VOLUME II (continued 2)

The truth is, however, I am perfectly astonished at the strange characters this town abounds with; and stupified (if I may be allowed the expression) with what I have heard: but, as Shakespeare allows Desdemona to speak after she was smothered, you will permit me to write though I have lost my understanding. And as it was the choice of certain great men to be intelligible, it is probable my present state of mind will lead me to imitate them. But on second thoughts, my being not au fait to the subject may perhaps make me excel in it. Men often expatiate best on what they least understand, by the same rule that people in general are contrary to what they would seem.

The Mantuan Swain lived constantly at court: Horace wrote in celebration of a country life when he resided in Rome: and it is well known travels, voyages, etc. to every part of the world have been written in London. Why should I not then, Eliza Finlay Spinster, attempt delineating manners, which I have really seen? My scruples would intrude—that perhaps I am not sufficiently informed, as I have only resided here a month; but these vanish on the recollection that I must certainly be in the right in the above position—Otherwise, could it be possible for Mr Blacklock[33], a poet blind from his birth, to describe visible objects with more spirit and justness, than others blessed with the most perfect sight? Could certain orators, famous for their extravagance, harangue on economy—Or the learned at Venice employ father Piaggi to copy the manuscript found at Herculaneum (though he is unacquainted with Greek, the language they are written in)—Or could our own countrymen, the learned, judicious body in Warwick-lane, refuse to admit to be their associates in the science of Æsculapius, any but those who have studied where—medicine is not taught? After such precedents as these, it is clear I cannot err, in informing you of what—I know little about. Besides, it is an established rule of prudence, on the contrary, never to commit yourself by talking or writing on a subject the world gives you the credit of understanding, as you have nothing to gain but much to lose. This consideration no doubt induced one author[34] to omit in his tragedy morality, which should be the ground-work of every fable, and deterred another[34] from acknowledging providence, though it so eminently presided, and was so conspicuously displayed in the miraculous escapes made in the voyages he wrote of. This being premised, I will now begin boldly to relate many things I cannot comprehend.

Miss Ton accompanied me to the opera; I was amazed at the height of her head, and how her chair had failed to crush the fabric of feathers and frivolity which rose above each other! I could not think she had flown, though she was composed of cork and feather; and willing to be informed how she had managed it (as ignorance, you know, is reprehensible) I ventured to ask her the question. She returned me a look of contempt (as if to pity my ignorance) saying, she always took care to prevent a misfortune of that kind! When I go to court, said she, as heads are wore lower[35] there—I fit like your old woman upon the seat of the chair, which is convenient enough on account of one's trimmings, but when I go to the opera, where fancy directs and fashion prevails, I say my prayers the whole way—that is to say, I kneel on the bottom of the chair. I admired her ingenuity; only observed, I hoped it did not fatigue her knees so much as to prevent her from going to church next day! O, not in the least, said she; but I always go to the drawing-room of a Sunday! except when I go to the Chapel-royal—the closet there, indeed, that is no bad public place—nobody but people of fashion are admitted, and it is really sometimes very amusing! The truth is, if one liked church very much, there is time enough to dress afterwards; for it is not the rage which a certain set to go to the drawing-room until your old-fashioned people are coming away. Oh the dear delight of meeting these dowdies on their retour home to their spouses and family dinners at four o'clock. Then we make such glorious confusion! I took the liberty of saying that I thought the respect due to their Majesties had induced every body to be in the drawing-room previous to their appearance! Oh, not at all, child, said she—except your formal ones! But why, said I, madam, need you go to court of a Sunday, why not of a Thursday as well? Of a Thursday! Nobody goes of a Thursday! Pardon me, replied I, the Duchess of W—— introduced me on that day! That may be, replied Miss Ton, her Grace is very old, wrinkles make her religious—but none but such, or courtiers, go of a Thursday! I again took the liberty of telling her that it had also been a very full drawing-room—Then, said she, it must have been the Thursday after the birthday—or some particular day; for otherwise few of a certain set, who understand the rage, would go. The rage, said I, madam! I am again at a loss; did I hear you right? O, perfectly well, said she; the ton, was formerly the word, but the rage, has lately been adopted from the French! (It is to be hoped, that the Parisians will also, from their late partiality for English Gauzes, Silks, Linens, etc. induce us to adopt them also, instead of too often procuring these articles from France.)

Forgetful of the imprudence I was going to commit—I told Miss Ton her prayers had proved ineffectual—her largest feather was snapped in two. Is it possible! exclaimed she, and reddened prodigiously.—Shocked at the blunder I had made, and pitying her weakness, I gave her my bottle of Eau de Luce; and not caring to hazard any further on so interesting a subject, lest it should hurt her nerves, I turned the conversation to what was more indifferent—a sister of her's, who had died in child-bed a fortnight before.

(This, my dear friend—to philosophise—no abstract evil exists; for whatever calamities human life is subject to, their evil depends merely on our own sensibility.)

Sir Timothy Clinquant rejoined us. He is handsome, has a good opinion of himself, and is no stranger to the art of flattery. She lamented to him the accident of her feather. From a knowledge of human nature, that nothing pleases so much as to have a defect of any kind turned into a beauty—he assured her the feather being broke gave it an air of negligence so perfectly adapted to the contour of her fine face, that he could not be convinced, but that she accidentally on purpose afforded it that grace. Thus was she restored to good-humour.—I can tell you little of what I saw; Miss Ton's head intercepted my view of the stage: her rage of going late having prevented our getting any other but end seats, and she sat before me. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth there was a law made to restrict the growth of ruffs: I wish our legislators,[36] who, in this accommodating age, do sometimes condescend to bestow their attention on trifles, would take the size of heads into their consideration. Mr Walpole observes, in his anecdotes of painting in England, that in the reign of the two first Edwards, the ladies erected such pyramids on their heads that the face became the center of the body.

An eminent physician has declared, that more deformed children have been brought into the world this last year than for twenty years before, on account of the ladies stooping in their carriages—One thing I am certain of—it makes them contract a habit of frowning, that furrows their foreheads.

A fine lady is the least part of herself, and is every morning put together like some instrument. Dress is the subject eternally discussed. Gulliver tells us, that the sages of Laputa, having substituted things in place of words, carried along with them such things as were necessary to express the particular business they intended to discourse on.—Were this the case, it would be a great relief; but alas! they do no more here than propose the subject. But to return to the opera—Miss Ton, in telling me who the people were, said they were horrid creatures, that is to say, censorious or awkward, because not of her particular set.

But what was my surprise to perceive her familiarly afterwards whispering to one, curtsying to another, telling a third how unfortunate she had been in not being at home when she did her the honor of calling on her! I could not help testifying my astonishment at her conduct!—She laughed, and said—I am civil to those people, as the Indians worship the devil—for fear. Besides, said she, the last Lady has a rich brother lately come from India. In days of yore women married for a title, a fine seat, etc.—A title is very agreeable, but a fine seat, the very idea of it gives me the vapours! I would rather marry a London justice than a lord lieutenant of the county. It did very well formerly (when people were so dull as to be able to bear their own thoughts) to live moping at an old family place; but manners are now too much improved for that: and a nabob's cash, without the appendages of the seats of his ancestors, will suffice to carry me one season to Spa, another to Tunbridge, etc. etc.—In marrying a nabob, there is a moral security of never being buried in the country. I am no devot, but I believe there is such a thing as conscience; and, as few of these continental heroes can bear to listen to their silent monitor—it induces them to lead exactly the kind of life I like—to exclude reflection!

I answered, that she was too severe; I made no doubt but that a man may get rich across the Atlantic, without wounding his honor, and all the finer feelings of humanity by peculation and extortion, which leaves the possessors more wretched than pale-eyed poverty with all its whole train of meagre haunts. To change the conversation, I said, so madam, I find you intend to marry. Yes, said she, to be sure—But I hope in god I shall have no children to spoil my shape. I cannot here refrain from telling you a circumstance I saw occur myself. We dined at Lady ——'s; I observed a lady change colour—Mrs. —— whispered to her, that ladies in her situation (for she appeared with child) were apt to be indisposed. She seemed hurt at the supposition, and denied any thing was the matter with her! As by the conversation it appeared she had already had children, I was at a loss to account for her conduct. Colonel H——, her husband, appeared very uneasy—an inquisitive look of kindness, a tender affectionate concern, were strongly depicted on his manly countenance—his anxiety appeared to me to proceed from that fond attachment arising from loving another better than one's self. I entered into his ideas, contemplated her happiness, and as he is not a very young (though agreeable) man, the apparent attention he paid her confirmed me in what you know was always my sentiments, that such make the best husbands. Desirous of relieving his anxiety by contributing to her ease, I begged she would permit me to accompany her to another apartment. As her uneasiness had greatly increased—she was under a necessity of accepting my offer—and fainted as soon as she got into Mr. ——'s library. The alarmed and fond husband followed, who intreated a maid might be called to cut the lacing of her stays. He was much affected, and, addressing Lady Charlotte Sombre and me, said, There, young ladies, lies a victim of the fashion! Before I brought her to this town—she was the delighted mother of three fine children—but these fond sensations are now lost in the trifling consideration of a fine shape; and though in the last month of her pregnancy, she has a vanity in flattering herself she cannot be thought in that situation! The lady was carried home, and we heard next day she had been delivered of a still-born child.

