can be happy. Twenty + times a day I wish her at the antipodes, for I dread lest Leonora should + be implicated in her affairs, and involved in her misery. + </p> + <p> + Last night this foolish woman, who unluckily is graced with all the power + of words, poured forth a fine declamation in favour of divorce. In vain + Leonora reasoned, expostulated, blushed. Lady Olivia cannot blush for + herself; and though both Mr. L—— and I were present, she + persisted with that vehemence which betrays personal interest in an + argument. I suspect that she is going to try to obtain a divorce from her + husband, that she may marry her lover. Consider the consequences of this + for Leonora.—Leonora to be the friend of a woman who will risk the + infamy of a trial at Doctors’ Commons! But Leonora says I am mistaken, and + that all this is only Olivia’s way of talking. I wish then, that, if she + does not intend to act like a fool, she would not talk like one. I agree + with the gentleman who said that a woman who begins by playing the fool, + always ends by playing the devil. Even before me, though I certainly never + solicit her confidence, Lady Olivia talks with the most imprudent openness + of her love affairs; not, I think, from ingenuousness, but from inability + to restrain herself. Begin what subject of conversation I will, as far + from Cupid as possible, she will bring me back again to him before I know + where I am. She has no ideas but on this one subject. Leonora, dear, + kind-hearted Leonora, attributes this to the temporary influence of a + violent passion, which she assures me Olivia will conquer, and that then + all her great and good qualities will, as if freed from enchantment, + re-assume their natural vigour. <i>Natural!</i>—there is nothing + natural about this sophisticated lady. I wish Leonora would think more of + herself, and less of other people. As to Lady Olivia’s excessive + sensibility, I have no faith in it. I do not think either the lover or the + passion so much to be feared for her, as the want of a lover and the habit + of thinking that it is necessary to be in love. . . . + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XVII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR L——, Paris, Hôtel de Courlande, + </p> + <p> + When you ask a countryman in England the way to the next town, he replies, + “Where do you come from, master?” and till you have answered this + question, no information can you obtain from him. You ask me what I know + of Lady Olivia ——. What is your reason for asking? Till you + have answered this question, hope for no information from me. Seriously, + Lady Olivia had left Paris before I arrived, therefore you cannot have my + judgment of her ladyship, which I presume is all you could depend upon. If + you will take hearsay evidence, and if you wish me to speak to general + character, I can readily satisfy you. Common reputed, loud and unanimous + in favour of her talents, beauty, and fashion: there is no resisting, I am + told, the fascination of her manners and conversation; <i>but</i> her + opinions are fashionably liberal, and her practice as liberal as her + theories. Since her separation from her husband, her lover is publicly + named. Some English friends plead in her favour platonic attachment: this, + like benefit of clergy, is claimed of course for a first offence: but Lady + Olivia’s Parisian acquaintance are not so scrupulous or so old-fashioned + as to think it an offence; they call it an <i>arrangement</i>, and to this + there can be no objection. As a French gentleman said to me the other day, + with an unanswerable shrug, “Tout le monde sait que R—— est + son amant; d’ailleurs, c’est la femme la plus aimable du monde.” + </p> + <p> + As to Lady Olivia’s friend, Mad. de P——, she sees a great deal + of company: her house is the resort of people of various descriptions; + ministers, foreigners, coquettes, and generals; in short, of all those who + wish, without scandal or suspicion, to intrigue either in love or + politics. Her assemblies are also frequented by a few of <i>l’ancien + régime</i>, who wish to be in favour with the present government. Mad. de + P——, of a noble family herself, and formerly much at court, + has managed matters so as to have regained all her husband’s confiscated + property, and to have acquired much influence with some of the leading men + of the day. In her manners and conversation there is an odd mixture of + frivolity and address, of the airs of coquetry and the jargon of + sentiment. She has the politeness of a French Countess, with <i>exquisite</i> + knowledge of the world and of <i>les convenances</i>, joined to that + freedom of opinion which marks the present times. In the midst of all + these inconsistencies, it is difficult to guess what her real character + may be. At first sight I should pronounce her to be a silly woman, + governed by vanity and the whim of the moment: but those who know her + better than I do, believe her to be a woman of considerable talents, + inordinately fond of power, and uniformly intent upon her own interest, + using coquetry only as a means to govern our sex, and frivolity as a mask + for her ambition. In short, Mad. de P—— is a perfect specimen + of the combination of an <i>intrigante</i> and an <i>élégante</i>, a + combination often found in Paris. Here women mingle politics and gallantry—men + mix politics and epicurism—which is the better mixture? + </p> + <p> + I have business of importance to my country to transact to-day, <i>therefore</i> + I am going to dine with the modern Apicius. Excuse me, my dear friend, if + I cannot stay at present to answer your questions about divorce. I must be + punctual. What sort of a negotiator can he make who is too late at a + minister’s dinner? Five minutes might change the face of Europe. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris. + </p> + <p> + My incomparable Olivia! your letters are absolutely divine. I am <i>maussade</i>, + I <i>vegetate</i>. I cannot be said to live the days when I do not hear + from you. Last Thursday I was disappointed of one of these dear letters, + and <i>Brave-et-tendre</i> told me frankly, that I was so little amiable + he should not have known me.—As to the rest, pardon me for not + writing punctually: I have been really in a chaos of business and + pleasure, and I do not know which fatigues most. But I am obliged to + attend the ministers every day, for the sake of my friends. + </p> + <p> + A thousand and a thousand thanks for your pictures of your English + friends: sketches by a masterly hand must be valuable, whatever the + subject. I would rather have the pictures than the realities. Your Helen + and your Lady Leonora are too good for me, and I pity you from my soul for + being shut up in that old castle. I suppose it is like an old castle in + Dauphiny, where I once spent a week, and where I was nearly frightened to + death by the flapping of the old tapestry behind my bed, and by the bats + which flew in through the broken windows. They say, however, that our <i>châteaux</i> + and yours are something different. Of this I have no clear conception. + </p> + <p> + I send you three comforters in your prison—a billet-doux, a new + novel, and a pattern of my sandal: a billet-doux from R—— says + every thing for itself; but I must say something for the new novel. + Zenobie, which I now send you, is the declared rival of Seraphin. Parties + have run high on both sides, and applications were made and inuendoes + discovered, and wit and sentiment came to close combat; and, as usual, + people talked till they did not understand themselves. For a fortnight, + wherever one went, the first words to be heard on entering every <i>salon</i> + were Seraphine and Zenobie.—Peace or war.—Mlle. Georges and + Mlle. Duchesnois were nothing to Seraphine and Zenobie. For Heaven’s sake + tell me which you prefer! But I fear they will be no more talked of before + I have your answer. To say the truth, I am tired of both heroines, for a + fortnight is too long to talk or think of any one thing. + </p> + <p> + I flatter myself you will like my sandals: they are my own invention, and + my foot really shows them to advantage. You know I might say, as Du P——said + of himself, “J’ai un pied dont la petitesse échappe à la vitesse de la + pensée.” I thought my poor friend Mad. Dumarais would have died with envy, + the other day, when I appeared in them at her ball, which, by-the-bye, was + in all its decorations as absurd and in as bad taste as usual. For the + most part these <i>nouveaux riches</i> lavish money, but can never + purchase taste or a sense of propriety. All is gold: but that is not + enough; or rather that is too much. In spite of all that both the Indies, + China, Arabia, Egypt, and even Paris can do for them, they will be ever + out of place, in the midst of their magnificence: they will never even + know how to ruin themselves nobly. They must live and die as they were + born, ridiculous. Now I would rather not exist than feel myself + ridiculous. But I believe no one living, not even le petit d’Heronville, + knows himself to be an object of ridicule. There are no looking-glasses + for the mind, and I question whether we should use them if there were. + D’Heronville is just as you left him, and as much my amusement as he used + to be yours. He goes on with an eternal galimatias of patriotism, with + such a self-sufficient air and decided tone! never suspecting that he says + only what other people make him say, and that he is listened to, only to + find out what <i>some people</i> think. Many will say before fools, what + they would not hazard before wise men; not considering that fools can + repeat as well as parrots. I once heard a great man remark, that the only + spies fit to be trusted are those who do not know themselves to be such; + who have no salary but what their vanity pays them, and who are employed + without being accredited. + </p> + <p> + But trève de politique!—My charming Olivia, I know, abhors politics, + as much as I detest metaphysics, from all lips or pens but hers. Now I + must tell you something of your friends here. + </p> + <p> + O—— talks nonsense as agreeably as ever, and dances as + divinely. ‘Tis a pity he cannot always dance, for then he would not ruin + himself at play. He wants me to get him a regiment—as if I had any + power!—or as if I would use it for this purpose, when I knew that my + interesting friend Mad. Q——would break her poor little heart + if he were to quit her. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mon Coeur</i> is as pretty as ever; but she is now in affliction. She + has lost her dear little dog Corisonde. He died suddenly; almost in her + arms! She will erect a monument to him in her charming <i>jardin Anglois</i>. + This will occupy her, and then “Time, the comforter”—Inimitable + Voltaire! + </p> + <p> + Our dear <i>Brillante</i> has just had a superb <i>hommage</i> from her + lover the commissary—a necklace and bracelets of the finest; pearls: + but she cannot wear them yet: her brother having died last week, she is in + deep mourning. This brother was not upon good terms with her. He never + forgave the divorce. He thought it a disgrace to have a sister <i>une + divorcée</i>; but he was full of prejudice, poor man, and he is dead, and + we need think no more of him or of his faults. + </p> + <p> + Our ci-devant chanoine, who married that little Meudon, is as miserable as + possible, and as ridiculous: for he is jealous of his young wife, and she + is a <i>franche-coquette</i>. The poor man looks as if he repented + sincerely of his errors. What a penitent a coquette can make of a husband! + Bourdaloue and Massillon would have tried their powers on this man’s heart + in vain. + </p> + <p> + Did I tell you that Mad. G—— is a second time divorced? But + this time it is her husband’s doing, not hers. This handsome husband has + spent all the immense fortune she brought him, and now procures a divorce + for <i>incompatibility of temper</i>, and is going to marry another lady, + richer than Mad. G——, and as great a fool. This system of + divorce, though convenient, is not always advantageous to women. However, + in one point of view, I wonder that the rigid moralists do not defend it, + as the only means of making a man in love with his own wife. A man + divorces; the law does not permit him to marry the same woman afterwards; + of course this prohibition makes him fall in love with her. Of this we + have many edifying examples besides Fanchette, who, though she was so + beautiful, and a tolerable actress, would never have drawn all Paris to + the Vaudeville if she had not been a <i>divorcée</i>, and if it had not + been known that her husband, who played the lover of the piece, was dying + to marry her again. Apropos, Mad. St. Germain is acting one of her own + romances, in the high sublime style, and threatens to poison herself for + love of her perjured inconstant—but it will not do. + </p> + <p> + Madame <i>la Grande</i> was near having a sad accident the other night: in + crossing the Pont-neuf her horses took fright; for there was a crowd and + <i>embarras</i>, a man having just drowned himself—not for love, but + for hunger. How many men, women, and children, do you think drowned + themselves in the Seine last year? Upwards of two hundred. This is really + shocking, and a stop should be put to it by authority. It absolutely makes + me shudder and reflect; but <i>après nous le déluge</i> was La Pompadour’s + maxim, and should be ours. + </p> + <p> + Mad. Folard <i>se coiffe en cheveux</i>, and Mad. Rocroix crowns herself + with roses, whilst all the world knows that either of them is old enough + to be my mother. In former days a woman could not wear flowers after + thirty, and was <i>bel esprit</i> or <i>dévote</i> at forty, for it was + thought bad taste to do otherwise. But now every body may be as young as + they please, or as ridiculous. Women have certainly gained by the new + order of things. + </p> + <p> + Our poor friend <i>Vermeille</i> se meurt de la poitrine—a victim to + tea and late hours. She is an interesting creature, and my heart bleeds + for her: she will never last till winter. + </p> + <p> + Do you know, it is said, we shall soon have no wood to burn. What can have + become of all our forests? People should inquire after them. The Venus de + Medici has at last found her way down the Seine. It is not determined yet + where to place her: but she is at Paris, and that is a great point gained + for her. You complained that the Apollo stands with his back so near the + wall, that there is no seeing half the beauties of his shoulders. If I + have any influence, Venus shall not be so served. I have been to see her. + She is certainly divine—but not French. I do not despair of seeing + her surpassed by our artists. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my adorable Olivia. I should have finished my letter yesterday; but + when I came home in the morning, expecting to have a moment sacred to you + and friendship, whom should I find established in an arm-chair in my + cabinet but our old Countess <i>Cidevant</i>. There was no retreat for me. + In the midst of my concentrated rage, I was obliged to advance and embrace + her, and there was an end of happiness for the day. The pitiless woman + kept me till it was even too late to dress, talking over her family + misfortunes; as if they were any thing to me. She wants to get her son + employed, but her pride will not let her pay her court properly, and she + wants me to do it for her. Not I, truly. I should shut my doors against + her but for the sake of her nephew <i>le roué</i>, who is really a pretty + young man. My angel, I embrace you tenderly. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XIX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + How melancholy to a feeling heart is the moment when illusion vanishes, + whether that illusion has been created by the magic of love or of + friendship! How many such moments, Gabrielle, has your unfortunate friend + been doomed to endure! Alas! when will treacherous fancy cease to throw a + deceitful brilliancy upon each new object! + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I am too delicate—but R——‘s note, enclosed in + your last, my Gabrielle, was unlike his former letters. It was not + passionate, it was only reasonable. A man who can reason is no longer in + love. The manner in which he speaks of divorce shocked me beyond + expression. Is it for him to talk of scruples when upon this subject I + have none? I own to you that my pride and my tenderness are sensibly + wounded. Is it for him to convince me that I am in the wrong? I shall not + be at ease till I hear from you again, my amiable friend: for my residence + here becomes insupportable. But a few short weeks are past since I fancied + Leonora an angel, and now she falls below the ordinary standard of + mortals. But a few short weeks are past since, in the full confidence of + finding in Leonora a second self, a second Gabrielle, I eagerly developed + to her my inmost soul; yet now my heart closes, I fear never more to open. + The sad conviction, that we have but few ideas, and no feelings in common, + stops my tongue when I attempt to speak, chills my heart when I begin to + listen. + </p> + <p> + Do you know, my Gabrielle, I have discovered that Leonora is inordinately + selfish? For all other faults I have charity; but selfishness, which has + none to give, must expect none. O divine sensibility, defend me from this + isolation of the heart! All thy nameless sorrows, all thy heart-rending + tortures, would I a thousand times rather endure. Leonora’s selfishness + breaks out perpetually; and, alas! it is of the most inveterate, incurable + kind: every thing that is immediately or remotely connected with self she + loves, and loves with the most provoking pertinacity. Her mother, her + husband, she adores, because they are her own; and even her sister’s + children, because she considers them, she says, as her own. All and every + possible portion of self she cherishes with the most sordid partiality. + All that touches these relations touches her; and every thing which is + theirs, or, in other words, which is hers, she deems excellent and sacred. + Last night I just hazarded a word of ridicule upon some of the obsolete + prejudices of that august personage, that Duchess of old tapestry, her + still living ancestor. I wish, Gabrielle, you had seen Leonora’s + countenance. Her colour rose up to her temples, her eyes lightened with + indignation, and her whole person assumed a dignity, which might have + killed a presumptuous lover, or better far, might have enslaved him for + life. What folly to waste all this upon such an occasion! But selfishness + is ever blind to its real interests. Leonora is so bigoted to this old + woman, that she is already in mind an old woman herself. She fancies that + she traces a resemblance to her mother, and of course to dear self in her + infant, and she looks upon it with such doting eyes, and talks to it with + such exquisite tones of fondness, as are to me, who know the source from + which they proceed, quite ridiculous and disgusting. An infant, who has no + imaginable merit, and, to impartial eyes, no charms, she can love to this + excess from no motive but pure <i>egotism</i>. Then her husband—but + this subject I must reserve for another letter. I am summoned to walk with + him this moment. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, charming Gabrielle, + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XX. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR L——, Paris, 180—. + </p> + <p> + Enclosed I send you, according to your earnest desire, Cambacérès’ + reflections upon the intended new law of divorce. Give me leave to ask why + you are so violently interested upon this occasion? Do you envy France + this blessing? Do you wish that English husbands and wives should have the + power of divorcing each other at pleasure for <i>incompatibility of temper</i>? + And have you calculated the admirable effect this would produce upon the + temper both of the weaker and the stronger sex? To bear and forbear would + then be no longer necessary. Every happy pair might quarrel and part at a + moment’s notice—at a year’s notice at most. And their children? The + wisdom of Solomon would be necessary to settle the just division of the + children. I have this morning been attending a court of law to hear a + famous trial between two husbands: the abdicated lord a ci-devant noble, + and the reigning husband a ci-devant grand-vicaire, who has <i>reformed</i>. + Each party claimed a right to the children by the first marriage, for the + children were minors entitled to large fortunes. The <i>reformed</i> + grand-vicaire pleaded his own cause with astonishing assurance, amidst the + discountenancing looks, murmurs, and almost amidst the groans of + disapprobation from the majority of the auditors. His powers of impudence, + however, failed him at last. I sat on the bench behind him, and saw that + his ears had the grace to blush. After another hearing, this cause, which + had lasted four years, was decided; and the first husband and real father + was permitted to have the guardianship of his own children. During the + four years’ litigation, the friends of the parties, from the grandmother + downwards, were all at irreconcileable variance. What became of the + children all this time? Their mother was represented during the trial as + she deserved to be, as a wretch void of shame and gratitude. The father + was universally pitied, though his rival painted him as a coward, who + during the revolution had left his children to save himself by flight; and + as a fool, who had left his wife to the care of a profligate + grand-vicaire. Divorce is not countenanced by opinion in Paris, though + permitted by law. With a few exceptions in extraordinary cases, I have + observed that <i>les divorcées</i> are not received into good society. + </p> + <p> + To satiate your curiosity, I send you all the papers that have been + written lately on this subject, of which you will find that of Cambacérès + the best. The wits say that he is an impartial judge. I presume you want + these pamphlets for some foolish friend; for yourself you can never want + them, blessed as you are with such a wife as Lady Leonora L—. I am + not surprised that profligate men should wish for freedom of divorce, + because it would save them damages in Doctors’ Commons: but you rather + astonish me—if a wise man should be astonished at any thing in these + days—by assuring me that you have lately heard this system + eloquently defended by a female philosopher. What can women expect from it + but contempt? Next to polygamy, it would prove the most certain method of + destroying the domestic happiness of the sex, as well as their influence + and respectability in society. But some of the dear creatures love to talk + of what they do not understand, and usually show their eloquence to the + greatest advantage, by taking the wrong side of a question. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXI. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + From selfishness to jealousy there is but one step, or rather there is + none; for jealousy of a certain sort is but selfishness in another form. + How different this passion as I have felt it, and as I see it shown! In + some characters it is the symptom of amiable and exquisite sensibility; in + others of odious coldness and contraction of heart. In some of our sex it + is, you know, my Gabrielle, a delicate fear, a tender anxiety, a proof of + ardent passion; in others it is a mere love of power, a disgusting + struggle for the property of a heart, an absurd assertion of rights and + prerogatives. Surely no prejudice of education or institution can be more + barbarous than that which teaches a wife that she has an indefeasible and + exclusive right both to the affections and the fidelity of her husband. I + am astonished to hear it avowed by any woman who has the slightest + pretensions to delicacy of sentiment, or liberality of mind. I should + expect to find this vulgar prejudice only among the downright dames, who + talk of <i>my good man</i>, and lay a particular emphasis on the + possessive pronoun <i>my</i>; who understand literally, and expect that + their spouses should adhere punctually to every coarse article of our + strange marriage vow. + </p> + <p> + In certain points of view, my Gabrielle, jealousy is undoubtedly the + strongest proof of an indelicate mind. Yet, if I mistake not, the + delicate, the divine Leonora, is liable to this terrestrial passion. + Yesterday evening, as I was returning from a <i>stroll</i> in the park + with Mr. L——, we met Leonora; and methought she looked + embarrassed at meeting us. Heaven knows there was not the slightest + occasion for embarrassment, and I could not avoid being surprised at such + weakness, I had almost said folly, in a woman of Leonora’s sense, + especially as she knows how my heart is attached. In the first moments of + our intimacy my confidence was unbounded, as it ever is in those I love. + Aware as I was of the light in which the prejudices of her education and + her country make her view such connexions, yet I scrupled not, with the + utmost candour, to confess the unfortunate attachment which had ruled my + destiny. After this confidence, do not suspicion and jealousy on her part + appear strange? Were Mr. L—— and I shut up for life in the + same prison, were we left together upon a desert island, were we alone in + the universe, I could never think of him. And Leonora does not see this! + How the passions obscure and degrade the finest understandings! But + perhaps I do her injustice, and she felt nothing of what her countenance + expressed. It is certain, however, that she was silent for some moments + after she joined us, from what cause she knows best—so was Mr. L——, + I suppose from English awkwardness—so was I, from pure astonishment. + At length, in pity of Leonora, I broke the silence. I had recourse to the + beauties of nature. + </p> + <p> + “What a heavenly evening!” said I. “We have been listening to the songs of + the birds, enjoying this fresh breeze of nature’s perfumes.” Leonora said + something about the superiority of nature’s perfumes to those of art; and + observed, “how much more agreeable the smell of flowers appears in the + open air than in confined rooms!” Whilst she spoke she looked at her + husband, as she continually does for assent and approbation. He assented, + but apparently without knowing what he was saying; and only by one of his + English monosyllables. I alone was at ease. + </p> + <p> + “Can any thing be more beautiful,” continued I, looking back, “than the + soft mellow foliage of those woods, and the exquisite tints of their rich + colouring? What delicious melancholy such an evening spreads over the + heart!—what reflections!—what recollections!—Oh, + Leonora, look at the lights upon that mountain, and the deep shadows upon + the lake below. Just such scenes have I admired, by such have I been + entranced in Switzerland.” + </p> + <p> + Leonora put her arm within mine—she seemed to have no objection to + my thoughts going back to Switzerland—I sighed—she pressed my + hand affectionately—I wiped the starting tear from my eye. Mr. L—— + looked at me with something like surprise whilst I repeated involuntarily, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you, + For morn is approaching your charms to restore, + Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt’ring with dew.” + </pre> + <p> + I paused, recollecting myself, struck with <i>the ridicule</i> of + repeating verses, and of indulging feelings in which no one perhaps + sympathized. + </p> + <p> + “Those are beautiful lines,” said Leonora: “that poem has always been a + favourite of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “And of mine, also,” said Mr. L——. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer Beattie’s Hermit to all other hermits,” said Leonora. + </p> + <p> + I was not in a mood calmly to discuss with her a point of criticism—I + walked on in reverie: but in this I was not allowed to indulge. Mr. L——asked + if I could not recollect some more of the Hermit—I pleaded the worst + memory in the world—a memory that can never recollect any poem + perfectly by rote, only the touches of genius or sensibility that strike + me—and those are so few! + </p> + <p> + “But in this poem there are so many,” said Leonora. I am sure she insisted + only to please her husband, and pleaded against her real feelings, + purposely to conceal them. He persisted in his request, with more warmth + than usual. I was compelled to rouse myself from my reverie, and to call + back my distant thoughts. I repeated all that I could recollect of the + poem. Mr. L—— paid me a profusion of compliments upon the + sweetness of my voice, and my taste in reciting. He was pleased to find + that my manner and tones gave an Italian expression to English poetry, + which to him was a peculiar charm. It reminded him of some Signora, whom + he had known at Florence. This was the first time I had learned that he + had been abroad. I was going to explore the foreign field of conversation + which he thus opened; but just at that moment Leonora withdrew her arm + from mine, and I fancied that she coloured. This might be only my fancy, + or the natural effect of her stooping to gather a flower. We were now + within sight of the castle. I pointed to one of the turrets over a Gothic + window, upon which the gleams of the setting sun produced a picturesque + effect; my glove happened to be off, and Leonora unluckily saw that her + husband’s eyes were fixed upon my arm, instead of the turret to which I + was pointing. ‘Twas a trifle which I never should have noticed, had she + not forced it upon my attention. She actually turned pale. I had the + presence of mind not to put on my glove. + </p> + <p> + I must observe more accurately; I must decide whether this angelic Leonora + is, or is not susceptible of the mortal passion ycleped jealousy. I + confess my curiosity is awakened. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my ever amiable Gabrielle. OLIVIA. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + When the passions are asleep we are apt to fancy they are dead. I verily + thought that curiosity was dead within me, it had lain so long dormant, + while stronger and tenderer sentiments waked in full activity; but now + that absence and distance from their object lull them to temporary repose, + the vulgar subordinate passions are roused, and take their turn to reign. + My curiosity was so strongly excited upon the subject of Leonora’s + jealousy, that I could not rest, without attempting to obtain + satisfaction. Blame me not, dearest Gabrielle, for in my situation you + would inevitably have done the same, only that you would have done it with + more address; with that peculiar, inimitable address, which I envy above + all your accomplishments. But address is a delicate native of France, and + though it may now and then exist as a stranger, I doubt whether it can + ever be naturalized in our rude climate. All the attempts I have made are, + however, encouraging enough—you shall judge. My object was, to + ascertain the existence or non-existence of Leonora’s jealousy. I set + about it with a tolerably careless assurance, and followed up the hint + which accident had thrown out for my ingenuity to work upon. You remember, + or at least I remember, that Leonora withdrew her arm from mine, and + stooped to gather a flower at the moment when her husband mentioned + Florence, and the resemblance of my voice to that of some Italian charmer. + The next day I happened to play some of my sweetest Italian airs, and to + accompany them with my voice. The music-room opens into the great hall: + Leonora and her husband were in the hall, talking to some visitors. The + voices were soon hushed, as I expected, by the magic sounds, but, what I + did not expect, Leonora was the first who led the way into the music-room. + Was this affectation? These <i>simple</i> characters sometimes baffle all + the art of the decipherer. I should have been clear that it was + affectation, had Leonora been prodigal of compliments on my performance; + but she seemed only to listen for her own pleasure, and left it to Mr. L—— + to applaud. Whilst I was preparing to play over again the air which + pleased him most, the two little nephews came running to beg Leonora would + follow them to look at some trifle, some coloured shadow, upon the + garden-wall, I think they said: she let them lead her off, leaving <i>us</i> + together. This did not seem like jealousy. I was more at a loss than ever, + and determined to make fresh and more decisive experiments. Curiosity, you + know, is heightened by doubt. To cure myself of curiosity, it is necessary + therefore to put my mind out of doubt. Admire the practical application of + metaphysics! But metaphysics always make you yawn. Adieu for to-day. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXIII. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + Dear Margaret, an uncle of mine, who, ever since I can remember, seemed to + me cut out for an old bachelor, writes me word that he is just going to be + married, and that I must grace his nuptials. I cannot refuse, for he has + always been very kind to me, and we have no right to cut people out for + old bachelors. That I am sorry to leave Leonora, it is superfluous to tell + you; but this is the melancholy part of the business, on which I make it a + principle to dwell as little as possible. + </p> + <p> + Lady Olivia must be heartily glad that I am going, for I have been + terribly troublesome to her by my gaiety and my <i>simplicity</i>. I shall + lose all the pleasure I had promised myself in seeing the <i>dénouement</i> + of the comedy of <i>The Sentimental Coquette</i>; or, <i>The Heroine + unmasked</i>. + </p> + <p> + I made Leonora almost angry with me this morning, by a hint or two I gave + upon this subject. She looked so very grave, that I was afraid of my own + thoughts, and I dared not explain myself farther. Intimate as I am with + her, there are points on which I am sure that she would never make me her + confidante. I think that she has not been in her usual good spirits + lately; and though she treats Olivia with uniform kindness, and betrays + not, even to my watchful eyes, the slightest symptom of jealousy, yet I + suspect that she sees what is going forward, and she suffers in secret. + Now, if she would let me explain myself, I could set her heart at ease, by + the assurance that Mr. L—— is only acting a part. If her + affection for her husband did not almost blind her, she would have as much + penetration as I have—which you will allow, my dear Margaret, is + saying a great deal. + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXIV. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + Congratulate me, my charming Gabrielle, upon being delivered from the + unfeeling gaiety of that friend of Leonora, that Helen of whom I formerly + sent you a too flattering portrait. Her departure relieves me from many + painful sensations. Dissonance to a musical ear is not more horrid, than + want of harmony between characters, to the soul of sensibility. Between + Helen and me there was a perpetual discord of ideas and sentiments, which + fatigued me inexpressibly. Besides, I began to consider her as a spy upon + my actions. But there, I believe, I did her injustice, for she was too + much occupied with her own trifling thoughts to have any alarming powers + of observation. + </p> + <p> + Since her departure we have been very gay. Yesterday we had a large + company at dinner; some of the neighbouring families, whom I expected to + find mere country visitors, that were come a dozen miles to show their + antediluvian finery, retire half an hour after dinner, spoil coffee with + cream, say nothing, but at their appointed hours rise, ring for their + superb carriages, and go home by moonlight. However, to my astonishment, I + found myself in a society of well-bred, well-informed persons; the women + ready to converse, and the men, even after dinner, not impatient to get + rid of them. Two or three of the company had travelled, and I was glad to + talk to them of Italy, Switzerland, and France. Mr. L—— I knew + would join in this conversation. I discovered that he came to Florence + just as I was leaving it. I was to have been at our ambassador’s one + evening when he was there; but a headache prevented me. These little + coincidences, you know, my Gabrielle, draw people closer together. I + remember to have heard of a Mr. L—— at Florence, who was a + passionate admirer of our sex. He was then unmarried. I little thought + that this was the same person. Beneath a cold exterior these Englishmen + often conceal a wondrous quantity of enthusiasm—volcanoes under + snow. Curiosity, dear indefatigable curiosity, supported me through the + labour of clearing away the snow, and I came to indubitable traces of + unextinguished and unextinguishable fire. The character of L—— + is quite different from what I had imagined it to be. It is an <i>excellent + study</i>. We had a long and interesting conversation upon national + manners, especially upon those of the females of all nations. He concluded + by quoting the words of your friend M. le Vicomte de Segur, “If I were + permitted to choose, I should prefer a French woman for my friend, an + English woman for my wife, and a Polish lady for my mistress.” + </p> + <p> + From this, it seems, that I am mistaken about the Italian signora, or else + Mr. L—— has an enlarged charity for the graces of all nations.—More + subject for curiosity. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, before the company separated, we were standing on the + steps of the great hall, looking at a fine effect of moonlight, and I + pointed out the shadow of the arches of a bridge. From moonlight we went + on to lamplight, and many pretty things were said about art and nature. A + gentleman, who had just returned from Paris, talked of the reflection of + the lamps in the Seine, which one sees in crossing the Pont-Royal, and + which, as he said, appear like a colonnade of fire. As soon as he had + finished <i>prosing</i> about his colonnade, I turned to Mr. L——, + and asked if he remembered the account which Coxe the traveller gives of + the Polish princess Czartoryski’s charming <i>fête champêtre</i> and the + illuminated rustic bridge of one arch, the reflection of which in the + water was so strong as to deceive the eye, and to give the whole the + appearance of a brilliant circle suspended in the air. Mr. L—— + seemed enchanted with my description, and eagerly said that he would some + night have a bridge in his improvements, illuminated, that <i>we</i> + (half-gallant Englishman!) might see the effect. I carelessly replied, + that probably it would have a good effect: I would then have talked on + other subjects to the lady next me: but an Englishman cannot suddenly + change the course of his conversation. Mr. L—— still persisted + in asking a variety of questions about this Polish fête. I excused myself; + for if you satisfy curiosity you are no longer sublime; besides it is so + pedantic to remember <i>accurately</i> any thing one meets with in books. + I assured him that I had forgotten the particulars. + </p> + <p> + My countrymen are wondrous persevering, when once roused. This morning, + when I came down to breakfast, I found Mr. L—— with a volume + of Coxe’s travels in his hand. He read aloud to Leonora the whole + description of the illuminated gardens, and of a Turkish tent of curious + workmanship, and of a pavilion, supported by pillars, ornamented with + wreaths of flowers. Leonora’s birthday is some time in the next month; and + her husband, probably to prevent any disagreeable little feelings, + proposed that the <i>fête champêtre</i>, he designed to give, should be on + that day. She seemed rather to discourage the thing. Now to what should + this indifference be attributed? To jealousy I should positively decide, + but that two reasons oppose this idea, and keep me in doubt. She was not + within hearing at the moonlight conference, and knew nothing of my having + mentioned the Polish fête, or of her husband’s having proposed to + illuminate the bridge for me. Besides, I remember, the other day when she + was reading the new French novel you sent me, she expressed great dislike + to the sentimental fêtes, which the lover prepares for his mistress. I + would give more than I dare tell you, my dear Gabrielle, to be able to + decide whether she is jealous of me or not. But where was I? Mr. L——, + who had set his heart upon the <i>fête champêtre</i>, persisted, and + combatted her antipathy by reason. Foolish man! he should have tried + compliments, or caresses—if I had not been present. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Leonora,” said he, “I think you carry your dislike to these + things too far. They are more according to the French than to the English + taste, I know; but we should not be influenced by national prejudice. I + detest the ostentation and the affectation of sentiment as much as you + can; but where the real feeling exists, every mode of showing kindness is + agreeable. You must let us have this little fête on your birthday. Besides + the pleasure it will give me, I really think it is useful to mix ideas of + affection with amusement.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled most graciously, and replied, that she would with pleasure + accept of kindness in any form from him. In short, she was willing to have + the fête, when it was clearly explained that she was to be the object of + it. Is not this proof positive of jealousy? And yet my curiosity is not + thoroughly satisfied. I must go on; for Leonora’s sake I must go on. When + I have been assured of the truth, I shall know how to conduct myself; and + you, who know my heart, will do me the justice to believe, that when I am + convinced of my friend’s weakness, I shall spare it with the most delicate + caution: but till I am convinced, I am in perpetual danger of blundering + by my careless, inadvertent innocence. You smile, Gabrielle; dear + malicious Gabrielle, even in your malice you are charming! Adieu! Pray for + the speedy extinction of my curiosity. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXV. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + You say, my dearest mother, that of late, my letters have been more + constrained and less cheerful than usual, and you conjure me not to + conceal from you any thing which may concern my happiness. I have ever + found you my best and most indulgent friend, and there is not a thought or + feeling of my mind, however weak or foolish, that I desire to conceal from + you. No one in this world is more—is so much interested in my + happiness; and, in every doubtful situation, I have always been accustomed + to apply to your unerring judgment for assistance. Your strength of mind, + your enlightened affection, would support and direct me, would at once + show me how I ought to act, and inspire me with courage and fortitude + sufficient to be worthy of your esteem and of my own. At no period of my + life, not even when my heart first felt the confused sensations of a + passion that was new to it, did I ever want or wish for a friend so much + as at this instant: and yet I hesitate whether I ought to ask even your + advice, whether I ought to indulge myself in speaking of my feelings even + to my mother. I refrained from giving the slightest intimation of them to + my dear Helen, though she often led to this subject, and seemed vexed by + my reserve. I thought it not right to accept of her sympathy. From her + kindness I had every consolation to expect, but no assistance from her + counsels, because she does not understand Mr. L——‘s character, + and I could plainly perceive that she had an erroneous idea so fixed in + her fancy, as to prevent her seeing things in their true light. I am + afraid of imputing blame where I most wish to avoid it: I fear to excite + unjust suspicions; I dread that if I say the whole, you will imagine that + I mean much more than I say. + </p> + <p> + I have not been quite well lately, and my mind probably is more apt to be + alarmed than it would be, if my health were stronger. All that I + apprehend, may exist merely in my own distempered imagination. Do not then + suppose others are to blame, when perhaps I only am in fault. I have for + some time past been dissatisfied with myself, and have had reason to be + so: I do not say this from any false humility; I despise that affectation; + but I say it with a sincere desire that you may assist me to cure myself + of a weakness, which, if it were to grow upon my mind, must render me + miserable, and might destroy the happiness of the person I love best upon + earth. You know that I am not naturally or habitually of a suspicious + temper, but I am conscious of having lately felt a disposition to + jealousy. I have been spoiled by the excessive attention, which my husband + paid to me in the first year of our marriage. + </p> + <p> + You warned me not to fancy that he could continue always a lover. I did + not, at least I tried not to expect such an impossibility. I was prepared + for the change, at least I thought I was: yet now the time, the inevitable + time is come, and I have not the fortitude to bear it as I ought. If I had + never known what it was to possess his love, I might perhaps be content + with his friendship. If I could feel only friendship for him, I should + now, possibly, be happy. I know that I have the first place in his esteem: + I do believe—I should be miserable indeed if I did not believe—that + I have the first place in his affection. But this affection is certainly + different from what it once was. I wish I could forget the difference. No: + I retract that wish; however painful the comparison, the recollection of + times that are past is delightful to my heart. Yet, my dear mother, if + such times are never to return, it would be better for me to forget that + they have ever been. It would be wiser not to let my imagination recur to + the past, which could then tend only to render me discontented with the + present and with the future. The FUTURE! how melancholy that word sounds + to me! What a dreary length of prospect it brings to my view! How young I + am, how many years may I have to live, and how little motive have I left + in life! Those which used to act most forcibly upon me, have now scarcely + power to move my mind. The sense of duty, it is true, raises me to some + degree of exertion; I hope that I do not neglect the education of the two + children whom my poor sister bequeathed to my care. When my mind was at + ease they were my delight; but now I feel that I am rather interrupted + than interested by their childish gaiety and amusements. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid that I am growing selfish, and I am sure that I have become + shamefully indolent. I go on with certain occupations every day from + habit, not from choice; my mind is not in them. I used to flatter myself + that I did many things, from a sense of duty and of general benevolence, + which I am convinced were done merely from a particular wish to please, + and to make myself more and more beloved by the object of my fondest + affection. Disappointed in this hope, I sink into indolence, from which + the desire to entertain my friends is not sufficient to rouse me. Helen + has been summoned away; but I believe I told you that Mr. and Mrs. F——, + whose company is peculiarly agreeable to my taste, and Lady M—— + and her amiable daughters, and your witty friend ——, are with + us. In such society I am ashamed of being stupid; yet I cannot contribute + to the amusement of the company, and I feel surprised at their animation + and sprightliness. It seems as if I was looking on at dances, without + hearing any music. Sometimes I fear that my silence should be observed, + and then I begin to talk, without well knowing what I am saying. I confine + myself to the most common-place subjects, and hesitate, from the dread of + saying something quite foreign to the purpose. What must Mr. L—— + think of my stupidity? But he does not, I believe, perceive it: he is so + much occupied with—with other objects. I am glad that he does not + see all that passes in my mind, for he might despise me if he knew that I + am so miserable. I did not mean to use so strong an expression; but now it + is written, I will not blot it out, lest you should fancy something worse + than the reality. I am not, however, yet so weak as to be seriously <i>miserable</i> + when I have no real cause to be so. The truth is ——. Now you + know this phrase is a tacit confession that all that has been said before + is false. The real truth is ——. By my prefacing so long you + may be sure that I have reason to be ashamed of this real truth’s coming + out. The real truth is, that I have been so long accustomed to be the + first and <i>only</i> object of Mr. L——‘s thoughts, that I + cannot bear to see him think of any thing else. Yes, <i>things</i> I can + bear; but not <i>persons</i>—female persons; and there is one person + here, who is so much more agreeable and entertaining than I am, that she + engrosses very naturally almost all his attention. I am not <i>envious</i>, + I am sure; for I could once admire all Lady Olivia’s talents and + accomplishments, and no one could be more charmed than I was, with her + fascinating manners and irresistible powers of pleasing; but when those + irresistible powers may rob me of the heart of my beloved husband—of + the whole happiness of my life—how can I admire them? All I can + promise is to preserve my mind from the meanness of suspicion. I can do my + rival justice. I can believe, and entreat you to believe, that she does + not wish to be my rival: that she is perfectly innocent of all design to + injure me, and that she is not aware of the impression she has made. I, + who know every change of Mr. L——‘s countenance, every + inflexion of his voice, every turn of his mind, can see too plainly what + she cannot discern. I should indeed have thought, that no woman, whom he + distinguished or preferred in any degree, could avoid perceiving it, his + manner is so expressive, so flattering; but perhaps this appears so only + to me—a woman, who does not love him, may see things very + differently. Lady Olivia can be in no danger, because her heart, + fortunately for me, is prepossessed in favour of another; and a woman + whose heart is occupied by one object is absolutely blind, as I well know, + to all others. With this security I ought to be satisfied; for I believe + no one inspires a lasting passion, without sharing it. + </p> + <p> + I am summoned to give my opinion about certain illuminations and + decorations for a <i>fête champêtre</i> which Mr. L—— is so + kind as to give in honour of my birthday—just at the time I am + complaining of his neglect!—No, dear mother, I hope I have not + complained of <i>him</i>, but of <i>myself</i>:—and it is your + business to teach your daughter to be more reasonable. Write soon and + fully to + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXVI. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + This fine <i>fête champêtre</i> is over.—Expect no description of it + from me, Gabrielle, for I am horribly out of humour. The whole pleasure of + the evening was destroyed by the most foolish circumstance imaginable. + Leonora’s jealousy is now evident to more eyes than mine. No farther doubt + upon the subject can remain. My curiosity is satisfied; but I am now left + to reproach myself, for having gone so far to ascertain what I ought to + have taken for granted. All these good English wives are jealous; so + jealous, that no one, who has any pretensions to beauty, wit, or <i>amiability</i>, + can live with them. They can have no <i>society</i> in our sense of the + word; of course they must live shut up in their own dismal houses, with + their own stupid families, the faithful husband and wife sitting opposite + to each other in their own chimney corners, yawning models of constancy. + And this they call virtue! How the meanest vices usurp the name of virtue! + Leonora’s is a jealousy of the most illiberal and degrading species; a + jealousy of the temper, not of the heart. She is too cold to feel the + passion of love.—She never could be in love; of that I am certain. + She is too reasonable, too prudish. Besides, to imagine that she could be + in love with her own husband, and after eighteen months’ marriage—the + thing is absurd! the thing is impossible! No, she deceives herself or him, + or both, if she pretends that her jealousy arises from love, from what you + and I, Gabrielle, understand by the word. Passion, and passion only, can + plead a just excuse of its own excesses. Were Leonora in love, I could + pardon her jealousy. But now I despise it. Yes, with all her high + reputation, and <i>imposing</i> qualities, I must think of her with + contempt. And now that I have given vent to my feelings, with that freedom + in which I ever indulge myself in writing to you, my amiable Gabrielle, + chosen friend of my heart, I will compose myself, and give you a rational + account of things. + </p> + <p> + You know that I am said to have some taste. Leonora makes no pretensions + to any. Wishing, I suppose, that her fête should be as elegant as + possible, she consulted me about all the arrangements and decorations. It + was I that did every thing. My skill and taste were admired by the whole + company, and especially by Mr. L——. He was in remarkably good + spirits at the commencement of the evening; quite gay and gallant: he + certainly paid me a great deal of attention, and it was natural he should; + for besides being his guest, I was undoubtedly the most elegant woman + present. My fame had gone abroad; I found that I was the object of general + attention. To this I have been tolerably well accustomed all my life; + enough at least to prevent me from giving any visible sign of being moved + by admiration in whatever form it comes; whether in the polite foreign + glance, or the broad English stare. The starers enjoyed their pleasure, + and I mine: I moved and talked, I smiled or was pensive, as though I saw + them not; nevertheless the homage of their gaze was not lost upon me. You + know, my charming Gabrielle, one likes to observe the <i>sensation</i> one + produces amongst new people. The incense that I perceived in the + surrounding atmosphere was just powerful enough to affect my nerves + agreeably: that languor which you have so often reproached me for + indulging in the company of what we call <i>indifferents</i> gradually + dissipated; and, as poor R—— used to say of me, I came from + behind my cloud like the sun in all its glory. I was such as you have seen + me, Gabrielle, in my best days, in my best moments, in my very best style. + I wonder what would excite me to such a waste of powers. L—— + seemed inspired too: he really was quite agreeable, and showed me off + almost as well as R—— himself could have done. I had no idea + that he had this species of talent. You will never know of what my + countrymen are capable, for you are out of patience with the statues the + first half hour: now it takes an amazing time to animate them; but they + can be waked into life, and I have a pride in conquering difficulties.—There + were more men this night, in proportion to the women, than one usually + sees in English company, consequently it was more agreeable. I was + surrounded by an admiring audience, and my conversation of course was + sufficiently general to please all, and sufficiently particular to + distinguish the man whom I wished to animate. In all this you will say + there was nothing to put one out of humour, nothing very mortifying:—but + stay, my fair philosopher, do not judge of the day till you see its end.