Lord Spangle asked Miss Ton, how soon she got to bed the other morning? Not, my Lord, until eight—you know we did not sit down to dinner until twelve at night. Not until twelve at night! said I. No, returned she; you know nobody dines till after the opera: it was Danzi's benefit; all the world were there, and there were many songs encored.—Dinner was ordered by eleven; but Lady Peccedillo was not at the opera—her monkey died, and she had not nerves for seeing Lord —— who is always there, and who she esteems the direct image of her dead favourite. Her hair-dresser was ordered at ten, but disappointed her—and dinner was retarded on her account. Pray, said I, at what time did you sup? Why, we sat down to cards at two o'clock, played until six, then went to supper, and parted half an hour after seven! I find, said I, that the people of the ton reckon the time according to the Mosaic custom, where the evening and the morning make the day. But pray, madam, what becomes of your servants all this time? I hope you only appoint them to attend you home? Servants! Lord, Madam, nobody thinks of their servants! I do not see myself what business servants have to sleep at all! I can do very well with three hours sleep, and I expect next winter to bring myself to two![37]

You say that lady and Mrs. —— have been lately abused, even by their own friends, that is to say—those they associated most with—Would you know the reason? My dear friend, they have left off play, at which they generally lost considerably. The first of these ladies, from unavoidable misfortunes, altered her plans in life: the last, from a different cause—Her family remonstrated, her husband frowned; but they remonstrated, and he frowned to no purpose! Her luck turned, her passion increased for that dangerous amusement, yet she took a resolution, and would play no more.—She who was before set down as an agreeable acquaintance, was now deemed capricious, and the eyes of her card-playing acquaintances, who were before blind to her real imperfections, became now scrupulously attentive to her imaginary errors. Many various conjectures were formed for the reasons of her conduct—many allegations made that she had formed an attachment, or was deterred by spouses's directions! To clear her at once from these imputations, neither of which (be they crimes or virtues) she has a mind capable of—The truth is—she has beautiful teeth—and accidentally read Mr Tolver's book, where he considers the passions as internal causes of their diseases.

Errors proceeding from the sensations of the heart, are not those of this age. I was told there had been a long attachment between Lady —— and Colonel ——. I deplored, I pitied her! He is now abroad in a dangerous situation! What anxiety, what wretchedness must she not suffer! How surprised I was to find—she never misses a public place. The Duchess of W—— was much amused at my simplicity—Formerly (said she) if a woman had the misfortune to love where she could not avow it—decency induced her carefully to conceal her weakness—but now it is quite otherwise—The soft sensations find no admittance into their sophisticated hearts—though they have no objection to a man of fashion in their train.—And a certain set of the ton, or the rage go so far as even studiously to afford an appearance of what in reality never entered into their imaginations!

I think I hear you say, how strange! But everything is so I think in this place. I met Lady Bab Cork-rump the other day: My dear Lady Eliza, said she, I love a comedy of all things; pray let us go to one soon. I am disengaged next Thursday—That is very lucky, returned I; I have a box that evening: it is our favourite play; and Mrs Abington acts!—That is delightful, said she! And, added I, it is a charity play for the dispensary of the infant poor—upwards of twenty-six thousand children have been relieved by this humane institution since its commencement nine years ago. Lady Bab heard the above impatiently.—It is a charity play, you say, madam!—I don't know, I believe my brother expects some friends from the country. I suppose it will be no disappointment to your ladyship if I don't go?—O, not in the least, said I—Thus the idea of Charity makes a fine lady shrink (as if it were contagious) into herself, and prevented Lady Bab from going to a place her inclination otherwise induced her to.

Lady Bab seems to have a great partiality for Sir Hugh, our neighbour—Since he got his fortune—his riots are generosity—carelessness, the freedom of his soul—his prodigalities, an easiness of mind proportioned to his estate. He quarrelled the other day with Captain Essence on her account; and I was alarmed to the greatest degree for the consequences! she laughed at my fears, assuring me there was no kind of danger in what I apprehended. The gentlemen, said she, have renounced the conduct of heroes. The custom of wagers is the happy succedaneum, and prevents much blood-shed. Thus matters of dispute are left in tranquil doubt, until the period arrives for its no less tranquil decision. It turned out as she said; Captain Essence wagered with Sir Hugh, that the new club in Saint James's Street would be the ruin of Lord ——, before the old one vis-à-vis had knocked up General ——.

I have spent so much money on bagatelles, that I cannot help regretting the expenditure of what if otherwise applied might have produced such beneficial effects.—But if we commit some follies, we are sufficiently kept in countenance by the other sex. Modern story tells us the late King of Poland was so much captivated with forty-eight china vases, that he purchased them of the late King of Prussia at the price of a whole regiment of dragoons.

You know, my dear friend, how many elogiums have been bestowed on Lady Darnley, on account of the aids she afforded for the disquisition of the particular genius's which distinguished the young people, to prevent a misapplication of the talents of the rising generation. "Is it not by a misapplication of talents," said one, "that our present mortifications arise? Many a man miscarrying in one profession, would have succeeded happily in another. Hence we see so many heads applied to what requires thinking, which might have been applied to their country's good in the manner of the ancient use of battering rams, and have been run against stone walls without the least danger of being hurt.—If the mechanic should invert all the principles which compose the knowledge of that science; if he should assign the wheels to be the principle of motion, the spring to run round and be moved, the weight to vibrate and regulate, and the pendulum to urge; would not all mankind deride such a machine, because it could not perform its office? Is not this the unhappy case of this country at present? have not our enemies taken the advantage of it?"

But to leave politics—which I owe to the observations of an old gentleman, who has too much reason to be chagrined with the procrastination in the conduct of public affairs, as it has affected the interest of his private family—I am most sincerely concerned on account of your aunt's apparent obstinacy in favour of Mr Bennet. Parents, imagining that years impart wisdom, which have only altered tastes, are apt to be arbitrary in their determinations, and dress in the furs, which become the ice of old-age, the glowing blood of youth. But do not, my dear friend, barter your happiness for splendour. I suppose (but do not take my supposition for an oracle) that it is not likely I shall every marry—If I do not, my fortune shall be yours; being ever most affectionately

Your sincere friend Eliza Finlay.

From the Earl of Munster to the Countess of Darnley.

My dear Aunt,

Since I wrote you last, I walked one day in the city. A black man, well dressed, fell down in the street: as none was near, I run, took him in my arms, and carried him into a house of refreshment, where I immediately procured him assistance. Upon his recovery he acknowledged his obligations to me, and said, that but for me he must have died:—and at the end of the lottery of life, our last minutes, like benefit tickets left in the wheel, rise in their valuation. I accompanied him home, where I saw his wife; who, though as black as the collyed night, is as ingenious, sensible, and agreeable a woman as can be found among the daughters of England. He inquired of her for a friend; who arriving, to my inexpressible surprise proved to be the Marquis de Villeroy, but so emaciated that the eye of friendship could not behold him without shedding tears—he knew me at once, and ran to my embrace—This, said he to the black gentleman, is Lord Munster, my friend, the companion of my youth.

After the joy we mutually testified at meeting, I could not help testifying my surprise at the alteration in his person! My Lord, replied he, I will acquaint you with the most extraordinary history that ever occurred to any one. Upon the receipt of your letter, I made no doubt, in the first impulse of passion, but you had betrayed me; I suddenly left the army, and travelled day and night until I took shipping for Rotterdam. On my arrival at that place, I found my father had left it; and was also informed of the honorable part you had acted, and that I had falsely flattered myself with the Countess's affection. I lamented your misfortune and my impatience, as on reflection I was sensible of the imprudence I had committed in leaving my post—I was determined, however, not to lie under any imputation of cowardice—I returned to—waited on the general officer—acquainted him with the real truth, obtained forgiveness of my fault, which was afterwards looked upon in a proper light, as I had the good fortune to distinguish myself soon after in two engagements. Upon our being ordered into winter-quarters, I obtained leave of absence, and was resolved if possible to discover to what place my father had retired; for although my love was hopeless, I flattered myself still with having it in my power to rescue the Countess de Sons from his tyranny, and restore her to you.

My servant one day, with a face of joy, communicated to me that he had learned my father lived at a house near Marseilles. He heard this, he said, from a brother, who had an intrigue with one of the Duchess's maids.—Is the duke then married? said I.—Alas, my friend, said the Marquis, I am sorry to inform you, the object of your affections fell a victim to my father's designs—he compelled her to give him her hand!—I found he had turned the Countess's fortune into cash and jewels, on which he lived, being desirous of concealing the place of his abode, jealous to the last degree of her being seen! With this view all his servants were females.

Notwithstanding these precautions, his domestics talked of his peculiarities; which occasioned interrogatories concerning his funds of expense. These the inquirers soon discovered were in specie in the house: this determined them to rob him. My servant's brother, who was courting the Duchess's maid, informed her of me; next day received a letter from my sister, who promised to admit me one night into the house, where she directed me to come in disguise with my servant!—Thus was I made a tool of by these ruffians: they meant to effect the robbery by my means; and if detected, flattered themselves they would be pardoned on my account! At the time appointed I went; Julia let me in, leaving the door open for my servant. She was beginning to inform me of all their distresses, when our ears were assaulted by an alarm-bell!—in an instant the house was filled with people; I heard my father say, Where is the rascal who calls himself my son? My servant, upon being discovered, had informed him, that I had hired him and his three companions (whom he had introduced into the house) to murder and rob him, and to carry off the ladies! It was in vain I assured him to the contrary; he would not hearken to me; he recollected how much I had been in love with his charming ward; he upbraided me with my wickedness, and perhaps did believe me guilty.

This affair, I make no doubt, has been misrepresented in the world—we have no true histories, but such as have been written by those who were sincere enough to relate what they experienced, in what relates to themselves.

I was seized, and carried to a dungeon until my trial; when, without a hearing, I was condemned for life to be a galley-slave, and sent for that purpose on board the gallies at Marseilles. The labour of a galley-slave, is become a proverb; nor is it without reason that this may be reckoned the greatest fatigue that can be inflicted on wretchedness.

Imagine six men chained to their seats, entirely naked as when born, sitting with one foot on a block of timber fixed to the footstool; the other lifted up against the bench before them, holding in their hands an oar of an enormous size. Imagine them lengthening their bodies, their arms stretched out to push the oar over the backs of those before them; who are also themselves in a similar attitude. Having thus advanced their oar, they raise that end which they hold in their hands, to plunge the opposite in the sea; which done, they throw themselves back upon their benches below, which are somewhat hollowed to receive them. But none but those who have seen them labour can conceive how much they endure: none but such could be persuaded that human strength could sustain the fatigue which they undergo for an hour successively. But what cannot necessity and cruelty make men do? Almost impossibilities. Certainly no galley can be navigated in any other way, than by a crew of slaves, over whom a comite may exercise the most unbounded authority. No free man could continue at the oar an hour unwearied: yet a slave must sometimes lengthen out his toil for ten, twelve, nay, for twenty hours, without the smallest intermission. On these occasions the comites, or some of the other mariners, put into the mouths of those wretches a bit of bread steeped in wine, to prevent their fainting through excess of fatigue or hunger, while their hands are employed upon the oar. At such times are heard nothing but horrid blasphemies, loud bursts of despair, or ejaculations to Heaven; all the slaves streaming with blood, while their unpitying taskmasters mix oaths and threats, and the smacking of whips, to fill up this dreadful harmony.

At this time the captain roars to the comite to redouble his blows; and when any one drops from his oar in a swoon, (which not unfrequently happens) he is whipped while any remains of life appear, and then thrown into the sea, without any farther ceremony. The Diable Boitteux, in order to make Cleofas sensible of the happy condition of an inquisitor, tells him, Was not I a Dæmon, I would be an inquisitor? Were the devil to become a mortal, he would incline to be the comite to the galley-slaves at Marseilles, whose hearts are inlapidated by cruelty.

How these slaves are fed, to enable them to support such enormous toil, may be judged from the following account.—When it was necessary we should take some refreshment, the captain ordered the dogs to their mess. He only meant by this, that we should be served with beans, the usual food allowed us. These are indeed most intolerable eating, and what nothing but the most pinching hunger could dispense with. They are ill boiled, with scarce any oil, a little salt, and all to be eaten out of a capacious cauldron, not the cleanest in the world, as may easily be conceived.

I was never so hungry but that I preferred eating my portion of bread dipped in vinegar and water to this mess, which even offended the sense of smelling. However, these, and twenty-two ounces of biscuit, are all the food allowed for a galley-slave. Each of the crew receives four ounces of this beverage; that is, provided none of it be secreted before it is brought upon deck, which is not unfrequently the case.

I once had the curiosity to count the number of beans which a brother slave had got for all his portion, which amounted to just thirty; and those of the little black bean, commonly called horse-beans. We did not even commiserate one another. To pity, we must be acquainted with the sufferings of our fellow-creatures, but not feel them. When we know by experience what pain is, we pity those who suffer; but when we ourselves are in pain, we then feel only what we ourselves undergo. In every station, subject to the calamities of life, we allow to others that share of our sensibility only which we have no occasion for ourselves. People in ease, people in affluence, may think otherwise, but it is not in nature.

Dreadful as this was, I have always thought death a punishment that was no way adequate to the crimes of some public villains who have been punished with it; and I am certain the most cowardly among men, would prefer it to being a galley-slave. We are condemned to death by nature; the sentence of the law, and the hand of the hangman, only anticipate a few months or days; but to be daily wishing for death, as a friend, to relieve us, and to be debarred of all means of meeting him, is such a quintessence of wretchedness as would, I believe, make all mankind keep a strict guard upon their actions, that they may avoid falling into it.[38]

From this infernal state of existence I was delivered by Mr Worthy, who is a slave-merchant—he saw, and pitied my distress—he had accidentally saved the life of one of the ruffians who had assisted in the attempt to rob my father. This man afterwards, upon his death-bed, acquainted his good master of my situation, who promised to release me. This was effected by his giving a large sum to the captain and the comite. The secret was told me; it was agreed I should pretend to faint, and appear insensible; when I should be thrown into the sea as dead—This happily succeeded.

Nothing can be more unjust than to confine the instance of humanity within the narrow circle of a few European nations. The noble, the generous, the humane dispositions are diffused throughout all nature, and exert their engaging force wherever a body of men subsists. Virtue and vice are mingled in all societies: we have savages in Italy; and there are worthy men amongst those we call savages. Christians do often those things which a modest heathen would blush at, and, while they boast of their religion, are strangers to the common laws of humanity. It should be the boast of a wise man to despise nothing that he is not well acquainted with, and to do justice to all mankind, of whatever country or complexion.—Virtue, like the rays of the sun, shines over the whole habitable globe, enlivens the moral, as that the material world, and exerts its benign influences from the scorching equinox to the frozen poles. We feel its force; all communities are bound together by its magnetic influence; and without it the nations of Barbary would be covered with devastation, and no more inhabited than the scorching sands of its inhospitable deserts.

Mr Worthy no sooner cast his eyes on me, and perceived my sorrow, than pity, tenderness, and compassion glowed in his countenance; his eyes moistened with generous sympathy, and the first word he spoke convinced me that he already felt all I had suffered. But there is no pleasure so transporting to him, as to be in any way instrumental in making any of the human species happy.

I acquiesced in the justice of these sentiments—and could not sufficiently admire the fortitude which had supported the Marquis under such unheard-of trials! And as our sense of many high enjoyments, both natural and moral, is exceedingly heightened by our having observed or experienced many of the contrary evils; he bids fair at least to be contented, when he looks back to the horrors he has escaped. The poet says,

It may easily be conceived the Marquis is most anxious to inquire after his family—but gratitude to Mr Worthy has made him accompany him to England.

When I seemed to compassionate his sufferings, his gratitude assumed a grateful humility; but the moment I appeared the least inattentive to his misfortunes, his countenance collected such an air of dignity, as not only reproached my seeming want of sensibility, but reminded me also, that his sufferings were not the consequences of guilt, nor could in the least degree lessen his greatness of mind.

I find Mr Worthy has a law-suit depending; when that is settled he is to accompany my friend to Italy. He appears to me a very acute, sensible man;—we were talking the other day of the disturbances at Madras, and of the strange conduct of the people in Leadenhall-Street—He said it put him in mind of Anacharsus's observation to Solon, as they were returning from a public assembly, 'That he could not help being greatly astonished to find, that, in their deliberations, it was the wise that spoke, and that fools that decided.' I believe, in public assemblies, this will be found generally to be the case, where party governs, and the most powerful cabal is generally composed of the least rational.

I attend these dear friends everywhere. The Marquis is an amateur, and his taste will be highly gratified, when at Munster-house, to view the prodigies of your creation—he is a descendant of the Medici family: consequently highly charmed with the character of the Countess of Darnley. But this is a subject, I am incapable of entering upon—to praise exquisite merit is perhaps the most difficult part of polite writing, and which I have no talents for; but which if I possessed, I should tire you with what few other ladies ever yet was—their own praises. But I will yield to none in what I value myself upon, being truly and affectionately.

Yours Munster

The Marquis de Villeroy became much enamoured with Lady Eliza, whose compassion for his misfortunes had so far softened her heart in his favor, that she listened to him first with complacency, afterwards with tenderness, and at last with the most lively interest. Congenial souls soon form an union. She acknowledged her partiality for him, but that no predilection whatever could induce her to leave her country and friends. This opinion was greatly strengthened by the idea she entertained of the inconstancy of mankind, and the little regard they pay to women after a few years possession.

The Marquis thought his renouncing his native country would be too great a sacrifice to be offered at the altar of the Graces. Yet the idea of parting with Lady Eliza was what he was unable to support.—She told him it would be in vain to think of making her soften the rigour of her decree; for it proceeded from a firmness, which nothing could conquer! for, from all her observations in life, no love ever lasted long enough to make it worth while to sacrifice every thing else to it; the Paradisiac vision of eternal constancy having long vanished from these sublunary regions:—and that unless he would reside in England—she never would be his!—A sigh, which stole from him, conveyed to Lady Eliza the height of his despair—his embarrassment and dejection increased her regard for him, while it awakened a tender commiseration for them, believing herself entirely the cause of them. She therefore thought it incumbent on her to endeavour to remove them by every attention in her power.—In consequence of this consideration in his favor, she strove to look cheerful, though she was not a little hurt at finding it absolutely necessary to reject so amiable and deserving a man.