—Leonora + was so hid from my view by the crowd of adorers, that I really did not + discern her, or suspect her jealousy. I was quite natural; I thought only + of myself; I declined all invitations to dance, declaring that it was so + long since I had tried an English country dance, that I dared not expose + my awkwardness. French country dances were mentioned, but I preferred + conversation. At last L—— persecuted me to try a Polish dance + with him—a multitude of voices overpowered me. I have not the talent + which some of my countrywomen possess in such perfection, of being + obstinate about trifles. When I can refuse with grace, ‘tis well; but when + that is no longer possible, it is my principle, or my weakness, to yield. + I was surprised to find that L——danced admirably. I became + animated. You know how dancing animates me, when I have a partner who <i>can</i> + dance—a thing not very common in this country. We ended by <i>waltzing</i>, + first in the Polish, and afterwards in the Parisian manner. I certainly + surpassed myself—I flew, I was borne upon the wings of the wind, I + floated on the notes of the music. Animated or languid in every gradation + of grace and sentiment, I abandoned myself to the inspiration of the + moment; I was all soul, and the spectators were all admiration. To you, my + Gabrielle, I may speak thus of myself without vanity: you know the + sensation I was accustomed to produce at Paris; you may guess then what + the effect must be here, where such a style of dancing has all the + captivation of novelty. Had I doubted that my <i>success</i> was complete, + I should have been assured of it by the faces of some prudes amongst the + matrons, who affected to think that the waltz was <i>too much</i>. As L—— + was leading, or rather supporting me to my seat, for I was quite + exhausted, I overheard a gentleman, who was at no great distance from the + place where Leonora was standing, whisper to his neighbour, “Le Valse + extrême est la volupté permise.” I fancy Leonora overheard these words, as + well as myself, for my eyes met hers at this instant, and she coloured, + and directly looked another way. L—— neither heard nor saw any + thing of all this: he was intent upon procuring me a seat; and an + Englishman can never see or think of two things at a time. A few minutes + afterwards, whilst he was fanning me, a young awkward peasant girl, quite + a stranger in this country, came up to me, and dropping her novice curtsy, + said, “Here’s a ring, my lady, I found on the grass; they tell me it is + yours, my lady!” + </p> + <p> + “No, my good girl, it is not mine,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “It is Lady Leonora’s,” said Mr. L——. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of her name Leonora came forward. + </p> + <p> + The girl looked alternately at us. + </p> + <p> + “Can you doubt,” cried Colonel A——, “which of these ladies is + Mr. L——‘s wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, sir; this is she, <i>to be sure</i>,” said the girl, pointing to + me. + </p> + <p> + What there was in the girl’s accent, or in L——‘s look, when + she pronounced the words, or in mine, or in all three together, I cannot + exactly describe; but Leonora felt it. She turned as pale as death. I + looked as unconscious as I could. L—— went on fanning me, + without seeing his wife’s change of countenance. Leonora—would you + believe it?—sank upon a bench behind us, and fainted. How her + husband started, when he felt her catch by his arm as she fell! He threw + down the fan, left me, ran for water—“Oh, Lady Leonora! Lady Leonora + is ill!” exclaimed every voice. The consternation was wonderful. They + carried her ladyship to a spot where she could have free air. I was + absolutely in an instant left alone, and seemingly as much forgotten as if + I had never existed! I was indeed so much astonished, that I could not + stir from the place where I stood; till, recollecting myself, I pushed my + way through the crowd, and came in view of Leonora just as she opened her + eyes. As soon as she came to herself, she made an effort to stand, saying + that she was quite well again, but that she would go into the house and + repose herself for a few minutes. As she rose, a hundred arms were offered + at once to her assistance. She stepped forward; and, to my surprise, and I + believe to the surprise of every body else, took mine, made a sign to her + husband not to follow us, and walked quickly towards the house. Her woman, + with a face of terror, met us, as we were going into Lady Leonora’s + apartment, with salts and hartshorn, and I know not what in her hands. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well, quite well again; I do not want any thing; I do not want + any thing. I do not want you, Mason,” said Leonora. “Lady Olivia is so + good as to assist me. I am come in only to rest for a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + The woman gave me an evil look, and left the room. Never did I wish any + thing more than that she should have stayed. I was absolutely so + embarrassed, so distressed, when I found myself alone with Leonora, that I + knew not what to say. I believe I began with a sentence about the night + air, that was very little to the purpose. The sight of some baby-linen + which the maid had been making suggested to me something which I thought + more appropriate. + </p> + <p> + “My dear creature!” said I, “why will you fatigue yourself. so terribly, + and stand so much and so long in your situation?” + </p> + <p> + Leonora neither accepted nor rejected my interpretation of what had + passed. She made no reply; but fixed her eyes upon me as if she would have + read my very soul. Never did I see or feel eyes so expressive or so + powerful as hers were at this, moment. Mine absolutely fell beneath them. + What deprived me of presence of mind I know not; but I was utterly without + common sense. I am sure I changed colour, and Leonora must have seen it + through my rouge, for I had only the slightest tinge upon my cheeks. The + consciousness that she saw me blush disconcerted me beyond recovery; it is + really quite unaccountable: I trembled all over as I stood before her; I + was forced to have recourse to the hartshorn and water, which stood upon + the table. Leonora rose, and threw open the window to give me fresh air. + She pressed my hand, but rather with an air of forgiveness than of + affection; I was mortified and vexed; but my pride revived me. + </p> + <p> + “We had better return to the company as soon as possible, I believe,” said + she, looking down at the moving crowd below. + </p> + <p> + “I am ready to attend you, my dear,” said I, coldly, “whenever you feel + yourself sufficiently rested and composed.” + </p> + <p> + She left the room, and I followed. You have no idea of the solicitude with + which the people hoped she was <i>better</i>—and <i>well</i>—and + <i>quite well</i>, &c. What amazing importance a fainting fit can + sometimes bestow! Her husband seemed no longer to have any eyes or soul + but for her. At supper, and during the rest of the night, she occupied the + whole attention of every body present. Can you conceive any thing so + provoking? But L—— must be an absolute fool!—Did he + never see a woman faint before?—He cannot pretend to be in love with + his wife—I do not understand it.—But this I know, that he has + been totally different in his manner towards me these three days past. + </p> + <p> + And now that my curiosity is satisfied about Leonora’s jealousy, I shall + absolutely perish with ennui in this stupid place. Adieu, dearest + Gabrielle! How I envy you! The void of my heart is insupportable. I must + have some passion to keep me alive. Forward any letters from poor R——, + if he has written under cover to you. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXVII. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO HER DAUGHTER. + </h3> + <p> + Take courage, my beloved daughter; take courage. Have a just confidence in + yourself and in your husband. For a moment he may be fascinated by the + arts of an unprincipled woman; for a moment she may triumph over his + senses, and his imagination; but of his esteem, his affection, his heart, + she cannot rob you. These have been, ought to be, will be yours. Trust to + your mother’s prophecy, my child. You may trust to it securely: for, well + as she loves you—and no mother ever loved a daughter better—she + does not soothe you with mere words of doting fondness; she speaks to you + the language of reason and of truth. + </p> + <p> + I know what such a man as Mr. L—— must esteem and love; I know + of what such a woman as my daughter is capable, when her whole happiness, + and the happiness of all that is dear to her, are at stake. The loss of + temporary admiration and power, the transient preference shown to a + despicable rival, will not provoke you to imprudent reproach, nor sink you + to helpless despair. The arts of an Olivia might continue to deceive your + husband, if he were a fool; or to please him, if he were a libertine: but + he has a heart formed for love, he cannot therefore be a libertine: he is + a man of superior abilities, and knows women too well to be a dupe. With a + penetrating and discriminative judgment of character, he is a nice + observer of female manners; his taste is delicate even to excess; under a + cold exterior he has a vivid imagination and strong sensibility; he has + little vanity, but a superabundance of pride; he wishes to be ardently + loved, but this he conceals; it is difficult to convince him that he is + beloved, and scarcely possible to satisfy him by any common proofs of + attachment. A coquette will never attach Mr. L——. The + admiration which others might express for her charms and accomplishments, + would never pique him to competition: far from seeking “to win her praise + whom all admire,” he would disdain to enter the lists with the vulgar + multitude: a heart, in which he had a probability of holding only divided + empire, would not appear to him worth the winning. As a coquette, whatever + may be her talents, graces, accomplishments, and address, you have nothing + seriously to fear from Lady Olivia. + </p> + <p> + But, my dear, Mr. L——‘s mind may be in a situation to require + amusement. That species of apathy which succeeds to passion is not, as the + inexperienced imagine, the death of love, but the necessary and salutary + repose from which it awakens refreshed and revived. Mr. L——‘s + passion for you has been not only tender, but violent, and the calm, which + inevitably succeeds, should not alarm you. + </p> + <p> + When a man feels that his fondness for a wife is suspended, he is uneasy + in her company, not only from the sense of decreased pleasure, but from + the fear of her observation and detection. If she reproach him, affairs + become worse; he blames himself, he fears to give pain whenever he is in + her presence: if he attempt to conceal his feelings, and to appear what he + is no longer, a lover, his attempts are awkward; he becomes more and more + dissatisfied with himself; and the person who compels him to this + hypocrisy, who thus degrades him in his own eyes, must certainly be in + danger of becoming an object of aversion. A wife, who has sense enough to + abstain from all reproaches, direct or indirect, by word or look, may + reclaim her husband’s affections: the bird escapes from his cage, but + returns to his nest. I am glad that you have agreeable company at your + house; they will amuse Mr. L——, and relieve you from the + necessity of taking a share in any conversation that you dislike. Our + witty friend ——will supply your share of conversation; and as + to your silence, remember that witty people are always content with those + who <i>act audience</i>. + </p> + <p> + I rejoice that you persist in your daily occupations. To a mind like + yours, the sense of performing your duty will, next to religion, be the + firmest support upon which you can rely. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, my dear, even when you read this, you will still be inclined to + justify Lady Olivia, and to conceal from your heart the suspicions which + her conduct excites. I am not surprised, that you should find it difficult + to believe, that one to whom you have behaved so generously, should treat + you with treachery, and ingratitude. I am not surprised, that you who feel + what it is to love, should think, that a woman whose heart is occupied by + attachment to one object, must be incapable of thinking of any other. But + love in such a heart as yours is totally different from what it is in the + fancy of these heroines. In their imagination, the objects are as fleeting + as the pictures in the clouds chased by the wind. + </p> + <p> + From Lady Olivia expect nothing: depend only on yourself. When you become, + as you soon must, completely convinced that the woman, in whom your + unsuspecting soul confided, is utterly unworthy of your esteem, refrain + from all imprudent expressions of indignation. I despise—you will + soon hate—your rival; but in the moment of detection think of what + is due to yourself, and act as calmly as if you had never loved her. She + will suffer no pain from the loss of your friendship: she has not a heart + that can value it. Probably she is envious of you. All these women desire + to mortify those whom they cannot degrade to their own level: and I am + inclined to suspect that this malevolent feeling, joined to the want of + occupation, may be the cause of her present conduct. Her manoeuvres will + not ultimately succeed. She will be deserted by Mr. L——, + disappointed and disgraced, and your husband will be more yours than ever. + When this happy moment comes, my Leonora; when your husband returns, + preferring yours to all other society, then will be the time to exert all + your talents, all your charms, to prove your superiority in every thing, + but most in love. The soothings of female tenderness, in certain + situations, have power not only to calm the feelings of self-reproach, but + to diffuse delight over the soul of man. The oil, which the skilful + mariner throws upon the sea, not only smooths the waves in the storm, but + when the sun shines, spreads the most beautiful colours over the surface + of the waters. + </p> + <p> + My dear daughter, though your mother writes seemingly at her ease, you + must not fancy that she does not feel for you. Do not imagine, that in the + coldness of extinguished passions, and in the pride of counselling age, + your mother expects to charm agony with words. No, my child, I am not so + absurd, so cruel. Your letter forced tears from eyes, which are not used + like sentimental eyes to weep upon every trifling occasion. My first wish + was to set out immediately to see you; but whatever consolation or + pleasure my company might afford, I believe it might be disadvantageous to + you in your present circumstances. I could not be an hour in the room with + this Lady Olivia, without showing some portion of the indignation and + contempt that I feel for her conduct. This warmth of mine might injure you + in your husband’s opinion. Though you would have too strong a sense of + propriety, and too much dignity of mind, to make complaints of your + husband to me, or to any one living; yet it might be supposed that your + mother was your confidante in secret, and your partisan in public: this + might destroy your domestic happiness. No husband can or ought to endure + the idea of his wife’s caballing against him. I admire and shall respect + your dignified silence. + </p> + <p> + And now fare you well, my dearest child. May God bless you! If a mother’s + prayers could avail, you would be the happiest of human beings. I do, + without partiality, believe you to be one of the best and most amiable of + women. —— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + Had your letter, my dearest mother, reached me a few hours sooner, I + should not have exposed myself as I have done. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, at our <i>fête champêtre</i>, you would have been ashamed of + me. I am ashamed of myself. I did the very reverse of what I ought, of + what I would have done, if I had been fortified by your counsel. Instead + of being calm and dignified, I was agitated beyond all power of control. I + lost all presence of mind, all common sense, all recollection. + </p> + <p> + I know your contempt for swooning heroines. What will you say, when you + hear that your daughter fainted—fainted in public? I believe, + however, that, as soon as I recovered, I had sufficient command over + myself to prevent the accident from being attributed to the real cause, + and I hope that the very moment I came to my recollection, my manner + towards Lady Olivia was such as to preclude all possibility of her being + blamed or even suspected. From living much abroad, she has acquired a + certain freedom of manner, and latitude of thinking, which expose her to + suspicion; but of all serious intention to injure me, or to pass the + bounds of propriety, I totally acquit her. She is not to blame for the + admiration she excites, nor is she to be the sufferer for my weakness of + mind or of health. + </p> + <p> + Great and unreasonable folly I am sure I showed—but I shall do so no + more. + </p> + <p> + The particular circumstances I need not explain: you may be assured, that + wherever I think it right to be silent, nothing shall tempt me to speak: + but I understood, by the conclusion of your letter, that you expect me to + preserve an absolute silence upon this subject in future: this I will not + promise. I cannot conceive that I, who do not mean to injure any human + being, ought, because I am unhappy, and when I am most in want of a + friend, to be precluded from the indulgence of speaking of what is nearest + my heart to that dear, safe, most enlightened, and honourable of friends, + who has loved, guided, instructed, and encouraged me in every thing that + is right from my infancy. Why should I be refused all claim to sympathy? + why must my thoughts and feelings be shut up in my own breast? and why + must I be a solitary being, proscribed from commerce with my own family, + with my beloved mother, to whom I have been accustomed to tell every + feeling and idea as they arose? No; to all that is honourable I will + strictly conform; but, by the superstition of prudence, I do not hold + myself bound. + </p> + <p> + Nothing could be kinder than my husband’s conduct to me the evening after + I was taken ill. He left home early this morning; he is gone to meet his + friend, General B——, who has just returned from abroad. I hope + that Mr. L—— will be absent only a few days; for it would be + fatal to my happiness if he should find amusement at a distance from home. + His home, at all events, shall never be made a cage to him; when he + returns, I will exert myself to the utmost to make it agreeable. This I + hope can be done without obtruding my company upon him, or putting myself + in competition with any person. I could wish that some fortunate accident + might induce Lady Olivia to leave us before Mr. L——‘s return. + Had I the same high opinion of her generosity that I once formed, had I + the same perfect confidence in her integrity and in her friendship for me, + I would go this moment and tell her all that passes in my heart: no + humiliation of my vanity would cost me any thing if it could serve the + interests of my love; no mean pride could stand in my mind against the + force of affection. But there is a species of pride which I cannot, will + not renounce—believing, as I do, that it is the companion, the + friend, the support of virtue. This pride, I trust, will never desert me: + it has grown with my growth; it was implanted in my character by the + education which my dear mother gave me; and now, even by her, it cannot be + eradicated. Surely I have misunderstood one passage in your letter: you + cannot advise your daughter to restrain just indignation against vice from + any motive of policy or personal interest. You say to me, “In the moment + of detection think of what is due to yourself, and act as calmly as if you + had never loved her.” If I <i>could</i>, I would not do this. Contempt + shown by virtue is the just punishment of vice, a punishment which no + selfish consideration should mitigate. If I were convinced that Lady + Olivia were guilty, would you have me behave to her as if I believed her + to be innocent? My countenance, my voice, my principles, would revolt from + such mean and pernicious hypocrisy, degrading to the individual, and + destructive to society. + </p> + <p> + May I never more see the smile of love on the lips of my husband, nor its + expression in his eyes, if I do so degrade myself in my own opinion and in + his! Yes, in his; for would not he, would not any man of sense or + delicacy, recur to that idea so common with his sex, and so just, that if + a woman will sacrifice her sense of honour to her passions in one + instance, she may in another? Would he not argue, “If she will do this for + me because she is in love with me, why not for a new favourite, if time or + accident should make me less an object of passion?” No; I may lose his + love—this would be my misfortune: but to forfeit his esteem would be + my fault; and, under the remorse which I should then have to endure, I am + persuaded that no power of art or nature could sustain my existence. + </p> + <p> + So much for myself. As to the general good of society, that, I confess, is + not at this moment the uppermost consideration in my mind; but I will add + a few words on that subject, lest you should imagine me to be hurried away + by my own feelings. Public justice and reason are, I think, on my side. + What would become of the good order of society or the decency of families, + if every politic wife were to receive or invite, or permit her husband’s + mistress to reside in her house? What would become of conjugal virtue in + either sex, if the wife were in this manner not only to connive at the + infidelity of her husband, but to encourage and provide for his + inconsistency? If she enters into bonds of amity and articles of + partnership with her rival, with that person by whom she has been most + injured, instead of being the dignified sufferer, she becomes an object of + contempt. + </p> + <p> + My dearest mother, my most respected friend, my sentiments on this subject + cannot essentially differ from yours. I must have mistaken your meaning. + Pray write quickly, and tell me so; and forgive, if you cannot approve of, + the warmth with which I have spoken. + </p> + <p> + I am your truly affectionate + </p> + <p> + And grateful daughter, + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L—— + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXIX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME P——. + </h3> + <p> + My amiable Gabrielle, I must be faithful to my promise of writing to you + every week, though this place affords nothing new either in events or + sentiment. Mr. L——‘s absence made this castle insupportably + dull. A few days ago he returned home, and met me with an easy kind of + indifference, provoking enough to a woman who has been accustomed to + excite some sensation. However, I was rejoiced at this upon Leonora’s + account. She was evidently delighted, and her spirits and affections + seemed to overflow involuntarily upon all around her; even to me her + manner became quite frank and cordial, almost caressing. She is really + handsome when she is animated, and her conversation this evening quite + surprised me. I saw something of that playfulness, those light touches, + that versatility of expression, those words that mean more than meet the + ear; every thing, in short, that could charm in the most polished foreign + society. Leonora seemed to be inspired with all the art of conversation, + by the simple instinct of affection. What astonished me most was the grace + with which she introduced some profound philosophical remarks. “Such + pearls,” said Mr. L——, “come from the deep.” + </p> + <p> + With all these talents, what might not Leonora be in proper hands! But now + she is nothing except to her husband, and a few intimate friends. However, + this is not my affair. Let me go on to what concerns myself. You may + believe, my dear Gabrielle, that I piqued myself upon showing at least as + much easy indifference as was shown to me: freedom encourages freedom. As + there was no danger of my being too amiable, I did not think myself bound + in honour or sentiment to keep myself in the shade; but I could not be as + brilliant as you have seen me at your <i>soirées</i>: the magic circle of + adorers, the inspiring power of numbers, the éclat of public <i>representation</i>, + were wanting. I retired to my own apartment at night, quite out of humour + with myself; and Josephine, as she undressed me, put me still further out + of patience, by an ill-timed history of a dispute she has had with + Leonora’s Swiss servant. The Swiss and Josephine, it seems, came to high + words in defence of their mistresses’ charms. Josephine provoked the Swiss + by saying, that his lady might possibly be handsome if she were dressed in + the French taste; <i>mais qu’elle étoit bien Angloise</i>, and would be + quite another thing if she had been at Paris. The Swiss retorted by + observing, that Josephine’s lady had indeed learnt in perfection at Paris + <i>the art of making herself up</i>, which was quite necessary to a beauty + <i>un peu passée</i>. The words were not more agreeable to me than they + had been to Josephine. I wonder at her assurance in repeating them—“Un + peu passée!” Many a woman in England, ten, fifteen years older than I am, + has inspired a violent passion; and it has been observed, that power is + retained by these mature charmers, longer than conquest can be preserved + by inexperienced beauties. There are women who have learnt to combine, for + their own advantage, and for that of their captives, all the pleasure and + <i>conveniences</i> of society, all that a thorough knowledge of the world + can give—women who have a sufficient attention to appearances, + joined to a real contempt of all prejudices, especially that of constancy—women + who possess that knowledge of the human heart, which well compensates + transient bloom; who add the expression of sentiment to beautiful + features, and who employ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Gay smiles to comfort, April showers to move, + And all the nature, all the art of Love.” + —“Un peu passée!” The Swiss is impertinent, and knows nothing of +the matter. His master knows but little more. He would, however, know +infinitely more if I could take the trouble to instruct him; to which +I am almost tempted for want of something better to do. Adieu, my +Gabrielle. R——‘s silence is perfectly incomprehensible. +</pre> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + So, my amiable Gabrielle, you are really interested in my letters, <i>though + written during my English exile</i>, and you are curious to know whether + any of my <i>potent spells</i> can wake into life this man of marble. I + candidly confess you would inspire me with an ambition to raise my poor + countrymen in your opinion, if I were not restrained by the sacred + sentiment of friendship, which forbids me to rival Leonora <i>even</i> in + a husband’s opinion. + </p> + <p> + However, Josephine, who feels herself a party concerned ever since her + battle with the Swiss, has piqued herself upon dressing me with exquisite + taste. I am every day <i>mise à ravir</i>!—and with such perfection + of art, that no art appears—all is negligent simplicity. I let + Josephine please herself; for you know I am not bound to be frightful, + because I have a friend whose husband may chance to turn his eye upon my + figure, when he is tired of admiring hers. I rallied L—— the + other day upon his having no eyes or ears but for his wife. Be assured I + did it in such a manner that he could not be angry. Then I went on to a + comparison between the <i>facility</i> of French and English society. He + admitted that there was some truth and more wit in my observations. I was + satisfied. With these reasonable men, the grand point for a woman is to + amuse them—they can have logic from their own sex. But, my + Gabrielle, I am summoned to the <i>salon</i>, and must finish my letter + another day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Heaven! can it be a fortnight since I wrote a line to my Gabrielle!—Where + was I?—“With these reasonable men the grand point for a woman is to + amuse them.” True—most true! L——, believing himself only + amused with my lively nonsense, indulged himself with it continually. I + was to believe only what he believed. Presently he could not do without my + conversation for more than two hours together. What was I to do, my + Gabrielle? I walked out to avoid him. He found me in the woods—rallied + me on my taste for solitude, and quoted Voltaire. + </p> + <p> + This led to a metaphysical conversation, half playful, half serious:—the + distinction which a man sometimes makes to his conscience between thinking + a woman entertaining, and feeling her interesting, vanishes more easily, + and more rapidly, than he is aware of—at least in certain + situations. This was not an observation I could make to my companion in + the woods, and he certainly did not make it for himself. It would have + been vanity in me to have broken off our conversation, lest he should fall + in love with me—it would have been blindness not to have seen that + he was in some danger. I thought of Leonora—and sighed—and did + all that was in my power to put him upon his guard. By way of + preservative, I frankly made him a confession of my attachment to R——. + This I imagined would put things upon a right footing for ever; but, on + the contrary, by convincing him of my innocence, and of my having no + designs on his heart, this candour has, I fear, endangered him still more; + yet I know not what to think—his manner is so variable towards me—I + must be convinced of what his sentiments are, before I can decide what my + conduct ought to be. Adieu, my amiable Gabrielle; I wait for something + decisive with an inexpressible degree of anxiety—I will not now call + it curiosity.—Apropos, does R—— wish that I should + forget that he exists? What is this business that detains him? But why do + I condescend to inquire? + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXI. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR L——, London. + </p> + <p> + I send you the horse to which you took a fancy. He has killed one of his + grooms, and lamed two; but you will be his master, and I hope he will know + it. + </p> + <p> + I have a word to say to you on a more serious subject. Pardon me if I tell + you that I think you are a happy man, and excuse me if I add, that if you + do not keep yourself so I shall not think you a wise one. A good wife is + better than a good-for-nothing mistress.—A self-evident proposition!—A + stupid truism! Yes; but if every man who knows a self-evident proposition + when he sees it on paper, always acted as if he knew it, this would be a + very wise and a very happy world; and I should not have occasion to write + this letter. + </p> + <p> + You say that you are only amusing yourself at the expense of a finished + coquette; take care that she does not presently divert herself at yours.—“<i>You + are proof against French coquetry and German sentiment</i>.”—Granted—but + a fine woman?—and your own vanity?—But you have no vanity.—You + call it pride then, I suppose. I will not quarrel with you for a name. + Pride, properly managed, will do your business as well as vanity. And no + doubt Lady Olivia knows this as well as I do. I hope you may never know it + better. + </p> + <p> + I am, my dear friend, + </p> + <p> + Truly yours, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + Advise me, dearest Gabrielle; I am in a delicate situation; and on your + judgment and purity of heart I have the most perfect reliance. Know, then, + that I begin to believe that Leonora’s jealousy was not so absolutely + absurd as I at first supposed. She understood her husband better than I + did. I begin to fear that I have made a serious impression whilst I meant + only to amuse myself. Heaven is my witness, I simply intended to satisfy + my curiosity, and that once gratified, it was my determination to respect + the weakness I discovered. To love Leonora, as once I imagined I could, is + out of my power; but to disturb her peace, to destroy her happiness, to + make use of the confidence she has reposed in me, the kindness she has + shown by making me an inmate of her house—my soul shudders at these + ideas. No—if her husband really loves me I will fly. Leonora shall + see that Olivia is incapable of treachery—that Olivia has a soul + generous and delicate as her own, though free from the prejudices by which + she is fettered. To Leonora a husband is a lover—I shall consider + him as such, and respect her <i>property</i>. You are so little used, my + dear Gabrielle, to consider a husband in this point of view, that you will + scarcely enter into my feelings: but put yourself in my situation, allow + for nationality of principle, and I am persuaded you would act as I shall. + Spare me your raillery; seriously, if Leonora’s husband is in love with + me, would you not advise me, my dearest friend, to fly him, “far as pole + from pole?” Write to me, I conjure you, my Gabrielle—write + instantly, and tell me whether R——is now at Paris. I will + return thither immediately if you advise it. My mind is in such confusion, + I have no power to decide; I will be guided by your advice. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXIII. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris. + </p> + <p> + Advice! my charming Olivia! do you ask me for advice? I never gave or took + advice in my life, except for <i>les vapeurs noirs</i>. And your + understanding is so far superior to mine, and you comprehend the + characters of these English so much better than I do, that I cannot + pretend to counsel you. This Lady Leonora is inconceivable with her + passion for her own husband; but how ridiculous to let it be suspected! If + her heart is so tender, cannot she, with all her charms, find a lover on + whom to bestow it, without tormenting that poor Mr. L——? + Evidently he is tired of her: and I am sure I should be worn to death were + I in his place. Nothing so tiresome as love without mystery, and without + obstacles. And this must ever be the case with conjugal love. Eighteen + months married, I think you say, and Lady Leonora expects her husband to + be still at her feet! And she wishes it! Truly she is the most + unreasonable woman upon earth—and the most extraordinary; but I am + tired of thinking of what I cannot comprehend. + </p> + <p> + Let us pass on to Mr. L——. By your last letters, I should + judge that he might be an agreeable man, if his wife were out of the + question. Matrimonial jealousy is a new idea to me; I can judge of it only + by analogy. In affairs of gallantry, I have sometimes seen one of the + parties continue to love when the other has become indifferent, and then + they go on tormenting one another and being miserable, because they have + not the sense to see that a fire cannot be made of ashes. Sometimes I have + found romantic young people persuade themselves that they can love no more + because they can love one another no longer; but if they had sufficient + courage to say—I am tired—and I cannot help it—they + would come to a right understanding immediately, and part on the best + terms possible; each eager to make a new choice, and to be again in love + and happy. All this to be done with decency, of course. And if there be no + scandal, where is the harm? Can it signify to the universe whether Mons. + Un tel likes Madame Une telle or Madame Une autre? Provided there is love + enough, all the world is in good humour, and that is the essential point; + for without good humour, what becomes of the pleasures of society? As to + the rest, I think of inconstancy, or <i>infidelity</i>, as it is called, + much as our good La Fontaine did—“Quand on le sait, c’est peu de + chose—quand on ne le sait pas, ce n’est rien.” + </p> + <p> + To promise to love one person eternally! What a terrible engagement! It + freezes my heart even to think of it. I am persuaded, that if I were bound + to love him for life, I should detest the most amiable man upon earth in + ten minutes—a husband more especially. Good heavens! how I should + abhor M. de P—— if I saw him in this point of view! On the + contrary, now I love him infinitely—that is to say, as one loves a + husband. I have his interest at heart, and his glory. When I thought he + was going to prison I was in despair. I was at home to no one but <i>Brave-et-Tendre</i>, + and to him only to consult on the means of obtaining my husband’s pardon. + M. de P——is sensible of this, and on my part I have no reason + to complain of his liberality. We are perfectly happy, though we meet + perhaps but for a few minutes in the day; and is not this better than + tiring one another for four-and-twenty hours? When I grow old—if + ever I do—he will be my best friend. In the mean time I support his + credit with all my influence. This very morning I concluded an affair for + him, which never could have succeeded, if the intimate friend of the + minister had not been also my lover. Now, why cannot your Lady Leonora and + her Mr. L—— live on the same sort of terms? But if English + manners will not permit of this, I have nothing more to say. Above all + things a woman must respect opinion, else she cannot be well received in + the world. I conclude this is the secret of Lady Leonora’s conduct. But + then jealousy!—no woman, I suppose, is bound, even in England, to be + jealous in order to show her love for her husband. I lose myself again in + trying to understand what is incomprehensible. + </p> + <p> + As to you, my dear Olivia, you also amaze me by talking of <i>crimes</i> + and <i>horror</i>, and <i>flying from pole to pole</i> to avoid a man + because you have made him at last find out that he has a heart! You have + done him the greatest possible service: it may preserve him perhaps from + hanging himself next November—that month in which, according to + Voltaire’s philosophical calendar, Englishmen always hang themselves, + because the atmosphere is so thick, and their ennui so heavy. Lady + Leonora, if she really loves her husband, ought to be infinitely obliged + to you for averting this danger. As to the rest, your heart is not + concerned, so you can have nothing to fear; and as for a platonic + attachment on the part of Mr. L——, his wife, even according to + her own rigid principles, cannot blame you. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my charming friend! Instead of laughing at your fit of prudery, I + ought to encourage your scruples, that I might profit by them. If they + should bring you to Paris immediately, with what joy should I embrace my + Olivia, and how much gratitude should I owe to the jealousy of Lady + Leonora L——! + </p> + <p> + R—— is not yet returned. When I have any news to give you of + him, depend upon it you shall hear from me again. Accept, my interesting + Olivia, the vows of my most tender and eternal friendship. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXIV. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle, Tuesday. + </p> + <p> + Your charming letter, my Gabrielle, has at once revived my spirits and + dissipated all my scruples; you mistake, however, in supposing that + Leonora is in love with her husband: more and more reason have I every + hour to be convinced that Leonora has never known the passion of love; + consequently her jealousy was, as I at first pronounced it to be, the + selfish jealousy of matrimonial power and property. Else why does it + subside, why does it vanish, when, if it were a jealousy of the heart, it + has now more provocation, infinitely more than when it appeared in full + force? Leonora could see that her husband distinguished me at a <i>fête + champêtre</i>; she could see what the eyes of others showed her; she could + hear what envy whispered, or what scandal hinted; she was mortified, she + was alarmed even to fainting by a public preference, by a silly country + girl’s mistaking me for <i>the wife</i>, and doing homage to me as to the + lady of the manor; but Leonora cannot perceive in the object of her + affection the symptoms that mark the rise and progress of <i>a real love</i>. + Leonora feels not the little strokes, which would be fatal blows to the + peace of a truly delicate mind; she heeds not “the trifles light as air” + which would be confirmation strong to a soul of genuine sensibility. My + influence over the mind of L——increases rapidly, and I shall + let it rise to its acmè before I seem to notice it. Leonora, re-assured, I + suppose, by a few flattering words, and more, perhaps, by an exalted + opinion of her own merit, has lately appeared quite at her ease, and blind + to all that passes before her eyes. It is not for me to dissipate this + illusion prematurely—it is not for me to weaken this confidence in + her husband. To an English wife this would be death. Let her foolish + security then last as long as possible. After all, how much anguish of + heart, how many pangs of conscience, how much of the torture of pity, am I + spared by this callous temper in my friend! I may indulge in a little + harmless coquetry, without danger to her peace, and without scruple, enjoy + the dear possession of power. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Say, for you know,” charming Gabrielle, what is the delight of obtaining + power over the human heart? Let the lords of the creation boast of their + power to govern all things; to charm these governors be ours. Let the + logicians of the earth boast their power to regulate the world by reason; + be it ours, Gabrielle, to intoxicate and humble proud reason to the dust + beneath our feet.—And who shall blame in us this ardour for + universal dominion? If they are men, I call them tyrants—if they are + women, I call them hypocrites—and the two vices which I most detest + are tyranny and hypocrisy. Frankly I confess, that I feel in all its + restless activity the passion for general admiration. I cannot conceive—can + you, Gabrielle, a pleasure more transporting than the perception of + extended and extending dominion? The struggle of the rebel heart for + freedom makes the war more tempting, the victory more glorious, the + triumph more splendid. Secure of your sympathy, ma belle Gabrielle, I + shall not fear to tire you by my commentaries. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Male coquetry justifies female retaliation to any imaginable extent. Upon + this principle, on which I have seen you act so often, and so + successfully, I shall now intrepidly proceed. This man makes a show of + resistance; be it at his own peril: he thinks that he is gaining power + over my heart, whilst I am preparing torments for his; he fancies that he + is throwing chains round me, whilst I am rivetting fetters from which he + will in vain attempt to escape. He is proud, and has the insanity of + desiring to be exclusively beloved, yet affects to set no value upon the + preference that is shown to him; appears satisfied with his own + approbation, and stoically all-sufficient to his own happiness. Leonora + does not know how to manage his temper, but I do. The suspense, however, + in which he keeps me is tantalizing: he shall pay for it hereafter: I had + no idea, till lately, that he had so much self-command. At times he has + actually made me doubt my own power. At certain moments I have been half + tempted to believe that I had made no serious impression, that he had been + only amusing himself at my expense, and for Leonora’s gratification: but + upon careful and cool observation I am convinced that his indifference is + affected, that all his stoicism will prove vain. The arrow is lodged in + his heart, and he must fall, whether he turn upon the enemy in anger, or + fly in dismay. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + My pride is exasperated. I am not accustomed to such obstinate resistance. + I really almost hate this invincible man, and—strange inconsistency + of the human heart!—almost love him. Heaven and pride preserve me + from such a weakness! But there is certainly something that piques and + stimulates one’s feelings in this species of male coquetry. L—— + understands the business better than I thought he could. One moment my + knowledge of the arts of his sex puts me on my guard; the next my + sensibility exposes me in the most terrible manner. Experience ought to + protect me, but it only shows me the peril and my inability to escape. Ah! + Gabrielle, without a heart how safe we should be, how dangerous to our + lovers! But cursed with sensibility, we must, alas! submit to our fate. + The habit of loving, <i>le besoin d’aimer</i>, is more powerful than all + sense of the folly and the danger. Nor is the tempest of the passions so + dreadful as the dead calm of the soul. Why did R—— suffer my + soul to sink into this ominous calm? The fault is his; let him abide the + consequences. Why did he not follow me to England? why did he not write to + me? or when he did write, why were his letters so cold, so spiritless? + When I spoke of divorce, why did he hesitate? Why did he reason when he + should have only felt? Tell him, my tender, my delicate friend, these are + questions which the heart asks, and which the heart only can answer. + Adieu. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXV. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris. + </p> + <p> + Je suis excedée! mon coeur. Alive, and but just alive, after such a day of + fatigues! All morning from one minister to another! then home to my + toilette! then a great dinner with a number of foreigners, each to be + distinguished—then au Feydeau, where I was obliged to go to support + poor S——‘s play. It would be really insupportable, if it were + not for the finest music in the world, which, after all, the French music + certainly is. There was a violent party against the piece; and we were so + late, that it was just on the point of perishing. My ears have not yet + recovered from the horrid noise. In the midst of the tumult I happily, by + a master-stroke, turned the fortune of the night. I spied the shawl of an + English woman hanging over the box. This, you know, like scarlet to the + bull, is sufficient to enrage the Parisian pit. To the shawl I directed + the fury of the mob of critics. Luckily for us, the lady was attended only + by an Englishman, who of course chose to assert his right not to + understand the customs of any country, or submit to any will but his own. + He would not permit the shawl to be stirred. À bas! à bas: resounded from + below. The uproar was inconceivable. You would have thought that the house + must have come down. In the mean time the piece went on, and the shawl + covered all its defects. Admire my generalship. T—— tells me I + was born for a general; yet I rather think my forte is negotiation. + </p> + <p> + But I have not yet come to your affairs, for which alone I could undergo + the fatigue of writing at this moment. Guess, my Olivia, what apparition I + met at the door of my box to-night. But the enclosed note will save you + the trouble of guessing. I could not avoid permitting him to slide his + billet-doux into my hand as he put on my shawl. Adieu. I must refuse + myself the pleasure of conversing longer with my sweet friend. Fresh toils + await me. Madame la Grande will never forgive me if I do not appear for a + moment at her soirée: and la petite Q—— will be jealous beyond + recovery, if I do not give her a moment: and it is Madame R——‘s + night. There I must be; for all the ambassadors, as usual, will be there; + and as some of them, I have reason to believe, go on purpose to meet me, I + cannot disappoint their Excellencies. My friends would never forgive it. I + am positively quite weary of this life of eternal bustle; but once in the + eddy, one is carried round and round; there is no stopping. Adieu, adieu. + I write under the hands of Victoire. O that she had your taste to guide + her, and to decide my too vacillating judgment! we should then have no + occasion to dread even the elegant simplicity of Madame R——‘s + toilette. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXVI. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE F——. + </h3> + <p> + My Gabrielle, I have read R——‘s note enclosed in your charming + sprightly letter. What a contrast! So cold! so formal! A thousand times + rather would I not have heard from him, than have received a letter so + little in unison with my feelings. He talks to me of business. Business! + What business ought to detain a man a moment from the woman he loves? The + interests of his ambition are nothing to me. What are all these to love? + Is he so mean as to hesitate between them? then I despise him! and Olivia + can never love the being she despises! + </p> + <p> + Does R—— flatter himself that his power over my heart is + omnipotent? Does he imagine that Olivia is to be slighted with impunity? + Does R—— think that a woman, who has even nominally the honour + to reign over his heart, cannot meditate new conquests? Oh, credulous + vanity of man! He fancies, perhaps, that he is secure of the maturer age + of one, who fondly devoted to him her inexperienced youth. “Security is + the curse of fools.” Does he in his wisdom deem a woman’s age a sufficient + pledge for her constancy? He might every day see examples enough to + convince him of his error. In fact, the age of women has nothing to do + with the number of their years. Possibly, however, the gallant gentleman + may be of opinion with Leonora’s Swiss, that Lady Olivia is <i>un peu + passée</i>. Adieu, my dear friend; you, who always understand and + sympathize in my feelings, you will express them for me in the best manner + possible. I shall not write to R——. You will see him; and + Olivia commits to you what to a woman of delicacy is more dear than her + love—her just resentment. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXVII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + Pity me, dearest Gabrielle, for I am in need of all the pity which your + susceptible heart can bestow. Never was woman in such a terrible + situation! Yes, Gabrielle, this provoking, this incomprehensible, this too + amiable man, has entangled your poor friend past recovery. Her sentiments + and sensations must henceforward be in eternal opposition to each other. + Friendship, gratitude, honour, virtue, all in tremendous array, forbid her + to think of love; but love, imperious love, will not be so defied: he + seizes upon his victim, and now, as in all the past, will be the ruler, + the tyrant of Olivia’s destiny. Never was confusion, amazement, terror, + remorse, equal to mine, Gabrielle, when I first discovered that I loved + him. Who could have foreseen, who could have imagined it? I meant but to + satisfy an innocent curiosity, to indulge harmless coquetry, to gratify + the natural love of admiration, and to enjoy the possession of power. + Alas! I felt not that, whilst I was acquiring ascendancy over the heart of + another, I was beguiled of all command over my own. I flattered myself + that, when honour should bid me stop, I could pause without hesitation, + without effort: I promised myself, that the moment I should discover that + I was loved by the husband of my friend I should fly from him for ever. + Alas! it is no longer time—to fly from him is no longer in my power. + Oh. Gabrielle! I love him: he knows that I love him. Never did woman + suffer more than I have done since I wrote to you last. The conflict was + too violent for my feeble frame. I have been ill—very ill: a nervous + fever brought me nearly to the grave. Why did I not die? I should have + escaped the deep humiliation, the endless self-reproach to which my future + existence is doomed.—Leonora!—Why do I start at that name? Oh! + there is horror in the sound! Even now perhaps she knows and triumphs in + my weakness. Even now, perhaps, her calm insensible soul blesses itself + for not being made like mine. Even now perhaps her husband doubts whether + he shall accept Olivia’s love, or sacrifice your wretched friend to + Leonora’s pride. Oh, Gabrielle, no words can describe what I suffer! But I + must be calm, and explain the progress of this fatal passion. Explain—Heavens! + how shall I explain what I cannot recollect without heart-rending anguish + and confusion! Oh, Gabrielle! pity + </p> + <p> + Your distracted + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Monday. + </p> + <p> + My dear romantic Olivia! you must have a furious passion for tormenting + yourself, when you can find matter for despair in your present situation. + In your place I should rejoice to find that in the moment an old passion + had consumed itself, a new one, fresh and vigorous, springs from its + ashes. My charming friend, understand your own interests, and do not be + the dupe of those fine phrases that we are obliged to employ to deceive + others. Rail at Cupid as much as you please to the men in public, <i>par + façon</i>; but always remember for your private use, that love is + essential to our existence in society. What is a woman when she neither + loves nor is loved? a mere <i>personage muet</i> in the drama of life. Is + it not from our lovers that we derive our consequence? Even a beauty + without lovers is but a queen without subjects. A woman who renounces love + is an abdicated sovereign, always longing to resume her empire when it is + too late; continually forgetting herself, like the pseudo-philosophic + Christina, talking and acting as though she had still the power of life + and death in her hands; a tyrant without guards or slaves; a most awkward, + pitiable, and ridiculous personage. No, my fair Olivia, let us never + abjure love; even when the reign of beauty passes away, that of grace and + sentiment remains. As much delicacy as you please: without delicacy there + is no grace, and without a veil, beauty loses her most captivating charms. + I pity you, my dear, for having let your veil be blown aside <i>malheureusement</i>. + But such accidents will happen. Who can control the passions or the winds? + After all, <i>l’erreur d’un moment</i> is not irretrievable, and you + reproach yourself too bitterly, my sweet friend, for your involuntary + injustice to Lady Leonora. Assuredly it could not be your intention to + sacrifice your repose to Mr. L——. You loved him against your + will, did you not? And it is, you know, by the intention that we must + judge of actions: the positive harm done to the world in general is in all + cases the only just measure of criminality. Now what harm is done to the + universe, and what injury can accrue to any individual, provided you keep + your own counsel? As long as your friend is deceived, she is happy; it + therefore becomes your duty, your virtue, to dissemble. I am no great + casuist, but all this appears to me self-evident; and these I always + thought were your principles of philosophy. My dear Olivia, I have drawn + out my whole store of metaphysics with some difficulty for your service; I + flatter myself I have set your poor distracted head to rights. One word + more—for I like to go to the bottom of a subject, when I can do so + in two minutes: virtue is desirable because it makes us happy; + consequently, to make ourselves happy is to be truly virtuous. Methinks + this is sound logic. + </p> + <p> + To tell you the truth, my dear Olivia, I do not well conceive how you have + contrived to fall in love with this half-frozen Englishman. ‘Tis done, + however—there is no arguing against facts; and this is only one + proof more of what I have always maintained, that destiny is inevitable + and love irresistible. Voltaire’s charming inscription on the statue of + Cupid is worth all the volumes of reasoning and morality that ever were or + ever will be written. Banish melancholy thoughts, my dear friend; they + serve no manner of purpose but to increase your passion. Repentance + softens the heart; and every body knows, that what softens the heart + disposes it more to love: for which reason I never abandon myself to this + dangerous luxury of repentance. Mon Dieu! why will people never benefit by + experience? And to what purpose do they read history? Was not La Vallière + ever penitent, and ever transgressing? ever in transports or in tears? + You, at all events, my Olivia, can never become a Carmelite or a Magdalen. + You have emancipated yourself from superstition: but whilst you ridicule + all religious orders, do not inflict upon yourself their penances. The + habit of some of the orders has been thought becoming. The modest costume + of a nun is indeed one of the prettiest dresses one can wear at a + masquerade ball, and it might even be worn without a mask, if it were + fashionable: but nothing that is not fashionable can be becoming. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my adorable Olivia: I will send you, by the first opportunity, your + Lyons gown, which is really charming. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XXXIX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + Nov. 30th, — + </p> + <p> + Your truly philosophical letter, my infinitely various Gabrielle, infused + a portion of its charming spirit into my soul. My mind was fortified and + elevated by your eloquence. Who could think that a woman of such a lively + genius could be so profound? and who could expect from a woman who has + passed her life in the world, such original and deep reflections? You see + you were mistaken when you thought that you had no genius for philosophic + subjects. + </p> + <p> + After all that has been said by metaphysicians about the existence and + seat of the moral sense, I think I can solve every difficulty by a new + theory. You know some philosophers suppose the moral sense to be intuitive + and inherent in man: others who deny the doctrine of innate ideas, treat + this notion of innate sentiments as equally absurd. There they certainly + are wrong, for sentiments are widely different from ideas, and I have that + within me which convinces my understanding that sentiments must be innate, + and proportioned to the delicacy of our sensibility; no person of common + sense or feeling can doubt this. But there are other points which I own + puzzled me till yesterday: some metaphysicians would seat the moral sense + inherently in the heart, others would place it intuitively in the brain, + all would confine it to the soul; now in my opinion it resides primarily + and principally in the nerves, and varies with their variations. Hence the + difficulty of making the moral sense a universal guide of action, since it + not only differs in many individuals, but in the same persons at different + periods of their existence, or (as I have often experienced) at different + hours of the day. All this must depend upon the mobility of the nervous + system: upon this may <i>hinge</i> the great difficulties which have + puzzled metaphysicians respecting consciousness, identity, &c. If they + had attended less to the nature of the soul, and more to the system of the + nerves, they would have avoided innumerable errors, and probably would + have made incalculably important discoveries. Nothing is wanting but some + great German genius to bring this idea of a moral sense in the nerves into + fashion. Indeed, if our friend Mad. —— would mention it in the + notes to her new novel, it would introduce it, in the most satisfactory + manner possible, to all the fashionable world abroad; and we take our + notions in this country implicitly from the continent. As for you, my dear + Gabrielle, I know you cut the Gordian knot at once, by referring, with + your favourite moralist, every principle of human nature to self-love. + This does not quite accord with my ideas; there is something harsh in it + that is repugnant to my sensibility; but you have a stronger mind than I + have, and perhaps your theory is right. + </p> + <p> + “You tell me I contradict myself continually,” says the acute and witty + Duke de la Rochefoucault: “No, but the human heart, of which I treat, is + in perpetual contradiction to itself.” Permit me to avail myself of this + answer, dear Gabrielle, if you should accuse me of contradicting in this + letter all that I said to you in my last. A few hours after I had + despatched it, the state of my nerves changed; I saw things of course in a + new light, and repented having exposed myself to your raillery by writing + in such a Magdalen strain. My nerves were more in fault than I. When one’s + mind, or one’s nerves grow weak, the early associations and old prejudices + of the nursery recur, and tyrannize over one’s reason: from this evil your + liberal education and enviable temperament have preserved you; but have + charity for my feminine weakness of frame, which too often counteracts the + masculine strength of my soul. Now that I have deprecated your ridicule + for my last nervous nonsense, I will go on in a more rational manner. + However my better judgment might have been clouded for a moment, I have + recovered strength of mind enough to see that I am in no way to blame for + any thing that has happened. If a man is amiable, and if I have taste and + sensibility, I must see and feel it. “To love,” as I remember your friend + G—— once finely observed to you, “to love, is a crime only in + the eyes of demons, or of priests, who resemble demons.” This is a general + proposition, to which none but the prejudiced can refuse their assent: and + what is true in general, must be true in particular. The <i>accident</i>, + I use the term philosophically, not popularly, the accident of a man’s + being married, or, in other words, having entered imprudently into a + barbarous and absurd civil contract, cannot alter the nature of things. + The essence of truth cannot be affected by the variation of external + circumstances. Now the proper application of metaphysics frees the mind + from vulgar prejudices, and dissipates the baby terrors of an ill-educated + conscience. To fall in love with a married man, and the husband of your + intimate friend! How dreadful this sounds to some ears! even mine were + startled at first, till I called reason to my assistance. Then I had + another difficulty to combat—to own, and own unasked, a passion to + the object of it, would shock the false delicacy of those who are governed + by common forms, and who are slaves to vulgar prejudices: but a little + philosophy liberates our sex from the tyranny of custom, teaches us to + disdain hypocrisy, and to glory in the simplicity of truth. + </p> + <p> + Josephine had been perfuming my hair, and I was sitting reading at my + toilette; the door of my dressing-room happened to be half open; L—— + was crossing the gallery, and as he passed I suppose his eye was caught by + my hair, or perhaps he paused a moment, I am not certain how it was—my + eyes were on my book. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! vous avez raison, monsieur, c’est la plus belle chevelure! Mais + entrez donc, monsieur,” cried Josephine, whom I can never teach to + comprehend or respect English customs, “Eh! entrez, entrez, monsieur; + madame est à sa toilette.” + </p> + <p> + As I looked up I could not forbear smiling at the extreme ease and + decision of Josephine’s manner, and the excessive doubt and anxiety in the + gentleman’s appearance. My smile, which, Heaven knows, meant no + encouragement, decided him; timidity instantly gave way to joy; he + entered. What was to be done? I could not turn him out again; I was not + answerable for any foolish conclusions he might draw, from what he ought + in politeness to have considered as a thing of course. All I could do was + to blame Josephine for being a French woman. To defend her, and flatter + me, was the gentleman’s part; and, for an Englishman, he really acquitted + himself with tolerable grace. Josephine at least was pleased, and she + found such a perpetual employment for monsieur, and his advice was so + necessary, that there was no chance of his departure: so we talked of + French <i>toilettes</i>, &c. &c. in French, for Josephine’s + edification: L—— paid me some compliments upon the recovery of + my looks after my illness—I thought I looked terribly languid—but + he assured me that this languor, in his eyes, was an additional grace; I + could not understand this: he fancied that must be because he did not + express himself well in French; he explained himself more clearly in + English, which Josephine, you know, does not understand, so that she was + now forced to be silent, and I was compelled to take my share in the + conversation. L—— made me comprehend, that languor, indicating + sensibility of heart, was to him the most touching of female charms; I + sighed, and took up the book I had been reading; it was the new novel + which you sent me, dear Gabrielle; I talked of it, in hopes of changing + the course of the conversation; alas! this led to one far more dangerous: + he looked at the passage I had been reading. This brought us back to + sensibility again—to sentiments and descriptions so terribly + apposite! we found such a similarity in our tastes! Yet L—— + spoke only in general, and he preserved a command over himself, which + provoked me, though I knew it to be coquetry; I saw the struggle in his + mind, and was determined to force him to be candid, and to enjoy my + triumph. With these views I went farther than I had intended. The charm of + sensibility he had told me was to him irresistible. Alas! I let him + perceive all the weakness of my heart.—Sensibility is the worst + time-keeper in the world. We were neither of us aware of its progressive + motion. The Swiss—my evil genius—the Swiss knocked at the door + to let me know dinner was served. Dinner! on what vulgar incidents the + happiness of life depends! Dinner came between the discovery of my + sentiments and that declaration of passion which I now must hear—or + die. + </p> + <p> + “Le diner! mon Dieu!” cried Josephine. “Mais—finissons donc—la + toilette de madame.” + </p> + <p> + I heard the impertinent Swiss at the other end of the gallery at his + master’s door, wondering in broken English where his master could be, and + conjecturing forty absurdities about his boots, and his being out riding, + &c. &c. To sally forth in conscious innocence upon the enemy’s + spies, and to terminate the adventure as it was begun, <i>à la Françoise</i>, + was my resolution. L—— and Josephine understood me perfectly. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! Monsieur de Vaud,” said Josephine to the Swiss, whom we met on the + landing-place of the stairs, “madame n’est elle pas coeffée à ravir + aujourd’hui? C’est que monsieur vient d’assister à la toilette de madame.” + The Swiss bowed, and said nothing. The bow was to his master, not to me, + and it was a bow of duty, not of inclination. I never saw a man look so + like a machine; he did not even raise his eyes upon me or my <i>coëffure</i> + as we passed. + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” cried Josephine, with an inexpressible accent of mingled + indignation and contempt. She ran down stairs, leaving the Swiss to his + stupidity. I was more afraid of his penetration. But I entered the + dining-room as if nothing extraordinary had happened; and after all, you + know, my dear Gabrielle, nothing extraordinary had befallen us. A + gentleman had assisted at a lady’s toilette. Nothing more simple, nothing, + more proper in the meridian of Paris; and does propriety change with + meridians? There was company at dinner, and the conversation was general + and uninteresting; L—— endeavoured to support his part with + vivacity; but he had fits of absence and silence, which might have alarmed + Leonora, if she had any suspicion. But she is now perfectly secure, and + absolutely blind: therefore you see there can be no danger for her + happiness in my remaining where I am. For no earthly consideration would I + disturb her peace of mind; there is no sacrifice I would hesitate for a + moment to make to friendship or virtue, but I cannot surely be called upon + to <i>plant a dagger in my own heart</i> to destroy, for ever to destroy + my own felicity without advantage to my friend. My attachment to L——, + as you say, is involuntary, and my love as pure as it is fervent. I have + reason to believe that his sentiments are the same for me; but of this I + am not yet certain. There is the danger, and the only real danger for + Leonora’s happiness; for whilst this uncertainty and his consequent fits + of absence and imprudence last, there is hazard every moment of her being + alarmed. But when L—— once decides, every thing arranges + itself, you know, Gabrielle, and prudence becomes a duty to ourselves and + to Leonora. No word, or look, or coquetry could then escape us; we should + be unpardonable if we did not conduct ourselves with the most scrupulous + delicacy and attention to her feelings. I am amazed that L——, + who has really a good understanding, does not make these reflections, and + is not determined by this calculation. For his, for my own, but most for + Leonora’s sake, I wish that this cruel suspense were at an end. Adieu, + dear and amiable Gabrielle.—These things are managed better in + France. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XL. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + DEAR MARGARET, L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + I arrived here late yesterday evening in high spirits, and high hopes of + surprising and delighting all the world by my unexpected appearance; but + my pride was checked, and my tone changed the moment I saw Leonora. Never + was any human being so altered in her looks in so short a time. I had + just, and but just presence of mind enough not to say so. I am astonished + that it does not strike Mr. L——. As soon as she left the room, + I asked him if Lady Leonora had been ill? No; perfectly well! perfectly + well!—Did not he perceive that she looked extremely ill? No; she + might be paler than usual: that was all that Mr. L—— had + observed. Lady Olivia, after a pause, added, that Leonora certainly had + not appeared well lately, but this was nothing extraordinary in her <i>situation</i>. + <i>Situation!</i> nonsense! Lady Olivia went on with sentimental hypocrisy + of look and tone, saying fine things, to which I paid little attention. + Virtue in words, and vice in actions! thought I. People, of certain + pretensions in the court of sentiment, think that they can pass false + virtues upon the world for real, as some ladies, entitled by their rank to + wear jewels, appear in false stones, believing that it will be taken for + granted they would wear nothing but diamonds. Not one eye in a hundred + detects the difference at first, but in time the hundredth eye comes, and + then they must for ever hide their diminished rays. Beware! Lady Olivia, + beware! + </p> + <p> + Leonora is ill, or unhappy, or both; but she will not allow that she is + either. On one subject she is impenetrable: a hundred, a thousand + different ways within these four-and-twenty hours have I led to it, with + all the ingenuity and all the delicacy of which I am mistress; but all to + no purpose. Neither by provocation, persuasion, laughing, teazing, + questioning, cross, or round about, pushing, squeezing, encompassing, + taking for granted, wondering, or blundering, could I gain my point. Every + look guarded—every syllable measured—yet unequivocal— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She said no more than just the thing she ought.” + </pre> + <p> + Because I could find no fault, I was half angry. I respect the motive of + this reserve; but towards me it is misplaced, and ill-judged, and it must + not exist. I have often declared that I would never condescend to play the + part of a confidante to any princess or heroine upon earth. But Leonora is + neither princess nor heroine, and I would be her confidante, but she will + not let me. Now I am punished for my pride. If she would only trust me, if + she would only tell me what has passed since I went, and all that now + weighs upon her mind, I could certainly be of some use. I could and would + say every thing that she might scruple to hint to Lady Olivia, and I will + answer for it I would make her raise the siege. But I cannot believe Mr. L—— + to be such a madman as to think of attaching himself seriously to a woman + like Olivia, when he has such a wife as Leonora. That he was amusing + himself with Olivia I saw, or thought I saw, some time ago, and I rather + wondered that Leonora was uneasy: for all husbands will flirt, and all + wives must bear it, thought I. When such a coquette as this fell in his + way, and made advances, he would have been more than man if he had + receded. Of course, I thought, he must despise and laugh at her all the + time he was flattering and gallanting her ladyship. This would have been + fair play, and comic; but the comedy should have ended by this time. I am + now really afraid it will turn into a tragedy. I, even I! am alarmed. I + must prevail upon Leonora to speak to me without reserve. I see her + suffer, and I must share her grief. Have not I always done so from the + time we were children? and now, when she most wants a friend, am not I + worthy to share her confidence? Can she mistake friendship for impertinent + curiosity? Does not she know that I would not be burthened with the + secrets of any body whom I did not love? If she thinks otherwise, she does + me injustice, and I will tell her so before I sleep. She does not know how + well I love her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + My dear Margaret, Leonora and I have had a quarrel—the first serious + quarrel we ever had in our lives; and the end of it is, that she is an + angel, and I am a fool. Just as I laid down my pen after writing to you, + though it was long past midnight, I marched into Leonora’s apartment, + resolved to surprise or to force her confidence. I found her awake, as I + expected, and up and dressed, as I did not expect, sitting in her + dressing-room, her head leaning upon her hand. I knew what she was + thinking of; she had a heap of Mr. L——‘s old letters beside + her. She denied that she was in tears, and I will not swear to the tears, + but I think I saw signs of them notwithstanding. I spoke out;—but in + vain—all in vain. At last I flew into a passion, and reproached her + bitterly. She answered me with that air of dignified tenderness which is + peculiar to her—“If you believe me to be unhappy, my dear Helen, is + this a time to reproach me unjustly?” I was brought to reason and to + tears, and after asking pardon, like a foolish naughty child, was kissed + and forgiven, upon a promise never to do so any more; a promise which I + hope Heaven will grant me grace and strength of mind enough to keep. I was + certainly wrong to attempt to force her secret from her. Leonora’s + confidence is always given, never yielded; and in her, openness is a + virtue, not a weakness. But I wish she would not contrive to be always in + the right. In all our quarrels, in all the variations of my humour, I am + obliged to end by doing homage to her reason, as the Chinese mariners, in + every change of weather, burn incense before the needle. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLI. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR GENERAL, L—— Castle, Friday. + </p> + <p> + I hoped that you would have favoured us with a passing visit in your way + from town, but I know you will tell me that friendship must not interfere + with the interests of the service. I have reason to curse those interests; + they are for ever at variance with mine. I had a particular desire to + speak to you upon a subject, on which it is not agreeable to me to write. + Lady Leonora also wished extremely, and disinterestedly, for your company. + She does not know how much she is obliged to you. The laconic advice you + gave me, some time ago, influenced my conduct longer, than counsel which + is in opposition to our passions usually does, and it has haunted my + imagination perpetually:—“My dear L——, do not end by + being the dupe of a <i>Frenchified coquette</i>.” + </p> + <p> + My dear friend, of that there is no danger. No man upon earth despises or + detests coquettes more than I do, be they French or English. I think, + however, that a foreign-born, or foreign-bred coquette, has more of the + ease of <i>practice</i>, and less of the awkwardness of conscience, than a + home-bred flirt, and is in reality less blamable, for she breaks no + restraints of custom or education; she does only what she has seen her + mother do before her, and what is authorized by the example of most of the + fashionable ladies of her acquaintance. But let us put flirts and + coquettes quite out of the question. My dear general, you know that I am + used to women, and take it upon my word, that the lady to whom I allude is + more tender and passionate than vain. Every woman has, or has had, a + tincture of vanity; but there are a few, and those are to me the most + amiable of the sex, who + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Feel every vanity in fondness lost.” + </pre> + <p> + You know that I am delicate, even fastidious, in my taste for female + manners. Nothing can in my opinion make amends for any offence against + propriety, except it be sensibility—genuine, generous sensibility. + This can, in my mind, cover a multitude of faults. There is so much of + selfishness, of hypocrisy, of coldness, in what is visually called female + virtue, that I often turn with distaste from those to whom I am compelled + to do homage, for the sake of the general good of society. I am not <i>charlatan</i> + enough to pretend upon all occasions to prefer the public advantage to my + own. I confess, that let a woman be ever so fair, or good, or wise: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Be she with that goodness blest + Which may merit name of best, + If she be not such to me, + What care I how good she be?” + </pre> + <p> + And I will further acknowledge, that I am not easily satisfied with the + manner in which a woman is kind to me: if it be duty-work kindness, I + would not give thanks for it: it is done for her reputation, not for me, + and let the world thank her. To <i>the best of wives</i>, I should make + the worst of husbands. No—I should, I hope, pay her in her own coin, + with all due observances, attentions, and respect, but without one grain + of love. Love is only to be had for love; and without it, nothing a woman + can give appears to me worth having. I do not desire to be loved well + enough to satisfy fathers and mothers, and uncles and aunts; well enough + to decide a woman to marry me rather than disoblige her friends, or run + the chance of having <i>many a worse offer</i>, and living perhaps to be + an old maid. I do not desire to be loved well enough to keep a woman true + and faithful to me “<i>till death us do part</i>:” in short, I do not + desire to be loved well enough for a husband; I desire to be loved + sufficiently for a lover; not only above all other persons, but above all + other things, all other considerations—to be the first and last + object in the heart of the woman to whom I am attached: I wish to feel + that I sustain and fill the whole of her heart. I must be certain that I + am every thing to her, as she is every thing to me; that there is no + imaginable situation in which she would not live with me, in which she + would not be happy to live with me; no possible sacrifice that she would + not make for me; or rather, that nothing she could do should appear a + sacrifice. Are these exorbitant expectations? I am capable of all this, + and more, for a woman I love; and it is my pride or my misfortune to be + able to love upon no other terms. Such proofs of attachment it may be + difficult to obtain, and even to give; more difficult, I am sensible, for + a wife than for a mistress. A young lady who is married <i>secundum artem</i>, + with licence and consent of friends, can give no extraordinary instances + of affection. I should not consider it as an indisputable proof of love, + that she does me the honour to give me her hand in a church, or that she + condescends to bespeak my liveries, or to be handed into her own coach + with all the blushing honours of a bride; all the paraphernalia of a wife + secured, all the prudent and necessary provision made both for matrimonial + love and hatred, dower, pin-money, and separate maintenance on the one + hand, and on the other, lands, tenements, and hereditaments for the future + son and heir, and sums without end for younger children to the tenth and + twentieth possibility, <i>as the case may be, nothing herein contained to + the contrary in any wise notwithstanding</i>. Such a jargon Cupid does not + understand. A woman may love this most convenient personage, her lawful + husband; but I should think it difficult for the delicacy of female + passion to survive the cool preparations for hymeneal felicity. At all + events, you will allow the lady makes no sacrifice, she shows no great + generosity, and she may, or she may not, be touched at the altar by the + divine flame. My good general, when you are a husband you will feel these + things as I do; till then, it is very easy to talk as you do, and to + admire other men’s wives, and to wish Heaven had blessed you with such a + treasure. For my part, the single idea, that a woman thinks it her duty to + be fond of me, would deprive me of all pleasure in her love. No man can be + more sensible than I am of the amiable and estimable qualities of Lady + Leonora L——; I should be a brute and a liar if I hesitated to + give the fullest testimony in her praise; but such is the infirmity of my + nature, that I could pardon some faults more easily, than I could like + some virtues. The virtues which leave me in doubt of a woman’s love, I can + esteem, but that is all. Lady Leonora is calm, serene, perfectly + sweet-tempered, without jealousy and without suspicion; in one word, + without love. If she loved me, she never could have been the wife she has + been for some months past. You will laugh at my being angry with a wife + for not being jealous. But so it is. Certain defects of temper I could + bear, if I considered them as symptoms of strong affection. When I for a + moment believed that Leonora suffered, when I attributed her fainting at + our fête champêtre to jealousy, I was so much alarmed and touched, that I + absolutely forgot her rival. I did more; to prevent her feeling + uneasiness, to destroy the suspicions which I imagined had been awakened + in her mind, I hesitated not to sacrifice all the pleasure and all the + vanity which a man of my age might reasonably be supposed to feel in the + prospect of a new and not inglorious conquest; I left home immediately, + and went to meet you, my dear friend, on your return from abroad. This + visit I do not set down to your account, but to that of honour—foolish, + unnecessary honour. You half-persuaded me, that your hearsay Parisian + evidence was more to be trusted than my own judgment, and I returned home + with the resolution not to be the dupe of a coquette. Leonora’s reception + of me was delightful; I never saw her in such spirits, or so amiable. But + I could not help wishing to ascertain whether I had attributed her + fainting to the real cause. This proof I tempted to my cost. Instead of + showing any tender alarm at the renewal of my obvious attentions to her + rival, she was perfectly calm and collected, went on with her usual + occupations, fulfilled all her duties, never reproached me by word or + look, never for one moment betrayed impatience, ill-humour, suspicion, or + jealousy; in short, I found that I had been fool enough to attribute to + excess of affection, an accident which proceeded merely from the situation + of her health. If anxiety of mind had been the cause of her fainting at + the fête champêtre, she would since have felt and shown agitation on a + thousand occasions, where she has been perfectly tranquil. Her friend Mrs. + C——, who returned here a few days ago, seems to imagine that + Leonora looks ill; but I shall not again be led to mistake bodily + indisposition for mental suffering. Leonora’s conduct argues great + insensibility of soul, or great command; great insensibility, I think: for + I cannot imagine such command of temper possible to any, but a woman who + feels indifference for the offender. Yet, even now that I have steeled + myself with this conviction, I am scarcely bold enough to hazard the + chance of giving her pain. Absurd weakness! It has been clearly proved to + my understanding, that my irresolution, my scruples of conscience, my + combats between love and esteem, are more likely to betray the real state + of my mind than any decision that I could make. I decide, then—I + determine to be happy with a woman who has a soul capable of feeling, not + merely what is called conjugal affection, but the passion of love; who is + capable of sacrificing every thing to love; who has given me proofs of + candour and greatness of mind, which I value far above all her wit, grace, + and beauty. My dear general, I know all that you can tell, all that you + can hint concerning her history abroad. I know it from her own lips. It + was told to me in a manner that made her my admiration. It was told to me + as a preservative against the danger of loving her. It was told to me with + the generous design of protecting Leonora’s happiness; and all this at the + moment when I was beloved, tenderly beloved. She is above dissimulation: + she scorns the arts, the fears of her sex. She knows you are her enemy, + and yet she esteems you; she urged me to speak to you with the utmost + openness: “Let me never,” said she, “be the cause of your feeling less + confidence or less affection for the best of friends.” + </p> + <p> + R—— is sacrificed to me; that R——, with whose + cursed name you tormented me. My dear friend, she will force your + admiration, as she has won my love. + </p> + <p> + Yours sincerely, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLII. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + As I am not trusted with the secret, I may, my dear Margaret, use my own + eyes and ears as I please to find it out; and I know Leonora’s countenance + so well, that I see every thing that passes in her mind, just as clearly + as if she had told it to me in words. + </p> + <p> + It grieves me, more than I can express, to see her suffering as she does. + I am now convinced that she has reason to be unhappy; and what is worse, I + do not see what course she can follow to recover her happiness. All her + forbearance, all her patience, all her sweet temper, I perceive, are + useless, or worse than useless, injurious to her in her strange husband’s + opinion. I never liked him thoroughly, and now I detest him. He thinks her + cold, insensible! She insensible!—Brute! Idiot! Every thing that she + says or does displeases him. The merest trifles excite the most cruel + suspicions. He totally misunderstands her character, and sees every thing + about her in a false light. In short, he is under the dominion of an + artful fiend, who works as she pleases upon his passions—upon his + pride, which is his ruling passion. + </p> + <p> + This evening Lady Olivia began confessing that she had too much + sensibility, that she was of an excessively susceptible temper, and that + she should be terribly jealous of the affections of any person she loved. + She did not know how love <i>could</i> exist without jealousy. Mr. L—— + was present, and listening eagerly. Leonora’s lips were silent; not so her + countenance. I was in hopes Mr. L—— would have remarked its + beautiful touching expression; but his eyes were fixed upon Olivia. I + could have ... but let me go on. Lady Olivia had the malice suddenly to + appeal to Leonora, and asked whether she was never jealous of her husband? + Leonora, astonished by her assurance, paused for an instant, and then + replied, “It would be difficult to convince me that I had any reason to be + jealous of Mr. L——, I esteem him so much.”—“I wish to + Heaven!” exclaimed Lady Olivia, her eyes turned upwards with a fine St. + Cecilia expression, whilst Mr. L——‘s attention was fixed upon + her, “Would to Heaven I was blessed with such a <i>reasonable</i> temper!”—“When + you are wishing to Heaven, Lady Olivia,” said I, “had not you better ask + for <i>all you want</i> at once; not only such a reasonable temper, but + such a feeling heart?” + </p> + <p> + Some of the company smiled. Lady Olivia, practised as she is, looked + disconcerted; Mr. L—— grave and impenetrable; Leonora, + blushing, turned away to the piano-forte. Mr. L—— remained + talking with Lady Olivia, and he neither saw nor heard her. If Leonora had + sung like an angel, it would have made no impression. She turned over the + leaves of her music quickly, to a lively air, and played it immediately, + to prevent my perceiving how much she felt. Poor Leonora! you are but a + bad dissembler, and it is in vain to try to conceal yourself from me. + </p> + <p> + I was so sorry for her, and so incensed with Olivia this night, that I + could not restrain myself, and I made matters worse. At supper I came + almost to open war with her ladyship. I cannot remember exactly what I + said, but I know that I threw out the most severe inuendoes which + politeness could permit: and what <i>was</i> the consequence? Mr. L—— + pitied Olivia and hated me; Leonora was in misery the whole time; and her + husband probably thought that she was the instigator, though she was + perfectly innocent. My dear Margaret, where will all this end? and how + much more mischief shall I do with the best intentions possible? + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLIII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Your letter has travelled after me God knows where, my dear L——, + and has caught me at last with my foot in the stirrup. I have just had + time to look it over. I find, in short, that you are in love. I give you + joy! But be in love like a madman, not like a fool. Call a demirep an + angel, and welcome; but remember, that such angels are to be had any day + in the year; and such a wife as yours is not to be had for the mines of + Golconda. Coin your heart, and drop your blood for it, and you will never + be loved by any other woman so well as you are by Lady Leonora L——. + </p> + <p> + As to your jealous hypochondriacism, more of that when I have more + leisure. In the mean time I wish it well cured. + </p> + <p> + I am, my dear friend, + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLIV. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + I Triumph! dear Gabrielle, give me joy! Never was triumph more complete. L—— + loves me! That I knew long ago; but I have at last forced from his proud + heart the avowal of his passion. Love and Olivia are victorious over + scruples, prejudice, pride, and superstition! + </p> + <p> + Leonora feels not—sees not: she requires, she excites no pity. Long + may her delusion last! But even were it this moment to dissipate, what + cause have I for remorse? “Who is most to blame, he who ceases to love, or + she who ceases to please?” Leonora perhaps thinks that she loves her + husband; and no doubt she does so in a conjugal sort of a way: he <i>has</i> + loved his wife; but be it mine to prove that his heart is suited to far + other raptures; and if Olivia be called upon for sacrifices, <i>Olivia</i> + can make them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let wealth, let honour wait the wedded dame, + August her deed, and sacred be her fame; + Before true passion, all those views remove, + Fame, wealth, and honour, what are you to love?” + </pre> + <p> + These lines, though quoted perpetually by the tender and passionate, can + never become stale and vulgar; they will always recur in certain + situations to persons of delicate sensibility, for they at once express + all that can be said, and justify all that can be felt. My amiable + Gabrielle, adieu. Pardon me if to-day I have no soul even for friendship. + This day is all for love. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLV. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + What the devil would you have of your wife, my dear L——? You + would be loved above all earthly considerations; honour, duty, virtue, and + religion inclusive, would you? and you would have a wife with her head in + the clouds, would you? I wish you were married to one of the all-for-love + heroines, who would treat you with bowl and dagger every day of your life. + In your opinion sensibility covers a multitude of faults—you would + have said <i>sins</i>: so it had need, for it produces a multitude. Pray + what brings hundreds and thousands of women to the Piazzas of Covent + Garden but sensibility? What does the colonel’s, and the captain’s, and + the ensign’s mistress talk of but <i>sensibility</i>? And are you, my dear + friend, to be duped by this hackneyed word? And should you really think it + an indisputable proof of a lady’s love, that she would jump out of a two + pair of stairs window into your arms? Now I should think myself sure of + such a woman’s love only just whilst I held her, and scarcely then; for I, + who in my own way am jealous as well as yourself, should in this case be + jealous of wickedness, and should strongly suspect that she would love the + first devil that she saw better than me. + </p> + <p> + You are always raving about sacrifices. Your Cupid must be a very + vindictive little god. Mine is a good-humoured, rosy little fellow, who + desires no better than to see me laugh and be happy. But to every man his + own Cupid. If you cannot believe in love without sacrifices, you must have + them, to be sure. And now, in sober sadness, what do you think your + heroine would sacrifice for you? Her reputation? that, pardon me, is out + of her power. Her virtue? I have no doubt she would. But before I can + estimate the value of this sacrifice, I must know whether she makes it to + you or to her pleasure. Would she give up in any instance her pleasure for + your happiness? This is not an easy matter to ascertain with respect to a + mistress: but your wife has put it beyond a doubt, that she prefers your + happiness not only to her pleasure, but to her pride, and to every thing + that the sex usually prefer to a husband. You have been wounded by a + poisoned arrow; but you have a faithful wife who can extract the poison. + Lady Leonora’s affection is not a mere fit of goodness and generosity, + such as I have seen in many women, but it is a steadiness of attachment in + the hour of trial, which I have seen in few. For several months past you + have, by your own account, put her temper and her love to the most severe + tests, yet she has never failed for one moment, never reproached you by + word or look.—But may be she has no feeling.—No feeling! you + can have none, if you say so: no penetration, if you think so. Would not + you think me a tyrant if I put a poor fellow on the picket, and told you, + when he bore it without a groan, that it was because he could not feel? + You do worse, you torture the soul of the woman who loves you; she + endures, she is calm, she smiles upon you even in agony; and you tell me + she cannot feel! she cannot feel like an Olivia! No; and so much the + better for her husband, for she will then have only feeling enough for + him, she will not extend her charity to all his sex. But Olivia has such + candour and magnanimity, that I must admire her! I humbly thank her for + offering to make me her confidant, for offering to tell me what I know + already, and what she is certain that I know. These were good moves, but I + understand the game as well as her ladyship does. As to her making a + friend of me; if she means an enemy to Lady Leonora L——, I + would sooner see her—in heaven: but if she would do me the favour to + think no more of your heart, which is too good for her, and to accept of + my—my—what shall I say?—my devoirs, I am at her command. + She shall drive my curricle, &c. &c. She would suit me vastly well + for a month or two, and by that time poor R—— would make his + appearance, or somebody in his stead: at the worst, I should have a chance + of some blessed metaphysical quirk, which would prove that inconstancy was + a virtue, or that a new love is better than an old one. When it came to + that, I should make my best bow, put on my most disconsolate face, and + retire. + </p> + <p> + You will read all this in a very different spirit from that in which it is + written. If you are angry—no matter: I am cool. I tell you + beforehand, that I will not fight you for any thing I have said in this + letter, or that I ever may say about your Olivia. Therefore, my dear L——, + save yourself the trouble of challenging me. I thank God I have reputation + enough to be able to dispense with the glory of blowing out your brains. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLVI. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + We have been very gay here the last few days: the gallant and accomplished + Prince —— has been here. H——, the witty H——, + who is his favourite companion, introduced him; and he seems so much + charmed with the old castle, its towers and battlements, and with its <i>cynosure</i>, + that I know not when he will be able to prevail upon himself to depart. + To-morrow, he says; but so he has said these ten days: he cannot resist + the entreaties of his kind host and hostess to stay another day. The soft + accent of the beautiful Leonora will certainly detain him <i>one day more</i>, + and her gracious smile will bereave him of rest for months to come. He has + evidently fallen desperately in love with her. Now we shall see virtue in + danger. + </p> + <p> + I have always been of opinion with St. Evremond and Ninon de l’Enclos, + that no female virtue can stand every species of test; fortunately it is + not always exposed to trial. Reputation may be preserved by certain + persons in certain situations, upon very easy terms. Leonora, for + instance, is armed so strong in character, that no common mortal will + venture to attack her. It would be presumption little short of high + treason to imagine the fall of the Lady Leonora L——, the + daughter of the Duchess of ——, who, with a long line of + immaculate baronesses in their own right, each in her armour of stiff + stays, stands frowning defiance upon the adventurous knights. More + alarming still to the modern seducer, appears a judge in his long wig, and + a jury with their long faces, ready to bring in their verdict, and to + award damages proportionate to the rank and fortune of the parties. Then + the former reputation of the lady is talked of, and the irreparable injury + sustained by the disconsolate husband from the loss of the solace and + affection of this paragon of wives. And it is proved that she lived in the + most perfect harmony with him, till the vile seducer appeared; who, in + aggravation of damages, was a confidential friend of the husband’s, &c. + &c. &c. &c. &c. + </p> + <p> + Brave, indeed, and desperately in love must be the man, who could dare all + these to deserve the fair. But princes are, it is said, naturally brave, + and ambitious of conquering difficulties. + </p> + <p> + I have insinuated these reflections in a general way to L——, + who applies them so as to plague himself sufficiently. Heaven is my + witness, that I mean no injury to Lady Leonora; yet I fear that there are + moments, when my respect for her superiority, joined to the consciousness + of my own weakness, overpowers me, and I almost envy her the right she + retains to the esteem of the man I love. This is a blamable weakness—I + know it—I reproach myself bitterly; but all I can do is to confess + it candidly. L—— sees my conflicts, and knows how to value the + sensibility of my fond heart. Adieu, my Gabrielle. When shall I be happy? + since even love has its torments, and I am thus doomed to be ever a victim + to the tenderness of my soul. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLVII. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + I do not know whether I pity, love, or admire Leonora most. Just when her + mind was deeply wounded by her husband’s neglect, and when her jealousy + was worked to the highest pitch by his passion for her dangerous rival, + the Prince —— arrives here, and struck by Leonora’s charms of + mind and person, falls passionately in love with her. Probably his + highness’s friend H—— had given him a hint of the existing + circumstances, and he thought a more propitious moment could scarcely be + found for making an impression upon a female mind. He judged of Leonora by + other women. And I, like a simpleton, judged of her by myself. With shame + I confess to you, my dear Margaret, that notwithstanding all my past + experience, I did expect that she would have done, as I am afraid I should + have done in her situation. I think that I could not have resisted the + temptation of coquetting a little—a very little—just to revive + the passion of the man whom I really loved. This expedient succeeds so + often with that wise sex, who never rightly know the value of a heart, + except when they have just won it, or at the moment when they are on the + point of losing it. In Leonora’s place and in such an emergency, I should + certainly have employed that frightful monster jealousy to waken sleeping + love; since he, and only he, can do it expeditiously and effectually. This + I have hinted to Leonora, talking always <i>in generals</i>; for, since my + total overthrow, I have never dared to come to particulars: but by putting + cases and <i>confessing myself</i>, I contrived to make my thoughts + understood. I then boasted of the extreme facility of the means I would + adopt to recover a heart. Leonora answered in the words of a celebrated + great man:—“C’est facile de se servir de pareils moyens; c’est + difficile de s’y résoudre.” + </p> + <p> + “But if no other means would succeed,” said I, “would not you sacrifice + your pride to your love?” + </p> + <p> + “My pride, willingly; but not my sense of what is right,” said she, with + an indescribable mixture of tenderness and firmness in her manner. + </p> + <p> + “Can a little coquetry in a good cause be such a heinous offence?” + persisted I. I knew that I was wrong all the time; but I delighted in + seeing how right she was. + </p> + <p> + No—she would not allow her mind to be cheated by female sophistry; + nor yet by the male casuistry of, “the end sanctifies the means.” + </p> + <p> + “If you had the misfortune to lose the affections of the man you love, and + if you were quite certain of regaining them by following my recipe?” said + I. + </p> + <p> + Never shall I forget the look with which Leonora left me, and the accent + with which she said, “My dear Helen, if it were ever to be my misfortune + to lose my husband’s love, I would not, even if I were certain of success, + attempt to regain it by any unworthy arts. How could I wish to regain his + love at the hazard of losing his esteem, and the certainty of forfeiting + my own!” + </p> + <p> + I said no more—I had nothing more to say: I saw that I had given + pain, and I have never touched upon the subject since. But her practice is + even beyond her theory. Never, by deed, or look, or word, or thought (for + I see all her thoughts in her eloquent countenance), has she swerved from + her principles. No prudery—no coquetry—no mock-humility—no + triumph. Never for an instant did she, by a proud air, say to her husband,—See + what others think of me! Never did a resentful look say to him—Inconstant!—revenge + is in my power! Never even did a reproachful sigh express—I am + injured, yet I do not retaliate. + </p> + <p> + Mr. L——is blind; he is infatuated; he is absolutely bereaved + of judgment by a perfidious, ungrateful, and cruel wretch. Let me vent my + indignation to you, dear Margaret, or it will explode, perhaps, when it + may do Leonora mischief. Yours affectionately, Helen C——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE F——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + This Lady Leonora, in her simplicity, never dreamed of love till the + prince’s passion was too visible and audible to be misunderstood: and then + she changed her tone, and checked her simplicity, and was so reserved, and + so dignified, and so <i>proper</i>, it was quite edifying, especially to a + poor sinner of a coquette like me; nothing <i>piquante</i>; nothing <i>agaçante</i>; + nothing <i>demi-voílée</i>; no retiring to be pursued; not a single + manoeuvre of coquetry did she practise. This convinces me that she cares + not in the least for her husband; because, if she really loved him, and + wished to reclaim his heart, what so natural or so simple as to excite his + jealousy, and thus revive his love? After neglecting this golden + opportunity, she can never convince me that she is really anxious about + her husband’s heart. This I hinted to L——, and his own + susceptibility had hinted it to him efficaciously, before I spoke. + </p> + <p> + Though Leonora has been so correct hitherto, and so cold to the prince in + her husband’s presence, I have my suspicions that, if in his absence, + proper means were taken, if her pride were roused by apt suggestions, if + it were delicately pointed out to her that she is shamefully neglected, + that she is a cipher in her own house, that her husband presumes too much + upon her sweetness of temper, that his inconstancy is wondered at by all + who have eyes, and that a little retaliation might become her ladyship, I + would not answer for her forbearance, that is to say if all this were done + by a dexterous man, a lover and a prince! I shall take care my opinions + shall be known; for I cannot endure to have the esteem of the man I love + monopolized. Exposed to temptation, as I have been, and with as ardent + affections, Leonora, or I am much mistaken, would not have been more + estimable. Adieu, my dearest Gabrielle. Nous verrons! nous verrons! + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Sunday evening. + </p> + <p> + P.S. I open my letter to tell you that the prince is actually gone. + Doubtless he will return at a more auspicious moment. + </p> + <p> + Lady M—— and all the troop of friends are to depart on Monday; + all but <i>the</i> bosom friend, <i>l’amie intime</i>, that insupportable + Helen, who is ever at daggers-drawing with me. So much the better! L—— + sees her cabals with his wife; she is a partisan without the art to be so + to any purpose, and her manoeuvres tend only to increase his partiality + for his Olivia. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XLIX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + months ago between her husband and me. What will be the consequence? I + long, yet almost fear, to meet her again. She is now in her own apartment, + writing, I presume, to her mother for advice. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER L. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + {Left on Lady Olivia’s dressing-table.} + </p> + <p> + O you, whom no kindness can touch, whom no honour can bind, whom no faith + can hold, enjoy the torments you have inflicted on me! enjoy the triumph + of having betrayed a confiding friend! Friend no more—affect, + presume no longer to call me friend! I am under no necessity to dissemble, + and dissimulation is foreign to my habits, and abhorrent to my nature! I + know you to be my enemy, and I say so—my most cruel enemy; one who + could, without reluctance or temptation, rob me of all I hold most dear. + Yes, without temptation; for you do not love my husband, Olivia. On this + point I cannot be mistaken; I know too well what it is to love him. Had + you been struck by his great or good and amiable qualities, charmed by his + engaging manners, or seduced by the violence of his passion; and had I + seen you honourably endeavour to repress that passion; had I seen in you + the slightest disposition to sacrifice your pleasure or your vanity to + friendship or to duty, I think I could have forgiven, I am sure I should + have pitied you. But you felt no pity for me, no shame for yourself; you + made no attempt to avoid, you invited the danger. Mr. L—— was + not the deceiver, but the deceived. By every art and every charm in your + power—and you have many—you won upon his senses and worked + upon his imagination; you saw, and made it your pride to conquer the + scruples of that affection he once felt for his wife, and that wife was + your friend. By passing bounds, which he could not conceive that any woman + could pass, except in the delirium of passion, you made him believe that + your love for him exceeds all that I feel. How he will find himself + deceived! If you had loved him as I do, you could not so easily have + forfeited all claim to his esteem. Had you loved him so much, you would + have loved honour more. + </p> + <p> + It is possible that Mr. L—— may taste some pleasure with you + whilst his delusion lasts, whilst his imagination paints you, as mine once + did, in false colours, possessed of generous virtues, and the victim of + excessive sensibility: but when he sees you such as you are, he will + recoil from you with aversion, he will reject you with contempt. + </p> + <p> + Knowing my opinion of you, Lady Olivia, you will not choose to remain in + this house; nor can I desire for my guest one whom I can no longer, in + private or in public, make my companion. + </p> + <p> + Adieu. + </p> + <p> + Leonora L——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LI. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle, Midnight. + </p> + <p> + Farewell for ever!—It must be so—Farewell for ever! Would to + Heaven I had summoned courage sooner to pronounce these fatal, necessary, + irrevocable words: then had I parted from you without remorse, without the + obloquy to which I am now exposed. Oh, my dearest L——! Mine, + do I still dare to call you? Yes, mine for the last time, I must call you, + mine I must fancy you, though for the impious thought the Furies + themselves were to haunt me to madness. My dearest L——, never + more must we meet in this world! Think not that my weak voice alone + forbids it: no, a stronger voice than mine is heard—an injured wife + reclaims you. What a letter have I just received...!—from.....Leonora! + She tells me that she no longer desires for her guest one whom she cannot, + in public or private, make her companion—Oh, Leonora, it was + sufficient to banish me from your heart! She tells me not only that I have + for ever forfeited her confidence; her esteem, her affection; but that I + shall soon be your aversion and contempt. Oh, cruel, cruel words! But I + submit—I have deserved it all—I have robbed her of a heart + above all price. Leonora, why did you not reproach me more bitterly? I + desire, I implore to be crushed, to be annihilated by your vengeance! Most + admirable, most virtuous, most estimable of women, best of wives, I have + with sacrilegious love profaned a soul consecrated to you and conjugal + virtue. I acknowledge my crime; trample upon me as you will, I am humbled + in the dust. More than all your bitterest reproaches, do I feel the + remorse of having, for a moment, interrupted such serenity of happiness. + </p> + <p> + Oh, why did you persuade me, L——, and why did I believe that + Leonora was calm and free from all suspicion? How could I believe that any + woman whom you had ever loved, could remain blind to your inconstancy, or + feel secure indifference? Happy woman! in you to love is not a crime; you + may glory in your passion, whilst I must hide mine from every human eye, + drop in shameful secrecy the burning tear, stifle the struggling sigh, + blush at the conflicts of virtue and sensibility, and carry shame and + remorse with me to the grave. Happy Leonora! happy even when most injured, + you have a right to complain to him you love;—he is yours—you + are his wife—his esteem, his affection are yours. On Olivia he has + bestowed but a transient thought, and eternal ignominy must be her + portion. So let it be—so I wish it to be. Would to Heaven I may thus + atone for the past, and secure your future felicity! Fly to her, my + dearest L——, I conjure you! throw yourself at her feet, + entreat, implore, obtain her forgiveness. She cannot refuse it to your + tears, to your caresses. To withstand them she must be more or less than + woman. No, she cannot resist your voice when it speaks words of peace and + love; she will press you with transport to her heart, and Olivia, poor + Olivia, will be for ever forgotten; yet she will rejoice in your felicity; + absolved perhaps in the eye of Heaven, though banished from your society, + she will die content. + </p> + <p> + Full well am I aware of the consequences of quitting thus precipitately + the house of Lady Leonora L——; but nothing that concerns + myself alone can, for a moment, make me hesitate to do that, which the + sentiment of virtue dictates, and which is yet more strongly urged by + regard for the happiness of one, who once allowed me to call her friend. I + know my reputation is irrecoverably sacrificed; but it is to one for whom + I would lay down my life. Can a woman who feels as I do deem any earthly + good a sacrifice for him she loves? Dear L——, adieu for ever! + </p> + <p> + Olivia. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LII. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <p> + Dearest Mother, + </p> + <p> + It is all over—my husband is gone—gone perhaps for ever—all + is in vain—all is lost! + </p> + <p> + Without saying more to you than I ought, I may tell you, that in + consequence of an indignant letter which I wrote last night to Lady + Olivia, she left my house this morning early, before any of the family + were up. Mr. L—— heard of her departure before I did. He has, + I will not say followed her, for of that I am not certain; but he has + quitted home, and without giving me one kind look at parting, without even + noticing a letter which I left last night upon his table. At what slight + things we catch to save us from despair! How obstinate, how vain is hope! + I fondly hoped, even to the last moment, that this letter, this foolish + letter, would work a sudden change in my husband’s heart, would operate + miracles, would restore me to happiness. I fancied, absurdly fancied, that + laying open my whole soul to him would have an effect upon his mind. Alas! + has not my whole soul been always open to him? Could this letter tell him + any thing but what he knows already, or what he will never know—how + well I love him! I was weak to expect so much from it; yet as it expressed + without complaint the anguish of disappointed affection, it deserved at + least some acknowledgment. Could not he have said, “My dear Leonora, I + thank you for your letter?”—or more colder still—“Leonora, I + have received your letter?” Even that would have been some relief to me: + but now all is despair. I saw him just when he was going away, but for a + moment; till the last instant he was not to be seen; then, in spite of all + his command of countenance, I discerned strong marks of agitation; but + towards me an air of resentment, more than any disposition to kinder + thoughts. I fancy that he scarcely knew what he said, nor, I am sure, did + I. He talked, I remember, of having immediate business in town, and I + endeavoured to believe him. Contrary to his usual composed manner, he was + in such haste to be gone, that I was obliged to send his watch and purse + after him, which he had left on his dressing-table. How melancholy his + room looked to me! His clothes just as he had left them—a rose which + Lady Olivia gave him yesterday was in water on his table. My letter was + not there; so he has it, probably unread. He will read it some time or + other, perhaps—and some time or other, perhaps, when I am dead and + gone, he will believe I loved him. Could he have known what I felt at the + moment when he turned from me, he would have pitied me; for his nature, + his character, cannot be quite altered in a few months, though he has + ceased to love Leonora. From the window of his own room I watched for the + last glimpse of him—heard him call to the postilions, and bid them + “drive fast—faster.” This was the last sound I heard of his voice. + When shall I hear that voice again? I think that I shall certainly hear + from him the day after to-morrow—and I wish to-day and to-morrow + were gone. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid that you will think me very weak; but, my dear mother, I have + no motive for fortitude now; and perhaps it might have been better for me, + if I had not exerted so much. I begin to fear that all my fortitude is + mistaken for indifference. Something Mr. L—— said the other + day, about sensibility and sacrifices, gave me this idea. Sensibility!—It + has been my hard task for some months past to repress mine, that it might + not give pain or disgust. I have done all that my reason and my dearest + mother counselled; surely I cannot have done wrong. How apt we are to + mistake the opinion or the taste of the man we love for the rule of right! + Sacrifices! What sacrifices can I make?—All that I have, is it not + his?—My whole heart, is it not his? Myself, all that I am, all that + I <i>can</i> be? Have I not lived with him of late, without recalling to + his mind the idea that I suffer by his neglect? Have I not left his heart + at liberty, and can I make a greater sacrifice? I really do not understand + what he means by sacrifices. A woman who loves her husband is part of him; + whatever she does for him is for herself. I wish he would explain to me + what he can mean by sacrifices—but when will he ever again explain + his thoughts and feelings to me? + </p> + <p> + My dearest mother, it has been a relief to my mind to write all this to + you; if there is no sense in it, you will forgive and encourage me by your + affection and strength of mind, which, in all situations, have such power + to soothe and support your daughter. + </p> + <p> + The prince ——, who spent a fortnight here, paid me particular + attention. + </p> + <p> + The prince talked of soon paying us another visit. If he should, I will + not receive him in Mr. L——‘s absence. This may seem like + vanity or prudery; but no matter what it appears, if it be right. + </p> + <p> + Well might you, my best friend, bid me beware of forming an intimacy with + an unprincipled woman. I have suffered severely for neglecting your + counsels; how much I have still to endure is yet to be tried: but I can + never be entirely miserable whilst I possess, and whilst I hope that I + deserve, the affection of such a mother. + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LIII. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO HER DAUGHTER. + </h3> + <p> + If my approbation and affection can sustain you in this trying situation, + your fortitude will not forsake you, my beloved daughter. Great minds rise + in adversity; they are always equal to the trial, and superior to + injustice: betrayed and deserted, they feel their own force, and they rely + upon themselves. Be yourself, my Leonora! Persevere as you have begun, + and, trust me, you will be happy. I abide by my first opinion, I repeat my + prophecy—your husband’s esteem, affection, love, will be permanently + yours. Change of circumstances, however alarming, cannot shake the fixed + judgment of my understanding. Character, as you justly observe, cannot + utterly change in a few months. Your husband is deceived, he is now as one + in the delirium of a fever: he will recover his senses, and see Lady + Olivia and you such as you are. + </p> + <p> + You do not explain, and I take it for granted you have good reasons for + not explaining to me more fully, the immediate cause of your letter to + Lady Olivia. I am sorry that any cause should have thrown her upon the + protection of Mr. L——; for a man of honour and generosity + feels himself bound to treat with tenderness a woman who appears to + sacrifice every thing for his sake. Consider this in another point of + view, and it will afford you subject of consolation; for it is always a + consolation to good minds, to think those whom they love less to blame + than they appear to be. You will be more calm and patient when you reflect + that your husband’s absence may be prolonged by a mistaken sense of + honour. From the nature of his connexion with Lady Olivia it cannot last + long. Had she saved appearances, and engaged him in a sentimental affair, + it might have been far more dangerous to your happiness. + </p> + <p> + I entirely approve of your conduct with respect to the prince: it is + worthy of my child, and just what I should have expected from her. The + artifices of coquettes, and all the <i>art</i> of love is beneath her; she + has far other powers and resources, and need not strive to maintain her + dignity by vengeance. I admire your magnanimity, and I still more admire + your good sense; for high spirit is more common in our sex than good + sense. Few know how, and when, they should sacrifice small considerations + to great ones. You say that you will not receive the prince in your + husband’s absence, though this may be attributed to prudery or vanity, + &c. &c. You are quite right. How many silly women sacrifice the + happiness of their lives to the idea of what women or men, as silly as + themselves, will say or think of their motives. How many absurd heroines + of romance, and of those who imitate them in real life, do we see, who can + never act with common sense or presence of mind: if a man’s carriage + breaks down, or his horse is tired at the end of their avenues, or for + some such ridiculous reason, they must do the very reverse of all they + know to be prudent. Perpetually exposed, by a fatal concurrence of + circumstances, to excite the jealousy of their lovers and husbands, they + create the necessity to which they fall a victim. I rejoice that I cannot + feel any apprehension of my daughter’s conducting herself like one of + these novel-bred ladies. + </p> + <p> + I am sorry, my dear, that Lady M—— and your friends have left + you: yet even in this there may be good. Your affairs will be made less + public, and you will be less the subject of impertinent curiosity. I + advise you, however, to mix as much as usual with your neighbours in the + country: your presence, and the dignity of your manners, will impose + silence upon idle tongues. No wife of real spirit solicits the world for + compassion: she who does not court popularity ensures respect. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my dearest child: the time will come when your husband will feel + the full merit of your fortitude; when he will know how to distinguish + between true and false sensibility; between the love of an Olivia and of a + Leonora. ——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LIV. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO MISS B——. + </h3> + <p> + Jan. 26. + </p> + <p> + My Dear Margaret, + </p> + <p> + I shall never forgive myself. I fear I have done Leonora irreparable + injury; and, dear magnanimous sufferer, she has never reproached me! In a + fit of indignation and imprudent zeal I made a discovery, which has + produced a total breach between Leonora and Lady Olivia, and in + consequence of this Mr. L—— has gone off with her ladyship + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + We have heard nothing from Mr. L—— since his departure, and + Leonora is more unhappy than ever, and my imprudence is the cause of this. + Yet she continues to love me. She is an angel! I have promised her not to + mention her affairs in future even in any of my letters to you, dear + Margaret. Pray quiet any reports you may hear, and stop idle tongues. + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <p> + Helen C——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LV. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + My Dear Friend, + </p> + <p> + I do not think I could have borne with temper, from any other man + breathing, the last letter which I received from you. I am sensible that + it was written with the best intentions for my happiness; but I must now + inform you, that the lady in question has accepted of my protection, and + consequently no man who esteems me can treat her with disrespect. + </p> + <p> + It is no longer a question, what she will sacrifice for me; she has shown + the greatest generosity and tenderness of soul; and I should despise + myself, if I did not exert every power to make her happy.—We are at + Richmond; but if you write, direct to me at my house in town. + </p> + <p> + Yours sincerely, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LVI. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Dream your dream out, my dear L——. Since you are angry with + me, as Solander was with Sir Joseph Banks for awakening him, I shall not + take the liberty of shaking you any more. I believe I shook you rather too + roughly: but I assure you it was for your good, as people always tell + their friends when they do the most disagreeable things imaginable. + Forgive me, and I will let you dream in peace. You will, however, allow me + to watch by you, whilst you sleep; and, my dear somnambulist, I may just + take care that you do not knock your head against a post, or fall into a + well. + </p> + <p> + I hope you will not have any objection to my paying my respects to Lady + Olivia when I come to town, which, I flatter myself, I shall be able to do + shortly. The fortifications here are almost completed. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LVII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond, ——. + </p> + <p> + Happy!—No, my dear Gabrielle, nor shall I ever be happy, whilst I + have not exclusive possession of the heart of the man I love. I have + sacrificed every thing to him; I have a right to expect that he should + sacrifice at least a wife for me—a wife whom he only esteems. But L—— + has not sufficient strength of mind to liberate himself from the cobwebs + which restrain those who talk of conscience, and who, in fact, are only + superstitious. I see with indignation, that his soul is continually + struggling between passion for me and a something, I know not what to call + it, that he feels for this wife. His thoughts are turning towards home. I + believe that to an Englishman’s ears, there is some magic in the words <i>home</i> + and <i>wife</i>. I used to think foreigners ridiculous for associating the + ideas of Milord Anglois with roast beef and pudding; but I begin to see + that they are quite right, and that an Englishman has a certain set of + inveterate <i>homely</i> prejudices, which are necessary to his + well-being, and almost to his existence. You may entice him into the land + of sentiment, and for a time keep him there; but refine and polish and + enlighten him, as you will, he recurs to his own plain sense, as he terms + it, on the first convenient opportunity. In short, it is lost labour to + civilize him, for sooner or later he will <i>hottentot</i> again. Pray + introduce that term, Gabrielle—<i>you</i> can translate it. For my + part, I can introduce nothing here; my manière d’être is really + insupportable; my talents are lost; I, who am accustomed to shine in + society, see nobody; I might, as Josephine every day observes, as well be + buried alive. Retirement and love are charming; but then it must be + perfect love—not the equivocating sort that L—— feels + for me, which keeps the word of promise only to the ear. I bear every sort + of désagrément for him; I make myself a figure for the finger of scorn to + point at, and he insults me with esteem for a wife. Can you conceive this, + my amiable Gabrielle?—No, there are ridiculous points in the + characters of my countrymen which you will never be able to comprehend. + And what is still more incomprehensible, it is my fate to love this man; + yes, passionately to love him!—But he must give me proof of + reciprocal passion. I have too much spirit to sacrifice every thing for + him, who will sacrifice nothing for me. Besides, I have another motive. To + you, my faithful Gabrielle, I open my whole heart.—Pride inspires me + as well as love. I am resolved that Leonora, the haughty Leonora, shall + live to repent of having insulted and exasperated Olivia. In some + situations contempt can be answered only by vengeance; and when the malice + of a contracted and illiberal mind provokes it, revenge is virtue. Leonora + has called me her enemy, and consequently has made me such. ‘Tis she has + declared the war! ‘tis for me to decide the victory! + </p> + <p> + L——, I know, has the offer of an embassy to Petersburg.—He + shall accept it.—I will accompany him thither. Lady Leonora may, in + his absence, console herself with her august counsellor and mother:—that + proudest of earthly paragons is yet to be taught the extent of Olivia’s + power. Adieu, my charming Gabrielle! I will carry your tenderest + remembrances to our brilliant Russian princess. She has often invited me, + you know, to pay her a visit, and this will be the ostensible object of my + journey. A horrible journey, to be sure!!!—But what will not love + undertake and accomplish, especially when goaded by pride, and inspirited + by great revenge? + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Victim to the delusions of passion, too well I know my danger, and now, + even now, foresee my miserable fate. Too well I know, that the delicious + poison which spreads through my frame exalts, entrances, but to destroy. + Too well I know that the meteor fire, which shines so bright on my path, + entices me forward but to plunge me in the depths of infamy. The long + warnings of recorded time teach me, that perjured man triumphs, disdains, + and abandons. Too well, alas! I know these fatal truths; too well I feel + my approaching doom. Yet, infatuated as I am, prescience avails not; the + voice of prudence warns, the hand of Heaven beckons me in vain. + </p> + <p> + My friend! my more than friend, my lover! beloved beyond expression! you + to whom I immolate myself, you for whom I sacrifice more than life. Oh, + whisper words of peace! for you, and you alone, can tranquillize this + agitated bosom. Assure me, L——, if with truth you can assure + me, that I have no rival in your affections. Oh, tell me that the name of + wife does not invalidate the claims of love! Repeat for me, a thousand + times repeat, that I am sole possessor of your heart! + </p> + <p> + The moment you quit me I am overpowered with melancholy forebodings. + Scarcely are you out of my sight, before I dread, that I shall never see + you more, or that some fatality should deprive me of your love. When shall + the sails of love waft us from this dangerous shore? Oh! when shall I dare + to call you mine? Heavens! how many things may intervene...! Let nothing + detain you from Richmond this evening; but come not at all—come no + more, unless to reassure my trembling heart, and to convince me that love + and Olivia have banished every other image. + </p> + <p> + Olivia. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LIX. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + My Dear General, + </p> + <p> + I am come to a resolution to accept of that embassy to Russia which I + lately refused. My mind has been in such constant anxiety for some time + past, that my health has suffered, and change of air and place are + necessary to me. You will say, that the climate of Russia is a strange + choice for an invalid: I could indeed have wished for a milder; but in + this world we must be content with the least of two evils. I wish to have + some ostensible reason for going abroad, and this embassy is the only one + that presents itself in an unquestionable shape. Any thing is better than + staying where I am, and as I am. My motives are not so entirely personal + and selfish as I have stated them. A man who has a grain of feeling cannot + endure to see the woman whom he loves, whose only failing is her love, + living in a state of dereliction, exposed to the silent scorn of her + equals and inferiors, if not to open insult. All her fine talents, every + advantage of nature and education sacrificed, and her sensibility to shame + a perpetual source of misery. A man must be a brute if he do not feel for + a woman, whose affection for him has reduced her to this situation. My + delicacy as to female manners, and the high value I set upon public + opinion in all that concerns the sex, make me peculiarly susceptible and + wretched in my present circumstances. To raise the drooping spirits, and + support the self-approbation of a woman, who is conscious that she has + forfeited her claim to respect—to make love supply the place of all + she has sacrificed to love, is a difficult and exquisitely painful task. + My feelings render hers more acute, and the very precautions which I take, + however delicate, alarm and wound her pride, by reminding her of all she + wishes to forget. In this country, no woman, who is not lost to shame, can + bear to live without reputation.—I pass over a great many + intermediate ideas, my dear general; your sense and feeling will supply + them. You see the expediency, the necessity of my accepting this embassy. + Olivia urges, how can I refuse it? She wishes to accompany me. She made + this offer with such decision of spirit, with such passionate tenderness, + as touched me to the very soul. A woman who really loves, absolutely + devotes herself, and becomes insensible to every difficulty and danger; to + her all parts of the world are alike; all she fears is to be separated + from the object of her affections. + </p> + <p> + But the very excess of certain passions proves them to be genuine. Even + whilst we blame the rashness of those who act from the enthusiasm of their + natures, whilst we foresee all the perils to which they seem blind, we + tremble at their danger, we grow more and more interested for them every + moment, we admire their courage, we long to snatch them from their fate, + we are irresistibly hurried along with them down the precipice. + </p> + <p> + But why do I say all this to you, my dear general? To no man upon earth + could it be more ineffectually addressed. Let me see you, however, before + we leave England. It would be painful to me to quit this country without + taking leave of you, notwithstanding all that you have lately done to + thwart my inclinations, and notwithstanding all I may expect you to say + when we meet. Probably I shall be detained here some weeks, as I must wait + for instructions from our court. I write this day to Lady Leonora, to + inform her that I am appointed ambassador to Russia. She shall have all + the honours of war; she shall be treated with all the respect to which she + is so well entitled. I suppose she will wish to reside with her mother + during my absence. She cannot do better: she will then be in the most + eligible situation, and I shall be relieved from all anxiety upon her + account. She will be perfectly happy with her mother. I have often thought + that she was much happier before she married me, than she has been since + our union. + </p> + <p> + I have some curiosity to know whether she will see the Prince when I am + gone. Do not mistake me; I am not jealous: I have too little love, and too + much esteem for Leonora, to feel the slightest jealousy. I have no doubt, + that if I were to stay in Russia for ten years, and if all the princes and + potentates in Europe were to be at her feet, my wife would conduct herself + with the most edifying propriety: but I am a little curious to know how + far vanity or pride can console a virtuous woman for the absence of love. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + F. L. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LX. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris. + </p> + <p> + You are really decided then to go to Russia, my amiable friend, and you + will absolutely undertake this horrible voyage! And you are not + intimidated by the idea of the immense distance between Petersburg and + Paris! Alas! I had hoped soon to see you again. The journey from my + convent to Paris was the longest and most formidable that I ever + undertook, and at this moment it appears to me terrible; you may conceive + therefore my admiration of your courage and strength of mind, my dear + Olivia, who are going to brave the ocean, turning your back on Paris, and + every moment receding from our polished centre of attraction, to perish + perhaps among mountains of ice. Mon Dieu! it makes me shudder to think of + it. But if it please Heaven that you should once arrive at Petersburg, you + will crown your tresses with diamonds, you will envelope yourself with + those superb furs of the north, and smiling at all the dangers you have + passed, you will be yourself a thousand times more dangerous than they. + You, who have lived so long at Paris, who speak our language in all its + shades of elegance; you, who have divined all our secrets of pleasing, who + have caught our very air, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Et la grace, encore plus belle que la beauté;” + </pre> + <p> + you, who are absolutely a French woman, and a Parisian, what a sensation + you will produce at Petersburg!—Quels succès vous attendent!—Quels + hommages! + </p> + <p> + You will have the goodness to offer my tenderest sentiments, and the + assurances of my perfect respect, to our dear Princess; you will also find + the proper moment to remind her of the promise she made, to send me + specimens of the fine ermines and sables of her country. For my part, I + used to be, I confess, in a great error with respect to furs: I always + acknowledged them to be rich, but avoided them as heavy; I considered them + as fitter for the stiff magnificence of an Empress of all the Russias than + for the light elegance of a Parisian beauty; but our charming Princess + convinced me that this is a heresy in taste. When I beheld the grace with + which she wore her ermine, and the art with which she knew how to vary its + serpent folds as she moved, or as she spoke, the variety it gave to her + costume and attitudes; the development it afforded to a fine hand and arm, + the resource in the pauses of conversation, and that soft and attractive + air which it seemed to impart even to the play of her wit, I could no + longer refuse my homage to ermine. Such is the despotism of beauty over + all the objects of taste and fashion; and so it is, that a woman of sense, + address, and sentiment, let her be born or thrown by fate where she may, + will always know how to avail herself of every possible advantage of + nature and art. Nothing will be too trifling or too vast for her genius. + </p> + <p> + I must make you understand me, my dear Olivia; your Gabrielle is not so + frivolous as simpletons imagine. Frivolity is an excellent, because an + unsuspected mask, under which serious and important designs may be safely + concealed. I would explain myself further, but must now go to the opera to + see the new ballet. Let me know, my interesting, my sublime Olivia, when + you are positively determined on your voyage to Petersburg; and then you + shall become acquainted with your friend as a politician. Her friendship + for you will not be confined to a mere intercourse of sentiment, but will, + if you have courage to second her views, give you a secret yet decisive + weight and consequence, of which you have hitherto never dreamed.—Adieu.—These + gentlemen are so impatient, I must go. Burn the last page of this letter, + and the whole of my next as soon as you have read it, I conjure you, my + dear. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXI. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <h3> + DEAR L——, + </h3> + <p> + I have time but to write one line to satisfy that philosophical curiosity, + which, according to your injunctions, I will not denominate jealousy—except + when I talk to myself. + </p> + <p> + You have a philosophical curiosity to know whether your wife will see the + Prince in your absence. I saw his favourite yesterday, who complained to + me that his highness had been absolutely refused admittance at your + castle, notwithstanding he had made many ingenious, and some bold + attempts, to see Lady Leonora L—— in the absence of her + faithless husband. + </p> + <p> + As to your scheme of going to Russia, you will be obliged, luckily, to + wait for some time for instructions, and in the interval, it is to be + hoped you will recover your senses. I shall see you as soon as possible. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXII. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO LADY OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris. + </p> + <p> + As our vanity always endeavours to establish a balance between our own + perfections and those of our friends, I must flatter myself, my dear + Olivia, that in compensation for that courage and ardent imagination in + which you are so much my superior, I possess some little advantages over + you in my scientific, hereditary knowledge of court intrigue, and of the + arts of representation; all which will be necessary to you in your + character of ambassadress: you will in fact deserve this title, for of + course you will govern the English ambassador, whom you honour with your + love. And of course you will appear with splendour, and you will be + particularly careful to have your <i>traineau</i> well appointed. Pray + remember that one of your horses must gallop, whilst the other trots, or + you are nobody. It will also be absolutely necessary to have a numerous + retinue of servants, because this suits the Russian idea of magnificence. + You must have, as the Russian nobles always had in Paris, four servants + constantly to attend your equipage; one to carry the flambeau, another to + open the door, and a couple to carry you into and out of your carriage. I + beseech you to bear in mind perpetually, that you are to be as helpless as + possible. A Frenchman of my acquaintance, who spent nine years in Russia, + told me, that in his first setting out at Petersburg, he was put on his + guard in this particular by a speech of his Russian valet-de-chambre:—“Sir, + the Englishman you visited to-day cannot be worthy of your acquaintance; + he cannot be a gentleman. Son valet me dit qu’il se déshabille seul!!!” + </p> + <p> + I suppose you take Josephine with you; she will be an inestimable + treasure; and I shall make it my business to send you the first advices of + Paris fashions, which her talents will not fail to comprehend and execute. + My charming Olivia! you will be the model of taste and elegance! Do not + suspect that dress is carrying me away from politics. I assure you I know + what I am about, and am going straight to my object. The art of attending + to trifles is the art of governing the world, as all historians know, who + have gone to the bottom of affairs. Was not the face of Europe changed by + a cup of tea thrown on Mrs. Masham’s gown, as Voltaire, with penetrating + genius, remarks? Women, without a doubt, understand the importance of + trifles better than men do, and consequently always move in secret the + slight springs of that vast machine, the civilized world. Is not your + ambition roused, my Olivia? You must, however, lay aside a little of your + romance, and not approach the political machine whilst you are intoxicated + with love, else you will blunder infallibly, and do infinite and + irreparable mischief to yourself and your friends. + </p> + <p> + Permit me to tell you, that you have been a little spoiled by sentimental + novels, which are good only to talk of when one must show sensibility, but + destructive as rules of action. By the false lights which these writers, + who know nothing of the world, have thrown upon objects, you have been + deluded; you have been led to mistake the means for the end. Love has been + with you the sole end of love; whereas it ought to be the beginning of + power. No matter for the past: the future is yours: at our age this future + must be dexterously managed. A woman of spirit, and, what is better, of + sense, must always take care that in her heart, the age of love is not + prolonged beyond the age of being beloved. In these times a woman has no + choice at a certain period but politics, or bel esprit; for devotion, + which used to be a resource, is no longer in fashion. We must all take a + part, my dear; I assure you I have taken mine decidedly, and I predict + that you will take yours with brilliant success. How often must one cry in + the ears of lovers—Love must die! must die! must die! But you, my + dear Olivia, will not be deaf to the warning voice of common sense. Your + own experience has on former occasions convinced you, that passion cannot + be eternal; and at present, if I mistake not, there is in your love a + certain mixture of other feelings, a certain alloy, which will make it + happily ductile and manageable. When your triumph over the wife is + complete, passion for the husband will insensibly decay; and this will be + fortunate for you, because assuredly your ambassador would not choose to + remain all the rest of his days in love and in exile at Petersburg. All + these English are afflicted with the maladie du pays; and, as you observe + so well, the words home and wife have ridiculous but unconquerable power + over their minds. What will become of you, my friend, when this Mr. L—— + chooses to return to England to his castle, &c.? You could not + accompany him. You must provide in time against this catastrophe, or you + will be a deserted, disgraced, undone woman, my dear friend. + </p> + <p> + No one should begin to act a romance who has not well considered the + dénouement. It is a charming thing to mount with a friend in a balloon, + amid crowds of spectators, who admire the fine spectacle, and applaud the + courage of the aërostats: the losing sight of this earth, and the being in + or above the clouds, must also be delightful: but the moment will come + when the travellers descend, and then begins the danger; then they differ + about throwing out the ballast, the balloon is rent in the quarrel, it + sinks with frightful rapidity, and they run the hazard, like the poor + Marquis D’Arlande, of being spitted upon the spire of the Invalides, or of + being entangled among woods and briers—at last, alighting upon the + earth, our adventurers, fatigued and bruised and disappointed, come out of + their shattered triumphal car, exposed to the derision of the changeable + multitude. + </p> + <p> + Every thing in this world is judged of by success. Your voyage to + Petersburg, my dear Olivia, must not be a mere adventure of romance; as a + party of pleasure it would be ridiculous; we must make something more of + it. Enclosed is a letter to a Russian nobleman, an old lover of mine, who, + I understand, is in favour. He will certainly be at your command. He is a + man possessed by the desire of having reputation among foreigners, vain of + the preference of our sex, generous even to prodigality. By his means you + will be immediately placed on an easy footing with all the leading persons + of the Russian court. You will go on from one step to another, till you + are at the height which I have in view. Now for my grand object.—No, + not now—for I have forty little notes about nothings to write this + morning. Great things hang upon these nothings, so they should not be + neglected. I must leave you, my amiable Olivia, and defer my grand object + till to-morrow. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXIII + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <h3> + DEAR MOTHER, + </h3> + <p> + This moment I have received a letter from Mr. L——. He has + accepted of an embassy to Petersburg. I cannot guess by the few lines he + has written, whether or not he wishes that I should accompany him. Most + ardently I wish it; but if my offer should be refused, or if it should be + accepted only because it could not be well refused; if I should be a + burthen, a restraint upon him, I should wish myself dead. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he accepts of this embassy on purpose that he may leave me and + take another person with him: or perhaps, dearest mother (I hardly dare to + hope it)—perhaps he wishes to break off that connexion, and goes to + Russia to leave temptation behind him. I know that this embassy was + offered to him some weeks ago, and he had then no thoughts of accepting + it.—Oh that I could see into his heart—that heart which used + to be always open to me! If I could discover what his wishes are, I should + know what mine ought to be. I have thoughts of going to town immediately + to see him; at least I may take leave of him. Do you approve of it? Write + the moment you receive this; but I need not say that, for I am sure you + will do so. Dearest mother, you have prophesied that his heart will return + to me, and on this hope I live. + </p> + <p> + Your ever affectionate daughter, + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXIV. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO LEONORA. + </h3> + <p> + Yes, my dear, I advise you by all means to go to town, and to see your + husband. Your desire to accompany him to Russia he will know before you + see him, for I have just written and despatched an express to him with + your last letter, and with all those which I have received from you within + these last six months. Leave Mr. L—— time to read them before + he sees you; and do not hurry or fatigue yourself unnecessarily. You know + that an embassy cannot be arranged in two days; therefore travel by easy + journeys: you cannot do otherwise without hazard. Your courage in offering + to undertake this long voyage with your husband is worthy of you, my + beloved daughter. God bless and preserve you! If you go to Petersburg, let + me know in time, that I may see you before you leave England. I will be at + any moment at any place you appoint. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate mother, ——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXV. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Perhaps this letter may find you at the feet of your mistress. Spare me, + sir, a few moments from your pleasures. You may perhaps expect reproaches + from the mother of your wife; but let me assure you, that you have none to + apprehend. For my daughter’s sake, if not for yours, I would forbear. + Never was departing love recalled by the voice of reproach; you shall not + hear it from me, you have not heard it from Leonora. But mistake not the + cause of her forbearance; let it not be attributed to pusillanimity of + temper, or insensibility of heart. + </p> + <p> + Enclosed I send you all the letters which my daughter has written to me + from the first day of her acquaintance with Lady Olivia to this hour. From + these you will be enabled to judge of what she has felt for some months + past, and of the actual state of her heart; you will see all the + tenderness and all the strength of her soul. + </p> + <p> + It has ever been my fixed opinion, that a wife who loves her husband, and + who has possessed his affections, may reclaim them from the lure of the + most artful of her sex, by persevering kindness, temper, and good sense, + unless indeed her husband be a fool or a libertine. I have prophesied that + my daughter will regain your heart; and upon this prophecy, to use her own + expression, she lives. And even now, when its accomplishment is far + removed, I am so steady in my opinion of her and of you; so convinced of + the uniform result of certain conduct upon the human mind, that undismayed + I repeat my prophecy. + </p> + <p> + Were you to remain in this kingdom, I should leave things to their natural + course; I should not interfere so far even as to send you Leonora’s + letters: but as you may be separated for years, I think it necessary now + to put into your hands incontrovertible proofs of what she is, and what + she has been. Do not imagine that I am so weak as to expect that the + perusal of these letters will work a sudden change: but it is fit that, + before you leave England, you should know that Leonora is not a cold, + sullen, or offended wife; but one who loves you most tenderly, most + generously; who, concealing the agony of her heart, waits with resignation + for the time when she will be your refuge, and the permanent blessing of + your life. ——. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXVI. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris. + </p> + <p> + And now, my charming Olivia, raise your fine eyes as high as ambition can + look, and you will perhaps discover my grand object. You do not see it + yet. Look again.—Do you not see the Emperor of Russia? What would + you think of him for a lover? If it were only for novelty’s sake, it would + really be pleasant to have a Czar at one’s feet. Reign in his heart, and + you in fact seat yourself invisibly on the throne of all the Russias: + thence what a commanding prospect you have of the affairs of Europe! and + how we should govern the world at our ease! The project is bold, but not + impracticable. The ancients represent Cupid riding the Numidian lion; and + why should he not tame the Russian bear? It would make a pretty design for + a vignette. I can engrave as well as La Pompadour could at least, and + anticipating your victory, my charming Olivia, I will engrave Cupid + leading the bear in a chain of flowers. This shall be my seal. Mon cachet + de faveur. + </p> + <p> + Courage, my fair politician! You have a difficult task; but the glory is + in proportion to the labour; and those who value power properly, are paid + by its acquisition, for all possible fatigue and hardships. With your + knowledge of our modes, you will be at Petersburg the arbitress of + delights. You have a charming taste and invention for fêtes and + spectacles. Teach these people to vary their pleasures. Their monarch must + adore you, if you banish from his presence that most dreadful enemy of + kings, and most obstinate resident of courts, <i>ennui</i>. Trust, my + Olivia, neither to your wit, nor your beauty, nor your accomplishments, + but employ your “various arts of trifling prettily,” and, take my word for + it, you will succeed. + </p> + <p> + As I may not have an opportunity of sending you another private letter, + and as lemon-juice, goulard, and all those sympathetic inks, are subject + to unlucky accidents, I must send you all my secret instructions by the + present safe conveyance. + </p> + <p> + You must absolutely sacrifice, my dear child, all your romantic notions, + and all your taste for love, to the grand object. The Czar must not have + the slightest cause for jealousy. These Czars make nothing, you know, of + cutting off their mistresses’ pretty heads upon the bare suspicion of an + intrigue. But you must do what is still more difficult than to be + constant, you must yield your will, and, what is more, you must never let + this Czar guess that his will is not always your pleasure. Your humour, + your tastes, your wishes, must be incessantly and with alacrity sacrificed + to his. You must submit to the constraint of eternal court ceremony, and + court dissimulation. You must bear to be surrounded with masks, instead of + the human face divine; and instead of fellow-creatures, you must content + yourself with puppets. You will have the amusement of pulling the wires: + but remember that you must wear a mask perpetually as well as others, and + never attempt to speak, and never expect to hear the language of truth or + of the heart. You must not be the dupe of attachment in those who call + themselves friends, or zealous and affectionate servants, &c. &c. + You must have sufficient strength of character to bear continually in mind + that all these professions are mere words, that all these people are alike + false, and actuated but by one motive, self-interest. To secure yourself + from secret and open enemies, you must farther have sufficient courage to + live without a friend or a confidante, for such persons at court are only + spies, traitors in the worst forms. All this is melancholy and provoking, + to be sure; but all this you must see without feeling, or at least without + showing a spark of indignation. A sentimental misanthropist, male or + female, is quite out of place at court. You must see all that is odious + and despicable in human nature in a comic point of view; and you must + consider your fellow-creatures as objects to be laughed at, not to be + hated. Laughter, besides being good for the health, and consequently for + the complexion, always implies superiority. Without this gratification to + our vanity, there would be no possibility of enduring that eternal penance + of hypocrisy, and that solitary state of suspicion, to which the ambitious + condemn themselves. I fear, my romantic Olivia, that you, who are a person + used to yield to first impressions, and not quite accustomed to subdue + your passions to your interest, will think that politics require too much + from you, almost as much as constancy or religion. But consider the + difference! for Heaven’s sake, my dear, consider the greatness of our + object! Would to God that I had the eloquence of Bossuet! and I would make + you a convert from love and a proselyte to glory. Dare, my Olivia, to be a + martyr to ambition!—See! already high in air she holds a crown over + your head—it is almost within your grasp—stretch out your + white arm and seize it—fear not the thorns!—every crown has + thorns—but who upon that account ever yet refused one? My dear + empress, I have the honour to kiss your powerful hands. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXVII. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAR FRIEND, + </h3> + <p> + You need not hurry yourself to come to town on my account, for by this + change of ministry my embassy will be delayed some weeks. + </p> + <p> + A few days ago this delay would have been a terrible disappointment to me; + yet now I feel it a respite. A respite! you will exclaim. Yes, my dear + friend—so it is. Such is the heart of man!—so changeable, so + contradictory, so much at variance with itself from day to day, from hour + to hour. I believe, from what I now feel, that every man under the + dominion of passion is reduced to a most absurd and miserable condition.—I + have just been reading some letters from Leonora, which have wrung my + heart; letters addressed to her mother, laying open every feeling of her + mind for some months. My dear friend, what injustice have I done to this + admirable woman! With what tenderness, with what delicacy has she loved + me! while I, mistaking modesty for coldness, fortitude for indifference, + have neglected, injured, and abandoned her! With what sweetness of temper, + with what persevering goodness has she borne with me, while, intoxicated + with passion, I saw every thing in a false point of view! How often have I + satisfied myself with the persuasion, that she scarcely observed my + attachment to Olivia, or beheld it unconcerned, secure by the absence of + love from the pangs of jealousy! How often have I accused her of + insensibility, whilst her heart was in tortures! Olivia was deceived also, + and confirmed me in this cruel error. And all that time Leonora was + defending her rival, and pleading her cause! With what generosity, with + what magnanimity she speaks of Olivia in those letters! Her confidence was + unbounded, her soul above suspicion; to the very last she doubted and + blamed herself—dear, amiable woman! blamed herself for our faults, + for feeling that jealousy, which no wife who loved as she did could + possibly subdue. She never betrayed it by a single word or look of + reproach. Even though she fainted at that cursed fête champêtre, yet the + moment she came to her senses, she managed so, that none of the spectators + could suspect she thought Olivia was her rival. My dear general, you will + forgive me—as long as I praise Leonora you will understand me. At + last you will acknowledge that I do justice to the merits of my wife. + Justice! no—I am unworthy of her. I have no heart like hers to offer + in return for such love. She wishes to go with me to Petersburg; she has + forborne to make this offer directly to me; but I know it from her last + letter to her mother, which now lies before me. How can I refuse?—and + how can I accept? My soul is torn with violence different ways. How can I + leave Leonora! and how can I tear myself from Olivia!—even if her + charms had no power over my heart, how could I with honour desert the + woman who has sacrificed every thing for me! I will not shield myself from + you, my friend, behind the word honour. See me as you have always seen me, + without disguise, and now without defence. I respect, I love Leonora—but, + alas! I am in love with Olivia! + </p> + <p> + Yours ever, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Triumphant as you are over my heart, dear enchanting Olivia! you cannot + make me false. I cannot, even to appease your anger, deny this morning + what I said last night. It is inconsistent with all your professions, with + your character, with your generous disposition, to desire me to “<i>abjure + Leonora for ever!</i>” it would be to render myself for ever unworthy of + Olivia. I am convinced that had you read the letters of which I spoke, you + would have been touched, you would have been struck by them as I was: + instead of being hurt and displeased by the impression that they made upon + me, you would have sympathized in my feelings, you would have been + indignant if I had not admired, you would have detested and despised me if + I could have been insensible to “<i>so much goodness and generosity</i>.” + I repeat my words: I will not “<i>retract</i>,” I cannot “<i>repent of + them</i>.” My dear Olivia! when you reflect upon what is past, I am + persuaded you will acknowledge that your sensibility made you unjust. + Indeed, my love, you did not show your usual candour; I had just read all + that Leonora had written of you, all that she had urged against her mother + in your defence; even when she had most cause to be irritated against us, + I could not avoid being shocked by the different manner in which you spoke + of her. Perhaps I told you so too abruptly: if I had loved you less, I + should have been more cautious and more calm—if I had esteemed you + less, calmer still. I could then, possibly, have borne to hear you speak + in a manner unbecoming yourself. Forgive me the pain I gave you—the + pain I now give you, my dearest Olivia! My sincerity is the best security + you can have for my future love. Banish therefore this unjust, this + causeless jealousy: moderate this excessive sensibility for both our + sakes, and depend upon the power you have over my heart. You cannot + conceive how much I have felt from this misunderstanding—the first + we have ever had. Let it be the last. I have spent a sleepless night. I am + detained in town by provoking, tiresome, but necessary business. Meet me + in the evening with smiles, my Olivia: let me behold in those fascinating + eyes their wonted expression, and hear from your voice its usual, its + natural tone of tenderness and love. + </p> + <p> + Ever devotedly yours, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXIX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + You have spoken daggers to me! Come not to Richmond this evening! I cannot—will + not see you! Not for the universe would I see you with my present + feelings! + </p> + <p> + Write to me more letters like that which I have just received. Dip your + pen in gall; find words more bitter than those which you have already + used. Accuse me of want of candour, want of generosity, want of every + amiable, every estimable quality. Upbraid me with the loss of all of which + you have bereft me. Recollect every sacrifice that I have made, and, if + you can, imagine every sacrifice that I would still make for you—peace + of mind, friends, country, fortune, fame, virtue; name them all, and + triumph—and disdain your triumph! Remind me how low I am fallen—sink + me lower still—insult, debase, humble me to the dust. Exalt my + rival, unroll to my aching eyes the emblazoned catalogue of her merits, + her claims to your esteem, your affection; number them over, dwell upon + those that I have forfeited, those which can never be regained; tell me + that such merits are above all price; assure me that beyond all her sex + you respect, you admire, you love your wife; say it with enthusiasm, with + fire in your eyes, with all the energy of passion in your voice; then bid + me sympathize in your feelings—bid me banish jealousy—wonder + at my alarm—call my sorrow anger—conjure me to restrain my + sensibility! Restrain my sensibility! Unhappy Olivia! he is tired of your + love. Let him then at once tell me the dreadful truth, and I will bear it. + Any evil is better than uncertainty, than lingering hope. Drive all hope + from my mind. Bid me despair and die—but do not stretch me on the + rack of jealousy!—Yet if such be your cruel pleasure, enjoy it.—Determine + how much I can endure and live. Stop just at the point where human nature + sinks, that you may not lose your victim, that she may linger on from day + to day, your sport and your derision. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXX. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + My Dear General, + </p> + <p> + You will rejoice to hear that Olivia and I have been in a state of warfare + for some days past, and you will be still more pleased when you learn the + cause of our quarrel. On the day that I had been reading Leonora’s letters + I was rather later at Richmond than usual. Olivia, offended, insisted upon + knowing by what I could possibly have been detained. Her anger knew no + bounds when she heard the truth. She made use of some expressions, in + speaking of my wife, which I could not, I hope, have borne at any time, + but which shocked me beyond measure at that moment. I defended Leonora + with warmth. Olivia, in a scornful tone, talked of my wife’s coldness of + disposition, and bid me compare Lady Leonora’s love with hers. It was a + comparison I had it more in my power to make than Olivia was aware of; it + was the most disadvantageous moment for her in which that comparison could + be made. She saw or suspected my feelings, and perceived that all she had + said of my Leonora’s <i>incapability of loving</i> produced an effect + directly contrary to her expectations. Transported by jealousy, she then + threw out hints respecting the Prince. I spoke as I felt, indignantly. I + know not precisely what I said, but Olivia and I parted in anger. I have + since received a passionately fond note from her. But I feel unhappy. Dear + general, when will you come to town? + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + F. L—— + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXI. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAR MADAM, + </h3> + <p> + Your grace’s cautions and entreaties to Lady Leonora not to over-exert and + fatigue herself were, alas! as ineffectual as mine. From the time she + heard that Mr. L—— had accepted this embassy to Petersburg, + she was so eager to set out on her journey to town, and so impatient to + see him, that neither her mind nor her body had one moment’s tranquillity. + She waited with indescribable anxiety for your grace’s answer to her + letter; and the instant she was secure of your approbation, her carriage + was ordered to the door. I saw that she was ill; but she would not listen + to my fears; she repeated with triumph, that her mother made no objection + to her journey, and that she had no apprehensions for herself. However, + she was obliged at last to yield. The carriage was actually at the door, + when she was forced to submit to be carried to her bed. For several hours + she was in such danger, that I never expected she could live till this + day. Thank God! she is now safe. Her infant, to her great delight, is a + boy: she was extremely anxious to have a son, because Mr. L—— + formerly wished for one so much. She forbids me to write to Mr. L——, + lest I should communicate the account of her <i>sudden illness</i> too + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + She particularly requests that your grace will mention to him this <i>accident</i> + in the least alarming manner possible. I shall write again next post. Lady + Leonora has now fallen asleep, and seems to sleep quietly. Who should + sleep in peace if she cannot? I never saw her equal, + </p> + <p> + My dear madam, + </p> + <p> + I am, + </p> + <p> + With respect and attachment, + </p> + <p> + Your grace’s + </p> + <p> + Sincerely affectionate, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + It is with extreme concern I am forced to add, that since I wrote this + letter the child has been so ill that I have fears for his life.