The Marquis, perceiving that remonstrances would be ineffectual, took his leave with a heart distracted by grief, perplexity, and despair! Being naturally of a restless, gloomy disposition, and of violent passions, in his despair he thought his adventures had been so extraordinary that he was doomed to be wretched! and formed a resolution of laying violent hands on himself: and the more he meditated on his situation, the more strongly was he confirmed in his precipitate resolution. Yet, as the instinct of self-preservation is one of the strongest in our frame, it inspired him with a counter-idea, that of renouncing Italy; this only acquiescence being requisite to recommend him to Lady Eliza, without whom his life would be a burthen. He communicated his intentions to Lord Munster, who apprised his sister of this proof of the Marquis's attachment for her.

Flattered to the greatest degree at the strength of his affection, she promised to give him her hand on his return from Italy—where he must necessarily go, to prove the identity of his person, and to take possession of his fortune.

The Marquis made immediate preparations for his journey, and soon set out, accompanied by his friend Mr Worthy, Mrs Worthy accompanying Lady Eliza to Munster-house—Soon after their arrival Lord and Lady Darnley rejoined them with their little son, her ladyship being too tender a mother to leave him behind her, or to commit him to the care of any but herself. The tender brain of Newton, or Alexander, altered in their infancy by a small compression, or slight commotion, might have rendered the first stupid, and the other a wise King—Yet people in general, though emulous of obtaining wealth for their heirs, commit them to the care of uninterested hirelings. Sir Harry Bingley, his aunt and sister, and most of the parties already introduced to the reader, assembled at Munster house to spend the summer.

Mrs Lee had rejected every overture from her husband for a reconciliation, whilst his health and fortune lasted—but to a mind like hers, misfortunes cancelled every injury—His fortune ruined, his health impaired, he plunged deeper and deeper into every species of excess. This soon brought him to the greatest distress, and he was so much reduced as to be in want of the common necessaries of life. Mrs Lee, upon being informed of his deplorable situation, immediately converted that villa in Wales, of which there has been a description given[39], into money, paid her husband's debts, and accompanied him at a wretched hovel, to which his poverty, the consequence of his crimes, and infidelity (to her) had reduced him.—There she continued, shewing him every attention until his decease; when she came with Lady Darnley to Munster-house.

Lady Eliza soon received the following Letter from the Marquis de Villeroy.

Madam,Venice.

On my arrival at this place, I found that, on the report of my death, my father had consigned over his estate to a near relation of mine—who knew me at once, though so emaciated, and has acted in the most honorable manner to me. My father has retired to La-Trappe in France: thither my duty must lead me, previous to the happiness I shall receive in throwing myself at your feet.

Were I disposed to draw the most engaging portrait imaginable, I could easily find a subject; but as you may possibly wish for an intimate acquaintance with the original, I shall omit the attempt, since it would be difficult for you to obtain it from that principle in human nature which makes us strangers to ourselves.

I shall detain your ladyship no longer, than to request you will inform my friend, your brother, that I am mortified to be unable to deliver his letter to Mademoiselle de Querci—no such person can be found.

Need I paint that passion I have given you such proofs of?—No; all descriptions would fall short of my feelings. I will ever yield to every wish your soul can form; you are entirely absolute, unless you should attempt impossibilities, amongst which I reckon this as the greatest—for me to breathe a moment without being entirely and inviolably yours.

De Villeroy.

It may here be, perhaps, proper to inform the reader of what perhaps his own sagacity may have made him anticipate—The Duke de Salis had neither been able, by intreaties or threats, to compel the Countess de Sons to marry him, though he had given out that she had; this induced him to keep both her and his daughter closely confined. It has been already related, how he had consigned over his son as a house-breaker;—when he found him condemned to the gallies—like the cruel inconsistency of an Admiral's[40] judges—he laid himself under the necessity of declaiming the equity of his own sentence—and when he found the decree against his son was inevitable—unable to bear the reproaches of his inward monitor, and listening to the whispers of a gloomy disposition, he became almost frantic—In this situation of mind, torn with the agonies of grief, he became more careless of his ward—and the Countess and Julia escaped from him—After his conduct to his son—they trembled lest in some act of despair he should on some future occasion equal the past scene, which chilled them with horror—The Countess was seized with the small-pox, which altered her features considerably, without impairing her beauty; this circumstance facilitated their eluding all search after them from the Duke, as Julia wore men's clothes; and they supported themselves by the sale of jewels.

The intelligent reader now perceives, that Mademoiselle Querci and her brother, were no other than the Countess de Sons and Julia, whom Lord Munster had met at Venice.

When the Duke de Salis retired to La-Trappe, the Countess de Sons appeared, and took possession of her fortune. She had remained constantly and sincerely attached to Lord Munster was flattered by his attentions at Venice, and found her esteem increased by the regard he paid to his pre engagements; but would not at that time discover herself, fearing that she only flattered herself that he saw her with the eyes of affection, and lest the small-pox had made such an alteration, as might change his sentiments. Upon the Marquis de Villeroy's arrival in Italy, she was highly charmed to receive a letter from Lord Munster addressed to Mademoiselle de Querci, and determined to accompany him and Julia to England; but this was carefully concealed, to render the discovery more pleasing.

In the mean time, the family at Munster-house passed their time most agreeably, though Lord Munster, Sir Harry Bingley, and Mrs Lee, (who knew nothing of Mr Villars) often were melancholy and distrait.

Lord Munster made great preparations to celebrate the anniversary of Lady Darnley's wedding-day: on which occasion a number of buildings were added to those already mentioned on the pleasure-grounds—As all the best artificers were on the spot, these were executed in the ablest manner. One temple he finished without the inspection of any one.

On the morning of the masquerade, walking out with Sir Harry Bingley, he told him he should be glad to have his opinion of it. In this temple was painted the cataract of the river Dahl, which he had drawn on the spot[41]—the cottage where Miss Harris resided—and herself at work, in the same way in which he saw her, with her lovely boy playing beside her (Miss Harris had permitted Lord Munster to draw her picture, and he had fortunately taken an exact likeness)—Sir Harry Bingley started at beholding it, and exclaimed, 'It is her, it is, by Heaven, it is her! What artist drew the picture? it is, it is herself!'—he then sunk almost motionless in a chair!—Lord Munster carelessly answered—'Bingley, are you mad? That picture cannot concern you; I painted it from life! Where did you see her? Answer but that question, and I am gone, gone that instant; the world should not detain me!' 'It is, it is, my Lord, the lovely woman I told you of. But her graces were yet more charming still than her beauty! an external glare of beauty may captivate the eye, and ravish the sight; but it is the graces that win the heart, that powerfully attract every faculty of a kindred mind!—I loved her, and was beloved! She loved my person, not my fortune. Her tenderness, her affection were my only joy!' 'Why then, replied Lord Munster, did you leave her? but make yourself easy on her account; she can be nothing to you; I expect her soon in England.'—'In England!'—'Yes, Sir, in England, I fancy by this time she is married to my friend Ogilby.' 'Lord Ogilby!' 'Yes; he was passionately in love with her: she absolutely refused him; but it is not likely, possessing such beauty, such perfections—slighted by the author of her exclusion from every dear and valuable claim in society, relations, friends, reputation, and protection—that she should continue deaf to the earnest solicitations of another, who can restore her to these advantages—such a man as Ogilby, a tender lover, who would sacrifice his time and fortune to her, and who promised he would be a father to her boy.'

Sir Henry's senses appeared suspended.—He at last repeated, 'Distraction, madness, fury! But, by the great God of Heaven—he shall not be a father to my boy!' The agitation of his spirits rendered him almost unintelligible: Lord Munster could only understand that he intended to set out directly—he therefore dissuaded him from it—telling him, that if he refused staying that day (on which he meant to mark his respect to Lady Darnley) that he must renounce his friendship for ever! 'My Lord, returned he, I honor, I love you; your virtues demand the first, your amiable engaging qualities the last; but were you God instead of man you should not detain me!—A few hours may render her the wife of the happy Ogilby! There is damnation in that thought!'—As Lord Munster had contrived an agreeable surprise to Sir Henry—and Miss Harris and her child were actually arrived, and concealed at Mr Burt's, who had taken a separate house, for retirement,—it was necessary he should detain him; and as he had forgot to ask where there scene represented was, he availed himself of that circumstance, saying, 'Since, Sir, I cannot command your complaisance, I may at least enforce your obedience, for you know not where to go, without I tell you—and my lips shall be sealed up for ever, unless you pass this night here—If in the morning you choose to set off, I will instruct you in every particular.' In the time Lord Munster was enjoying Sir Harry's happiness—some of his friends were equally engaged for him. The Countess de Sons and Julia, the Marquis de Villeroy, Mr Villars, and Mr Worthy, came to London before the masquerade—Mr Villars wrote to Lord Darnley, acquainting him privately with their arrival, and it was agreed in return they should all make their appearance on that occasion.

This entertainment was executed equal to the munificence and taste of Lord Munster—and as it was given entirely in honor of Lady Darnley, the principal objects in his arrangements had a reference to her. Never was parental affection more fondly evinced, never was filial gratitude more entire.—It has been already observed, that nothing was ever more elegantly planned than Munster Village, the farm adjoining, and the pleasure-grounds which lead to the house: in the farm you wandered from variety to variety; buildings of great utility and much fancy, groves inspiring different sensations, from the lucid summits that wake the mind to gaiety, to the dark brown or clair obscure of trees crowding their branches together in the vale, which possess the soul with home-felt contemplation.

Above three hundred of the nobility and people of fashion in the neighbourhood were invited. Lord and Lady Darnley, Lord Munster, Lady Eliza, and Mr Worthy, were the only people unmarked. They received the company in the temple of Minerva, which faced a fine piece of water, on which there is an island. The river represented the Styx[42], the island Elysium, and Charon ferried over passengers. His boat landing, the names of Demosthenes, Aristotle, Pindar, Plato, Apelles, Phidias, and Praxiteles, were announced to Lady Darnley—They were all dressed in Grecian habits. Demosthenes, in an elegant harangue, acquainted her, that the wise Minos had indulged them in their request, of taking that opportunity of doing homage to her superlative merit, and to return her thanks for reviving their memories in the encouragement she gave to the arts and sciences, as under her patronage the Muses had made Munster Village their capital seat. He then expatiated on the advantages she had procured to society—the influence of the philosophic spirit in humanizing the mind, and preparing it for intellectual exertion and delicate pleasures—in exploring, by the help of geometry, the system of the universe—in promoting navigation, agriculture, medicine, and moral and political science. Lady Darnley (though totally unprepared, being ignorant of her nephew's plans) made a very ready and polite answer, returning them thanks for the honor they did her, which (she said) as it could afford them no other pleasure, than that of obliging, rendered the obligation greater. Demosthenes replied, that great geniuses are always superior to their own abilities.

Some time after Charon was observed to land some passengers in Roman habits; they proved to be Cicero, Lucretius, Livy, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Varro, Tibullus, and Vitruvius. Cicero advancing, made Lady Darnley a speech similar to that of Demosthenes—as like thoughts will be ever born of the like subjects, by people who live in corresponding periods of the progression of manners. In such cases some considerable similarity of expression may be occasioned by the agency of general principles. Lady Darnley made a gracious reply, intimating her small merit, and the apprehensions she felt that physical causes might impede her good intentions; that her powers had been limited; but that she was far from thinking with Boileau, that wherever there is a Mæccenas, a Virgil or an Horace will arise, (curtsying to these gentlemen.) Cicero observed to her the happiness she enjoyed in living at a period distinguished by men of such shining abilities in every department!

Lady Darnley answered, that he honored her countrymen very much: that she acknowledged we have at present very able men in every department; but that in morality she was afraid we have refined more upon the vices of the ancients than their virtues, and she could not help questioning whether there was any minister, magistrate, or lawyer, now in Europe, who could explain the discoveries of Newton, or the ideas of Leibnitz, in the same manner as the principles of Zeno, Plato, and Epicurus, had been illustrated at Rome[43].

He thanked her for her polite compliment, and retired with his companions.

They were succeeded by Italians, who were announced Lawrence de Medicis, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, Ariosto, and Tasso. Lawrence de Medicis expressed his happiness from having been permitted the honor of paying his respects to her, and admiring the works of her creation, and complimented her in the name of his friends for the encouragement she had afforded the arts.—She said, the applause of the worthy is too valuable to be received with indifference; but still modestly declined the praises bestowed on her, saying, she had endeavoured to follow his example, although the imitation was a faint one; and that the only commendation she aspired to was from the attempt. That without her assistance, she made no doubt, if physical causes did not prevent it[44], that the society for the encouragement of arts, manufactures, and commerce in London, is well calculated to diffuse a spirit of taste in this nation—a society, which, without neglecting what tends more immediately to the improvement of agriculture, and the necessary arts of life, gives the most honorable encouragement to those which are elegant and ornamental. Had such a society been instituted fifty years ago, London, perhaps by this time, would have been the grand seat of the arts, as it is the envied seat of freedom.

Michael Angelo, that celebrated restorer of the arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture, expressed how infinitely he was charmed with Munster Village[45].—'What is really beautiful, said he, does not depend either upon fashion, or times; there may be different ways of expressing things in different ages; but there can only be one of conceiving them properly.' The temple, in which they were, was adorned with the paintings of Raphael[46], copied by an able artist. Lady Darnley, pointing to these, (and addressing him) said 'There is proof how much we fall short, how faintly we copy originals!'—Raphael replied, that her ladyship did him much honor; the pieces she had selected, had met with the suffrage of the public; but that, in his own acceptation, the cartoons were the best of his performances—which he apprehended a juster prevailing taste at present condemned: Otherwise the father of his people, approved of by Minos—so good so indulgent a prince to his subjects—would not lock them up from public observations.—Lady Darnley was here quite at a loss; she blushed, hesitated, unwilling either to refuse her sovereign taste or philanthropy!

Lawrence de Medicis perceiving her situation, in pity of her confusion, retired with his company.

Charon again landed a groupe of figures; their dress declared them English, of the reign of King Charles II—They proved to be the Duke of Buckingham[47], Sir William Petty, Mr Dryden, Mr Locke, Mr Waller, etc. The Duke addressed Lady Darnley with that polite address peculiar to himself in his age, and which has since been sedulously studied, to the prevention of qualities which it should only be the harbinger of—he expatiated on her merit; that she had obliged the whole nation, as every one individual might receive improvement or pleasure by her means.—Lady Darnley returned him a most gracious answer, still intimating her apprehensions, that the arts perhaps were not likely to thrive in this soil, where our pursuits, opinions, and inclinations, vary with the weather—that the declension of letters after the reign of Charles II. but too fully justified her opinion.—The Duke answered her, that indeed that was the common and received opinion, and that the reign she mentioned was the Augustan age in England; but that he had the honor to assure her, that a just taste was by no means then formed.—The progress of philological learning, and the Belles Lettres was obstructed by the institution of the Royal Society, which turned the thoughts of men of genius to physical inquiries.—To that body we were indebted for the discoveries relating to light, the principle of gravitation, the motion of the fixed stars, the geometry of transcidental qualities; but that it was left to her ladyship to revive the agreeable arts, for which her name must be handed down to posterity with honor.

The following dialogue ensued between Charon and a Beau.

Beau.—I have seen all parts of the world, and should like to take a view of Elysium, being rather tired of this side of the Styx.

[48] Mercury to Charon.—He is too frivolous an animal to present to the wife Minos!

Charon.—Minos, Sir, knows nothing of the graces—but if you please I will row you to the infernal regions.

Beau.—With all my heart, I believe I shall meet more people of fashion there[49]; but, good master Charon, in what way shall I pass my time?

Charon.—If you are fond of doing nothing (a favourite passion with many fine gentlemen) Theseus will readily resign his seat to you: or if it is your genius, like many others, to choose to be,

'Though without business, yet in full employ,'

you may join Sisyphus, or accompany the Danaides.

Beau.—Neither of these will suit me; idleness is insipid, and I detest business! But are there no public places?

Charon.—O! yes; great variety: each person in that place pursues those inclinations, whereby he had been swayed, or had rendered himself remarkable here on earth.

Beau.—There are fine women then, of course?

Charon.—As to women, no seraglio in the world comes up to it; as a part of whatever the world, since its creation, has ever yet produced, of lovely and enchanting amongst women are there assembled.—There you may view and gaze, with admiration, upon Helen, whose bewitching charms were so destructive to the family, the city, and the empire of King Priam.—On each side of her are Galatea, and Bressis, Lais, Phryne, and thousands more—There also you may behold in all their charms, in the full lustre of attraction, and decked in every grace, some of those happy fair-ones, whom the greatest poets, so lavish in their praise, have in their lays immortalised; such, amongst many others, are the Corinna of Ovid, the Lydia of Horace, the Lesbia of Catullus, the Delia of Tibullus, the Licoris of Gallus, and the Cynthia of Propertius.

Beau.—I will go; I am enchanted with the idea of seeing these dear creatures.—But I will shiver the wheel and distaff of the Destinies against the wall, and spoil their housewifery—I'll take their spindle, where hang the threads of human life like beams driven from the sun, and mix them all together, kings and beggars! But hark'ee, master Charon, is there good music? I cannot do well without music!

Charon.—There are all kinds of concerto's and opera's, both vocal and instrumental, executed by the very best of the Italians, and the most celebrated voices from every part of the world. There are various pieces performed in all languages, and in all kinds of taste, for the universal satisfaction of the audience. Those who have a taste for ancient music, will be more gratified than they can be in Tottenham-street[50]. They will hear with admiration the gentle flute of Marsius, be ravished with the thorough-bass of Stentor, and expire with delight at the thrilling note of Misurus's trumpet.

Beau.—All this is charming; but what sort of a table is kept? One cannot altogether live on love and music, though one must languish and expire without them, as well as with them!

Charon.—If you are fond of good cheer, you have nothing to do but to pay a visit to Tantalus. Are you thirsty? The Styx, the Cocytus, and the Phlegethon present their waves to your acceptance.

Beau.—I should indeed rather prefer the nectar of the Gods—but as I shall not stay long (for I make it a rule never to stay long in a place) water may suffice!

Charon.—It would have been as easy to have escaped from the Labyrinth of Dædalus, as the infernal regions!

Beau.—I have always (though as wild as March, and inconstant as April) been a favourite with the fair! Ariadne procured for her Theseus a means of escape.