—His + poor mother! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXII. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAR GENERAL, + </h3> + <p> + All is upon velvet again. Poor Olivia was excessively hurt by my letter: + she was ill for two days—seriously ill. Yesterday I at length + obtained admittance. Olivia was all softness, all candour: she + acknowledged that she had been wrong, and in so sweet a voice! She blamed + herself till I could no longer think her blamable. She seemed so much + humbled and depressed, such a tender melancholy appeared in her bewitching + eyes, that I could not resist the fascination. I certainly gave her some + cause for displeasure that unfortunate evening; for as Olivia has strong + passions and exquisite sensibility, I should not have been so abrupt. A + fit of jealousy may seize the best and most generous mind, and may prompt + to what it would be incapable of saying or thinking in dispassionate + moments. I am sure that Olivia has, upon reflection, felt more pain from + this affair than I have. My Russian embassy is still in <i>abeyance</i>. + Ministers seem to know their own minds as little as I know mine. Ambition + has its quarrels and follies as well as love. At all events, I shall not + leave England till next month; and I shall not go down to L—— + Castle till I have received my last instructions from our court, and till + the day for my sailing is fixed. The parting with Leonora will be a + dreadful difficulty. I cannot think of it steadily. But as she herself + says, “is it not better that she should lose a year of my affections than + a life?” The Duchess is mistaken in imagining it possible that any woman, + let her influence be ever so great over my heart, could prejudice me + against my amiable, my admirable wife. What has just passed between Olivia + and me, convinces me that it is impossible. She has too much knowledge of + my character to hazard in future a similar attempt. No, my dear friend, be + assured I would not suffer it. I have not yet lost all title to your + esteem or to my own. This enchantress may intoxicate me with her cup, but + shall never degrade me; and I should feel myself less degraded even by + losing the human form than by forfeiting that principle of honour and + virtue, which more nobly distinguishes man from brute. + </p> + <p> + Yours most sincerely, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXIII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAR FRIEND, + </h3> + <p> + It is well that I did not answer your letter of Saturday before I received + that of Monday. My congratulations upon your quarrel with your fair one + might have come just as you were kissing hands upon a reconciliation. + </p> + <p> + I have often found a great convenience in writing a bad hand; my letters + are so little like what they are intended for, and have among them such + equality of unintelligibility, that each seems either; and with the + slightest alteration, each will stand and serve for the other. My <i>m</i>, + <i>n</i>, and <i>u</i>, are convertible letters; so are the terms and + propositions of your present mode of reasoning, my dear L——, + and I perceive that you find your account in it. Upon this I congratulate + you; and I congratulate Lady Leonora upon your being detained some weeks + longer in England. Those who have a just cause need never pray for + victory; they need only ask the gods for time. Time always brings victory + to truth, and shame to falsehood. But you are not worthy of such fine + apophthegms. At present “you are not fit to hear yourself convinced.” I + will wait for a better opportunity, and have patience with you, if I can. + </p> + <p> + You seem to plume yourself mightily upon your resolve to do justice to the + merits of your wife, and upon the courage you have shown in stuffing + cotton into your ears to prevent your listening to the voice of the siren: + but pray take the cotton out, and hear all she can say or sing. Lady + Leonora cannot be hurt by any thing Olivia can say, but her own malice may + destroy herself. + </p> + <p> + In the mean time, as you tell me that you are upon velvet again, I am to + presume that you are perfectly at ease; and I should be obliged to you, + if, as often as you can find leisure, you would send me bulletins of your + happiness. I have never yet been in love with one of these high-flown + heroines, and I am really curious to know what degree of felicity they can + bestow upon a man of common sense. I should be glad to benefit by the + experience of a friend. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J.B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXIV. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + Accept my sincere thanks, inimitable Gabrielle! for having taken off my + hands a lover, who really has half-wearied me to death. If you had dealt + more frankly with me, I could, however, have saved you much superfluous + trouble and artifice. I now perfectly comprehend the cause of poor R——‘s + strange silence some months ago; he was then under the influence of your + charms, and it was your pleasure to deceive me even when there was no + necessity for dissimulation. You knew the secret of my growing attachment + to L——, and must have foreseen that R—— would be + burthensome to me. You needed therefore only to have treated me with + candour, and you would have gained a lover without losing a friend: but + Madame de P—— is too accomplished a politician to go the + simple straight road to her object. I now perfectly comprehend why she + took such pains to persuade me that an imperial lover was alone worthy of + my charms. She was alarmed by an imaginary danger. Believe me, I am + incapable of disputing with any one <i>les restes d’un coeur</i>. + </p> + <p> + Permit me to assure you, madam, that your incomparable talents for + explanation will be utterly thrown away on me in future. I am in + possession of the whole truth, from a person whose information I cannot + doubt: I know the precise date of the commencement of your connexion with + R——, so that you must perceive it will be impracticable to + make me believe that you have not betrayed my easy confidence. + </p> + <p> + I cannot, however, without those pangs of sentiment which your heart will + never experience, reflect upon the treachery, the perfidy of one who has + been my bosom friend.—Return my letters, Gabrielle.—With this + you will receive certain <i>souvenirs</i>, at which I could never + henceforward look without sighing. I return you that ring I have so long + worn with delight, the picture of that treacherous eye,{1} which you know + so well how to use.—Adieu, Gabrielle.—The illusion is over.—How + many of the illusions of my fond heart have been dispelled by time and + treachery! + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Certain ladies at this time carried pictures of the eyes of + their favourites.} + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXV. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO MONSIEUR R——. + </h3> + <p> + Paris, —— 18, ——. + </p> + <p> + I have just received the most extravagant letter imaginable from your + Olivia. Really you may congratulate yourself, my dear friend, upon having + recovered your liberty. ‘Twere better to be a galley slave at once than to + be bound to please a woman for life, who knows not what she would have + either in love or friendship. Can you conceive anything so absurd as her + upbraiding me with treachery, because I know the value of a heart, of + which she tells me she was more than half tired? as if I were to blame for + her falling in love with Mr. L——, and as if I did not know the + whole progress of her inconstancy. Her letters to me give a new history of + the birth and education of Love. Here we see Love born of Envy, nursed by + <i>Ennui</i>, and dandled in turn by all the Vices. + </p> + <p> + And this Lady Olivia fancies that she is a perfect French woman! There is + nothing we Parisians abhor and ridicule so much as these foreign, and + always awkward, caricatures of our manners. With us there are many who, + according to a delicate distinction, lose their virtue without losing + their taste for virtue; but I flatter myself there are few who resemble + Olivia entirely—who have neither the virtues of a man nor of a + woman. One cannot even say that “her head is the dupe of her heart,” since + she has no heart. But enough of such a tiresome and incomprehensible + subject. + </p> + <p> + How I overvalued that head, when I thought it could ever be fit for + politics! ‘Tis well we did not commit ourselves. You see how prudent I am, + my dear R——, and how much those are mistaken who think that we + women are not fit to be trusted with secrets of state. Love and politics + make the best mixture in the world. Adieu. Victoire summons me to my + toilette. + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXVI. + </h3> + <h3> + MADAME DE P—— TO LADY OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + Paris,—— 18, ——. + </p> + <p> + Really, my dear Olivia, this is too childish. What! make a complaint in + form against me for taking a lover off your hands when you did not know + what to do with him! Do you quarrel in England every time you change + partners in a country dance? But I must be serious; for the high-sounding + words <i>treachery</i> and <i>perfidy</i> are surely sufficient to make + any body grave. Seriously, then, if you are resolved to be tragical, <i>et + de me faire une scène</i>, I must submit—console myself, and, above + all things, take care not to be ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + Your letters, as you desire it so earnestly, and with so much reason, + shall be returned by the first safe conveyance; but excuse me if I forbear + to restore your <i>souvenirs</i>. With us Parisians, this returning of + keepsakes has been out of fashion, since the days of Molière and <i>Le + dépit amoureux</i>. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my charming Olivia! I embrace you tenderly, I was going to say; but + I believe, according to your English etiquette, I must now conclude with + </p> + <p> + I have the honour to be, + </p> + <p> + Madam, + </p> + <p> + Your most obedient, + </p> + <p> + Humble servant, + </p> + <h3> + GABRIELLE DE P——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXVII. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Tuesday morning. + </p> + <p> + Come not to Richmond to-day; I am not in spirits to see you, my dearest L——. + Allow me to indulge my melancholy retired from every human eye. + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM LADY OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Tuesday evening. + </p> + <p> + “Explain to you the cause of my melancholy “—Vain request!—cruel + as vain! Your ignorance of the cause too well justifies my sad + presentiments. Were our feelings in unison, as once they were, would not + every chord of your heart vibrate responsively to mine? + </p> + <p> + With me, love is an absorbing vortex of the soul, into which all other + thoughts, feelings, and ideas are irresistibly impelled; with you, it is + but as the stranger stream that crosses the peaceful lake, and, as it + flows, wakens only the surface of the slumbering waters, communicating to + them but a temporary agitation. With you, my dear, but too tranquil-minded + friend, love is but one amid the vulgar crowd of pleasures; it + concentrates not your ideas, it entrances not your faculties; it is not, + as in my heart, the supreme delight, which renders all others tasteless, + the only blessing which can make life supportable; the sole, sufficient + object of existence. Alas! how cruelly different is the feeble attachment + that I have inspired from that all-powerful sentiment to which I live a + victim! Countless symptoms, by you unheeded, mark to my love-watchful eye + the decline of passion. How often am I secretly shocked by the cold + carelessness of your words and manner! How often does the sigh burst from + my bosom, the tear fall from my eye, when you have left me at leisure to + recall, by memory’s torturing power, instances of your increasing + indifference! Seek not to calm my too well-founded fears. Professions, + with all their unmeaning, inanimate formality, but irritate my anguish. + Permit me to indulge, to feed upon my grief in silence. Ask me no more to + explain to you the cause of my melancholy. Too plainly, alas! I feel it is + beyond my utmost power to endure it. Amiable Werter—divine St. Preux—you + would sympathize in my feelings! Sublime Goethe—all-eloquent + Rousseau—you alone could feel as I do, and you alone could paint my + anguish. + </p> + <p> + The miserable + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXIX. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + Expect no bulletin of happiness from me, my friend. I find it impossible + to make Olivia happy. She has superior talents, accomplishments, beauty, + grace, all that can attract and fascinate the human heart—that could + triumph over every feeling, every principle that opposed her power: she + lives with the man she loves, and yet she is miserable. + </p> + <p> + Rousseau, it has been said, never really loved any woman but his own + Julie; I have lately been tempted to think that Olivia never really loved + any man but St. Preux. Werter, perhaps, and some other German heroes, + might dispute her heart even with St. Preux; but as for me, I begin to be + aware that I am loved only as a feeble resemblance of those divine + originals (to whom, however, my character bears not the slightest + similarity), and I am often indirectly, and sometimes directly, reproached + with my inferiority to imaginary models. But how can a plain Englishman + hope to reach + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The high sublime of deep absurd?” + </pre> + <p> + I am continually reviled for not using a romantic language, which I have + never learned; and which, as far as I can judge, is foreign to all natural + feeling. I wish to make Olivia happy. There is nothing I would not do to + satisfy her of my sincerity; but nothing I can do will suffice. She has a + sort of morbid sensibility, which is more alive to pain than pleasure, + more susceptible of jealousy than of love. No terms are sufficiently + strong to convince her of my affection, but an unguarded word makes her + miserable for hours. She requires to be agitated by violent emotions, + though they exhaust her mind, and leave her spiritless and discontented. + In this alternation of rapture and despair all her time passes. As she + says of herself, she has no soul but for love: she seems to think it a + crime against sentiment, to admit of relief from common occupations or + indifferent subjects; with a sort of superstitious zeal, she excludes all + thoughts but those which relate to one object, and in this spirit of + amorous mysticism she actually makes a penance even of love. I am + astonished that her heart can endure this variety of self-inflicted + torments. What will become of Olivia when she ceases to love and be loved? + And what passion can be durable which is so violent as hers, and to which + no respite is allowed? No affection can sustain these hourly trials of + suspicion and reproach. + </p> + <p> + Jealousy of Leonora has taken such possession of Olivia’s imagination, + that she misinterprets all my words and actions. By restraining my + thoughts, by throwing obstacles in the way of my affection for my wife, + she stimulates and increases it: she forces upon me continually those + comparisons which she dreads. Till I knew Olivia more intimately than the + common forms of a first acquaintance, or the illusions of a treacherous + passion permitted, her defects did not appear; but now that I suffer, and + that I see her suffer daily, I deplore them bitterly. Her happiness rests + and weighs heavily on my honour. I feel myself bound to consider and to + provide for the happiness of the woman who has sacrificed to me all + independent means of felicity. A man without honour or humanity may + perhaps finish an intrigue as easily as he can begin it, but this is not + exactly the case of your imprudent friend, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXX. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Wednesday. + </p> + <p> + AY, ay! just as I thought it would be. This is all the comfort, my dear + friend, that I can give you; all the comfort that wise people usually + afford their friends in distress. Provided things happen just as they + predicted, they care but little what is suffered in the accomplishment of + their prophecies. But seriously, my dear L——, I am not sorry + that you are in a course of vexation. The more you see of your charmer the + better. She will allay your intoxication by gentle degrees, and send you + sober home. Pray keep in the course you have begun, and preserve your + patience as long as possible. I should be sorry that you and Olivia + quarrelled violently, and parted in a passion: such quarrels of lovers are + proverbially the renewal of love. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Il faut délier l’amitie, il faut couper l’amour.” + </pre> + <p> + In some cases this maxim may be just, but not in the present instance. I + would rather wait till the knot is untied than cut it; for when once you + see the art with which it was woven, a similar knot can never again + perplex you. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXI. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond, Saturday. + </p> + <p> + You presume too much upon your power over my heart, and upon the softness + of my nature. Know that I have spirit as well as tenderness—a spirit + that will neither be injured nor insulted with impunity. You were amazed, + you say, by the violence which I showed yesterday. Why did you provoke + that violence by opposing the warmest wish of my heart, and with a + calmness that excited my tenfold indignation? Imagine not that I am a + tame, subjugated female, to be treated with neglect if I remonstrate, and + caressed as the price of obedience. Fancy not that I am one of your + chimney-corner, household goddesses, doomed to the dull uniformity of + domestic worship, destined to to be adored, to be hung with garlands, or + undeified or degraded with indignity! I have been accustomed to a + different species of worship; and the fondness of my weak heart has not + yet sunk me so low, and rendered me so abject, that I cannot assert my + rights. You tell me that you are unconscious of giving me any just cause + of offence. Just cause!—How I hate the cold accuracy of your words! + This single expression is sufficient offence to a heart like mine. You + entreat me to be reasonable. Reasonable!—did ever man talk of reason + to a woman he loved? When once a man has recourse to reason and precision, + there is an end of love. No just cause of offence!—What, have I no + cause to be indignant, when I find you thus trifle with my feelings, + postpone from week to week, and month to month, our departure from this + hateful country— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bid me hope on from day to day, + And wish and wish my soul away!” + </pre> + <p> + Yes, you know it to be the most ardent wish of my soul to leave England; + you know that I cannot enjoy a moment’s peace of mind whilst I am here; + yet in this racking suspense it is your pleasure to detain me. No, it + shall not be—this shall not go on! It is in vain you tell me that + the delay originates not with you, that you must wait for instructions, + and I know not what—paltry diplomatic excuses! + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXII. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + Amuse yourself, my good general, at my expense; I know that you are + seriously interested for my happiness; but the way is not quite so clear + before me as you imagine. It is extremely easy to be philosophic for our + friends; but difficult to be so for ourselves when our passions are + concerned. Indeed, this would be a contradiction in terms; you might as + well talk of a cold sun, or of hot ice, as of a philosopher falling in + love, or of a man in love being a philosopher. You say that Olivia will + wear out my passion, and that her defects will undo the work of her + charms. I acknowledge that she sometimes ravels the web she has woven; but + she is miraculously expeditious and skilful in repairing the mischief: the + magical tissue again appears firm as ever, glowing with brighter colours, + and exhibiting finer forms. + </p> + <p> + In plain prose, my dear friend—for as you ate not in love, you will + find it difficult to follow my poetic nights—in plain prose, I must + confess that Olivia has the power to charm and touch my heart, even after + she has provoked me to the utmost verge of human patience. She knows her + power, and I am afraid this tempts her to abuse it. Her temper, which + formerly appeared to me all feminine gentleness, is now irritable and + violent; but I am persuaded that this is not her natural disposition; it + is the effect of her present unhappy state of mind. Tortured by remorse + and jealousy, if in the height of their paroxysms, Olivia make me suffer + from their fury, is it for me to complain? I, who caused, should at least + endure the evil. + </p> + <p> + Every thing is arranged for my embassy, and the day is fixed for our + leaving England. I go down to L—— Castle next week. + </p> + <p> + Your faithful + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXIII. + </h3> + <p> + JOSEPHINE TO VICTOIRE, MAD. DE P——‘s WOMAN. + </p> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + I am in despair, dear Victoire; and unless your genius can assist me, + absolutely undone! Here is this romantic lady of mine determined upon a + journey to Russia with her new English lover. What whims ladies take into + their heads, and how impossible it is to make them understand reason! I + have been labouring in vain to convince my Lady Olivia that this is the + most absurd scheme imaginable: and I have repeated to her all I learnt + from Lady F——‘s women, who are just returned from Petersburg, + and whom I met at a party last night, all declaring they would rather die + a thousand deaths, than go through again what they have endured. Such seas + of ice! such going in sledges! such barbarians! such beds! and scarcely a + looking-glass! And nothing fit to wear but what one carries with one, and + God knows how long we may stay. At Petersburg the coachmen’s ears are + frozen off every night on their boxes waiting for their ladies. And there + are bears and wild beasts, I am told, howling with their mouths wide open + night and day in the forests which we are to pass through; and even in the + towns, the men, I hear, are little better; for it is the law of the + country for the men to beat their wives, and many wear long beards. How + horrid!—My Lady F——‘s woman, who is a Parisian born, and + very pretty, if her eyes were not so small, and better dressed than her + lady always, except diamonds, assures me, upon her honour, she never had a + civil thing said to her whilst she was in Russia, except by one or two + Frenchmen in the suite of the ambassadors. + </p> + <p> + These Russians think of nothing but drinking brandy, and they put pepper + into it! Mon Dieu, what savages! Put pepper into brandy! But that is + inconceivable! Positively, I will never go to Petersburg. And yet if my + lady goes, what will become of me? for you know my sentiments for Brunel, + and he is decided to accompany my lady, so I cannot stay behind. + </p> + <p> + But absolutely I am shocked at this intrigue with Mr. L——, and + my conscience reproaches me terribly with being a party concerned in it; + for in this country an affair of gallantry between married people is not + so light a thing as with us. Here wives sometimes love their husbands + seriously, as if they were their lovers; and my Lady Leonora L—— + is one of this sort of wives. She is very unhappy, I am told. One day at L——Castle, + I assure you my heart quite bled for her, when she gave me a beautiful + gown of English muslin, little suspecting me then to be her enemy. She is + certainly very unsuspicious, and very amiable, and I wish to Heaven her + husband would think as I do, and take her with him to Petersburg, instead + of carrying off my Lady Olivia and me! Adieu, mon chou! Embrace every body + I know, tenderly, for me. + </p> + <p> + Josephine. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXIV. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS. C—— TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <h3> + MY DEAR MADAM, + </h3> + <p> + I believe, when I wrote last to your grace, I said that I had no hopes of + the child’s life. From the moment of his birth there was but little + probability of his being any thing but a source of misery to his mother. I + cannot, on her account, regret that the struggle is over. He expired this + morning. My poor friend had hopes to the last, though I had none; and it + was most painful and alarming to see the feverish anxiety with which she + watched over her little boy, frequently repeating, “Mr. L—— + used to wish so much for a son.—I hope the boy will live to see his + father.” + </p> + <p> + Last night, partly by persuasion, partly by compulsion, I prevailed with + her to let the child be taken out of her room. This morning, as soon as it + was light, I heard her bell ring; the poor little thing was at that moment + in convulsions; and knowing that Lady Leonora rang to inquire for it, I + went to prepare her mind for what I knew must be the event. The moment I + came into the room she looked eagerly in my face, but did not ask me any + questions about the child. I sat down by the side of her bed; but without + listening to what I said about her own health, she rang her bell again + more violently than before. Susan came in. “Susan!—without my + child!”—said she, starting up. Susan hesitated, but I saw by her + countenance that it was all over—so did Lady Leonora. She said not a + word, but drawing her curtain suddenly, she lay down, and never spoke or + stirred for three hours. The first words she said afterwards were to me: + </p> + <p> + “You need not move so softly, my dear Helen; I am not asleep. Have you my + mother’s last letter? I think my mother says that she will be here + to-morrow? She is very kind to come to me. Will you be so good as to write + to her immediately, and send a servant with your letter as soon as you can + to meet her on the road, that she may not be <i>surprised</i> when she + arrives?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Leonora is now more composed and more like herself than she has been + for some time past. I rejoice that your Grace will so soon be here, + because you will be her best possible consolation; and I do not know any + other person in the world who could have sufficient influence to prevent + her from attempting to set out upon a journey before she can travel with + safety. To do her justice, she has not hinted that such were her + intentions; but still I know her mind so well, that I am certain what her + thoughts are, and what her actions would be. Most ladies talk more than + they act, but Leonora acts more decidedly than she talks. + </p> + <p> + Believe, me, dear madam, + </p> + <p> + With much respect, + </p> + <p> + Your Grace’s + </p> + <p> + Sincerely affectionate + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXV. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + I thank you, my excellent friend, for the kindness of your last letter + {1}, which came to me at the time I wanted it most. In the whole course of + my life, I never felt so much self-reproach, as I have done since I heard + of the illness of Leonora and the loss of my son. From this blow my mind + will not easily recover. Of all torments self-reproach is the worst. And + even now I cannot follow the dictates of my own heart, and of my better + judgment. + </p> + <p> + In Olivia’s company I am compelled to repress my feelings; she cannot + sympathize in them; they offend her: she is dissatisfied even with my + silence, and complains of my being out of spirits. Out of spirits!—How + can I be otherwise at present? Has Olivia no touch of pity for a woman who + was once her friend, who always treated her with generous kindness? But + perhaps I am a little unreasonable, and expect too much from female + nature. + </p> + <p> + At all events, I wish that Olivia would spare me at this moment her + sentimental metaphysics. She is for ever attempting to prove to me that I + cannot love so well as she can. I admit that I cannot talk of love so + finely. I hope all this will not go on when we arrive at Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + The ministry at last know their own minds. I saw —— to-day, + and every thing will be quickly arranged; therefore, my dear friend, do + not delay coming to town, to + </p> + <p> + Your obliged + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + {Footnote 1: This letter does not appear.} + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXVI. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Perhaps you are a <i>little</i> unreasonable! Indeed, my dear friend, I do + not think you a <i>little</i> unreasonable, but very nearly stark mad. + What! quarrel with your mistress because she is not sorry that your wife + is ill, and because she cannot sympathize in your grief for the loss of + your son! Where, except perhaps in absurd novels, did you ever meet with + these paragons of mistresses, who were so magnanimous and so generous as + to sacrifice their own reputations, and then be satisfied to share the + only possible good remaining to them in life, the heart of their lover, + with a rival more estimable, more amiable than themselves, and who has the + advantage of being a wife? This sharing of hearts, this union of souls, + with this opposition of interests—this metaphysical gallantry is + absolute nonsense, and all who try it in real life will find it so to + their cost. Why should you, my dear L——, expect such + superlative excellence from your Olivia? Do you think that a woman by + losing one virtue increases the strength of those that remain, as it is + said that the loss of one of our senses renders all the others more acute? + Do you think that a lady, by yielding to love, and by proving that she has + not sufficient resolution or forbearance to preserve the honour of her + sex, gives the best possible demonstration of her having sufficient + strength of character to rise superior to all the other weaknesses + incident to human, and more especially to female nature—envy and + jealousy for instance? + </p> + <p> + No, no, my good friend, you have common sense, though you lately have been + sparing of it in action. You had a wife, and a good wife, and you had some + chance of being happy; but with a wife and a mistress, granting them to be + both the best of their kind, the probabilities are rather against you. I + speak only as a man of the world: morality, you know, is now merely an + affair of calculation. According to the most approved tables of happiness, + you have made a bad bargain. But be just, at any rate, and do not blame + your Olivia for the inconveniences and evils inseparable from the species + of connexion that you have been pleased to form. Do you expect the whole + course of society and the nature of the human heart to change for your + special accommodation? Do you believe in truth by wholesale, and yet in + detail expect a happy exception in your own favour?—Seriously, my + dear friend, you must either break off this connexion, or bear it. I shall + see you in a few days. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXVII. + </h3> + <h3> + MRS C—— TO MISS B—— + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + Leonora has recovered her strength surprisingly. She was so determined to + be well, that her body dared not contradict her mind. Her excellent mother + has been of the greatest possible service to us, for she has had + sufficient influence to prevent her daughter from exerting herself too + much. Her Grace had a letter from Mr. L—— to-day—very + short, but very kind—at least all that I heard read of it. He has + set my heart somewhat more at ease by the comfortable assurance, that he + will not leave England without seeing Lady Leonora. I have the greatest + hopes from this interview! I have not felt so happy for many months—but + I will not be too sanguine. Mr. L—— talks of being here the + latter end of this month. The duchess, with her usual prudence, intends to + leave her daughter before that time, lest Mr. L——should be + constrained by her presence, or should imagine that Leonora acts from any + impulse but that of her own heart. I also, though much against my + inclination, shall decamp; for he might perhaps consider me as an adviser, + caballer, confidante, or at least a troublesome spectator. All + reconciliation scenes should be without spectators. Men do not like to be + seen on their knees: they are at a loss, like Sir Walter Raleigh in “The + Critic;” they cannot get off gracefully. I am, dear Margaret, + </p> + <p> + Yours affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + HELEN C——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR L——, Friday. + </p> + <p> + Ask yourself, in the name of common sense, why you should go to Petersburg + with this sentimental coquette, this romantic termagant, of whom I see you + are already more than half tired. As to your being bound to her in honour, + I cannot see how. Why should you make honour, justice, humanity, and + gratitude, plead so finely all on one side, and that the wrong side of the + question? Have none of these one word to whisper in favour of any body in + this world but of a worthless mistress, who makes you miserable? I think + you have learned from your heroine to be so expert in sentimental logic, + that you can change virtues into vices, and vices into virtues, till at + last you do not know them asunder. Else why should you make it a point of + conscience to abandon your wife—just at the moment, too, when you + are thoroughly convinced of her love for you, when you are touched to the + soul by her generous conduct, and when your heart longs to return to her? + </p> + <p> + Please to remember that this Lady Olivia’s reputation was not unimpeached + before her acquaintance with you, and do not take more glory or more blame + to yourself than properly falls to your share. Do not forget that <i>poor</i> + R—— was your predecessor, and do not let this delicate lady + rest all the weight of her shame upon you, as certain Chinese culprits + rest their portable pillories on the shoulders of their friends. + </p> + <p> + In two days I shall follow this letter, and repeat in person all the + interrogatories I have just put to you, my dear friend. Prepare yourself + to answer me sincerely such questions as I shall ask. + </p> + <p> + Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + J.B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER LXXXIX. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Monday, 12 o’clock. + </p> + <p> + For a few days did you say? To <i>bid adieu</i>? Oh! if once more you + return to that fatal castle, that enchanted home, Olivia for ever loses + all power over your heart. Bid her die, stab her to the heart, and she + will call it mercy, and she will bless you with her dying lips; but talk + not of leaving your Olivia! On her knees she writes this, her face all + bathed in tears. And must she in her turn implore and supplicate? Must she + abase herself even to the dust? Yes—love like hers vanquishes even + the stubborn potency of female pride. + </p> + <p> + Your too fond + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XC. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + {Dated a few hours after the preceding.} + </p> + <p> + Monday, half-past three. + </p> + <p> + Oh! this equivocating answer to my fond heart! Passion makes and admits of + no compromise. Be mine, and wholly mine—or never, never will I + survive your desertion! I can be happy only whilst I love; I can love only + whilst I am beloved with fervency equal to my own; and when I cease to + love, I cease to exist! No coward fears restrain my soul. The word suicide + shocks not my ear, appals not my understanding. Death I consider but as + the eternal rest of the wretched—the sweet, the sole refuge of + despair. + </p> + <p> + Your resolute + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCI. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Tuesday. + </p> + <p> + Return! return! on the wings of love return to the calm, the prudent, the + happy, the transcendently happy Leonora! Return—but not to bid her + adieu—return to be hers for ever, and only hers. I give you back + your faith—I <i>give</i> you back your promises—you have <i>taken</i> + back your heart. + </p> + <p> + But if you should desire once more to see Olivia, if you should have any + lingering wish to bid her a last adieu, it must be this evening. + To-morrow’s sun rises not for Olivia. For her but a few short hours + remain. Love, let them be all thy own! Intoxicate thy victim, mingle + pleasure in the cup of death, and bid her fearless quaff it to the dregs!— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCII. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO GENERAL B——. + </h3> + <p> + Thursday. + </p> + <p> + My Dear Friend, + </p> + <p> + You have by argument and raillery, and by every means that kindness and + goodness could devise, endeavoured to expel from my mind a passion which + you justly foresaw would be destructive of my happiness, and of the peace + of a most estimable and amiable woman. With all the skill that a thorough + knowledge of human nature in general, and of my peculiar character and + foibles, could bestow, you have employed those + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —“Words and spells which can control, + Between the fits, the fever of the soul.” + </pre> + <p> + Circumstances have operated in conjunction with your skill to “medicine me + to repose.” The fits have gradually become weaker and weaker, the fever is + now gone, but I am still to suffer for the extravagances committed during + its delirium. I have entered into engagements which must be fulfilled; I + have involved myself in difficulties from which I see no method of + extricating myself honourably. Notwithstanding all the latitude which the + system of modern gallantry allows to the conscience of our sex, and in + spite of the convenient maxim, which maintains that all arts are allowable + in love and war, I think that a man cannot break a promise, whether made + in words or by tacit implication, on the faith of which a woman sacrifices + her reputation and happiness. Lady Olivia has thrown herself upon my + protection. I am as sensible as you can be, my dear general, that scandal + had attacked her reputation before our acquaintance commenced; but though + the world had suspicions, they had no proofs: now there can be no longer + any defence made for her character, there is no possibility of her + returning to that rank in society to which she was entitled by her birth, + and which she adorned with all the brilliant charms of wit and beauty; no + happiness, no chance of happiness remains for her but from my constancy. + Of naturally violent passions, unused to the control of authority, habit, + reason, or religion, and at this time impelled by love and jealousy, + Olivia is on the brink of despair. I am not apt to believe that women die + in modern times for love, nor am I easily disposed to think that I could + inspire a dangerous degree of enthusiasm; yet I am persuaded that Olivia’s + passion, compounded as it is of various sentiments besides love, has taken + such possession of her imagination, and is, as she fancies, so necessary + to her existence, that if I were to abandon her, she would destroy that + life, which she has already attempted, I thank God! ineffectually. What a + spectacle is a woman in a paroxysm of rage!—a woman we love, or whom + we have loved! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Excuse me, my dear friend, if I wrote incoherently, for I have been + interrupted many times since I began this letter. I am this day + overwhelmed by a multiplicity of affairs, which, in consequence of + Olivia’s urgency to leave England immediately, must be settled with an + expedition for which my head is not at present well qualified. I do not + feel well: I can command my attention but on one subject, and on that all + my thoughts are to no purpose. Whichever way I now act, I must endure and + inflict misery. I must either part from a wife who has given me the most + tender, the most touching proofs of affection—a wife who is all that + a man can esteem, admire, and love; or I must abandon a mistress, who + loves me with all the desperation of passion to which she would fall a + sacrifice. But why do I talk as if I were still at liberty to make a + choice?—My head is certainly very confused. I forgot that I am bound + by a solemn promise, and this is the evil which distracts me. I will give + you, if I can, a clear narrative. + </p> + <p> + Last night I had a terrible scene with Olivia. I foresaw that she would be + alarmed by my intended visit to L—— Castle, even though it was + but to take leave of my Leonora. I abstained from seeing Olivia to avoid + altercation, and with all the delicacy in my power I wrote to her, + assuring her that my resolution was fixed. Note after note came from her, + with pathetic and passionate appeals to my heart; but I was still + resolute. At length, the day before that on which I was to set out for L—— + Castle, she wrote to warn me, that if I wished to take a last farewell, I + must see her that evening: her note concluded with, “To-morrow’s sun will + not rise for Olivia.” This threat, and many strange hints of her opinions + concerning suicide, I at the time disregarded, as only thrown out to + intimidate a lover. However, knowing the violence of Olivia’s temper, I + was punctual to the appointed hour, fully determined by my firmness to + convince her that these female wiles were vain. + </p> + <p> + My dear friend, I would not advise the wisest man and the most courageous + upon earth to risk such dangers, confident in his strength. Even a victory + may cost him too dear. + </p> + <p> + I found Olivia reclining on a sofa, her beautiful tresses unbound, her + dress the perfection of elegant negligence. I half suspected that it was + studied negligence: yet I could not help pausing, as I entered, to + contemplate a figure. She never looked more beautiful—more + fascinating. Holding out her hand to me, she said, with her languid smile, + and tender expression of voice and manner, “You <i>are</i> come then to + bid me farewell. I doubted whether... But I will not upbraid—mine be + all the pain of this last adieu. During the few minutes we have to pass + together, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Between us two let there be peace.’” + </pre> + <p> + I sat down beside her, rather agitated, I confess, but commanding myself + so that my emotion could not be visible. In a composed tone I asked, why + she spoke of a last adieu? and observed that we should meet again in a few + days. + </p> + <p> + “Never!” replied Olivia. “Weak woman as I am, love inspires me with + sufficient force to make and to keep this resolution.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, she took from her bosom a rose, and presenting it to me in a + solemn manner, “Put this rose into water to-night,” continued she; + “to-morrow it will be alive!” + </p> + <p> + Her look, her expressive eyes, seemed to say, this flower will be alive, + but Olivia will be dead. I am ashamed to confess that I was silent, + because I could not just then speak. + </p> + <p> + “I have used some precaution,” resumed Olivia, “to spare you, my dearest L——, + unnecessary pain.—Look around you.” + </p> + <p> + The room, I now for the first time observed, was ornamented with flowers. + </p> + <p> + “This apartment, I hope,” continued she, “has not the air of the chamber + of death. I have endeavoured to give it a festive appearance, that the + remembrance of your last interview with your once loved Olivia may be at + least unmixed with horror.” + </p> + <p> + At this instant, my dear general, a confused recollection of Rousseau’s + Heloise, the dying scene, and her room ornamented with flowers, came into + my imagination, and destroying the idea of reality, changed suddenly the + whole course of my feelings. + </p> + <p> + In a tone of raillery I represented to Olivia her resemblance to Julie, + and observed that it was a pity she had not a lover whose temper was more + similar than mine to that of the divine St. Preux. Stung to the heart by + my ill-timed raillery, Olivia started up from the sofa, broke from my arms + with sudden force, snatched from the table a penknife, and plunged it into + her side. + </p> + <p> + She was about to repeat the blow, but I caught her arm—she struggled—“promise + me, then,” cried she, “that you will never more see my hated rival.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot make such a promise, Olivia,” said I, holding her uplifted arm + forcibly. “I will not.” + </p> + <p> + The words “hated rival,” which showed me that Olivia was actuated more by + the spirit of hatred than love, made me reply in as decided a tone as even + you could have spoken, my dear general. But I was shocked, and reproached + myself with cruelty, when I saw the blood flow from her side: she was + terrified. I took the knife from her powerless hand, and she fainted in my + arms. I had sufficient presence of mind to reflect that what had happened + should be kept as secret as possible; therefore, without summoning + Josephine, whose attachment to her mistress I have reason to suspect, I + threw open the windows, gave Olivia air and water, and her senses + returned: then I despatched my Swiss for a surgeon. I need not speak of my + own feelings—no suspense could be more dreadful than that which I + endured between the sending for the surgeon and the moment when he gave + his opinion. He relieved me at once, by pronouncing it to be a slight + flesh wound, that would be of no manner of consequence. Olivia, however, + whether from alarm or pain, or from the sight of the blood, fainted three + times during the dressing of her side; and though the surgeon assured her + that it would be perfectly well in a few days, she was evidently + apprehensive that we concealed from her the real danger. At the idea of + the approach of death, which now took possession of her imagination, all + courage forsook her, and for some time my efforts to support her spirits + were ineffectual. She could not dispense with the services of Josephine; + and from the moment this French woman entered the room, there was nothing + to be heard but exclamations the most violent and noisy. As to assistance, + she could give none. At last her exaggerated demonstrations of horror and + grief ended with,—“Dieu merci! an moins nous voilà delivrés de ce + voyage affreux. Apparemment qu’il ne sera plus question de ce vilain + Petersburg pour madame.” + </p> + <p> + A new train of thoughts was roused by these words in Olivia’s mind; and + looking at me, she eagerly inquired why the journey to Petersburg was to + be given up, if she was in no danger? I assured her that Josephine spoke + at random, that my intentions with regard to the embassy to Russia were + unaltered. + </p> + <p> + “Seulement retardé un peu,” said Josephine, who was intent only upon her + own selfish object.—“Sûrement, madame ne voyagera pas dans cet + état!” + </p> + <p> + Olivia started up, and looking at me with terrific wildness in her eyes, + “Swear to me,” said she, “swear that you will not deceive me, or I will + this instant tear open this wound, and never more suffer it to be closed.” + </p> + <p> + “Deceive you, Olivia!” cried I, “what deceit can you fear from me?—What + is it you require of me?” + </p> + <p> + “I require from you a promise, a solemn promise, that you will go with <i>me</i> + to Russia!” + </p> + <p> + “I solemnly promise that I will,” said I: “now be tranquil, Olivia, I + beseech you.” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon represented the necessity of keeping herself quiet, and + declared that he would not answer for the cure of his patient on any other + terms. Satisfied by the solemnity of my promise, Olivia now suffered me to + depart. This morning she sends me word that in a few days she shall be + ready to leave England. Can you meet me, my dear friend, at L—— + Castle? I go down there to-day, to bid adieu to Leonora. From thence I + shall proceed to Yarmouth, and embark immediately. Olivia will follow me. + </p> + <p> + Your obliged + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCIII. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle + </p> + <p> + Dearest Mother, + </p> + <p> + My husband is here! at home with me, with your happy Leonora—and his + heart is with her. His looks, his voice, his manner tell me so, and by + them I never was deceived. No, he is incapable of deceit. Whatever have + been his errors, he never stooped to dissimulation. He is again my own, + still capable of loving me, still worthy of all my affection. I knew that + the delusion could not last long, or rather you told me so, my best + friend, and I believed you; you did him justice. He was indeed deceived—who + might not have been deceived by Olivia? His passions were under the power + of an enchantress; but now he has triumphed over her arts. He sees her + such as she is, and her influence ceases. + </p> + <p> + I am not absolutely certain of all this; but I believe, because I hope it: + yet he is evidently embarrassed, and seems unhappy: what can be the + meaning of this? Perhaps he does not yet know his Leonora sufficiently to + be secure of her forgiveness. How I long to set his heart at ease, and to + say to him, let the past be forgotten for ever! How easy it is to the + happy to forgive! There have been moments when I could not, I fear, have + been just, when I am sure that I could not have been generous. I shall + immediately offer to accompany Mr. L—— to Russia; I can have + no farther hesitation, for I see that he wishes it; indeed, just now he + almost said so. His baggage is already embarked at Yarmouth—he sails + in a few days—and in a few hours your daughter’s fate, your + daughter’s happiness, will be decided. It is decided, for I am sure he + loves me; I see, I hear, I feel it. Dearest mother, I write to you in the + first moment of joy.—I hear his foot upon the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Your happy + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCIV. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + L—— Castle. + </p> + <h3> + MY DEAR MOTHER, + </h3> + <p> + My hopes are all vain. Your prophecies will never be accomplished. We have + both been mistaken in Mr. L——‘s character, and henceforward + your daughter must not depend upon him for any portion of her happiness. I + once thought it impossible that my love for him could be diminished: he + has changed my opinion. Mine is not that species of weak or abject + affection which can exist under the sense of ill-treatment and injustice, + much less can my love survive esteem for its object. + </p> + <p> + I told you, my dear mother, and I believed, that his affections had + returned to me; but I was mistaken. He has not sufficient strength or + generosity of soul to love me, or to do justice to my love. I offered to + go with him to Russia: he answered, “That is impossible.”—Impossible!—Is + it then impossible for him to do that which is just or honourable? or + seeing what is right, must he follow what is wrong? or can his heart never + more be touched by virtuous affections? Is his taste so changed, so + depraved, that he can now be pleased and charmed only by what is + despicable and profligate in our sex? Then I should rejoice that we are to + be separated—separated for ever. May years and years pass away and + wear out, if possible, the memory of all he has been to me! I think I + could better, much better bear the total loss, the death of him I have + loved, than endure to feel that he had survived both my affection and + esteem; to see the person the same, but the soul changed; to feel every + day, every hour, that I must despise what I have so admired and loved. + </p> + <p> + Mr. L—— is gone from hence. He leaves England the day after + to-morrow. Lady Olivia is to <i>follow</i> him. I am glad that public + decency is not to be outraged by their embarking together. My dearest + mother, be assured that at this moment your daughter’s feelings are worthy + of you. Indignation and the pride of virtue support her spirit. + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCV. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO LADY LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Had I not the highest confidence in Lady Leonora L——‘s + fortitude, I should not venture to write to her at this moment, knowing as + I do that she is but just recovered from a dangerous illness. + </p> + <p> + Mr. L—— had requested me to meet him at L—— Castle + previously to his leaving England, but it was out of my power. I met him + however on the road to Yarmouth, and as we travelled together I had full + opportunity of seeing the state of his mind. Permit me—the urgency + of the case requires it—to speak without reserve, with the freedom + of an old friend. I imagine that your ladyship parted from Mr. L—— + with feelings of indignation, at which I cannot be surprised: but if you + had seen him as I saw him, indignation would have given way to pity. + Loving you, madam, as you deserve to be loved, most ardently, most + tenderly; touched to his inmost soul by the proofs of affection he had + seen in your letters, in your whole conduct, even to the last moment of + parting; my unhappy friend felt himself bound to resist the temptation of + staying with you, or of accepting your generous offer to accompany him to + Petersburg. He thought himself bound in honour by a promise extorted from + him to save from suicide one whom he thinks he has injured, one who has + thrown herself upon his protection. Of the conflict in his mind at parting + with your ladyship I can judge from what he suffered afterwards. I met Mr. + L—— with feelings of extreme indignation, but before I had + been an hour in his company, I never pitied any man so much in my life, + for I never yet saw any one so truly wretched, and so thoroughly convinced + that he deserved to be so. You know that he is not one who often gives way + to his emotions, not one who expresses them much in words—but he + could not command his feelings. + </p> + <p> + The struggle was too violent. I have no doubt that it was the real cause + of his present illness. As the moment approached when he was to leave + England, he became more and more agitated. Towards evening he sunk into a + sort of apathy and gloomy silence, from which he suddenly broke into + delirious raving. At twelve o’clock last night, the night he was to have + sailed, he was seized with a violent and infectious fever. As to the + degree of immediate danger, the physicians here cannot yet pronounce. I + have sent to town for Dr. ——. Your ladyship may be certain + that I shall not quit my friend, and that he shall have every possible + assistance and attendance. + </p> + <p> + I am, with the truest esteem, + </p> + <p> + Your ladyship’s faithful servant, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCVI. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + DEAR MOTHER, L—— Castle. + </p> + <p> + This moment an express from General B——. Mr. L—— + is dangerously ill at Yarmouth—a fever, brought on by the agitation + of his mind. How unjust I have been! Forget all I said in my last. I write + in the utmost haste—just setting out for Yarmouth. I hope to be + there to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Your affectionate + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + I open this to enclose the general’s letter, which will explain every + thing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCVII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Your Grace, I find, is apprised of Lady Leonora L——‘s journey + hither: I fear that you rely upon my prudence for preventing her exposing + herself to the danger of catching this dreadful fever. But that has been + beyond my power. Her ladyship arrived late last night. I had foreseen the + probability of her coming, but not the possibility of her coming so soon. + I had taken no precautions, and she was in the house and upon the stairs + in an instant. No entreaties, no arguments could stop her; I assured her + that Mr. L——‘s fever was pronounced by all the physicians to + be of the most infectious kind. Dr. —— joined me in + representing that she would expose her life to almost certain danger if + she persisted in her determination to see her husband; but she pressed + forward, regardless of all that could be said. To the physicians she made + no answer; to me she replied, “You are Mr. L——‘s friend, but I + am his wife: you have not feared to hazard your life for him, and do you + think I can hesitate?” I urged that there was no necessity for more than + one person’s running this hazard; and that since it had fallen to my lot + to be with my friend when he was first taken ill—She interrupted me,—“Is + not this taking a cruel advantage of me, general? You know that I, too, + would have been with Mr. L——, if—if it had been + possible.” Her manner, her pathetic emphasis, and the force of her implied + meaning, struck me so much, that I was silent, and suffered her to pass + on; but again the idea of her danger rushing upon my mind, I sprang before + her to the door of Mr. L——‘s apartment, and opposed her + entrance. “Then, general,” said she, calmly, “perhaps you mistake me—perhaps + you have heard repeated some unguarded words of mine in the moment of + indignation ... unjust ... you best know how unjust indignation!—and + you infer from these that my affection for my husband is extinguished. I + deserve this—but do not punish me too severely.” + </p> + <p> + I still kept my hand upon the lock of the door, expostulating with Lady + Leonora in your Grace’s name, and in Mr. L——‘s, assuring her + that if he were conscious of what was passing, and able to speak, he would + order me to prevent her seeing him in his present situation. + </p> + <p> + “And you, too, general!” said she, bursting into tears: “I thought you + were my friend—would you prevent me from seeing him? And is not he + conscious of what is passing? And is not he able to speak? Sir, I must be + admitted! You have done your duty—now let me do mine. Consider, my + right is superior to yours. No power on earth should or can prevent a wife + from seeing her husband when he is.... Dear, dear general!” said she, + clasping her raised hands, and falling suddenly at my feet, “let me see + him but for one minute, and I will be grateful to you for ever!” + </p> + <p> + I could resist no longer—I tremble for the consequences. I know your + Grace sufficiently to be aware that you ought to be told the whole truth. + I have but little hopes of my poor friend’s life. + </p> + <p> + With much respect, + </p> + <p> + Your grace’s faithful servant, + </p> + <h3> + J.B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + A mist hung over my eyes, and “my ears with hollow murmurs rung,” when the + dreadful tidings of your alarming illness were announced by your cruel + messenger. My dearest L——! why does inexorable destiny doom me + to be absent from you at such a crisis? Oh! this fatal wound of mine! It + would, I fear, certainly open again if I were to travel. So this corporeal + being must be imprisoned here, while my anxious soul, my viewless spirit, + hovers near you, longing to minister each tender consolation, each + nameless comfort that love alone can, with fond prescience and magic + speed, summon round the couch of pain. + </p> + <p> + “O that I had the wings of a dove, that I might fly to you!” Why must I + resign the sweetly-painful task of soothing you in the hour of sickness? + And shall others with officious zeal, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Guess the faint wish, explain the asking eye?” + </pre> + <p> + Alas it must be so—even were I to fly to him, my sensibility could + not support the scene. To behold him stretched on the bed of disease—perhaps + of death—would be agony past endurance. Let firmer nerves than + Olivia’s, and hearts more callous, assume the offices from which they + shrink not. ‘Tis the fate, the hard fate of all endued with exquisite + sensibility, to be palsied by the excess of their feelings, and to become + imbecile at the moment their exertions are most necessary. + </p> + <p> + Your too tenderly sympathizing + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER XCIX. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + My husband is alive, and that is all. Never did I see, nor could I have + conceived, such a change, and in so short a time! When I opened the door, + his eyes turned upon me with unmeaning eagerness: he did not know me. The + good general thought my voice might have some effect. I spoke, but could + obtain no answer, no sign of intelligence. In vain I called upon him by + every name that used to reach his heart. I kneeled beside him, and took + one of his burning hands in mine. I kissed it, and suddenly he started up, + exclaiming, “Olivia! Olivia!” with dreadful vehemence. In his delirium he + raved about Olivia’s stabbing herself, and called upon us to hold her arm, + looking wildly towards the foot of the bed, as if the figure were actually + before him. Then he sunk back, as if quite exhausted, and gave a deep + sigh. Some of my tears fell upon his hand; he felt them before I perceived + that they had fallen, and looked so earnestly in my face, that I was in + hopes his recollection was returning; but he only said, “Olivia, I believe + that you love me;” then sighed more deeply than before, drew his hand away + from me, and, as well as I could distinguish, said something about + Leonora. + </p> + <p> + But why should I give you the pain of hearing all these circumstances, my + dear mother? It is enough to say, that he passed a dreadful night. This + morning the physicians say, that if he passes this night—if—my + dear mother, what a terrible suspense! + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER C. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Morning is at last come, and my husband is still alive: so there is yet + hope. When I said I thought I could bear to survive him, how little I knew + of myself, and how little, how very little I expected to be so soon tried! + All evils are remediable but one, that one which I dare not name. + </p> + <p> + The physicians assure me that he is better. His friend, to whose judgment + I trust more, thinks as they do. I know not what to believe. I dread to + flatter myself and to be disappointed, I will write again, dearest mother, + to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Your ever affectionate + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CI. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + Wednesday. + </p> + <p> + No material change since yesterday, my dear mother. This morning, as I was + searching for some medicine, I saw on the chimney-piece a note from Lady + Olivia ——. It might have been there yesterday, and ever since + my arrival, but I did not see it. At any other time it would have excited + my indignation, but my mind is now too much weakened by sorrow. My fears + for my husband’s life absorb all other feelings. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + Words cannot express what I have suffered since I wrote last! Oh! why do I + not bear that the danger is over!—Long since would I have been with + you, all that my soul holds dear, could I have escaped from these tyrants, + these medical despots, who detain me by absolute force, and watch over me + with unrelenting vigilance. I have consulted Dr. ——, who + assures me that my fears of my wound opening, were I to take so long a + journey, are too well-founded; that in the present feverish state of my + mind he would not answer for the consequences. I heed him not—life I + value not.—Most joyfully would I sacrifice myself for the man I + love. But even could I escape from my persecutors, too well I know that to + see you would be a vain attempt—too well I know that I should not be + admitted. Your love, your fears for Olivia would barbarously banish her, + and forbid her your dear, your dangerous atmosphere. Too justly would you + urge that my rashness might prove our mutual ruin—that in the moment + of crisis or of convalescence, anxiety for me might defeat the kind + purpose of nature. And even were I secure of your recovery, the delay, I + speak not of the danger of my catching the disease, would, circumstanced + as we are, be death to our hopes. We should be compelled to part. The + winds would waft you from me. The waves would bear you to another region, + far—oh! far from your + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CIII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth, Thursday,—. + </p> + <p> + Mr. L—— has had a relapse, and is now more alarmingly ill than + I have yet seen him: he does not know his situation, for his delirium has + returned. The physicians give him over. Dr. H—— says that we + must prepare for the worst. + </p> + <p> + I have but one word of comfort for your Grace—that your admirable + daughter’s health has not yet suffered. + </p> + <p> + Your Grace’s faithful servant, + </p> + <h3> + J.B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CIV. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + The delirium has subsided. A few minutes ago, as I was kneeling beside + him, offering up an almost hopeless prayer for his recovery, his eyes + opened, and I perceived that he knew me. He closed his eyes again without + speaking, opened them once more, and then looking at me fixedly, + exclaimed: “It is not a dream! You are Leonora!—<i>my</i> Leonora!” + </p> + <p> + What exquisite pleasure I felt at the sound of these words, at the tone in + which they were pronounced! My husband folded me in his arms; and, till I + felt his burning lips, I forgot that he was ill. + </p> + <p> + When he came thoroughly to his recollection, and when the idea that his + fever might be infectious occurred to him, he endeavoured to prevail upon + me to leave the room. But what danger can there be for me <i>now</i>? My + whole soul, my whole frame is inspired with new life. If he recover, your + daughter may still be happy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CV. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B——TO THE DUCHESS OF——. + </h3> + <p> + My Dear Madam, + </p> + <p> + A few hours ago my friend became perfectly sensible of his danger, and + calling me to his bedside, told me that he was eager to make use of the + little time which he might have to live. He was quite calm and collected. + He employed me to write his last wishes and bequests; and I must do him + the justice to declare, that the strongest idea and feeling in his mind + evidently was the desire to show his entire confidence in his wife, and to + give her, in his last moments, proofs of his esteem and affection. When he + had settled his affairs, he begged to be left alone for some time. Between + twelve and one his bell rang, and he desired to see Lady Leonora and me. + He spoke to me with that warmth of friendship which he has ever felt from + our childhood. Then turning to his wife, his voice utterly failed, and he + could only press to his lips that hand which was held out to him in + speechless agony. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent woman!” he articulated at last; then collecting his mind, he + exclaimed, “My beloved Leonora, I will not die without expressing my + feelings for you; I know yours for me. I do not ask for that forgiveness + which your generous heart granted long before I deserved it. Your + affection for me has been shown by actions, at the hazard of your life; I + can only thank you with weak words. You possess my whole heart, my esteem, + my admiration, my gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Leonora, at the word <i>gratitude</i>, made an effort to speak, and + laid her hand upon her husband’s lips. He added, in a more enthusiastic + tone, “You have my undivided love. Believe in the truth of these words—perhaps + they are the last I may ever speak.” + </p> + <p> + My friend sunk back exhausted, and I carried Lady Leonora out of the room. + </p> + <p> + I returned half an hour ago, and found every thing silent: Mr. L—— + is lying with his eyes closed—quite still—I hope asleep. This + may be a favourable crisis. I cannot delay this letter longer. + </p> + <p> + Your Grace’s faithful servant, + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CVI. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + He has slept several hours.—Dr. H——, the most skilful of + all his physicians, says that we may now expect his recovery. Adieu. The + good general will add a line to assure you that I am not deceived, nor too + sanguine. + </p> + <p> + Yours most affectionately, + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <i>Postscript by General B——.</i> + </p> + <p> + I have some hopes—that is all I can venture to say to your grace. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CVII. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Excellent news for you to-day!—Mr. L—— is pronounced out + of danger. He seems excessively touched by my coming here, and so grateful + for the little kindness I have been able to show him during his illness! + But alas! that fatal promise! the recollection of it comes across my mind + like a spectre. Mr. L—— has never touched upon this subject,—I + do all in my power to divert his thoughts to indifferent objects. + </p> + <p> + This morning when I went into his room, I found him tearing to pieces that + note which I mentioned to you a few days ago. He seemed much agitated, and + desired to see General B——. They are now together, and were + talking so loud in the next room to me, that I was obliged to retire, lest + I should overhear secrets. Mr. L—— this moment sends for me. + If I should not have time to add more, this short letter will satisfy you + for to-day. + </p> + <p> + Leonora L——. + </p> + <p> + I open my letter to say, that I am not so happy as I was when I began it. + I have heard all the circumstances relative to this terrible affair. Mr. L—— + will go to Russia. I am as far from happiness as ever. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CVIII. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Say, is not absence death to those that love?” + </pre> + <p> + How just, how beautiful a sentiment! yet cold and callous is that heart + which knows not that there is a pang more dreadful than absence—far + as the death of lingering torture exceeds, in corporeal sufferance, the + soft slumber of expiring nature. Suspense! suspense! compared with thy + racking agony, even absence is but the blessed euthanasia of love. + </p> + <p> + My dearest L——, why this torturing silence? one line, one + word, I beseech you, from <i>your own hand</i>; say but <i>I live and love + you, my Olivia</i>. Hour after hour, and day after day, have I waited and + waited, and hoped, and feared to hear from you. Oh, this intolerable + agonizing suspense! Yet hope clings to my fond heart—hope! sweet + treacherous hope! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Non so si la Speranza + Va con l’inganno unita; + So che mantiene in vita + Qualche infelici almen.” + </pre> + <p> + Olivia. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CIX. + </h3> + <h3> + MR. L—— TO OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR OLIVIA, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + This is the first line I have written since my illness. I could not sooner + relieve you from suspense, for during most of this time I have been + delirious, and never till now able to write. My physicians have this + morning pronounced me out of danger; and as soon as my strength is + sufficient to bear the voyage, I shall sail, according to my promise. + </p> + <p> + Your prudence, or that of your physician, has saved me much anxiety—perhaps + saved my life: for had you been so rash as to come hither, besides my + fears for your safety, I should have been exposed, in the moment of my + returning reason, to a conflict of passions which I could not have borne. + </p> + <p> + Leonora is with me; she arrived the night after I was taken ill, and + forced her way to me, when my fever was at the highest, and while I was in + a state of delirium. + </p> + <p> + Lady Leonora will stay with me till the moment I sail, which I expect to + do in about ten days. I cannot say positively, for I am still very weak, + and may not be able to keep my word to a day. Adieu. I hope your mind will + now be at ease. I am glad to hear from the surgeon that your wound is + quite closed. I will write again, and more fully, when I am better able. + Believe me, Olivia, I am most anxious to secure your happiness: allow me + to believe that this will be in the power of + </p> + <p> + Yours sincerely, + </p> + <h3> + F. L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CX. + </h3> + <h3> + OLIVIA TO MR. L——. + </h3> + <p> + Richmond. + </p> + <p> + Barbarous man! with what cold cruelty you plunge a dagger into my heart! + Leonora is with you!—Leonora! Then I am undone. Yes, she will—she + has resumed all her power, her rights, her habitual empire over your + heart. Wretched Olivia!—But you say it is your wish to secure my + happiness, you bid me allow you to believe it is in your power. What + phrases!—You will sail, <i>according to your promise</i>.—Then + nothing but your honour binds you to Olivia. And even now, at this guilty + instant, in your secret soul, you wish, you expect from my offended pride, + from my disgusted delicacy, a renunciation of this promise, a release from + all the ties that bind you to me. You are right: this is what I ought to + do; what I would do, if love had not so weakened my soul, so prostrated my + spirit, rendered me so abject a creature, that <i>I cannot</i> what <i>I + would</i>. + </p> + <p> + I must love on—female pride and resentment call upon me in vain. I + cannot hate you. Even by the feeble tie, which I see you long to break, I + must hold rather than let you go for ever. I will not renounce your + promise. I claim it. I adjure you by all which a man of honour holds most + sacred, to quit England the moment your health will allow you to sail. No + equivocating with your conscience!—I hold you to your word. Oh, my + dearest L——! to feel myself reduced to use such language to + you, to find myself clinging to that last resource of ship-wrecked love, + <i>a promise</i>! It is with unspeakable agony I feel all this; lower I + cannot sink in misery. Raise me, if indeed you wish my happiness—raise + me! it is yet in your power. Tell me, that my too susceptible heart has + mistaken phantoms for realities—tell me, that your last was not + colder than usual; yes, I am ready to be deceived. Tell me that it was + only the languor of disease; assure me that my rival forced her way only + to your presence, that she has not won her easy way back to your heart—assure + me that you are impatient once more to see your own + </p> + <h3> + OLIVIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CXI. + </h3> + <h3> + LEONORA TO HER MOTHER. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Can you believe or imagine that I am actually unwilling to say or to think + that Mr. L—— is quite well? yet this is the fact. Such is the + inconsistency and weakness of our natures—of my nature, I should + say. But a short time ago I thought that no evil could be so great as his + danger; now that danger is past, I dread to hear him say that he is + perfectly recovered. The moment he is able he goes to Russia; that is + decided irrevocably. The promise has been claimed and repeated. A solemn + promise cannot be broken for any human consideration. I should despise him + if he broke it; but can I love him for keeping it? His mind is at this + instant agitated as much as mine is—more it cannot be. Yet I ought + to be better able to part with him now than when we parted before, because + I have now at least the consolation of knowing that he leaves me against + his will—that his heart will not go from me. This time I cannot be + deceived; I have had the most explicit assurances of his <i>undivided</i> + love. And indeed I was never deceived. All the appearances of regret at + parting with me were genuine. The general witnessed the consequent + struggle in Mr. L——‘s mind, and this fever followed. + </p> + <p> + I will endeavour to calm and content myself with the possession of his + love, and with the assurance that he will return to me as soon as + possible. As soon as possible! but what a vague hope! He sails with the + first fair wind. What a dreadful certainty! Perhaps to-morrow! Oh, my + dearest mother, perhaps to-night! + </p> + <h3> + LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CXII. + </h3> + <h3> + GENERAL B—— TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <p> + MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Today Mr. L——, finding himself sufficiently recovered, gave + orders to all his suite to embark, and the wind being fair, determined to + go on board immediately. In the midst of the bustle of the preparations + for his departure, Lady Leonora, exhausted by her former activity, and + unable to take any part in what was passing, sat silent, pale, and + motionless, opposite to a window, which looked out upon the sea; the + vessel in which her husband was to sail lay in sight, and her eyes were + fixed upon the streamers, watching their motion in the wind. + </p> + <p> + Mr. L—— was in his own apartment writing letters. An express + arrived; and among other letters for the English ambassador to Russia, + there was a large packet directed to Lady Leonora L——. Upon + opening it, the crimson colour flew into her face, and she exclaimed, + “Olivia’s letters!—Lady Olivia——‘s letters to Mad. de P——. + Who could send these to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I give you joy with all my heart!” cried I; “no matter how they come—they + come in the most fortunate moment possible. I would stake my life upon it + they will unmask Olivia at once. Where is Mr. L——? He must + read them this moment.” + </p> + <p> + I was hurrying out of the room to call my friend, but Lady Leonora stopped + my career, and checked the transport of my joy. + </p> + <p> + “You do not think, my dear general,” said she, “that I would for any + consideration do so dishonourable an action as to read these letters?” + </p> + <p> + “Only let Mr. L—— read them,” interrupted I, “that is all I + ask of your ladyship. Give them to me. For the soul of me I can see + nothing dishonourable in this. Let Lady Olivia be judged by her own words. + Your ladyship shall not be troubled with her trash, but give the letters + to me, I beseech you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I cannot,” said Lady Leonora, steadily. “It is a great temptation; + but I ought not to yield.” She deliberately folded them up in a blank + cover, directed them to Lady Olivia, and sealed them; whilst I, half in + admiration and half in anger, went on expostulating. + </p> + <p> + “Good God! this is being too generous! But, my dear Lady Leonora, why will + you sacrifice yourself? This is misplaced delicacy! Show those letters, + and I’ll lay my life Mr. L—— never goes to Russia.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend,” said she, looking up with tears in her eyes, “do not + tempt me beyond my power to resist. Say no more.” At this instant Mr. L——came + into the room; and I am ashamed to confess to your Grace, I really was so + little master of myself, that I was upon the point of seizing Olivia’s + letters, and putting them into his hands. “L——,” said I, “here + is your admirable wife absurdly, yes, I must say it, absurdly standing + upon a point of honour with one who has none! That packet which she has + before her—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Leonora imposed silence upon me by one of those looks which no man + can resist. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Leonora, you are right,” said Mr. L——; “and you are + almost right, my dear general: I know what that packet contains; and + without doing anything dishonourable, I hold myself absolved from my + promise; I shall not go to Russia, my dearest wife!” He flew into her arms—and + I left them. I question whether they either of them felt much more than I + did. + </p> + <p> + For some minutes I was content with knowing that these things had really + happened, that I had heard Mr. L—— say he was absolved from + all promises, and that he would not go to Russia; but how did all this + happen so suddenly?—How did he know the contents of Olivia’s + letters, and without doing any thing dishonourable? There are some people + who cannot be perfectly happy till they know the <i>rationale</i> of their + happiness. I am one of these. I did not feel “a sober certainty of waking + bliss,” till I read a letter which Mr. L—— received by the + same express that brought Olivia’s letters, and which he read while we + were debating. I beg your Grace’s pardon if I am too minute in + explanation; but I do as I would be done by. The letter was from one of + the private secretaries, who is, I understand, a relation and friend of + Lady Leonora L——. As the original goes this night to Lady + Olivia, I send your Grace a copy. You will give me credit for copying, and + at such a time as this! I congratulate your Grace, and + </p> + <p> + I have the honour to be, &c., + </p> + <h3> + J. B. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CXIII + </h3> + <h3> + TO MR. L—— + </h3> + <p> + {Private.} + </p> + <p> + London, St. James’s-street. + </p> + <p> + My Dear Sir, + </p> + <p> + In the same moment you receive this, your lady, for whom I have the + highest regard, will receive from me a valuable present, a packet of Lady + Olivia ——‘s letters to one of her French friends. These + letters were lately found in a French frigate, taken by one of our + cruisers; and, as <i>intercepted correspondence</i> is the order of the + day, these, with all the despatches on board, were transmitted to our + office to be examined, in hopes of making reprisals of state secrets. Some + letters about the court and Emperor of Russia led us to suppose that we + should find some political manoeuvres, and we examined farther. The + examination fortunately fell to my lot, as private secretary. After + looking them all over, however, I found that these papers contain only + family secrets: I obtained permission to send them to Lady Leonora L——, + to ensure the triumph of virtue over vice—to put it into her + ladyship’s power completely to unmask her unworthy rival. These letters + will show you by what arts you have been deceived. You will find yourself + ridiculed as <i>a cold, awkward Englishman</i>; one who will <i>hottentot + again, whatever pains may be taken to civilize him; a man of ice</i>, to + be taken as a lover from <i>pure charity</i>, or <i>pure curiosity</i>, or + the pure <i>besoin d’aimer</i>. Here are many pure motives, of which you + will, my dear sir, take your choice. You will farther observe in one of + her letters, that Lady Olivia premeditated the design of prevailing with + you to carry her to Russia, that she might show her power <i>to that + proudest of earthly prudes</i>, the Duchess of ——, and that + she might <i>gratify her great revenge against Lady Leonora L——</i>. + </p> + <p> + Sincerely hoping, my dear sir, that these letters may open your eyes, and + restore you and my amiable relation to domestic happiness, I make no + apology for the liberty I take, and cannot regret the momentary pain I may + inflict. You are at liberty to make what use you think proper of this + letter. + </p> + <p> + I have it in command from my Lord —— to add, that if your + health, or any other circumstances, should render this embassy to Russia + less desirable to you than it appeared some time ago, other arrangements + can be made, and another friend of government is ready to supply your + place. + </p> + <p> + I am, my dear sir, + </p> + <p> + Yours, &c. + </p> + <p> + To F. L——, Esq. &c. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CXIV. + </h3> + <h3> + FROM LADY LEONORA —— TO THE DUCHESS OF ——. + </h3> + <p> + Yarmouth. + </p> + <p> + Joy, dearest mother! Come and share your daughter’s happiness! + </p> + <p> + <i>Continued by General B——.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Lady Olivia, thus unmasked by her own hand, has fled to the continent, + declaring that she will never more return to England. There she is right—England + is not a country fit for such women.—But I will never waste another + word or thought upon her. + </p> + <p> + Mr. L—— has given up the Russian embassy, and returns with + Lady Leonora to L—— Castle to-morrow. He has invited me to + accompany them. Lady Leonora is now the happiest of wives, and your Grace + the happiest of mothers. + </p> + <p> + I have the honour and the pleasure to be + </p> + <p> + Your Grace’s sincerely attached, + </p> + <h3> + J. B——. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER CXV. + </h3> + <h3> + THE DUCHESS OF —— TO LADY LEONORA L——. + </h3> + <p> + My beloved daughter, pride and delight of your happy mother’s heart, I + give you joy! Your temper, fortitude, and persevering affection, have now + their just reward. Enjoy your happiness, heightened as it must be by the + sense of self-approbation, and by the sympathy of all who know you. And + now let me indulge the vanity of a mother; let me exult in the + accomplishment of my prophecies, and let me be listened to with due + humility, when I prophesy again. With as much certainty as I foretold what + is now present, I foresee, my child, your future destiny, and I predict + that you will preserve while you live your husband’s fondest affections. + Your prudence will prevent you from indulging too far your taste for + retirement, or for the exclusive society of your intimate friends. Spend + your winters in London: your rank, your fortune, and, I may be permitted + to add, your character, manners, and abilities, give you the power of + drawing round you persons of the best information and of the highest + talents. Your husband will find, in such society, every thing that can + attach him to his home; and in you, his most rational friend and his most + charming companion, who will excite him to every generous and noble + exertion. + </p> + <p> + For the good and wise, there is in love, a power unknown to the ignorant + and the vicious, a power of communicating fresh energy to all the + faculties of the soul, of exalting them to the highest state of + perfection. The friendship which in later life succeeds to such love is + perhaps the greatest, and certainly the most permanent blessing of life. + </p> + <p> + An admirable German writer—you see, my dear, that I have no + prejudices against good German writers—an admirable German writer + says, that “Love is like the morning shadows, which diminish as the day + advances; but friendship is like the shadows of the evening, which + increase even till the setting of the sun.” —— + </p> + <h3> + 1805. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LETTER From A GENTLEMAN TO HIS FRIEND, + </h2> + <h3> + Upon the + </h3> + <h3> + BIRTH OF A DAUGHTER; + </h3> + <h3> + WITH THE ANSWER. + </h3> + <p> + I congratulate you, my dear sir, upon the birth of your daughter; and I + wish that some of the fairies of ancient times were at hand to endow the + damsel with health, wealth, wit, and beauty. Wit?—I should make a + long pause before I accepted of this gift for a daughter—you would + make none. + </p> + <p> + As I know it to be your opinion that it is in the power of education, more + certainly than it was ever believed to be in the power of fairies, to + bestow all mental gifts; and as I have heard you say that education should + begin as early as possible, I am in haste to offer you my sentiments, lest + my advice should come too late. + </p> + <p> + Your general ideas of the habits and virtues essential to the perfection + of the female character nearly agree with mine; but We differ materially + as to the cultivation which it is necessary or expedient to bestow upon + the understandings of women. You are a champion for the rights of woman, + and insist upon the equality of the sexes: but since the days of chivalry + are past, and since modern gallantry permits men to speak, at least to one + another, in less sublime language of the fair; I may confess to you that I + see neither from experience nor analogy much reason to believe that, in + the human species alone, there are no marks of inferiority in the female:—curious + and admirable exceptions there may be, but many such have not fallen + within my observation. I cannot say that I have been much enraptured, + either on a first view or on a closer inspection, with female prodigies. + Prodigies are scarcely less offensive to my taste than monsters: humanity + makes us refrain from expressing disgust at the awkward shame of the one, + whilst the intemperate vanity of the other justly provokes ridicule and + indignation. I have always observed in the understandings of women who + have been too much cultivated, some disproportion between the different + faculties of their minds. One power of the mind undoubtedly may be + cultivated at the expense of the rest; as we see that one muscle or limb + may acquire excessive strength, and an unnatural size, at the expense of + the health of the whole body: I cannot think this desirable, either for + the individual or for society.—The unfortunate people in certain + mountains of Switzerland are, some of them, proud of the excrescence by + which they are deformed. I have seen women vain of exhibiting mental + deformities, which to me appeared no less disgusting. In the course of my + life it has never been my good fortune to meet with a female whose mind, + in strength, just proportion, and activity, I could compare to that of a + sensible man. + </p> + <p> + Allowing, however, that women are equal to our sex in natural abilities; + from their situation in society, from their domestic duties, their taste + for dissipation, their love of romance, poetry, and all the lighter parts + of literature, their time must be so fully occupied, that they could never + have leisure for, even supposing that they were capable of, that severe + application to which our sex submit.—Between persons of equal genius + and equal industry, time becomes the only measure of their acquirements.—Now + calculate the time which is wasted by the fair sex, and tell me how much + the start of us they ought to have in the beginning of the race, if they + are to reach the goal before us?—It is not possible that women + should ever be our equals in knowledge, unless you assert that they are + far our superiors in natural capacity.—Not only time but, + opportunity must be wanting to complete female studies:—we mix with + the world without restraint, we converse freely with all classes of + people, with men of wit, of science, of learning, with the artist, the + mechanic, the labourer; every scene of life is open to our view; every + assistance that foreign or domestic ingenuity can invent, to encourage + literary studies, is ours almost exclusively. From academies, colleges, + public libraries, private associations of literary men, women are + excluded, if not by law, at least by custom, which cannot easily be + conquered.—Whenever women appear, even when we seem to admit them as + our equals in understanding, every thing assumes a different form; our + politeness, delicacy, habits towards the sex, forbid us to argue or to + converse with them as we do with one another:—we see things as they + are; but women must always see things through a veil, or cease to be + women.—With these insuperable difficulties in their education and in + their passage through life, it seems impossible that their minds should + ever acquire that vigour and <i>efficiency</i>, which accurate knowledge + and various experience of life and manners can bestow. + </p> + <p> + Much attention has lately been paid to the education of the female sex; + and you will say that we have been amply repaid for our care,—that + ladies have lately exhibited such brilliant proofs of genius, as must + dazzle and confound their critics. I do not ask for proofs of genius, I + ask for solid proofs of utility. In which of the useful arts, in which of + the exact sciences, have we been assisted by female sagacity or + penetration?—I should be glad to see a list of discoveries, of + inventions, of observations, evincing patient research, of truths + established upon actual experiment, or deduced by just reasoning from + previous principles:—if these, or any of these, can be presented by + a female champion for her sex, I shall be the first to clear the way for + her to the temple of Fame. + </p> + <p> + I must not speak of my contemporaries, else candour might oblige me to + allow that there are some few instances of great talents applied to useful + purposes:—but, except these, what have been the literary productions + of women! In poetry, plays, romances, in the art of imposing upon the + understanding by means of the imagination, they have excelled;—but + to useful literature they have scarcely turned their thoughts. I have + never heard of any female proficients in science—few have pretended + to science till within these few years. + </p> + <p> + You will tell me, that in the most difficult and most extensive science of + politics women have succeeded;—you will cite the names of some + illustrious queens. I am inclined to think, with the Duke of Burgundy, + that “queens who reigned well were governed by men, and kings who reigned + ill were governed by women.” + </p> + <p> + The isolated examples of a few heroines cannot convince me that it is safe + or expedient to trust the sex with power:—their power over + themselves has regularly been found to diminish, in proportion as their + power over others has been increased. I should not refer you to the + scandalous chronicles of modern times, to volumes of private anecdotes, or + to the abominable secret histories of courts, where female influence and + female depravity are synonymous terms; but I appeal to the open equitable + page of history, to a body of evidence collected from the testimony of + ages, for experiments tried upon the grandest scale of which nature + admits, registered by various hands, without the possibility of collusion, + and without a view to any particular system:—from these you must be + convinced, that similar consequences have uniformly resulted from the same + causes, in nations the most unlike, and at periods the most distant. Trace + the history of female nature, from the court of Augustus to the court of + Louis the Fourteenth, and tell me whether you can hesitate to acknowledge + that the influence, the liberty, and the <i>power</i> of women have been + constant concomitants of the moral and political decline of empires;—I + say the concomitants: where events are thus invariably connected, I might + be justified in saying that they were <i>causes</i>—you would call + them <i>effects</i>; but we need not dispute about the momentary + precedence of evils, which are found to be inseparable companions:—they + may be alternately cause and effect,—the reality of the connexion is + established; it may be difficult to ascertain precisely its nature. + </p> + <p> + You will assert, that the fatal consequences which have resulted from our + trusting the sex with liberty and power, have been originally occasioned + by the subjection and ignorance in which they had previously been held, + and of our subsequent folly and imprudence, in <i>throwing the reins of + dominion into hands unprepared and uneducated to guide them</i>. I am at a + loss to conceive any system of education that can properly prepare women + for the exercise of power. Cultivate their understandings, “cleanse the + visual orb with euphrasy and rue,” till they can with one comprehensive + glance take in “one half at least of round eternity;” still you have no + security that their reason will govern their conduct. The moral character + seems, even amongst men of superior strength of mind, to have no certain + dependence upon the reasoning faculty;—habit, prejudice, taste, + example, and the different strength of various passions, form the moral + character. We are impelled to action, frequently contrary to the belief of + our sober reason; and we pursue what we could, in the hour of + deliberation, demonstrate to be inconsistent with <i>that greatest + possible share of happiness</i>, which it is the object of every rational + creature to secure. We frequently “think with one species of enthusiasm, + and act with another:” and can we expect from women more consistency of + conduct, if they are allowed the same liberty?—No one can feel, more + strongly than you do, the necessity and the value of female integrity; no + one can more clearly perceive how much in society depends upon the honour + of women; and how much it is the interest of every individual, as well as + of every state, to guard their virtue, and to preserve inviolate the + purity of their manners. Allow me, then, to warn you of the danger of + talking in loud strains to the sex, of the noble contempt of prejudice. + You would look with horror at one who should go to sap the foundations of + the building; beware then how you venture to tear away the ivy which + clings to the walls, and braces the loose stones together. + </p> + <p> + I am by no means disposed to indulge in the fashionable ridicule of + prejudice. There is a sentimental, metaphysical argument, which, + independently of all others, has lately been used, to prevail upon us to + relinquish that superiority which strength of body in savage, and strength + of mind in civilized nations, secure to man. We are told, that as women + are reasonable creatures, they should be governed only by reason; and that + we <i>disgrace</i> ourselves, and <i>enslave</i> them, when we instil even + the most useful truths as prejudices.—Morality should, we are told, + be founded upon demonstration, not upon sentiment; and we should not + require human beings to submit to any laws or customs, without convincing + their understandings of the universal utility of these political + conventions. When are we to expect this conviction? We cannot expect it + from childhood, scarcely from youth; but from the maturity of the + understanding we are told that we may expect it with certainty.—And + of what use can it then be to us? When the habits are fixed, when the + character is decided, when the manners are formed, what can be done by the + bare conviction of the understanding? What could we expect from that + woman, whose moral education was to begin, at the moment when she was + called upon to <i>act</i>; and who, without having imbibed in her early + years any of the salutary prejudices of her sex, or without having been + educated in the amiable acquiescence to well established maxims of female + prudence, should boldly venture to conduct herself by the immediate + conviction of her understanding? I care not for the names or titles of my + guides; all that I shall inquire is, which is best acquainted with the + road. Provided women be conducted quietly to their good, it is scarcely + worth their while to dispute about the pompous metaphysical names, or + precedency of their motives. Why should they deem it disgraceful to be + induced to pursue their interest by what some philosophers are pleased to + call <i>weak</i> motives? Is it not much less disgraceful to be peaceably + governed by weak reasons, than to be incapable of being restrained by the + strongest? The dignity of human nature, and the boasted free-will of + rational agents, are high-sounding words, likely to impose upon the vanity + of the fair sex, as well as upon the pride of ours; but if we analyze the + ideas annexed to these terms, to what shall we reduce them? Reason in its + highest perfection seems just to arrive at the certainty of instinct; and + truth impressed upon the mind in early youth by the united voice of + affection and authority, gives all the real advantages of the most + investigating spirit of philosophy. If the result of the thought, + experience, and sufferings of one race of beings is, (when inculcated upon + the belief of the next,) to be stigmatized as prejudice, there is an end + to all the benefits of history and of education. The mutual intercourse of + individuals and of nations must be only for the traffic or amusement of + the day. Every age must repeat the same experiments; every man and every + nation must make the same mistakes, and suffer the same miseries, whilst + the civilization and happiness of the world, if not retrograde in their + course, must, for ever be stationary. + </p> + <p> + Let us not then despise, or teach the other sex to despise, the + traditional maxims of experience, or those early prepossessions, which may + be termed prejudices, but which in reality serve as their moral instinct. + I can see neither tyranny on our part, nor slavery on theirs, in this + system of education. This sentimental or metaphysical appeal to our + candour and generosity has then no real force; and every other argument + for the <i>literary</i> and <i>philosophical</i> education of women, and + for the extraordinary cultivation of their understandings, I have + examined. + </p> + <p> + You probably imagine that, by the superior ingenuity and care you may + bestow on your daughter’s education, you shall make her an exception to + general maxims; you shall give her all the blessings of a literary + cultivation, and at the same time preserve her from all the follies, and + faults, and evils, which have been found to attend the character of a + literary lady. + </p> + <p> + Systems produce projects; and as projects in education are of all others + the most hazardous, they should not be followed till after the most mature + deliberation. Though it may be natural, is it wise for any man to expect + extraordinary success, from his efforts or his precautions, beyond what + has ever been the share of those who have had motives as strong for care + and for exertion, and some of whom were possibly his equals in ability? Is + it not incumbent upon you, as a parent and as a philosopher, to calculate + accurately what you have to fear, as well as what you have to hope? You + can at present, with a sober degree or interest, bear to hear me enumerate + the evils, and ridicule the foibles, incident to literary ladies; but if + your daughter were actually in this class, you would not think it friendly + if I were to attack them. In this favourable moment, then, I beg you to + hear me with temper; and as I touch upon every danger and every fault, + consider cautiously whether you have a certain preventive or a specific + remedy in store for each of them. + </p> + <p> + Women of literature are much more numerous of late than they were a few + years ago. They make a class in society, they fill the public eye, and + have acquired a degree of consequence and an appropriate character. The + esteem of private friends, and the admiration of the public for their + talents, are circumstances highly flattering to their vanity; and as such + I will allow them to be substantial pleasures. I am also ready to + acknowledge that a taste for literature adds much to the happiness of + life, and that women may enjoy to a certain degree this happiness as well + as men. But with literary women this silent happiness seems at best but a + subordinate consideration; it is not by the treasures they possess, but by + those which they have an opportunity of displaying, that they estimate + their wealth. To obtain public applause, they are betrayed too often into + a miserable ostentation of their learning. Coxe tells us, that certain + Russian ladies split their pearls, in order to make a greater display of + finery. + </p> + <p> + The pleasure of being admired for wit or erudition, I cannot exactly + measure in a female mind; but state it to be as delightful as you can + imagine it to be, there are evils attendant upon it, which, in the + estimation of a prudent father, may over-balance the good. The + intoxicating effect of wit upon the brain has been well remarked, by a + poet, who was a friend to the fair sex: and too many ridiculous, and too + many disgusting examples confirm the truth of the observation. The + deference that is paid to genius, sometimes makes the fair sex forget that + genius will be respected only when united with discretion. Those who have + acquired fame, fancy that they can afford to sacrifice reputation. I will + suppose, however, that their heads shall be strong enough to bear + inebriating admiration, and that their conduct shall be essentially + irreproachable; yet they will show in their manners and conversation that + contempt of inferior minds, and that neglect of common forms and customs, + which will provoke the indignation of fools, and which cannot escape the + censure of the wise. Even whilst we are secure of their innocence, we + dislike that daring spirit in the female sex, which delights to oppose the + common opinions of society, and from apparent trifles we draw unfavourable + omens, which experience too often confirms. You will ask me why I should + suppose that wits are more liable to be spoiled by admiration than + beauties, who have usually a larger share of it, and who are not more + exempt from vanity? Those who are vain of trifling accomplishments, of + rank, of riches, or of beauty, depend upon the world for their immediate + gratification. They are sensible of their dependence; they listen with + deference to the maxims, and attend with anxiety to the opinions of those, + from whom they expect their reward and their daily amusements. In their + subjection consists their safety; whilst women, who neither feel dependent + for amusement nor for self-approbation upon company and public places, are + apt to consider this subjection as humiliating, if not insupportable: + perceiving their own superiority, they despise, and even set at defiance, + the opinions of their acquaintance of inferior abilities: contempt, where + it cannot be openly retorted, produces aversion, not the less to be + dreaded because constrained to silence: envy, considered as the + involuntary tribute extorted by merit, is flattering to pride: and I know + that many women delight to excite envy, even whilst they affect to fear + its consequences: but they, who imprudently provoke it, are little aware + of the torments they prepare for themselves.—“Cover your face well + before you disturb the hornet’s nest,” was a maxim of the <i>experienced</i> + Catherine de Medici. + </p> + <p> + Men of literature, if we may trust to the bitter expressions of anguish in + their writings, and in their private letters, feel acutely all the stings + of envy. Women, who have more susceptibility of temper, and less strength + of mind, and who, from the delicate nature of their reputation, are more + exposed to attack, are also less able to endure it. Malignant critics, + when they cannot attack an author’s peace in his writings, frequently + scrutinize his private life; and every personal anecdote is published + without regard to truth or propriety. How will the delicacy of the female + character endure this treatment? How will her friends bear to see her + pursued even in domestic retirement, if she should be wise enough to make + that retirement her choice? How will they like to see premature memoirs, + and spurious collections of familiar letters, published by needy + booksellers, or designing enemies? Yet to all these things men of letters + are subject; and such must literary ladies expect, if they attain to any + degree of eminence.—Judging, then, from the experience of our sex, I + may pronounce envy to be one of the evils which women of uncommon genius + have to dread. “Censure,” says a celebrated writer, “is a tax which every + man must pay to the public, who seeks to be eminent.” Women must expect to + pay it doubly. + </p> + <p> + Your daughter, perhaps, shall be above scandal. She shall despise the idle + whisper, and the common tattle of her sex; her soul shall be raised above + the ignorant and the frivolous; she shall have a relish for higher + conversation, and a taste for higher society; but where is she to find, or + how is she to obtain this society? You make her incapable of friendship + with her own sex. Where is she to look for friends, for companions, for + equals? Amongst men? Amongst what class of men? Not amongst men of + business, or men of gallantry, but amongst men of literature. + </p> + <p> + Learned men have usually chosen for their wives, or for their companions, + women who were rather below than above the standard of mediocrity: this + seems to me natural and reasonable. Such men, probably, feel their own + incapacity for the daily business of life, their ignorance of the world, + their slovenly habits, and neglect of domestic affairs. They do not want + wives who have precisely their own defects; they rather desire to find + such as shall, by the opposite habits and virtues, supply their + deficiencies. I do not see why two books should marry, any more than two + estates. Some few exceptions might be quoted against Stewart’s + observations. I have just seen, under the article “A Literary Wife,” in + D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature, an account of Francis Phidelphus, a + great scholar in the fifteenth century, who was so desirous of acquiring + the Greek language in perfection, that he travelled to Constantinople in + search of a <i>Grecian wife</i>: the lady proved a scold. “But to do + justice to the name of Theodora,” as this author adds, “she has been + honourably mentioned in the French Academy of Sciences.” I hope this + proved an adequate compensation to her husband for his domestic broils. + </p> + <p> + Happy Mad. Dacier! you found a husband suited to your taste! You and Mons. + Dacier, if D’Alembert tells the story rightly, once cooked a dish in + concert, by a receipt which you found in Apicius, and you both sat down + and ate of your learned ragout till you were both like to die. + </p> + <p> + Were I sure, my dear friend, that every literary lady would be equally + fortunate in finding in a husband a man who would sympathize in her + tastes, I should diminish my formidable catalogue of evils. But, alas! M. + Dacier is no more; “and we shall never live to see his fellow.” Literary + ladies will, I am afraid, be losers in love, as well as in friendship, by + the superiority.—Cupid is a timid, playful child, and is frightened + at the helmet of Minerva. It has been observed, that gentlemen are not apt + to admire a prodigious quantity of learning and masculine acquirements in + the fair sex;—we usually consider a certain degree of weakness, both + of mind and body, as friendly to female grace. I am not absolutely of this + opinion; yet I do not see the advantage of supernatural force, either of + body or mind, to female excellence. Hercules-Spinster found his strength + rather an incumbrance than an advantage. + </p> + <p> + Superiority of mind must be united with great temper and generosity, to be + tolerated by those who are forced to submit to its influence. I have seen + witty and learned ladies, who did not seem to think it at all incumbent + upon them to sacrifice any thing to the sense of propriety. On the + contrary, they seemed to take both pride and pleasure in showing the + utmost stretch of their strength, regardless of the consequences, panting + only for victory. Upon such occasions, when the adversary has been a + husband or a father, I must acknowledge that I have felt sensations which + few ladies can easily believe they excite. Airs and graces I can bear as + well as another; but airs without graces no man thinks himself bound to + bear, and learned airs least of all. Ladies of high rank in the court of + Parnassus are apt, sometimes, to claim precedency out of their own + dominions, which creates much confusion, and generally ends in their being + affronted. That knowledge of the world which keeps people in their proper + places they will never learn from the Muses. + </p> + <p> + Molière has pointed out, with all the force of comic ridicule, in the + Femmes Savantes, that a lady, who aspires to the sublime delights of + philosophy and poetry, must forego the simple pleasures, and will despise + the duties of domestic life. I should not expect that my house affairs + would be with haste despatched by a Desdemona, weeping over some + unvarnished tale, or petrified with some history of horrors, at the very + time when she should be ordering dinner, or paying the butcher’s bill.—I + should have the less hope of rousing her attention to my culinary concerns + and domestic grievances, because I should probably incur her contempt for + hinting at these sublunary matters, and her indignation for supposing that + she ought to be employed in such degrading occupations. I have heard, that + if these sublime geniuses are awakened from their reveries by the <i>appulse</i> + of external circumstances, they start, and exhibit all the perturbation + and amazement of <i>cataleptic</i> patients. + </p> + <p> + Sir Charles Harrington, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, addressed a copy + of verses to his wife, “On Women’s Vertues:”—these he divides into + “the private, <i>civill</i>, and heroyke;” the private belong to the + country housewife, whom it concerned; chiefly— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The fruit, malt, hops, to tend, to dry, to utter, + To beat, strip, spin the wool, the hemp, the flax, + Breed poultry, gather honey, try the wax, + And more than all, to have good cheese and butter. + Then next a step, but yet a large step higher, + Came civill vertue fitter for the citty, + With modest looks, good clothes, and answers witty. + These baser things not done, but guided by her.” + </pre> + <p> + As for heroyke vertue, and heroyke dames, honest Sir Charles would have + nothing to do with them. + </p> + <p> + Allowing, however, that you could combine all these virtues—that you + could form a perfect whole, a female wonder from every creature’s best—dangers + still threaten you. How will you preserve your daughter from that desire + of universal admiration, which will ruin all your work? How will you, + along with all the pride of knowledge, give her that “retiring modesty,” + which is supposed to have more charms for our sex than the fullest display + of wit and beauty? + </p> + <p> + The <i>fair Pauca of Thoulouse</i> was so called because she was so fair + that no one could live either with or without beholding her:—whenever + she came forth from her own mansion, which, history observes, she did very + seldom, such impetuous crowds rushed to obtain a sight of her, that limbs + were broken and lives were lost wherever she appeared. She ventured abroad + less frequently—the evil increased—till at length the + magistrates of the city issued an edict commanding the fair Pauca, under + the pain of perpetual imprisonment, to appear in broad daylight for one + hour, every week, in the public market-place. + </p> + <p> + Modern ladies, by frequenting public places so regularly, declare their + approbation of the wholesome regulations of these prudent magistrates. + Very different was the crafty policy of the prophet Mahomet, who forbad + his worshippers even to paint his picture. The Turks have pictures of the + hand, the foot, the features of Mahomet, but no representation of the + whole face or person is allowed. The portraits of our beauties, in our + exhibition-room, show a proper contempt of this insidious policy; and + those learned and ingenious ladies who publish their private letters, + select maxims, secret anecdotes, and family memoirs, are entitled to our + thanks, for thus presenting us with full-lengths of their minds. + </p> + <p> + Can you expect, my dear sir, that your daughter, with all the genius and + learning which you intend to give her, should refrain from these imprudent + exhibitions? Will she “yield her charms of mind with sweet delay?” Will + she, in every moment of her life, recollect that the fatal desire for + universal applause always defeats its own purpose, especially if the + purpose be to win our love as well as our admiration? It is in vain to + tell me, that more enlarged ideas in our sex would alter our tastes, and + alter even the associations which now influence our passions. The captive + who has numbered the links of his chains, and has even discovered how + these chains are constructed, is not therefore nearer to the recovery of + his liberty. + </p> + <p> + Besides, it must take a length of time to alter associations and opinions, + which, if not <i>just</i>, are at least <i>common</i> in our sex. You + cannot expect even that conviction should operate immediately upon the + public taste. You will, in a few years, have educated your daughter; and + if the world be not educated exactly at the right time to judge of her + perfections, to admire and love them, you will have wasted your labour, + and you will have sacrificed your daughter’s happiness: that happiness, + analyze it as a man of the world or as a philosopher, must depend on + friendship, love, the exercise of her virtues, the just performance of all + the duties of life, and the self-approbation arising from the + consciousness of good conduct. + </p> + <p> + I am, my dear friend, + </p> + <p> + Yours sincerely. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANSWER + </h2> + <h3> + TO + </h3> + <h3> + THE PRECEDING LETTER. + </h3> + <p> + I have as little taste for Mad. Dacier’s learned ragout as you can have, + my dear sir; and I pity the great scholar, who travelled to Constantinople + for the termagant Theodora, believing, as you do, that the honourable + mention made of her by the French Academy of Sciences, could be no + adequate compensation to her husband for domestic disquiet: but the lady’s + learning was not essential to his misfortune; he might have met with a + scolding dame, though he had not married a Grecian. A profusion of vulgar + aphorisms in the dialects of all the counties in England, proverbs in + Welsh, Scotish, French, Spanish, Italian, and Hebrew, might be adduced to + prove that scolds are to be found amongst all classes of women. I am, + however, willing to allow, that the more learning, and wit, and eloquence + a lady possesses, the more troublesome and the more dangerous she may + become as a wife or daughter, unless she is also possessed of good sense + and good temper. Of your honest Sir Charles Harrington’s two pattern + wives, I think I should prefer the country housewife, with whom I could be + sure of having good cheese and butter, to the <i>citty dame</i> with her + good clothes and answers witty.—I should be afraid that these + answers witty might be turned against me, and might prove the torment of + my life.—You, who have attended to female disputants, must have + remarked, that, learned or unlearned, they seldom know how to reason; they + assert and declaim, employ wit, and eloquence, and sophistry, to confute, + persuade, or abash their adversaries; but distinct reasoning they neither + use nor comprehend.—Till women learn to reason, it is in vain that + they acquire learning. + </p> + <p> + You are satisfied, I am sure, with this acknowledgment. I will go farther, + and at once give up to you all the learned ladies that exist, or that ever + have existed: but when I use the term literary ladies, I mean women who + have cultivated their understandings not for the purposes of parade, but + with the desire to make themselves useful and agreeable. I estimate the + value of a woman’s abilities and acquirements, by the degree in which they + contribute to her happiness. + </p> + <p> + You think yourself happy because you are wise, said a philosopher to a + pedant.—I think myself wise because I am happy. + </p> + <p> + You tell me, that even supposing I could educate my daughter so as to + raise her above the common faults and follies of her sex; even supposing I + could give her an enlarged understanding, and literature free from + pedantry, she would be in danger of becoming unhappy, because she would + not, amongst her own sex, find friends suited to her taste, nor amongst + ours, admirers adequate to her expectations: you represent her as in the + situation of the poor flying-fish, exposed to dangerous enemies in her own + element, yet certain, if she tries to soar above them, of being pounced + upon by the hawk-eyed critics of the higher regions. + </p> + <p> + You allow, however, that women of literature are much more numerous of + late than they were a few years ago; that they make a class in society, + and have acquired a considerable degree of consequence, and an appropriate + character; how can you then fear that a woman of cultivated understanding + should be driven from the society of her own sex in search of dangerous + companions amongst ours? In the female world she will be neither without + an equal nor without a judge; she will not have much to fear from envy, + because its malignant eye will not fix upon one object exclusively, when + there are numbers to distract its attention, and share the stroke. The + fragile nature of female friendships, the petty jealousies which break out + at the ball or in the drawing-room, have been from time immemorial the + jest of mankind. Trifles, light as air, will necessarily excite not only + the jealousy, but the envy of those who think only of trifles. Give them + more employment for their thoughts, give them a nobler spirit of + emulation, and we shall hear no more of these paltry feuds; give them more + useful and more interesting subjects of conversation, and they become not + only more agreeable, but safer companions for each other. + </p> + <p> + Unmarried women, who have stored their minds with knowledge, who have + various tastes and literary occupations, who can amuse and be amused in + the conversation of well-informed people, are in no danger of becoming + burthensome to their friends or to society: though they may not be seen + haunting every place of amusement or of public resort, they are not + isolated or forlorn; by a variety of associations they are connected with + the world, and their sympathy is expanded and supported by the cultivation + of their understandings; nor can it sink, settle, and concentrate upon + cats, parrots, and monkeys. How far the human heart may be contracted by + ignorance it is difficult to determine; but I am little inclined to envy + the <i>simple</i> pleasures of those whose understandings are totally + uncultivated.—Sir William Hamilton, in his account of the last + eruption of Mount Vesuvius, gives us a curious picture of the excessive + ignorance and stupidity of some nuns in a convent at Torre del Greco:—one + of these nuns was found warming herself at the red-hot lava, which had + rolled up to the window of her cell. It was with the greatest difficulty + that these scarcely rational beings could be made to comprehend the nature + of their danger; and when at last they were prevailed upon to quit the + convent, and were advised to carry with them whatever they thought most + valuable, they loaded themselves with sweetmeats.—Those who wish for + ignorant wives, may find them in other parts of the world, as well as in + Italy. + </p> + <p> + I do not pretend, that even by cultivating my daughter’s understanding I + can secure for her a husband suited to her taste; it will therefore be + prudent to make her felicity in some degree independent of matrimony. Many + parents have sufficient kindness and foresight to provide, in point of + fortune, for their daughters; but few consider that if a single life + should be their choice or their doom, something more is necessary to + secure respect and happiness for them in the decline of life. The silent + <i>unreproved</i> pleasures of literature are the sure resource of those + who have cultivated minds; those who have not, must wear out their + disconsolate unoccupied old age as chance directs. When you say that men + of superior understanding dislike the appearance of extraordinary strength + of mind in the fair sex, you probably mean that the display of that + strength is disgusting, and you associate with the idea of strength of + mind, masculine, arrogant, or pedantic manners: but there is no necessary + connexion between these things; and it seems probable that the faults + usually ascribed to learned ladies, like those peculiar to learned men, + may have arisen in a great measure from circumstances which the progress + of civilization in society has much altered. + </p> + <p> + In the times of ignorance, men of deep science were considered by the + vulgar as a class of necromancers, and they were looked upon alternately + with terror and admiration; and learned men imposed upon the vulgar by + assuming strange airs of mystery and self-importance, wore long beards and + solemn looks; they spoke and wrote in a phraseology peculiar to + themselves, and affected to consider the rest of mankind as beneath their + notice: but since knowledge has been generally diffused, all this + affectation has been laid aside; and though we now and then hear of men of + genius who indulge themselves in peculiarities, yet upon the whole the + manners of literary men are not strikingly nor wilfully different from + those of the rest of the world. The peculiarities of literary women will + also disappear as their numbers increase. You are disgusted by their + ostentation of learning. Have patience with them, my dear sir; their taste + will become more simple when they have been taught by experience that this + parade is offensive: even the bitter expression of your disgust may be + advantageous to those whose manners are yet to be formed; they will at + least learn from it what to avoid; and your letter may perhaps hereafter + be of service in my daughter’s education.—It is scarcely to be + supposed, that a girl of good understanding would deliberately imitate the + faults and follies which she hears ridiculed during her childhood, by + those whom she esteems. + </p> + <p> + As to your dread of prodigies, that will subside:—prodigies are + heard of most frequently during the ages of ignorance. A woman may now + possess a considerable stock of information without being gazed upon as a + miracle of learning; and there is not much danger of her being vain of + accomplishments which cease to be astonishing. Nor will her peace be + disturbed by the idle remarks of the ignorant vulgar.—A literary + lady is no longer a sight; the spectacle is now too common to attract + curiosity; the species of animal is too well known even to admit of much + exaggeration in the description of its appearance, A lady riding on + horseback upon a side-saddle is not thought a wonderful thing by the + common people in England; but when an English lady rode upon a side-saddle + in an Italian city, where the sight was unusual, she was universally gazed + at by the populace; to some she appeared an object of astonishment, to + others of compassion:—“Ah! poverina,” they exclaimed, “n’ha che una + gamba!” + </p> + <p> + The same objects excite different emotions in different situations; and to + judge what will astonish or delight any given set of people some years + hence, we must consider not merely what is the fashion of to-day, but + whither the current of opinion runs, and what is likely to be the fashion + of hereafter.—You must have observed that public opinion is at + present more favourable to the cultivation of the understanding of the + female sex than it was some years ago; more attention is paid to the + education of women, more knowledge and literature are expected from them + in society. From the literary lady of the present day something more is + expected than that she should know how to spell and to write better than + Swift’s celebrated Stella, whom he reproves for writing <i>villian</i> and + <i>daenger</i>:—perhaps this very Stella was an object of envy in + her own day to those who were her inferiors in literature. No man wishes + his wife to be obviously less cultivated than those of her own rank; and + something more is now required, even from ordinary talents, than what + distinguished the accomplished lady of the seventeenth century. What the + standard of excellence may be in the next age we cannot ascertain, but we + may guess that the taste for literature will continue to be progressive; + therefore, even if you assume that the education of the female sex should + be guided by the taste and reigning opinions of ours, and that it should + be the object of their lives to win and keep our hearts, you must admit + the expediency of attending to that fashionable demand for literature and + the fine arts, which has arisen in society. + </p> + <p> + No woman can foresee what may be the taste of the man with whom she may be + united; much of her happiness, however, will depend upon her being able to + conform her taste to his: for this reason I should therefore, in female + education, cultivate the general powers of the mind, rather than any + particular faculty. I do not desire to make my daughter merely a musician, + a painter, or a poet; I do not desire to make her merely a botanist, a + mathematician, or a chemist; but I wish to give her early the habit of + industry and attention, the love of knowledge, and the power of reasoning: + these will enable her to attend to excellence in any pursuit to which she + may direct her talents. You will observe, that many things which formerly + were thought above the comprehension of women, or unfit for their sex, are + now acknowledged to be perfectly within the compass of their abilities, + and suited to their situation.—Formerly the fair sex was kept in + Turkish ignorance; every means of acquiring knowledge was discountenanced + by fashion, and impracticable even to those who despised fashion;—our + books of science were full of unintelligible jargon, and mystery veiled + pompous ignorance from public contempt; but now writers must offer their + discoveries to the public in distinct terms, which every body may + understand; technical language no longer supplies the place of knowledge, + and the art of teaching has been carried to such perfection, that a degree + of knowledge may now with ease be acquired in the course of a few years, + which formerly it was the business of a life to attain. All this is much + in favour of female literature. Ladies have become ambitious to + superintend the education of their children, and hence they have been + induced to instruct themselves, that they may be able to direct and inform + their pupils. The mother, who now aspires to be the esteemed and beloved + instructress of her children, must have a considerable portion of + knowledge. Science has of late “<i>been enlisted under the banners of + imagination</i>,” by the irresistible charms of genius; by the same power, + her votaries will be led “<i>from the looser analogies which dress out the + imagery of poetry to the stricter ones which form the ratiocination of + philosophy</i>{1}.”—Botany has become fashionable; in time it may + become useful, if it be not so already. Chemistry will follow botany. + Chemistry is a science well suited to the talents and situation of women; + it is not a science of parade; it affords occupation and infinite variety; + it demands no bodily strength; it can be pursued in retirement; it applies + immediately to useful and domestic purposes; and whilst the ingenuity of + the most inventive mind may in this science be exercised, there is no + danger of inflaming the imagination, because the mind is intent upon + realities, the knowledge that is acquired is exact, and the pleasure of + the pursuit is a sufficient reward for the labour. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Vide preface to Darwin’s Botanic Garden.} + </p> + <p> + A clear and ready knowledge of arithmetic is surely no useless acquirement + for those who are to regulate the expenses of a family. Economy is not the + mean “penny wise and pound foolish” policy which some suppose it to be; it + is the art of calculation joined to the habit of order, and the power of + proportioning our wishes to the means of gratifying them. The little + pilfering temper of a wife is despicable and odious to every man of sense; + but there is a judicious, graceful species of economy, which has no + connexion with an avaricious temper, and which, as it depends upon the + understanding, can be expected only from cultivated minds. Women who have + been well educated, far from despising domestic duties, will hold them in + high respect; because they will see that the whole happiness of life is + made up of the happiness of each particular day and hour, and that much of + the enjoyment of these must depend upon the punctual practice of those + virtues which are more valuable than splendid. + </p> + <p> + It is not, I hope, your opinion, that ignorance is the best security for + female virtue. If this connexion between virtue and ignorance could once + be clearly proved, we ought to drown our books deeper than ever plummet + sounded:—I say <i>we</i>—for the danger extends equally to + both sexes, unless you assert that the duties of men rest upon a more + certain foundation than the duties of the other sex: if our virtues can be + demonstrated to be advantageous, why should theirs suffer for being + exposed to the light of reason?—All social virtue conduces to our + own happiness or that of our fellow-creatures; can it weaken the sense of + duty to illustrate this truth?—Having once pointed out to the + understanding of a sensible woman the necessary connexion between her + virtues and her happiness, must not those virtues, and the means of + preserving them, become in her eyes objects of the most interesting + importance? But you fear, that even if their conduct continued to be + irreproachable, the manners of women might be rendered less delicate by + the increase of their knowledge; you dislike in the female sex that daring + spirit which despises the common forms of society, and which breaks + through the reserve and delicacy of female manners:—so do I:—and + the best method to make my pupil respect these things is to show her how + they are indispensably connected with the largest interests of society: + surely this perception of the utility of forms apparently trifling, must + be a strong security to the prudential reserve of the sex, and far + superior to the automatic habits of those who submit to the conventions of + the world without consideration or conviction. Habit, confirmed by reason, + assumes the rank of virtue. The motives that restrain from vice must be + increased by the clear conviction, that vice and wretchedness are + inseparably united. + </p> + <p> + Do not, however, imagine, my dear sir, that I shall attempt to lay moral + demonstration before <i>a child</i>, who could not possibly comprehend my + meaning; do not imagine that because I intend to cultivate my daughter’s + understanding, I shall neglect to give her those early habits of reserve + and modesty which constitute the female character.—Believing, as I + do, that woman, as well as man, may be called a bundle of habits, I shall + be peculiarly careful, during my child’s early education, to give her as + many good habits as possible; by degrees as her understanding, that is to + say as her knowledge and power of reasoning shall increase, I can explain + the advantages of these habits, and confirm their power by the voice of + reason. I lose no time, I expose myself to no danger, by this system. On + the contrary, those who depend entirely upon the force of custom and + prejudice expose themselves to infinite danger. If once their pupils begin + to reflect upon their own hoodwinked education, they will probably suspect + that they have been deceived in all that they have been taught, and they + will burst their bonds with indignation.—Credulity is always rash in + the moment she detects the impositions that have been practised upon her + easy temper. In this inquiring age, few have any chance of passing through + life without being excited to examine the motives and principles from + which they act: is it not therefore prudent to cultivate the reasoning + faculty, by which alone this examination can be made with safety? A false + argument, a repartee, the charms of wit or eloquence, the voice of + fashion, of folly, of numbers, might, if she had no substantial reasons to + support her cause, put virtue not only out of countenance, but out of + humour. + </p> + <p> + You speak of moral instinct. As far as I understand the term, it implies + certain habits early acquired from education; to these I would add the + power of reasoning, and then, and not till then, I should think myself + safe:—for I have observed that the pupils of habit are utterly + confounded when they are placed in circumstances different from those to + which they have been accustomed.—It has been remarked by travellers + and naturalists, that animals, notwithstanding their boasted instinctive + knowledge, sometimes make strange and fatal mistakes in their conduct, + when they are placed in new situations:—destitute of the reasoning + faculty, and deceived by resemblances, they mistake poison for food. Thus + the bull-frog will swallow burning charcoal, mistaking it for fire-flies; + and the European hogs and poultry which travelled to Surinam poisoned + themselves by eating plants that were unknown to them{1}. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Vide Stedmen’s Voyage to Surinam, vol. ii. p. 47.} + </p> + <p> + You seem, my dear sir, to be afraid that truth should not keep so firm a + hold upon the mind as prejudice; and you produce an allusion to justify + your fears. You tell us that civil society is like a building, and you + warn me not to tear down the ivy which clings to the walls, and braces the + loose stones together.—I believe that ivy, in some situations, tends + to pull down the walls to which it clings.—You think it is not worth + while to cultivate the understandings of women, because you say that you + have no security that the conviction of their reason will have any + permanent good effect upon their conduct; and to persuade me of this, you + bid me observe that men who are superior to women in strength of mind and + judgment, are frequently misled by their passions. By this mode of + argument, you may conclude that reason is totally useless to the whole + human race; but you cannot, with any show of justice, infer that it ought + to be monopolized by one-half of mankind. But why should you quarrel with + reason, because passion sometimes conquers her?—You should endeavour + to strengthen the connexion between theory and practice, if it be not + sufficiently strong already; but you can gain nothing by destroying + theory.—Happiness is your aim; but your unpractised or unsteady hand + does not obey your will: you do not at the first trial hit the mark + precisely.—Would you, because you are awkward, insist upon being + blind? + </p> + <p> + The strength of mind which enables people to govern themselves by their + reason, is not always connected with abilities even in their most + cultivated state: I deplore the instances which I have seen of this truth, + but I do not despair; on the contrary, I am excited to inquire into the + causes of this phenomenon; nor, because I see some evil, would I sacrifice + the good upon a bare motive of suspicion. It is a contradiction to say, + that giving the power to discern what is good is giving a disposition to + prefer what is bad. I acknowledge with regret, that women who have been + but half instructed, who have seen only superficially the relations of + moral and political ideas, and who have obtained but an imperfect + knowledge of the human heart, have conducted themselves so as to disgrace + their talents and their sex; these are conspicuous and melancholy + examples, which are cited oftener with malice than with pity. But I appeal + to examples amongst our contemporaries, to which every man of literature + will immediately advert, to prove, that where the female understanding has + been properly cultivated, women have not only obtained admiration by their + useful abilities, but respect by their exemplary conduct. + </p> + <p> + I apprehend that many of the errors into which women of literature have + fallen, may have arisen from an improper choice of books. Those who read + chiefly works of imagination, receive from them false ideas of life and of + the human heart. Many of these productions I should keep as I would deadly + poison from my child; I should rather endeavour to turn her attention to + science than to romance, and to give her early that taste for truth and + utility, which, when once implanted, can scarcely be eradicated. There is + a wide difference between innocence and ignorance: ignorant women may have + minds the most debased and perverted, whilst the most cultivated + understanding may be united with the most perfect innocence and + simplicity. + </p> + <p> + Even if literature were of no other use to the fair sex than to supply + them with employment, I should think the time dedicated to the cultivation + of their minds well bestowed: they are surely better occupied when they + are reading or writing than when coqueting or gaming, losing their + fortunes or their characters. You despise the writings of women:—you + think that they might have made a better use of the pen, than to write + plays, and poetry, and romances. Considering that the pen was to women a + new instrument, I think they have made at least as good a use of it as + learned men did of the needle some centuries ago, when they set themselves + to determine how many spirits could stand upon its point, and were ready + to tear one another to pieces in the discussion of this sublime question. + Let the sexes mutually forgive each other their follies; or, what is much + better, let them combine their talents for their general advantage.—You + say, that the experiments we have made do not encourage us to proceed—that + the increased care and pains which have been of late years bestowed upon + female education have produced no adequate returns; but you in the same + breath allow that amongst your contemporaries, whom you prudently forbear + to mention, there are some instances of great talents applied to useful + purposes. Did you expect that the fruits of good cultivation should appear + before the seed was sown? You triumphantly enumerate the disadvantages to + which women, from the laws and customs of society, are liable:—they + cannot converse freely with men of wit, science, and learning, nor even + with the artist, or artificers; they are excluded from academies, public + libraries, &c. Even our politeness prevents us, you say, from ever + speaking plain truth and sense to the fair sex:—every assistance + that foreign or domestic ingenuity can invent to encourage literary + studies, is, as you boast, almost exclusively ours: and after pointing out + all these causes for the inferiority of women in knowledge, you ask for a + list of the inventions and discoveries of those who, by your own statement + of the question, have not been allowed opportunities for observation. With + the insulting injustice of an Egyptian task-master, you demand the work, + and deny the necessary materials. + </p> + <p> + I admit, that with respect to the opportunities of acquiring knowledge, + institutions and manners are, as you have stated, much in favour of our + sex; but your argument concerning <i>time</i> appears to me to be + unfounded.—Women who do not love dissipation must have more time for + the cultivation of their understandings than men can have, if you compute + the whole of life:—whilst the knowledge of the learned languages + continues to form an indispensable part of a gentleman’s education, many + years of childhood and youth must be devoted to their attainment.—During + these studies, the general cultivation of the understanding is in some + degree retarded. All the intellectual powers are cramped, except the + memory, which is sufficiently exercised, but which is overloaded with + words, and with words that are not always understood.—The genius of + living and of dead languages differs so much, that the pains which are + taken to write elegant Latin frequently spoil the English style.—Girls + usually write much better than boys; they think and express their thoughts + clearly at an age when young men can scarcely write an easy letter upon + any common occasion. Women do not read the good authors of antiquity as + school-books, but they can have excellent translations of most of them + when they are capable of tasting the beauties of composition.—I know + that it is supposed we cannot judge of the classics by translations, and I + am sensible that much of the merit of the originals may be lost; but I + think the difference in pleasure is more than overbalanced to women by the + <i>time</i> that is saved, and by the labour and misapplication of + abilities which are spared. If they do not acquire a classical taste, + neither do they imbibe classic prejudices; nor are they early disgusted + with literature by pedagogues, lexicons, grammars, and all the melancholy + apparatus of learning.—Women begin to taste the pleasures of + reading, and the best authors in the English language are their amusement, + just at the age when young men, disgusted by their studies, begin to be + ashamed of alluding to literature amongst their companions. Travelling, + lounging, field sports, gaming, and what is called pleasure in various + shapes, usually fill the interval between quitting the university and + settling for life.—When this period is past, business, the necessity + of pursuing a profession, the ambition to shine in parliament, or to rise + in public life, occupy a large portion of their lives.—In many + professions the understanding is but partially cultivated; and general + literature must be neglected by those who are occupied in earning bread or + amassing riches for their family:—men of genius are often heard to + complain, that in the pursuit of a profession, they are obliged to + contract their inquiries and concentrate their powers; statesmen lament + that they must often pursue the <i>expedient</i> even when they discern + that it is not <i>the right</i>; and men of letters, who earn their bread + by their writings, inveigh bitterly against the tyranny of booksellers, + who degrade them to the state of “literary artisans.”—“Literary + artisans,” is the comprehensive term under which a celebrated philosopher + {1} classes all those who cultivate only particular talents or powers of + the mind, and who suffer their other faculties to lose all strength and + vigour for want of exercise. The other sex have no such constraint upon + their understandings; neither the necessity of earning their bread, nor + the ambition to shine in public affairs, hurry or prejudice their minds: + in domestic life they have leisure to be wise. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Professor Dugald Stewart—History of the Philosophy of + the Human Mind.} + </p> + <p> + Far from being ashamed that so little has been done by female abilities in + science and useful literature, I am surprised that so much has been + effected. On natural history, on criticism, on moral philosophy, on + education, they have written with elegance, eloquence, precision, and + ingenuity. Your complaint that women do not turn their attention to useful + literature is surely ill-timed. If they merely increased the number of + books in circulation, you might declaim against them with success; but + when they add to the general fund of useful and entertaining knowledge, + you cannot with any show of justice prohibit their labours: there can be + no danger that the market should ever be overstocked with produce of + intrinsic worth. + </p> + <p> + The despotic monarchs of Spain forbid the exploring of any new gold or + silver mines without the express permission of government, and they have + ordered several rich ones to be shut up as not equal to the cost of + working. There is some <i>appearance</i> of reason for this exertion of + power: it may prevent the world from being encumbered by nominal wealth.—But + the Dutch merchants, who burn whole cargoes of spice lest they should + lower the price of the commodity in which they deal, show a mean spirit of + monopoly which can plead no plausible excuse.—I hope you feel + nothing like a disposition to Spanish despotism or Dutch jealousy, when + you would exclude female talents from the literary market. + </p> + <p> + You observe, that since censure is a tax which every man must pay who + aspires to eminence, women must expect to pay it doubly. Why the tax + should not be equally assessed, I am at a loss to conjecture: but in fact + it does not fall very heavy upon those who have any portion of philosophy: + they may, with <i>the poet of reason</i>, exclaim— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Though doubly tax’d, how little have I lost!” + </pre> + <p> + Your dread of the envy attendant upon literary excellence might with equal + justice be extended to every species of merit, and might be urged against + all that is good in art or nature.—Scandal is said to attack always + the fairest characters, as the birds always peck most at the ripest fruit; + but would you for this reason have no fruit ripen, or no characters aspire + to excellence? But if it be your opinion that women are naturally inferior + to us in capacity, why do you feel so much apprehension of their becoming + eminent, or of their obtaining power, in consequence of the cultivation of + their understandings?—These expressions of scorn and jealousy + neutralize each other. If your contempt were unmixed and genuine, it would + be cool and tranquil, inclining rather to pity than to anger. + </p> + <p> + You say that in all animals the female is the inferior; and you have never + seen any reason to believe that the human species affords an exception to + this observation.—Superiority amongst brutes depends upon force; + superiority amongst the human species depends upon reason: that men are + naturally stronger than women is evident; but strength of mind has no + necessary connexion with strength of body; and intellectual ability has + ever conquered mere physical force, from the times of Ajax and Ulysses to + the present day. In civilized nations, that species of superiority which + belongs to force is much reduced in value amongst the higher classes of + society.—The baron who struck his sword into an oak, and defied any + one to pull out the weapon, would not in these days fill the hearts of his + antagonists with terror; nor would the twisting of a horse-shoe be deemed + a feat worthy to decide a nation in their choice of a king.—The days + of chivalry are no more: the knight no longer sallies forth in ponderous + armour, mounted upon “a steed as invulnerable as himself{1}.”—The + damsel no longer depends upon the prowess of his mighty arm to maintain + the glory of her charms, or the purity of her fame; grim barons, and + castles guarded by monsters and all-devouring dragons, are no more; and + from being the champions and masters of the fair sex, we are now become + their friends and companions. We have not surely been losers by this + change; the fading glories of romance have vanished, but the real + permanent pleasures of domestic life remain in their stead; and what the + fair have lost of adulation they have gained in friendship. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Condorcet.—History of the Progress of the Human Mind.} + </p> + <p> + Do not, my dear sir, call me a champion for the rights of woman; I am too + much their friend to be their partisan, and I am more anxious for their + happiness than intent upon a metaphysical discussion of their rights: + their happiness is so nearly connected with ours, that it seems to me + absurd to manage any argument so as to set the two sexes at variance by + vain contention for superiority. It ought not to be our object to make an + invidious division of privileges, or an ostentatious declaration of + rights, but to determine what is most for our general advantage. + </p> + <p> + You fear that the minds of women should be enlarged and cultivated, lest + their power in society and their liberty should consequently increase. + Observe that the word <i>liberty</i>, applied to the female sex, conveys + alarming ideas to our minds, because we do not stay to define the term; we + have a confused notion that it implies want of reserve, want of delicacy; + boldness of manners, or of conduct; in short, liberty to do wrong.—Surely + this is a species of liberty which knowledge can never make desirable. + Those who understand the real interests of society, who clearly see the + connexion between virtue and happiness, must know that <i>the liberty to + do wrong</i> is synonymous with <i>the liberty to make themselves + miserable</i>. This is a privilege of which none would choose to avail + themselves. When reason defines the term, there is no danger of its being + misunderstood; but imagination and false associations often make this word + liberty, in its perverted sense, sound delightful to those who have been + kept in ignorance and slavery. Girls who have been disciplined under the + strict high hand of authority, are apt to fancy that to escape from + habitual restraint, to exercise their own will, no matter how, is to be + free and to be happy.—Hence innumerable errors in their conduct; + hence their mistaken notions of liberty, and that inordinate ambition to + acquire power, which ignorant, ill-educated women show in every petty + struggle, where they are permitted to act in private life. You believe + this temper to be inherent in the sex; and a man, who has just published a + book upon the Spanish bull-fights, declares his belief, that the passion + for bull-fighting is innate in the breast of every Spaniard.—Do not, + my friend, assign two causes for an effect where one is obviously + adequate. The disposition to love command need not be attributed to any + innate cause in the minds of females, whilst it may be fairly ascribed to + their erroneous education. + </p> + <p> + I shall early cultivate my daughter’s judgment, to prevent her from being + wilful or positive; I shall leave her to choose for herself in all those + trifles upon which the happiness of childhood depends; and I shall + gradually teach her to reflect upon the consequences of her actions, to + compare and judge of her feelings, and to compute the morn and evening to + her day.—I shall thus, I hope, induce her to reason upon all + subjects, even upon matters of taste, where many women think it sufficient + to say, I admire; or, I detest:—Oh, charming! or, Oh, horrible!—People + who have reasons for their preferences and aversions, are never so + provokingly zealous in the support of their own tastes, as those usually + are who have no arguments to convince themselves or others that they are + in the right. + </p> + <p> + But you are apprehensive that the desire to govern, which women show in + domestic life, should obtain a larger field to display itself in public + affairs.—It seems to me impossible that they can ever acquire the + species of direct power which you dread: their influence must be private; + it is therefore of the utmost consequence that it should be judicious.—It + was not Themistocles, but his wife and child, who governed the Athenians; + it was therefore of some consequence that the boy who governed the mother, + who governed her husband, should not be a spoiled child; and consequently + that the mother who educated this child should be a reasonable woman. Thus + are human affairs chained together; and female influence is a necessary + and important link, which you cannot break without destroying the whole. + </p> + <p> + If it be your object, my dear sir, to monopolize power for our sex, you + cannot possibly secure it better from the wishes of the other, than by + enlightening their minds and enlarging their views: they will then be + convinced, not by the voice of the moralist, who puts us to sleep whilst + he persuades us of the vanity of all sublunary enjoyments, but by their + own awakened observation: they will be convinced that power is generally + an evil to its possessor; that to those who really wish for the good of + their fellow-creatures, it is at best but a painful trust.—The mad + philosopher in Rasselas, who imagined that he regulated the weather and + distributed the seasons, could never enjoy a moment’s repose, lest he + should not make “to the different nations of the earth an impartial + dividend of rain and sunshine.”—Those who are entrusted with the + government of nations must, if they have an acute sense of justice, + experience something like the anxiety felt by this unfortunate monarch of + the clouds. + </p> + <p> + Lord Kenyon has lately decided that a woman may <i>be an overseer of a + parish</i>; but you are not, I suppose, apprehensive that many ladies of + cultivated understanding should become ambitious of this honour.—One + step farther in reasoning, and a woman would desire as little to be a + queen or an empress, as to be the overseer of a parish.—You may + perhaps reply, that men, even those of the greatest understanding, have + been ambitious, and fond even to excess of power. That ambition is the + glorious fault of heroes, I allow; but heroes are not always men of the + most enlarged understandings—they are possessed by the spirit of + military adventure—an infectious spirit, which men catch from one + another in the course of their education:—to this contagion the fair + sex are not exposed. + </p> + <p> + At all events, if you suppose that women are likely to acquire influence + in the state, it is prudent to enlighten their understandings, that they + may not make an absurd or pernicious use of their power. You appeal to + history, to prove that great calamities have ensued whenever the female + sex has obtained power; yet you acknowledge that we cannot with certainty + determine whether these evils have been the effects of our trusting them + with liberty, or of our neglecting previously to instruct them in the use + of it:—upon the decision of this question rests your whole argument. + In a most awful tone of declamation, you bid me follow the history of + female nature, from the court of Augustus to that of Lewis XIVth, and tell + you whether I can hesitate to acknowledge, that the liberty and influence + of women have always been the greatest during the decline of empires.—But + you have not proved to me that women had more knowledge, that they were + better educated, at the court of Augustus, or during the reign of Lewis + XIVth, than at any other place, or during any other period of the world; + therefore your argument gains nothing by the admission of your assertions; + and unless I could trace the history of female education, it is vain for + me to follow what you call the history of female nature. + </p> + <p> + It is, however, remarkable, that the means by which the sex have hitherto + obtained that species of power which they have abused, have arisen chiefly + from their personal, and not from their mental qualifications; from their + skill in the arts of persuasion, and from their accomplishments; not from + their superior powers of reasoning, or from the cultivation of their + understanding. The most refined species of coquetry can undoubtedly be + practised in the highest perfection by women, who to personal graces unite + all the fascination of wit and eloquence. There is infinite danger in + permitting such women to obtain power without having acquired habits of + reasoning. Rousseau admires these sirens; but the system of Rousseau, + pursued to its fullest extent, would overturn the world, would make every + woman a Cleopatra, and every man an Antony; it would destroy all domestic + virtue, all domestic happiness, all the pleasures of truth and love.—In + the midst of that delirium of passion to which Antony gave the name of + love, what must have been the state of his degraded, wretched soul, when + he could suspect his mistress of designs upon his life?—To cure him + of these suspicions, she at a banquet poisoned the flowers of his garland, + waited till she saw him inflamed with wine, then persuaded him to break + the tops of his flowers into his goblet, and just stopped him when the cup + was at his lips, exclaiming—“Those flowers are poisoned: you see + that I do not want the means of destroying you, if you were become + tiresome to me, or if I could live without you.”—And this is the + happy pair who instituted the orders of <i>The inimitable lovers</i>!—and + <i>The companions in death</i>!{1} + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Vide Plutarch.} + </p> + <p> + These are the circumstances which should early be pointed out, to both + sexes, with all the energy of truth: let them learn that the most + exquisite arts of the most consummate coquette, could not obtain the + confidence of him, who sacrificed to her charms, the empire of the world. + It is from the experience of the past that we must form our judgment of + the future. How unjustly you accuse me of desiring to destroy the memory + of past experiments, the wisdom collected by the labour of ages! <i>You</i> + would prohibit this treasure of knowledge to one-half of the human + species; and <i>I</i> on the contrary would lay it open to all my + fellow-creatures.—I speak as if it were actually in our option to + retard or to accelerate the intellectual progress of the sex; but in fact + it is absolutely out of our power to drive the fair sex back to their + former state of darkness: the art of printing has totally changed their + situation; their eyes are opened,—the classic page is unrolled, they + <i>will</i> read:—all we can do is to induce them to read with + judgment—to enlarge their minds so that they may take a full view of + their interests and of ours. I have no fear that the truth upon any + subject should injure my daughter’s mind; it is falsehood that I dread. I + dread that she should acquire preposterous notions of love, of happiness, + from the furtive perusal of vulgar novels, or from the clandestine + conversation of ignorant waiting-maids:—I dread that she should + acquire, even from the enchanting eloquence of Rousseau, the fatal idea, + that cunning and address are the natural resources of her sex; that + coquetry is necessary to attract, and dissimulation to preserve the heart + of man.—I would not, however, proscribe an author, because I believe + some of his opinions to be false; I would have my daughter read and + compare various books, and correct her judgment of books by listening to + the conversation of persons of sense and experience. Women may learn much + of what is essential to their happiness, from the unprejudiced testimony + of a father or a brother; they may learn to distinguish the pictures of + real life from paintings of imaginary manners and passions which never + had, which never can have, any existence.—They may learn that it is + not the reserve of hypocrisy, the affected demeanour either of a prude or + a coquette, that we admire; but it is the simple, graceful, natural + modesty of a woman, whose mind is innocent. With this belief impressed + upon her heart, do you think, my dear friend, that she who can reflect and + reason would take the means to disgust where she wishes to please? or that + she would incur contempt, when she knows how to secure esteem?—Do + you think that she will employ artifice to entangle some heedless heart, + when she knows that every heart which can be so won is not worth the + winning?—She will not look upon our sex either as dupes or tyrants; + she will be aware of the important difference between evanescent passion, + and that affection founded upon mutual esteem, which forms the permanent + happiness of life. + </p> + <p> + I am not apprehensive, my dear sir, that Cupid should be scared by the + helmet of Minerva; he has conquered his idle, fears, and has been + familiarized to Minerva and the Muses; + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And now of power his darts are found, + Twice ten thousand times to wound{1}.” + </pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: See the introduction of Cupid to the Muses and Minerva, in a + charming poem of Mrs. Barbauld’s—“<i>The origin of song-writing</i>.’”—Would + it not afford a beautiful subject for a picture?} + </p> + <p> + That the power of beauty over the human heart is infinitely increased by + the associated ideas of virtue and intellectual excellence has been long + acknowledged.—A set of features, however regular, inspire but little + admiration or enthusiasm, unless they be irradiated by that sunshine of + the soul which creates beauty. The expression of intelligent benevolence + renders even homely features and cheeks of sorry grain{1} agreeable; and + it has been observed, that the most lasting attachments have not always + been excited by the most beautiful of the sex. As men have become more + cultivated, they have attended more to the expression of amiable and + estimable qualities in the female countenance; and in all probability the + taste for this species of beauty will increase amongst the good and wise. + When agreeable qualities are connected with the view of any particular + form, we learn to love that form, though it may have no other merit. Women + who have no pretensions to Grecian beauty may, if their countenances are + expressive of good temper and good sense, have some chance of pleasing men + of cultivated minds.—In an excellent Review{2} of Gillier’s Essays + on the Causes of the Perfection of Antique Sculpture, which I have just + seen, it is observed, that our exclusive admiration of the physiognomy of + the Greeks arises from prejudice, since the Grecian countenance cannot be + necessarily associated with any of the perfections which now distinguish + accomplished or excellent men. This remark in a popular periodical work + shows that the public mind is not bigoted in matters of taste, and that + the standard is no longer supposed to be fixed by the voice of ancient + authority. The changes that are made in the opinions of our sex as to + female beauty, according to the different situations in which women are + placed, and the different qualities on which we fix the idea of their + excellence, are curious and striking. Ask a northern Indian, says a + traveller who has lately visited them, ask a northern Indian what is + beauty? and he will answer, a broad flat face, small eyes, high cheek + bones, three or four broad black lines across each cheek, a low forehead, + a large broad chin, a clumsy hook nose, &c. These beauties are greatly + heightened, or at least rendered more valuable, when the possessor is + capable of dressing all kinds of skins, converting them into the different + parts of their clothing, and able to carry eight or ten stone in summer, + or haul a much greater weight in winter.—Prince Matanabbee, adds + this author, prided himself much upon the height and strength of his + wives, and would frequently say, few women could carry or haul heavier + loads. If, some years ago, you had asked a Frenchman what he meant by + beauty, he would have talked to you of <i>l’air piquant, l’air spirituel, + l’air noble, l’air comme il faut</i>, and he would have referred + ultimately to that <i>je ne sçais quoi</i>, for which Parisian belles were + formerly celebrated.—French women mixed much in company, the charms + of what they called <i>esprit</i> were admired in conversation, and the <i>petit + minois</i> denoting lively wit and coquetry became fashionable in France, + whilst gallantry and a taste for the pleasures of <i>society</i> + prevailed. The countenance expressive of sober sense and modest reserve + continues to be the taste of the English, who wisely prefer the pleasures + of domestic life.