Charon.—I make no doubt, from your conversation, that you are not only the favourite, but the blessed Adonis of all the women: but that will avail you nothing. Lucifer, the unpitying Lucifer, though you should promise to offer him every day three hundred bulls in sacrifice[51], would not lend you even one of the smallest of his imps to help you to get out.

Beau.—Did not Hercules escape from it, and carry Cerberus along with him? Did not Æneas (with the assistance of the golden bough, and led by the Cumæan Sybil) take the same journey to pay a visit to his father? Why may not I, like Orpheus, go to visit it while living?

Charon.—Orpheus was particularly indulged, and Eurydice restored to him on account of his charming voice, and the delightful music of his lyre! You have no such pretensions. But Alecto, Megara, and Tysiphone, will receive you graciously and open the gates of Tartarus to you. The least of your exploits will entitle you to their attentions:—they are too good, too reasonable, too indulgent to require from you the very great pains you have taken, through the whole course of your life, to recommend yourself to them.

Beau.—Let us go then, old boy! I will try what a little flattery will do with them! I can say with Cæsar, I wonder what fear is!—(Aside) But my heart plaguily misgives me for all that! but in my circumstances I must change for the better; my money is gone; and as I never gamed, I cannot expect the club, or the waiters at the club, to make a subscription for me!

Two peers and a baronet applied to Charon, to ferry them over to Munster-house: but Mercury again interfered, telling Lord C——d that although he had been thought in the world not to have been sans quelque goût in the belle maniere, and had been an encourager of the Belles Lettres, yet as Minos only permitted them to come back to the world (in the present case) to do honor to superlative feminine merit, none but such who had paid a proper respect to the sex in their life-time could be indulged in that pleasure. But if he would burn his book (wherein he depreciates women, and considers them only as the toys of dalliance) in the fiery billows of Phlegethon, he would intercede for him with Minos. This the peer rejecting, his brother the baronet intreated to be permitted to go in his stead; but Mercury reminded him, he had pulled down a house built by Inigo Jones, and therefore could have no pretensions to taste!

Lord L——n was ferried over by himself; and after paying his compliments to Lady Darnley, returned; when the following dialogue took place in Elysium between his lordship, and the other peer above mentioned.

Lord C——d.—— Your lordship may believe that I could have no great pleasure in seeing a woman's follies: I was only desirous of inquiring what they are doing at home, or in America? Did I desire to punish an enemy in the severest manner, I would inflict nothing worse upon him than to oblige him to listen to all the follies in which he has no share, and to be witness to gaieties in which he cannot partake. My heart was never dilated by the amplitude of generous principles; nothing was ever interesting to me, but in proportion as it contributed to my own particular gratifications. Curiosity now however prevailed with me to attempt going to discover in what way they are going on, being apprehensive of the consequences of the measures formerly adopted. Whoever would deprive men of their natural rights, is an enemy to the race of men; and he that thinks it can be effectuated without universal mischief, is a stranger to the ways of Providence; the most invariable rule of which is, That nothing contradictory to its original laws shall ever be accomplished, either of a physical or moral nature, without bringing ruin on that people which has instituted it. How few are capable of distinguishing the good and pernicious effects which will follow the instituting a new law, before it is enacted! To remedy present evils, they make a law which brings greater mischiefs along with it, though imperceptible to their shallow capacities. No two understandings on earth are more different than a judicial and legislative; many men enjoy the first, who have not the least emanation of the second. When a law is to be founded, which depends on the first principles in human nature, there genius only can effectuate any discovery of truth; the mind must dart forward into futurity, from the principles which it knows in human nature: a genius of quite a different kind from that of distinguishing between right and wrong in any particular case. The first only can form the legislator, and plan laws of utility and public good, the latter decide of the consequences of them when they are made. The one capacity is the most rare, most excellent and beneficial blessing bestowed on man; the other to be found in almost all mankind, or attainable by habit, yet useful when confined to its proper sphere of action, and not permitted to rove, with the imagination of the superior few, amongst the regions of exalted genius.

Lord L——n.—— It is not enough, my Lord, that the English are a miserable, they render themselves a ridiculous people: And, after all the noise the brawlers make in the lower house, they only fight the battles, aid the wishes of the Americans, and exalt the triumph of the French! In private life it is reckoned a good expedient, for the sake of an easy, quiet life, to be patient and submissive under what are supposed necessary evils: but I differ so much from this maxim, that I am convinced those will ever be trod upon who creep; and that certain submissions derogatory to a sense of honor in an individual or the nation, never prevent the blow, though it may be protracted for a reason, in order to lay it on with a redoubled force at a time our strength is weakened, and that we are debilitated by our mortifications and a sense of the submissions we have made injurious to the honor of an individual or the pride of the nation. It is a mortifying area, but must have its place in the annals of this disgraced kingdom, whilst extravagance and every species of gaieties daily increase.

I am sorry to acquaint your Lordship, that the publication of your book has given in England the same wound to morality and business as the publication of the spirit of laws has given in France to the monarchical constitution. The English study nothing now but the Graces. Procrastination is the ton, because any thing abrupt is ungraceful. The increase of manners has always been thought as imperceptible as the hand of a clock, which though in constant motion cannot be distinguished in that motion. But your book has occasioned a more rapid change: your countrymen having exchanged the armour of Mars for the amours of Venus, their greatness of mind and magnanimity for trifling pursuits; and, instead of speaking forcibly in the senate, they whine a tale of love in the ear of their mistresses: having descended suddenly, like skilful musicians, from the forte and the pomposo to the pia and the pianissimo. Refinement will bring us back to barbarity—far be it from me to suppose such an event can happen suddenly; but in the course of a few years, I make no doubt, as a man in days of yore that could read had the benefit of clergy, so will a man be esteemed an able minister, or an expert negotiator of business, if he can write a pretty sonnet—or dance a good minuet.

Lord C——d.—— The graces, my lord, I still say, the graces for ever—and as to dancing, can there be any science more useful for a minister to learn—to figure out with a good grace, never to lose time, and not even to nod, instead of sleeping a century?[52]

Two other passengers applied to Charon to ferry them over the Styx, Homer and Ossian.

Mercury told Charon that he might carry Homer to Olympus, and place him with the Demigods; but he could not be permitted to go to Munster-house, for the same reason Lord C——d had been rejected: But Ossian had a just claim to that indulgence.

The Chief of other years being landed, addressed Lady Darnley as follows:

Ossian.——I have escaped from the narrow-house[53]! I have crossed Col-amon[54], O daughter of Munster, to behold thy glory. My joy returns as when I first beheld the maid, the white-bosomed daughter of strangers, Moina[55] with the dark blue eyes: But Crimiona[56] should be thy name, for thou art the guiding star of the women of Albion, who mark no years with their deeds! Time rolls on, seasons return, but they are still unknown. Vanity is their recompence; and when their years shall have an end, no grey stone shall rise to their renown! But the departure of thy soul shall be a stream of light! A thousand bards shall sing of thy praise; and the maids of harmony, with their trembling harps, shall relate thy mighty deeds!

Thy son, when the years of his youth shall arise, will raise the mould about thy stone, and bid it speak to other years! The joy of his grief will be great! Like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul. He will say, 'she will not come forth in her beauty, will move no more in the steps of her loveliness: but she will be like the rainbow on streams, or the gilding of sun-beams on the hills! She has not fallen unknown! Her fame surrounded her like light; her rays, like those of the sun, cherished all on whom they fell. Her wealth was the support of the needy; the weak rested secure in her halls! She softened at the sight of the sad; her blue eyes rolled in tears for the afflicted; her breast of snow heaved for the oppressed; and the moving of her lips assuaged their grief!—O sons of Albion, may you behold her son, like the halo of the rainbow, exhibit the same though fainter colours!'

Lady Darnley.—Father of heroes, dweller of eddying winds, thy praise gladdens my heart! My soul is exalted, my fame secured, by the voice of Conna[57]! Thou hast been a beam of light to latter times, as thy mighty deeds have been remembered, though thou hast long been a blast!

Thy renown grew only on the fall of the haughty; thy foes were the sons of the guilty; but thine arms rescued the feeble!

Thou wentest forth in echoing steel, and conquered the king of many isles: He brought thee his daughter Oina-moral, as an offering of peace. She was gentle as the evening breeze; her hair was of a raven black, and her bosom vied in whiteness with the Canna[58] on the Fuar-Bhean[59].—And though thy locks were young, yielded her to the hero she loved[60]! But like unto Cathmor[61] of old, I perceive the sound of thy praises is displeasing to thine ear!

Ossian.—Just praise, like the water of a clear fountain, was ever pleasant to my taste; but I never rejoiced in unmerited applause, resigning that muddy joy to the sons of later days!

It is true, O daughter of Albion, that, surrounded by the valiant in arms, I conquered the king of many isles—that he presented the maid to me in her loveliness as an offering of peace! She purpled the morn with blushes as she approached, and scattered such bright rays, as the sun might have dressed his beams with for that day's glory! But she had given her heart to another, and met my eyes of love with sorrow! In thrilling notes vibrating from her inmost soul, she conveyed to me the pangs of her heart! 'Breaker of the shield (said she) give ear unto the voice of mourning, attend to my tale, of woe—a tale, which though thy eyes of steel are used more to strike fire than shed a tear, must have that power to move thee.'