—Domestic life should, however, be enlivened and + embellished with all the wit and vivacity and politeness for which French + women were once admired, without admitting any of their vices or follies. + The more men of literature and polished manners desire to spend their time + in their own families, the more they must wish that their wives and + daughters may have tastes and habits similar to their own. If they can + meet with conversation suited to their taste at home, they will not be + driven to clubs for companions; they will invite the men of wit and + science of their acquaintance to their own houses, instead of appointing + some place of meeting from which ladies are to be excluded. This mixture + of the talents and knowledge of both sexes must be advantageous to the + interests of society, by increasing domestic happiness.—Private <i>virtues</i> + are public benefits: if each bee were content in his cell, there could be + no grumbling hive; and if each cell were complete, the whole fabric must + be perfect. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Milton.} {Footnote 2: Appendix to Monthly Review, from + January 1798, page 516.} + </p> + <p> + When you asserted, my dear sir, that learned men usually prefer for their + wives, women rather below than above the standard of mental mediocrity, + you forgot many instances strongly in contradiction of this opinion.—Since + I began this letter, I met with the following pathetic passage, which I + cannot forbear transcribing: + </p> + <p> + “The greatest part of the observations contained in the foregoing pages + were derived from a lady, who is now beyond the reach of being affected by + any thing in this sublunary world. Her beneficence of disposition induced + her never to overlook any fact or circumstance that fell within the sphere + of her observation, which promised to be in any respect beneficial to her + fellow-creatures. To her gentle influence the public are indebted, if they + be indeed indebted at all, for whatever useful hints may at any time have + dropped from my pen. A being, she thought, who must depend so much as man + does on the assistance of others, owes, as a debt to his fellow-creatures, + the communication of the little useful knowledge that chance may have + thrown in his way. Such has been my constant aim; such were the views of + the wife of my bosom, the friend of my heart, who supported and assisted + me in all my pursuits.—I now feel a melancholy satisfaction in + contemplating those objects she once delighted to elucidate."{1} + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: J. Anderson—Essay on the Management of a Dairy} + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gregory, Haller, and Lord Lyttleton, have, in the language of + affection, poetry, and truth, described the pleasures which men of science + and literature enjoy in an union with women who can sympathize in all + their thoughts and feelings, who can converse with them as equals, and + live with them as friends; who can assist them in the important and + delightful duty of educating their children; who can make their family + their most agreeable society, and their home the attractive centre of + happiness. + </p> + <p> + Can women of uncultivated understandings make such wives or such mothers? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LETTERS + </h2> + <h3> + OF + </h3> + <h3> + JULIA AND CAROLINE. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No penance can absolve their guilty fame, + Nor tears, that wash out guilt, can wash out shame. + + PRIOR. +</pre> + <h3> + LETTER I. + </h3> + <h3> + JULIA TO CAROLINE. + </h3> + <p> + In vain, dear Caroline, you urge me to <i>think</i>; I profess only to <i>feel</i>. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Reflect upon my own feelings!</i> Analyze my notions of happiness! + explain to you my system!”—My system! But I have no system: that is + the very difference between us. My notions of happiness cannot be resolved + into simple, fixed principles. Nor dare I even attempt to analyze them; + the subtle essence would escape in the process: just punishment to the + alchymist in morality! + </p> + <p> + You, Caroline, are of a more sedate, contemplative character. Philosophy + becomes the rigid mistress of your life, enchanting enthusiasm the + companion of mine. Suppose she lead me now and then in pursuit of a + meteor; am not I happy in the chase? When one illusion vanishes, another + shall appear, and, still leading me forward towards an horizon that + retreats as I advance, the happy prospect of futurity shall vanish only + with my existence. + </p> + <p> + “Reflect upon my feelings!”—Dear Caroline, is it not enough that I + do feel?—All that I dread is that <i>apathy</i> which philosophers + call tranquillity. You tell me that by continually <i>indulging</i>, I + shall weaken my natural sensibility;—are not all the faculties of + the soul improved, refined by exercise? and why shall <i>this</i> be + excepted from the general law? + </p> + <p> + But I must not, you tell me, indulge my taste for romance and poetry, lest + I waste that sympathy on <i>fiction</i> which <i>reality</i> so much + better deserves. My dear friend, let us cherish the precious propensity to + pity! no matter what the object; sympathy with fiction or reality arises + from the same disposition. + </p> + <p> + When the sigh of compassion rises in my bosom, when the spontaneous tear + starts from my eye, what frigid moralist shall “stop the genial current of + the soul?” shall say to the tide of passion, <i>So far shall thou go, and + no farther?</i>—Shall man presume to circumscribe that which + Providence has left unbounded? + </p> + <p> + But oh, Caroline! if our feelings as well as our days are numbered; if, by + the immutable law of nature, apathy be the sleep of passion, and languor + the necessary consequence of exertion; if indeed the pleasures of life are + so ill proportioned to its duration, oh, may that duration be shortened to + me!—Kind Heaven, let not my soul die before my body! + </p> + <p> + Yes, if at this instant my guardian genius were to appear before me, and + offering me the choice of my future destiny; on the one hand, the even + temper, the poised judgment, the stoical serenity of philosophy; on the + other, the eager genius, the exquisite sensibility of enthusiasm: if the + genius said to me, “Choose”—the lot of the one is great pleasure, + and great pain—great virtues, and great defects—ardent hope, + and severe disappointment—ecstasy, and despair:—the lot of the + other is calm happiness unmixed with violent grief—virtue without + heroism—respect without admiration—and a length of life, in + which to every moment is allotted its proper portion of felicity:—Gracious + genius! I should exclaim, if half my existence must be the sacrifice, take + it; <i>enthusiasm is my choice</i>. + </p> + <p> + Such, my dear friend, would be my choice were I a man; as a woman, how + much more readily should I determine! + </p> + <p> + What has woman to do with philosophy? The graces flourish not under her + empire: a woman’s part in life is to please, and Providence has assigned + to her <i>success</i>, all the pride and pleasure of her being. + </p> + <p> + Then leave us our weakness, leave us our follies; they are our best arms:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Leave us to trifle with more grace and ease, + Whom folly pleases and whose follies please” + </pre> + <p> + The moment grave sense and solid merit appear, adieu the bewitching + caprice, the “<i>lively nonsense</i>,” the exquisite, yet childish + susceptibility which charms, interests, captivates.—Believe me, our + <i>amiable defects</i> win more than our noblest virtues. Love requires + sympathy, and sympathy is seldom connected with a sense of superiority. I + envy none their “<i>painful pre-eminence</i>.” Alas! whether it be + deformity or excellence which makes us say with Richard the Third, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am myself alone!” + </pre> + <p> + it comes to much the same thing. Then let us, Caroline, content ourselves + to gain in love, what we lose in esteem. + </p> + <p> + Man is to be held only by the <i>slightest</i> chains; with the idea that + he can break them at pleasure, he submits to them in sport; but his pride + revolts against the power to which his <i>reason</i> tells him he ought to + submit. What then can woman gain by reason? Can she prove by argument that + she is amiable? or demonstrate that she is an angel? + </p> + <p> + Vain was the industry of the artist, who, to produce the image of perfect + beauty, selected from the fairest faces their most faultless features. + Equally vain must be the efforts of the philosopher, who would excite the + idea of mental perfection, by combining an assemblage of party-coloured + virtues. + </p> + <p> + Such, I had almost said, is my <i>system</i>, but I mean my <i>sentiments</i>. + I am not accurate enough to compose a <i>system</i>. After all, how vain + are systems, and theories, and reasonings! + </p> + <p> + We may <i>declaim</i>, but what do we really know? All is uncertainty—human + prudence does nothing—fortune every thing: I leave every thing + therefore to fortune; <i>you</i> leave nothing. Such is the difference + between us,—and which shall be the happiest, time alone can decide. + Farewell, dear Caroline; I love you better than I thought I could love a + philosopher. + </p> + <p> + Your ever affectionate + </p> + <h3> + JULIA. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER II. + </h3> + <h3> + CAROLINE’S ANSWER TO JULIA. + </h3> + <p> + At the hazard of ceasing to be “<i>charming</i>,” “<i>interesting</i>,” “<i>captivating</i>,” + I must, dear Julia, venture to reason with you, to examine your favourite + doctrine of “<i>amiable defects</i>,” and, if possible, to dissipate that + unjust dread of perfection which you seem to have continually before your + eyes. + </p> + <p> + It is the sole object of a woman’s life, you say, to <i>please</i>. Her + amiable defects <i>please</i> more than her noblest virtues, her follies + more than her wisdom, her caprice more than her temper, and <i>something</i>, + a nameless something, which no art can imitate and no science can teach, + more than all. + </p> + <p> + <i>Art</i>, you say, spoils the graces, and corrupts the heart of woman; + and at best can produce only a cold model of perfection; which though + perhaps strictly conformable to <i>rule</i>, can never touch the soul, or + please the unprejudiced taste, like one simple stroke of genuine nature. + </p> + <p> + I have often observed, dear Julia, that an inaccurate use of words + produces such a strange confusion in all reasoning, that in the heat of + debate, the combatants, unable to distinguish their friends from their + foes, fall promiscuously on both. A skilful disputant knows well how to + take advantage of this confusion, and sometimes endeavours to create it. I + do not know whether I am to suspect you of such a design; but I must guard + against it. + </p> + <p> + You have with great address availed yourself of the <i>two</i> ideas + connected with the word <i>art</i>: first, as opposed to simplicity, it + implies artifice; and next, as opposed to ignorance, it comprehends all + the improvements of science, which leading us to search for general + causes, rewards us with a dominion over their dependent effects:—that + which instructs how to pursue the objects which we may have in view with + the greatest probability of success. All men who act from general + principles are so far philosophers. Their objects may be, when attained, + insufficient to their happiness, or they may not previously have known all + the necessary means to obtain them: but they must not therefore complain, + if they do not meet with success which they have no reason to expect. + </p> + <p> + Parrhasius, in collecting the most admired excellences from various + models, to produce perfection, concluded, from general principles that + mankind would be pleased again with what had once excited their + admiration.—So far he was a philosopher: but he was disappointed of + success:—yes, for he was ignorant of the cause necessary to produce + it. The separate features might be perfect, but they were unsuited to each + other, and in their forced union he could not give to the whole + countenance symmetry and an appropriate expression. + </p> + <p> + There was, as you say, a <i>something</i> wanting, which his science had + not taught him. He should then have set himself to examine what that <i>something</i> + was, and how it was to be obtained. His want of success arose from the <i>insufficiency</i>, + not the <i>fallacy</i>, of theory. Your object, dear Julia, we will + suppose is “to please.” If general observation and experience have taught + you, that slight accomplishments and a trivial character succeed more + certainly in obtaining this end, than higher worth and sense, you act from + principle in rejecting the one and aiming at the other. You have + discovered, or think you have discovered, the secret causes which produce + the desired effect, and you employ them. Do not call this <i>instinct</i> + or <i>nature</i>; this also, though you scorn it, is <i>philosophy</i>. + </p> + <p> + But when you come soberly to reflect, you have a feeling in your mind, + that reason and cool judgment disapprove of the part you are acting. + </p> + <p> + Let us, however, distinguish between disapprobation of the <i>object</i>, + and the means. + </p> + <p> + Averse as enthusiasm is from the retrograde motion of analysis, let me, my + dear friend, lead you one step backward. + </p> + <p> + <i>Why</i> do you wish to please? I except at present from the question, + the desire to please, arising from a passion which requires a reciprocal + return. Confined as <i>this</i> wish must be in a woman’s heart to one + object alone, when you say, Julia, <i>that the admiration of others</i> + will be absolutely necessary to your happiness, I must suppose you mean to + express only a <i>general</i> desire to please? + </p> + <p> + Then under this limitation—let me ask you again, why do you wish to + please? + </p> + <p> + Do not let a word stop you. The word <i>vanity</i> conveys to us a + disagreeable idea. There seems something <i>selfish</i> in the sentiment—that + all the pleasure we feel in pleasing others arises from the gratification + it affords to our own <i>vanity</i>. + </p> + <p> + We refine, and explain, and never can bring ourselves fairly to make a + confession, which we are sensible must lower us in the opinion of others, + and consequently mortify the very <i>vanity</i> we would conceal. So + strangely then do we deceive ourselves as to deny the existence of a + motive, which at the instant prompts the denial. But let us, dear Julia, + exchange the word <i>vanity</i> for a less odious word, self-complacency; + let us acknowledge that we wish to please, because the success raises our + self-complacency. If you ask why raising our self-approbation gives us + pleasure, I must answer, that I do not know. Yet I see and feel that it + does; I observe that the voice of numbers is capable of raising the + highest transport or the most fatal despair. The eye of man seems to + possess a fascinating power over his fellow-creatures, to raise the blush + of shame, or the glow of pride. + </p> + <p> + I look around me, and I see riches, titles, dignities, pursued with such + eagerness by thousands, only as the signs of distinction. Nay, are not all + these things sacrificed the moment they cease to be distinctions? The + moment the prize of glory is to be won by other means, do not millions + sacrifice their fortunes, their peace, their health, their lives, for <i>fame</i>? + Then amongst the highest pleasures of human beings I must place + self-approbation. With this belief, let us endeavour to secure it in the + greatest extent, and to the longest duration. + </p> + <p> + Then, Julia, the wish to please becomes only a secondary motive, + subordinate to the desire I have to secure my own self-complacency. We + will examine how far they are connected. + </p> + <p> + In reflecting upon my own mind, I observe that I am flattered by the + opinion of others, in proportion to the opinion I have previously formed + of their judgment; or I perceive that the opinion of numbers, merely as + numbers, has power to give me great pleasure or great pain. I would unite + both these pleasures if I could, but in general I cannot—they are + incompatible. The opinion of the vulgar crowd and the enlightened + individual, the applause of the highest and the lowest of mankind, cannot + be obtained by the same means. + </p> + <p> + Another question then arises,—whom shall we wish to please? We must + choose, and be decided in the choice. + </p> + <p> + You say that you are proud; I am prouder.—You will be content with + indiscriminate admiration—nothing will content me but what is <i>select</i>. + As long as I have the use of my reason—as long as my heart can feel + the delightful sense of a “well-earned praise,” I will fix my eye on the + highest pitch of excellence, and steadily endeavour to attain it. + </p> + <p> + Conscious of her worth, and daring to assert it, I would have a woman + early in life know that she is capable of filling the heart of a man of + sense and merit; that she is worthy to be his companion and friend. With + all the energy of her soul, with all the powers of her understanding, I + would have a woman endeavour to please those whom she esteems and loves. + </p> + <p> + She runs a risk, you will say, of never meeting her equal. Hearts and + understandings of a superior order are seldom met with in the world; or + when met with, it may not be a particular good fortune to win them.—True; + but if ever she <i>wins</i>, she will <i>keep</i> them; and the prize + appears to me well worth the pains and difficulty of attaining. + </p> + <p> + I, Julia, admire and feel enthusiasm; but I would have philosophy directed + to the highest objects. I dread apathy as much as you can; and I would + endeavour to prevent it, not by sacrificing half my existence, but by + enjoying the whole with moderation. + </p> + <p> + You ask, why exercise does not increase sensibility, and why sympathy with + imaginary distress will not also increase the disposition to sympathize + with what is real?—Because pity should, I think, always be + associated with the active desire to relieve. If it be suffered to become + a <i>passive sensation</i>, it is a <i>useless weakness</i>, not a virtue. + The species of reading you speak of must be hurtful, even in this respect, + to the mind, as it indulges all the luxury of woe in sympathy with + fictitious distress, without requiring the exertion which reality demands: + besides, universal experience proves to us that habit, so far from + increasing sensibility, absolutely destroys it, by familiarizing it with + objects of compassion. + </p> + <p> + Let me, my dear friend, appeal even to your own experience in the very + instance you mention. Is there any pathetic writer in the world who could + move you as much at the “twentieth reading as at the first{1}?” Speak + naturally, and at the third or fourth reading, you would probably say, It + is very pathetic, but I have read it before—I liked it better the + first time; that is to say, it <i>did</i> touch me once—I know it <i>ought</i> + to touch me now, but it <i>does not</i>. Beware of this! Do not let life + become <i>as tedious as a twice-told tale</i>. + </p> + <p> + Farewell, dear Julia: this is the answer of fact against eloquence, + philosophy against enthusiasm. You appeal from my understanding to my + heart—I appeal from the heart to the understanding of my judge; and + ten years hence the decision perhaps will be in my favour. + </p> + <p> + Yours sincerely, + </p> + <h3> + CAROLINE. + </h3> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Hume said, that Parnell’s poems were as fresh at the + twentieth reading as at the first.} + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER III. + </h3> + <h3> + CAROLINE TO JULIA. + </h3> + <p> + <i>On her intended marriage.</i> + </p> + <p> + Indeed, my dear Julia, I hardly know how to venture to give you my advice + upon a subject which ought to depend so much upon your own taste and + feelings. My opinion and my wishes I could readily tell you: the idea of + seeing you united and attached to my brother is certainly the most + agreeable to me; but I am to divest myself of the partiality of a sister, + and to consider my brother and Lord V—— as equal candidates + for your preference—equal, I mean, in your regard; for you say that + “Your heart is not yet decided in its choice.—If that oracle would + declare itself in intelligible terms, you would not hesitate a moment to + obey its dictates.” But, my dear Julia, is there not another, a <i>safer</i>, + I do not say a <i>better</i> oracle, to be consulted—your reason? + Whilst the “doubtful beam still nods from side to side,” you may with a + steady hand weigh your own motives, and determine what things will be + essential to your happiness, and what <i>price</i> you will pay for them; + for + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Each pleasure has its <i>price</i>; and they who pay + Too much of pain, but squander life away.” + </pre> + <p> + Do me the justice to believe that I do not quote these lines of Dryden as + being the finest poetry he ever wrote; for poets, you know, as Waller + wittily observed, never succeed so well in truth as in fiction. + </p> + <p> + Since we cannot in life expect to realize all our wishes, we must + distinguish those which claim the rank of wants. We must separate the + fanciful from the real, or at least make the one subservient to the other. + </p> + <p> + It is of the utmost importance to you, more particularly, to take every + precaution before you decide for life, because disappointment and + restraint afterwards would be insupportable to your temper. + </p> + <p> + You have often declared to me, my dear friend, that your love of poetry, + and of all the refinements of literary and romantic pursuits, is so + intimately “interwoven in your mind, that nothing could separate them, + without destroying the whole fabric.” + </p> + <p> + Your tastes, you say, are fixed; if they are so, you must be doubly + careful to ensure their gratification. If you cannot make <i>them</i> + subservient to external circumstances, you should certainly, if it be in + your power, choose a situation in which circumstances will be subservient + to them. If you are convinced that you could not adopt the tastes of + another, it will be absolutely necessary for your happiness to live with + one whose tastes are similar to your own. + </p> + <p> + The belief in that sympathy of souls, which the poets suppose declares + itself between two people at first sight, is perhaps as absurd as the late + fashionable belief in animal magnetism: but there is a sympathy which, if + it be not the foundation, may be called the cement of affection. Two + people could not, I should think, retain any lasting affection for each + other, without a mutual sympathy in taste and in their diurnal occupations + and domestic pleasures. This, you will allow, my dear Julia, even in a + fuller extent than I do. Now, my brother’s tastes, character, and habits + of life, are so very different from Lord V——‘s, that I + scarcely know how you can compare them; at least before you can decide + which of the two would make you the happiest in life, you must determine + what kind of life you may wish to lead; for my brother, though he might + make you very happy in domestic life, would not make the Countess of V—— + happy; nor would Lord V—— make Mrs. Percy happy. They must be + two different women, with different habits, and different wishes; so that + you must divide yourself, my dear Julia, like Araspes, into two selves; I + do not say into a bad and a good self; choose some other epithets to + distinguish them, but distinct they must be: so let them now declare and + decide their pretensions; and let the victor have not only the honours of + a triumph, but all the prerogatives of victory. Let the subdued be subdued + for life—let the victor take every precaution which policy can + dictate, to prevent the possibility of future contests with the + vanquished. + </p> + <p> + But without talking poetry to you, my dear friend, let me seriously + recommend it to you to examine your own mind carefully; and if you find + that public diversions and public admiration, dissipation, and all the + pleasures of riches and high rank, are really and truly essential to your + happiness, direct your choice accordingly. Marry Lord V——: he + has a large fortune, extensive connexions, and an exalted station; his own + taste for show and expense, his family pride, and personal vanity, will + all tend to the end you propose. Your house, table, equipages, may be all + in the highest style of magnificence. Lord V——‘s easiness of + temper, and fondness for you, will readily give you that entire ascendancy + over his pleasures, which your abilities give you over his understanding. + He will not control your wishes; you may gratify them to the utmost bounds + of his fortune, and perhaps beyond those bounds; you may have entire + command at home and abroad. If these are your objects, Julia, take them; + they are in your power. But remember, you must take them with their + necessary concomitants—the restraints upon your time, upon the + choice of your friends and your company, which high life imposes; the <i>ennui</i> + subsequent to dissipation; the mortifications of rivalship in beauty, wit, + rank, and magnificence; the trouble of managing a large fortune, and the + chance of involving your affairs and your family in difficulty and + distress; these and a thousand more evils you must submit to. You must + renounce all the pleasures of the heart and of the imagination; you must + give up the idea of cultivating literary taste; you must not expect from + your husband friendship and confidence, or any of the delicacies of + affection:—you govern him, he cannot therefore be your equal; you + may be a fond mother, but you cannot educate your children; you will + neither have the time nor the power to do it; you must trust them to a + governess. In the selection of your friends, and in the enjoyment of their + company and conversation, you will be still more restrained: in short, you + must give up the pleasures of domestic life; for that is not in this case + the life you have chosen. But you will exclaim against me for supposing + you capable of making such a choice—such sacrifices!—I am + sure, <i>next to my brother</i>, I am the last person in the world who + would wish you to make them. + </p> + <p> + You have another choice, my dear Julia: domestic life is offered to you by + one who has every wish and every power to make it agreeable to you; by one + whose tastes resemble your own; who would be a judge and a fond admirer of + all your perfections. You would have perpetual motives to cultivate every + talent, and to exert every power of pleasing for his sake—for <i>his</i> + sake, whose penetration no improvement would escape, and whose affection + would be susceptible of every proof of yours. Am I drawing too flattering + a picture?—A sister’s hand may draw a partial likeness, but still it + will be a likeness. At all events, my dear Julia, you would be certain of + the mode of life you would lead with my brother. The regulation of your + time and occupations would be your own. In the education of your family, + you would meet with no interruptions or restraint. You would have no + governess to counteract, no strangers to intrude; you might follow your + own judgment, or yield to the judgment of one who would never require you + to submit to his opinion, but to his reasons. + </p> + <p> + All the pleasures of friendship you would enjoy in your own family in the + highest perfection, and you would have for your sister the friend of your + infancy, + </p> + <h3> + CAROLINE. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER IV. + </h3> + <h3> + CAROLINE TO LADY V——. + </h3> + <p> + <i>Upon her intended separation from her husband.</i> + </p> + <p> + You need not fear, my dear Lady V——, that I should triumph in + the accomplishment of my prophecies; or that I should reproach you for + having preferred your own opinion to my advice. Believe me, my dear Julia, + I am your friend, nor would the name of sister have increased my + friendship. + </p> + <p> + Five years have made then so great a change in your feelings and views of + life, that a few days ago, when my letter to you on your marriage + accidentally fell into your hands, “<i>you were struck with a species of + astonishment at your choice, and you burst into tears in an agony of + despair, on reading the wretched doom foretold to the wife of Lord V——. + A doom,</i>” you add, “<i>which I feel hourly accomplishing, and which I + see no possibility of averting, but by a separation from a husband, with + whom, I now think, it was madness to unite myself.</i>” Your opinion I + must already know upon this subject, “<i>as the same arguments which + should have prevented me from making such a choice, ought now to determine + me to abjure it.</i>” + </p> + <p> + You say, dear Julia, that my letter struck you with despair.—Despair + is either madness or folly; it obtains, it deserves nothing from mankind + but pity; and pity, though it be akin to love, has yet a secret affinity + to contempt. In strong minds, despair is an acute disease; the prelude to + great exertion. In weak minds, it is a chronic distemper, followed by + incurable indolence. Let the crisis be favourable, and resume your wonted + energy. Instead of suffering the imagination to dwell with unavailing + sorrow on the past, let us turn our attention towards the future. When an + evil is irremediable, let us acknowledge it to be such, and bear it:—there + is no power to which we submit so certainly as to necessity. With our + hopes, our wishes cease. Imagination has a contracting, as well as an + expansive faculty. The prisoner, who, deprived of all that we conceive to + constitute the pleasures of life, could interest or occupy himself with + the labours of a spider, was certainly a philosopher. He enjoyed all the + means of happiness that were left in his power. + </p> + <p> + I know, my dear Lady V——, that words have little effect over + grief; and I do not, I assure you, mean to insult you with the parade of + stoic philosophy. But consider, your error is not perhaps so great as you + imagine. Certainly, they who at the beginning of life can with a steady + eye look through the long perspective of distant years, who can in one + view comprise all the different objects of happiness and misery, who can + compare accurately, and justly estimate their respective degrees of + importance; and who, after having formed such a calculation, are capable + of acting uniformly, in consequence of their own conviction, are the <i>wisest</i>, + and, as far as prudence can influence our fortune, the <i>happiest</i> of + human beings. Next to this favoured class are those who can perceive and + repair their own errors; who can stop at any given period to take a new + view of life. If unfortunate circumstances have denied you a place in the + first rank, you may, dear Julia, secure yourself a station in the second. + Is not the conduct of a woman, after her marriage, of infinitely more + importance than her previous choice, whatever it may have been? Then now + consider what yours should be. + </p> + <p> + You say that it is easier to <i>break</i> a chain than to <i>stretch</i> + it; but remember that when broken, your part of the chain, Julia, will + still remain with you, and fetter and disgrace you through life. Why + should a woman be so circumspect in her choice? Is it not because when + once made she must abide by it? “She sets her life upon the cast, and she + must stand the hazard of the die.” From domestic uneasiness a man has a + thousand resources: in middling life, the tavern, in high life, the + gaming-table, suspends the anxiety of thought. Dissipation, ambition, + business, the occupation of a profession, change of place, change of + company, afford him agreeable and honourable relief from domestic chagrin. + If his home become tiresome, he leaves it; if his wife become disagreeable + to him, he leaves her, and in leaving her loses <i>only</i> a wife. But + what resource has a woman?—Precluded from all the occupations common + to the other sex, she loses even those peculiar to her own. She has no + remedy, from the company of a man she dislikes, but a separation; and this + remedy, desperate as it is, is allowed only to a certain class of women in + society; to those whose fortune affords them the means of subsistence, and + whose friends have secured to them a separate maintenance. A peeress then, + probably, can leave her husband if she wish it; a peasant’s wife cannot; + she depends upon the character and privileges of a wife for actual + subsistence. Her domestic care, if not her affection, is secured to her + husband; and it is just that it should. He sacrifices his liberty, his + labour, his ingenuity, his time, for the support and protection of his + wife; and in proportion to his protection is his power. + </p> + <p> + In higher life, where the sacrifices of both parties in the original union + are more equal, the evils of a separation are more nearly balanced. But + even here, the wife who has hazarded least, suffers the most by the + dissolution of the partnership; she loses a great part of her fortune, and + of the conveniences and luxuries of life. She loses her home, her rank in + society. She loses both the repellant and the attractive power of a + mistress of a family. “Her occupation is gone.” She becomes a wanderer. + Whilst her youth and beauty last, she may enjoy that species of delirium, + caused by public admiration; fortunate if habit does not destroy the power + of this charm, before the season of its duration expire. It was said to be + the wish of a celebrated modern beauty, “that she might not survive her + nine-and-twentieth birth-day.” I have often heard this wish quoted for its + extravagance; but I always admired it for its good sense. The lady foresaw + the inevitable doom of her declining years. Her apprehensions for the + future embittered even her enjoyment of the present; and she had + resolution enough to offer to take “a bond of fate,” to sacrifice one-half + of her life, to secure the pleasure of the other. + </p> + <p> + But, dear Lady V——, probably this wish was made at some + distance from the destined period of its accomplishment. On the eve of her + nine-and-twentieth birth-day, the lady perhaps might have felt inclined to + retract her prayer. At least we should provide for the cowardice which + might seize the female mind at such an instant. Even the most wretched + life has power to attach us; none can be more wretched than the old age of + a dissipated beauty:—unless, Lady V——, it be that of a + woman, who, to all her evils has the addition of remorse, for having + abjured her duties and abandoned her family. Such is the situation of a + woman who separates from her husband. Reduced to go the same insipid round + of public amusements, yet more restrained than an unmarried beauty in + youth, yet more miserable in age, the superiority of her genius and the + sensibility of her heart become her greatest evils. She, indeed, must pray + for indifference. Avoided by all her family connexions, hated and despised + where she might have been loved and respected, solitary in the midst of + society, she feels herself deserted at the time of life when she most + wants social comfort and assistance. + </p> + <p> + Dear Julia, whilst it is yet in your power secure to yourself a happier + fate; retire to the bosom of your own family; prepare for yourself a new + society; perform the duties, and you shall soon enjoy the pleasures of + domestic life; educate your children; whilst they are young, it shall be + your occupation; as they grow up, it shall be your glory. Let me + anticipate your future success, when they shall appear such as you can + make them; when the world shall ask “who educated these amiable young + women? Who formed their character? Who cultivated the talents of this + promising young man? Why does this whole family live together in such + perfect union?” With one voice, dear Julia, your children shall name their + mother; she who in the bloom of youth checked herself in the career of + dissipation, and turned all the ability and energy of her mind to their + education. + </p> + <p> + Such will be your future fame. In the mean time, before you have formed + for yourself companions in your own family, you will want a society suited + to your taste. “Disgusted as you have been with frivolous company, you say + that you wish to draw around you a society of literary and estimable + friends, whose conversation and talents shall delight you, and who at the + same time that they are excited to display their own abilities, shall be a + judge of yours.” + </p> + <p> + But, dear Lady V——, the possibility of your forming such a + society must depend on your having a home to receive, a character and + consequence in life to invite and attach friends. The opinion of numbers + is necessary to excite the ambition of individuals. To be a female + Mecaenas you must have power to confer favours, as well as judgment to + discern merit. + </p> + <p> + What castles in the air are built by the synthetic wand of imagination, + which vanish when exposed to the analysis of reason! + </p> + <p> + Then, Julia, supposing that Lord V——, as your husband, becomes + a negative quantity as to your happiness, yet he will acquire another + species of value as the master of your family and the father of your + children; as a person who supports your public consequence, and your + private self-complacency. Yes, dear Lady V——, he will increase + your self-complacency; for do you not think, that when your husband sees + his children prosper under your care, his family united under your + management—whilst he feels your merit at home, and hears your + praises abroad, do you not think he will himself learn to respect and love + you? You say that “<i>he is not a judge of female excellence; that he has + no real taste; that vanity is his ruling passion</i>.” Then if his + judgment be dependent on the opinions of others, he will be the more + easily led by the public voice, and you will command the suffrages of the + public. If he has not taste enough to approve, he will have vanity enough + to be proud of you; and a vain man insensibly begins to love that of which + he is proud. Why does Lord V—— love his buildings, his + paintings, his equipages? It is not for their intrinsic value; but because + they are means of distinction to him. Let his wife become a greater + distinction to him, and on the same principles he will prefer her. Set an + example, then, dear Lady V——, of domestic virtue; your talents + shall make it admired, your rank shall make it conspicuous. You are + ambitious, Julia, you love praise; you have been used to it; you cannot + live happily without it. + </p> + <p> + Praise is a mental luxury, which becomes from habit absolutely necessary + to our existence; and in purchasing it we must pay the price set upon it + by society. The more curious, the more avaricious we become of this + “aerial coin,” the more it is our interest to preserve its currency and + increase its value. You, my dear Julia, in particular, who have amassed so + much of it, should not cry down its price, for your own sake!—Do not + then say in a fit of disgust, that “you are grown too wise now to value + applause.” + </p> + <p> + If, during youth, your appetite for applause was indiscriminate, and + indulged to excess, you are now more difficult in your choice, and are + become an <i>epicure</i> in your <i>taste</i> for praise. + </p> + <p> + Adieu, my dear Julia; I hope still to see you as happy in domestic life as + </p> + <p> + Your ever affectionate and sincere friend, + </p> + <h3> + CAROLINE. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER V. + </h3> + <h3> + CAROLINE TO LADY V——. + </h3> + <p> + <i>On her conduct after her separation from her husband.</i> + </p> + <p> + A delicacy, of which I now begin to repent, has of late prevented me from + writing to you. I am afraid I shall be abrupt, but it is necessary to be + explicit. Your conduct, ever since your separation from your husband, has + been anxiously watched from a variety of motives, by his family and your + own;—it has been blamed. Reflect upon your own mind, and examine + with what justice. + </p> + <p> + Last summer, when I was with you, I observed a change in your + conversation, and the whole turn of your thoughts. I perceived an unusual + impatience of restraint; a confusion in your ideas when you began to + reason,—an eloquence in your language when you began to declaim, + which convinced me that from some secret cause the powers of your reason + had been declining, and those of your imagination rapidly increasing; the + boundaries of right and wrong seemed to be no longer marked in your mind. + Neither the rational hope of happiness, nor a sense of duty governed you; + but some unknown, wayward power seemed to have taken possession of your + understanding, and to have thrown every thing into confusion. You appeared + peculiarly averse to philosophy: let me recall your own words to you; you + asked “of what use philosophy could be to beings who had no free will, and + how the ideas of just punishment and involuntary crime could be + reconciled?” + </p> + <p> + Your understanding involved itself in metaphysical absurdity. In + conversing upon literary subjects one evening, in speaking of the striking + difference between the conduct and the understanding of the great Lord + Bacon, you said, that “It by no means surprised you; that to an enlarged + mind, accustomed to consider the universe as one vast <i>whole</i>, the + conduct of that little animated atom, that inconsiderable part <i>self</i>, + must be too insignificant to fix or merit attention. It was nothing,” you + said, “in the general mass of vice and virtue, happiness and misery.” I + believe I answered, “that it might be <i>nothing</i> compared to the great + <i>whole</i>, but it was <i>every thing</i> to the individual.” Such were + your opinions in theory; you must know enough of the human heart to + perceive their tendency when reduced to practice. Speculative opinions, I + know, have little influence over the practice of those who <i>act</i> much + and think little; but I should conceive their power to be considerable + over the conduct of those who have much time for reflection and little + necessity for action. In one case the habit of action governs the thoughts + upon any sudden emergency; in the other, the thoughts govern the actions. + The truth or falsehood then of speculative opinions is of much greater + consequence to our sex than to the other; as we live a life of reflection, + they of action. + </p> + <p> + Retrace, then, dear Julia, in your mind the course of your thoughts for + some time past; discover the cause of this revolution in your opinions; + judge yourself; and remember, that in the <i>mind</i> as well as in the + body, the highest pitch of disease is often attended with an + unconsciousness of its existence. If, then, Lady V——, upon + receiving my letter, you should feel averse to this self-examination, or + if you should imagine it to be useless, I no longer advise, I command you + to quit your present abode; come to me: fly from the danger, and be safe. + </p> + <p> + Dear Julia, I must assume this peremptory tone: if you are angry, I must + disregard your anger; it is the anger of disease, the anger of one who is + roused from that sleep which would end in death. + </p> + <p> + I respect the equality of friendship; but this equality permits, nay + requires, the temporary ascendancy I assume. In real friendship, the + judgment, the genius, the prudence of each party become the common + property of both. Even if they are equals, they may not be so <i>always</i>. + Those transient fits of passion, to which the best and wisest are liable, + may deprive even the superior of the advantage of their reason. She then + has still in her friend an <i>impartial</i>, though perhaps an inferior + judgment; each becomes the guardian of the other, as their mutual safety + may require. + </p> + <p> + Heaven seems to have granted this double chance of virtue and happiness, + as the peculiar reward of friendship. + </p> + <p> + Use it, then, my dear friend; accept the assistance you could so well + return. Obey me; I shall judge of you by your resolution at this crisis: + on it depends your fate, and my friendship. + </p> + <p> + Your sincere and affectionate CAROLINE. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER VI. + </h3> + <h3> + CAROLINE TO LADY V——. + </h3> + <p> + <i>Just before she went to France</i>. + </p> + <p> + The time is now come, Lady V——, when I must bid you an eternal + adieu. With what deep regret, I need not, Julia, I cannot tell you. + </p> + <p> + I burned your letter the moment I had read it. Your past confidence I + never will betray; but I must renounce all future intercourse with you. I + am a sister, a wife, a mother; all these connexions forbid me to be longer + your friend. In misfortune, in sickness, or in poverty, I never would have + forsaken you; but infamy I cannot share. I would have gone, I went, to the + brink of the precipice to save you; with all my force I held you back; but + in vain. But why do I vindicate my conduct to you now? Accustomed as I + have always been to think your approbation necessary to my happiness, I + forgot that henceforward your opinion is to be nothing to me, or mine to + you. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Julia! the idea, the certainty, that you must, if you live, be in a + few years, in a few months, perhaps, reduced to absolute want, in a + foreign country—without a friend—a protector, the fate of + women who have fallen from a state as high as yours, the names of L——, + of G——, the horror I feel at joining your name to theirs, + impels me to make one more attempt to save you. + </p> + <p> + Companion of my earliest years! friend of my youth! my beloved Julia! by + the happy innocent hours we have spent together, by the love you had for + me, by the respect you bear to the memory of your mother, by the agony + with which your father will hear of the loss of his daughter, by all that + has power to touch your mind—I conjure you, I implore you to pause!—Farewell! + </p> + <h3> + CAROLINE. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + LETTER VII. + </h3> + <h3> + CAROLINE TO LORD V——. + </h3> + <p> + <i>Written a few months after the date of the preceding letter.</i> + </p> + <p> + My lord, + </p> + <p> + Though I am too sensible that all connexion between my unfortunate friend + and her family must for some time have been dissolved, I venture now to + address myself to your lordship. + </p> + <p> + On Wednesday last, about half after six o’clock in the evening, the + following note was brought to me. It had been written with such a + trembling hand that it was scarcely legible; but I knew the writing too + well. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “If you ever loved me, Caroline, read this—do not tear it the moment + you see the name of Julia: she has suffered—she is humbled. I left + France with the hope of seeing you once more; but now I am so near you, my + courage fails, and my heart sinks within me. I have no friend upon earth—I + deserve none; yet I cannot help wishing to see, once more before I die, + the friend of my youth, to thank her with my last breath. + </p> + <p> + “But, dear Caroline, if I must not see you, write to me, if possible, one + line of consolation. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, is my father living—do you know any thing of my children?—I + dare not ask for my husband. Adieu! I am so weak that I can scarcely write—I + hope I shall soon be no more. Farewell! + </p> + <h3> + “JULIA.” + </h3> + <p> + I immediately determined to follow the bearer of this letter. Julia was + waiting for my answer at a small inn in a neighbouring village, at a few + miles’ distance. It was night when I got there: every thing was silent—all + the houses were shut up, excepting one, in which we saw two or three + lights glimmering through the window—this was the inn: as your + lordship may imagine, it was a very miserable place. The mistress of the + house seemed to be touched with pity for the stranger: she opened the door + of a small room, where she said the poor lady was resting; and retired as + I entered. + </p> + <p> + Upon a low matted seat beside the fire sat Lady V——; she was + in black; her knees were crossed, and her white but emaciated arms flung + on one side over her lap; her hands were clasped together, and her eyes + fixed upon the fire: she seemed neither to hear nor see any thing round + her, but, totally absorbed in her own reflections, to have sunk into + insensibility. I dreaded to rouse her from this state of torpor; and I + believe I stood for some moments motionless: at last I moved softly + towards her—she turned her head—started up—a scarlet + blush overspread her face—she grew livid again instantly, gave a + faint shriek, and sunk senseless into my arms. + </p> + <p> + When she returned to herself, and found her head lying upon my shoulder, + and heard my voice soothing her with all the expressions of kindness I + could think of, she smiled with a look of gratitude, which I never shall + forget. Like one who had been long unused to kindness, she seemed ready to + pour forth all the fondness of her heart: but, as if recollecting herself + better, she immediately checked her feelings—withdrew her hand from + mine—thanked me—said she was quite well again—cast down + her eyes, and her manner changed from tenderness to timidity. She seemed + to think that she had lost all right to sympathy, and received even the + common offices of humanity with surprise: her high spirit, I saw, was + quite broken. + </p> + <p> + I think I never felt such sorrow as I did in contemplating Julia at this + instant: she who stood before me, sinking under the sense of inferiority, + I knew to be my equal—my superior; yet by fatal imprudence, by one + rash step, all her great, and good, and amiable qualities were + irretrievably lost to the world and to herself. + </p> + <p> + When I thought that she was a little recovered, I begged of her, if she + was not too much fatigued, to let me carry her home. At these words she + looked at me with surprise. Her eyes filled with tears; but without making + any other reply, she suffered me to draw her arm within mine, and + attempted to follow me. I did not know how feeble she was till she began + to walk; it was with the utmost difficulty I supported her to the door; + and by the assistance of the people of the house she was lifted into the + carriage: we went very slowly. When the carriage stopped she was seized + with an universal tremor; she started when the man knocked at the door, + and seemed to dread its being opened. The appearance of light and the + sound of cheerful voices struck her with horror. + </p> + <p> + I could not myself help being shocked with the contrast between the + dreadful situation of my friend, and the happiness of the family to which + I was returning. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said she, “what are these voices?—Whither are you taking me?—For + Heaven’s sake do not let any body see me!” + </p> + <p> + I assured her that she should go directly to her own apartment, and that + no human being should approach her without her express permission. + </p> + <p> + Alas! it happened at this very moment that all my children came running + with the utmost gaiety into the hall to meet us, and the very circumstance + which I had been so anxious to prevent happened—little Julia was + amongst them. The gaiety of the children suddenly ceased the moment they + saw Lady V—— coming up the steps—they were struck with + her melancholy air and countenance: she, leaning upon my arm, with her + eyes fixed upon the ground, let me lead her in, and sunk upon the first + chair she came to. I made a sign to the children to retire; but the moment + they began to move, Lady V—— looked up—saw her daughter—and + now for the first time burst into tears The little girl did not recollect + her poor mother till she heard the sound of her voice; and then she threw + her arms round her neck, crying, “Is it you, mamma?”—and all the + children immediately crowded round and asked, “if this was the same Lady V—— + who used to play with them?” + </p> + <p> + It is impossible to describe the effect these simple questions had on + Julia: a variety of emotions seemed struggling in her countenance; she + rose and made an attempt to break from the children, but could not—she + had not strength to support herself. We carried her away and put her to + bed; she took no notice of any body, nor did she even seem to know that I + was with her: I thought she was insensible, but as I drew the curtains I + heard her give a deep sigh. + </p> + <p> + I left her, and carried away her little girl, who had followed us up + stairs and begged to stay with her mother; but I was apprehensive that the + sight of her might renew her agitation. + </p> + <p> + After I was gone, they told me that she was perfectly still, with her eyes + closed; and I stayed away some time in hopes that she might sleep: + however, about midnight she sent to beg to speak to me: she was very ill—she + beckoned to me to sit down by her bedside—every one left the room; + and when Julia saw herself alone with me, she took my hand, and in a low + but calm voice she said, “I have not many hours to live—my heart is + broken—I wished to see you, to thank you whilst it was yet in my + power.” She pressed my hand to her trembling lips: “Your kindness,” added + she, “touches me more than all the rest; but how ashamed you must be of + such a friend! Oh, Caroline! to die a disgrace to all who ever loved me!” + </p> + <p> + The tears trickled down her face, and choked her utterance: she wiped them + away hastily. “But it is not now a time,” said she, “to think of myself—can + I see my daughter?” The little girl was asleep: she was awakened, and I + brought her to her mother. Julia raised herself in her bed, and summoning + up all her strength, “My dearest friend!” said she, putting her child’s + hand into mine, “when I am gone, be a mother to this child—let her + know my whole history, let nothing be concealed from her. Poor girl! you + will live to blush at your mother’s name.” She paused and leaned back: I + was going to take the child away, but she held out her arms again for her, + and kissed her several times. “Farewell!” said she; “I shall never see you + again.” The little girl burst into tears. Julia wished to say something + more—she raised herself again—at last she uttered these words + with energy:—“My love, <i>be good and happy</i>;” she then sunk down + on the pillow quite exhausted—she never spoke afterwards: I took her + hand—it was cold—her pulse scarcely beat—her eyes rolled + without meaning—in a few moments she expired. + </p> + <p> + Painful as it has been to me to recall the circumstances of her death to + my imagination, I have given your lordship this exact and detailed account + of my unfortunate friend’s behaviour in her last moments. Whatever may + have been her errors, her soul never became callous from vice. The sense + of her own ill conduct, was undoubtedly the immediate cause of her + illness, and the remorse which had long preyed upon her mind, at length + brought her to the grave— + </p> + <p> + I have the honour to be, My lord, &c. CAROLINE. + </p> + <p> + <i>Written in 1787.</i> <i>Published in 1795.</i> + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales And Novels, Volume 8 (of 10), by +Maria Edgeworth + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME 8 (OF 10) *** + +***** This file should be named 9321-h.htm or 9321-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/3/2/9321/ + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and Distributed +Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation’s web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + + +</pre> + + </body> +</html> |