My parents had seen many returning seasons with their springs, but no offspring of theirs arose. My mother lamented a disgrace, scarce known amongst the daughters of Caledonia. She consulted the cunning-man of the rock: He said, 'Daughter, be of good cheer; take the son of thine adversary that is low, rear him; thy piety will be rewarded; thou shalt have a daughter whom thou must give him to wife!' When she declared this unto my father (as she was stricken in years) there immediately ran a smile over his face, like the little ruffling of water when a gentle breeze breathes upon the surface of a lake; but he adopted Tonthormid, and some moons after I came forth as a flower; but as the bud, hit with an envious worm ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, or dedicate his beauty to the sun, dies, so shall I soon fly away as a shadow. Not the white down that decks the silver swan is more unlike the sooty raven's back, than my lover from the rest of his sex. Bred up with him, my first accents were attuned to love; he took delight in my infantine caresses. Time ran on with its years—My father corrected my tenderness; and I became sensible of my error as soon as I was conscious of my feelings. Tonthormid also, from our inequality of fortune, tried to suppress his passion, judging what was then a lambent fire, would soon blaze into a flame! True love, like the lily of the vale, is fond of concealment; but, as the fragrancy of the one occasions its discovery, so does the concealment of the other prove its reality! I loved and was beloved; my father saw, and approved our passion. A succession of moons had not frozen the genial current of his soul, nor repeated shocks blunted all its tenderest sensations—But we were ignorant of his intentions. When he appointed us to meet him at his cave of contemplation, the heart of Tonthormid palpitated with fear, mine with hope—we had a considerable way to go, but remained silent!—we walked through a pleasant grassy walk, shaded with rows of lime-trees, at the side of which ran along, in plaintive murmurs, a crystal brook, on the side of whose mazy and translucent stream were planted bushes of various kinds, with birds in high harmony on the sprays.

Arrived at the cave, my father announced to my lover that he must prepare to accompany him to battle! Aghast he stood, silent as the midnight hour, unmoved as the statue of despair! The venerable Chief reproached him for his coldness.

'Alas! said he, the din of arms is no more offensive to my ear than the murmuring of falling waters, the vernal breeze sighing through the leaves, or the melodious song of the evening nightingale; but if we should fall in battle, what will become of this lovely maid?'

My father, swearing by the great Loda, promised I should be his—if we conquered—but reminded him, that

'Love should be the zephyr, not the whirlwind of the soul!'

Tonthormid was all rapture, while every line in my countenance, witnessed my satisfaction. We were restored to that unexpected tranquility of spirits, which naturally follows a great dejection in most minds, when the first pangs are somewhat abated—not unlike that stillness in the sky which is sometimes observed when two opposite and gentle winds have just overcome one another's motion—or like the tide at the moment of high water, before it has received the contrary direction.

They set out, receiving my caresses, intermixed with smiles and tears, like an April sun shining through transient showers. They met the foe, conquered, and returned.

The feast of shells was prepared, the maids of mirth attended with their harps, and the rising sun would have beheld me Tonthormid's! The virgins envied me in the hall, my steps were strewed with flowers, and I was happiest, where a thousand are happy. The subtile air was calm from mists, and water with her curled waves swept the bounded channels of the deep; the nightingales were heard in the grove, and soothed my soul with tender tales of love; not a breeze breathed through the trees; all nature was still, as if it paid homage to our passion. But oh! my summer's day was soon turned into winter's night! Ah, soul ambition! which like water-floods, not channel bound, dost neighbours overrun!—fell violence leaped forth like thunder wrapped in a ball of fire! Thou camest with thy men of steel; I beheld thee from the clefts of the rock; terrors turned upon me, like an earthquake they shook my trembling heart! they still pursue my soul as the wind. My joy is withered; my welfare has passed away like a cloud; my comforts have been like winter suns, that rise late and set betimes, set with thick clouds, that hide their light at noon!'

Thus sang the maid in her grief, like the Lus-cromicina, bending in pensive silence, a beautiful flower drooping in the shade, wanting the beams of the sun to revive it. She soon perceived my heart was not made of brass, or carved from the stony rock. Hope animated her weakened spirits, whilst the dignity of her soul irradiated every feature; the blush of modesty stole over the cheek, and the graces dwelt on her coral lips. Sweet as the dew from heaven her lovely accents fell, and moved me. She proceeded, 'I see my tears have mollified thy heart! If fame tells true, never over the fallen did thine eyes rejoice, and thou knowest the herbs on the hill![62] Restore me then to the hero that is low; my tears will refresh him, as the dew of the morning doth the green herbage!—He mocked at fear; never retired from the foe, or was ever vanquished, but by the son of Fingal! Glorious is it to thee, O hero! great will be thy renown; thou hast subdued the first of men!

Were the earth his bed, a rock his pillow, his curtain heaven, with him alone could I be blessed! From a rock that weeps a running crystal, I will fill his shell cup. I'll gently raise his weakened body[63], and the murmur of this water, instead of music, shall charm him into sleep; and whilst he sleeps my cares shall watch to preserve him from the beast of prey! The fern on the heath, if cut a thousand times, represents the same figure—so is the image of my love engraved on the inmost core of my heart! I hold the thread of his peace: can I forget its delicate texture, or that it is warped with those of his heart? I could grow to my hero like ivy; but like the aspenleaf I tremble, like the sensitive plant I shrink back at thy approach! Thou mayest swim against the stream with a crab, feed against the wind with the deer, but thou canst never possess my heart! Love for him, or grief, are the only passions that can fill the heart of Oinamoral! But thou mayest go forth in echoing steel and increase thy glory—or the hearts of a thousand other virgins, will beat an unison to thy sighs, and return thy passion!'

Thus sung the daughter of many isles; her trembling harp was turned to mourning, and her lute into the voice of them that weep. My heart was never wrought of steel, nor hewn out of the rugged pebble; but she would have extracted honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock! My heart was tender, though my arm was strong! I resigned her to the man of her soul! But I had the supreme delight of exhaling the falling tear from the cheek of beauty, as when the pearly dew on the surface of the narcissus, and the snow-drop evaporates at the kindly instance of the solar ray. Had I been deaf to her tale of woe, I should have merited a cold chill to extinguish my flame, as if a thousand winters contracted into one, scattered their snow and froze the very centre! No praises can be due for refraining from barbarity, unknown till the sons of refinement came into the world!

Lady Darnley.—A great mind is ever tenacious of even the shadow of a favor received, but loses the idea of a benefit conferred—In what way, O first of men! shall I welcome thy approach? Wilt thou partake of the feast of shells, or be honored with the dangers of the chase?

Ossian.—Chase was never to me such sport as the battle of the shields! But this is a tale of the times of old, the deeds of the days of other years; manners alter with times, as the earth by the seasons. Let the sons of Albion listen to the voice of Conna, 'Never search for battle, nor fear it when it comes.'

Ossian retired, and a hangman from the assizes told Lady Darnley, that she had ruined his trade; for, all the poor of the country-side being employed in manufactures, etc. they had no inducement to steal, theft being the necessary consequence of idleness[64].

The hangman retired; and Lady Darnley was addressed by a few women in tattered robes. Making an apology for their dress, they said, it was her ladyship who had condemned them to those unseemly garbs. She inquired, In what way she was culpable to them? They answered, By not only promoting industry, which was highly detrimental to their interests, but also procuring by her munificence theatrical and other entertainments for mankind, which completed their misfortunes, as it rendered ineffectual their allurements:—that they might formerly (out of the profits of their industry) have purchased annuities, like other eminent personages in the age, and lived comfortably on the distresses of others; but that they had always too much conscience, and too great and generous souls for that:—that they were now reduced to the alternative of removing from that part of the country, or starving where they were; and, preferring the first to the last, they had determined to go to Birmingham, where, under the auspices of the magistrates[65] of that place, they would have a good chance of succeeding in their profession; as it had always been found that recreations of some kind are necessary, and that if innocent amusements were denied, mankind would have recourse to the other.

The Goddess of Folly, with her cap and bells, approached Lady Darnley; who, smiling, asked her what had procured her the honor of her company? She answered, That being excluded at all other times from these regions, it induced her to come then, where she flattered herself, for one night in her life, not to be ridiculed; as it is only Absurdity that laughs at Folly. Her ladyship replied, That none indeed were entitled to smile at another's weakness, who are conscious of their own.

Miss Bingley, by her aunt's request, was in the character of a pastoral shepherdess, and affected to by vastly coy, and a great huntress. She said she wielded the crook and the javelin with equal dexterity; and that though she was terrified at the voice or appearance of a lover, yet she made nothing of lopping off the head of a wild boar, or of thrusting a spear into the jaws of a lion. She was pursued by (James Mordaunt as) a pastoral lover. Lady Darnley told her that such swains are mighty good-natured, and never do any mischief to any but themselves; a leap from a rock, or a plunge into a river, being their usual catastrophe.

Lord Munster walked away with Sir Harry Bingley, and shewed him, on one of the back grounds a cottage similar to that represented in the temple above-mentioned. They advanced, and saw Miss Harris, and her lovely boy playing at her feet. Sir Harry fixed his eyes, and with a peculiar wildness exclaimed, Sport not, my friend, with my sorrows!—Lord Munster assured him of the reality; but he almost swooned away at the discovery, and was perfectly enchanted with his lovely boy. Every explanation taking place to their mutual satisfaction, Mr Burt being in the secret, and some more friends, the ceremony was immediately performed, and Miss Harris was introduced that very evening, as Lady Bingley, to the family at Munster-house.

Lord Munster, leaving this happy pair, joined Lord Sombre; two ladies passed by them, one in a habit similar to that Mademoiselle de Querci had wore at the masquerade at Venice: the other had assumed the figure of Diana. Struck with their majestic appearance, they followed them. The mask of the latter dropped, as if ashamed to conceal so much beauty. Lord Sombre stooping, instantly restored to her the unfaithful guardian of her charms. The lady, covered with that agreeable confusion inherent to the sex, apologized for the trouble she had given him! He replied, he could not but acknowledge that it was a trouble to him to be the instrument of depriving the company of the sight of so much beauty. That, Sir, replied she, may be your opinion; but my intention is to see, and not be seen. But a lady, replied his lordship, who represents Diana, would appear more in character if she could consent not to be concealed, nor to hide those beams of brightness which were designed to be the light of the world. Sir, said she, if I must support my character, it is not at all the less in my power because my mask is on, being still the moon though in eclipse—but my intention of appearing in the character of Diana, was to keep Actæon at a distance.

In the mean time Lord Munster had neither seen or heard the above conversation, the whole powers of his soul being absorbed in attention to the lady first mentioned. But what were his emotions, when he knew the well known voice of Mademoiselle de Querci! She told him, that she believed he was the gentleman who was still denominated at Venice Il Febo del Inghilterra! He told her, it was impossible he could have any pretensions to so flattering a distinction; but intreated to know whether he could believe that he had the happiness of addressing the woman he adored, whom from motives of honor he had been induced to suppress his passion for, but which scruples on his part he had been relieved from since that period? Mademoiselle de Querci (for it was she herself) answered, that every apology he could make for his infidelity to the Countess de Sons, would only lessen him in her esteem, as, to her certain knowledge, she was still single, and fondly attached to him. Had it been otherwise (said she) my Lord, I should have cheerfully consented to what I must now refuse, as I never will act in opposition to the interest of the Countess. Lord Munster, flattered at her coming to Munster-house, asked if she was perfectly sincere in the favourable hint she had given him—that nothing but his pre-engagement would have prevented her from according herself to his wishes? She answered, I desire, my Lord, you'll not judge me by your country-women; for, from what I have heard of their characters, there is no well-bred woman who ever makes any pretensions to sincerity. Does not every body say what they do not mean, and promise what they never intend to perform? and yet all of them, to a single woman, will compliment the justness of your remarks.—In Italy we are more sincere; and I now have the honor to assure you, that nothing at present occupies my thoughts, or interests me equal to your fulfilling of your engagements with the Countess de Sons, whose constancy for you demands on your part every return. In saying this, a sigh escaped Mademoiselle de Querci, which took refuge in Lord Munster's bosom—while her blushes raised hopes which her tongue denied confirming! Her lover felt a severe struggle between love and honor.—The most severe misfortune to a virtuous man is to be in such a state that he can hardly so act as to approve his own conduct. But his distraction was increased, in finding Mademoiselle de Querci had taken advantage of his reverie to retire, with a composure that deceived his vigilance, and an address which prevented his distrust.—He went every where in pursuit of her, but she eluded his search.

A magician with two enchanted knights addressed Lady Eliza, who (I have already observed) was dressed as a slave attending Mrs Worthy. He told her he would unfold her future fate, and, if she would retire to a place of privacy, he would convince her, and the queen she attended, that he was very well skilled in the science of astrology. Lord and Lady Darnley; Lord Sombre, Lord Munster, and Mrs Lee begged leave to accompany them. The two knights accompanied the magician, who he said must remain enchanted until they were released by the hands of their fair mistresses. After several magical incantations, he told Lady Eliza many things concerning the Marquis de Villeroi, and Mrs Lee of Mr Villars. But he astonished Lord Munster more particularly in telling him he was a perplexed lover—but assured him that he would be soon relieved from his anxiety; and that perhaps that very evening would terminate his adventures, and render all the present company joyful! Could you do this, replied Lord Munster, I would swear you had more wit than Mercury, or his son Autolycus, who was able to change black into white!

In the mean time two ladies appeared: They were majestic in their persons, and very magnificent in their apparel. The magician, addressing himself to the company, said, if it was agreeable, he would give them ocular proofs of his art. They answered, By all means! He then presented one of the enchanted knights to Lady Eliza, the other to Mrs Lee, and Lord Munster to one of the ladies who had just appeared (in the mean time Lord Darnley had prevented the admission of other company.)—He then desired them all to unmask. The agreeable discovery this produced is not easy to give an adequate idea of; as the magician was no other than Mr Worthy; the enchanted knights, the Marquis de Villeroi, and Mr Villars; and the Lady Mademoiselle de Querci.—Mr Worthy then, addressing Lord Munster, said, Your perplexity, my Lord, now ceases:—This Lady is the Countess de Sons (whose smiles confirmed her previous conversation with him that evening.) He made his suitable acknowledgments: whilst Lord Sombre was enchanted to discover, in the Countess's companion, his lovely Diana, who had changed her dress, and proved to be Julia, sister to the Marquis de Villeroi, and justly admired by all who saw her: Her shape was as fine as the statue of the Medician Venus, of as fine a complexion as the Leda of Corregio, with a sweetness of expression that would have made Guido paint no other face, if he had been alive.

The masquerade finished, which had afforded so much amusement, and conferred so much happiness on the parties. Lady Bingley was received by Lady Darnley with the utmost complacency. It is the imperfection of human goodness to make its conscious worth an argument of want of mercy to those that are deficient: but Lady Darnley had thoroughly studied the most useful of all sciences, human nature, and was ever ready to make allowances for its defects. She was the more attentive to Lady Bingley, on account of her peculiar situation; while in the effusions of her gratitude there was a dignity that commanded as much respect as if she had been conferring a favor beyond that she acknowledged. Her relations, who abandoned her in her adversity—when alone true friendship can prove its superiority over its shadow, worldly civility—were now eager to pay their compliments to her.

Mr Villars was the only person who appeared unhappy at this time. Mrs Lee had been hurt at never hearing from him since her husband's death, and was confirmed that his present appearance was occasioned more from a concurrence of circumstances than from his own particular desire or inclination.—It was in vain he urged, that his having absented himself from England was occasioned by her refusing to see him previous to her husband's death; which circumstance he had been unapprised of, previous to his meeting the Marquis de Villeroi at Paris.—She answered, That he had neither been a lover that had the tenderness, nor a friend that had the generosity to interest himself for her; though he must have been sensible of her partiality, from the pains she took to avoid him:—that, concerning the strange event that had occurred relative to her husband and him, she had never taken any pains to justify herself; and she thought people in general were to blame that did so; for satire is generally levelled against persons, not vices, as there are few who wish to punish what does not put them out of humour, and they make a personal affront the pretended defender of virtue. If a woman, therefore, would preserve her character, this is the effectual way of losing it, and if she has none to preserve she need not tell all the world so.—'But (said she) as I must now decline your proffered hand, the offer of which does more honor to your generosity than the acceptance would to my prudence, I shall now disclose my sentiments to you without any disguise:—I was married to a man, whom I could not look up to with a consciousness of his superior understanding or worth; his treatment of me was injurious; my feelings I with difficulty suppressed: my quick apprehension of injury, and my partiality for you, made me indulge an inclination that aggravated to me the horrors of my situation.—I loved, and was utterly incapable of divesting myself of a passion, which, although often dangerous, is always delightful.—I was punished for my temerity; the calumny I met with, I justly incurred, from the appearance I had subjected myself to. When I parted from my husband, I would on no account see you—you went abroad; your caprice now brings you back; you judge it equitable, perhaps, to restore me to that world I relinquished on your account—but time has conquered my partiality, and, after my former experience in that state, I cannot help shuddering at a contract which nothing can dissolve but death. To me it is terrible to reflect, that it is a strangely unequal conflict, in which the man only ventures the loss of a few temporary pleasures, the woman the loss of liberty, and almost the privilege of opinion.—From the moment she's married she becomes the subject of an arbitrary lord; even her children, the mutual pledges of their affection, are absolutely in his power, and the law countenances him in the use of it—and a woman finds no redress for the indelicate abuses of an uncivil, a passionate, and avaricious, an inconstant, or even a drunken husband—from matrimonial decisions there is no appeal.'—Mr Villars said every thing to justify himself, adding, that the most candid mind will sometimes, under certain circumstances, deviate from itself; but it is the property only of narrow minds to persist in prejudice against conviction.—As the quarrels between lovers are the renewal of love—these differences were soon settled, agreeable to their mutual wishes.

Mr Burt testified great joy at the celebration of the nuptials of his grandson—That good man died the next day, without any complaint, with a smile of complacency on his venerable face. In an age where men of letters seem so regardless of morals—in an age where they have endeavoured to persuade mankind, with but too much success, that the virtues of the mind and of the heart are incompatible—let them cast their eyes on the character of Mr Burt—When they find so many virtues united in a man, whose understanding was both sublime and just—when they find a man of his penetration to have been a strictly moral man—they will then, perhaps, be convinced that vice is the natural effect of an imperfect understanding.